I swear, if I make it through this, I expect to be made a saint. I want people praying to my image. I don’t care if there’s already a Saint Michael, we’ll figure something out. Saint Dogpoet or something. Something easy to remember. I want my own special day and I want shrines, lots of them. I want my medallion to hang around the necks of cute Catholic boys. Dogpoet, the patron saint of endurance.
My handsome space monkey has been offered a terrific work-type opportunity that will interfere with his visit. Once again we must reschedule. We have met at a time of great transition for both of us, and I suppose it’s a testament to our connection that we keep holding on as these months pass.
I know I have been rather vague about the monkey here; I am continually torn between my desire to shelter this relationship with a little bit of wise privacy, and my need to write about my life, as I have done here since Day One. And the monkey’s slice of my life continues to grow. So I feel like I must acknowledge this, him, if I want to keep writing. My heart hurts, but I am proud of him. We will make this work. Perhaps I will Fed-ex myself to his house.
it gets kinda rough
in the back of our limousine