I Don’t Need Anything but You[th]

I was at the vet with Spencer and Faunti (aka Fauntleroy, aka Homeslice) on Saturday (we were there for Faunti). Faunti was an absolute gem: took it up the ass like a champ, welcomed inspections of all other material orifices, lost one pound and an ounce since his previous vet called him rotund, like that. Neither the vet nor the vet tech seemed to admire his perfection, so I actually said, “Isn’t he such a patient patient?” Silence. “Isn’t he a great guy?” Crickets. “He’s awesome, right?” Nothin’. The vet grudgingly tells me he’s in fine health, but blasély mentions that he has Grade 2 dental decay and will require a $1040 cleaning. As she sticks the smelling salts in front of my nose and I come to, she says, “Don’t worry, it can wait until Dental Month.” “The fuck?” I ask. She says “February’s dental month and there’s a coupon for 10% off.” She adds: “I’ve been made to understand that your people respond favorably to coupons.” She didn’t say that, but she might as well have.

She could have at least buttered me up by telling me my cat was adorable before dropping this insanely expensive dental procedure on me. Spence and I are walking to the car with the cat and I say “Did you notice that they didn’t admire the cat once whereas in the past someone would always tell us how lovely he was, at least while he was being fingered?” Spence said that they saw so many animals, it was understandable. But it dawned on me that it’s ageism: He’s ten, and he supposedly has these English meth-head teeth now, and I just think that, no matter how many of his rusty “hoops” he lets them jump through (anal and otherwise), he’ll never again be treated like Orphan Annie at the end of Act I, when she gets to the mansion, and it just breaks my heart! If it isn’t clear, this obviously has less than nothing to do with Faunti.

This was a residual feeling of erasure, projected. It’s just that when you think you look really good as you leave the house, but then find yourself refracted at yourself by being bounced off your own erasure at a dance club, which forces you to remember that your own perspective was originally skewed and that this here with strangers is reflection and not refraction, and that the only reason you don’t render yourself hideous everyday when you look at yourself is that you’re being afforded the luxury of digestion of your erosion, day after day, in bite-sized increments, which spares you the cruelty of contrast.


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