And the Dog Barks ON... Still...

By E. P. Lee

And the Dog Barks On... Still...

Still standing, Eric’s come through hell to stand here, on his own two feet, but who’s to say he’s got a steady footing? Crack... and the ground might split in two and swallow him up.

Crack.

It’s a time of division, modern America is at war with itself, Eric’s past is slipping ever-further away, old friends are gone; or fading out of view as illness, death, and mere time, threaten. And there’s Eric standing totteringly upright trying to keep it together, his family, his home, his French bulldog, Freud, as this time of division, upheaval, and tragedy, threatens to tear them away.

So do you fall apart in times like these, or stick together? In modern America, in a time of division and, for some, despair, is it time to give up, or to press forward?

Onwards?

Onwards.

In the next to last book of the Barking Dog series, “the 21st Century Adult Fairy Tale” feels less “Fairy Tale” than ever before. And (yet) "the Dog Barks On... Still...”

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. P. Lee
• Release date: Oct 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370698455

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.

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Copyright © 2013 Eric Paul Lee.

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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.

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Table of Contents

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1

Hmmmm…

Hmmmm…

Time do pass, it most certainly do, and things do happen, they certainly do, and some things I like, and some things I don’t, most things I don’t actually, most things.

And that’s life…

And what I like, what I don’t like, it matters not, I have to deal, I have to deal, like it or not; I have to deal.

I HAVE TO DEAL…

The alternative is unacceptable.

So I deal…

Lynn, my current girlfriend, is here one day, and now, today, on another, she’s not; Gal, my ex-partner, né lover, from 28 years ago, wafts in, and then he wafts away. Internet liaisons rear their multitudinous selves, and then fall off the grid into oblivion. Old friends come into the fore for a bit, then their lives march on, and they go: my oldest friend from college, Leslie, and her husband Carolyn (still with her wee-wee, she), Leslie’s, live in, Trans girlfriend, Agatha (yes… she used to have a wee-wee, and now she don’t…), all of them come to the fore for a bit, and then they go. And Margarita (Margarita, a girlfriend from college long, long ago), she and her broad family come in, and continue on, and on, and then they ameliorate for a bit, and the same with all of the others, those others come and go too, and often~ and MITCH …

Mitch my last lover…

Memories often flood over me and take me someplace remembered. And then those memories move back, to dwell quietly, inert in my consciousness, while I live in the present; those memories only to roar forth, querulously, anon, again, to wreck what havoc old memories, fond, and not so fond, wreck.

And things get Contracted for Here, and some things get completed, and some, well… hiatus…

Hiatus…

And so I deal.

I deal…

2

Daily, I deal…

I deal.

Daily my head acts up, my brain injury, it flares up that brain injury does, my head swells so big sometimes (hydrocephalus), and I’m down on the couch then, or I’m just plain out.

OUT!

And I cope.

I deal…

I have no choice; that "alternative" I suppose.

That ALTERNATIVE!

So I deal.

I deal…

And whether I like what I’m dealing with, the actuality of any particular instant, the specific circumstances as they go down, the events as they play out, the politics of the moment, the results immediately obtained: who wins, who loses, what’s popular, what’s not, my opinions…

MY OPINIONS… my beliefs…

They’re just my results, my accomplishments, MY opinions, my beliefs, no one else has to agree with me, no one else has to appreciate my results, or share in my actuality; no one else has to live it, MY life…

My moment…

Only me…

ME…

MY LIFE!

Shit… this is America; we’re allowed to be different.

Allowed…

We’re not always encouraged, but we’re allowed.

We’re allowed…

3

Difference isn’t always appreciated in America, even though it is mostly allowed.

There have been countless instances, throughout American history, where the different, the odd, those out of sync with the moment, have been rejected, persecuted; crushed even: Women before they got the right to vote, African Americans before Lincoln freed the slaves, Immigrants like the Irish, those Guineas the Italians, and the Jews, when they first immigrated to the United States, and of course Faggots right on through 2013 when the right for same sex couples to marry became almost ubiquitous across the land.

Now you have to be a really Butch Dyke, a really masculine Lezbo, to stand out, or maybe a Tranny, a chick with a dick, a SHE-MALE, like a pre-op Caitlyn Jenner to really raise the ire, or simply the interest, of the wholesome heterogeneous straight community at large. Most times today, most large communities are calm about stuff like that. The mainstream, both urban and suburban enclaves, are mostly calm about personal issues today; just as they’re in a huge uproar about anything that concerns the economy, money, religion, RACE, or politics…

And then they roil over all that stuff, they ROIL!

"ALL is for US and our position, our beliefs; nothing is for you, only WE are right, everyone else is WRONG!

Everyone else should get nothing…

NOTHING…

All is only for US; all is for those of us who believe what WE believe --- and YOU are wrong!

Only we’re right! …

And you should be stoned out of our community because of your beliefs…"

Or worse…

Deported…

DEPORTED from America…

Or killed…

NO COMPROMISE!

And, me… ME… I don’t agree with any of that above bulldoody, not for a nanosecond.

NOT FOR A NANOSECOND…

And I don’t care if you like what I’m saying or not, I don’t care one whit!

But I’ll be happy to listen to what you have to say as to why I’m wrong (or perhaps not happy, to listen, but I’ll listen for a minute anyway…). And when you’re done, I’ll incorporate your words, your thoughts, into mine. And if those words have any value whatsoever, I’ll amend my thoughts accordingly. And if they don’t have value, I’ll go my merry way, unenlightened by your wisdom, as you will go your way, unenlightened by mine.

And perhaps our twains will meet again sometime, and another discussion will take place.

And perhaps not…

But in any case, more time will pass, as it always does. And regardless of my specific opinion, or your specific opinion of the day, events will march on, and society will morph one way, and/or, then another.

And all will be what it will be; it will be what it will be.

WHAT IT WILL BE…

And hopefully the best of America, the right to be DIFFERENT, will continue to be enshrined in the laws of our society, and in the actual make-up of the daily day-to-day interactions we all engage in (AND ENFORCED DILIGENTLY) … And the GREATNESS that freedom to be different has empowered over time, and empowers AMERICA today, will overcome any negative happenstance of any one moment in time (like the current election taking place) and America will march forward into another "Century of Greatness".

Another CENTURY of GREATNESS…

At least that is what I believe; what I believe.

And what I want!

What I want! … … …

And I don’t give a shit about what you think, or want here, not one piece of SHIT! And perhaps my head won’t hurt so much again, soon, and I won’t be so far down, and almost out again.

Down…

Down and almost out…

OUT!

Sucks…

4

Freud is back from the hospital, the fourth day he’s home; three days in the hospital, and now four days back home.

Freud, my French Bulldog BFF; Freud, the fawn colored Frenchie puppy I got when Ziggy (think Sigmund)), my first BFF French Bulldog (white colored) companion of 14 years died 5 ¾ years ago… Ziggy, the best friend a guy could have, Ziggy, who replaced my BFF princess of an Akita, Kitchi, decades ago: Kitchi, Ziggy, Freud, best pals ALL!

Best friends, family members all…

Family…

Saturday, Freud’s first day home from the hospital was really BAD, Freud was barely aware of where he was then, all he did was sleep. Sunday was marginally better, he ate a little, perked up when Henrietta Chicken, his favorite toy of the moment, squawked; and he barked if someone knocked at the door, and he followed me from room to room, and slept by my side at all other times. And yesterday was the same, so much the same that when the Vet called to check on Freud’s condition I complained that I should have been counseled better on what behavior from the healing dog I should expect.

I knew how sick Freud was, surely I knew that, I knew he’d almost died, and I was kind of prepared for his dying, as I had no choice. It was touch and go for a long while, two long days.

TWO!

So I knew all that, but I had no idea the recovery would be so severe, no idea at all. I suppose I should have expected it, but hope springs eternal …

… No? …

And then at 4 p.m. Monday, a switch flipped, and Freud was, well… Freud:

He’s Baaaaaack…

And he was, and now the Vet’s instructions to keep him down, and slow, with no jumping, and no running, hit home. And I had to make a dog who had shown no life for three days, stop moving. But the Vet had been so specific with me; sharp almost:

"Eric… he looks like a healthy dog on the outside… BUT he’s very SICK on the inside… his organs must heal… they can’t be challenged… so no running, and no jumping, keep him quiet…

All is to be simple, easy, soft… AND NO FAT, small meals… that special diet we’re giving you only… (no cookies, Freud loves his cookies…).

Keep him quiet and secure for the next three weeks…"

Three weeks, that’s eternity to a dog.

And to me…

Eternity…

No movement for the poor animal since the Wednesday night last when he refused to eat dinner, and started to violently throw up everything that was in his system.

Everything!

Even water…

And then blood from his butt was flowing out everywhere: the mat in the bathroom, the 400-year-old antique Indian Agra rug in the living room.

My bedspread…

Everywhere…

And vomit…

FREUD WAS SO SICK.

SO SICK! ~ and now he wants to play, and he can’t.

I can’t let him…

But: He’s Baaaaaack…, he’s Freud…

And…

And I couldn’t be happier…

5

Gal, my ex-lover from long ago (we broke up, and separated, over 15 years ago), just called from the lobby of Jackson Memorial Hospital. Gal had just finished his appointment with Dr. Cesar More-no, Diva, Doyenne, GOD of all Stroke doctors at the entire University of Miami, Miller School of Medicine, UM-Jackson Medical Center; Dr. Cesar More-no, GOD of Stroke Rehabilitation for the whole enchilada.

The whole ENCHILADA…

And Gal is fine, released, dismissed; one more test, to be done at Gal’s leisure, to be sure that something doesn’t exist, Lupus. But this is a JIC, a just-in-case reaffirmation of what they’ve already tested for, and determined not to exist.

Gal is 100% free of his condition, cured, still over 85Lbs overweight (I think they’re being kind with that figure, more like 115Lbs overweight to me, Gal’s fucking HUGE, elephantesque even…

Elephantesque…)

And Gal still has to engage in some physical therapy for better balance, some minor motor coordination shit: some hand, eye, foot stuff, nothing bad, his condition for driving is normal, the doctor just wants to push it forward, and an ophthalmologist for refinement of his peripheral vision issues.

And that’s it…

Gal had suffered three strokes, an ambulance ride from Key West, 168 miles north once, to a better equipped hospital in South Miami, Kendall General, for better care, a near death, helicopter Medivac ride to Jackson Memorial Hospital itself some six weeks or so later, and barely five months after all that Gal is diagnosed, treated, and deemed cured.

Cured…

Fine~

Healthy…

Very fat, but healthy…

A veritable triumph of medical technology…

Veritable…

Lucky Gal…

And good for him too, Gal hit a road bump on the highway to old age, and all he did was bump his head; not lose it.

I think I’m jealous.

No…

I don’t think I’m jealous.

I AM JEALOUS!

Although, perhaps I was just sicker when I went into the hospital, and the care that I got then, the treatment that I received, at that same venue, although I was next door, at the sister Boite, The University of Miami Teaching Hospital, attached, and under the same corporate moniker and structure, with all the same staff, one doctor on staff, treatment at any facility. And no matter which physical plant, so perhaps they treated me just as well, or even "better", as I died twice on the operating table.

Yea… I died… twice…

And as I rested after surgery, almost dead, in a rehabilitative coma, for 4½/5 weeks with restraints over my arms and legs so that I wouldn’t rip out the IV lines, tubes, and catheters that had been placed throughout my body to keep me alive, yes… I rested, and when those restraints were removed, I did rip those intrusive lines out.

And often… … …

So they restrained me again, and again, and again, and when lucid I would ask a guest, George, Grace, Johan, Gal:

"Please bring me a scissor, you can get one downstairs at the 7-Eleven, I know they have them, I have to cut myself free…

They’re keeping me PRISONER!

Prisoner…"

Gal still laughs out loud when he tells that story.

He LOL and … LOUDLY!

Guffaw…

And Grace smiled when she heard the story again the last time I saw her at dinner some two plus years ago. Grace, my old friend, Grace, my Healthcare Advocate when I almost died in the hospital for good that time, Grace, my Healthcare Advocate because Gal was in the HeBe homeland, Israel, on a holiday sabbatical, and for the birth of his first born via in vitro fertilization, the New Messiah, his son, as I was first hospitalized, and the run up to surgery was begun.

Grace, my Healthcare Advocate because, my best friend, Johan, was from Sweden, and a Healthcare Advocate must be a citizen of Florida if not a direct relative. Grace, my Healthcare Advocate even though I hadn’t spoken to her in over nine months before I got sick as she was angry at me over something very stupid; stupid on her part, not mine, but:

STUPID, and very…

Grace, my former Healthcare Advocate who at that last dinner, that dinner where Gal repeated that story about the scissor, and laughed, Grace looked at me slowly just then, and said:

I should have let you die…

Grace, my former Healthcare Advocate was mad at me this night at dinner because I didn’t agree with her on Transgendered people, Trans people in today’s vocabulary (but not back then, there were no Trans people yet: Trannies, Chicks with Dicks, SHE-MALES", the word Transgendered existed (the correct term for all of the above amongst the somewhat Politically Correct) … or "Drag Queens" … all of those terms existed in common usage, but Trans wasn’t a term out there yet), being able to use the ladies room in public accommodations in Houston where she was about to move.

And this was our farewell dinner, a night out before Grace began the cross-country car trek to the city of her, and husband George’s, new residential choice, farewell…

Farewell…

I said those Houston Transgendered people should be able to go to the bathroom wherever they wanted to go. And Grace said they couldn’t, Grace said that they could only use the bathrooms of their "birth gender".

Yes… Grace was moving back to Houston, the city of her birth, and Trannies using the Ladies Room was the hot issue du jour in Texas’s largest, most cosmopolitan city right then. And of course it came up as dinner conversation as it was all over the news that day. So, as we were sipping our second drinks, Gal said something about how Houston was more provincial than Miami (and it is) and Grace parried, and I chimed in.

And it went straight to Hell from there.

George was already in Houston for work, and looking at apartments, and Grace was driving to Houston that next day with the cat. Grace was going to check in with her Mother as a roomie for a bit. And then Grace would make the final decision on where they all would reside. Grace and the pet would remain with Mom until the furniture came out of storage, as George would stay with his sister on the other side of town for the same amount of time. They two would get together on weekends, mostly, until things settled down; Grace would stay with George at his sister’s one weekend and George would stay at Grace’s Mom’s place the next. So for as long as it took to resituate, they would stay mostly apart, apart until Grace was happy with the right apartment chosen, in the right, HIP, and probably gay part of town, Grace’s comfort always ruled, along with Grace’s sense of hipness and inclusion.

ALWAYS… Always… Always…

And this was our farewell dinner, a final time out together in Miami for we three, we three who had been friends, and pretty much inseparable, holidays, weekends, and birthdays for over 12 years. We three out to dinner as before, and tonight, for the last time. And here Grace was now seething with anger towards me because I said that Trannies (again, there were no Trans people yet) could go into, and use, the same bathroom where she went to the bathroom, in hot, and trendy, Houston Gay Bars, and Gay Clubs.

Now Grace loves Gay Men, Gay Bars, Drag Queens, Grace loves the whole alternate lifestyle scene; she was a Miami Beach Gay Nightlife Icon after all. George not so much, he dealt with it, he was cool with it, as a law enforcement official he was pretty cool with all issues of sexuality, I mean George played with a gun daily so why would he care…

But this evening of our farewell dinner, Grace, my former Healthcare Advocate, was screaming across the table at me, at my "stupidity, at my lack of understanding about how she could not possibly use … the same ladies room as those "Horrific Men in Drag…" whether they still had their wee-wees or not.

She couldn’t possibly, never…

NOT EVER…

And so, Grace my former Healthcare Advocate said very loudly, she kind of screamed it at me actually:

I should have let you die…

And I said, even more loudly:

YOU STUPID CUNT …

Grace hates the C word…

And I then immediately asked Gal for the car claim check, got up from the table, left the restaurant, got the car from the valet, and drove shakily home, two martinis shakily, as I hadn’t planned on driving at all that night, which is why Gal had the car claim check in the first place.

I never saw, or spoke to Grace, again.

EVER!

GOOD RIDDANCE!

Good riddance…

And Gal still smiles when he tells the story of me asking for a scissor as I lay in that hospital bed.

What is it with Gal?

6

And here we are some 80 days before the next Presidential election to determine how we move forward as a people in America; forward as before, or backwards towards a past that never existed.

Backwards to an America that exists only in the minds of a gross political minority that spews forth this same fantasy, election in, election out, over, and over, and over, again, for constant domestic consumption, and for VICTORY at the polls, again, and again, and…

AGAIN!

And this fantasy, this negative Bedtime STORY of life in an America that never existed, like in mythical Camelot of old, plays well to a frightened American public that is faced with declining societal infrastructure all around them daily: bad schools, inadequate police protection, guns everywhere, violence in the streets, the breakdown of normal civic order, police being shot, innocents being gunned down at traffic stops, quiet racism abounding (welfare mothers, inner city thugs), sexism, international terrorism, domestic terrorism…

And a worldview of fear:

North Korea almost has the BOMB…

China is expansionist…

Russia is confrontational…

Iran…

NATO is obsolete…

And a woman could become President… and she has no balls, lots of experience, knowledge, training, gravitas, the desire to compromise, and to accomplish goals for the many, but no balls…

No BALLS!

A cool 40% of the American electorate rabidly feel that it’s better to go with the other one, the one with no experience, no training, questionable knowledge on any issue (ANY ISSUE), no desire to compromise on anything, anything, and with interest in attaining things only for one; but balls, this One has real balls…

Balls…

The experience, and the decisions, made by the Lady presidential contender who’s had a life in politics and government leadership, with all of the compromises, and reversals, that life in the forefront of government demands, a Lady with altered positions as times changed, a SIN that (altering a position), a primordial SIN.

And situations do change as time, and life, move on; what was the right position, the right solution before, is not necessarily the right solution, the right position, today, so that original position that was, that Original Position, was altered, changed, to reflect the new circumstances that presently exist, a new position developed to mirror the current realities that need to be dealt with TODAY.

Changed positions, growth, movement forward, LIFE in America…

And that Lady candidate has left a developmental trail of growth, and CHANGE, from where she was, to where she is:

NOW!

And the People can see all, and know all. And the People can make an enlightened, aware, knowing decision, based on all of the above, because all of the information, good, and bad, is out there for all to see.

And who makes the right decision 100% of the time?

Who?

Just who...

So we have a complete package in one Presidential contender (the Lady), someone who has been training for high office for decades, versus 100% of bombast; a candidate, One, with no positions, no experience, and no substance (the One with balls…) … … … a candidate of words thrown out to gain publicity and votes.

Words stated for spectacle and outrage, ONLY!

A candidate of positions taken, and so stated, often, that they will appeal to a core of supporters (that 40%), and positions stated that will never be attainable in a real world as either their costs are too dear, or the Courts will deem them illegal. (Then again, would even the "Courts", and illegal be respected under this One’s possible Presidential reign? Do remember that in some parts of our present day American society the basic definition of normal civic order is being challenged by many, just as the birth place, and religion of the current President, are still being challenged by many others…)

And so, One, who has no experience, no training, questionable knowledge on any issue, no desire to compromise on anything to govern over the all of society, and an intense interest in self-gratification (yeah… I can see him jerking-off in the Oval Office (at least that other President way back "when" got a blowjob there…), but balls, One has real balls…

And mucho deniro too…

But some of that mucho deniro was acquired through malfeasance and dishonesty, mucho, mucho, dishonesty. I wonder if One who bankrupted his companies frequently for personal gain whenever it was convenient would do that to America too?

I wonder…

But I digress...

… … …

And with all of that money (that tainted money), One is respected by more than just his 40% of core supporters.

Many people say:

"One must know something; One must be capable, just look at all that money One has…

… Just look at it all…

Many people say…"

Money equals capability, ipso-facto, in many people’s minds I suppose.

And because of that respect, One COULD WIN!

Oh my…

And One’s complete lack of political, and governmental experience is touted as a "delightful" perk by both the 40% core, and by great masses of those other many people.

… … …

One’s "inexperience" is lauded as something to somehow be desired. Why empower anyone with experience who might know how to get things done?

Throw the bums out!

So this One could win. And this One does have balls after all, and so America could get screwed in reality, or screw itself actually.

Screwed…

Horrific… (I think…)

horrific…

Ah me…

Oh my…

oh my…

And good that Grace and George now reside in Texas where their skewed political