My
Dog Has Epilepsy
by Rosa P. Mozi
She doesn't
have many seizures anymore, because of the medication.
My lover and I tried the Phenobarbitol, but it made
her act weird, so now we're going with Potassium Bromide,
which is hard to get. Not many pharmacies will fill
the prescription because it's flammable or something.
Most mornings I wake up and worry
first about the dog, but today I don't because something
else has woken me up. This morning, I swear I'm smelling
garlic mashed potatoes. It is like a dream, like looking
into the mirror and I'm Catherine Zeta Jones.
I wake up hungry.
For what, I don't know. My appetite
is huge and constant, I want whatever I can't have.
I take the Potassium Bromide off the bedside table
and look at the directions again, always doubting
that I've given the dog the right dose.
One pill in the morning and one
pill at night, exactly two grams a day, so she won't
have a seizure. And I shouldn't worry. I've never
gotten it wrong before, but I do worry because one
missed pill, or one too many, one too many distractions
or one pill delivered but spit out again could mean
a seizure or deadly overdose. Four capsules would
be lethal to a human.
I keep my eyes closed this morning
and imagine how to feed my appetite. I think I might
like this, a bath waiting for me with bubbles and
candles scented like rain and marigolds. There is
a CD playing-- Neil Young's Harvest-- except
I'm hearing it for the first time and getting blown
away by the fact that I don't have to skip tracks
to find a good song. And I'm smelling these garlic
mashed potatoes.
I hear my dog scratching along
the floor outside my bath, but it's not a seizure,
it's not the same rhythm as that, so I know she's
fine. And at the edge of the tub I have this little
basket with makeup in it and expensive makeup brushes.
I look in the mirror and I'm absolutely perfect without
makeup, of course I am, I'm Catherine Zeta Jones.
My face is rosy and moist from the hot water but I
decide to use the fancy brushes to apply lipstick,
just because it feels so good to outline the curves
of my lips with the expensive brush and I love the
sense of touch on my lips, always.
My lover walks into the bathroom.
He's just showered and he smells of patchouli and
weed. I like the way he has no rhythm to his step,
the way he has no nickname for me, how he has grayed,
how his smile has become more like mine over the years,
how he can never make his clothes match. He sweeps
me off to this bed I'm in now, except our bedroom
is rust-colored and candle-lit like a Mexican restaurant.
He touches and explores and I just stretch out and
enjoy it because I am a greedy lover and offer him
pleasure only after my own--and it is pleasure. I
am soaking in all of the touch until I am full and
he knows this about me and he knows I save it up and
then unleash myself on him because I take great pleasure
in seeing his body quiver and twist at my mercy. The
tables turn when he moves his tongue over my nipple
and pushes my breasts up toward my mouth, and I follow
his tongue with my own, and am unleashed.
But in a parallel universe, I
am with the other man I love, because I am hungry,
and because I love only him as well. No one knows
I love this other man. He doesn't know either as I
imagine he's sitting here in my room, singing along
to classical music and concerned about how far his
stomach hangs over his belt. I tell him I've noticed
he can't seem to keep his hair combed and invite him
over to help smooth it. It doesn't smooth and we both
giggle, and he says he worries he falls in love too
easily, and I say I don't mind. His touch is gentle
and awkward. All the while, he is talking, about bad
television, and I laugh when he talks with all seriousness
about Three's Company or Alf, and he
finds out I don't laugh, I snort, and he doesn't mind.
I find out other things about him, like how he talks
with his hands, isn't good at sharing, thinks he's
stupid about literature and fresh vegetables and foreplay.
And I can tell he's hiding something: a small penis,
a hair piece, a removable arm. He believes I wouldn't
love him as much if I knew what it was. So I care
for him gently because he is tender and unsure with
me. I kiss his face slowly, the jawline, the chin,
the eyelids, the corner of his mouth. And I stop and
look at him and then kiss him slowly and stand back
and look again. He lets me love all of him, even the
hidden part. I say his name and feel like I've been
bottling it in, so now it comes bursting out of me.
I whisper it and shout it and my legs shake to finally
release the secret.
Only here can I let him hold
me, can I imagine that he would want to hold me. We
savor this last moment together before the day starts,
naked and crazy with this growing smell of warm garlic.
But the morning light comes in
through the curtain, and I realize I'm lying here
with two lovely men. And with no one at all.
My lover's arms hold me anyway.
It's the way he treats everyone, even our epileptic
dog. When there's a seizure and our dog is kicking
and foaming and her bowels let loose, this man speaks
in his soft voice while I get the old towels we keep
by the bed just for this purpose and soak up the mess.
My lover is the one who holds our dog. He holds her
while she's kicking, and says, "I'm right here. It's
all right." We both pet her very softly and slowly
until she stops kicking, until she stops vomiting.
We stroke her fur, my man still whispering to her
almost as if to me, "There you go, you're coming back
now, there you are, that's it," all the while helping
me clean up the carpet and watching her eyes for her
to return.
Our dog is fine this morning.
She's curled in her bed. And I'm curled with my back
warmed by my lover's chest. Lying here, I realize
he has just said something that has pulled me back
here. I don't know what it is he's said and I don't
want him to know I haven't been listening, so I don't
ask. Instead I sigh softly and deeply, letting the
dream out through my breath. He curls around me and
says I'm beautiful and he wants to be inside of me.
And I start crying, not because of anything really,
just that he's the only one I can cry with. And he
knows this about me, that I never know why I'm crying;
he knows not to ask. He just holds me. So tight I
know I can't fall away. And he sings a song very softly.
Something I may recognize later. His voice is off-key,
but he just keeps singing and holding me. It makes
me think I could be moved by simple things-- like
the color of a raindrop on the hood of a Corvette,
or the ring of white around a man's finger when he
slips off his ring, or life inside this body instead
of inside this room, this house, this world.
My lover asks, and this time
I hear him, if maybe I could skip the Wheat Chex this
morning, if he could do something a little weird and
make garlic mashed potatoes while I have a bath. He's
already cooking them, he says, he got started while
I was asleep with the corny smile on my face. I watch
him go into the bathroom and fill the tub, just a
little too hot, the way I like it. He adds the bubbles
that smell like sunflowers. I'm breathing in the garlic,
feeling the warmth of the sun, hearing the sound of
running water. My limbs are blissfully heavy and I'm
not ready to get out of bed yet. While he's gone I
think perhaps I'll take the dog's dose of Potassium
Bromide, to stay here, to stay in one place. But I
don't take the medicine, and when he returns to check
on me he says, "Don't go anywhere, I'll just be downstairs,"
the smile on his face full of doubt and wonder and
knowledge that steals my breath. Would my other lover
make me mashed potatoes for breakfast? No, because
he can't make anything but omelets without cooking
it in the microwave, but he would know me as well,
would remind me just like this to stay where I am,
would kiss me on the forehead and go downstairs to
telephone an order for bagels and flowers and coffee
from the market, and bring it all up to me and we'd
lay here in bed. And here he would know what my lover
already knows. I'm not so wonderful. And sometimes,
now, I'm not quite here, dog hair on my pajamas, not
looking like Catherine Zeta Jones at all. I lie here
and watch both men I love go off together to make
the house smell like warm garlic, like marigolds,
like sunshine.
The dog puts her muzzle up on
the bed and I watch her eyes. I wonder if she knows
how difficult she is to care for, if she is ashamed
after the seizures when she tries to walk around on
her cramped legs but keeps falling. I cup my hand
under her muzzle and she licks my wrist. The look
in her eyes doesn't say any of that. All I see is
that she loves me and wants me to love her back, high
maintenance or not. All the salt must be washed off
my wrist, but she keeps licking anyway, and I let
her do it as if this was what I was hungry for all
along.
