Weredog Tart (2)

   
   "Weredog Tart (2)"
   
   Siria hated the armchair quarterback.  Like when her Mom was departing, off to the Otherworld, and the pseudo-physicians misdiagnosed; next, caretakers shocking with sloth-like maintenance, though they had a mouth, and could hornswoggle--that's what quasi-intellectuals do.
   But Siria had extravagant empathy for Dad now--him finally, knowing.
   The whispers, the behind the back, and yet Siria was never really pissed, for it was too disastrous to see her mother sitting in piss and shit without intervening and doing what was axiomatically right, like research.  Her own doctors, not the bullshit of clinical psychology, for she had Catholicism, which mirrors the Truth--the love and mercy; plus, getting mobility and wasting yourself for the love of others.  Feeding, wiping, medicating, carrying, watching bowel evacuation up close, more than any medical student, and still be strong.
   It was Friday night.  The Moon was lovely and full over Pittsburgh.  Siria sat in the suburbs, cranked open a beer some dude bought her--an attractive girl can get anything.
   She felt the summer wind howl and an entity approach, intangible yet so real, as is the mystery of God, but this one was armed with fur, fangs, and fright.