Tough call.

Man, what a week. It put me in mind of one of Percival Sweetwater's greatest gags. 

I have to tell you, it's been a rough time, and I'm not even discussing concerns about the country or the stupid state of New York. In addition to being quite stressful with work, I've also in withdrawal from the duloxetine that the doctor recommended for neuropathic pain almost three years ago. I never found it helpful with depression, but I certainly have found withdrawing from it to be helpful for depression -- four weeks in and it's depressing as hell. I know it's biting me harder than usual, because seasonal affective disorder doesn't usually set in for me until the dead of winter, and this year it's starting way early. 

Plus, I can't stop missing my dog Tralfaz. He was such a good boy, and the first dog that ever loved me, and you just can't let that go easily. But this is ridiculous -- my wife had The Polar Express on last weekend and it almost brought me to tears just passing through the room. 

I mean, A Charlie Brown Christmas, maybe, but The Polar Express? I'd sooner be caught weeping at Die Hard. 

And here's where I get to the Rodney Dangerfield joke above. Our veterinarian has an admirable service -- for three months after losing a pet, they'll pay for phone grief counseling. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I appreciated the thought when he gave me the card. But I didn't have more than a few bad days after we lost Nipper last year, so I didn't expect losing Fazzy to be tougher. It has been.

So after much contemplation, I dialed the number.

They hung up on me!

Seriously, there was a rattle on their end and the phone went dead. 

What the---?

Okay, so it's not like a got a counselor who was recommending suicide, but still. It took me days to get over my typically manly reserve (well, a little manly) and dial that number, and bang! Sorry, no time for you, Freddy Boy. I guess you could say the moment had passed, and I didn't try again.

Anyway, thanks to Rodney Dangerfield, I did get a good laugh from it. In related jokes, he told of the time he complained to his doctor (Dr. Vinnie Boombatz, of course) that he wanted to stop aging, so Vinnie gave him a gun. In his song "Rappin' Rodney" he sang (well, a little singingish) a version of the other joke: 

I can't take it no more! I'm getting too old!
I called suicide prevention--they put me on hold!

So if I can't fight off this mood or get help for it, maybe I can at least laugh through it. High five to Rodney, the Patron Schlemiel of Perpetual Woe.