That Bad-Dog Feeling

Today, for the first time, I saw a bird land on that big, stupid ladder. It was a crow. It lit on a rung maybe thirty feet up, sat for a moment, and flapped down to the median strip.

Those are the plants, by the way, the ones I’ve been thinking about stealing. You can’t tell from the picture, but they’re good, healthy plants. The one on the left even comes with a lamp. I’m not sure if that’s part of the pot, or if she’s just stuck it in there, but there’s definitely a lamp. It comes on at night. It’s comforting.

(I could see it better on my balcony.)

I think I’d like a whole forest on mine. Not, y’know, in a keeping-up-with-the-Joneses sort of way, but in a way where, if there were trees all over my balcony, I could lie on my couch and not see the ladder. Or not see as much of it. Why did they put that there?

I get like this, with prolonged illness, all tetchy and irritable, finding fault. I look at the world and I don’t want any of it. You know, I…the other day, I showed my boss the latest draft of my manuscript. I wanted him to praise it. He wanted me to do it again, properly. I kept nudging, asking questions, not because I didn’t know the answers, but because I didn’t want to go back to work without encouragement. Who does that?

(I do that. Well, not usually. But the other day, I did.)

I never got my biscuit. I left with a flea in my ear, that bad-dog feeling. Shouldn’t beg…shouldn’t beg.

Fact is, I’m annoyed ’cause I can’t eat. I keep seeing food everywhere, in books, on the telly, on the Internet. On the sides of delivery trucks, nine feet tall. I see it, and I’m starving, and I can’t have any. Can’t I be a good dog, instead? Can’t I have a treat?

Man, I’m in a mood. I’d be intolerable, right now, if I had company.

Hey, it’s that pissing man again. He’s not pissing, this time, but I see him. I recognise him. He’s walking. He’s still walking. He’s slowing down by the ladder. He’s looking at the ladder. He’s looking up at the top, with his dark glasses on.

I’m waiting for him to move. I don’t want him to piss again.

Fuck off, pissing man. Fuck the fuck off.

He’s still there.

He’s crossing his arms now, settling in for the long haul. A white car just pulled up in front of him. He’s on the grassy verge. He’s crossing the road. No, he’s…he’s…he’s getting in the white car! A woman’s getting out! She’s getting in the passenger side! They…they…they’re picking up an old man and driving away! They’re gone!

Oh, dear. That wasn’t exciting at all, was it?

This is why I’m all miserable. I’ve nothing to do after work. Send help. Send a meteor shower. Send aliens. Send…oh, there has to be something I could eat. Send melons. I don’t know. Bugger off.

Bad, bad dog.