Deep Stuff

I returned to the villa coming up on 8. I didn’t park out in the street, that white gravel bone of roadway that connects half finished projects with other half finished projects, and all of them tied with the bow of infrastructural despair. Did you ever notice that there are windows only on one side of a building here? Keep the light at bay. Keep it dark where I can see you.

I got out of the car and there was devilina in the moon light. Slinking like shylock toward BethleMAN. What destruction now, I asked. Her tail wagged like a snake in no hurry. That's the sign. She was tight to the ground. Still, I chatted on our way along the narrow walk back to VillaOcilla, as I call it. Pathovillalogical. And sure enough we get to the garden and, on the eve of a full moon, I could see clearly what she’d done, taken the poinsettia out, for the second time in two days. The same plant out of the same pot. And one other as well. The same one as before. The same two as the day before. The red Poinsettia, as in blood and love and sentimental journey.

It was message alright, from outer dog space. But what does it mean? I said to her and meanwhile she’d turned into an ocelot creeping along. You wanted democracy, you got it. You got us thrown out of the other place ‘cause you didn’t like that. Now, what’s wrong with this. I can’t spend every minute of every day minding your mental store.

I went to her, she rolled over, and bit me as I tried to get her Raskolnikov ass back to the spot. Show her the damage for zillionth time. You bitch-critter, I said and tried to kick her as she ran off into the dark. This is the SIXTH day in a row. It’s a little cold war going on here. And after each day I try some new psychology. True love, tough shit, basketcase enabler, just walk and talk, I’d give her a martini if I had one, but it’s never enough. You understand, I'm doing everything by the canine juvi book.

This was especially weird because I’d taken her on a mammoth walk at 7 a.m. We got back at 10 and both of us passed out like two drunks on the bed. I couldn’t feel my legs; she was twitching like an epileptic. Now, at the other end of the day, this. And by the way, should I count up all ‘a’tta boys’ I gave her. And at the other end of the day, at 7 p.m., I’d been willing to take her downtown to the cyber cafe, let her wait in the car, while I did my business. Ten minutes tops. But she wasn’t around so she missed out on a mission.

What the fuck do you want? I shouted at the dark. “Money? You want money?”

I told her I’d take her out to Moroccan Route 66 and let her off and seek her destiny among sheep herders. 'That’s your blood. Go back to your Berber amazon queen and smear the blood of your enemies on your breasts and eat their children. Your neurotic fuckette. And then tell me your excuse. Tell me you’re a victim. Tell me you live in emotional Falluja. I’ll still kill you. Because now it’s archetypal. You’re fiddling with deep stuff.