Some Thoughts on the Antichrist

This is not the antichrist.

This is the good dog, Judge, sleeping in Punk's bed.

So it's 4 a.m. Saturday. I'm sitting in my favorite chair in the Emergency Vet's office, mulling over the good ole days. Back when the world was green and spacious. When Judge and I could go anywhere, do anything. Oh, how I miss my one-dog life.

This is my fifth nocturnal visit to the Emergency Vet (EV) in the past 10 months. Twice to have human medications pumped from Punk's stomach. Once we had to have the good dog's stomach pumped, too, just in case. This is Punk:

Dear reader, can't you see that he knows what you are thinking? He knows that you will save him from that awful woman who kept him in a tiny box with little food or water for 8 months. Knows that even though he shatters the simple and perfect life you have painstakingly created with the saintly Judge, that you will make a place for him. He only weighs ten pounds. How much trouble can he be?

Those eyes see that you will keep him even after he repeatedly eats his own excrement and throws it up on your white couch. After all three of the new owners you find return him to you within 24 hours. After he regularly digs out of the yard, races down the middle of the street in search of food, food, doesn't anybody have any food?

You'll keep him even when he never dies, though he pops xanax, eats roach motels and batteries, whole pizzas, and chocolate, with no side effects. Not even a loose stool. Even if he runs off your boyfriends and browbeats your mailman. After he chews up all of your eye glasses, sun and prescription. Even when, after another trip to the slammer, you learn that Animal Control has finally flipped out and micro-chipped the animal. Now that you'll never be rid of him, you think: Is this really your life?

Yes. Yes, it is. It's been four and a half years. You're dug in. He is awfully sweet when you hold him against your chest. And he does this:

Embarrassing, isn't it? That I'm so hooked now I'll blather on like that in a video?* Maybe even more embarrassing than the reason I'm sitting in the Emergency Vet's office. Punk moved into my spot on the couch under a blanket when I went into the kitchen. I came back, plopped down. Punk screamed. You heard me. I sat on him. **

So after a thorough examination, xrays, and pain medication just in case, the Doctor finds what he will always find. That there is exactly nothing wrong with Punk. That he's a pre-emptive screamer. That, even when large amounts of money are flung around, Punk will not die.

*Disclaimer: Not my real voice. It's the one I use when I go over to the dark side.

**This EV episode happened one week ago. The video was taken two days ago. As you can see, Punk is doing just fine.