Well it was a good thing I’d wrung out the snotrag and sluiced the spitoon, because I needed them both when at around 1am, an abscess on the visiting dog’s neck burst. She didn’t seem right all day, I’d been keeping a careful eye on her and had decided to take her to the vet this morning anyway. She’s not my dog and in a week she’s flying to New Zealand; the Antipodes are more stringent than most about the whole process, the little dog was already delayed for two months (which is why she’s with me) and so I didn’t want to take any chances. I woke when she came through from the lounge and jumped on to my bed. Nothing unusual there, but she sat bolt upright, then leaned against me, still sitting. I ran my hand over her, felt moisture and tried to puzzle that out, then it got sticky. It was, of course, a defuckinglightful mix of blood and pus. I was relieved, because that meant it wasn’t a puff adder bite. But very confused at how the mass of swollen tissue had managed to escape my attention. Anyway, I sat and drained an astonishing amount of fluid from it, intermittently cleaning up and calming the poor little dog. That particular pink is so utterly vile, thank fuck it was all fresh, so there was no real smell. I dunno how long we sat on that towel covered couch for, fear has a way of turning time even more elastic than usual. Anyway, the sun rose (as it does) and things looked brighter (as they do) and I took her to the vet first thing, indulging in a little light weeping while I waited for them to open. It turns out that she must’ve been bitten by a cat yesterday. There were two incisor marks on her neck (don’t worry, I’m one step ahead of you there, I’m on the look out for a vampire cat) and apparently cat bite abscesses come up incredibly fast, owing to foul bacteria in their mouths. A seven day course of antibiotics will end the day before she flies (and on the seventh day she dosed again). She’s back to her usual lively, growly self so there’s just the meds and draining to do before she goes. I kept the owner in New Zealand updated along the way, sent the carriers a photo of the wound so they know whether they’ll need a vet’s letter about it and oh, while I’m alienating squeamish followers left, right and centre anyway, I also asked the vet to squeeze her (erm, the dog’s, that is) anal glands, because eh nevermind actually.
I fell asleep at some point during that paragraph and had some pretty odd dreams. Last thing I remember were three talking honey badgers the size of hyaena, carrying towels and jeering in English. And now I’m going to vent pure trivia.
It’s twilight zone time again here anyway, in that my neighbour’s boyfriend is here for a few weeks. He arrived a few months ago, breaking her, cough, dry spell of something formidable like 18yrs. He was fun, made a huge effort with everyone, they kept it all a secret that surprised nobody when it came out. They did that new love thing, where you hide in a rose tinted bubble of bliss for two and since they live a short flight apart, the seclusion when they did see each other made perfect sense. Months went by and it became increasingly obvious that they were interacting with everyone else except me. Initially, I was really distressed by it, mostly because I didn’t understand wtf was going on. I did what people like you and I do best in such situations – I ruminated. I chewed that damn cud flavoured with all my insecurity until I thought I had the answer, and then I shrugged on the Elusive Cloak of Calm and tackled her in the kind of way that the most granola of counsellors call ‘a carefrontation’. Brb got to vomit on a counsellor quick. The answers I’d got before, when asking why I was apparently persona non grata, were all along the lines of nonsense what are you talking about nooo he just doesn’t want to see people nooo he’s got a cold he’s got allergies he doesn’t want to end up as gossip you know what this village is like no no no its not you. I felt a bit playground about pushing it further, but ever the proverbial bull in its metaphorical china shop, I did anyway. I asked her whether it was because shortly after the two of them had hooked up, which was shortly after she had come out of rehab for alcohol and weed, he’d talked her into ‘just one small joint’. Now, last year was a hectic one for her, she has a v cool daughter who is solidly supportive etc, but who doesn’t drive. Basically the daughter and I did all of the support stuff her her through (and may I remind you that this is within one year) two bouts of malaria, eight bouts of bronchitis, two heart failures and then rehab. So I growled about the joint – her using had been damaging her physically for 42 years and she almost died more than once last year. I asked her whether me growling at her about the joint was the reason that her man had suddenly ceased even looking in my direction. She said yes and gave a long and intricate explanation. A few weeks later, her daughter told me that it was apparently due to my sexuality – he had an ex who had a lesbian friend who made moves on her and was worried about a repeat.
Sidenote: It’s bitchy but true to say that my neighbour has the same effect on my libido as orange juice has on a volcano. None. Ironically, she put the moves on me drunkenly some years ago. Ugh.
I shrug and shrug and shrug, but me being me, part of me still feels small, cold and alone about it. I’m adjusting though, I can feel it; the growling about the joint explanation made some warped sense to me, but being ostracised for being queer? I’ve been living on planet queer openly for a couple of decades now, I can handle that shit without wilting. Not cool that my neighbour is allowing it to continue, but she’s an insecure people pleaser and the poor thing is probably shitting herself in every direction anyway. I’m very supportive of her relationship when we speak; everybody should grab every chance of happiness they find. My friendship with her is a bit odd anyway, she was my mother’s friend, never mine and we sort of inherited each other after my mother’s death. She used to offer me support, I’d accept in a grateful and grieving heap and about eight times out of ten, she’d let me down. She couldn’t even find the grace to fake any sympathy on mother’s day – I’d been walking and weeping on the beach, bumped into her and her man on the way back, said hi, said that mother’s day was kicking my ass and she barely went mhm. Couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.
This is one of those purge sessions that end with you feeling like, well that’s just a bunch of insignificant bollocks, wtf did I ever get worked up about it for? I’m here, I’m queer, idgaf whether or not he gets used to it. Thanks lots for listening to me whine.