Loaded for Bear

Drawing from the Memory Bank: Year 1975:

It was early spring and the mountain air was sharp and fragrant with the rising sap from birch, oozing resin of fir, spruce and pine. Our small house was backed into the downslope of the last stony thrust of the Rocky Mountains. A flat area had been bulldozed where we parked the truck and built a small barn. The main door opened onto this area. The only window on this side was a small one which allowed you to see who was on the front porch. This floor held living room, kitchen, bath and the bedroom our sons, aged two and nine, shared. Our bedroom was downstairs.

The western view was breathtaking, a stretch of meadow, the Columbia River and beyond that the perpetually snow-capped Purcell Mountains. We lived surrounded by miles of unbroken wilderness.

Friends had come for dinner, the evening drew to a close. I tucked the boys in and retired to bed. About 2:00 A.M. I was awakened by our huge mastiff dog barking and pawing at the bedroom window. He raced around the house baying, and I had the sickening thought that maybe coyotes had gotten into the barn with the livestock. I threw on my robe and stumbled up the stairs.

I was a few feet from the front door when I heard the creaking. I stood transfixed as the solid door visibly bulged inward. Something very large was pushing on the door. I turned on the porch light and looked out the window. A huge black bear was standing on his hind feet, his shoulder pressed to the door, pushing with all his might.

My first thought was for the boys. If the bear got inside the boys were only steps away. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a skillet. I drew back and hit the door as hard as I could with the bottom of the skillet.

The bear said, "Oof!" and jumped backwards off the the porch. The dog grabbed a mouthful of bear end and began shaking. It wasn't much of a match, but it took the bear by surprise. He took off up the hill, the dog right behind him.

The bear came back the next night, but by then I'd borrowed an ancient long gun from a neighbour. When I fired it, the recoil knocked me down. The RCMP came out and laughed at me and my borrowed gun. “If you hit him with that you'll just make him mad,” the officer said. “You need get a better gun than that.”

I drove the 40 miles to town to buy a gun. The gun shop owner wouldn't sell me one. "Here's what you need," he said. From under the counter he pulled a slingshot. I am not lying. He wanted me to go after a huge bear with a slingshot. "This is a hunting sling," he said. (It was an aluminum gizmo with an extension that slipped over your forearm.)

"All you want to do is sting him,” he said. “Make him associate your place with pain. Get some rocks about the size of a big marble and smack him as hard as possible in the ribs with rocks as fast as you can reload."

So, that night I had two dozen quarter-sized rocks lined up on the window sill and my sling at the ready. When the dog began screaming, "BEAR! BEAR!" I ran upstairs, slammed the skillet on the door and while the dog and the bear circled each other 15 feet away I hit the bear in the ribs with three or four rocks in quick succession. He jumped, said, ooofff, and then hightailed it up the slope, dog on his heels.

The bear woke our nearest neighbour about midnight a few nights later. John raised sheep. He heard frantic bleating, grabbed his gun and ran to his flock. There was our bear, playing racquet ball with John's sheep, slamming them against the side of the barn, one by one. By the time John shot him the bear had killed 80 sheep.

Most of the time the bears (and cougars) came and went without incident, but this was the exception I'll always remember, and gives me the right to brag that I've hunted bear with a slingshot and lived to tell the tale.

Not Everything is Lost

Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.
 

This beautiful young woman could be any of my neighbours.

After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.

Well—one pauses these days.
Gate 4-A was my own gate.
I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.

Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.

I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?

The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,

Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.

She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.

She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.

And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.

And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.

They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.

Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952)

This poem is making the rounds on FB. I looked up the poet, and feel somewhat ambiguous about posting it, as I don't want to contravene her copyright. No copyright infringement intended, just a message we need to hear in these days. Humanity may be wandering, but it is not lost. 

The Necessities

Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. 

Without them humanity cannot survive. ~Dalai Lama
 

And not a single man died

About 20 years ago Ian and I went to a presentation by a local man who had climbed Everest. He gave long involved descriptions of the hideous weather, the cold, the impossible terrain, the many hardships as the party fought their way toward the summit.

But what stuck with both of us, and in fact had us doubled up with laughter as we crept out of the auditorium three-quarters of the way through the presentation, was the speaker's total dead-pan and sing-song delivery of one inevitable phrase. Each time he worked his way up through an escalating litany of mountaineer's woes he ended with a melodramatic tag-line, "…and another man died."

The expedition seemed cursed from the beginning. Equipment failed, dumping climbers into thousand foot deep crevasses, climbers were swept off ledges by the wind, buried under avalanches, others died of altitude sickness and hypothermia. By the time they approached the summit the party was reduced by half.

No, it was not funny, but his delivery of the phrase, again and again, milking every last bit of drama from a long and dull story made him sound like a commentator at the Master's describing the loser's putt approaching the cup.  It's been a catch phrase with us ever since.

Anyway, I do not know what brought that to mind, but by noon today it was a nasty 0 C with snow and a north wind that gusted to 40-50 mph.  I wasn't eager to get out in that. As I was working up the courage to make the assault on McKinley/Kilimanjaro, the phone rang.  It was Ian, asking if he could drop by. Who says no when their eldest child wants to visit?

In half an hour or so he was in the living room. When he learned I was going shopping he asked if I wanted him to go along and help. (Is chocolate tasty?)

So, my darling, beautiful, strong son drove me to the Mount McKinley WalMart, did the lifting, loading, unloading and we had a great lunch together while talking politics and other subjects of no particular interest to anyone except ourselves.

Then we tackled Kilimanjaro, where he ran around and got items for me, and again loaded, unloaded and was a very faithful Sherpa indeed.

Once he'd unloaded the two cartloads worth and had me settled in he took off, to attend a social function of some kind. And I am glad to say that on this expedition, not a single man (or old lady) died. I think that may only be because the Sherpa was so skilled at loading groceries, but then I may be prejudiced.    

Looking up at McKinley from base camp

Mount McKinley is the highest mountain peak in the United States and in North America with a summit elevation of 20,320 feet above sea level. I plan to make that climb tomorrow. Of course my Mount McKinley has a big  WalMart sign over the door. But because we are also facing a fridge empty of fresh fruit and veggies I'm hoping to go to the grocery store as well, so it's a WalMart/Sobey's (i.e.) McKinley/Kilimanjaro day.   

This is a daunting, if not frightening prospect, and the ascent takes preparation. The pantry, fridge, freezer and supplement supply must be checked and a list prepared. The weather forecast must be taken into account and the closet checked to make sure that the appropriate clothing is clean and ready to wear. (This entails a load of laundry) Several pieces of mail must be put into envelopes, addressed and stamped. The granny cart is taken from its place in the closet and put in the hallway.

The floor needs sweeping but if I do that today I will not be able to make my assault on the twin peaks of McKinley/Kilimanjaro tomorrow, so I leave the floor with rolling tumbleweeds of cat hair and drifts of dust. Sort of like the country around Odessa Texas, where we lived for a couple of years when I was a kid, with fewer rattlesnakes.

I watch what I eat. Care must be taken not to eat more than the permitted grams of carbohydrates, but to make sure I get adequate calories. The shower will be taken tonight, rather than tomorrow morning. The clock must be watched. Last night I was distracted and forgot to take my pain medications at 9:00, so I could sleep by midnight, which meant that I didn't sleep until 4:00 am. What a nuisance.

I miss the days, long ago admittedly, when I could just grab my purse and go; when I could be spontaneous. These days I have to plan and lay my shopping trips out as carefully as any mountaineering expedition. And I will feel as if I have been beaten and kicked by a gang of angry bikers for two or three days afterwards. 

Why talk about any of this?  It's just the way my life is. I won't lie and say I like it or have some kind of saintly acceptance. I've learned my limits, which I guess is a kind of acceptance, but life is damn hard work and there's no little flashing light that indicates you are struggling just to put the one foot in front of the other. But I still have some gear to prepare for the climb tomorrow, and it's coming up on pain pill time, and I don't want to miss that tonight. Wish me luck.    

In Praise of Boston

 Today, instead of a climbing or sitting in base camp post, I'm doing something I rarely do, reposting from someone else's blog. Dave Munger ran the Boston Marathon on Monday,  and if this doesn't bring you to tears you may not have a heart...

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

In praise of Boston

I wanted to tell you about my race yesterday at the Boston Marathon. That is what I wanted to do. I wanted to tell you everything about what happened to me during the race.

I wanted to tell you about leaving my Garmin in the hotel, and running the race with only a 1980s era digital wristwatch.

I wanted to tell you my splits for every mile of the race, how I started out strong, but then just gradually lost the energy to keep up the pace I had planned. I wanted to tell you all about it.

I wanted to tell you that I finished in 3:39, 17 minutes slower than my PR, and that I was disappointed with that.

But instead, I'm going to tell you about the people of Boston, and the way they come together, by the thousands, by the hundreds of thousands, for one day every year, to celebrate what we runners sometimes take for granted.

Before and after the race, I had dozens of ordinary people, not runners, stop me to tell me how proud they were of me. Not one of them asked what my finishing time was, or whether I was happy with my performance. They just wanted to share that they admired my accomplishment.  Read the rest... 

There were many...

Am I just not buying the right product?

Okay, to continue my report of my normal week. My day begins with the usual schizophrenic discussion between my brain and my body:

Body: "OMG! I feel like the Pittsburgh Penguins used me as a practice puck, all night long! %$#*& I HURT! Everything hurts! I am NOT moving.

Brain: "Listen you, get yer plush bum out of bed and get moving! It's just going to be worse the longer you lie here whining. Sheesh!"

Body: "Easy for you to say. It's not YOU that hurts! If I move I may die!"

Bladder: "If I may interrupt this scintillating conversation I really am at the tipping point. The two of you can argue about this on the way to the bathroom."

Groaning, I crawl out of bed and stumble toward the bathroom.  Within a half hour I have made coffee, fed the starving, squalling cats and collapsed into my rocker to watch the morning news.

And in the next half hour I have learned how to solve all my problems. If only I bought a certain brand of adult diaper I might not have to get out of bed at all, but I like the alternatives they show better. One commercial has ice-skaters wearing the diapers, and the next has a sparkly dancer wearing them. So, next time I shop I'll buy a package of them and instead of being the puck, I'll be a skater! 

As I climb my Seven Summits it would be handy to speak to my guides in their own languages, so I've been watching that commercial that promises their product will teach you how to speak a new language in 30 days. So far I can say, "Schwimmer", but I don't know what it means, or even what language it is.  I'll try it on my next Sherpa/grocery carry-out clerk and see what reaction I get. What could go wrong?

Right now, having swept yesterday (see previous post) my left shoulder is partly out of place and my arms, hands and fingers are stiff, aching and very sore.  I'm wrapping this up and heading for the pain pills. They aren't advertised, but they will help me get my body up out of the rocker and - oh wait, there's another ad - this product promises to take away wrinkles. Boy that's the last thing I worry about.

Off for those pills…

Another day in base camp

Today is another day in base camp, but at least I am able to do more than just look at the scattered remnants of a day of climbing and begin to straighten out the mess. At any rate if any neighbours drop in I won't die of embarrassment.

While it took every ounce of discipline I could manage (and a full bladder) to crowbar me out of bed this morning, I'm not in much pain. (Hoorah!) So after breakfast I wiped off the counters, and helped Tony put away the dishes which he unloaded from the dishwasher.

Then I swept. Okay, roll your eyes and snicker if you must, but for me sweeping is hard work. After the first few strokes of the broom I had to put His Supreme Naughtiness, Salvadore Too, into the kennel where he squalled like he was being killed. But he's taken up Smokey's trick of grabbing the broom with all four feet and hanging on for dear life. He's not quite five months old and only weighs six or seven pounds but he does make sweeping impossible.

"This mah baby, yu make him cry I bite yu!"

And I cleaned the litter box. As usual, as soon as it has been cleaned both cats climbed in (together) and used it, squatting side by side. (These guys are a hoot) This desperation to get into a clean box suggests it has been several weeks since it was cleaned but it was actually cleaned about 10 pm last night. They are just super-duper fastidious and don't like using a "soiled" box. So I cleaned it again once they'd both climbed out and kicked a bunch of litter on my newly swept floor. (I give up)

So, after a half hour's break I am feeling lucky. I think I'll go dig through the freezer for the short ribs I know are there, and put them in the crockpot with a bit of bbq sauce. Throw a bunch of potatoes in the big pot and with some parsley and an avocado and cucumber salad it will look dangerously like I have made dinner by about 6:00 pm.

The Seven Summits

Looking at me, you'd never guess. I'm a climber. I don't write about it because I'm doing it in secret.

I'm doing the Seven Summits. Yesterday was a good day and I did Mt. Kilimanjaro, otherwise known as Sobey's, the grocery store down the street. Actually I prefaced grocery shopping with a trip to the pharmacy, so I could have counted this as one of the higher summits but since I started calling this climb Kilimanjaro I'm not changing now.

But with me a "good day" is relative. I've reached a tipping point where I have little muscle left to work with, and the ones I have must work very very hard to compensate. By the time I'd unloaded the groceries into the granny cart for the final ascent I felt as if I was going to throw up from the exertion. But the wind was very cold and was clawing at my ears so I pushed on toward the top.

The local wildlife (i.e. the cats) had every intention of bowling me over and escaping as I struggled the cart through the door, but Tony grabbed the baby and I pushed Smokey back inside with the cart. There really wasn't much, I hadn't even filled the cart. Tony unloaded most of it so I didn't have to bend over. My recently subluxated ribs have yet to completely settle and bending still hurts. But his help was appreciated because he's rowing the Atlantic in a fishing dory all alone this month, and he's got his hands full without unloading groceries from the granny cart.

I grabbed my "treat", a bottle of fruit-flavored no-cal carbonated water, and flopped into my rocking chair. I hurt from stem to stern which is mixing watery-dory metaphors with stony-mountainy ones but right now I don't give a… well, I won't be rude.

I've been having trouble standing for more than a few minutes so we're trying out the ready-made meals from Sobey's. They have a kitchen right in the middle of the store where they prepare a whole range of take-away foods, with pre-packaged dinners (your choice of roast beef/chicken/ham/turkey/or meat loaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, and veggies) or you can put together your own combo. They have all kinds of food, from sushi to pasta to Chinese to Polish to southern fried chicken. One combo is enough for two meals for me, and surprisingly enough this is costing us less than buying the fresh food, because it often spoils before I can cook it. I also buy a lot of fruit, some cheese, eggs, and yogurt, and the freezer is full if I feel like cooking.

So that was yesterday for me. Kilimanjaro conquered, or vice versa, I'm never sure which, but today I was laid low in base camp and my sum accomplishments have been;
1. pull my shrieking muscles out of bed
2. make coffee
3. turn on a loaded dishwasher
4. sit in my chair and rock

That's it. I've answered a few e-mails and written this. Big day… Now it's nearly midnight and I hate to go to bed, because I always wake up feeling terrible. The pain meds I take to be able to sleep have worn off by morning and it's agony to move, and it's agony to lie there. So you grit your teeth and get up because you know that the first 10 minutes are the worst. After that it will probably get better. Probably. And quite possibly there's a mountain waiting.

We're All Bozos on the Bus!

The conversation is superficially about "Peak Oil" and the economic challenges we are facing. But there's a lot of wisdom here about how we deal with anxiety, sadness, and our neighbours. Well worth the time spent.

Kathy McMahon Psy.D. is a clinical psychologist who is internationally known for her writing about the psychological impacts of Peak Oil, climate change, and economic collapse.

Unexpected Pleasures

A week ago yesterday we had our condominium's annual general meeting. I sit on the board, as the landscaper and gardener. After the meeting one of my neighbours, a young man named Mark, approached with a gift, a pot of seven or eight tulips with buds only days from opening. Last summer he brought me an enormous hanging basket filled with beautiful flowers. Having a neighbour who works for a company which supplies all the floral displays for the city's large malls is a bonus. Receiving a pot of tulips was an unexpected pleasure.

I placed the tulips in the bedroom, on the table next to the window. I have other plants on that table and keep that door closed because certain cats in this household are plant shredders. A couple of days ago they opened and I took a few pictures. Lovely things. The blossoms are not large but they are so delicately fragrant and they are magnificent in form and in the colour variations, pinks and creams.

The last few days have been "warm", well, above freezing. Today it was practically hot as the temperature reached a blistering 19 C (66 F). This kind of warmth this early in the year means a cold snap is chasing the heat before it, and snow is in our forecast for tomorrow.

Despite several days of warm temperatures there are still dirty snowbanks piled in the flowerbeds on either side of the wide walkway leading to the front door. But when I looked out this morning a spot of colour caught my eye at this end of the flower bed.

I could hardly believe my eyes, but a single crocus had pushed through the dead leaves to lift its lavender face to the sun. I grabbed my camera and quickly ran down to take a picture. While there I scouted the rest of the beds for life. The smooth fleshy leaves of the "elephant ears" are uncoiling next to the sidewalk 15 feet farther down the bed. Otherwise everything is still sleeping. But I have that photo to look at until the rest of my flowers start to emerge and fill that bed with colour and texture.

Two quiet and unexpected pleasures -   

Cloudburst

Wonderful, wonderful!

When you are sick of sickness

You know the story of the serpent in the garden. Even in Paradise, Eve, who had everything she could possibly have wanted, needed, hoped for or desired, was willing to listen to the serpent's suggestion that she was being cheated of something. Eve was easily convinced that God was withholding knowledge or more specifically power  that would make her even happier than bliss.

The serpent was cunning. Clothed in a pleasing exterior, using the intimate tone of the friend, so very concerned for Eve's welfare, the serpent's real purpose was concealed. Plant the seed and in time Eve convinced herself that she was not as free as she believed, but was subjugated, a pawn, a victim even. Urged by a rising darker self to share her dissatisfaction with her closest friend, the two of them destroyed their own happiness. And so man fell from Paradise, or so the story goes.

It's the human story, reenacted again and again, in families, in the workplace, Little League or the not-for-profit, whenever any group forms to try and work together. No matter how carefully you screen, the serpent enters.

There's a time of waiting and assessment. Which of the group is most likely to play the part of Eve? There's always one who is fearful, suspicious or resentful. One who is constantly alert for signs that they are not included, respected or appreciated enough. A jealous one. That will be the one the serpent approaches first. Easily led by the serpent's tongue to dwell on their anger and dissatisfaction and be on the alert for any sign that reinforces their discontent, such feelings must be shared with a confidant. Yes, that one will agree.... thinking back, I remember when....

The serpent waits...then asks, "What did she mean by that?" The atmosphere chills, there are some signs of hostility.  There is a slow slide into chaos. The serpent sits back and enjoys watching it unfold.

But we have to understand that a serpent can't be anything other than what they are. The poison is in us. There's a Chinese proverb. "When you are sick of sickness, you are no longer sick."

People can be so kind

i have one arm full of a warm, silken kitten who keeps reaching up to kiss me, hence the one-fingered typing. i cannot bring myself to apologize. he is a bit perturbed not to be the entire focus of my attention so if any apologies need to be made they are to him.

after a ten-day stretch of cold and snow we had a sunny, warm (10 C or 50 F) day. this meant the car would not have to be cleared of snow, nor the windshield scraped free of ice. and since snow and cold are predicted to descend on us tonight and i needed to shop, away i went shortly after noon.

i have a subluxated rib and even breathing hurts. and yes i know that walmart is run by satan and his legions of demons but i shop there at least once a month because they have great prices and on a pension every penny has to count. i also shop there because they have most everything i need under one roof and i rarely have the energy to shop in two places. and they are close.

in fact i sort of love the wallys near our place because - i've said this before - you see people from all over the world there and you can hear a dozen different languages in as many minutes.  and in this wallys the staff is almost always very helpful.

when i reached the checkout today i asked the woman to please pack the sacks light, as I was having a hard time lifting anything. she looked at me - and said - 'i'll take the things from the cart for you, and pack them back in. are you parked in the lot? i'll get someone to take these to your car.' and she did. she unloaded the cart, rang it all through, packed my cart, and called someone to help me. two very kind ladies.

and as i pulled into my spot at home my neighbour gail came along and helped me load my cart, and carried what i couldn't get in the cart upstairs. this was such a help.

sometimes all we hear about are bad things people do, how rude shop clerks are, or how awful 'big box' stores are.  but today was a good day, a day when the kindness i was shown really mattered. i'm still sort of glowing inside, just thinking about it, and also from cuddling the kitten in my lap, who really loves his mama.

If people are quiet, they can be quiet anywhere

A few nights ago there was a documentary on Sister Wendy Beckett known to TV audiences as the lisping nun who has done several commentary series on great art. Sister Wendy lives as a contemplative nun, a hermit, in a small prefabricated house, much like a travel trailer or RV, on the grounds of a Carmelite Abbey. She was a bit perturbed that so much of the filming time was focused on her life, when what she really wanted to talk about were paintings of Christ and what they meant to her personally. In her 80s she is bent, fragile, and as she said, hoping it won't be long before I sleep, nodding at the Abbey's shaded and green cemetery as they passed it, with the other nuns.  A plain, quiet woman, deeply rooted in her faith.  
 
Counterpoint Press has just re-issued Road to Heaven, Bill Porter’s story of his search for Taoist and Buddhist hermits in China’s Chungnan mountains in 1989. In 1989, Porter, a scholar of Chinese religion and philosophy, wondered if the Buddhist hermit tradition still existed in China after years of persecution under Mao's Cultural Revolution.

But deep in the Chungnan mountains — the historical refuge of hermits — Porter discovered dozens of monks and nuns leading solitary lives in quiet contemplation of their faith. He found enough to fill a book with brief, lucid interviews and photographs. When he arrives at their doorsteps, they are generous and polite, but unconcerned with politics and worldly issues. Like many Westerners Porter looks for signs of "enlightenment" or some special dispensation of holiness but he finds plain people who simply have learned to be quiet.

Why come to the mountains?
It is a good place to practice.
Did there used to be more hermits?
There used to be more, and now there are less.
Is it a good place because it is quiet?
If people are quiet, they can be quiet anywhere.
Isn’t it hard?
After awhile, it’s all the same.
Isn’t it cold in the winter?
Winters are a good time to practice.
How do you practice?
I just pass the time.
Do you practice very much?
Practice is the only thing that matters. Have some tea. 

So what am I to take from this?
That I have a long way to go to learn to be quiet anywhere. 

Happy to be...

Just what I am right now...

If Doubt There Was…

There is none now. Sal2 is Smokey's baby and the laid-back, social, mild-mannered fuzzball that is Smokey can (and will) turn into a tiger if his baby needs defending.

Monday afternoon our neighbour Gail dropped by to meet the new kitten. She brought her toy poodle, Midnight, with her. Midnight and Smokey have always been good friends. Smokey has always been overjoyed when Midnight arrived for a play session.

This time he greeted Midnight happily as usual, but Sal2 had never seen a dog before and when he saw Midnight he did not like what he saw, or smelled, and he most certainly did not want the rude creature sniffing his very private parts! He hissed at the poodle.

Smokey was down the hall, sniffing a bag Gail had brought in with her. When Sal2 hissed Smokey puffed up his very long coat and tail and shot down the hall into the kitchen throwing himself between Midnight and the kitten. He looked like a basketball made of fur.

Sal2 was standing at my feet, and recognizing trouble when I see it , I reached down and scooped him up. The kitten was surprised and squeaked, Midnight jumped up and Smokey went for Midnight. However by the time contact was made Midnight had moved and instead of getting Midnight Smokey bit me.

He sank his teeth into the front part of my ankle. He let go as quickly as he realized he had the wrong party, and he retreated to his cat tree. Gail didn't know what to do, but Smokey was still eyeing Midnight with murder in his heart so we asked her to pick Midnight up and go as quickly as possible.

I cleaned the wound and consulted Health Link, who made an immediate appointment with Urgent Care. I saw the doctor within the hour and was prescribed antibiotics. Yesterday I had to go have a tetanus shot, as I haven't had one in ages.

So, I am healing. Smokey is the new "hero" of the household for defending his baby, and life goes on, one small household drama after the next.

The Buddha's Blessing

Let all beings be happy!
Weak or strong,
of high, middle or low estate,
Small or great, visible or invisible,
near or far away,
Alive or still to be born —
may they all be perfectly happy!
Let nobody lie to anybody
or despise any single being anywhere.
May nobody wish harm
to any single creature,
out of anger or hatred!
Let us cherish all creatures,
as a mother her only child!
May our compassionate thoughts
fill the whole world,
above, below, across, –
Without limit;
a boundless goodwill
toward the whole world,
Unrestricted,
free of hatred and enmity!
(Sutta Nipata 118)

Compassion....

In the midst of the fire, on a day when the slings and arrows of outrage are being hurled at me by people I work with and for (enough said), a patient wrote to ask for medical advice I could not give. All I could do was extend my arms, acknowledge and embrace her suffering. It felt like far too little.

She responded, ending her note with this:

P.S. have you seen this ted talk? reminds me of you.

I aspire to such compassion, to be seen as having even a measure of it breaks my heart, in the most beautiful way.