'Ff'lo (fflo) wrote,
'Ff'lo
fflo

i don't wanna

that's what i told the copy chief this afternoon, when telling her i'd just made an appt. with the vet for wednesday morning. i don't wanna, but i'm taking the old guy in. my intention is see what they can do for him, if anything, as he continues to lose weight and is increasingly unsteady on his feet. but i figure at the very least they're going to tell me what my eyes can see for themselves: he's in pretty bad shape. i'm having trouble imagining coming out of this appt with any good news.

then tonight i looked down where humph & katherine "manny" mansfield were lazily playing, and i saw that chet had (no doubt) stumbled in to watch the end of adam's rib with us. he's probably seen it before, truth be told, but, you know, the young ones hadn't. and anyway, sometimes the heartbeats in a house just like to cluster together. you know?

he's just a sack of bones, dear readers. i can barely comprehend it, beholding him, holding him. despite how bloody obvious it is.

chester k. pester will be 19 any day now, if he's not already. summer of '88, several lifetimes ago, this dyke friend named tina, who was a student at the community college where i worked, went with me to the crazy cat rooms at a place called defenders of animal rights, and he came to live with me on e. 41st. doesn't sound like a baltimore address, does it, baltimorons. well it is. a little one-way uphill street north of waverly, across greenmount from the big brick wall cordoning off the richies in guilford. at the time it was a surprising little queer residential cluster, my street, as the two (gay male couples of) landlords who owned, between 'em, maybe a quarter of the houses on the street used word of mouth to find tenants.

my 2nd floor pad was the overall least appealing space i'd lived in as an adult--- equalled later only by the spring st apt here in A2, i'd say. i called it the brady bunch apartment cuz it had ugly shag carpet and (until i replaced 'em w/blinds) absurdly ucky burnt orange and yellow curtains in the bay window in the living room. i sat in that bay window with chet as he watched his first snow, thinking how silly it was to be noting it, but noting it, and loving noting it, nonetheless.

lordy, that was a long time ago. how can i have lived this long?

chet's first year and then some, he had a male role model in the household: bill. bill's dead now. he wasn't then. in fact, he's singing in this number, along with freddie mercury, me, my ex-, and the houseguest i have coming toward the end of august:

.mp3  -->   "Crazy Little Thing (Called Chet)" -- Us Guys, with Queen (1988)

you know, bill's dead, and chester's dying, and i don't even want to imagine what's become of the denz, but listening to that old tape still makes me laugh.

earlier tonight i was singing the first chester song to him:

little baby chester
bop shoo wah do wop
little baby chester
bop shoo wah do wop
little baby chester
bop shoo wah do wop
little baby chester
little baby chester
little baby chester
bop shoo wah do wop

i've been telling people that chester is by far the living creature with whom i have spent the most nights under the same roof. i'd have to do some math to figure out whether he's overtaken my mother as the creature living or dead with that distinction. i think mom may still have a little something on him, what with summers, and me (& then denise too) living with her through the fall of the year my father died. plus occasional short visits after that. plus the night she died.

goodness sakes, people. it's hard. it's hard already, and it's only gonna get harder.
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