State of The Blogger: Terrible Fucking Night

My dog Rocket

I don't usually use this space for personal stuff. But.

Tonight my dog got hit by a car.

He is going t0 be alright. His crazy rubber monkey body bounced around underneath a giant stupid SUV and out the other side. The woman driving was horrified. It wasn't her fault. He'd bolted out the door and into the street like la la la I am a crazy monkey come and catch me. And she was driving down the street. And.

I was on Staten Island. My buddy Nick just got his appendix out. He loves Rocket so Anthony drove us all over to cheer him up. We went to John's place and Marilyn came over. We were going to order Chinese food and watch John's enormous television. Nick showed me the dent from the tiny hole they made in his side to pull out his faulty appendix. Cool. He and John went to go pick up the food and Rocket just shot past them. Ant went after him. I heard him scream.

I ran outside as Rocket raced back up to the house, terrified. I patted him all over looking for damage as the guys ran up behind me and Marilyn came out of the house. I noticed bright red blood on my arm. His blood.

The woman was in the street next to her SUV, crying. Apologizing.

I scooped the dog into my arms--all sixty pounds and one ounce of him--and ran for the car. John pulled a page out of the phone book (who still has a phone book? John.) with the address of a 24 hour animal hospital on Staten Island and Ant drove there. I ran up to the door with the gangly, bleeding dog in my arms and it was locked. There were two women in scrubs and some guy just standing there on the other side of the glass so I screamed "Open the door, my dog has been hit by a car!" They shook their heads no and said they were closed. Ant parked and ran up behind me yelling, "THE DOG HAS BEEN HIT BY A CAR OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!" And a glue-colored girl with stringy brown hair hissed, "there's no doctor on!" No referral. No I'm sorry we can't help, go here. Nothing. So we had no choice but to get back in the car and drive back to Brooklyn. We brought him to a 24 hour emergency vet in Park Slope, whose number was on the outgoing message of Rocket's regular vet.

The Emergency Vet People were just the way you'd want them to be. Kind. Straightforward. Rational. They talked in reassuring voices. We stood in the waiting room blinking and looking at the walls while they took the dog. The receptionist pointed to my knee and asked me if I wanted to clean up: I'd skinned it picking up the dog and blood--my blood--was running down my leg.

Nice pretty lady doctor tells us Rocket has several superficial wounds and one deep one. His eye is red and swollen and his lips and muzzle and legs are lacerated. He has an angry pink road rash. They x-rayed him to make sure he was okay inside. 500 bucks. Ant put it on his Amex and I have to figure out a way to pay him half by the time the bill comes. The doctor warned that Rocket's lungs could bruise and impede his breathing and his stomach could fill up with blood so we have to watch him for 48 hours. Give him pills. Keep him from eating the surgical glue sealing his wound.

But he is alive.

I'm selfish. I know it. I'm an artist and thinking about myself is a big part of my job. But it makes being in a relationship with me difficult sometimes. I'm vengeful. For example, if that woman at the Staten Island vet hospital who would not help my dog were to trip and shatter her teeth on a cement curb that would be fine by me. I'm bossy: I am used to being in charge of my work and I don't always know when to turn it off. I can't bear it when something obvious to me goes unspoken, no matter how uncomfortable it makes other people. I am impatient. Bawdy, too interested in sensual pleasure to be as thoughtful as I'd like. I am very much looking forward to seeing Megan Fox and Amanda Seyfried kiss in Jennifer's Body. And I really do think I am smarter than you are, whether I am or not.

But this dog makes me a better person. I can't withdraw from the rest of the world for days at a time because I am depressed or working on something or irritated by everyone. I have to think of him when I think of myself. He has to be fed. Walked. Cleaned up after. He doesn't care about my work.

He is lying on his side with a plastic cone around his neck. He whimpered just now and I tried to get him to drink from my hand.

He is my dog.