I stepped out of my life for a moment this afternoon, and what I saw was not pleasant. At least for my ego. I know, I know, I’ve been on a quasi zen-Buddhist-Jedi mission to kill off my ego for some time now, actually since my thirties when I had that wierd dream about offing little egos disguised as babies. Egos are REALLY tough to snuff out unless you’re, like, dead already and the Universe has revealed its secrets and the ego is waving goodbye, a superflous appendage, now, as you drift happily into that white light. I’m not there yet. Sometimes I just cringe when I look in a mirror. I buy clothes with the sole purpose of soothing my battered and bruised aging ego. And this afternoon I took a big hit when I realized that my cat, Zoe, was entertaining herself sinking her teeth, delicately but meaningfully, into my arm and my reaction was to continue reading and gently elbow her away: over, and over, and over again. In lieu of tossing her off the couch as any self respecting person would do.
That’s when I stepped out of my life. And reviewed.
Do you have animals? Who doesn’t? I’m not talking about livestock breeders or 4Hers. You all know you’re going to wake up one morning and arrange some perfectly awful death for the animals you’ve poured time, money and vet care into. You know this the day you buy them, young, beautiful and without a care in the world. When it comes to attitudes towards animals, you’re on a different planet altogether, although not necessarily a pleasant one. No, I’m talking about PETS. People who have pets, I have about decided, get their egos mangled every day they wake up, what with the cat crapping in the tub because his litter box was insufficiently sifted for deposits, or the Labrador mauling the $800.00 Manolos ( thrift store, but still, ) or the parrot screaming some inane thing designed to drill into your sleeping brain like bulletins from a distant galaxy.
Times like this I look almost favorably upon people who refuse to put up with pet shit…literally and figuratively. Most of the time I feel like people who don’t want pets around are just clueless about anything in the natural world except their own precious selves. But there are other times I think they just have more self respect than I do.
As usual, when I have a low-down just-plant-me-now sort of day, Franny, my weirdly telepathic Wiener alter-ego (and yes, I have one of those, too, my brain’s crowded with friggin’ little survivalists)…Franny delivers a reality check straight to my heart.
‘Don’t be such a weenie’, she barks. (Frannie Loves Wiener puns.). I sigh. Here it comes, sans sympathy. ‘ What are you bitching about, anyway?’ (As HBIC, Franny loves that word, and thus, another pun. She’s actually smiling, she thinks she’s so smart). ‘You have opposable thumbs! You can open canned Franny Food! You don’t need to wait for some asshole sitting on his duff watching flies land to open a door before you take a pee!’ ( Oh well, I’m thinking, half the time you don’t either, but she’s on a Wiener Woes rant so it goes right over her head.)
‘ You eat what you want when you want.’ ( I share! I protest. I’m starting to feel small and worthless, a whiner…as intended.)
‘You get to put the windows up and down on car rides! You go out the gate…just whenever! You eat the whole hot dog!’. ( Metaphysical Wiener complaint???). ‘You have a whole houseful of stuff you can chew, or piss or sleep on…you stare at things that don’t move, smell, or squeak in interesting ways, and you like it!’ ( I believe she’s alluding to to what is an invisible world to them…like reading, computers, television, phone calls. Well, I never thought of how that might seem to the Wieners…maybe they feel a little left out? Sort of like humans looking up at the Olympus Gods and going, whatthefuck do they know that I don’t? Assholes. Oh let’s face it, we worship and hate our gods at the same time. Maybe the Wieners do, too.)
I notice Franny has laid down, although she’s still eyeing me. Barely. Bored already. I feel chastised…ashamed…guilty…needing redemption…and my ego has taken another hit.
Trackin’ this much closer to Nirvana, yeah. Franny’s job is done.