If this is Wednesday it must be Nostrum

Meanwhile, on the Epistles of St. Jules to the Forensicians front, we have reached the 1998 holiday season. I feel that the sad adventures of the Nostrumutt, and the impending Yule festivities, warrant full coverage.

We almost didn’t make it this week. The Nostrumite is in a state of permanent depression over poor Unix the Cocker Nostrumutt, who did indeed go under the knife the Friday before Thanksgiving. The look of unalloyed trust in his big, brown eyes (Unix’s, not the Mite’s) as we handed him over to the vet, Dr. Benway, is one I will never forget. The look of l’ll-never-trust­ these-schmucks-again when we picked him up after the op is one that I will also never forget. The poor pup has since spent most of his time licking at his private parts, or what is left of them, but truth to tell, he spent most of his time before the op doing that very same thing. He is a dog, after all. The Falutins continue to maintain that all this fuss is unnecessary, especially compared to the procedure involved in neutering a female dog (known in the trade, by the way, as a bitch, but this is a family site, so we won’t go there). “The anatomy of the male makes these things eminently convenient,” High says, narrowing her eyes at the Nostrumite. Truer words having never been spoken, the Mite simply skulks off into the night with himself at one end of the leash and Unix at the other, spending hours walking the foggy streets of Cambridge, seeking solace in the brotherhood of the impotent. At least I think that’s what he’s doing. He might just be going to pub on the corner for the odd brewski and tying Unix to the stool and feeding the pup beer nuts. With the Nostrumite, you never know.

This followed the next week.

We almost didn’t make it this week. The Nostrumite is in a state of permanent depression over Low’s attempt to decorate the old dump for the season with, well, everything that isn’t nailed. Pine branches and cones, Teletubbies Advent calendars, mistletoe, flashing lights—She even tried to get the Nostrumutt to wear an elf hat, but at that point the Mite drew the line and told her that she and her sister have their own place, and if she must turn something into Nightmare on Mall Street, she should do it on her own turf. Looking hurt as only a Falutin twin can, Low allowed a tiny tear to collect in the corner of one eye, not knowing the Mite well enough to realize that he too can bawl at will, and for a couple of minutes the two of them cried at each other like 12-year-olds at their 400th Titanic screening. When they realized that wasn’t getting them anywhere, they dried up and removed themselves to their respective corners. High and I took no part in this display of bogus emotion; we get enough bogus emotion dealing with Low and the Mite in the normal course of events, without having it spill over into holiday-specific business. And meanwhile the Nostrumutt, hatless, continues to look misbegotten; he still hasn’t fully recovered his appetite, and he doesn’t even like watching original Star Trek episodes anymore.

None of this bodes well for holiday season.