We All Have Rabies! We're All Going to Die!

“Well, I’m sure glad I don’t have to get a rabies shot in my ass today,” I yawn as I stretch my arms up into the air and try to wake up. Unlike my fiancée—a polar bear named Sherman for whom I moved to the Arctic Circle—I have to work for a living. “Shit! It’s cold!”

“That’s probably good news for the rabies too,” groans Sherman, as he rolls over in bed. I think he is having second thoughts about inviting me and my delightfully obese cat, Miss Richard Hatch, to join him for the winter. Actually, he quite enjoys Miss Richard’s company. It’s me he ought to have doubts about.

“Oh, where are your rose coloured glasses?” I prod, like the bitch that I am. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to wait for his response. I have to get to class.

I have taken a job as an art teacher at the local community college for something to do for the two point two hours the sun is halls its ass into the sky this far north. I would say the term art teacher is a stretch though. My students are far more competent than I am at art, as well as social skills in general. I am not great at handling a classroom either. For instance, one of my students threatened to burn my house down one day.

“Go the fuck ahead,” I said, without skipping a beat. “But make room, because I’ll be moving in with you.” That’s inappropriate, I know, but what do you expect from someone who lives in an igloo with a polar bear and a fat cat who was named after someone who has done hard time for tax evasion?

At the end of yet another doozy of a class--this one dedicated to ice sculptures--my students revolted against my ineptitude by walking out of my class. “Prepare for some Socratic method tomorrow!” I screamed to their backsides.

“Never!” they hollered back in unison.

I should probably become more hopping mad at this kind of insolence than I do. I should probably want to throw their shoes out into the snow like my crazy aunt Dallas used to when I didn’t put my toys away when I was a kid. But, I don’t care. Either that or those court-ordered anger management courses have really paid off. Instead, I go for a walk into the tundra.

I used to do this without a gun, but then realized the ‘dog’ I had been petting was actually a wolf. Now I carry a knife, some spam and a rape-whistle—just in case. You never know what is going to happen out here in the desert of ice. For instance, today I have stumbled upon a litter of abandoned puppies. Well, I shouldn’t assume these are puppies. The last time I made such a rash assessment I thought what I was caring for were premature kittens. They turned out to be pre-mie raccoons. Fortunately, the raccoons, who now vacation in Palm Springs, lived, and I learned my lesson about double-checking facts.

Assuming makes an ass out of you and me, but mostly me.

But, fuck it. We only live once. So I stuff the puppies into the extra compartment in my parka and head home.

“What’s in the bag?” Sherman asks, half-heartedly when I get home. He is becoming complacent in that way people do when they are in a comfortable environment. Since there is nothing comforting in this harsh climate, in my opinion, I am operating on more of a fight-or-flight level. I would be leaning more toward the flight side of things, but there are no roads, let alone planes, for several kilometers. Sherman calls me “wiry” but Miss Richard Hatch and I think of ourselves as having adopted a survivalist-approach to life. Like the monks of Tibet, only without Brad Pitt.

“Puppies!” I squeal, with a twinkle in my eye. “Part wolf. Part huskie. All rabid!”

That’s not really true. Their mother, who was a wolf, went on vacation in Cairo. She would have chosen Thailand, but I had a nightmare the other night in which she moved to Egypt and became a queen—revered by all, while I was left to raise her cubs. Since everyone from the north thinks I am a complete idiot, the second she heard that this was a nightmare, she thought a normal person would have seen this as a premonition from Delphi and booked her way to the desert.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sherman asks. "That's not appropriate at all."

“No,” I say, gritting my teeth and suppressing what I really want to say. “Of course not, Asshole!” Why will no one take me seriously in the Arctic Circle? Just because I look ridiculous doesn’t mean I am ridiculous. The truth is, I am ridiculous, but no one knows that. “Besides, just because it is, doesn’t mean it should be,” I respond.

“You ripped that shit from the movie Australia,” Sherman replies, not missing a beat. “If you are going to pilfer quotes, at least adjust your standards so you aren’t quibbing crack-whores like Nicole Kidman.”

“Nicole Kidman isn’t a crack whore,” I stammer, trying to maintain my dignity, but failing to come up with a decent retort. “She’s a lady of the night, and it’s a taxable profession in Australia—complete with dental.”

“Let’s hope so, for her sake,” Sherman shudders, as he takes a big bite of his country food. Country food is the gold standard up here in the north. It includes caribou, seal and beluga whale. I have yet to try it, but Sherman loves it; because, as I may have mentioned, he is a polar bear. It also has a surprisingly good effect on his breath, so I try not to complain.

Instead, I decide to go and write to my friend from the south. By ‘friend’ I mean the woman who used to moon-light as a prostitute in between the occasional stint babysitting my fat-ass. We’ve kept in touch ever since we were reunited at a Herpies Anonymous Meeting held in my high school gymnasium.

Madame Giselle. I may have adopted a puppy from the tundra. And, by puppy, I mean part huskie and part wolf. Oh, and the mother died of eclampsia, but no one else would touch the babies because they all think she was rabid.

I felt like it was as unfairly judged as I am, so I took it in and named it Seizure Willie. I hope this made your day. See you in a few weeks (I hope the cream I sent you helped with your “itch”).

PS Seizure Willie pissed all over me three minutes ago. What a bitch!

               Miss you Clap-Clap! Love you more!

As I finish and hit the send button on my computer, I hear Sherman blowing a gasket in the next room. He is yelling something about the puppies, but seriously, he is a fucking polar bear, he can deal with a few rabid puppies for a couple of weeks.

“They’re so genteel,” I holler back. “Just like me!”

This is followed by a moment of silence. Finally, Sherman breaks up.

“That’s rich,” he says, doubling over in laughter. “You—genteel!”

It’s true. Since Sherman has met me I have gotten in a fight with a family of blue jays, almost been murdered by his own sister, become reunited with my retired prostitute-babysitter and passed out in a pool of my own vomit while next to a mullet-yielding professional harmonica player. In other words, I am what Chelsea Handler would describe as a hot mess.

Fortunately, Sherman is not Chelsea. Not even close. In fact, the joke is squarely on him. Sherman loves me. No one made him fall in love with the disaster that is me either. There was neither trickery nor alcohol involved. Just me, my ridiculousness and a cat named Miss Richard Hatch.

Turns out that was enough. I thank him too. Every night. Just low enough so he can’t hear me underneath the sound of his own, rhythmic snoring.

“I think I’ll name the dog Willie,” I suggest.

“Which one?” Sherman groans. “There are six of them.”

“All of them,” I wink. “Duh.”

Sherman just shakes his head. "I guess that's the thing though. Any of our beliefs and causes can be explored in ways that are more self-contained, only affecting the believers themselves, or in ways that more aggressively impact those around us, but how there is no clear line where the one approach becomes the other. I guess whether it is beliefs, or causes, or even opinions, that's one of the big issues with any belief and with how any of us live the ones we hold."

"You handle that really well here," I responded in a moment of heart-felt admiration. My cheeks rosing slightly with pride.  "Well played."
"I know," Sherman replied. "But that’s just me."