Dear Mr. Smoker Guy

Dear Mr. Smoker Guy, driving down the street in your itty-bitty Fiat that is oh-so fuel efficient while puffing clouds of tar and nicotine out of your cracked driver’s window.  

Please help me understand something that has been a mystery to me since the beginning of my time on this earth.  Why is it that when you are done inhaling all of the tobacco and are left with the tar-stained stub, that you find it acceptable to toss this trash from the window of your environmentally friendly car? This butt of the cigarette rolls a few feet on the pavement and lays to rest, where it sits for days and days, flattened by hundreds of tires.  Rain will probably eventually wash your butt to the gutter of the road where it will tumble down into the storm drain out of sight.   Once there it will travel to the nearest body of water to become poisonous animal food, or just decorate the shore of our lovely beaches and foul the water with nicotine residue.

Of course, you are not the only one to do this, so maybe you think that it’s okay, because…you know, why not?  You see butts fly from the windows of crusty old Chevys, gas-guzzling Hummers and even modest mini-vans.  So, what’s one more?  

Someone once told me that butts are biodegradable so it is okay to toss them where ever you please because they will, at some point months or years from now, disintegrate and become part of the soil.  In that case, maybe I should have thrown my banana peel, apple core and orange rind out my window today during my trip home from work!  Hmmm.  That gives me an idea.  I am not planning to plant a garden this year, so why don’t I start throwing my compost out onto the street with yours?

Maybe because you are a tax payer you believe that you deserve to throw your stinky trash onto the street because you pay good money to the city government to keep our town shiny and attractive?  Those bureaucrats probably have nothing better to spend money on anyway.  Heck, who needs streetlights, safe crosswalks and pot-hole free roads?

Or, could it be that you just don’t give a rip?  You don’t need to consider litter laws or a healthy environment because you will be dead soon from lung cancer and for all you care the world can fester in garbage without you?

Whatever the reason, I’m glad you stared me down through your rear-view mirror when I gave a short toot of my horn as your smoldering butt rolled into my path this morning.  Maybe for one second you thought about the consequence of your action, or maybe you didn’t.  I know I will sleep better tonight if I believe you’ll think twice next time you hold a butt in your hand.

If You're Lucky...

If you’re lucky, you’ve had your heart broken by the loss of a beloved pet.  Yep, that’s what I said, lucky.  In the moment, it is impossible to feel fortunate as your heart is broken, but you are.  You are so lucky to have had that unconditional love and wordless connection for the fleeting period of time that is your pet’s life.  The painful hole in your chest that comes with loss is there because the furry little bugger burrowed deep into your being. Then she must leave you, and in her absence a big, fat, cavernous hole that you think is going to swallow you up.  But it won’t, because you are so lucky to have all of those great memories to fill that hole, and your pet can reside there forever.  Right there.

Some of us lose our furry loved ones suddenly, in an accident or disappearance.  Some of us watch life leave their bodies and their eyes incrementally, wondering how many days or hours we have left with our companion until they are gone.  We find logical things to make us feel better, “She lived a long and full life” or “Thank goodness it was quick and she didn’t know what happened.”  But it hurts just the same - real bad.  The fact is, we are stuck with the ridiculous reality that our pets’ life spans are limited to a fraction of our own, therefore the loss is unavoidable.

Forgive my emotional meanderings as I sit on the floor next to my best friend.  My girl is labradorable in every sense.  My fearless trail running partner in her youth, leading the pack over hills and through streams.  My joyful partner around the house, flashing her big brown eyes in hopes of tasty acknowledgements. And more recently on tail-wagging strolls through the neighborhood.  Of course she has always been the guardian of the night, snoozing at my bedside to ensure the family’s safety from raccoons and squirrels lurking in the trees outside the window.  

I believe that our pup’s joy and playful spirit is what has brought her well beyond the average life expectancy of her large breed.  Her head was too hard to be damaged by the deer that gored her (rather than be chased by a silly dog), and the determination to explore every trail kept her bad knees moving along.  Up until three weeks ago people were calling her “puppy” on the trail, consistently shocked to learn her real age in human years - a hair shy of 15.

Unfortunately, the Doc confirmed the worst last week.  She has cancer demons attacking her organs.  Those little suckers, like tiny lilliputians tying her down one thread at a time, are weighing her down and robbing her of her voracious appetite.  My dog loved to eat.  Even a few days ago roasted chicken was the magic that would get her tail thumping, but now we are running out of tasty tricks.  The most delectable meats, canned food and even peanut butter have her turning her nose.  She watches with hope and desire when I open the fridge, but turns away in queasy disappointment at each offering.

My girl still takes comfort in our presence and her eyes twinkle with happiness when we gently stroke her ears.  Her joyful personality is still sparkling, although in progressively smaller ways.  Our goal is to do everything we can to bring out the precious eye-twinkle with affection and the occasional perfect treat.  When there is no more twinkle we must let her go, in peace.

Even though I feel like I have a grenade in my chest, and the anticipation of pulling the pin is about killing me, I still feel like the luckiest person on the planet.  Fortunate because I have had the honor of loving, and being loved by, this beautiful dog.  I will carry her with me always.  I am very lucky indeed.

What If...

My dog isn’t feeling well.  Sure, she’s old.  She’s likely outlived her litter-mates and the average life-span of her breed.  However, my pooch has always had the appetite and lust for life of a pup half her age, so this sudden turn of behavior, her sudden decision to “act her age”, has me quite concerned.

This situation has me playing a game quite common among my peers (peers, as in the children I teach and coach as professional child-wrangler).  The What If? game.  You know, “What if all we had to do is think of our favorite food and it would just appear?” or “What if the rain turned into peanut butter and whenever we were hungry we could just lick our coats and umbrellas?”  Well….that would really suck for anyone allergic to peanuts.

I have a much more practical use for the What If? game.  Seriously.  What if, upon bringing a pet into our family, we were granted a limited amount of communication with our pet.  I mean real english language understanding - one on one idea exchange with clearly defined words.  

Keep in mind, I have a well thought-out rationale for why this verbal communication should be limited.  Because one of the reasons that having pets is so wonderful and good for the soul is that they cannot argue with you, accidentally say the wrong thing or deliberately insult you.  Instead we look, cross species, into each other’s eyes and see pure devotion,

affection and unconditional love.  Words would undoubtedly mess that whole magic up.  So as it is, when we get home at the end of the day and see the tail wagging and the happy bounce in her step we think, “Oh, you missed me and I’m happy to see you, too!”  When it is entirely possible that the dog is wagging and thinking, “FINALLY…dinner time!  I don’t care why you’re late, just gimme food!”  Sometimes less is more.  I don’t really want my dog to tell me how my jeans look, or what snack would be healthier than that leftover piece of cake, or that my job as food-deliverer is the reason she is ecstatic that I am home.

What if the rule is that we limit our communication to, say, 100 words per lifetime…or ten ideas exchanged per decade.  That way we/they would have to choose very carefully how to use these opportunities.  A smart dog would save their chances to communicate for the most important circumstances, such as today.  My pup could tell me exactly where it hurts, what she needs to feel better, and then life goes on as it should.  A selfish dog would waste all of his/her words on desires and cravings and would have nothing left for important times like this.  Not my dog.  An ugly human might use his/her opportunities for dominance or scolding.  Not me.

What if the idea exchange should only happen when both parties agree.  Like the Wonder Twins’ fist bump, (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ktUx57i63e0) when both parties offer a fist or paw, and upon contact a spark flies, and so do the words.  That way words would never be misused or wasted.

All I know is I want to know why my girl is feeling punky so I can fix it.  I need her to feel better.  For now I’ll keep looking into her eyes for hints, and waiting for the vet to call with test results with fingers crossed.

What if?  

Atta girl!