Augusten’s Blog

If I had a cave, I would bring in somebody to give me wireless internet access and I would have a firepit carved into a wall, with a chimney. A HUGE fireplace that could hold a fire the size of a blue Toyota Camry Hybrid. I would have cat-animal fur rugs (leopard, cougar, lion, pet cat) everywhere and a huge, heavy old gilt Rococo desk. I would have iron torches sticking out of the cave walls at a 45-degree angle and a chair made of ancient human bones and velvet. I would also have a waterbed if I lived in a cave. Secretly, I have always wanted a waterbed. I would have one now, if I could. And not some tasteful waterbed disguised as an ordinary Sealy, either. But some big-ass Oak thing with built-in night stands and a bookcase headboard. This, too, would have a cat-animal fur on it, shaped into a plush blanket. Oh, I would just love living in a cave. I don’t need windows. I only like old, wavy-glass windows, the pitted, seeded kind, anyway. If a window is new? I won’t look out it. So I wouldn’t need a single window in my cave. But I would like security cameras so I could survey the area above, to make sure nobody was walking on top of my cave. If somebody did walk on top of my cave, I would like to have a way to shock them. I remember seeing something on TV about a couple who bought a missile silo in Kansas. I think that’s where. Anyway, it was just a glorious home, absolutely huge with useful pits and far more open space that you could ever figure out a way to use. You could have played tackle football in their hallway and still had room left over for a bus load of cheerleaders and maybe even the bus. But it had homey touches, like a breakfast nook, Kenmore appliances and beige carpeting. I felt such envy. This was before I met Dennis but I told him about it. But he has made his position on cave-living perfectly clear: Push another button, Monkey, because that one won’t give you your M&M. There is no way he would ever live in a cave or even a more refined missile silo, so that’s pretty much the end of that. I don’t know what made me think about this all of a sudden. I saw a fat man in a blue shirt standing on a boat and this, for some reason, made me think of caves. Ok, now Bentxley is luicking my hands as i type,m so it’s tine to stop.

I just learned this on The Science Channel. Now, the troubling thing is that they don’t explain this statement. Which women? Modern, educated women who drive BMW’s and Acuras? Or primitive, Al Qaeda, squat-in-the-bushes-and-have-the-baby women?

Before this, I learned that in 18something, a boat tipped over in the River Thames. Now, years before, the river was FILLED with raw sewage. Because that’s where all the British poo went. Even the queen’s poo went into the River Thames. But THEN they invented a chemical treatment plant and cholera ended. So did the stink. But the problem was, they still dumped the now treated sewage into the Thames. And even though this boat tipped over “just yards from the shore” and “most of the passengers could swim, nearly everybody died.” They died because the chemicals used to treat the poo and kill the poo bugs were lethal, even after being mixed WITH A RIVER’S WORTH OF WATER. isn’t that amazing? My question is, what WERE those chemicals? And can they regrow hair?

Everybody should be watching The Science Channel. This particular show, ?Understanding,? is the best. Oddly, it’s narrated by Jane Curtin.

Speaking of poo. Earlier, Bentley was panting, running up the stairs, down the stairs, into the bedroom (where I was working) out of the bedroom. He was really carrying on. And I thought he was activated from playing with his new balloon poodle. He was like Whitney, suddenly let out of the bathroom. But then he came over to me and made a very distinctive noise. It’s a “cluck, cluck, cluck” sound (I don’t mean he makes a chicken sound. I mean, say the word ?cluck? with a small mouth and that’s what it sounds like). And he ONLY makes sound when he wants to go outside. But this was three hours before his normal afternoon walk. He NEVER needs an extra walk. But sure enough, he comes over and says, CLUCK, CLUCK. And I said, Youwannagoforawalkin? And he smiled with relief and then bolted down the stairs. Now, I knew I better fucking haul ass. So I slipped into my LL Bean clogs (my shit shoes, I call them), snapped on his leash and yanked open the side door. Then I ran down the stairs along the side of the house. He was pulling me with all his force and I imagined tripping and smashing my teeth into the stone steps. But that didn’t happen. He ran across the entire lawn in like one second and then into the woods. He made his little circle and you know the rest. But it was messy, icky, wet poo so he has an upset stomach. His stomach is incredibly sensitive. But I can’t think of anything unusual he’s had to eat lately.

If he hadn’t made the specific ?cluck, cluck? I would have just chalked up his crazy behavior to new toy excitement. But those two words, they MEAN something, only one thing. If I’d ignored him, Bentley would have gone into the guest bedroom at the very furthest end of the house and made a poo on the antique rug next to the bed. Which has been professionally cleaned by antique rug cleaning specialists no less than four times.

Anyway, the great thing about this story is that we basically had a conversation. He said, “cluck, cluck” and I knew what he was saying, ?I need to use the restroom right this moment. It’s really an emergency.? Maybe we can get on The Science Channel.