It is true,
my friends. I live in a zoo, a well-stocked zoo. We have a wide variety
of God's creatures right here--all under one roof. Our main attraction
is Doll Collectorus Financial Ruinus (Peggy, my wife). She is active and
animated, sometimes escaping from captivity to launch attacks on local
malls, leaving a trail of rubber checks and empty doll racks throughout
Then we have me, Computus Arthriticus, who spends his days alternating between large doses of drivel broadcast over our nation's satellite systems and terrorizing computer bulletin boards. He is determined to be totally rebuilt with manmade parts before the old ones poop out completely and prides himself in being able to further the education and experience of the medical community of Arizona. He is seldom allowed to commune with the local populace, as he is known to be unpredictable and even embarrassing to the rest of the collection.
There is Kimberly Musica, a 19 year old that attends college courses-while working to pay for violin and piano instruction. She can be seen only in the late night hours and seldom responds to outside stimuli, though a prospective mate may cause increased animation and activity, should one appear on the horizon.
Then there is 16 year old, Christy Complainalotus, who views the zoo as a temporary evil that will someday disappear with its overbearing and demanding older residents. She is a babysitter extrordinaire and supplements her "zoo" life with regular service calls at the nearby Taco Bell.
The prime attraction is a rare treat, requiring much care and attention. She is Whistler Blanklookus, a specimen of advanced years that has been abandoned by her friends, her personality, and her mind. All of her offspring, save one, have chosen to ignore her, but in my zoo, she is queen.
She is bathed and dressed by loving attendants. Her nails and hair are kept neat and well-trimmed, lest she use one to eliminate the other with constant pulling and twisting. She chooses to ignore the simple and direct requests of the "lesser" beings that surround her, electing to communicate only with the mirrored reflection of her former self, who seems to understand and agree with all she says in that strange language that we mere mortals are not privy to.
She adorns herself with multiple layers of fabric, sometimes being so bold as to defy the fashion world by placing blouses where pants are normally worn and forcing herself to model a wide variety of outfits simultaneously, a skill that the normal person cannot even comprehend, let alone master to such a degree of expertise.
She parades throughout her domicile each night, whistling to allay the fears of the hundreds of dolls that stare enviously at her from every nook and cranny. Her only downfall is the worry she shows at the shimmering and familiar face in the fish tank that stares back at her from the depths, unable to escape until she retires from the area.
There are other attractions of a lesser variety--two Pomeranians; one female, old, deaf, and crippled by time, with a penchant for leaving "surprises" for the unwary barefoot visitor to her domain. Then there is the male, normally docile, but severely agitated when Doll Collectorus is not in visual range.
There is a Russian Blue cat, who views the entire zoo collection with tolerance and a certain degree of disdain. And hidden in the "cage" of Christy Complainalotus, two gerbils and two rats, one of which rides the shoulder of Christy as she frequents malls and school rooms. It is a zoo--and we love it.
was also written in late 1993.
-- Steven Stoker (c)