I had noticed a growing angst within, and felt the need of a therapist. But alas, and to no great surprise, my insurance did not cover psychotherapy. As I waded through the coverage limitations, I came to the conclusion that my health insurance covered only boils, ringworm, hangnails, and psoriasis—and only if they weren’t pre-existing conditions. All for only $350 a month. Wow, what a bargain.
I had a lot of things inside of me that I needed to set free—to get them off my chest so to speak. I’m not much of a church-goer, so going to a strange minister or priest didn’t feel right. I could have probably gone to a bar and poured out my troubles to a bartender, but every bartender in town is on a first-name basis with me. Probably half have called cabs for me. I needed to talk to someone who wouldn’t betray me by telling others the abysmal inner workings of my dysfunctional, toxic, fear-ridden mind.
As I am sure it was for Edison, Tesla, and Einstein, it came to me in a flash: Rex! Yes! It coalesced in a magic dance in my mind’s eye. Father Rex. That’s it! Father Rex!
I would have to make a confessional and of course prepare a communion. For the confessional, I put two beer kegs (sadly, empty) on the kitchen table about two feet apart. Then I put a two-by-four across them and draped Kimmie the CPA’s Amish see-through dress she left here the night she was hauled away in handcuffs. (The police’s, not mine.)
The communion would be crackers and, of course, red jug wine. You can’t eat just dry crackers, so I got out the spray can of Cheese Whiz. To make it official, I took off Rex’s collar, wrapped toilet paper around it, and put it back on. Indeed. Father Rex with his black fur and white collar could have meandered through the Vatican, unnoticed.
Rex, having his collar monkied with, felt trouble brewing as I sat him up on a kitchen chair. “Rex, I’m going to make a confession to you. Several. Sit here and I’m going into the jerry-rigged confessional and spill my guts. Oh, and we’re having communion, so you get oyster crackers with Cheese Whiz, and I’m having wine, too, just to make it look churchy.” Rex wagged his tail. The CD of the Sing-along Gregorian Chants wasn’t in its jewel case, so I put on The Best of ABBA instead. I sat down across from him and looked at him through Kimmie’s see-through dress. We were in business.
“Father Rex, I have sinned.” Rex wagged his tail and I passed a cracker and cheese to him through the dress. “In kindergarten, I used to look up girls’ dresses when we took naps.” Again a wag of his tail and I slid a cheese and cracker to him.
“In 1973 I lied to a census worker. I told him 873 people lived in the house with me.” A wag and a cracker. I loaded up a saltine with Cheese Whiz for me and took a slug of wine, no, two slugs of wine from the jug.
“In 1993 I drove naked through downtown Monterey at 3 a.m. With no seat belt. Alcohol was involved.” A wag from Rex in exchange for an oyster cracker laden with Cheese Whiz.
“Once I had a house full of guests and farted and I blamed it on you.” Rex didn’t wag. “Forgive me, Father.” He reluctantly wagged and I gave him his treat. Pavlov would have been proud.
“Once I told a woman I loved her just to have sex with her.” Rex didn’t wag his tail. “Forgive me, Father.” He still didn’t wag his tail. “What? It’s not a sin to do that?” No wag. “Oh, WOW, that’s fantastic. Here, have an extra cracker on me, buddy. Way to go, PADRE!” I was going to high-five him, but felt it may not be appropriate. I winked at him and he wagged his tail like a Geiger counter at Chernobyl.
“In 2000 I started claiming you as dependant on my taxes. You are dependant on me, you know.” A wag and a cracker. I took three big gulps of the sacramental wine.
“At Christmas, I put Monopoly money in the Santa’s charity boxes. Some days I don’t change my underwear. I lift up high the hose before I start pumping at the gas station, just to get a little more free gas. I have an unpaid Bakersfield parking ticket from 1979.” It was all coming out. I gulped more wine.
“Once I faked an orgasm. I was alone, so maybe that’s not a sin.” Rex stared at me through the gauzy dress. I figured I better not tell him about the . . . well, I probably shouldn’t discuss it here, either.
“Once I told the Denny’s waitress I was 55 just to get a seniors discount. I was only 54. And a half.” I passed Rex his cracker and put a straw in the jug of wine and started slurpin’.
“Sometimes I buy you discount dog food just so I can have more money for beer . . .” Rex put his paws up on the table and growled. “Forgive me, Father . . . ?” He lunged at me with bared fangs. Church was over. I had to run out to the garage to save myself and stayed there for three and a half hours until the Padre cooled down.
Some things, I guess, are unforgivable.
* * *
Tom and / or Rex can be reached at burns100@earthlink.net.