The Other Secret Healthcare Plan

Hello again. It's been a while.

I apologize for my long absences and spotty communication. Fucking GOP. They owe me my humor-writing career. And a good night's sleep. And about seven refills of Xanax.

They can have the dozen or so pounds I've gained since Inauguration Day. As it turns out, protest marching isn't quite the calorie-burner I had hoped it would be. Particularly when I do most of my marching from my couch. On Facebook. With snacks.

Bringing down The Man one Wheat Thin at a time.

And I've had nothing to say. The right-wing clusterfuck in DC is all I can think about.

Until. Until.

Good news!

When a horrible asshole is questionably elected to be President of the United States, and the Republican party is filled with immoral, indecent, cowardly, cold-blooded asslickers, and far too many Americans are so stupid and mean that they don't know the difference between a Tweet and a fact, well, the good news is that we haven't yet died alone in our houses and have our pets eat our faces.

I'm not just reaching for anything here. I have an article. That I read on Facebook.

It's real.

An article in National Geographic magazine, called, "Would Your Dog Eat You If You Died?" caught my eye because, well, because death and eating. My two top issues in therapy. And in life.

So, get this: it is a proven fact that pets - mostly dogs and cats but, surprisingly, even hamsters and birds - have been known to EAT their owners. Hand to God. Read the article.

They do wait until we're dead to feast upon us. If that is any comfort to you at all.

This article has given me a lot to think about. First of all, upon reading it, I went right into the kitchen and gave my two Poodles an extra scoop of kibble. Each. And I left them instructions how to defrost the chicken from the freezer. And how to start the Traeger grill outside. That should buy me a day or two.

Also? I left them a blank check. Signed. They can order out for weeks before my account is drained. Hopefully, by then, some human, ideally, a vegan, will discover my dead body and keep me out of harm's way. So to speak.

This news has changed the way I look at Phila and Louie. 

And I could be projecting, but I think it's also changed the way they look at me. It's like the way I look at fresh bread. While you are still warm, I am going to tear into you and devour your innards. Then, after a brief nap, I will and barf and then eat your skin.

I never should have left my computer open. Or taught those damn dogs to read. Knowledge leads to freedom, my ass. I'm a captive here. I think I saw Louie marking days off of the calendar. And adding butter to my steamed broccoli. And they both totally encourage me to lay out in the sun now. They even lick the sunscreen off of me - that's how determined they are to have me die. 

"Here," they say to me, "have ice cream, scientists now say that fat is good for you. Look, I'll even open the freezer for you. Eat, eat."

"In fact," they continue, "you know what would be a hoot? Eat it OUTSIDE in the blazing sun! Here's a magazine, go relax. Oh wait, that's 'National Geographic', oops. Never mind. Take this one, instead - 'Food Network Favorite Desserts'. Go, go, enjoy the sun! Don't forget your ice cream!"

"Also," they call out to me as I settle myself onto the chaise lounge, "stop exercising. We like you...soft."

One theory the scientists have about this phenomenon  is that when our pets find us dead, they try to lick us back to life. And when licking doesn't revive us, they try a wee nibble, a bite, a nudge with their sharp canines. Wake up! 

But we don't wake up.

And - as we all well know from the potato chip commercial - one bite leads to another and before you know it, Phila and Louie have put the house on Zillow and are combing Craig's List for a suitable (fat) new buyer. When people come to see me, they tell them that I am in Europe researching my next novel.

And no one's the wiser. 

I'm just not sure how I feel about this.

On the one hand, it's an efficient way to do things. 

On the other hand, my cemetery plot is paid for. And I sure as fuck don't want Phila and Louie eating me and then cashing in on the resale of the plot. God, they are insufferably self-congratulatory already when they bark and it turns out someone is actually at the door. Imagine the hubris.

The article ends with helpful advice. It reads:

The best way for pet owners to reduce the odds is to make sure you have people who will stop by if they don’t hear from you.

Uh-oh.

I have spent most of my adult life trying to condition people to not call me or come over to visit. I make a point of saying that I do not answer my phone or my door, that I value solitude and I eschew drop in visitors. The only phone calls I've made in the past year have been to Senators and Congresspeople, and even then, I read from my prepared script. No chatting. No making sure I am alive.

Now what? Do I trade in solitude for not being eaten?

I've thought this through as I've been writing this post.

I am going to tell the staffers for GOP Congresspeople that if they don't hear from me for 24 hours, to assume I am dead and about to be eaten, and to alert the proper authorities. 

I'm fairly certain they'll agree to do this.

In fact, I bet they'll pitch it to their bosses as a health care plan.