Karma, she is the bitch!
My sister and I have a long, long past of rescuing animals. Generally, these rescues involve living creatures, which we attempt to return to their owners. Occasionally, however, they take on a more forensic aspect.
I was once party to what should have been a "Lifetime: Television for Squirrels" cautionary tale, in which two frolicsome young lovers of the nut-foraging variety had the temerity or the misfortune to dart into a busy street in front of me. I missed my squirrel (the pursuer), but the guy in the oncoming lane was less avid in his driving, and zapped the poor pursuee dead. I drove on, sadly, agonizing about whether somehow the squirrel might have been merely stunned; how at this very moment she was comatose and imperiled by other motorists. I called my husband from the car. "Honey, should I go back and check, to see if it's still alive?" "Dorcasina," he said, with infinite kindness and patience, "a car weighs two tons. That's a battle no squirrel can win." He was right, I knew, yet I had to return to the scene of the crime (involuntary squirrel-slaughter? rodenticide? are squirrels rodents? this is what it's like inside my brain). I returned, nevertheless, to find that the squirrel was, indeed, quite dead. After all that trouble, it felt callous to leave her there to be mangled by passing traffic, so I switched on the hazard lights, got the collapsible snow shovel out of the back of the car, and attempted to slide the corpse onto the shovel without touching it (rabies, you know). At that moment, a garbage truck pulled up behind me. "Hit a squirrel, huh," said the garbage man. "Here, I'll do that," he said, grasping the poor squirrel by her lush tail and flipping her up into the truck. "No, no," I protested. "
I didn't hit the squirrel. I
missed my squirrel. The
other guy hit
his squirrel. This one's his!"
I was haunted all day by thoughts of that poor squirrel waking miraculously from her coma in the bed of a garbage truck.
This all comes as a long, sad, self-indulgent Preamble to the real saga of my sister's squirrel tale. Yesterday she felt compelled to pick up the hapless body of one of God's little rodent (are they rodents? I've gotta look this up) creatures from the street where it lay, pristine, but stone dead. She found a piece of cardboard, and a stick, and moved the squirrel to resting place that did not include being mashed into a gut-and-fur paste by traffic. Good deed all around. Notice that she, too, avoided touching the squirrel. One never knows about rabies.
No sooner had she arrived home when--karma--a squirrel fell dead from their tree into the driveway. Evidently word had spread that she would make sure squirrels found a resting place, unmolested by passing cars. As she said to me on the phone, "I've never picked up a dead squirrel before, and now I had to do two in one day!"
No good deed goes unpunished.
Labels: black humor, wisdom of the ages
Hard-earned wisdom
My caffeine levels are back in whack today, so am feeling less grouchy. These things I hold to be true, if not self-evident:
1. Jello shooters involving Knob Creek bourbon and orange jello are not the panacea I'd hoped they would be. Nor are they suitable for a metabolism that has been in use for more than, say, 22 years.
2. As much as I love libraries, there's a way in which checking out and returning books is like dating someone else's husband. You know they will never be
truly yours.
I hope you feel edified.
Labels: miscellaneous life, wisdom of the ages
Low-rent Theology
This morning, over breakfast (cantaloupe and sourdough toast for her, cottage cheese with
incredible peaches for me):
Daughter: Mama, I think Papa is still at the doctor. (This is frequently her opening line when she wants to discuss him, death, and what it all means.)
Dorcasina: No, sweetie. You know Papa's not still at the doctor. You know that Papa died, and we don't ever get to see him again.
Daughter: Well, maybe he is in heaven!
Now, all the grief folks warned me NOT to tell her that Papa was "looking down" on her from heaven; they said that feeling of being watched by a dead person can be creepy...duh. So I've been pretty theologically noncommital about Papa's afterlife whereabouts, except that Snickollet and I just know that our husbands are hanging out together, and have probably hooked up with Badger's beloved Mr. Badger on occasion for some deeply existential talks, or to make farting armpit noises. Dorcasina, tentatively: ....well, maybe. What is heaven?
Daughter, cheerfully matter of fact: It's a big room where he can talk to other died [sic] people. And maybe play with toys.
Dorcasina (thinks):
Yeah, I bet he'd like that...Dorcasina: Uh huh. Who told you about heaven?
Daughter: Mrs. Teacher Lady! She said my papa is in heaven! And that he is happy!
Mrs. Teacher Lady is my daughter's primary teacher--which in Montessori world means that they are about to start their third year together. She has been unfailingly loving, supportive, and thoughtful in helping both my daughter and me. She's very active in her church, and makes private references to her faith. So I'm actually really okay with her providing what to her probably feels like a very neutral bit of information. She definitely doesn't proselytize, but she does feel that her beliefs are a big part of her life, and she's made that pretty clear in private conversations. I don't share most of her beliefs, but I really like her and trust her to keep the details of her theology to herself. I have also talked to her about my own spiritual beliefs, so I can see why she thought this would be okay to say to my daughter. And she's right. It is okay. My liberal/academic/secular/knee-jerk self immediately wonders "is this appropriate?" But in this case, it's just fine.Dorcasina: Well, he probably misses us
very much. But we want him to be happy, even though we miss him. Maybe heaven is like a park, so he can go outside?
Daughter: Yes! With other died [sic] people. Mama, can I have another piece of toast?
I wish I had a video of this for those folks who want to really
know what it's like to be a widow and a single mom.
Labels: bragging about my daughter, cancer widow, wisdom of the ages
So there
We went to a favorite restaurant last night with friends. My fortune cookie held the following message:
It is hard for an empty bag to stand up right.
Not sure what it means, but I don't think it's a good sign...
Labels: wisdom of the ages
