My Boy's Back, And Gordon's Not What He Used to Be
The Fiery One arrived home safely on Tuesday night, and I have been a very happy girl ever since, at least as far as my wifely self goes. This is partially why I haven’t been writing. Who could write with a Fiery One in the flesh hanging around the apartment?
It is so thrilling to finally hear his key in the lock after his being gone for over three weeks. I hear that key in the lock, and I always have to do a double take. Did I hear a key in the lock? Really? Maybe someone just brushed by my door by accident. Oh my god, are those keys jingling? I heard a bang. Could that be his suitcase thunking against the wall in the hallway? Oh, my, fucking, god, it is him. It has to be. The door is opening! Holy christ, that’s his head.
As soon as I see his head poke inside the door, and while he’s still fumbling with keys and luggage and his hat, I fly into the front entry. I never remember actually moving my feet to get there, so happy am I to see his face, his glittering eyes (they always do when he first sees me after a long trip), his brown skin, his whiskery post-flight face. We wrap our arms around each other and whatever items he has yet to put down, and I bury my face in his warm neck, my first warm neck in three weeks, and remember how he smells, or learn the new smell of him after eating pork gristle in chocolate sauce in some country that thinks this constitutes breakfast.
And then I just have to look at him. Look and look and look at him, because I forget so many details about him. I forgot how much I love the shape of his teeth. They are all slightly rounded, like little, old mints. The baby skin on his shoulders never grows old. His hands that look like they should be in clay, molding things, which he uses instead for words and luggage. The creases around his eyes when he finds himself rather funny.
Am I going on too much? What gives? you think. Well, this is what gives. A girl has needs. Needs. Enough said.
Oh, yeah, and love is a many splendored thing blah blah and yada yada. You know what I’m talking about.
The Fiery One took Gordon for his first vet visit this morning. Yesterday, Gordon’s ears were cold, which is not a good sign in a rabbit, and he stopped eating, drinking, and pooping, which are also bad signs. When a rabbit stops pooping, you know something’s up for sure.
So Gordon raced around the vet’s office and got his nails trimmed and was diagnosed with a doughy mass in his stomach that is likely hairballish in nature. Apparently it is nothing too serious, and we now have bunny antibiotics, pineapple juice, and a brush to keep the hairball problem down to a minimum.
My relief was immense. I was nauseous with anxiety all last night and had trouble concentrating on writing proper letters at work, because I kept thinking that I was going to come home and find out that Gordon was a goner (that's g-aw-ner, not g-oh-ner. It’s a common mistake). What I forgot is that surprises come in many forms, and that not all vet visits mean that death is the surprise (I have a history of premature pet deaths, but I’ll save that for later).
It turns out that Gordon is not quite what we thought he was. Gordon is a girl! Up until now, we just assumed his maleness. We based our belief in his maleness on absolutely nothing, now that I think back on it. We named him Gordon, called him “he” and “him”, and left it at that. Bunnies do not have the most obvious secondary sex characteristics, so it’s an easy mistake to make. So, he’s a she, and her name is Gordon. It’s not the most androgynous name. I think maybe she can remain a Gordon, because Gordette, Gordina, Gordita, and Gordeliana all seem a little forced.
And here she is, in all her feminine glory, out of the closet for the first time as her true self. As you can see, she’s a bit shy about it still, but she’s definitely getting used to the idea.
Gordon Rugg’s take on the Voynich manuscript.
Wal-Mart pisses off Teotihuacan, Mexico.