The Puppy Series Box Set

By E. P. Lee

One by one, Eric had lost everything, gonno was his health, his life. Eric was dead on a table for a while there, dead. Once revived, by the joys and miracles of medical science, and established in recovery, gonno was his lover, gonno was his previous canine best friend, Ziggy, and then gonno... Everything, all of it, gonno, one by one, all, until Eric had nothing left but his house in Miami and the memories that haunted it. So, first, a new, yowling, howling puppy was procured, and next for Eric, to stand, up, and finally movement, forward.
A journey begun, a journey taken.
This is the story of being hit. "splat", by everything modern American life can throw at you, and then... who, and what, comes next.
ÁNDALE.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. P. Lee
• Release date: Dec 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370123636

E. P. Lee

After a lifetime spent in his native New York Eric Paul Lee now resides in beautiful, tropical, Miami, Florida. Born in Brooklyn and raised in Coney Island, Eric often wandered the Boardwalk in his childhood. Eric frequently wasted his allowance at the now demolished Steeplechase Park and the other dated, dowdy and declining amusements that defined Coney Island... and much of traditional society... back then. The traditional was still IN back then. And the traditional like Coney Island had seen its glory days, its heyday, long passed. But the new hadn’t arrived yet. Just the old was fading... And so the forms still had to be obeyed. And with that Eric’s parent’s obeyed those forms and Eric was dispatched to college in Upstate NY to return to Brooklyn some four years later. Upon graduation from college Eric bounced from job to job until the Graphic Arts caught his creative eye and a new career began. With his first graphics production position under his belt Eric moved in to Manhattan some two years later never to live in Brooklyn again. Success built on success as corporate stints in California brought about even greater successes leading to Eric’s eventual New York City return and the opening of his own Graphics Agency in Manhattan. That enterprise ran successfully for over twenty years. Now out of industry entirely, Eric is happy to enjoy the perpetual Florida sun and write.

Book preview

Macintosh HD:Users:johnlow:3. Formatting Jobs:3 Formatting in Progress:8A|0924 Peter Goldsmith Projects:12 And the Puppy Howls Box Set:Version 3 24Oct19:Attachments:ATPH_BxStTitle.jpegMacintosh HD:Users:johnlow:3. Formatting Jobs:3 Formatting in Progress:8A|0924 Peter Goldsmith Projects:12 And the Puppy Howls Box Set:Version 3 24Oct19:Attachments:Books by E.P. Lee.jpeg

https://andthepuppyhowls.com/shop/

Macintosh HD:Users:johnlow:3. Formatting Jobs:3 Formatting in Progress:8A|0924 Peter Goldsmith Projects:12 And the Puppy Howls Box Set:Version 3 24Oct19:Attachments:ATPH_BxStTitle.jpeg

Copyright © 2019 Eric Paul Lee.

andthepuppyhowls.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—— whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—— without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

All characters, situations, names, places and locations are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any and all resemblance to actual people living or dead, events, businesses, locations, or places is completely coincidental.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

For Freud:

…and only for Freud

Macintosh HD:Users:johnlow:3. Formatting Jobs:3 Formatting in Progress:8A|0924 Peter Goldsmith Projects:12 And the Puppy Howls Box Set:Version 3 24Oct19:Attachments:ATPH_BxStTitle.jpeg

Contents

And the Puppy Howls

And the Puppy Howls No Longer

And the Puppy Ain’t a Puppy No More

Macintosh HD:Users:johnlow:3. Formatting Jobs:3 Formatting in Progress:8A|0924 Peter Goldsmith Projects:Covers:1 And the Puppy Howls Cover.jpgATPH_Bk1TitleMacintosh HD:Users:johnlow:3. Formatting Jobs:3 Formatting in Progress:8A|0924 Peter Goldsmith Projects:12 And the Puppy Howls Box Set:Version 3 24Oct19:Attachments:Books by E.P. Lee.jpeg

https://andthepuppyhowls.com/shop/

ATPH_Bk1Title

Copyright © 2012 Eric Paul Lee.

andthepuppyhowls.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

All characters, situations, names, places and locations are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any and all resemblance to actual people living or dead, events, businesses, locations, or places is completely coincidental.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

"For Shirley:

There are relationships and then there are relationships… and then there is family. This wouldn’t have been the same without you.

Surely Shirley…

… you did good!"

ATPH_Bk1Title

1

A preface

Freud (my 27lb fawn colored French Bulldog), just dripped a gallon of water on my right leg and foot. He’s just out of the pool where he was cooling his coin sack (he’s neutered), after chasing the plastic stick that my BF Seth religiously throws for him (5) or (6) mornings a week in between his sips of espresso, and conversation with me, on the back deck.

For the whole hour we’re together Freud sits at Seth’s feet panting, drooling, and mewling for attention until Seth leans down to pick up the bright green, orange, or purple 1 ½" wide, 13" long stick at his feet. Immediately Freud grabs whatever stick has been chosen between his teeth and wrestles Seth for it. If Seth wins and gets the stick free it’s thrown into the garden for Freud to chase, and fetch back.

If Freud gets the stick away from Seth:

… see above.

This goes on for a solid hour.

Sandy, Seth’s 112lb (at her last yearly physical), (5)-year old GIGUNDA Palomino American Bulldog (Freud’s BGFF), is usually ignoring all of the festivities unfolding around her while she’s lying at, or on, my left foot waiting for me to give her a cookie (a dog biscuit). Over the ensuing hour Sandy usually has (8), or (9), of the (10) cookies I’ve brought out with Seth’s espresso depending on when and if Freud has left his stick game for a snack.

Sandy usually has (9)…

… or (10).

So the regular hour visit is over and they’ve just left.

In addition to a soaking wet right foot and leg, I have a damp left leg from Sandy’s ever-present cookie drool, and a wet chest and back from the sweat dripping down from my shoulders and upper torso. The bands of my Calvin’s, my black Calvin Athletic Fit T-shirt itself in spots, and my blue/black/white surfboard printed board shorts, are all damp to WET; it doesn’t feel pleasant. It’s August hot and humid out, and it’s only the beginning of June.

HOT & HUMID…

Sweaty…

Not pleasant…

And yet the backyard the deck inhabits is a quiet, visually pleasing paradise. The vegetation that abounds, all of my Areca Palm trees, my Fan-Palm trees, my Royal Palm trees, planted barely (4)-years ago when I first bought and moved into this house (Here), from There (my previous waterfront manse), have shot up. Those babies have doubled and tripled in size and now you can’t see any of the other houses on either side of mine, or in the back. The 6’ high wood plank fence that surrounds my 10,000 square foot property is completely invisible too.

And my more recently planted flowering shrubs and annuals: Bougainvillea, Hibiscus, Birds of Paradise, Impatiens, Penta, Begonias, and Violets are all bursting with summer color. With my fully maturing Banana tree bearing (3) massive stalks of fruit for added visual texture it’s as if I’m in a private compound in Key West, and not in Miami Shores, Florida a small urban Center near to I-95 (a horrifically trafficked Federal Super Highway (about a half a mile to the west), and Miami Downtown itself. I’m dead center in a high density urban/suburban wasteland, and no one would ever know.

Except me…

… as I chose the property, Here, and I designed it this way.

And it’s worked…

There’s a service alley behind my high back plantings and wooden fence. Except for the residents who share my service alley leaving for work, or coming home, (5) of them max, and only (1) home owner actually uses the alley regularly as everyone else parks out front on the street, or on their front driveway like me, occasional lawn maintenance contractors, the city service trucks (garbage and bulk pick-up twice a week), and an occasional scheduled repair truck: electric company, cable company, or gasp, Bellsouth (that’s so last century…), there is no traffic there.

So there is no noise out back.

And since the street out front itself is a dead end, with only (10) houses on it total, there is no traffic or pedestrian noise there either.

An enclave, I bought a house in an enclave.

Sometimes on a crisp day in winter (a crisp winter day in sub-tropical Miami, Florida, not often that, not often…) you can hear the whoosh of traffic from I-95 when walking on the street as you approach the dead-end to the west. But even on those days, my backyard is silent.

Like I said, my backyard is a quiet visual paradise, and I love it.

So with wet feet, and a somewhat sweaty and wet upper bod, I was still sitting at the deck dining table listening to the music from my iPod powered Beats speaker. There I quietly sat (damp…), sipping the dregs of my cold espresso as my regular guests departed and my thoughts started to wander into places almost as cold and dark as those black espresso dregs.

Lynn my current paramour du jour, and the only person I’ve been having regular sex with for the past (3) years or so, has been in La Jolla, California on business for almost an entire month now, and I’m starting to get antsy.

It’s not a sexual thing per se, sex is only part of that antsy affliction. You see over time Lynn has become 60% of all of my social interactions, with Seth, Ami his wife, and their behemoth Sandy being another 20% of same, and everyone else I know, my BFF from college Leslie and her brood, and my ex-partner/ne-lover, Gal from (30) years ago included, making up the balance.

Gal is in Skagway, Alaska now on permanent business assignment so we neither speak much or see each other anymore. So with Lynn away I’m home alone most of the time and mucho incommunicado. There are long periods of time where Seth is the only human being I’ll speak to in person (except for my housekeepers (Divinity and Patricia), or other tradespeople), for days.

My smart phone is really dumb of late, it doesn’t ring much anymore. And there’s reasons for that, and for all of this other minimal human interaction too. I’m the one responsible for all of this being what it is. Or perhaps, just maybe, I’m not solely responsible and the times we live in, societal change as it’s gone down, the tragedies, and the personal physical events of a lifetime passed, have all conspired to put me in the position I now find myself in.

Hmmmm…

Well…

… here goes…

It begins…

And the Puppy Howls

A 21st Century Adult Fairy Tale

And the puppy howls… all night long too.

I had to leave the little one alone. You can’t honor that behavior by reacting. If you react it’s like a baby with call and response, they cry and you pick them up. That’s bad, they’ll always cry after that.

But I’m exhausted.

The puppy, Freud, howled all the night through, and the night before too. Gal was angry at me to boot.

"How…

… just HOW…

… can you do that to the poor dog?"

I’m always the ogre.

I’m the one to do the training. I’m the one to give the baths. I’m the one to take the animal to the vet. I’m the disciplinarian. I’m the bad guy. And Freud, the howling puppy, a dark fawn colored (10)-week old French Bulldog responds well. Except when Gal treats him without discipline and the little boy thinks he can do anything he wants.

Then I have to be the bad guy and undo what has just been done.

And poor Freud has to be crated.

Freud wasn’t happy in the crate, Freud wasn’t happy at all. Freud was so unhappy that Freud didn’t sleep all night. All Freud did was howl. That howling stopped all other sleep in the house.

I didn’t sleep. Gal didn’t sleep. Freud didn’t sleep.

The little monster wouldn’t potty outside either. Freud was going to show me. Except Freud didn’t, I just kept Freud in the crate. On Freud’s regular schedule I took Freud out. Freud didn’t even sniff spots the first (2) times I walked him so back into the crate Freud went. Gal had already left for Gal’s home near Key West so I didn’t have a litany of carping to deal with too, just the howls of confinement.

Finally…

… on walk (3)…

… a piddle.

That piddle got a "good boy" response and a return to open privileges. Freud is wagging his little tail and happy again. All schedules are maintained and bathroom functions back on a viable puppy, or should I say "poopy" track.

Freud’s exhausted too.

Freud’s nearly asleep in my lap again, but calm and happy. The howls were unnerving. You would’ve thought Freud was being tortured. It was pretty pitiful.

It’s good to get the new decade off this way though. Even with all of the poop I have to deal with. It’s good to have the positive reinforcement and life of the puppy around. Last year, the whole decade too, was just defeat, denial, declining expectations, death…

… and loss.

This is at least a hint at something better.

I know it’s only a puppy.

2

Freud has a long way to go to replace my best friend Sigmund, forever and better known as Ziggy; Ziggy was my first French Bulldog, all white and all attitude, my little man, the focus of my life.

I loved Ziggy so.

Ziggy used to fly with me under the seat, and often. I used to say:

"If the plane goes down it’ll all be OK because everything I need to take care of is right here with me."

The business, my ex-lover Gal, my then current boyfriend Mitch, they could all take care of themselves.

But Ziggy, Ziggy cared for me, and I cared for Ziggy.

When the boyfriend, Mitch, died last October of a fatal brain injury in a bad work-related accident Ziggy rallied around me with an outpouring of love and affection. For (4) weeks my "little man" was just exceptional.

And then…

… well …

… Ziggy’s heart gave out as Ziggy had an unknown tumor growing on the right side of his heart. The tumor had probably been there from birth, but now it was the size of a grapefruit, and the tumor was starving Ziggy’s lungs of air and pressing on his trachea which disrupted airflow making it harder for the dog to breathe (not a good thing for a French Bulldog who starts off life with a pushed in nose to begin with).

Not a good thing…

The tumor also stopped Ziggy’s heart from completely flushing out the blood coming in. The resulting backwash of un-pumped blood was going down to Ziggy’s liver. In the liver the excess blood was being processed into a sterile bile that flooded Ziggy’s abdominal cavity. Ziggy’s belly distended then and all of a sudden, like a switch had been flipped, Ziggy stopped eating. Next, Ziggy’s digestive track went whack and violent diarrhea ensued and my little man would momentarily pass out from lack of oxygen, or the strain on his poor little system, or hunger.

It was painful to witness.

It was unbearable to watch more than once.

I couldn’t take it.

I truly believe that Ziggy had decided that I was strong enough, and far enough along in my own recovery, for him to leave me. Ziggy could finally be sick and let go.

So he did…

Ziggy had been getting sick for a long time. I was treating symptoms as they came up. I thought I was winning too, but Ziggy was over (14) years old, that’s (98) in dog years…

… (98) …

I always knew I would lose Ziggy sometime. I just didn’t want to lose Ziggy now.

Shit…

I didn’t want to lose Ziggy ever.

I cried.

3

Ziggy was still feisty at the end.

Even though he hadn’t eaten in (3) days Ziggy wanted to go on his raft in his pool, so Ziggy did. Instead of jumping on and off the raft and running back and forth on it to make the raft go where Ziggy wanted it to go, Ziggy had to be helped on and off, and the raft had to be pushed to make it move.

But Ziggy had fun.

I have pictures.

That was the last time Ziggy smiled.

Ziggy was angry with me at that end too. I took a picture of him in the car on that last ride to the vet. Ziggy was glaring at me then. Everyone who sees the picture knows that glare.

But that was Ziggy, Ziggy smiled and glared (and farted…).

Ziggy was always in control, even at that very end.

Ziggy hated to be alone.

So at that end I made sure Ziggy wasn’t alone. I held him as he passed. I held Ziggy the entire time. I have to go and pick up his ashes. They called me from the Vet’s office the Thursday before New Year’s, the ashes are ready for pick-up. Gal wants me to place the ashes by the pool downstairs.

Ziggy loved that pool so much that Ziggy became a French Waterdog. That’s kinda funny as French Bulldogs hate water as they can’t swim. French Bulldogs are so dense and top heavy that they sink in a pool, and fast. But Ziggy loved his pool and Ziggy would spend hours there, in it, and lying by it.

Ziggy would spend hours running round, and round, and round the pool chasing anybody who was in the water. Or Ziggy would raft round, and round the pool, barking constantly and trying to catch whomever was playing in the water. Ziggy loved children too. I still don’t know why that as Ziggy was rarely around kids, yet Ziggy always knew how to play with children and play with children Ziggy did.

Ziggy just didn’t go in the water much though.

"What me swim?"

But Ziggy loved that pool.

I can’t do that ashes thing by the pool here though. I’m not keeping this house. And I want Ziggy with me where I move. I still have Kitchi’s ashes (15) years after her passing. Kitchi was Ziggy’s canine predecessor in my heart, Kitchi, a big, beautiful, pinto Japanese Akita.

I want Ziggy’s memory with me too.

4

When I started to renovate this house I decided to put the pool in first.

That way even with all of the rest of construction going on I’d at least have a sanctuary to run to while the interior was in chaos. It worked out that way too. The pool quickly became a paradise.

Still…

… it took more than (6) months to complete the pool and those (6) months were pretty terrible. But the pool became that wanted sanctuary and was the salvation needed as the rest of the house was engulfed in construction.

That pool construction was planned with Ziggy in mind from the very start. As estimates were requested the various pool company sales representatives were told what was required. These Pool People didn’t want to do the pool that way. One company refused outright to bid; they simply would not quote the work, and (2) other companies gave me multiple arguments as to why they didn’t want to do what I wanted done the way I wanted it done. I had to insist and threaten, though I eventually won out. The pool companies finally quoted what was asked for, and the winning bidder did exactly what was wanted.

I just didn’t get all of the drama.

And all of that drama was for Ziggy.

I had a vinyl liner pool and steps at my old house in East Hampton, New York. Ziggy couldn’t, or wouldn’t, train himself to swim to those steps to climb out of the pool when he fell in the water. With Ziggy’s little 8’ legs he couldn’t lift his body weight up to the brick pool coping around the pool perimeter. So when Ziggy fell off the raft while playing he would swim to the edges of the pool where he would flail away at the vinyl liner to get up and out. But there was never a crisis as I was always there to save him.

Ziggy didn’t play in the pool alone, or without me there, ever, which is why Ziggy wasn’t afraid of the water. But Ziggy didn’t like not being in control as he was being carried out of the pool and up to the dry deck, boy did he fidget and squirm.

Ziggy wanted to do it all by himself, but Ziggy couldn’t. So when I designed this pool I made sure that those issues wouldn’t be a factor here. This was going to be a forever house so why not just do it right?

And it was a forever house, for Ziggy…

So upfront I told the Pool People that:

There has to be a ledge on all (4) sides of the pool.

Which led to Discussion Numero Uno as the Pool People informed me:

Pools aren’t done that way here.

I said:

But, that’s what I want.

They said:

You can’t do laps that way.

I said:

"Who does laps?

We float."

At first the Pool People refused to quote and I said, pretending to be unruffled, even though I had nowhere else to turn and I just had to have a pool:

Don’t bother quoting.

Lo and behold most of the Pool People then relented which led to Discussion Numero Dos.

Discussion Numero Dos began when the Pool People said that they would:

… do a ledge on all (4) sides of the pool 18 under the water line."

And I said:

"NO!

I want the ledge 10 under the water line.

The Pool People replied loudly, and indignantly, as if I had questioned their paternity:

They said:

SIR! (like I was the ultimate idiot in pool design and other stuff):

At 18 your guests will sit around the pool on the seating ledge in water up to their chests."

I said:

"Great…

… my GUESTS will be comfortable and my little dog will drown."

I won…

… but the ledge was going to be in the Pool People’s words:

expensive …

… and the ledge was "expensive" in my words too. But the ledge was going to be built. An 18" wide ledge, 3 ½’ tall, around a 34 X 19’ pool uses a lot of concrete not part of an initial estimate. But it was worth every penny; Ziggy had complete control in the pool from the first day the pool was filled.

Ziggy could get in and out of the water at will.

And he did…

When Ziggy fell off the raft as he sometimes did he swam to any ledge nearby and stood stock still for just a moment before shaking the water from his head and ears and then running around all the (4) sides of the pool ledge and finally jumping back on to a raft to keep playing. Ziggy would be barking, and smiling, the whole time.

Ziggy loved his pool and it was "his" pool, always.

I treasure all of the pictures I have.

They make me smile.

My friends loved the ledge too; they all said:

It’s a pleasure not to have to sit in water up to my tits.

If I ever do a pool again from scratch a ledge 10" below the water line will be de rigueur. It works for small dogs and regular sized people too…

… live and learn.

But I can’t leave Ziggy’s ashes here at this pool, here at this house.

I just can’t.

5

Ziggy was a fluke, Ziggy was puppy mill find I never should have bought.

I try not to support things like puppy mills. It’s my liberal do good conscience I suppose. But there I was out shopping for new living room furniture and there he was, Ziggy, in a pet shop window. I asked:

How much is that doggie in the window?

Ziggy was the strangest, ugliest, creature I had ever seen. At first, I called him:

Mister Ugly.

How could I replace my 92lb regal princess, of an Akita, Kitchi, with a tiny 4lb rat-dog no one had ever seen before? This was 1996 when French Bulldogs weren’t even on the radar as pets in New York City.

No one had seen Frenchies yet, no one.

And this one was UGLY!

I thought I would get (2) Frenchies though, "(2)Frenchies" would be better. The (2) Frenchies together would equal (1) medium sized dog. And I wouldn’t have a little "rat-dog" then.

So now pair names went through my head:

Laurel and Hardy, Abbot and Costello, Lady and Tramp, Scarlett and Rhett, but they’d all been done.

Then, suddenly, it hit me:

Sigmund Freud.

I would be standing in Central Park screaming out:

Sigmund Freud!

And (2) adorable French Bulldogs would come running up to my side…

Perfect…

Except Sigmund turned out to have such a big personality, to be such a "big" little dog, that Freud never became a reality and Sigmund morphed instantly into Ziggy. Some (14) years later Ziggy was gone, so I finally got Freud. And he is perfect being Freud by himself.

Still…

I miss my "little man" Ziggy.

I miss Ziggy terribly.

6

And today Freud howls and howls; oh to be a puppy in a big marble kennel with a plush bed and wee-wee pads, and toys, and food, and water.

It’s such torture, torture…

TORTURE! …

Pitiful…

It’s just pitiful.

Where Ziggy was Mr. Ugly, Freud is very handsome. And as Ziggy was a smart animal, Freud is very bright also, Freud is very inquisitive, very loving, and very playful.

Freud’s the perfect puppy.

And Freud is training himself easily and well. Except that is, when Freud doesn’t. Freud goes through moments when he knows what to do, but he just won’t do it. Ziggy used to do that too, consequences be damned, it must be a genetic thing.

Sooooo…

I deal…

I don’t have a choice either, puppies, like children, have to be trained…

… people in relationships too …

Otherwise you go through the same stuff, the same bad behavior, forever. And I don’t like having to repeat negative things, negative situations, and I don’t tolerate fools easily.

So Freud learns quickly, and I pick up poop, and clean up the occasional accident that occurs as we march forward into the future together. With it all Freud does make me smile.

Now…

If only Mitch could be replaced as easily as Ziggy was.

Mitch…

… Mitch was my boyfriend of almost (5) years when he died. I hesitate to admit it:

… "boyfriend" …

Hmmmmm…

… SHIT…

… there’s no question in my mind that Mitch was my "Lover" at the end. Come to think of it, Mitch was probably my Lover back at the beginning too …

… Hmmmmm …

What a nasty time that was for me as Ziggy became sick barely (4) weeks after Mitch’s fatal accident. And Ziggy died just (3) weeks after that. Only (7) weeks separated the (2) events.

I was completely torn up.

I thought my life was over.

OVER!

The house was so silent then, tomblike.

Previously Mitch and Ziggy had filled the house with life and noise. Ziggy was loud with his antics: farts, snorts, grunts, and all of the other things Frenchies do daily. And Mitch filled the house by simply being there what with the constant phone calls from his live-in girlfriend and his 100% dysfunctional family, the half-heard music from his ever-present ear buds, the frequent sex we had, the work he did around the house, and just his company, his presence.

The house was full of noise and life daily…

And I loved them both.

They’re both gone.

7

You can’t just go out and look for a boyfriend/relationship, at least I can’t.

Every time I’ve gone "looking" I haven’t found one. It seems like boyfriends, relationships avoided me, and I avoided them whenever I’ve done that looking thing in the past. It’s always been that way.

Maybe it’s hormonal?

So I knew that actively looking for a boyfriend/relationship wasn’t an option for me. Perhaps putting myself out there and making myself available…

… well…

… maybe I could manage that at some point. But I didn’t think I could do that yet; eventually, perhaps. But right at that moment of Mitch’s passing, of Ziggy’s death…

Nooooo…

… not yet for that, the wounds, emotional and physical, were just too raw.

So I stared to fantasize.

Right away I had one nice fantasy, but other than that limited engagement, and it was limited, very limited, I didn’t do anything else. Emotionally I couldn’t, physically I couldn’t, so I stewed and I waited. I don’t like "stew" and I don’t like to wait, but that was it. I couldn’t do more. So I stewed, and I waited; and fat, I got fat on all of that stew, and lack of activity.

FAT! …

But what I could do then was try to find a new dog.

So I made that my mission and from that mission came Freud, and that’s a good thing. Freud is anchoring me to life, anchoring me to the outside world again, and giving me purpose.

I needed that.

But it’s not like Freud happened all that easily.

Where Ziggy was a spur of the moment impulse buy, I saw Ziggy in a pet store window when I was out shopping for living room furniture and I bought him immediately, a case I suppose of:

love at first sight.

Not Freud though…

… nooooo …

… Freud was a project.

There wasn’t a breeder bred French Bulldog puppy to be had for sale in Florida or lower Georgia at the time Ziggy died. I couldn’t find a dog from any reputable local breeders, nothing, nada, zilch.

From Pet Stores, from Puppy Mills…

… yesssss …

… sure …

… there I could buy a Frenchie puppy.

But I had done that once before and the resulting dog, Ziggy, was sick from the third week he was with me until he died over (14) years later. I wasn’t doing that again.

No this time I was going to do it right.

I was going to live up to my do-good Liberal conscience and do it right. This time I would buy from a Breeder, and only from a Breeder, no Puppy Mills for me.

This time it had to be a Breeder.

The day after I put Ziggy down I made it my mission to find another French Bulldog, a Frenchie from a Reputable Breeder. I wasn’t trying to replace Ziggy per se any more than I could try to replace Mitch. But I knew I wanted another French Bulldog for all the things French Bulldogs are.

Frenchies are great in limited spaces. Frenchies don’t require constant exercise. Frenchies don’t require constant grooming. Frenchies have great comical personalities. Frenchies are great with people, great with children, great with the frail, mindful when trained, easy to walk, and in short, Frenchies don’t strain my limited physical capabilities.

And yes…

… I did want something I would be familiar with, after so much loss, familiarity would be a great thing.

I knew that, but that wasn’t it alone.

I knew, I just knew, that I couldn’t deal with an unknown entity that could be part this, and part that. I knew I needed some consistency. I knew I needed that familiarity…

… especially now!

So I knew that the puppy had, just had, to be a Frenchie.

I finally found a Reputable Breeder, 300 near miles away somewhere around Jacksonville that was expecting a litter the third week of January. I could have a puppy:

If I qualified …

… the first week of March.

March? …

Who could wait until March?

And I need to qualify?

Hell…

I needed a new dog today, certainly by tomorrow.

March was not going to cut it.

And I need to qualify?

8

Well that Breeder couldn’t deliver (so to speak).

But the Jacksonville Reputable Breeder did know of another Reputable Breeder in Knoxville, Tennessee who had a couple of (8) week old puppies ready for purchase. The local Reputable Breeder had a picture too. And that was how I found Freud, a camera phone snapshot sent over the Internet. Freud had a glint in his eye even then. That glint could have been from the flash, who knows, and no matter, I bought Freud on the spot.

But you can’t ship a Frenchie.

Because of their pushed in noses they die when shipped like baggage in airplane cargo holds. It’s not an option either. The Reputable Breeder wouldn’t allow it, nor would the airline.

Sooooo…

… what to do?

I wasn’t strong enough on my feet to handle the trip.

There was no way I could handle the flights or the airport transfers by myself. I couldn’t safely lift and carry a bag with a squirming puppy in it on and off a plane. My balance back then barely allowed me to stay upright and walk. The odds of my making it down the aisle to my seat while carrying a squirming package were too pitiful to even consider. Nor was driving an option, not at (15) hours each way.

No, I couldn’t handle that.

Sooooo…

… again…

… what to do, what to do?

Why send Gal of course.

Gal could fly up to Knoxville on Saturday, stay overnight at the airport Hilton and fly back to Miami on the next morning’s direct flight. I would have Freud in Miami by 2:00 p.m. that Sunday.

So that Saturday morning Gal got on the plane to Knoxville. The next day, Sunday, at 11 a.m., the Knoxville Reputable Breeder brought (10) week-old Freud, wrapped in a towel against the Tennessee cold, in a blue canvas carryon bag to the Knoxville Airport and presented the squirming package to a seated Gal in the US Airways waiting room.

Gal, Freud, the towel, and now Ziggy’s old brown canvas like, fake, Louis Vuitton carry-on, journeyed on to Miami where Freud has been warm in the Florida sun ever since.

Well…

… it’s one thing to get a puppy, but that acquisition doesn’t equate with a full life. My prior life had always been filled with friends. My prior life was always filled with business associates, with business itself, and with family responsibilities. And then there were all of those other assorted, acquaintances, liaisons, almost relationships, and actual relationships I dealt with daily. But all of that changed as time passed, and now I had to reinvent myself.

And…

SHIT!

I didn’t know how to do that.

It’s a work in progress.

It’s one thing to get a puppy…

9

Freud kept me busy at first.

Way busy…

Training is work, I had to watch the little boy 24/7 or Freud created trouble immediately. There wasn’t a piece of furniture, or sock, or shoe, or other piece of clothing that Freud didn’t want to taste. Then there was all of that boundless energy that needed to be expended. I got up and down to the floor to play with Freud (10) times a day, maybe more. I was constantly throwing fluffy toys to chase. Squeaky toys squealed loudly often, and Freud just ran, and ran, and ran, and ran.

I was exhausted.

Not so much Freud…

And then there were the stairs, and outside. I took Freud out every (2) hours or so potty training. I hadn’t been so physically active since my surgery (3) years prior. But that was sort of the point, a puppy would force activity. And he did, and it helped. I gained flexibility pretty quickly, and a lot of flexibility at that.

I remember the first time I went down to the floor to play with Freud and bent my left leg. I screamed with pain it hurt so much. The second time it was the same thing. But by the fourth time I went down to the floor to play with my happy, energetic, puppy it still hurt, but I didn’t scream. And (2) weeks after that the pain was still there as I went down to the floor, but it hurt like an irritant and not as an impact point. And now, (3) weeks after that, I hardly notice it at all.

I just do it.

That’s progress.

I’m noticeably better.

Better …

That’s a good thing.

10

Sadly, I haven’t slept a night through in my own bed since Freud came into my home as Freud howls and messes in the kennel still.

When I go out during the day Freud’s behavior is no biggie as I don’t hear it or smell it. Daytime messes I just clean up when I get home, like I said, not a biggie. But it’s a different story at night.

At night Freud’s howling is loud, painful, and plaintive.

It sounds like Freud’s being tortured, and with that howling sleep is impossible. And Freud has had diarrhea caused by an intransigent intestinal parasite. The antibiotic didn’t clear the parasites up first time around. And with that parasite caused diarrhea Freud became an artist painting the marble tile floor and walls of his kennel with endless artistic images.

I don’t have a puppy…

I have a shitty impressionist.

If I let the diarrhea paintings sit overnight they dry into the marble and become intractable and impossible to clean. Once the act of artistic creation is done Freud hates the shitty mess he’s created and so he howls ever louder to get my attention. The diarrhea artwork has to be cleaned up now, I must do it right away!

But what to do…?

I’m not supposed to respond to the howls at all, remember the baby’s "call and response" situation?

If handled improperly that becomes a lifelong pattern which should be avoided. So I begin my required clean-up tasks by putting a recalcitrant Freud in his crate immediately. Freud hates his crate even more than the marble kennel. Next, I clean the kennel without saying a word (besides a yuck or ugh! or something…), and then I put Freud right back into the kennel for the night. Eventually Freud runs out of eventide shit and things to "howl" about and he goes to sleep. But until that would happen I couldn’t rest.

So I tried keeping Freud on my bed one night.

The bed was large enough for Freud to think he could section it off into multiple areas. So Freud picked a spot a bit away from where we were resting and peed. My king-sized duvet cover is dry clean only and expensive to launder.

So we’re not doing that again, at least not for a bit.

And then I remembered that when Freud naps with me on the couch during the day, Freud holds his position, and keeps his bodily functions in check for hours at a stretch. So I started sleeping nights on the couch.

VOILA! …

There were no more howls and no more…

… shitty impressionistic artwork.

And we both slept too, only me, not so well.

Still…

… there have been no howls, and no messes in the house at night for a week now and that’s good. As soon as Freud is through taking the stronger anti-parasite medication, and the diarrhea is a non-issue, we can go back to doing the kennel thing for nights again.

Howling without shit, no problem.

Shitty howling I’ll continue to avoid.

Two goals accomplished:

(1): the house is not so quiet and lonely anymore.

(2): the house smells better…

11

There’s no question anymore, I’m better, better is such a relative term though.

Better than what?

Well…

… for once I can answer confidently:

Better than before.

Some (25) months ago when I got out of the hospital Mitch had to cut my toenails; talk about need, talk about intimacy. Today, I cut my own toenails, Mitch is dead, and I cut my own toenails, the toenails part is better.

The rest not so much…

But…

I’m on a task here.

I’m "better".

Brain surgery made me a cripple some (2) plus years ago. The doctors thought that it would be a permanent disability. That I would:

… never walk or talk again …

And at first I couldn’t stand upright, let alone walk.

Speech wasn’t an issue though, not ever, speech came right back. My caregivers and friends were relieved by the return of my "mouth". My friends reveled in the reappearance of what passed for my sarcastic and ironic sense of humor.

But the Doctor not so much, he didn’t like it, or me.

And walking, shit … simply standing upright was a real accomplishment at first.

Perhaps easy upright stability was something to hope for in the future, but stability was always a joke in the beginning. I had to hold on to walls or furniture so as not to fall. I had to use a cane if a wall wasn’t available. But I kept at it, and a year ago I gave up the cane.

That didn’t mean I was stable, that just meant that I gave up the cane.

I’m in recovery over (3) years now and I walk pretty much unattended for short distances. I look fairly normal too. I can carry small packages, handle most steps, and in general be somewhat independent. I can be independent slowly, deliberately, repetitively, and with planning.

I can’t be spontaneous, and I have no stamina.

But I can survive.

I started to drive again a few months ago too, locally only, but I can drive. My hand, eye, foot coordination was never in question, not from the first moment I got behind the wheel of the truck. I still don’t understand that part. My balance is whacked. I can’t focus to read for long periods of time, but my near/far and far sight vision for the car, my reflexes to drive, no problem, no problem at all.

That makes me less of a prisoner.

I can shop for myself. I can go to the drugstore, the dry cleaners, doctor’s appointments, highlights of my life, all. It’s a good thing, too, with Mitch dead my weekday day-to-day support is gone.

That isn’t good…

12

Not long ago, back about a year, the horrible drip of excess brain fluid down my throat mitigated a bit; it became intermittent instead of constant.

With that constant drip I couldn’t eat before, nothing, everything tasted foul. Most food textures made me retch, not ice cream though. I could always get ice cream down. Today, with the drip almost gone and the nausea somewhat abated, I can eat more foods.

So I’ve gained 14lbs pounds in the intervening time.

I look better now; maybe even almost good I suppose.

With the reduced fluid the constant pain from the healing head wound has eased to the point where I don’t require steroid therapy any longer. Generic ibuprofen seems to work fine now. But I need that ibuprofen regularly. I need ibuprofen a lot, but ibuprofen seems to work.

Less pain is good…

Without the steroid affecting my system and my overall lower weight, my Diabetes is in remission.

NO MORE NEEDLES!

I’m back on low doses of oral medications. I don’t need insulin to control the elevated sugar caused by the high dose steroids any longer, so no more needles; and that is more tolerable. I eat whatever I want to, and whenever I want it mostly, but still too much sugar, and way too much salt, but my numbers are pretty good.

So I eat only what I want nutritional health be damned!

I’m not willing to subject myself to a foolish nutritional perfection anyway. No foolish nutritional perfections for me. Not after all I’ve been through. Who really knows how long I can have? The Neurosurgeon and the Endocrinologist say:

Since you didn’t have cancer your life span should be normal.

What?

Just "what" is normal?

13

The other side effects from the Brain surgery, they still come and go, the constant itching was a bitch.

I don’t itch as much anymore.

I don’t know if the itching was caused by the steroid therapy or by the healing from the surgery itself, but the itching was hell. It was sort of like I had crabs again, like I did in my twenties. I kept checking, and checking, and looking, and looking, and checking, and looking, and there was nothing.

I almost accused Mitch of:

"giving me the crabs" …

… once when it was real bad, but I didn’t. I knew, or at least thought I knew what it was. And it was just that, a side effect of the steroid.

A side effect …

It’s eased, finally, it’s eased.

(Damn, but I wish Mitch was around to accuse…

Damn…)

The dizziness never leaves.

Never…

It’s ever-present…

Dizzy is my friend.

When I get wherever I’m going and leave the car I have to stand still a minute and hold on to the car until the dizziness passes as I stand-up from the driver’s seat onto the street. I have to do the same thing every time I get up from a chair at home, in a restaurant, or anywhere.

The dizziness is omnipresent.

Mornings are even worse when I get up from bed.

When I get up in the morning my eyes don’t focus a whit. It takes (20) minutes, or longer, for my vision to clear. And even then, I have to close one eye, it can be either eye, to see, or read detail. It’s frustrating and all reading is a chore. I’m okay with largish print on the computer, but books are problematical, and I like to read. But all of this is better as I couldn’t read at all last year, or walk, or bend, and I couldn’t eat, and I couldn’t drive.

And now I can, and without help.

Like I said before, I’m "better".

BETTER…

14

The tumors could come back, tumors do that.

But since it wasn’t cancer the Doctor’s won’t operate again, the Doctor’s will just do radiation. The original radiation protocol devastated me even as it was saving my life. But the radiation protocol devastated me. The radiation didn’t cripple me like the surgery. The side effects of the radiation weren’t that physically invasive. But the radiation’s side effects did cause my immune system to crap out, and the other side effects did make me so tired that all I could do was sleep (16) hours a day for months, and months, and months.

SLEEP…

… and my attitude has always been:

I’ll sleep when I’m dead…

And so for months after the radiation treatments I was…

The radiation still causes that tiredness effect on me today.

My Internist is afraid that my immune system is compromised. I have to be doubly careful with what I do daily, and with whom. As I don’t go out that much yet, so far I haven’t been "sick" much in the traditional sense with colds or flu. As I try to do more all bets are off though.

That’s doubly challenging for me as I have to do more.

I have to!

I’ve already walked Freud (4) times so far today and its only 2:00 p.m. Freud’s stable too, no diarrhea. Maybe, just maybe, the new antibiotic is working on the entrenched parasites. Maybe this second go around will do the trick. It will be much easier on me, and Freud, if the diarrhea clears. Then we can work on a regular schedule and I won’t have to be so vigilant of Freud’s every move.

I’ve been working on the real estate end of selling this house too. The new realtor, Barry is not doing a good job. Barry’s not even doing an adequate job. I don’t know why I even started with him.

I’m now enraged. I’m out of control. I’m out of control emotionally, and with the process.

I have to rectify that.

I have to gain control of the real issues, the process, the intellectual process itself, and then gain control over the emotional distress I’m subjecting myself to. From the business standpoint, Barry has until this evening to offer me good reasons for me to continue with him. Right now I don’t think Barry can, or will.

I’m pretty merciless when I get this way.

I’ve done everything that Barry has done on this sale and done it better to boot. Barry’s listing is a shadow of mine. Barry tries to tell me that his listing is better, that (4) pictures and a basic listing without a copy blurb are better than (24) pictures with a copy blurb.

When, just when, did I become blind, stupid, and ill-informed?

Plus Barry thinks I have an "attitude".

Well…

Barry’s right about that, I do have an attitude.

I have this attitude that expects excellence and perfection in business, I’ve always strived for that, it kind of defines me. It’s what I do, and if "perfection" isn’t achieved I don’t continue. I did away with the Duplicitous Margaret and Robert, the original realtors on this sale for less, and Barry is performing more poorly.

I can’t believe that I set myself up for this with Barry. I think I was expecting this to be easier, or better. Or maybe I wanted the entertainment of training a new agent?

It’s been so slow…

15

But nooooo…

It was Barry who sought me out as Barry felt that the house was properly priced and a viable candidate for sale in this market, Barry actively wants to sell this house. And Barry wants to be involved with me. And I have to move this forward. I have to move on.

MORE…

I want to move on.

I need to re-situate myself in a physically less taxing, and less expensive environment. I want another house. But a house not on the water. I don’t want an apartment, I don’t like apartments even though apartments are easier and cheaper, and apartments may even be more secure and comfortable for me long-term.

No apartments! …

I want a garden, and I think I want a Koi pond. I think I want a small swimming pool too. And apartments aren’t good investments down here, houses are. With apartments the developer’s just build newer and grander spaces leaving the older apartment buildings at the cost of original purchase at best, or at a depreciated lesser value at worst. Florida is like that unless you’re on the water, waterfront rules here as there is no more Waterfront.

Unless you’re in Miami Beach (Manhattan South), or another area of Old Florida prominence, land is cheap; land is everywhere, and the developer’s just keep building new apartment buildings. Single family homes hold more of their value as a rule, and some special neighborhoods accrue exponentially. Besides that I’m comfortable in a house. I’ve never been comfortable in a standard apartment.

Still…

… lower expenses mean more freedom for me.

But I enjoy the care given to the structure and property. And I don’t like having to deal with most other people in day-to-day living settings as they’re assholes, and cheap about repairs and maintenance of community property.

House/apartment will be a tough decision when I have to make it, but maybe I’ve already made that decision.

So far I’ve only looked at houses.

16

A house, a house on the water, I own a house on the water in a sub-division of Miami called Bay Harbor Estates.

I’ve owned this house for over (10) years now. Bay Harbor Estates is a small, gated community with water on (2) sides and a fence separating it from the rest of the city. It’s much like Sea Gate, the private village where I grew up in New York City.

Sea Gate is the last and only private village left in New York City. Sea Gate has been that way for about (75) years. All of the other private villages (Jamaica Estates, Forest Hills Gardens, Manhattan Beach, City Island, Breezy Point to name a few) were all absorbed by the Megalopolis and became normal, open city streets with city services and such. Not Sea Gate, to this day Sea Gate still has a private police force, private beaches, private streets, and other private services.

Bay Harbor’s automotive and pedestrian gates, tall fence on one side, and water on (2) sides, all provide the illusion of limited access security in an urban wasteland. That illusion of security, and very big, wide, broad, clean streets with tall, full trees, and a sense of neighborhood serenity not found in the immediate surrounding area, makes Bay Harbor seem just like Sea Gate, Sea Gate in the tropics, Sea Gate with palm trees. It’s been a nice (8) years here, I don’t want to move.

I’d like to stay in this house, in Bay Harbor, in the Estates. I bought this house and renovated it as a forever home. But that’s not to be, that’s just not to be.

My awareness of my personal reality…

… MY RECOGINITION OF LOOMING EMINENT PERSONAL DISASTER …

… has determined that I must:

move on.

MOVE ON…

This day has just been terrible for me.

Freud is suffering from intractable diarrhea again. The parasitic caused diarrhea came gushing back a few days ago and now I’m out-of-sorts from sleeping totally dressed on the couch with Freud at my feet for the last (4) nights. I’m totally clad in daywear each night as I go to sleep so that I can take Freud out at the first sign of gastric distress. And it’s grey and cold today too, this day’s high temperature is only (64), and it’s damp out.

Along with the cold and nasty weather, the "cold and nasty" Bank has just called and told me that my truck lease expires in (3) days. The Bank wants to pick the truck up:

Immediately!

I thought I had until February 15th on that truck lease, not January 15th…

… my bad …

I’m just not ready to deal with this now. Add that to Freud’s gastric problems, and the ongoing scandal with Barry, and my day is complete.

A complete ruin that is…

Ruin…

17

At least the scandal with Barry is over, Barry called a few minutes ago and said that he will send me a letter of cancellation for the listing tomorrow.

What a relief…

Voila!

Barry is no more. I got the cancellation via email just before.

I signed the cancellation immediately, scanned it, and sent it back. It’s not my loss, it’s Barry’s. It didn’t take me (3) hours past receipt of that email cancellation letter and I had the house re-listed with my original For Sale by Owner listing agent.

Now it needs to work.

I’ve gotten one call already. The call was not for a showing, but for listing with another agent, another Barry. I’m not listing with any Agent/Agency ever again.

But at least it was a call.

Long live Barry…

I despise real estate agents, real estate agents are all leeches or lower vermin.

18

I’ve been down, down on the couch "down", since this past Sunday and the Flamingo Festival…

… everything flamingo …

… not!

It was a repulsive event.

Nooooo…

… not the concept, not the idea, just the realization of the idea, the actualization of the event. It was so poorly done, and so badly articulated. It was completely without edge and missing anything of quality. If the merchandise on sale had been made in China it would have been upscale in quality. All of the stuff on display was designed and made in Honduras or some such other low-end style-less place that bespoke poverty and denial.

It was very sad.

And all I wanted were these Flamingo Mugs.

China, Made in China --- the original Flamingo Mugs I have were made in China. These original Flamingo Mugs typified the original push for American manufacturing outsourcing. Designed in America, "apple pie" Seattle even, and then made in Chun King or some such other place in China.

Sad…

… but evocative of then and now.

Sad…

… but these mugs.

I wanted more of these specific Flamingo Mugs.

White, Brown Spotted, Cow Mugs came into style first in the mid 1970’s. Those Brown Spotted Cow Mugs were all the rage for a while back then, everyone had to have some. And there I was, a young working guy walking along without money. A young working guy who was confused intellectually, emotionally, and sexually. A young working guy bereft of direction, a young working guy seeking substance, or simply a young working guy seeking some style and fun. Brown Spotted Cow Mugs were not fun, Brown Spotted Cow Mugs had no style.

Those Brown Spotted Cow Mugs didn’t cut it for me.

But bright pink mugs, with pink flamingo bodies and heads, with black foreheads, white eyes, and yellow beaks, those Flamingo Mugs were fun…

They had STYLE…

So I bought (4), then (4) more a week later, and (4) more after that.

Those Flamingo Mugs were happy in my apartment, they multiplied quickly in my kitchen. Those first (4) Flamingo Mugs bred, they prospered even. And soon the Flamingo’s spread their wings and landed out in my townhouse apartment back garden as chintzy plastic statues with spiny steel legs. And next those Flamingo’s spread to the bathroom as bath towels, a shower curtain, a toothbrush holder, a drinking cup, a light switch plate, a bathmat, printed toilet paper, and finally as a toilet bowl plunger.

For a few years this thing Flamingo overtook my life.

And then I made a lot more money, developed a different sexual identity, and it all went away. Everything Flamingo was relegated back into the kitchen, relegated to those style-full Flamingo Mugs I use for morning espresso each and every day…

And Flamingo Gardens was having a festival.

Everything Flamingo…

I went on the journey to Flamingo Gardens, an eco-park in decline, because a friend visiting from New York City, a designer no less, hungered for something special to do that day he was visiting Miami.

And since I wanted more of those mugs…

Flamingo Gardens was once a working orchard, then a conservator’s gathering of native plants and trees, and is now an ecological park and wildlife bird preserve. Except Flamingo Gardens is very poorly done, poorly maintained, badly exhibited, and boring.

BORING!

It was like entering a time warp back in to the late 1940’s before wide lens color movies or open range zoos. And for that experience I was on my feet and walking for (5) hours. I drove there and back too. That was all too much for me in one day. And all of this activity was simply because I wanted more of those damn pink Flamingo Mugs…

Everything Flamingo…

The Flamingo Gardens walking tour finished me for the day. I didn’t go with my friend and his group for dinner that night, I couldn’t. I just slept on the couch. On Monday after he left, I still couldn’t move, I slept all day again, and Monday night, still on the couch.

I walked Freud, I fed Freud, I played with Freud, but except for those activities I stayed flat.

I couldn’t move.

Down was I…

DOWN…

19

I’m depressed and flattened by what’s going on around me.

The Bank that had the lease on my truck has denied me a loan for the truck’s purchase. That’s both annoying and a wakeup call. No one will give me new credit now. I’m trapped in relative poverty until this house sells, trapped until I clear up my existing credit lines and mortgage.

My savings are minimal. Whatever I use from them I can’t replace. If I take out money to purchase the vehicle its money I won’t have for a repair disaster with the house, or for the mortgage, or for taxes, or for food, or for health insurance. I can’t and shouldn’t do that, I have to be careful.

That doesn’t mean I will be.

I can make a good case for continuity now, continuity now as in buying the truck and then selling the vehicle later if things get tight. I’ve negotiated an exceptional price for the vehicle’s lease-end purchase. I should be able to use the truck for (3) full years and get my entire purchase price back then if I need to sell it.

I can have the truck for (3) years for free… but that doesn’t make the credit denial any less upsetting. I’ve never been denied credit before. Not for a car, not for an apartment lease, not for a mortgage, not for nothing.

It’s upsetting to me.

This is a forced recognition