Each Day is a Gift

 None of us is promised tomorrow. Each day is a gift. 

These are trite, cliché phrases. One shouldn't write cliché phrases. 

The truth is, though, none of are promised tomorrow. or even the rest of today. None of us is promised another sunrise, tequila or otherwise.

'What brought this on, Mister Madman,' you ask? 

I'll tell you. I'm a cyborg, what with the stents and implanted defibrillator/pacemaker; an electrified heart. All sweetness and light, right?

Apparently not.

 I spent the last few days in the hospital, being overly concerned with the status of my vital pump. 

I had scheduled myself for five hours of Saturday overtime to pad the paycheck a bit. I got two and a half hours in, had to take my half-hour break a bit early, then could only do one more hour of answering phones before it became too hard to answer them with a smile on my face, even after four doses of nitroglycerin.

That's when I called out, called my wife downstairs for a second opinion, then got bundled up to the hospital emergency room.

Fun times.

But I'm back, and alive, and none the worse for wear, in spite of having only the hospital TV and my own thoughts to keep me company. My wife brought me my phone and a couple of books I'd checked out later on (MUCH appreciated, especially the books: Edison's Alley (book 2 of the Accelerati series, intended Young Adults), and A Higher Call - more on this one when I finish it). But no laptop to type on, or paper to write on, and I had phone but no charger - needed to husband its strength as well as my own. I could read but not write. Ah, well.

While there, they would only allow one visitor at a time, and NO minors. Thus only my wife got to visit, but no Bear Cub. Now I'm home and the Cub and I are together, and bug-tussling enough to make up for lost time. 

I love that kid.

I was told by sweet wife that having me home relaxed the girl enough that she got to sleep fairly quickly, and my wife is happier as well. 

I'm happier, too. But I have a host of sonic patterns to unlearn. 

My wife was sitting up, reading, and the chair squeaked. No big deal, except it sounded just like the door to my room opening. My hospital room. which usually meant someone was there to wake me up and take my vital signs, if not a bit of blood.

I was awake in an instant.

Then I realized I was at home. 

Ah, well.

One other thing that came to mind last night, regarding hospitalization and visitors, was: what if I was truly dying, and wanted to say good-bye to everyone I conveniently could. The Bear Cub would have been left out, and she would have been the one most in need of such communications.

Thus the germ of a ghost story was spawned. 

I'll wrap it for today, but look for the ghost story before the weekend is over.

Remember to build for a thousand years, but be ready to leave for your final destination at any time.

To the best of your ability, leave nothing unfinished or unsaid. Bequeath the rest into good hands.

Yes, You Can!

Go Not Gentle Into That Good Night

There's a lot you can learn from your pets.

Take our last dog and current cat, for instances:

Our dog, Missy, was the outdoors dog's outdoors dog. She gloried in snow storms, rejoiced in rainstorms, and whenever the occasion arose, revelled in running free with the steers on the in-laws' ranch.

She was never trained as a hunting dog, but she knew how to hunt: she did so to survive and feed her pups. That's how she came to us in the first place; somebody had dumped her, either pregnant or with her puppies, out in the middle Weld County. They lived a semi-feral existence until a farmer family found them. The farmer was able to find homes for the pups easily enough, but with the uncertain history of the mother was unable to find a home for her. Until my wife came along.

Our family at the time (specifically the two girls) wanted a dog. I'm not a dog person, and my wife, due to childhood traumas, detested dogs in general. But, the girls wanted a dog for Christmas, so my wife set out to look for one.

Missy saw my wife, knew that she had to win her over if she was to find a new home, and did her level best to do so. My wife took the dog home, and while we brought her home for "the kids", she remained forever my wife's dog.

Mike the Tomcat was the only one to have any real misgivings. Eventually they settled there differences and agreed to disagree, staying on opposite sides of whichever room. Since Mike was my cat, this made for some interesting moments when my wife and I sat side-by-side on the sofa: we would cuddle a bit, the dog and cat would growl, we would have to break up an alley fight in the living room, then go back to trying to get some time together again. Sometimes the dog went outside, sometimes the cat was sent to the basement. Sometimes we just sat on opposite sides of the room. (In compromise, nobody wins, everyone is merely equally unhappy.)

I guess I'll have to include Mike, though that was not my original thought. Mike died sometime before Missy did, being quite old when Missy came to us. Even though he had cataracts, he still wanted to go out, especially at night, to 'cat around' a bit. At this point, he'd stay out most of the night (except for bad weather) and be waiting at the door in the morning.

One morning he wasn't there.

I won't go into detail as to what went through my heart and mind. We called and whistled for him every day for the next three days. Our kids had given up on him and were beginning to think I was a little nuts to continue to whistle for him, especially since the weather had turned cold. I knew he couldn't see well enough to find his way back from where ever. But I knew, if he could hear me whistle, he would follow the whistle home.

On the evening of the fourth day, while I was whistling for him, I heard a plaintive "meow." And there he was, cold and bedraggled, but generally healthy. I was never so glad that I had taught him to come to a whistle than that night. After getting a good supper, he alternately shivered and purred himself to sleep on my lap, Missy notwithstanding.

After that, his catabout times were restricted to about ten-minutes' time in the evening. I think he understood, a little, that it was for his own good. But he always drug his heels (unless it was raining) on his way back in.

He died a couple of years later when he was seventeen years old, his old cat body finally wearing out on him, just after Easter that year. We buried him under the peach tree. For what it's worth, that was the first year that tree put on fruit.

Missy, as I said, threw herself into enjoying life, protecting the family from steers at the ranch, and even a bear, once, while on a camping trip. She never walked when she could run. The squirrels were never safe in our yard as she leaped to catch them. They generally gained the height of a tree or the top of our privacy fence in time. but they were certainly a good deal slimmer than they would have liked.

What laid her low was a stroke early one Sunday morning. By this time the kids had moved out, and Missy was very much 'our' dog now. I say 'our', but really, she liked me, but she loved my wife. She was too big to be a lap dog, but she tried to be one anyway.

I awoke early that morning, and walking into the kitchen to find Missy lying on the floor, staring sightlessly, her legs making scrabbling motions as if she were running (like dogs sometimes do when they're dreaming). She yipped occasionally as if in fear, running as fast as she could from the darkness overtaking her, as if she could out run death itself. With a final shake, she stopped.

I put my ear to her side, and listened as her heart ran down from it's racing to nothing at all, like an old wind-up clock ticking it's last tick. I told my wife, who had joined me by that time in trying to comfort Missy, that it was over.

Uncharacteristically, she started to cry (I'm more likely to, and I hadn't), berating herself for crying over a "... Damn, Dumb dog!" There was not much left to do but hold my wife and cry with her.

I've written Missy's elegy some time ago, so I won't repeat it here. I'll try to post a link to it later.

The last two lines of Dylan Thomas' poem reads: "Go not gentle into that good night./Rage, rage against the dying of the light." I think that just about sums up Missy.

Snuggles, our current cat, is on her way out. I can say that in full certainty. She has developed a cancer on her abdomen that would surely qualify her for euthanasia if I took her to a vet. Yet she still lives her life as best she can as an old lady kitty, not quite up to her kitten name of "Fizz Kit" any longer, except when the three-year-old comes careening through the house.

I ask her, not really expecting a reply, whether it's time to be put down, to end it. The only reply I get is her steady cat stare, and her steady purr.

I take that as a "Let's keep it going a while longer." We can learn a lesson from that cat.

"Go not gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Yes, You Can

Law of the Garbage Truck

I get a lot of stuff in my email inbox. I expect that you do, too.

Some gets roundfiled, some gets forwarded, some gets saved for a day we need a laugh and need to pass it along.

Some gets added to the Blog, as being better that I can come up with on my own. Here is one of those things:

One day I hopped in a taxi and we took off for the airport. We were driving in the right lane when suddenly a black car jumped out of a parking space right in front of us. My taxi driver slammed on his breaks, skidded, and missed the other car by just inches! The driver of the other car whipped his head around and started yelling at us. My taxi driver just smiled and waved at the guy. And I mean, he was really friendly.

So I asked, 'Why did you just do that? This guy almost ruined your car and sent us to the hospital!' This is when my taxi driver taught me what I now call, 'The Law of the Garbage Truck.'

He explained that many people are like garbage trucks. They run around full of garbage, full of frustration, full of anger, and full of disappointment. As their garbage piles up, they need a place to dump it and sometimes they'll dump it on you. Don't take it personally. Just smile, wave, wish them well, and move on. Don't take their garbage and spread it to other people at work, at home, or on the streets.

The bottom line is that successful people do not let garbage trucks take over their day. Life's too short to wake up in the morning with regrets, so..... 'Love the people who treat you right - Pray for the ones who don't.'

There you have it. I can't say it any better than that.

When we return good responses for frustrated people's bad acts, it can help make the world better.

I haven't arrived there yet. But I'll get there.

Yes I Can.

So Can You.

Carpe Diem and Miss Bimbo

Okay, I admit I bit at the media bait and checked out the Miss Bimbo site.

Not much of anything socially redeeming there, and no, I wouldn't let my little girl have a bimbet there.

On the other hand, I feel the same way about Worlds of Warcraft. And I'm personally more likely to participate there.

For myself, nowadays, I feel it's a waste of my time, in spite of the fact I used to have some fun with Dungeons and Dragons.

Which leads me to the true topic of the day: seizing it.

Warning: Hackneyed Phrase coming up. "We receive a gift of 1440 minutes every day."

But, it's true. Each minute should be filled with living your life in as full a manner as possible. That none of us truly do is beside the point. Many of us (dare I say most of us?) don't even come close to filling sixty (60) of those minutes in any given day. Myself, unfortunately, included.

I'm not meaning to get on the case of someone who is taking a well-earned rest in his or her hammock. I mean the rest of us who, in spite of our selves, are spinning our wheels. We routinely waste time better spent trying to do our work, raise our kids, do our shopping, and, yes, relaxing without worries. I'm told that lack of effective rest undermines all of our daily activities.

If you've ever been up all night because of some malady or worry. Were you anywhere near one hundred percent the next day?

I thought not.

How about if you were playing some online game all night? Or doing some heavy partying? Surely you were one hundred percent the next day?

Alright, you can stop laughing now. You get my point, don't you?

Seizing the day means different things to different people. That's as it should be. It should also mean 'make the most of your opportunity.'

A word about making the most of your opportunity. In the play Cyrano De Bergerac, the man with the long nose and longer sword, someone, wanting to pick a fight with him, told him his nose was "Rather large". Instead of immediately drawing his sword, Cyrano replied, "Is that all?", then proceeds to give example after example of truly witty insults about his nose. Then returns the insult with "These are things you might have said, had you had any letters (reading) or wit." Then Cyrano proceeds to sword fight with the ignoble fellow while composing a poem about the fight in progress, running the man through at the last line "... Then as I end the refrain, thrust home!" (for the complete list I commend to you the Brian Hooker translation of Edmond Rostand's play Cyrano De Bergerac, you'll find it in Act I)

The moral of that story is, if you're going to get yourself into trouble anyway, make the most of it (or don't cross swords or cross wits unless you are suitably skilled yourself).

Donald Trump has similar advice: "If you're going to think anyway, you might as well think BIG!"

Chelsea Clinton, in my humble opinion, missed an opportunity last week to properly answer back her questioner with style and grace, but instead responded in anger. Personally speaking, my angry moments have seldom been my best moments. I get tongue-tied, illogical, and prone to hit things. When I keep my temper I keep my wits. I can even remember license plate numbers (see: "What's in a Note, you say?" below).

In short, thinking makes you better able to seize the moment, and make the most of your opportunity.

Make each moment count. The folks at Miss Bimbo have tapped into something potentially big, if perhaps only short-lived (think: Pocket Pets & Tamagotchis) They're making the most of it. If they're smart they're scouting for the more possible Next Big Thing our there.

Make each moment count. Enjoy your relaxation. Our family trip yesterday to a snowed-in Rocky Mountain National Park was priceless to my spirit, and a wonderful experience for our snow-suited little girl, and a vital recharge for my wife.

Make each moment count. Including the ones where you just get your night time rest.

Seize the Day!

Make each moment count!

Yes, You Can!