The Pit Bull & The Possum

As a general rule, I believe that drama is by invitation only but not always. Sometimes the stars align and wreak havoc for the sake of havoc. In Michael's world, this happens more often than with normal folk but still, now and then there are times when he's actually an innocent bystander, caught up in a mess not of his own making. Take, for example, the case of the pit bull, the possum, the purse snatcher and the police.

When I got there, the purse snatcher was long gone and the police were, somewhat listlessly, interrogating the Mexican work crew replacing the roof. Since the police spoke no Spanish and the Mexicans spoke no English, it was unclear how much actual communication was taking place but everyone was trying. By the time I got to the front porch, more drama was erupting in the backyard - Michael was yelling unintelligibly and the dogs were sounding like the hounds of hell - the cops were unmoved but the Mexicans on the roof began scrambling over the tar paper to see what the commotion was while those on the ground ran anxiously around the side of the house. Ladders tumbled over, tar spilled, and roof debris flew in every direction. All I could think of was how every second was bringing us closer to a Keystone Kops movie.

The source of the new drama was revealed quickly. The old pit bull had discovered and caught an unwary possum and Michael – clad only in his usual morning attire of white Calvin Klein briefs and flipflops and reasonably enough thinking the poor, bedraggled thing was dead – was trying to argue the dog into letting it go while the dog, slow and dull witted but lovable, was prepared to defend his prize to the death. He stood his ground while the other three danced and howled around him like dervishes. Michael finally prevailed and was attempting to simultaneously fend off the dogs and scoop the possum up with a shovel when the poor thing came back to life with a shrill, hysterical squeal. Shovel, possum, Michael, all four dogs and several Mexicans were so startled they all froze, giving the possum a window of opportunity to stagger through the latticework and reach safety. Unobstructed, he made his way to the sanctuary of under the house. I like to think he waited for cover of darkness and escaped to the vacant lot across the street but whatever his fate, he hasn't been seen since.

A Miracle in the Making

It didn't seem completely real when I learned that my cousin, Linda - for all practical purposes, the only living blood kin I have left - had been diagnosed with liver cancer. Try as I might, I couldn't get the words to make sense and when I finally did, it was too dreadful to contemplate.

While I was waiting for the initial shock to wear off and vainly searching for something comforting to tell her, she reverted (as she almost always does) to her usual resilient, reassuring, and optimistic self. She updated me about treatment options and what the doctors were and weren't recommending and complained regularly and usually sarcastically about the complexity of navigating the system. She made trip after trip from Tallahassee to Gainesville for a never ending parade of tests and bloodwork and evaluations and then more of each. I learned that radiation wasn't anyone's favorite idea, that tumor ablation wasn't likely to be successful and that she was being considered a candidate for surgery. Sometime, I think it was in June, she began easing us and herself into the prospect of a liver transplant. The words paralyzed me and though I refused to admit it and certainly never put it into words, a part of me began preparing for her to die. Even when she made it onto the transplant list, I wouldn't allow myself to see a miracle in the making. Morbid as it was, I couldn't shake the thought that more people died waiting on transplants than survived. It felt much too close to desperation.

Linda, of course, was having none of it. Her emails stayed philosophical and accepting but still confident. She and Robin, life partners for some 40 years, set about making preparations to be ready to leave at a moment's notice. They arranged for the house to be looked after, the cat tended, the wild birds fed. They de-cluttered with a vengeance that, under the circumstances, I found admirable if not flat out heroic.

The call came in August and in a matter of hours, they were on their way. I sat in front of my computer and tried to work through a maze of emotions but all I felt was a scattery kind of hope with a side dish of terror. I couldn't find words through the worry and apprehension and after awhile, I gave up and settled for trying to keep myself distracted. It was as close to giving up my agnosticism as I've ever come.

Fast forward a week, and she's out of ICU, off the ventilator, and feasting on watered down applesauce and yogurt with chicken and rice waiting in the wings. Her sense of humor is intact.

“Robin's camping out in my room again,” she texts me, “Where are the marshmallows?”

“Did you remember the fire permit?” I text back.

There's a pause and then the words “Oh, shit.....” and a downcast smiley face appear on my phone followed by “I knew there was something I forgot!”. I have to laugh.

When you're lost and don't know what's around the next corner, it's hard to prepare for what life can and will throw at you and even if you could be ready, there are things you simply don't allow yourself to think about. I never imagined I'd have a friend be murdered, or lose so many dear people to cancer, or have a cousin who needed and got a liver transplant. I never thought about getting to be my age and being surrounded by empty spaces. Even with reality staring me square in the face, I still try not to think about it. My cousin Linda has beaten back adversity her entire life. It's not so farfetched to think that she earned this chance. She and Robin ride out the hurricane in the hospital and just a day or two later are released and head for home.

Miracles happen every day and sometimes we don't notice but here's the lesson: Never underestimate an old broad with blood that doesn't clot and a second hand liver. Way to go, cuz.

Fashion First

Nothing is so common as the wish to be remarkable ~ Shakespeare

Very little amazes me more than the quality of people, women in particular, who dream of becoming a model. I find myself constantly wondering what they see when they look into a mirror - it's certainly not what I see when I look at their pictures - and I have to resist the urge to be cruel. If you're 5'1 and 190 pounds, I want to ask, what exactly do you imagine yourself modeling? We have very little call for someone to be the broadside of a barn. And nobody's looking for someone to sit on the back of trailer truck holding a WIDE LOAD sign but thanks anyway.

The voice mails are even worse. No manners, not bright enough to leave a telephone number, and overwhelmingly inarticulate, unintelligible and mush mouthedly illiterate. I despair, not just for modeling but for the future.

“To hell with this,” I tell Michael at least once or twice a week, “Let's just go with the petting zoo or the gay nursing home and be done with this.”

Never willing to give up hope for a decent candidate, I wend and weave my way through the rest of the applications, weeding out the outright trash and sorting the rest into separate stacks. To the mothers, all of whom claim to have the most adorable and photogenic baby since the dawn of time, I explain that the next Gerber baby will not come from little ol' Shreveport but rather a major market such as Los Angeles or New York City. To the cheerfully rotund, two-ton Tessies, I explain that even plus size models have to be proportioned and have some semblance of a waistline. To the eager under 18's begging for the chance to be discovered, I suggest they talk it over with their parents. For the thousandth time, I explain that we don't take children under seven because we need them to be able to read and take direction. To an uncertain handful, most of whom will fade quietly away when they learn it costs money, I send an invitation to audition. When I'm done, the prospects are exceedingly dim.

Some days are exercises in patience, tolerance, and futility.  I suppose they're meant to teach me something, some obvious life lesson I should already know after nearly seven decades, something about hope or faith or never giving up, perhaps.  But most days all I can see is fog and dying light.

Biscuits for Bravery

The little dachshund races to the edge of the deck and leaps off in a graceful swan dive then runs madly for the back fence. He's the least bothered by wet weather and the rain slows him not one bit. The small brown dog, less enthusiastic but resigned to her fate, follows and heads immediately for cover under the shrubs. Only the tiny one remains behind, looking thoroughly miserable and timid. When I reach for him, he immediately cowers and goes into panic mode. I ignore this, abandon my umbrella, and deposit him firmly on the wet grass where he freezes and starts to shiver and whine. I don't know whether to laugh or cry at this pitiful display.

“It's only rain,” I tell him sternly, “You won't melt, now go pee.”

It doesn't work, of course, and I can't stand to watch him so unhappy so I snatch the umbrella back, pick him up and carry him to the shelter of the trees. It takes several minutes but he finally hikes one tiny little leg and when he's done, runs like a wind up toy back to the deck. Once inside, I give everybody a quick towel off and a biscuit and miraculously, all is forgiven.

Wet, but forgiven. I try not to think about the fact that this particular rain is the outer edge of a hurricane and we will likely have to repeat this process several times in the next day or so.

By noon, it's coming down hard and steady and to no one's surprise, we're under a flash flood warning. All the coaxing in the world has no effect on the work dogs - when I try and lead them outside, all four of them look at me as if I've lost my mind and scatter like bedbugs - Michael shrugs and offers no help and I'm not inclined to get any wetter than necessary so I leave them to him. I'm late getting away and when I get home, all of mine scurry outside despite the rain.  Each earns an extra biscuit for bravery.

Unlike the biblical destruction next door in Texas, the storm mostly breezes past us and the flood waters recede quickly.  Nature has seen fit to spare us this time around and I am profoundly grateful.  The sun is out the very next day and as I make the trip to Walmart to buy disaster relief supplies to donate to the animal shelters in Houston,  the world seems a shade or two brighter.  It's not enough but it's a start.