Holy
crap in a Bundt pan...
Due to the
recent well-publicized shortage of
amateur websites produced by assholes who consider themselves to be
clever, I
have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and I’m an
Ugly American living
on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, PA. And I’m here to
serve, baby.
The
State of My Fat Ass A journal of
sorts, updated every once in a while.
--
I thought our dog Andy was about to die Wednesday night, I really did.
He was acting normal when I got home from Allentown. He greeted me at
the door with a smile on his face and his tail a-wagging, as always. I
took him outside and he ran a few laps, slung a little urine around,
then assumed the kangaroo position and engaged in some low-grade
turd-tumblin'. Nothing out of the ordinary.
After dinner I gave him a piece of fish one of the Secrets left on his
plate, and the hound devoured it with the usual ferocity. Then he wanted
more: Please, more! Just like every other night.
As soon as the boys went to bed we cranked up an episode of Veronica
Mars on the Big Ass Television, and afterwards Toney said she was
going to hit the sack as well. And as she was heading upstairs, she
said, "What's the matter with this crazy dog?" He was standing
at the top of the steps, panting heavily and staring into the family
room with his head all hyper-extended and low.
Who the hell knows? Probably just another of his ploys.... He constantly
wants to go outside; it seems to be his biggest non-food related
ambition in life. And he's become a master at manipulating us, and
getting his way. He's all the time pretending to be on the verge of
exploding in a great supernova of pee. Then, once in the yard, he
doesn't do a thing except tiptoe around and snorkel stuff. It's
maddening.
But this time it might be for real, I thought. He doesn't usually pant
like that. So I went up there and opened the front door, and noticed
that he wasn't walking right. His legs seemed to be wobbly, and he
grazed the door as he passed through it. The hell? Then I watched our
dog s l o w l y walk out into the middle of the snow-covered front yard,
and lay down. Oh no!
I hollered for Toney, and started trying to convince Andy to come back
into the house. He finally hoisted himself to his feet, with great
effort, and wobbled into the living room. He was panting and shaking and
his head was waving all around, like one of those felt-covered dogs
people used to put in the rear windows of their cars.
Then he tipped over sideways, like he was made of ceramic or some shit.
And he just laid there, breathing real hard, with all four of his legs
sticking straight out.
Andy was dying! What had happened to him??
Did he have a stroke, or something? Had someone poisoned him? Oh man,
the Secrets are gonna freak. Hell, I'm freaking. That crazy dog
gets on my nerves a lot of the time, but I sure don't want anything bad
to happen to him. And it doesn't get much badder than dying.
Toney and I sat in the floor beside him, stroked his fur, and waited for
it to happen. But after a few minutes of this, Andy suddenly turned his
head and deposited what looked like the world's largest fried egg on the
hardwood floor. I don't know what was in that vomit, but it was white
around the edges, and yellow in the center, like an egg. And it was as
big around as a serving platter.
I began howling in protest, because I'm the one who's always on puke
detail around here. I'm not sure how that happened, but it's one of
those pre-defined roles we have. And man, that looked like it would
require a whole roll of Bounty.
But Andy was a little better after that. He went upstairs, walking
almost normally, and laid down on his blanket beside our bed. He even
managed to wag his tail a little when I checked on him. Maybe he was
going to be OK, after all?
Toney blamed it on the piece of fish I gave him. But he's eaten an
entire ocean of fish in his life. Why would one tiny piece suddenly
cause him to go all spastic like that?
Then I found out he'd run-off earlier in the day, before I got home.
Toney had been carrying in groceries, she said, and Andy took advantage
of the situation and went on an adventure. And it was trash day.
God only knows what he might've gotten into. Maybe Mama Half-Shirt had
cleaned out their refrigerator, and Andy got holt of a furry length of
bratwurst, or something? The possibilities are almost endless. On trash
day.
So my wife was sorta blaming me, and I was sorta blaming my wife. And so
it goes.
But Andy seemed like he would pull through, so Toney went back to bed,
and I returned to the B.A.T. I had a disc of 24 episodes from
Netflix, and got myself all wrapped up in that particular
ridiculousness. A couple of hours later I decided I'd better call it a
night, and shut everything down.
And when I went upstairs there was a landscape of vomit in the
living room. There was a big meaty pile beside the front door, another
on the rug in front of the couch, and a third in the dining room. All
were humongous, and seemed to be built on a foundation of pot
roast. Sweet sainted mother of Bonnie Franklin!
It must've taken thirty minutes to get rid of all that puke. I ran up
and down the stairs with big wads of toilet paper, flushing every second
or third trip, and trying not to notice the warmth I could feel through
the paper. It was full-on disgusting.
But Andy's back to normal now, and I'm already calling him a dumbass
again. He's returned to his tried and true method of staring, and willing
me to do his bidding with his non-blinking laser-beam gaze. And he's
right back to begging, gobbling, tip-toeing, and snorkeling, as if
none of that tipping-over-like-a-ceramic-doo-dad stuff had ever
happened.
The dumbass.
-- Before I go.... I took a really time-consuming computerized test
yesterday, as instructed by my "career coach," and it told me
I'd be happiest working as a writer. How's that for groundbreaking
information? Hell, I could've saved myself the hour.
I also sat through
two classes on Thursday: one on interviewing, and another on
negotiating. I'm supposed to meet with an executive headhunter on
Tuesday, and there are a few other little things going on as well, all
at least mildly encouraging.
But I keep going back to that test. I wish I'd never taken it. Because
the OBVIOUS bright spots of the week were the writing of that dog puke
story you just read, and when I told you about our bed collapsing, and all that
stuff. The test only serves to rub it in.
I know it's dangerous to even contemplate such a thing, but just how
great would it be if TheWVSR could somehow become my actual job?
Extra-great, I say.
And I'd appreciate it if one or two of you good folks would drive up
here now, shoe me square in the nuts, and bring me back to the real
world. I thank you in advance for your assistance in this
matter.
--
I thought our dog Andy was about to die Wednesday night, I really did.