"Fix Him."
That's what MyEx said whenever something was wrong with the pets. She'd flash her "damsel n' sick pets" pout, complete with teary eyes and protruding lower quiver lip; arms outstretched, she'd display said broken pet, exposing said broken part.
"Fix him."
"Yes ma'am."
That's how she did it. When "my" cat started spraying in the dining room corner that was different. That was a different look, attached to the same request. That was a Third Reich salute dangling cat by scruff displaying well operating parts that needed altered.
"Fix him."
"ja, meine fau!"
Still, my reply was always the same. I was the rock. I'd look over the pet, nod agreement, then pack MyEx and my pet into the car for a veterinary excursion. Something was broken, something needed fixed. Some money was borrowed, and some vet bought something new. This was my job. I was your man. More than that: I was Helperman! Superhero for all who needed…well…help.
That's why when my mild mannered alter ego walked outside to see my dog with a stuffed gopher where his ear should be, I freaked. It used to be MyEx's job to freak, now she wasn't there. I ran inside to let her know she failed.
Ring-ring!
"Hello?"
"You failed! You were supposed to freak out!"
Slam!
I needed somebody to freak out so that I knew he needed fixing. Somebody to pout or panic so I could rock. Somebody to point out the rights which had been wronged so I could phone-booth into Helperman. There was nobody. The whole mission fell on me.
AAAAAHHHH!
I was surprised at how easily I slipped into the panic role. No wonder MyEx was so good at this. It's natural. It's ok. I can do this. I can freak out. Now to proceed.
Step 2: I looked over and said, "Fix him."
There was nobody there.
AAAAAHHHH!
Now I'm really freaking out. So is my dog.
See, this is how it works. When I was a kid, I used to put my coat on backwards. Why? It's what superheroes did. Then I'd run across the street. Why? That's what 6 year-olds did. What other reason do you need? Come on! Keep up, we're hurtling into oblivion and beyond! One time, halfway across the street, I tripped over my trademarked superhero untied shoe laces.
Because my coat was on backwards, I couldn't move my hands fast enough to catch my body. That job fell to my forehead; it did it's job well. It also hurt a bit, but I was ok. I was the backwards coat superhero Helperman. I wasn't helpless. I was tough enough to fall. I was tough enough to--
"Oh my Gawsh! You're bleeding!"
That was my sidekick right-way-jacket weenie-boy who was crossing the street with me. His perfectly tied rabbit ear shoe laces dangled before my eyes. I put my hand to my head and drew back pooled blood.
AAAAAHHHH! I freaked out.
So did my dog.
AAAAAHHHH!
"Oh my gawsh! Your ear's a freakin' gopher!"
AAAAAHHHH! "You're freaking out at me? Why? What gopher?" paw up to head, "AAAAAHHHH!" He leaps at me. "Fix me."
AAAAAHHHH!
AAAAAHHHH!
Yeah, great now there are there are two of us freaking out in the back yard and there's nobody to fix either of us.
"Let me see your ear!"
"No way dude! You're freaking out! You'll rip it off!"
"No I won't! Doggy-man, lend me your ear!"
"No way! Scratch my butt! It'll calm us both down."
How was I the rock before? How could I be so calm? We all role-play in relationships. MyEx played the panicked part. My job was to be calm.
It was my identity. It was my role. In the bed room I could play Robby-wan the light saber, to her Judge Judy the whip, but for the broken, she was Damselgirl, I was Helperman.
Now I'm alone. Now I'm everybody. I'm Judge, Judy, and pet-fixer.
And that's the bottom line: I'm a pet parent. I'm not allowed to show fear. It's too late. I already have. Cosmo's my baby boy, my super-sidekick, he's been wounded in battle. Would Batman freak if Robin had Batgirl attached to the side of his head?
No. He'd give Robin "the little batman" talk and toss him some bat-antibiotic ointment from the bat-belt.
I needed to do the same. I drew a breath, and pretended I was strong. "C'mon little guy, let's get you fixed up."
Pressing my multi-phased panicked personality roles into one fiberboard of stoicism, I scratched my puppy's butt, loaded him into the car, and drove him to the vet.
"Fix him."
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