True Selves

Not being built on a grand passion, my first divorce was amicable and quite civil.  There simply wasn't enough emotion left in either of us to produce acrimony or bitterness.

My second made up for it in spades - it was ugly with accusations and abuse, the kind of hatred only a finely tuned passion can render - an experience that leaves the worst kind of scars.

So I know a little about breakups - enough not to take sides or get involved - and this latest, spread over the pages of the social networking site like jam on warm toast, is ugly, bitter, frightening.  In less than a year, two picture perfect people violently in love have become vicious enemies and those who care about them are caught up in a nightmare of pain, lies and betrayal.  The malice is wrenching and heartbreaking, splitting a family to pieces and spreading like a virus.  Ex-wives have been dragged in to the battle, along with charges of theft and fraud and infidelity and stalking.  It would seem nothing is off limits or too private to make public and whatever the truth may be, it isn't likely to do anyone involved any good anymore.  It's become a win at any cost, take no prisoners kind of campaign with if you're not with me, you're against me challenges being issued from both sides.  I watch friends lining up on either side and think that there will be no winners or losers here, just two people determined to inflict as much damage on each other as they possibly can.  The wreckage will be widespread.

Discovering people we care about are not what they appear to be or who we want them to be can be decidedly provoking.  We conceal our true selves for a variety of reasons, I suppose, vanity or pride or self delusion or fear.  In some cases, we hide out of habit or shame or even the risk of being found out.  I try to believe that most of us - politicians and Wall Street excepted - slip into these disguises for superficial reasons and cause relatively little harm but now and again, someone with a a truly dark agenda slithers in among us.  And wonder of wonders, a great many of us reach passionately for attachments with them and willingly keep their secrets. It says as much about us as it does about them, maybe more.

How or when this particular split will end can't be known.  Whether there will be change or healing can't be known.  But of this I am sure - there are already victims and there will be more - if there's one thing our true selves are exquisitely good at, it's keeping secrets.  And if there's another, it's self-defense.

The heart that can longer love passionately, must with fury hate ~ Jean Baptiste Racine

How dark.

How tragic.

How true.

Death by Misadventure

The summer after my great-grandmother was laid to rest in the small cemetery by the church - the summer I got my first lesson in death and dying - my daddy was still trying to help me make sense of it.  We were sitting on the side porch, warmed by the sun and still a little sleepy-eyed, when Uncle Shad's ancient pickup truck turned at the top of the driveway and began a rapid descent.

Too fast for good news, my daddy muttered and got to his feet with a frown, Stay put, I'll be right back.

Shad pulled up behind the old Lincoln in a cloud of dust, spraying gravel and screeching brakes.  He emerged from the truck pale-faced and clearly shaken, went directly to my daddy and my grandmother who had come out the back door in a rush of dogs.  I remember the sky was very blue that morning with masses of low hanging, marshmallow clouds.  The sun was blazing over a peaceful blue-green ocean, the wildflowers were waving in the breeze, and Bill Albright's oldest boy had just been found face down in what would've been his newly plowed vegetable garden.  

Laid out in a furrow, stone cold dead, Uncle Shad said grimly, didn't hardly have much skull left and ol' Pride jist standin' over him with his reins and bridle all covered up in blood.

Killed by his own horse? my daddy asked doubtfully but my grandmother didn't seem surprised.

Mal Albright was mean as a snake, she said shortly, beat that horse three ways from Sunday and weren't no kinder to his own kin. Sorry excuse for a man and if the horse done it, he got no better'n he deserved.

If the horse done it? my daddy asked innocently enough but Nana and Shad just exchanged a glance and pretended they hadn't heard.

Coffee's on, Shad, my grandmother said, Come get you a cup.

A man's dead here, Alice, my daddy protested and Nana turned on him slowly.

A mean drunk and a wife beater is dead, Guy, she said calmly, Killed by an animal he whipped and tormented and abused. Ain't nobody gon' be sorry he's gone.

More power to the horse, Uncle Shad agreed, Ain't gon' be no more black eyes on that woman or little ones with broke arms.

The Mounties 'll sort it out, Guy, Nana said mildly, Nothin' for us to worry over.

I didn't think my daddy was convinced but he hadn't known Bill Abright's oldest boy, Malachi, a bitter, angry, and vicious tempered failure of a man who used his fists to make his point.  I remembered seeing his common law wife and children around the village - always huddled in a pack and silent - sometimes with visible bruises or broken bones.  They traveled together, as if there were safety in numbers, avoiding the curious looks and unasked questions, always returning to the miserable, falling down farmhouse up island where, if anyone was to venture onto his property, Mal was likely to shoot first and ask questions later.  

Boy ain't right in the head, Bill Albright had pronounced years before and washed his hands of him, He's more'n three quarters crazy and all the way mean.  Be a waste of a bullet to shoot 'im and that's a fact.

Despite the rampant but quiet speculation that the death might not've been entirely accidental, the Mounties found no evidence of what Miss Hilda called "foul play".  Ol' Pride might've been encouraged, they admitted, but there was no way to prove it - they labeled it death by misadventure, the coroner's inquest seconded the finding - sent in their paperwork and returned to the mainland.  Grumbling but relieved islanders chipped in for a second hand suit and Mal Albright was put into the ground on a windy and stormy August day with no one by the graveside save for the preacher.  There had been no service and no farewell - it was all James could manage to get some of the younger boys to carry the coffin and dig the hole - and Miss Clara refused to tend the grave so that by October it was overgrown and forgotten.   Mal's common law wife packed her things and her children and vanished, some said to the States, some said no, just as far as the South Shore but no one knew for sure. And ol' Pride, aquitted on the grounds of self defense, went to live with Clara and her painted pony, spending the remainder of his days in a peaceful stable with an ocean view.

None of it helped me understand death and dying any better but I was comforted that Ol' Pride - I came to think of him as the only real innocent in this sad, little drama - had come to a good end.

Ninja Kitten

She comes skittering across the kitchen floor like the energizer bunny on speed, chasing some invisible plaything - a stray thought, perhaps - and by the time she sees the tuxedo cat in the doorway, forward momentum has taken control and stopping is out of the question.  The collision is inevitable and painfully vocal, the tuxedo cat delivers two well aimed (but harmless) thwacks! and then runs.  The kitten looks surprised but isn't deterred - she simply changes course and begins a sideways, arched back stalk of the small brown dog who instantly turns tail and runs - and then the little dachshund steps in with her nose-to-tail-over-caffeinated small body  enthusiastically wiggling in several directions all at once.  She snatches the kitten, falls on her, and much to the kitten's dismay, commences a full scale, full body bath/massage.  The kitten is not pleased with this but at 2 pounds, four and a half ounces, has little recourse.  She squeaks and struggles (this only intensifies the little dachshund's efforts) and finally, for my own peace of mind, I intervene with the promise of breakfast and separate them.  This is what it's like to live in a Roadrunner cartoon, I think to myself.

Later that day it's time for her first vet visit.  I keep expecting her to protest the carrier or the car ride but instead she sits calmly and is quiet as a mouse, not a single, solitary sound all the way there or back.  She doesn't cry or cringe or scratch to get out and once in the exam room, despite the noise of humans and dogs and other kittens, she curls up on my shoulder and almost serenely watches things unfold.  The vet checks her eyes, her ears, her heart, gives her an injection and a syringe of wormer medication and takes a fecal sample (this brings one mew, very plaintive and surprisingly loud) but otherwise it's smooth as silk and I slip her back into the carrier easily.  She sits with her six toed paws crossed, alert and interested but still and quite untroubled by the whole affair all the way home.  I am dazed by this new found placid-ness and can't remember even once taking a cat or kitten to the vet without arriving done in by a constant stream of feline chatter and protest.  I look closely to make sure she's not simply terrified, so frozen with fear that she's paralyzed - but all I see is a confident and quiet kitten, bright eyed and completely at ease with her surroundings.  Who are you and what have you done with Suki, I want to ask.

Once back on familiar territory, we navigate through the supper hour - a frantic and deafening few minutes - and then, one by one, settle in for the night.   The dogs trail me from room to room while the grown cats all find various places to curl up and sleep and the kitten prowls for whatever trouble she can find.  Eventually, even she finds a small, safe place and takes her rest but the night is young and I fear mischief will raise its perky head long before morning.

Given time, the little ninja kitten will be an elegant, regal, possibly even dignified cat.  She will find and take her place in our little circus and this I can already tell - she will not be timid or hesitant or uncertain about it.
Despite the frayed nerves and seriously tried patience that her kittenhood is causing me, I will miss it, I think to myself.  Then there is a thud, a crash, a grown up cat wail followed by a decidedly unhappy hiss and I hear the sound of little feet in flight.

I just won't miss it tonight.














 

Wake Me in November

Where have you been, my musician friend Jeff wants to know as he gives me a hug, Haven't seen you or your camera in a dog's age!

I smile and mumble something about having a lot on my plate the past few weeks but I don't give out details.

Although I love him dearly, he isn't the kind who really wants to know and he'd stop listening after the first few words anyway.  

I'm here now, I tell him brightly, So grab that guitar and show me what you've got!

Of course, it's more than his natural narcissism that keeps me quiet.  I have taken a step back these past few weeks and I'm not entirely sure why.  Certainly part of it is trying to make lifestyle changes to please the wretched cardiologist.  Part of it is the chaos of having a new kitten.  Part of it is being so dismally angry about the government - or lack of it - part of it is the weight of work.  But mostly, I've lost my motivation and haven't the inclination or the energy to leave home.  I wonder, although only vaguely, if it's depression setting in - it is, after all, October, my least favorite month and the one where I'm most susceptible to negative feelings and thoughts.  I can't explain it except to say the mornings are dark and the light is sad.  The good news, if the past is to be believed, is that it will pass in another couple of weeks.  But for now, all I want is to sleep 'til it's done with.

Nevertheless, I have obligations.  It takes considerable effort but I shower and change and make my way to the studio for this month's folk series concert.  Sunday nights don't usually draw substantial audiences and this night is no exception but those who are there are appreciative and happy to come in out of the cold.  The music is introspective and a little dark at times - long, drawn out blues with emphasis on the minor chords - but then followed up with rambling, silly songs about high school football that make the crowd laugh outloud.
Despite my mood, the lyrics make me smile and though my heart isn't as much in it as I would like, I'm satisfied with my photographs and glad I was there.

So for now, I muddle on, putting one foot in front of the other, trying to find a happy face and not give in to the urge to hide.  It's just October and everything's a worry.

Wake me in November.

Dark Water Lake

Autumn comes early to Dark Water Lake. 

Fire-colored leaves cover the ground and crunch underfoot and you can see the sky through the trees.  Some make it to the water, floating lazily on the surface with no destination or direction.  They drift singly or in bunches, catching random streaks of sunlight and flickering brightly for a moment or two.  Some will snag on the shore, others will reach the dam, all will molder and die.  Replacements will be born come spring when the weather turns warm again but for now the woods are going into hiding, full of shadows and dark corners.  Even the dogs stay close, unwilling to explore at their usual pace, unusually tentative and cautious.  Dark Water Lake in October is beautiful, placid, yet somehow vaguely treacherous, almost two-faced.  We walk quickly and a little anxiously among the moss and mushrooms - some finely tuned sense tells me it's best not to linger - and I can't help but think that the dogs feel it as well.  Some old Shakespeare line dances around the edges of my mind, something about smile and be a villain.  I think the lake may know it too.   

There is great beauty here but somehow it seems lightly veiled in menace.  Dark Water has taken its share of innocents over the decades - careless fishermen, unattended children, some who just swam too far out - it's said that if you were to get to the bottom, you'd find the missing boats and the bodies, now just parts of the lake's underwater landscape.  But it's also said that the lake goes on forever, that the depth is so deep into the earth that it's unreachable.  Such tales are easily forgotten or set aside during the high summers when the water is littered with sailboats and families gather on the shores for picnics and swimming.  But come October when the air turns colder and the branches begin to bare, they don't seem quite so far-fetched.  There are lake gods, the old people say, who snatch victims as easily as a spider snares a fly, snatch them and drag them under the calm, dark water.  Of course it's all myth, invented by anxious parents and bored, old porch sitters with nothing better to do than pass time and spin yarns...unless of course, it isn't.  Unless there really are restless ghosts and angry spirits who guard the lake and don't much care for those who trespass. 

What you see ain't always what you get, Sparrow reminds us, Don't be deceived by surfaces.  You never really know what goes on underneath, not in a person and not in a lake.

Ain't you the philosopher, Uncle Willie remarks caustically, a regular Will Rogers. Mebbe you oughta be writin' a book.

Sparrow takes no offense.  Reckon I know what I know, old man, he says mildly, And it don't take no books.

I suppose that was when I realized that Dark Water Lake was deadly and not at all the London river in Charles Kingsley's novel "The Waterbabies" where Tom, the cruel, little chimney sweep had fallen in and drowned, only to be reborn as a waterbaby and live for quite a long while in the magical but sometimes harsh underwater world.  In the end, he made amends, was redeemed, and came back to being a landbaby.  Listening to Uncle Willie and Sparrow, I came to understand that Dark Water wasn't like that - if you drowned, you died - there was no undersea kingdom, no redemption, no chance to put things right.

Illusions.  Some we hand over with sadness, resignation, and a touch of grace.  Some we trip on, just in time to save ourselves from falling into the dark lake of expectation and false promises.  Some are roughly jerked out of our hands by old men sitting on porches.  We learn the best lessons by making mistakes and Sparrow was right, it don't take no books.  None of it kept me from walking in the woods with the dogs or watching the leaves drift downstream to die, but I did look at Dark Water Lake a little differently from then on.  And with time, I came to see people, including myself, as having surfaces and depths and mysterious things going on in both.

Gone to Greed

Honoring my promise to the cardiologist is proving painful.

It's been almost exactly a month since I've exchanged chocolate in its many forms for Lean Cuisine - the poor man's Weight Watchers minus the meetings and weigh ins, I tell myself and besides you don't need an oven -
and I've added a sensible lunch as well, but it's the 30 minutes of walking each day that I suspect is going to put me in my grave.  I don't mind the heat so much but my poor old legs are protesting like aged, rusting hippies.  

I get home and tend the animals then immediately change clothes and head out while it's still light and before I can change my mind.  It takes about two blocks for my calves to begin to burn with that achy tiredness, two more before I have to stop for the first 60 second rest.  By the halfway mark, these old, unused muscles are screaming for mercy and I'm thinking that cardiologists should be taken out and hung.  I tell myself that it's just a matter of time before my legs remember their original purpose - in a few days I'm sure they'll remember how to accommodate me - but in the meantime, there's only a blitz attack of pain.  I arrive home staggering,
drenched in sweat and barely able to stay upright, reward myself with a quarter of a sugar cookie washed down with ice water and collapse.  I have hardly enough strength left to curse the medical profession.  As I shove a Lean Cuisine into the microwave, I remind myself that not all that many years ago I was walking 3 miles a day.
Surely, I think with a strong sense of desperation, I can learn to do it again.

Besides, a small voice in my head, the one I can usually do without, whispers, You promised.

It was extortion, the voice that usually gets me in trouble whispers back, Your heart is fine and you know it.

But you promised, the first one insists.

Oh, shut up, both of you, I say outloud.

I don't give promises lightly.  But I very often regret them.

A week or so later I stop by the local pharmacy to pick up a prescription for cholesterol medication.  The unsuspecting clerk hands me the little paper bag and an instruction sheet.

"$274.39" she says brightly.

My hand freezes in mid-credit card swipe.  Certain I had misheard her, I look down at the electronic card machine.  It confirms the amount.

"Holy Shit!" the woman behind me, a complete stranger, exclaims, "Dey be made of gold?"

"I don't know," I manage to say, "And I'm not gonna find out."  I mutter an apology to the cashier for wasting her time, replace my credit card in my wallet and walk out.  The following day, the cardiologist provides me with a month's worth of samples - as he will on a regular basis - and while I'm grateful for my problem being solved, I can't help but think that the pharmaceutical companies have as little conscience as the politicians or Wall Street.  The whole country has gone to greed.

Queen of the May

It's hot and my calves are on fire and I'm only halfway through my evening walk when I stumble across her playing in a drainage ditch in the park where I walk, a tiny and bedraggled ball of fluff who immediately climbs out when I see her and gives me a welcome squeak.  She's charcoal colored with bright blue eyes and a heart shaped face.

Oh, no, I tell her at once, Don't even think about it.

She looks up at me and squeaks again - a truly pitiful little sound - and I shake my head.  Out of the question, I say firmly as she winds her way around my ankles, a familiar (but endearingly effective) ploy that kittens have perfected through the ages.  You don't understand, I say as I reach down and pick her up for a closer look, It would be impossible and I just can't......surely you live around here somewhere.....oh, don't do that....as she snuggles into the space between my shoulder and neck and begins to purr up a storm.  And just like that, it's all over.

She can't be more than 5 or 6 weeks old and she rides easily, holding onto the fabric of my tee shirt and nuzzling quite happily.  We get to the front door and I can already hear the dogs.

Take a deep breath, I tell her, This may not be pretty.

The door swings open to an avalanche of animals and she digs in, arches her little back and gives a ferocious hiss - there is one stunning moment of shocked silence - then the world turns to clamor and chaos and my quiet "oh, shit" is drowned out in the cacophony.

First things first - a bath in the kitchen sink - followed by towel drying and a few passes with the hair dryer, she's so small that it doesn't take much, then a bowl of water and a dish of food.  While she eats, each bite punctuated by a small squeak, I round up the family for a heart-to-heart.

You, I tell Smudge, far and away the most vocally resistant to this unexpected new arrival, You were living in a tree at the Duck Pond and eating off the ground.  I could've left you there but you needed a home.  And you, Murray, had been left in a school parking lot.  If it wasn't for me, you still might be there.  Zackary, you were a stray and I took you in.  Muggs, you were dodging traffic in downtown and scrounging food from a filthy alley.  If it wasn't for me, you'd be road kill.

There's a squeak from the counter and all four resentful heads turn in that direction.  The kitten is grooming her whiskers and looking quite Queen of the May.

Pay attention!  I snap at my four felines, I expect some civility and tolerance and empathy here.  And if you can't do that, then just keep your distance and deal with it.

The kitten, snack sized but determined, makes her way down off the counter and gives them all a smirk.

And you, I tell her firmly, show a little respect for your elders.

And you three, I turn to the dogs, mind your manners.  She isn't a pull toy or a wind up doll or a salt lick.  Be gentle and be nice.

All three give me their best injured and innocent looks - as if butter wouldn't melt in their mouths - but the truth is that I don't trust a single one as far as I can throw them.

Good, I say, I'm glad we had this little talk.  Remember, civility, tolerance and empathy.  This is not a democracy, you are not members of Congress and I personally don't negotiate with terrorists.

The new kitten settles in my lap, yawns mightily for one so small and falls asleep.  For the moment, peace prevails.

Passion, Pride & A Secondhand Suit

It's not a charitable thought - Lord knows, when it comes to my first husband, they're few and far between - but I can't help thinking that he's begun to somewhat resemble an old, fat walrus in a three piece suit.  His laughter is more of a bark, hale and hearty but glaringly insincere, and his eyes have a greedy glitter.  There's something very near cruelty in that superficial smile, something close to menace in his gestures, as if he'd been swallowed up by his own ambition and spit out half digested.  The boy I knew has turned into a stranger with some nasty edges, sharp tongued and acid witted, but nowhere near nice.  Somewhere along his journey, he fell victim to passion, pride and became ashamed to wear a secondhand suit.

Ambition is a stern taskmaster, I suppose, although having very little of my own, I'm not in the best position to judge.  What has always disturbed me is how it can warp the spirit and alter fundamental beliefs.  I recall a young man who blazed about cats and lost causes, who was fiercely independent and anti-war, who rejected a privileged background in favor of joining the fight.  How effortlessly he was seduced back into the fold, how easily he adapted back to wealth, how casually he reclaimed his name and all that went with it.  It makes me wonder how sincere he was in the first place, that naive boy in his ragged blue jeans and leather vests.  How hard is it really to walk in Jesus sandals when a pair of designer dress shoes is waiting at home?  He always had options, I realize, always had a backup plan, a family who was waiting for him to come to his senses and return to embrace their values, their status, their money.  I wonder if his scorn was real or temporary and I wonder if he was or will ever be satisfied or happy.  I wonder what became of him now that he resembles a walrus - is the boy I knew buried inside or was he never there at all - was it all for show?  

The more I ponder, the more I think that his blue collar days were a detour.  Intriguing, frivolous, guaranteed to draw attention and cause talk, but not real.  He was meticulously careful not to burn the bridges to his white collar, high dollar world.

And for a time, I was equally seduced by the monied life although in retrospect, I think I gave up less to have it and eventually came to reject it.  Not that I don't still long for it sometimes - the money, that is, not the lifestyle - but I would hope my social conscience is still intact.  

We drift, we lose our common ground.  Ambition changes things and money divides us.  He is on one side of a chasm, I am on the opposite.  So I allow myself the uncharitable thought.  And console myself with the fact that I am not married to a walrus or a republican.

Murphy Beds & Other Silly Notions

I was twenty-two when I went to "live in sin" with a man I wasn't married to (at the time) and so shocked and appalled my parents that they immediately disowned me.  It was the first time I'd left the questionable shelter of the old family home to make my own way and their shame was unbearable.  Appearances mattered greatly in 1970, much more so than now, but I was - so I determinedly imagined - in love, caught up in the the remnants of the prior decade, and very defiant.  Come hell or high water, I would break the rules and be liberated, I decided. The two room apartment with its Murphy bed held a peculiar charm for me, much like poverty and free spirited-ness, and I was completely certain that we could live as one and be happy forever.

The reality, of course, was not quite so romantic.  We scavenged the $125 monthly rent and lived on white bread and beans most of the time.  When down, the Murphy bed took up the entire room and when up, there was no other place to sit.  The heat and hot water were temperamental, at best, and the whole place was dirt farm filthy despite our best efforts but we persevered because we were young and foolish and had mostly burned our bridges and were too proud to backtrack.  After all, it wasn't that far from the 60's - we were about peace and love and fondue, thought we were the generation that could and would make a difference.  Like every generation before and since, we had a great many silly notions.

The Murphy bed creaked and groaned like an arthritic old woman night after night back then - I now suspect that all lovers take credit for discovering sex - as if we got here from pixie dust.  But then it was awe inspiring even with a gray tiger cat watching from a respectful distance and the horn player across the alley running his endless scales.  This, I soon realized, was the real crux of my parents' and grandmother's disapproval despite how loudly they proclaimed more superficial concerns - my mother caring only for what the gossip mill would make of it all, my daddy worrying that I'd be hurt or abandoned, go hungry or get pregnant, my grandmother being simply disappointed in my judgement - but what it really came down to was the time spent in that sad old Murphy bed.  The images it conjured up for my shaken family were more than they could handle.  They might rant and rave about rumors and unwed mothers and failure to respect tradition, but it was the sex that did them in.

A year and a half later when a minister read the magic words and made it all legitimate, we were redeemed and all was instantly forgiven.  An odd turn of events, I thought, since nothing at all had changed except that the sex was now sanctioned.  We had caved to convention and while my family - and his - went back to their happy dreams, I was less generous, couldn't shake that faraway feeling that my days of being a free spirit were over, that the marriage would somehow or another backfire and that sex, whether in a Murphy bed or a four poster, wouldn't save us.  

It wasn't so much being "made an honest woman of" that troubled me.  Lord knows, you can adjust to near anything if you set your mind to it, even respectability.

I just missed the sense of sin.

Requiem for a Rat

To say I was unprepared would be a colossal understatement.

It was a lovely, warm October day and as usual, I was had come home at lunch to let the dogs out.  I was sitting on the deck, quietly smoking and considering my plans for the weekend while they frolicked and ran about the yard, enjoying these few moments of freedom as I was enjoying it being so nearly the weekend.
There was a noise from the street and all three flew to the driveway gate - their version of neighborhood watch since you never can tell where the invasion will come from - but seeing nothing more dangerous than the mailman, they settled for a quick round of obligatory barking and then lost interest.  The little dachshund and the small brown dog lazily wandered back toward the yard and after another minute or two, the black dog followed, head held high, walking proud and carrying a trophy in the shape and form of A VERY LARGE AND VERY DEAD RAT.

Sweet Jesus! I shrieked, bolting upright and skittering backwards like a crab, Drop that thing this minute!

She gave me a mildly puzzled look - she had the filthy thing's tail clamped in her jaws and it's foul carcass was swinging like a pendulum - but she obeyed.

In the house this very instant!  I screeched and all three came running like rabbits.  It took all the courage and will power I had not to follow but let's face facts, you can't leave a dead rat lying about in the yard and the thought that it might not be dead hadn't crossed my mind yet, so I approached one timid step at a time, caught somewhere between revulsion and doing what had to be done.  The damn thing was the size of a well fed squirrel but didn't seem to have any marks - no wounds on its slick little body, no blood on its bloated white belly (either would've put me over the edge, I realized afterward) - so maybe, please God, she hadn't killed it, had just found it already dead.  Still, the question remained of how to dispose of it without getting too near.  I certainly wasn't going to touch the vile thing and the leaf blower might not be powerful enough and even if it was, where in God's name was I going to blow it to.  I thought about the broom and dustpan (that was when I thought but what if it's not all the way dead) and quickly dismissed the idea.  There were garden shears on the garage wall but they would require proximity.  Cautiously I circled around to the garage and peered inside - not much help there - but then I saw an abandoned sponge mop lying on a piece of moldy cardboard and felt a small flicker of hope.  Sure I was going to retch at any second and for the first time in thirteen years regretting the fact I was divorced, I laid the cardboard on the grass near the body and then used the sponge mop to push the corpse onto the cardboard and oh so gently carried the whole thing to the trash barrel and dumped it in.   The urge to look inside only lasted a fraction of a second - the what if it's not all the way dead thought had returned so I slammed the lid fiercely - and backed away, the sponge mop raised and at the ready in the event that I heard the scrabble of little rat nails.  But there was nothing.  Shaken and queasy, I ditched the sponge mop and made my back onto the deck and into the house but I kept an eye on the trash barrel all the same.  There was always the possibility that it had been a young rat with a mother and daddy rat, maybe even sibling rats who wouldn't take kindly to its unseemly demise.  Worse, it might've been a zombie rat.  I stealthily crept back outside and gingerly placed a brick on the lid of the barrel.  Then another, just for good measure.  Several minutes passed and the rat stayed dead.  The crisis had passed with the rat its only casualty.

I put the dogs back into their kennels, telling the black one that we would have a private word later, and got ready to go back to work.  On my way out the front door, I noticed The Cat Who Lived in the Garage sitting serenely by the latticework, delicately washing her paws and grooming her whiskers.

It might have been my imagination but I could've sworn she winked at me.

The Tyranny of the Inanimate

I have been waging war against inanimate objects for years, never quite able to shake the idea that most things are endowed with a silent but powerful intelligence, destructive and most assuredly hostile.  The usual enemies are can openers, car doors, computers, shrink wrap plastic, etc, but the latest villain was the shiny foil seal on a seemingly innocent plastic bottle of low dose aspirin.   The most I can hope for in these ongoing battles is a draw - I generally lose and am forced to be content with their subsequent  annihilation whenever possible - but in this instance, the aspirin emerged victorious.

The child proof cap yielded easily enough but the foil seal proved more durable.  I exerted a mild pressure, then a little more, and when it still wouldn't give, flew into a rage and grabbed the nearest sharp object - a long bladed kitchen knife - and stabbed at the seal with all the force I could summon.  The foil gave way instantly but I was too furious to simply accept the win and stabbed a second time (to teach it a lesson), missing the plastic bottle entirely but connecting lightly yet most solidly to the first finger on my left hand.  It was a nick, hardly painful, but it bled like a son of a ....well, it bled profusely, through a cold compress and three bandaids.  An hour later the finger was numb and stiff, after two hours it was swollen to the size of my thumb, hot, red and throbbing.  Revenge seemed called for so I emptied the undersized little pills into an envelope and took the plastic bottle out to the driveway, laid it on the concrete, and slammed it repeatedly with a brick until it was flat and dead.  Each slam was a blow for freedom, a strike against the tyranny of the inanimate.  I pounded til I was out of breath, til sweat ran into my eyes, til there was nothing left and I could barely lift the brick.  Sometimes you have to be the insurgent force, rebelling against the oppression at all costs.  And sometimes you just have to be an idiot with a temper.

The following day, as Doc treated and dressed the wound, he scolded me mildly, wanting to know if it had been worth it.

I thought of that plastic aspirin bottle with it's stubborn silver seal.

I thought of my finger, bandaged and beginning to heal.

I thought of my temper.

I thought of the satisfaction the brick had provided.

But mostly I thought it'd have been more satisfying if the bottle had bled.

So naturally I smiled and assured him I'd learned my lesson.

But I kept the brick.  Hell, yes, it was worth it.

Rabbits & Tin Roofs

After weeks if not months of drought, the rains have come.  With a vengeance. 

The dogs wolf their supper and then line up anxiously at the back door but as soon as I open it, they begin to back away, all three giving me their You don't really expect me to go out in that and actually get wet? look.
They've perfected this expression and seeing them huddled together and looking so miserable and put upon tugs at my heart but it isn't my first rodeo either.  They each start the backwards belly crawl - is it even possible for a dog to look more abused, I wonder - and as a last resort I'm forced to shoo them with the tried and true gentle nudge technique, hoping all the while not to have to resort to the less gentle broom maneuver.
They finally realize that I have no intention of backing down and dejectedly, timidly and hurriedly scoot out the door, make an emergency run for the grass, and then sprint back as if their butts were on fire.  It occurs to me that only a cat can look more resentful than a wet dog and to ease my conscience, I give each of them an extra biscuit and am rewarded with instant forgiveness.  They trot off toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of muudy pawprints and by the time I've yelled NOT ON THE.....they're already there, burrowing deep into the pillows and looking ever so innocently pleased with themselves.   It's a sad truth but even when I win, I really don't.

The rain has fallen all day and continues well into the night.  The streets flood and the levees fill quickly with random tree limbs falling on random roads, "good sleepin' weather" as folks like to say.  Darkness seems to come a little earlier these days and now and again there are strong hints of fall in the air.  The animals and I curl up on the bed together and nap, listen to the rain and dream our dreams - they chase rabbits and I think of nights spent at the lake house watching lightening strikes through the cypress trees and falling asleep to rain pounding on the tin roof - just a patch had been especially installed over the master bedroom, specifically for the sound effect and it brought the rain sounds very near.  

The wet weather seems to have a calming effect on the dogs and it takes no time at all before we are all settled into the evening routine.  I decide it's as good a time as any to try out the new wireless keyboard I doubtfully bought to replace the old faded one.  

All you do is plug it into a USB port, the young salesman had assured me, Batteries are included and it'll work like a charm.

I want to believe but have been here before and am not so trusting.  I've never fully understood electricity never mind getting the same results without it and anything to do with a computer makes me mad on principle.

Promise?  I ask him suspiciously, remembering the last computer related incident and the loss of a week's worth of time and energy.  And the rage.  Oh, the rage.

I solemnly promise, he tells me confidently.

Cross your heart? I ask and he laughs.

Take it out of the box, he says patiently and points to a little icon on the package, Plug this in to a USB port on the back of your computer.  Unplug the keyboard and mouse you have now and switch them out, turn this little lever on the mouse to "ON", this little switch on the keyboard to "ON" and you're in high cotton.  It's a breeze.

I can't believe it's going to be this uncomplicated but I follow his instructions anyway and to my utter amazement, it works just as he promised.  I stand back in awe, feeling that I've somehow crossed an invisible line and wandered into uncertain high tech territory. I commend myself on my bravery while trying to steady my shaking hands.  

The most overlooked advantage to owning a computer is that if they foul up, there's no law against whacking them around a little ~ Eric Porterfield