Tweak: “What is that smell?”

Me: “Dude. You are rude.”

I am standing at the kitchen counter opening a can of solid white albacore.

Tweak: “Seriously. Are you slaughtering manatees?”

Me: “Perish the thought. My tuna is dolphin-safe.”

Tweak: “What are we talking about?”

I hold the freshly severed lid against the pink meat puck and pour the juice down the sink.

Me: “You can’t have any of this nectar.”

Tweak: “What kind of cretin eats tuna juice?”

Me: “It’s very popular on Craigslist.”

Tweak: “What are we talking about?”

I fork some tightly-packed fish tiles into a white bowl.

Me: “You’re a freak, Tweak. Most cats beg for this stuff, and it’s not a pretty transaction. I’ve seen gentler come-ons from crack whores.”

Tweak: “The other white meat.”

Me: “I killed a cat with tuna once.”

Tweak scooches back on the floor.

Me: “Oh, I didn’t mean to! It was horrible, actually. I decanted tuna juice onto his nurdles once a month for 7 years. He lapped it up like cocaine. At the time I didn’t understand that the salts in the fish brine were slowly forming oysters inside his kidneys and clogging his internal organs like asphalt on an anthill.”

Tweak covers her ears with her hands. And some whimpering.

Me: “Eventually the toxins built up in his brain and he went insane. He banged his head against walls, lost vision in one eye, and required fluid injections between his shoulder blades while screaming for encores of ‘FREE BIRD!’.”

I rinse out the can and throw it in the recycle bin. It hits the side and spins out onto the floor. Tweak sniffs it like a crime scene.

Tweak: “And how long have YOU been eating it?”

Me: “What are we talking about?”

Tweak: “Oh, the huge manatee.”

 

11 September 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”

Me: “Tweak, fetch me a razor blade.”

Tweak: “I can’t move fast enough.”

Tweak snaps up from her morning cleansing, amped for instruction.

Me: “And while you’re at it, drill a hole in my skull.”

Tweak: “It’s tricky without thumbs, but maybe the dog will go halfsies with me on an icepick.”

Her feet bounce toward the junk drawer. The possibility of a home amputation puts a spring in her step.

Me: “Oh, and where can I buy leeches?”

Tweak: “Can this get any better! Is it my birthday??”

Her fur vibrates. She almost smiles. In the distance, small children cry for no reason.

Me: “No, it’s my mammogram.”

Tweak deflates. She stares like I’ve just smothered her babies.

Me: “Honestly, I think blood-letting would be less archaic.”

I’m reading an insurance form that says I need an appointment for my biennial Squishing and Waste of Time.

Tweak: “What’s a ‘mammogram’?”

Me: “It’s a test where they squeeze your boob.”

Tweak: “What’s a ‘boob’?”

Me: “It’s a test to see if men will look you in the eyes.”

Tweak drops down onto the floor now that the opportunity for surgical violence is gone.

Tweak: “Does the mammogram hurt?”

Me: “Only my dignity.”

Tweak: “Then why do you care?”

Me: “Because the only reason women have mammograms is to pay for the machine. That gives them mammograms.”

Tweak: “Modern medicine is a snake eating its tail.”

Me: “Modern medicine is a leech.”

Tweak: “Modern medicine is a boob.”

Me: “My eyes are up here.”

 

13 August 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”

 

Tweak: “What are you playing? Some kind of funeral dirge?”

Tweak leaps up next to me on the piano bench.

Me: “Well, yes, actually.”

Tweak: “I don’t even know what a ‘funeral dirge’ is. I read it on the internet.”

[I switch to the “Addams Family” theme song.]

Me: “A ‘dirge’ is a sad song they play at funerals.”

Tweak: “What’s a ‘funeral’?”

Me: “Hmmm… A funeral is when people get together to celebrate, I mean, remember… It means somebody died.”

[I arpeggiate a D-minor chord.]

Tweak: “What happens when people die?”

Me: “They don’t talk as much.”

Tweak: “Then they get flushed down the toilet?”

Me: “That’s mostly for fish. And some Italians.”

[Left hand, octave E-flats, two eighth notes.]

Tweak: “So what happens after people die?”

Me: “That sure is an easy question! You know what ‘sarcasm’ is, Tweak?”

Tweak: “Whenever your lips move?”

Me: “Good. Let’s proceed. What a person believes about dying seems to depend mostly on the holy accident of where they were born. Some people believe in eternal paradise, some people believe in rebirth and trying to ‘get it right’ in the next life, and some people believe that in death we are nothing more than a maggot’s wet dream. An opportunity to feed insects and Darwin.”

Tweak: “Death sounds like a game show.”

Me: “Give us time. It will be.”

[Ragtime intro to Joplin’s “Entertainer.”]

Me: “Some people believe that a person does not die until the last story told is told about them.”

Tweak: “Then I’m going to live forever.”

Me: “Nine times forever.”

Tweak: “That ought to feed the panda.”

[“Come and listen to a story about a man named ‘Jed’…”]

Me: “The circle of life is a milk ring.”

Tweak: “Play it again, ma’am.”

[Circus music.]

 

8 August 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”

“Whoa.”

I sit up in bed. It is 6:09 a.m. Nine minutes ago my alarm went off. And a bomb in my head.

“Whoa.”

I am dizzy. It’s dawn. There is a cat on my lap. Or possibly a walrus.

Me: “Tweak?”

Tweak: “Yes, it’s me. It’s always me.”

Me: “Did I get drunk last night?”

Tweak: “Only on macaroni and cheese.”

Me: “What’s wrong with me?”

Tweak: “Your birth certificate keeps getting older.”

I lie back down. This is good. Doing nothing is very good.

I close my eyes. Oh, this is even better. Darkness is salvation.

The walrus digs her nails into my hip. I sit back up.

Me: “Dang. I feel like I should have earned this much misery.”

Tweak: “Well, you DO make an intoxicating cheese sauce.”

Me: “But it’s not hangover-worthy.”

The walrus scratches an ear.

Tweak: “You should sleep some more. It’s a proven remedy.”

Me: “For what?”

Tweak: “For everything.”

I lie down. Carefully. Force myself back up.

Me: “I can’t. I have to feed the panda.”

Tweak: “Screw the panda.”

Me: “You don’t understand – if I don’t feed the panda, we lose the internet.”

The walrus shrugs.

Me: “If I don’t feed the panda, my car runs out of gas.”

The walrus licks a paw.

Me: “If I don’t feed the panda, no more nurdles.”

Tweak: “NOOOO!!”

The walrus explodes.

Tweak: “Get up! Get up, you fat cow! You got shit to do!”

Me: “You really need to work on your interpersonal skills, Tweak.”

Tweak: “Moo.”

I wrestle the sheets and climb out of bed. I am still dizzy for no rational reason, but there’s a panda to feed.

Me: “Eats.”

Tweak: “Shoots.”

Me: “I’m going, I’m going.”

Leaves.

 

6 August 2014, “Tolerating Tweak.”

Me: “It’s Monday, Tweak. You know what that means.”

Tweak: “You feed me? Finally?”

Me: “I feed you every day, Tweak. You are short-minded and thankless.”

Tweak: “You have a screw loose.”

Me: “I haven’t a screw of any kind.”

Tweak: “You should tell the world!”

Me: “Same thing we do every Monday.”

Tweak: “Your Alzheimer’s is setting in. Shall I start putting labels on things? ‘Table.’ ‘Chair.’ ‘Self-respect.’”

Me: “Monday is a day for fresh starts. An opportunity to wipe clean the fouled white boards. An occasion to scrape fresh the undergarments. A chance to puncture the calcified guilt-sausage in the meat-core of one’s stinking arteries with the Roto-Rooter of Remorse.”

Tweak: “And you’re single… why?”

Me: “Hey, Tweak, how many FINGER am I holding up?”

Tweak: “Want me to label that?”

 

4 August 2014, “Tolerating Tweak.”

Me: “I see that some celebrity nudes have leaked.”

Tweak: “Oh, that is always so messy.”

Me: “No, not leaked FLUID. I mean photos of them without clothes on have reached the internet.”

Tweak: “Why do humans wear clothes anyway?”

Tweak licks a combed trail down her perfect fur.

Me: “Have you SEEN us naked?”

Tweak: “Well, I’ve seen YOU.”

Me: “I don’t count. I’m fabulous.”

Tweak suddenly backs up on the carpet and vomits up a hair ball.

Me: “Hey, it’s Rush Limbaugh! But seriously – most undressed humans look like fetal pangolins.”

Tweak: “’Naked mole rat’ would have been funnier. Nobody knows what a ‘pangolin’ is.”

Me: “A pangolin is… Picture Steve Buscemi without clothes.”

Tweak ejects another hair ball.

Tweak: “And so when humans are naked they’re… what? More valuable?”

Me: “Um…”

Tweak: “I mean, if you’re all so hideous, why do you stare at each other?”

Me: “Well, we’re also shallow.”

Tweak: “Don’t forget ‘vain.’”

Me: “And chock full of judgment.”

Tweak: “On the other hand, I’d pay money to see a Kardashian leaking fluid.”

Me: “My turn to hurl.”

Tweak: “No, I mean through an artery.”

We high-five.

 

1 September 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”

 

Me: “Hey, Tweak – you want to take the Ice Bucket Challenge?”

Tweak: “To fit inside one? I could do that.”

Me: “No, no. We pour ice water over our heads.”

Tweak: “On purpose?”

Me: “To raise money.”

Tweak: “For what – common sense?”

Me: “No, for Lou Gehrig.”

Tweak: “Who is Lou Gehrig?”

Me: “He was a baseball player.”

Tweak: “Was he really horrible at it or something? Why does he need money? Hookers? Blow? Is he upside down on his mortgage because of steroids?”

Me: “No, he was a very good ball player. But he got sick.”

Tweak: “With what – cancer? Irritable Bowel? Ebola?”

Me: “He got Lou Gehrig’s Disease.”

Tweak: “Of course he did. I’m probably going to die of ‘Tweak.’”

Me: “Aren’t we all.”

Tweak: “What happens after we dump ice water on our heads?”

Me: “We pretend to like it. Then we ask for money. Then we persuade others to join us.”

Tweak blinks, stares at me long and hard.

Tweak: “Jim Jones called that the ‘Kool-Aid Challenge.’”

Me: “Who’s thirsty??”

 

31 August 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”

 

Me: “Hey, Tweak. What did you do while I was gone?”

Tweak: “You were gone?”

 

29 August 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”

I am wrapped around a body pillow. Tweak leaps onto my back from what feels like the top of a cliff.

Tweak: “WHY ARE YOU STILL IN BED?!?”

Her cannonball knocks the air out of my lungs. My eyes pop open. The clock is a Stephen King clown.

Me: “Good grief, Tweak. It’s only 6:08. I’ve slept for eight extra minutes.”

Tweak: “Do you know how much damage I can do in eight minutes?”

Me: “To what – your sleep study?”

Tweak chews my hair.

Me: “Besides, it’s my day off.”

Tweak: “Off?? As opposed to…?”

I roll over, not gently. Tweak’s claws are still hooked to the quilt and she plops sideways on the mattress like a balloon full of potato salad.

I chortle before I can stop myself and she extracts vengeance by raking a claw down my back.

Me: “OW!”

Tweak: “We. Don’t. Chortle.”

She rearranges her dignity and sits beside me, curling her feet under herself like a breakfast loaf.

Tweak: “So, what are you doing on your day off?”

Me: “I’m not sure yet. What do YOU usually do?”

Tweak: “HAHA!! Good one.”

I reach for my phone on the night stand and pull up a list called “Things to Do When I Have Eight Damn Minutes.” The last item is: “Don’t take any more shit.” I close the phone and set it on the pillow next to me. Tweak crawls on top of it.

Tweak: “I’m on the list. HAHA!”

I roll my eyes so hard they rattle. The commotion summons a ruiner.

Bowie bursts into the room, the Kramer of dogs.

Bowie: “Hey! You guys having fun in here without me?”

Bowie-dog’s happy tongue smiles and she paws the pillow, a kind of dog fist-bump. Tweak dives off and digs a nail into my thigh. My phone crashes to the floor.

Me: “ENOUGH! Time to tackle that list.”

Bowie: “List? I want to be on a list!”

Tweak: “Oh, you are.”

 

1 August 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”

Tweak: “So, I was watching this documentary the other day…”

Me: “Tweak, we don’t even have a television.”

Tweak is lounging on the couch , a fat furry potato of languor atop her pile of blankets. She has summoned just enough energy to lick a curled toe.

Tweak: “Maybe I saw it on the internet.”

Me: “You have nine lives and you’ve wasted four of them on Tumblr.”

She jumps down and eyes the scratching post, deciding.

Tweak: “Here’s the thing – are there really cats without hands?”

She lunges at the post, decided.

Me: “They don’t take the whole hand, Tweak, but yes, sometimes vets amputate the nails from cats.”

She attacks the wrapped wood, her claws hurling chunks of hemp to the floor.

Tweak: “That’s barbaric.”

She bites the rope. Her face is crazed. It might be love or hate.

Me: “Some cats ruin furniture.”

Tweak: “Some cats are idiots.”

She flips upside down, cat-asshole high and proud like punctuation. Her body hangs suspended from one caught nail.

Me: “Some cats don’t know how good they have it.”

She unhooks from the post, leaps into my lap, and digs a nail into my thigh.

Tweak: “By the way, your cable bill is due.”

She curls up and sleeps. I dab the blood with a tissue.

 

30 July 2014, “Tolerating Tweak.”