The Lunatic is in My Head

(Dedicated to cousin Diana--no she isn't dead, but she thought I might be.)


Have you ever felt like a rat in a maze and you don’t even want the cheese anymore? That’s about how my summer has gone. Spending a lot of time alone while Jack travels—he recently returned from Cannes, France—I realized the other night that if someone trained one of those spy cams on me for any given twenty-four-hour period that Jack would have plenty of fodder to have me committed.

Just last night consisted of wandering out to the pool at midnight to make sure no frogs had drowned, talking a Newfy into coming into the house during a violent thunderstorm, and screaming, “That’s it! Where’s the bad dog spray!” as London (a combo of wit and wily) tortured the pug. As leaves, tree limbs, and nuts (besides me) hit the windows, I discovered that Newfy the Bear had already eaten half of a hundred-dollar bed I’d purchased for him. “Bad dog! Bad dog! No more bed for Bear!” I screamed as I hurled the huge mattress into what was once David’s room but has now become a giant catchall for any unwieldy object in the house—including unfolded laundry. Of course Bear didn’t care; he just reclined on the sofa watching my mad Bride-of-Frankenstein choreography enacted to the background of blasting thunder and streaks of lightning.

(An aside: Just the other night, Jack, suffering from jet lag fell asleep on his chair. David, home for the weekend, and I were watching a movie. Still asleep, Jack stood up with arms outstretched and started veering forward and backward while mumbling.

“Look Mom, it’s Franken Dad,” said David. So I guess Jack and I are an appropriate couple.)

Composing myself, I open an e-mail containing the story and a video of Christian the Lion, returned to the wilderness by his owners who had raised him from a cub. Now tears are flowing down my cheeks and I am sobbing aloud as my canines look at me with what-the-hell’s-wrong-with-her-now? expressions. Drying my tears, I turn on an old episode of “Seinfeld” and laugh and laugh (somewhat maniacally, one might say) until the Newfy lands in my lap with London the American Eski-Beagle-Basset-Mo attached. The impact leaves me breathless as the combined weight of over a hundred pounds hitting your ribs tends to do. And then “No Bite! No Bite!” as Bear begins to nibble on my buttocks with his giant white teeth. If you think raising a dog with good manners is difficult, try teaching manners to one that was raised with bad ones by somebody else.

What is that in the little one’s mouth? Oh my God, it’s one of those giant buzzing bugs and it’s still alive! It’s flying at my head! Loud screaming ensues. I have had enough for a day and my imagined spy cam now has some great close-ups of me in a full range of manic emoting: rage, tears, laughter, sorrow, pain, abject fear, and back to rage. Also some good action shots as I crawl under the table on all fours to pick up the shredded hot pink tissue paper that the pups have secreted from a drawer and turned into giblets. “No! No! That is not why I’m in that position!” Where is the bad dog spray, (actually just a spray bottle of water) when you really need it? Now a disheveled, near molestation victim of a mess, I decide I’ve had enough. The pug sleeps with me but this requires some maneuvering as the “pups” like to push their way past me into the bedroom, grab whatever suits their fancy, and escape out the doggy door into the woods to decimate their hapless victims.

Oh yeah! Say I’ve lost control! You try to hold back two dogs with your feet and squeeze through a door while holding an aged twenty-pound pug!

I’ve managed the separation but dare I venture out into the hallway to turn down the air conditioning? No, I decide not to take the risk. Exhausted I fall asleep, but there really is no rest for the weary. I dream that I’m married to Billy Bob Thornton who as it turns out is a twisted, mentally abusive SOB, at least from my experience as his wife. Nice, then mean, then nice he gaslights me by saying, “Now don’t be lak thaat” whenever I react.

“Okay Billy Bob, you’re out of here, because it’s morning,” I say as I get up, get outta bed, and drag a comb across my head. Later I go to get the mail. There’s an invitation to my high school reunion. DAMN IT! Does the torture never stop?

Notice to the class of 1800: Gail will not be attending the reunion. She is currently weaving baskets at a nearby facility for the unstable.

(At least he sent me to a place with arts and crafts.)