Contrary to What My Family Believes...

...I ain't dead yet. No sirree DAWG! I iz alive and barkin' and beggin' for all sorts of head scratches and bits of food. The moms got me some new medicine a couple of weeks ago and I feel like a young pup! Hooah! as my boy would say. Good thing this medicine worked and it takes like hot meat from the outside stove because I was a gonner. Lemme tell you, I could barely move around for the coughing. I sure was gonna miss everyone, too. Me and my boy Buddy have way too many dogs to bark at, squirrels to chase, bunnies to nom and Magpies who need payback.

Mommy called the payback thing: Karma. So today I was taking my second after breakfast nap (I didn't say I was all better, Ima old dog with the Cee Ahtch Eff and need frequent naps) when all the sudden Mommy appears at the door with a treat! A treat!! Yeah! ThatiswhatIamtalkinabout Yay! If Buddy had been over we would be doin' chest bumps! But as I'm hoisting this old body up off the cool grass I notice a big bunch of sticks that reminded me of the time I moved the woodpile into the middle of the yard because that was a better place for it and I was bored when I was a puppy...good times...good times...anyhow, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, the big pile of sticks. So I decide the treat can wait and start ambling towards the sticks when Mommy starts screaming at me like she did when I had the little Not-A-Bunny-But-Like-A-Bunny in my mouth.
"Kipper get away! Get. Away. Now." she used her big mean Mom voice I hear when I've run away or one of my boys does something he isn't supposed to do.
Shoot, she always ruins the fun, doesn't she? Resistance was futile as she hauled me into to the house by my collar. Giving her the dying dog look with a little gack cough didn't change her mind,and making myself weigh as much as the mastiff down the street didn't work either. I don't understand Mommy, she gives me chicken skin, pop corn and crackers if I ask for them but she wouldn't let me sniff the baby birds in the nest near my favorite pee tree. Because I really just wanted to, you know, sniff them. It's not like I'm a cat and I've been told I have a 'soft mouth'. So I'm in the house and what's an old dog like me supposed to do? I got my favorite blue baby 'saur and walked from the front of the house to the back about eleventy million times hoping and thinking someone would lose their patience with me and just let me back outside. I was hoping Other Mom would come home and not see the big pile of sticks in the back yard and just let me outside so I could further, you know, investigate the situation with the fragrant birds. Didn't happen and no matter how hard I stared at the big window that opens, it wouldn't open.

Mommy talked into the little black box thing and found someone to come and take care of the birds and the nest. I tried to tell her I would be happy to take care of them but she wasn't paying any attention to me. Then told my other boy to take me upstairs when the doorbell rang. Upstairs? When the doorbell rings? That is so not my style or my job? My job is to make sure everyone who comes into the house gives me an ear scratch and possibly a belly rub! And this is the thanks a dying dog gets for his decade's worth of love and devotion. I have to go upstairs to bed and miss all the excitement. So I stayed put by the back door and was real quiet hoping I would become invisible. I was about to fall asleep when I noticed my two arch enemies poking their heads into the big pile of sticks where the little birds were! Those little birds belonged to my enemies! I had the perfect oppertunity to avenge the years of taunting and abuse I had suffered at their wings so I let Mommy know just how I felt and tried to say: "OH THE INJUSTICE OF THIS WORLD!! THOSE EVIL FOOD STEALING BIRDS THAT TEASE ME CAN PLAY WITH THE LITTLE BIRDS WHY CAN'T I?"

That's when Mommy leaned down and gave me an ear scratch while she explained Karma to me. "It's Karma, old boy, What goes around comes around...those naughty birds won't tease you anymore, now will they? Serves them right, losing their six children to bird rescue after the way they treated you. I bet they won't tag team your food and water ever again!"

I hope she's right because I'm feeling better but the old ticker isn't what it used to be and I can't be running after those pesky things. What a day. What a day and a half! I need a nap.

If you're in the 'hood give a holler over the fence and I'll bark back! For the time bein' at least. Can't keep this old dog down. Nope not the poison berries, the big moving car or the garage door or even the Cee Ahtch Eff with "pro-found card eomaglea"

Love,

Kipper the big-hearted dog and that ain't no metaphor, neither.

Memorials

We walked the National Mall today. The whole thing. From the Smithsonian to the Lincoln Memorial down and around the Jefferson Memorial and back to the Smithsonian. It was a big walk for these old legs and it was rainy, windy and cold. I'm so glad I did it, too because it was one of the most humbling and moving days of my life. Beav and I saw all of the memorials and I cried at three of them. Which is sort of melodramatic and ridiculous because I've never lost a family member to war. My late uncle was a decorated WWII soldier, my cousin was married to a medic in Vietnam, I have multiple cousins who were in the service, my ex brother-in-law ran the officer's club in Germany in the late sixties (Hooah!). So it isn't like my loss is extreme. I can't imagine the emotions running through people as they saw this and there were people looking for their loved one's names and they wept and prayed over them. There were too damned many names:


If that wasn't enough we stumbled onto the Korean memorial and the artist explicitly depicts a look of betrayal and loss in each of the statue's eyes.

But more evocative is the wall running along the statues with faces which aren't visible until you are very close. At first I wasn't sure I was seeing faces and I thought it was an optical illusion but then I stood very close and I could see the faces which still weren't really clear until I reviewed today's pictures and they are very clear. You only notice them later in the form of memory. Which is exactly how we have noticed the Korean veterans. But they are from the generation that survived the Great Depression and later watched older brothers march off to WWII so it wasn't like them to speak up and say they suffered in Korea and didn't come home whole. It is perhaps the most poignant statement I've ever seen in a work of art. Our shadow veterans.


By this time on our long long walk in the rain, I'm trailing behind the Beav because I'm about to cry and I don't want to embarrass or upset him. Again, I've not lost anyone to war and I barely remember Vietnam. We are plodding along the path when I see a cluster of people gathered and it took a minute for me to realize why they were stopped: The Vietnam's Nurse's Memorial. As crazy as my calling can make me, I am deeply proud to be part of this brave sisterhood and I remember how hard women fought for this memorial to be a part of the National Mall after they have been passed over for medals time and time again. I urged the Beav to follow me as I almost break to a run. I was wet and I was cold and the urge to just find a cab and go back to our hotel was strong but I was graced with standing next to a memorial for my sisters who volunteered to fight in a war most didn't understand and many protested. Aesthetically, the bronze statue is unspeakably beautiful and the tenderness of the nurse's touch is unmistakable. The artist gets to the heart and art of being a nurse. I felt the tears well up and spill onto my cheeks, Beav wasn't sure what the statue was all about and I tearfully explained to him it was hard fought but a well deserved tribute to nurses in war. He had the good sense to walk ahead of me while I sobbed on the path behind him. Had I been alone or with TG, I would have sat on the bench and wept for all the lives lost and the disrespect and discount of the sacrifices made. I doubt I would have been so brave to fight in a misunderstood war. Or any war for that matter.



It was a memorable day.

Can I Go Home Now?

0630: I arrive at work, pick up my assignment sheet and quickly scan the written report describing the five patients the night shift charge nurse has deemed I care for during the next thirteen hours.

A: Morbidly obese, noncompliant diabetic with a really nasty wound on his backside. He’s also known for his verbal abuse. Let’s see how many times he tells me he won’t cooperate and he doesn’t need that medicine because we don’t know what we are doing in the first place. I’ll make it a “Hi Bob” game and get a beer tonight each time he tells me I’m stupid or refers to me as “girl”.

B: Her. Yeah, her. Fuck, I can’t stand this woman. I want to shake her and tell her to fucking get a shrink and get the hell over her childhood trauma that is leading to this chronic existential angst masquerading as belly pain. Twenty-five years old with chronic belly pain. Wow, all this belly pain, how did she manage to get obese? We’ve scanned her, scoped her, opened her up and have done everything but transplant her pancreas and liver. Everything is always normal. Let’s see…she refused the psychiatric consult the last time she was here. But she never EVER refuses the 2mg of dilaudid push every two hours. I thought she wouldn’t be returning to us because we no longer offer IV push phenergan on our menu of treatments at the Spa. Not enough beer if I get to take a swig each time she asks me for more dilaudid and it isn't time yet.

C: Oh for the love of God, this man is back? I knew it! I knew he would bounce back but in three days? Gah we spent hours with this daughter helping her make the decision to place her father because she can no longer take care of him. Hmm….did he fall…no…Oh great. “Weakness” Fuckin’ A we aren’t gonna get paid for this one, are we! Weakness is not a diagnosis it’s a symptom. Shit, I hope his daughter takes a respite day and stays the fuck away from the hospital. He‘s a piece of cake to care for if she isn‘t hovering over him. Such a dear sweet old demented guy. He’s funny and kind, doesn’t scream or hit. Any facility would LOVE to have this guy live with them! I wonder if we can get him a daughter transplant while he is here.

D: Son of a bitch. I thought this guy had died. I could have sworn he died last winter. “Fever” Oh great, this could be anything from liver failure to pneumonia to “I‘m hunger and some asshat beat the crap out of me under the bridge last night so I came here“. I’m voting for pneumonia and an ass kicking because I actually really like this homeless guy and I’m not sure I have the emotional fortitude today to attend to him at the end of his life. please god, let it be pneumonia pneumonia pneumonia“ Maybe I should rethink this whole drinking game so I don't end up with a liver like D's.

E: Nononono NO! We fixed you last time! You were better! And had a home! You agreed to take your meds and live at the half way house! If the case manager didn’t hook you up with enough meds and directions to the homeless clinic: she gets to come up here and sit with you, follow you around the unit making sure you don’t wander off and listen to your endless--oh thank goodness or not, your liver function is off the map. GREAT!! YAY way to go God! The meds killed her liver! Yay! Now we get to find a place for her to live. Yup, she’ll be a resident with us for a month or so because this country absolutely sucks when it comes to mental health care and well there aren’t any beds for people like this poor soul; just streets and alleyways.

After report, I start planning my first cocktail at 1955, should I stick to beer or have something stronger. . . oh yeah, I need to think about my liver.

I take a deep cleansing breath outside of A’s room.

“That goddamned nurse gave me insulin last night for my blood sugar and she gave me ten units! “
“Well good morning to you, too! Hmm…your blood sugar was 450! Of course she gave you insulin.“
“But now I’m only 200 and I feel funny! I’m too low, I’m gonna go into shock!!“

(What I want to say) “Oh boo-fucking-hoo that stupid nurse gave you insulin for a high blood sugar. Why we oughta report her to the state for...I dunno...doing her job you stupid asshat. If you don't want us to treat you then don't come to the fucking hospital and don't call 911! And, Dude, if you go into insulin shock, I will eat your nasty shoes. Yeah buddy you feel funny because your blood sugar averages at 300. But hey, you won’t have much of a brain left in about a year, so make your complaints now while you can string a coherent sentence together. Oh and I hope you aren't too attached to your toes or legs cuz those are outa here too if you keep this up.”

I do the hair patting thing through gritted teeth, and by rote explain to him what a normal blood sugar is and if he would just work with us we would bring his glucose down to manageable levels…“blah blah blah…sir…blah” Is what he hears.

I exit the room and brace myself for B’s room and ask God to deafen me against her whining. She’s sleeping soundly and I weigh not waking her up but I know her dilaudid was given exactly two hours ago and if I don’t wake her and she wakes up in an hour or so, she will see the time and realize it’s been three hours since we hooked her up with a fix and “OMG WTF I’m having a pain crisis!!” I would rather wake her up and get her high than have to explain to the patient over and over again why she can’t have an additional two milligrams of dilaudid.
“B, good morning, I’m your nurse today. How is your pain?”
“OH I DIDN’T SLEEP AT ALL LAST NIGHT I HURT SO BAD I NEED MORE DILAUDID.”
“Really? Your nurse said you were sleeping every time she rounded through the night.”
“I WAS CLOSING MY EYES AGAINST THE LIGHT BECAUSE I HURT SO BAD!”
“Why didn’t you tell the nurse?”
“I DID AND NO ONE LISTENED TO ME” (cue her tears)
“B, I trust the nurse who gave me report. I want you to think and feel carefully; how bad is your pain right now this minute. Is it the worst pain you’ve ever felt or is it just the pain you normally feel.
(cue baby voice added to tears)”It’s not the worst I’ve ever felt but it’s…it’s…really…really…bad!”

(What I want to say)”You know what you need B, you need a shrink. You need drug rehab and a shrink. I shutter to imagine the serial sexual and or physical abuse suffered upon you when you were a child or a teenager. And it makes me sick one person or a few people have broken you like this. But you know what? You are an intelligent 25 year old woman with her whole life ahead of her. Other people have gotten over these things and have gone on to more than look forward to spending a few days in the hospital! So just suck it up and go to rehab and see a shrink and move up and away from the abuse. YOU ARE LETTING THE ABUSER WIN EVERYTIME I GIVE YOU DILAUDID OR BENADRYL OR YOU ALLOW THE GI DOCS TO DO SCOPES AND THE SURGEONS TO CUT YOU OPEN. THE BAD PEOPLE ARE WINNING HERE!” (And yes I want to shout at her, because I am Nurse Tough Love in my head unlike my hero who said it out loud and to the patient. “Oh I forgot, you don’t work and have Medicaid and drug rehabs for people like you--the people who need it--are few and far between. It isn’t your fault the system is broken. So I’ll get your two milligrams of dilaudid, dear. (Insert hand pat)

After medicating B, I find myself outside of C’s room girding up for the daughter with her apologies and excuses for bringing her father back to the hospital. I luck out and she isn’t there yet. I gently stroke the top of his dear head and softly call his name. His eyes flicker open and his smile is distant and vacant. “Where am I?”
“At the hospital and I‘m lucky enough to be your nurse Mr. C.”
“Why am I here? I want to be at home in my chair.”
“I know but your daughter felt like you needed to stay with me a few days.”
“Is she here, where am I?”
(What I really want to say) “She isn’t here; It seems like she is greedy and won't sell your million dollar house in Very Prestigious Hills so you can live at a lovely Alzheimer’s facility. My guess is she is taking a well deserved spa day on your nickel because she quit her job to care for you. So she tells us you have fallen or almost fallen or might have had a stroke or were choking or couldn’t wake up or had a fever or stopped speaking or lost the feeling on one side of your body or something which will lead the ER to admit you to the hospital; when really she needs a break because it must be hard to take care of a frail elderly man who is confused and incontinent 24/7. I know I couldn’t take care of a demented loved one 24/7 for all the million dollar houses in the world. So daughter feels it is her right to contribute to the bankruptcy of the Medicare system with your frequent admissions. So you’ll stay here for 72 hours, get some fluids (when you keep your IV in); we will hover over you to make sure you don’t fall; keep your skin dry so you don’t get a wound; make placement recommendations--which will be ignored--and send you home. Again. Please don’t stop breathing or allow your heart to stop because I really don’t want to do compression on your 90 year old ribs; they will break with the first compression and it will make me physically ill. Find it somewhere in your mind to lucidly explain to your daughter you don’t want CPR because at this point, we must attempt resuscitation. Attempt is the key word here.”

D’s room is as quiet as a tomb. Damn, what if he died in the last hour and he was alone, how terrible for him he always liked lots of peo-- D interrupts my conclusion jumping with a twitch of a leg. I take his hand; it’s hot to the touch, clammy and very edematous. I say good morning and he speaks to me without opening his eyes. “I feel like crap.”
“I’m sure all this fluid is very painful. I’ll do my best to make you comfortable today. You’re burning up, too. Hey, I thought we had an agreement, the next time we saw each other it was going to be downtown on your corner!“
(What I want to say) “You look like crap, too. I think you might just die this time. Dude, you need a new liver. Hell, you need a new body. So I’m going to do my best to make you comfortable, k? And hopefully if your liver doesn’t kill you, the alcohol withdrawal won’t land you in the ICU for a few days. D, I think you just won today’s Most Medically Fragile award! And your prize is I get to treat your fever, your infection, your edema and make sure you don’t have seizure when you finally start withdrawing from the booze. And all of this with--you guessed it-drugs that could damage your liver with a side order of renal failure! Oh and another thing, I thought you were dead when I came in the room. Please don’t die today. I really want you to get well enough to tell me those crazy stories that may or may not be true.”

I press my ear to D’s door; I can hear her chanting to herself. Its quiet and a sing song repetition of the word: “camping”. Sure enough, she’s in the Veil Bed. A huge tent of a thing over the bed. It keeps us from harms way and we can sorta kinda control her behavior with limits and threats to “put her in the bed”. D doesn’t actually mind the bed and the last time she was here (cellulitis or gout or something like that) I remember she quietly approached me at the desk: “Lady I’m going to go off and I need to be put in that there bed so I don’t hurt you or anybody else what’s here today.” After I helped her to bed, she told me thank you and we had a very quiet afternoon until she called and said she felt better. It was a Zen moment. The split second before I awakened her I promised Buddha an orange slice if she had a quiet day because between crowd control in A’s room, liver control in D’s room and pain control in B’s room, E was going to have to give me a break. We don’t have the budget for a sitter so the bed and meds are going to have to keep all of us safe. I was in luck, D was smiling when she saw me and told me she was very hungry and wanted to sit in a chair because “camping” time was over.
“Camping? What do you mean?”
“Nurse yesterdee tol me I was a campin’ in this here bed! I likes to camp! Good thing too cuz wheres I lives is a sayin I cain’t come back there.”
“The group home?”
“Uh huh. The voices made ‘em tell me I couldn‘t live there no more” Tears spill from her eyes and she doesn’t bother to wipe them away. I gently reach toward her, asking, “My I?” and wipe her cheeks with a Kleenex. “I don’t have any answers for you, E but I can get your breakfast set up. The case manager will see you later and you can make a plan with her.” E follows my directions and safely maneuvering around the bed’s curtain and lets me lead her to a chair. Her gait is unsteady and my hands on help keep her from falling when her knees buckle.
“I’m too fat, I shouldn’t eat.”
“It isn’t fat, it’s fluid from your liver and it’s building up around your stomach.”
“I’m not fat?”
“Nope, hardly. You’re very thin.”
(What I want to say)”You’re very thin because sometimes your thought processes are so disorganized you don’t eat. I fear for you and if I dwell too long on what your future is without a group home. I will weep for the injustice of it all because the best place for you, Fort Public Mental Institution, is closing in a few months. We treat our stray animals better than the mentally ill in this country. I’m so deeply saddened your psyche is broken. If I had a magic wand I would wave it around your heart and head and you would have the capacity and the competency to care for yourself.”
“E I will be back in thirty minutes with your medicine.”
“Oh OK lady. I’ll be here.”

*Patients A, B, C, D and E are composites of patients I care for. When I say “care” I sincerely mean this. As much as the drug seekers make me crazy and the Notreallysickjustreallysuffering people make me; I care for them. But I’m allowed to have an opinion about their stupid, self-destructive and dangerous behaviors. If you leave me a nasty comment, I’ll match your nasty. And if you keep a blog, well let’s just say you were warned. . .

I glance at the clock in the hall and the little hand is resting on the eight. Only eleven more hours. . .

I wish I could call my professional malaise burn out but it’s more like caregiver fatigue. For the most part, my fatigue isn‘t from the patients, their diseases and their demands on me but it stems from the system. Our system is hopelessly broken. If I knew the answer I would shout it from the mountains twenty miles to the west of where I’m writing and hope the powers that be hear me.

I’m fortunate my own psyche is such that just writing this blog entry helps me see the value of the work I do which in turn buoys me up I can face the five patients assigned to me tomorrow morning at 0630.

First and foremost, I will do no harm.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

I walked into my father’s house yesterday and it hit me like a ton of bricks, she is not coming back. In February I wasn’t gob smacked with grief like I was (obviously) in October. Probably because I was too busy planning my father’s birthday party and had just a few days to focus on that. But yesterday, when I walked in there was something about the house; the smell, the feel of it that overwhelmed me with a wave of lose, sadness and--yes--self-pity. My mother was dead. All trace of her was gone in the house. I had no mother. Mother’s day was pretty much like this too. Had I known how I was going to react to the Hallmark holiday in May, I would have planned differently and worked or slept all day. But I couldn’t sleep through yesterday. Or maybe yesterday was more difficult than that day in February because TG couldn’t come with us and this is the first time since we have lived together we haven’t traveled together. That I missed her on top of missing my mother threatened to overwhelm me with grief.

Last night, while Dad was grilling after I sacrificed blood to the sacred mosquito we started talking about Sister’s trials and tribulations in the dating world. I made some offhand remark about spending a lot of time in therapy. He was incredulous I had spent two days a week for a year in therapy; that part of my decision to live in a terrible little rental house was so I could afford CBT and get off the antidepressants that were making me crazier. At first, I was miffed he had forgotten all of this. Then I realized: he probably never knew about it because I never told him and my mother thought it was a confidence and didn’t give it away. Until October fifteenth, I could count on one finger the number of times I chose to tell my father something important before I told my mother. Now he is the only parent I have to confide in and it hasn’t been all that bad, either. Once upon a time my father and I talked but we discussed the things I was comfortable with like my career and investments. Now I find myself engaging him in conversations about all the things my mom and I shared; family and friends of family news, travel plans, house plans…everything short of how erratic my periods are and the cute shoes I found on sale. What a gift to discover this relationship. Too bad it took losing one parent to discover the other.

I still expect to see my mother as I turn a corner in this house. Early this morning, Dad and The Beav went fishing and I had the house to myself for a few hours. It was so terrifically quiet and the first time I had been alone in the house in years. My grief felt unsettling and frankly a bit of an over reaction, it’s been over eight months since she diedwhy am I weepy about it now? Why did I feel the same emptiness I felt on October 16th when I walked into the house twenty four hours after she died. My father has a large picture of her prominately displayed, she’s standing near the water on Mikonos a few years ago, the last overseas trip she took. It’s not a very good picture of her, she looks tired and I can see the pain in her face, around her eyes, I sense her breathlessness as she tried to make a one last trip before admitted she needed oxygen 24/7 and was in unbearable pain due to her osteoporosis. I felt a buried well of loneliness for her open and then I realized living 800 plus miles away from home wasn’t helping my process. My sister and my father get to live everyday with reminders of my mother. Me? Because we saw each other just a few times a year, I have days every few months when I miss her tremendously. A one step forward three steps back approach to grief. But isn’t it part of my nature to make everything as difficult as I possibly can? I coped today by staying out of the house as much as I could when Dad and the boy were gone.

Once I was away from the house, I relaxed and was filled with the pure zen joy of being in the place I long to return to. I also realized how far I had come to be a person who is intrinsically happy. I am now a naturally happy person whether I live in a city where the Rockies meet the Midwest or in my home town or--God forbid--Lubbock Texas, I will be happy. (Lubbock is stretching it a bit, I don’t really want to try this theory out in with a return to West Texas) Because wherever you go, there you are. Despite doing things the hard way sometimes, being prone to “the glass is half full but dangerously close to falling off the edge of the table: I am deeply happy and content with my life. Once I realized this it was easier to step back into my mother’s house and own all my unaddressed grief.

Today was unspeakably hot with the gift of a sudden hard rain. Where I come from a rain like this cools things off. But here the humidity shot up to about 1100% and it felt as if we were in Houston or Florida or a Swedish sauna. After dinner, The Beav, mirroring my earlier restlessness, asked if we could go somewhere and “do“ something. I was feeling hemmed in after the rain and wanted to be outside in the sauna because it’s novel enough to experience my lungs adequately filled with oxygen but it’s a bonus to have hydrated skin. Besides that, I love the earthy cedar smell after the rain. I suggested we take a drive and see what had replaced a lovely old farm at the end of a road near the ‘rents house. When my parents built their little house it was in the last subdivision on the road. Now I jokingly refer to their neighborhood as the “ghetto” of one of the most expensive and exclusive bedroom communities in the state. Over the last thirty years, horse farms, old homesteads and densely wooded creek beds and a river bottom have been sacrificed for million dollar McMansions and McRanches. I am prone to sentimentality so you can only imagine the wistful feeling I have when I drive and remember the wild spaces. I’m such a sap, I can turn an errand to Walgreens into a trip down memory lane. Tonight wasn’t any different as we meandered down the roads, me lolling in how much I love this place despite the ridiculousness of the traffic, the heat and the Bubbas. The Beav didn’t even roll his eyes too much when I tried to explain DogMan to him and showed him the creek bottoms we would visit as kids trying to catchh a glimpse of the maniac who undoubtedly had a bloody hook and an appetite for teenaged girls. We drove down country roads which have blessedly missed the onslaught of nouvelle riche homes and marveled at the ground fog’s ethereal presence in the bottoms. Beautiful and eerie, I think we both expected to see the specter and Beav freely admitted it was “creepy“ at dusk with the fog hanging onto the dense canopy of trees. I wanted to walk along the creek but I’m very deathly afraid of snakes and boggy dusk is a recipe for copperheads and water snakes. So I stayed in the car on the road over the bridges, keeping the windows down so we could breath the rich air. I took us down roads I haven’t driven since I was 17. I felt a great sense of peace as I the curves and turns automatically not really sure where we were going after the DogMan Tour. But after we turned down a road partially closed due to the rain, I knew where we were going. A place I had forgotten about until tonight. The zebra at the horse farm. Why I had never taken the boys when we had visited is beyond me.

Back in the day there were several zebras at this horse farm and after we were bored with looking for Dog Man, we would stop at the side of the road, calling to them to lure them closer so we could take a good look at them. (Damn, meddling kids that we were, teasing the farm animals!) As I approached the fence I prayed tonight was NOT the night for charging and he would stay a safe distance. God agreed it would be undignified for my child to see me squealing like a girl as I flailed across the road to the car so the zebra stayed on his side of the pasture.
“Why’d you stop?“
“Zebra”
“Wha--? Na Ah, there is NOT a zebra over there, what kind of zebra, a real zebra? Sure mom. . .“
After a minute of: “Not over there but there“ type directions he saw it, the zebra hanging out in the pasture, contemplating the grass as he munched it. Fascinated by this phenomenon in suburbia, Beav lost his teenaged veneer and composure for a few minutes as he marveled at the animal and tried to fathom how and why a rancher would keep a zebra on a horse farm a mile from his GrandDad‘s house. His enthusiasm was infectious and I became fascinated with the beast all over again. I got to catch a glimpse of my little boy tonight. For this alone, Gram would have loved sharing the zebra with him. But the boy was soon replaced by the young man texting his best friend as I pulled back onto the road and headed for home.