Forget Magazine. Remember, Remember, Remember.

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.

Nathaniel G. Moore will ride again.