Regret has been after me to take him to China for the last week.
“They eat dog there?” It started when he ambushed me in the hallway after work a week ago, before I’d even kicked off my shoes. He’s almost like a normal cat in many ways. He’ll hide there, in the hallway behind the curtains, with only his twitching tail exposed. If he wasn’t smoking all the damn time he’d maybe pull off the ambush now and then.
As it is, the only frightening about his ambushes is the very real possibility that he’ll set the curtains on fire.
“They eat dogs? Why wasn’t I told about this?”
“There are many, many things you don’t know about.”
“What kinds of things? Never mind. Let’s stay focused,” he said, drawing on his cigarette again. He blew out a perfect smoke ring that hovered in the air between us a few seconds. We both watched as it dissolved.
“Dogs,” I said, heading for my bedroom.
“EATING dogs,” he said, following me into my my bathroom and flicking the expired cigarette into the sink, which he knows pisses me off.
“We aren’t going to China.” I said, trying to get out in front of him.
“Can’t we just go to Chinese restaurant?”
“No. They can’t serve it in the states. It isn’t humane.”
“Your definition of that word is different than mine. Have you ever meet a dog? They don’t factor into humane.”
“Any yet,” I said, “there it is.”
“We need to go to China.”
“The entire idea is ridiculous.”
“You mean to tell me,” he said, “You mean to tell me that given the chance, you wouldn’t eat the flesh of your enemy? That if someone killed that marketing VP, the one one you’re always complaining about, if they killed him, cooked him up, and brought some in for lunch one day, that you wouldn’t eat it? You wouldn’t even try a bite? A nibble?”
“That’s where you and I are different,” he said, batting my toothbrush off the counter.
“You’re a fucking talking cat,” I say. “That’s where you and I are different.”
“And until you’re willing to eat your enemies, until then you’ll never amount to anything. Look at you, look at this place. It’s Friday night and you’re talking to your cat.”
I picked him up by the scruff of the neck and threw him out of the bathroom.
We spent the rest of the night playing cards. At around 4 in morning he paused, raking the cards towards him, and looked at the clock.
“Somewhere in China, a restaurant serving dog is opening.”
“Fuck off and go fish.”
The marketing department has been in a bit of a frenzy the last few days. Ever since the weekend, the copier has been printing everything sent to it in shades of blue. Which is disturbing to them in several ways, not least of which is that the copier is not a color copier.
The Coffee Machine, meanwhile, has been sulking and unwilling to engage even in our usual morning banter. Tellingly, even at the mildest settings, any brew I select comes out bitter enough to crack teeth.
I find myself missing our morning chats. It’s telling that the absence of something that I’d frankly dreaded each morning would leave such a void in my life.
New letter from Tubby, written on a wad of bar napkins and jammed into an envelope. As usual, this is my best attempt at translation of his gibberish. Some details may have been mangled in transit.
Seems it’s finally dawned on him that he may have helped me create the worst fantasy football team in the history of the sport. Modern history, anyway.
Caesar never played fantasy football.
Which is probably just as well. If the Celts or Germanic tribes ever confronted him with the backstabbing and overall treachery that I’ve gotten from this rotten pack of so-called players rounded up by that demented moron Igor, he’d have massacred the lot of them. Rome would have ruled for 2000 more years, and there’d still be pasta and poorly engineered cars from Rome to Scotland.
I wrote that bit two days ago, before lurching into a short but energetic bout of drinking, and have since been informed that Caesar was in fact stabbed in the back, and front and sides as well. Consequently I’m reassessing my original stance, and my theory is now more aligned with the idea that he was likely playing some embryonic version of Fantasy Gladiator, and those treacherous sword wielding bastards were undoubtedly other members of his league.
History is a fascinating subject, and it gives me some comfort knowing that my exploits shall be studied, in depth, wallowed in even, and that some class time, maybe 15 minutes or so before the bell, will be devoted to the day I finally dropped a goddamn anvil on Igor’s head.
None of those miserable Romans ever did to Caesar what Igor did to me. None of them stuck him with Brian Quick as a starting wideout, or traded a crippled and lifeless CJ Anderson for 15% of my entire budget. If they had, even Shakespeare would have forsaken them. No one would voluntarily write about such treachery.
No one except me.