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To What Diary It May Concern,

This morning, I took V to the dentist to have her wisdom teeth yanked bloodily out of her mouth, all four. It only took a half an hour, during which I learned how ESPN (the magazine) felt about Ken Burns’ portrayal of George Steinbrenner in his epic Baseball documentary a good month before the venerable Yankee-in-chief bit the dust. (Answer: he wuz slighted.) Immediately following the procedure, I was invited into a recovery room, which consisted of a tan dentist’s recliner in a corner, looking rather lonely without the usual constellation of dentistry equipment perched like medieval floor lamps about it, upon which my beloved dozed under the kind of blanket paramedics give shock victims. Her eyelids fluttered open much sooner than the nurse or I anticipated. She hardly even looked groggy. True to her nature — which includes sadistically bouncing out of bed each morning and being cheerful before I’ve even had time to remember how to count to ten — she was ready to talk about the experience and do some research on a topic somewhere. The gauze and anesthesia prevented this, of course.

I interpreted some mumbled and muffled sign language to mean I should read the yellow medical pamphlet aloud to her. It was a dry recitation, as the prose left nary any spots for dramatic interpretation or funny voices. Just when I was adopting a grave tone for the section on dry socket, the nurse returned and repeated all the instructions in a perfunctory and nun-like fashion, addressing the patient with complete eye contact, though I was the only one in the room with the physical or mental ability to remember the information and nod politely. V looked like a puppy being explained the intricacies of a new trick while its master held a treat between two fingers. I thought she had absorbed it all, but hours later (after the numbness wore off, before the pain meds kicked back in) she doubted that the morning even existed. For all she knew, someone had extracted her kidney while leaving her in a tub of ice, choosing the unusual method of pulling said kidney through her lower molars.

I had planned on only returning the drugged patient to a warm bed with a glass of tea nearby, then heading off to work to continue catching up from a week-plus vacation and illness, but the nurse, upon learning this, looked at me as if I had just announced my candidacy for President of Assholia. I meekly phoned the boss and begged for another sick day, then spent my productive hours watching Hulu and attempting to keep track of all the math that attends post-operative care. What complex math it is! Three different pills with three different frequencies (every four hours, every six hours, thrice daily) and a mouthwash to be used “as needed” and gauze that must change every half hour. Some medicines require food, which must be eaten between gauze packings, lending another wrinkle to the schedule. Of course, if one little thing goes wrong: boom: dry socket, gangrene, teeth dropping to the carpet like a broken string of pearls, misery, woe, hefty dentistry bill.

Somewhere in there, I found time to walk Cricket the Anxious Poodle (hereafter known as CrAP or simply Satan). CrAP has been adjusting slowly to the trauma that was our driving trip to Denver and back, twitching through extended episodes of nervous grunting and obsessively hiding underneath our bed — crawling under, scratching around, crawling out — and her walks have been unusually feisty to boot. So I was relieved that she sauntered more or less like a normal dog, until we came upon the hovering cat. The hovering cat was on the second-floor balcony of another apartment building in the complex, poking the forefront of its body between the metal bars. What I mean is, its head and shoulders were through the bars, and its front paws were dangling in mid-air about where they’d be if they’d been resting on solid ground. Its rear portion sat normally on the balcony’s cement slab. I believe it was suspended there by the bulk of its rather fat body. It didn’t appear to be stuck; on the contrary, it had the air of the world’s most comfortable cat, and regarded CrAP coolly with its bright green eyes. Once she noticed the cat back, CrAP froze, and the staring contest began.

In a previous life, CrAP lived with two cats. I do not know whether she tortured them or ran from them or curled up into calendar-worthy fuzz balls of snoozing co-existence with them, but she seems to have a healthy respect for the personal space of all cats. This one, since it was hovering and all, earned even more respect than usual. She didn’t even let out a small personal growl, the kind she sometimes utters at puppies passing by through our windows, the kind that sounds like a dog’s version of, “Well, will you look at that.” She sat down and stared back at the cat.

Can animals communicate with a stare? I believe they can. Humans can. I had been doing it all morning with gauze-mouthed V, albeit with the benefit of facial expressions, hand gestures, and a long shared history of talking to help me figure out what she needed. Here were two strangers, from different species, not to mention sides of the tracks, staring intently at one another. Could they be speaking to one another, even while sitting (or hovering) in complete attentive stillness? If so, what could they possible have to say? Mild pleasantries about the welcome arrival of the first autumn cold front? Shared notes about the dubious scent of the mutt one building over? One-upping bitches about the vagaries of their owners? Sick sexual fantasies? Fantasy football picks?

The staredown ended when CrAP stood up and resumed walking, sniffing the margins of the sidewalk nonchalantly. She always loses staring contests. It’s part of her nervous and pathetic charm as a bully that never wins a fight. The cat — whether stuck or content — kept its place and merely shifted its gaze to me. Its eyes really were a brilliant, sea foam green, especially from its high perch where they could catch the sunlight. I tried to listen to its eyes, discern its kitty thoughts, discover something new about the animal world. Nothing spoke to me, nothing penetrated my human-centric mind, so I winked. The cat looked away, and within seconds I was returned to the more familiar anthropomorphic relationship with Satan, who was taking a shit mere inches from my right foot. “Good dog,” I said, pulling free a poop bag and bending over to pick it up. I put a dash of extra sarcasm into my voice and whispered again, into her ear, “Good dog.”

The rest of the day was spent watching episodes of “Louie” and Disney’s Princess and the Frog and therefore was of no consequence.

Yours sincerely,

Chris