Separation Anxiety Sucks

 

So. I think something is seriously wrong with me. I finished the final preparations on my book manuscript yesterday morning and I was elated. I danced around, woke up the entire household at 4 am to brag to them, and then I did a bloggie posting to brag to all of you guys. I was on top of the world.

I was on top of the world until maybe noon when I was sitting at lunch with Streaker Jones, Dixie, Squirt and Eighty-three the cat. We were at Guerros Taco Bar, which is down to South Congress, sitting at an outside table. In Austin we allow pets to sit at the tables in food establishments so long as it is outdoor seating.

The reason for this meeting was to have a board of directors session for our hemp clothing company, If You Can’t Smoke It– Wear It, LLC. We’ve done a line of casual wear for our winter collection in honor of this guy who was murdered and whose name I can’t tell you, because of the fucking book I just finished is all about that. That and a bunch of other stuff.

Should that be “who’s name,” or maybe “the name of whom?” Name of whom’s?

The murdered guy was a big animal rights activist, and a giant flaming asshole. He was a thorn in my side for twenty years– he targeted me as a villain. I earned his bulls-eye because I have Dixie and my other pets and livestock. He hated me in a huge way and he never even knew about the ostrich, Rick Perry.

He’d have gone apoplectic if he’d known I adopted an abandoned ostrich. He constantly filed silly, frivolous lawsuits naming me as the Defendant, and he protested every business I’m involved with. He was a huge pain in the ass.

But I miss him. Once more, that whole love/hate bullshit hits the fan. Ugh.

Anyway, the guys needed my approval for the winter collection and I’d not seen the line of animal rights stuff. Since Guerros has Carta Blanca beer and great food, we met there. I had tacos al carbon with beef, my standby order at Guerros. The cat had fish tacos and Streaker Jones and the dogs had chicken enchiladas.

We were sitting there eating, talking and watching the street traffic walking by. I was on my second beer, sharing cap-fulls with Eighty-three, who has shown the family proclivity to enjoy Carta Blanca beer.. I was deep into a discussion with Dixie about the length of the hem on the men’s shorts– I thought they were too short, and Dixie was telling me shorter shorts are all the rage in Europe this year.

“Who gives a shit what’s raging in Europe, furbag,” I said. “The shorts are too short for here.”

That would be when a young man with an unleashed Rottweiler passed by. OK, the young man passed by and the giant black-and-tan dog stopped at our table to intimidate Dixie and the Squirt. A few unpleasant words were exchanged and the big German dog snarled. The snarl elicited a trio of growls from our table– basso profundo from Dixie, tenor from Squirt and a shrieking coloratura soprano from Eighty-three the cat.

Dixie said something like, “Get the fuck out of here or you will be sorry,” to the Rottweiler. That dumb ass ignored the warning and lunged at Dixie.

Have you ever wondered how much fury is housed in a 12-pound half-Chihuahua/half Dachshund and an eight-pound Siamese cat? Boatloads.

Before I could stand from my seat to get between them, Squirt had the big dog by the throat and Eighty-three was scratching the flesh from his jowls while chewing his ears. Dixie never moved a muscle or flinched. In three seconds, the dog was in the submissive pose– quivering on his side under our table, a small cat and miniature dog clamped to his head.

The young man, who was thirty feet past when my ninja team struck, came running back and screamed, “Easy, Killer, don’t hurt them,” as he started to reach into the melee’.

“Who, fella,” Streaker Jones said, and grabbed the kid by his collar. “You wanna keep that hand you’ll keep it back.”

I grabbed the cat and said to Squirt, I said, “OK little lady, let the big guy loose.”

“Not until he says he’s sorry. This asshole called Dixie a bitch.” This was said by Squirt around a mouthful of bloody dog fur. Sounded like, “Nah unta he thaths heth thorre. He thall Dithee a beeth.”

And that was the moment it hit me. I’m suffering from separation anxiety with my book. I miss fucking with it. It’s been such a big part of my life for so long, it’s like getting a divorce. I’ve had ten of those and they are never easy.

I bought the young guy a Carta Blanca, his first, and I Streaker Jones stitched his dog up with first aid supplies I carry in all my cars. Turns out the kid was an OK guy, just dealing with the macho issues of an angst-filled youth. We had a long discussion about using a mean dog as a manhood substitute, and how appearances can be deceiving and all of that.

When the guy walked away with the dog I was feeling this mixed emotions thingie. I was proud of my animals for defending family honor without starting the fight, and I was saddened by the loss of book authorating efforts. I had these thoughts while I thought of having three-way sex with the Reckmonster and Chelsea Handler.

I think I am a seriously fucked up man. Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

Leave a Reply