I am simply stark raving mad. Almost a whole month since I've entered my diary and at least two weeks since a good manicure.
I fear, my little nutritionally satisfying granola bars, that my life as I know it may soon be over, or at least I may have to hitch this wagon up and move on. No, the IRS still has no reason to know of my existence, lovely little green Mr. Jackson's etc., (never let me down and never leave a trail). No, I am afraid that perhaps something more compelling has taken place.
"What?" you impatient little trail mixes ask.
As of my last diary entry, I was convinced that Jack had moved out on Mary, and Amy had possibly moved in on Mary (Amy is such a love, who could resist? Well, I could, but only physically, never mentally). Oh how wrong; I was on an uptown A train when I should have been on the downtown 6. In other words, I was quite wrong.
The day after Jack's supposed seduction of yours truly, (and who could blame him, I was practically naked) and the strange welcome home party at which Jack, was missing I made it my mission to get to the bottom of things.
I awoke, removed the pink spongy curlers, dabbed a bit of scent here and there, and off I went in search of coffee and truth. As I arrived at Jack and Mary's home, I noticed that there was a third voice. Amy was inside also. I knocked and the chatter ceased. At least I knew that Jack had come home at some point. Mystery 1 solved, or discarded as it were.
Inside, my friends, my family were seated in a semi-circle around Jack and Mary's faux-wood grain walnut breakfast table. I greeted all and accepted an instant cappucino (not exactly my speed, but I felt that I was going to need some fortification, however unfabulous). They were waiting for me.
This horrible saga all centers on the disappearance of the "tick" and what most likely appears to have been its demise.
It would seem that the sainted animal (I have changed my tone out of respect for what looks like the dead) had disappeared quite some time ago not to be seen since. As its nibbling habits were quite regular from all reports, this was quite unusual. I suggested that perhaps an angry neighbor might have finally been forced to make a statement.
Mary was quite put out by this. She swore that all the neighbors loved her little unmentionable. I took this comment as a bit hysterical. I also suggested that perhaps one of the local wild animals, of a non-human species, may have had something to do with this.
Amy, who was well connected with the local animal rescue league, sadly shook her head. Something about molting or what-not, whatever it was was terribly biological, and the end result being that wild animal attack appeared also unlikely.
What a quandry. At that point I suppose someone must have dropped off a calling card, as my stalwart protector, Lancelot, woofed at being disturbed next door in my trailer.
Mary began sobbing hysterically, Amy looked at the floor, and Jack looked away (but then again he practically had his way with me the night before, so I suppose he was a bit embarrassed.)
After much hemming and hawing, entirely much too much of this, Jack blurted out that they had reason to suspect that Lancelot, who wouldn't hurt a fly unless it was well deserved, had something to do with the disappearance of that creature that never should have walked the earth in the first place.
I was a bit put out.
Amy said that they had carried out an extensive investigation, and that bits of blood from that things had been found in my furry sweetnesses crate. I of course questioned how they could even tell whose blood it was, as Lancelot is always chewing on things he shouldn't and frequently abrades the inside of his mouth.
Mary squealed something about DNA tests. Pish posh, they are so unreliable. And besides, Mary is known to hate shepherds, well the canine kind anyway -- some trauma from her childhood that she has never tried of overcome.
The saga continues, and I have little time for anything else as the evidence gatherers and curiousity seekers have already begun to hound me. I ended up hiring protection, a Mr. Abattoir: quite a dear and very handy to have around. I do so hope he works out.
The only distraction I have had over the past three weeks is loads of mail, from the calling cards, to Sage -- she is taking French in school and I do hope the curriculm covers Balzac and Josephine Baker, to the ever constant Joe Palermo who has written consistently over my dry period, seven letters that I must let you see immediately. Then, much like a tetanus shot, Zach has sent me one or two odd messages; if I could only find that secret decoder ring he sent me last time...? Lastly, the delicious Mr. J. writes of some tired war-horse or another.
Stay with me my carob beans as I clutch you to my somewhat under-endowed but sincere bosom.
I am in need in this bleak period,