A supposedly good book that I do not especially like is My Dog Tulip, J.R. Ackerley’s well-regarded 1956 memoir about his beloved German shepherd. If you ask me, way too many pages have to do with trying to get the dog laid.
I did, however, find this part moving:
… what strained and anxious lives dogs must lead, so emotionally involved in the world of men, whose affections they strive endlessly to secure, whose authority they are expected unquestioningly to obey, and whose mind they never can do more than imperfectly reach and comprehend. Stupidly loved, stupidly hated, acquired without thought, reared and ruled without understanding, passed on or “put to sleep” without care, did they, I wondered, these descendants of the creatures who, thousands of years ago in the primeval forests, laid siege to the heart of man, took him under their protection, tried to tame him, and failed—did they suffer from headaches?
Ultimately, you see, something remains unknowable about the ones we love (especially if they belong to a different species). And something essential about ourselves will likewise remain unexpressed, even to our intimates. “I have that within which passes show,” as Hamlet says. Or: “I’ve got moves you’ve never seen,” as Julia Roberts says in My Best Friend’s Wedding.
At least my own loved ones will never have to wonder, as Ackerley muses of Tulip, whether I have a headache—or, for that matter, any other kind of pain. I am not the suffer-in-silence type. I’m not even the experience-mild-discomfort-in-silence type.
It’s possible this is a family trait. I seem to recall one of my sister’s friends alleging that my relatives habitually complain of something this acquaintance dubbed “the Thompson headache.”
I suppose my dad, my Aunt Teresa, and a couple of my three siblings speak of throbbing noggins more than the norm. And my paternal grandmother was known to announce, “I’ve took the headache” (pronouncing “took” more like “tuck”) and ask for a Tylenol (pronounced “Tynol-whatchacallit”).
But I don’t think it’s fair to lump me in with the Thompson-headache crowd. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t tell you the last time I had a headache. I am far more likely to fret aloud about things going wrong with my teeth or testicles, thank you very much.
If I had to guess, I’d say my most recent headache probably accompanied a hangover. I gave up alcohol back in October, but before that I was hangover-prone, especially after drinking wine.
My primary symptoms were headache, self-loathing, and nausea, though I can’t be sure the latter was a direct result of consuming booze, since my notoriously sensitive stomach has me in a state of low-grade digestive distress at all times. On the bright side, I credit this affliction—or, at any rate, my anxiety about this affliction—with preventing me from getting blackout, rip-roarin’, out-of-control drunk, save for on only a handful of occasions. Most of the time I was too worried about throwing up.
Mind you, I’d drink enough to say stupid stuff—just not enough to forget what I’d said. That’s where the next day’s self-loathing would come in.
As for the headache, I’d treat that with ibuprofen, another word I am confident my grandma wouldn’t be able to say properly.
Indirect Objects 