I should've listened to the dog

I once dated this woman-a beautiful woman who turned out to be bat shit crazy and mentally abusive, and I fell prey to it. I can now say that I successfully was a victim of abuse. It wasn't for very long, maybe 5 months. My dog hated her. I should've listened to the dog.

My dog loves people. She was the hostess at one of the bars that I tended. I once was at a crowded street fair with my dog when a guy I've never seen before in my life, walked past us and said, "Hi Molly," as he patted her on the head. Molly is loved, and loves, but Molly didn't love this gal. At first, her expression was one of suspicion then outright defiance. Her ultimate act was to knock a recently cooked turkey off the stove and onto the ground. This would be something that would cause Molly to cower in shame, but she wasn't the least bit sorry. She stared at me defiantly, "the bitch had it coming" was what her eyes read.

Like a dumb ass, I ignored this huge neon sign and found out for myself. An example for those wondering-she changed the top lock so that I can only come in (I lived there with her and paid rent) when she felt I was worthy. I found another home. I couldn't understand the drastic change in her personality. I wasn't perfect, but also didn't deserve to be treated so cruelly. I think, now, that she had to be mentally ill.

But what a gorgeous personality, at first. Funny and romantic, but seriously flawed and dark. No one else saw the darkness, but a quick look at her paintings would have tipped anyone off except for me who was lost in the fantasy-in the mind blowing sex. But our relationship was pure fire and eventually the flame would catch the drapes and incinerate the straw house that we'd built. It wasn't healthy, but putting out fire after fire never is.

I moved some stuff out and was still with her when I went to pick up more things, only to find that her ex had spent the night with her. Make no mistake, I didn't doormat all the way through. The final showdown was her thinking that she could be Attilla the Hun when I snapped and tapped into Evil Me. I couldn't help it. I'd had enough. I show up for the final stuff and there are roses all over the house from her ex turned current girlfriend then the Hun tried to intimidate me with getting in my face, enjoying my confusion when something crossed over inside me and I caught myself smiling at her, and softly daring her to lay a finger on me. At this, the Hun, backed up then upped the stakes and starting flinging my stuff out the door to which I began picking up rose filled vases and dropping them on the floor-a splendid, splashy crash soon followed. It made her stop. She ran away-upstairs to her neighbor who lay in a body cast after a failed attempt to kill herself by jumping out the window-poor thing is in agony and has this nut who was, no doubt manipulating her fragile mind with how evil I was. I cut the cords to two of her Hitachis-one was still plugged in and a loud, burst followed by a flash of fire. Oops. I wasn't trying to burn the place down. I unplugged the remains of the cord then left to prevent any further spark then left. She made out with my crock pot and a near full bottle of Talisker. I wasn't going back for it.

Word got out among her friends, particularly the dinosaur dykes (she named them that, not me-true friend that she is) that I was the bad guy. One dinosaur, Betty, who wore a leather jacket with Betty Boop on the back but she looked more like...well, not cute, accused me of getting my Mexican mafia friends (I knew a girl who was from Central America and one from South America who suddenly became part of my faction of La M (e-me-softe) ) racist bitch that Betty is, she then threatened me to leave the poor little psycho (my words, not hers) alone. Then another gal of the methy variety got tough with me and asked me to leave a bar that I was in the same night that Ugly Betty offended me. Good times. There's no point in trying to explain yourself to people who have the hots for the bad guy that you were in the middle of a hideously, messy break-up with, and it was she that was the bad guy-very mean and unmedicated.

I saw her several months later and felt myself jump. I was in my car. Why did she affect me that way? I can only imagine that it was that damned fire between us. I was thankful for my friends at the bar. Up to that point, I'd been fairly, sober. After that point, I was fairly drunk and reckless for a good year, maybe more. There were some fun times in that drunkenness. Who am I kidding? I had a blast.

Sometimes I wish I could run into her again just to see what would happen-to get some sort of recognition; something, anything to tell me that I didn't deserve that-even a grunt, a nod, a kind word. But it probably won't happen. I look at my dog after I write this last part, and she shakes her head. I know. I should've listened to her. The turkey on the floor was poetic though. Who knows what she did to Molly when I was at work. Whatever it was, Molly got her back.

I hope she's on medication today, probably not. She's probably smoking her American Spirits down to the nub, taking extra deep inhales of each drag, stuffing her stacks of cash into her boot in her closet, painting in her art room, sculpting, working the crazy into something that people can be in awe of, her black hair perfectly coiffed, Italian blood pulsing through her veins in passion, making fabulous meals, roaring fireplace in her cold San Francisco flat, warm heart, twisted mind, making jokes and keeping them laughing then locking her door at night and letting out the psychosis again and again. Night and day...Wow. I should've listened to the dog.