Bobo has truly taken to his new role in the household. For instance, I've been giving him his food in a dog dish. It even has his name on the side of it. He took to it at once.
Generally, I do the cooking at home. Bobo has no knack for it. However, I make him do everything else, so, at meal times, he sets the table, pours my beverage, and does all the dishes afterwards while I lie on the couch.
When it's time to eat, I get some leftovers from the fridge for Bobo. I just mix it up any old way I please, and dump it into his dish. Last night I gave him a dish that included some old meatloaf, bread crusts, canned lima beans, and a generous pour of ketchup over all of it, and placed it on the floor next to my chair.
I brought my food to the table: lamb chops, steamed broccoli crowns with a bit of aioli, and saffron basmati rice. Yum!
Once I am seated, Bobo comes crawling quietly up to his bowl on the floor beside me and waits. After I've had a few bites, I gesture to him and he begins to eat. At first, he was an absolute slob about it. Food on his face, food on the floor. I had to send him into his closet space many times in the early going, his ass reddened by a good paddling. He presented quite a spectacle scampering down the hallway with his burning asscheeks. But he needed the guidance. He needed the disciplining. And, in the end, he developed very admirable table manners. Or should I say floor manners.
He was eventually so mannered that I would give him pats on the head during dinner, or toss a morsel of my food into his bowl. We were getting along fine.
I have become closer to my friend Cindy after her marriage collapsed. We would meet for a glass of wine in the evenings, or sometimes have dinner together. Still smarting from the cruel behavior of her ex, and his ultimate rejection of her, she tended to fume inwardly, often blaming herself for the failure. I worried about her. She had already been slim (she has a very nice figure, in fact, but she is delicate). But she was slowly losing weight. Naturally pale with light freckles on her cheeks, she now appeared pallid and wan. I did what I could to dissuade her from taking on guilt, and her emotional and physical well-being became a priority for me. I
knew what a scumbag Roland was, and knew that Cindy was more than a little entitled to complete freedom from the ugly shadow he cast over her life.
Slowly, Cindy realized that she had suffered genuine abuse over many years. As this came more into focus, her indignation naturally came to the fore. I saw this as, possibly, the beginning of a cathartic reversal of her downward path. I wished it to be so, and I would do what I could to help.
Once, at a bistro downtown, we were sipping coffee after the meal. I asked her how things were going. Was she feeling any happier? She had ventured out on a couple of dates over the previous weeks, but nothing had come of that. She looked down at the tablecloth and fidgeted with a spoon. Suddenly she brought her fist down onto the table. Everything on it took a little leap. I was more than taken aback. I just sat there and waited. Cindy gave me a grim little smile and suggested that we leave.
We had gone there in my car, so I drove her home. I pulled up to her house and we sat for a moment in the car.
"Cindy, honey, I understand what you're feeling. And what you're feeling right now might not feel good but, believe me, it is." I said.
"I'm sorry I acted that way." she said, looking away from me.
"I'm not." I told her flatly. "Look, you're super pissed off at your dickhead ex-husband. You thought it was all you, but now you know. It was him pulling all the sneaky shit, lying to you, whatever.
There are probably more than a few things you don't know".
"come in for a drink?" Cindy said.
I could see she really needed a friend in that moment.
"Love to."
Inside, Cindy brought two glasses of anisette to the living room, and we leaned back on the couch. Moxie, her toy poodle, curled up between us.
"You know, Cindy. There was something really wonderful about your restaurant scene. And, trust me, yes people noticed, but who cares? It was over in a nanosecond. I was, well... kind of proud of you."
Cindy looked at me.
"You were?"
"Absolutely!"
Cindy gave a warm smile. She seemed shy about it all.
"It felt good, actually." she ventured.
"From my own experience, I can tell you that that is the path for you to travel now. You've got to purge yourself of these battened down feelings. Look, Cindy. You're a very genteel, kind lady. Do you agree?"
"I suppose." she said, swirling the clear liqueur in her glass.
"Yes or no."
She laughed. "Yes. That's me, all right."
"Well, it's time you branched out a bit, I'm supposing, eh? You know, I see your table-pounding tonight as kind of a short but powerful debutante event, you know? Not like being presented into society, more like, well... jumping feet-first into a world of strength, of womanhood."
Cindy reached out and gave me a quick hug. There were tears in her eyes, but they were somehow different from the ones I was accustomed to seeing there. There was a light behind them, a clarity, and there were the beginnings of strength.
Cindy went to the kitchen and returned with the bottle. We sat back and chatted. She seemed freer and more relaxed than I'd seen her in some time. We talked about Roland, what a turd he was. There wasn't much of ambivalence in her voice or her expression. That was new. We eventually sipped our way through half the bottle.
"It's so good sitting here talking with you, Gretchen." Cindy said, slumped lazily on the couch. "It kind of soothes the hurt parts of me, you know. They're still there, of course."
"I'd venture to say that a part of that pain is brought on by your, well..." I began, wanting to take care in how I broached the subject, "by your not acknowledging your resentment. It's important to really feel that, you know, viscerally."
I could see that Cindy was getting a bit tipsy. She'd swayed a bit on her way to the bathroom.
"You mean the fact that I hate his fucking guts?" she said.
"You have every reason to hate him, Cindy. He's an out-and-out pig. Am I right?" I said, hoping to coax the vitriol from her. She was drunk, but that could be helpful in the process.
"No. Not a pig... A swine! I like that better. a filthy, fucking swine." she said, with an edge, almost a growl, in her voice.
Now, the only other time, over many years, that I heard Cindy swear was when a car driven by a senile old woman jumped the curb while we were walking along a sidewalk, and she'd said "Holy shit!" Otherwise, she went no further than "gosh" or "darn".
I picked up a throw pillow from where it had slipped onto the carpet. I held it out in front of me with both hands.
"Here, Cindy." I said. "This is Roland. Show him how you feel. Don't hold back."
She gave a few sharp jabs with her small fists, then, suddenly, she was flailing away at it. Her face was contorted into a look of intensity and rage. I had to sit back some so as not to get into the line of fire!
"Fucking swine!" she snarled. She grabbed at the pillow, wrenched it from my hands and threw it on the floor. She began stamping on it, mashing her heel into it.
"You worthless piece of shit!" she hissed.
I simply sat back and let her go. It was beautiful. She kicked it clear across the room where some framed photographs on the sideboard fell over, some clattering onto the floor.
Cindy stood in the middle of the room, her hands clenched at her sides.
I guess I drank too much, Gretch." she said, but then she laughed.
"One more glass won't hurt, though, eh?" she said, relaxing now and returning to the couch. She flopped down heavily.
"Boy! That was fun. Thanks for thinking it up."
"Pillow-punching is a staple of the therapy-at-home movement, girlfriend. Anyway, glad you got into it. Feel better?"
"Yeah... Yeah! I really do. I sure do." she said.
In a minute, her eyes began to droop. I walked her into her bedroom and got her down to her undies and under the covers in no time. She gave a long and satisfied yawn.
"Mmmmm. I'm gonna sleep like a baby. Thanks, Gretch."
With that, she rolled onto her side and was almost instantly asleep. I found a couple of blankets in the closet and went out to curl up on the couch. I wanted to be there the next morning.
I awoke the next day to the sound of rain on the window sill. I dressed, then tiptoed to Cindy's room. Taking a quick peek inside, I saw that she was still asleep, sprawled across the bed diagonally under the sheet. How cute! She was snoring lightly, almost a purr.
I went to the kitchen and quietly made coffee. In ten minutes or so, Cindy appeared in the doorway.
"Boy. I feel great." she said as she walked past me to the coffee maker. "And that's a surprise. Normally, drinking gives me a headache the next day. How are you doing this morning?"
"The couch was very comfortable." I said. "I'm feeling pretty well myself."
She poured some food for Moxie into her bowl, then came to the table with her cup.
"What you up to today?" she queried.
"Called in. Taking the day off." I said. "You?"
"About to do the very same thing, don't you know." she replied. "We could spend the day together, what do you say?" she continued.
It was a pleasant proposition.
"Sure. I'd love to."
"Breakfast here, or breakfast out?" she said, holding her cup in both hands and sipping.
"On me, my dear. The Troubadours has good breakfasts. Shall we? Anyway, we have things to talk about."
"Hmmm? What's that?"
