I am wearing a ski coat in the waiting room, there are millipedes
everywhere I look, and the engine is running. I have duct
taped the car to the parking metre, which is hissing because
its see-through metre section is full of water and baby eels
that hiss when you put money into the slots, plus the sickly
werewolf in the waiting room beside me is the perfect confluence
of attitude and emotional vampirism. It wasn't always this
way, there was a time when the wolf and I would play charades
until all hours and both of us, down on all fours, would convince
the jury of our dramatic goals.
However lately, the werewolf has been yakking up things you
wouldn't believe. My friend Bambi thinks he ate something
bad in the park, but I think it could have been from a love
letter, something he licked and it spread until his heart
was conquered by a live-in dentist. These things happen.
My appointment is for 9:30 in the morning and we are both
10 minutes early. I have filled out the paperwork and now
the doctor, hell, the entire office will know everything about
my sick pet wolf.
Last night I held him all night and we watched the barcode
on television until that turned into static and then that
turned into snow, hence the ski coat.
The magazines in the waiting room are real lowbrow. A bunch
of men's journals called Obvious, with articles on muscles
and water, girls in thongs and how to store them in your summer
home, gross garbage nonsense like that, certainly not how
to maintain your pet wolf and what to feed him when he gets
a fever and starts dropping dishes in the kitchen at midnight
and you have to pluck the porcelain out from his jaw and thighs
and he whimpers and you are constantly worrying he's going
to just start gnawing on me in my sleep.
These are the things I will ask the good doctor, and with
the amount of information I've provided him in this form,
the details, the Polaroids of the wolf and I at the St. Patrick's
Day parade, the Easter egg hunt and that mall appearance when
we met the main roadie from Glass Tiger, I know, deep in the
well worked system of my heart, things will work out for the
best. That somehow, this magazine tolerance, car gummed up
with duct tape adhesive, and the broken dishes cobbled in
wolf blood will all assemble into a scenic picture that I
will look back on with great memories without prudence.
G. Moore will ride again.