Winston and the Mythical Chicken

February 19, 2018.Reading time 6 minutes.

The call came about 11 am. Her voice told me immediately that we were at Threat Level 5.

We all have our call scales. Ours runs something like this:

Threat Level 1 – no threat, reserved for happy talk – “The kitten is being so cute.”

Threat Level 2 – potential threat, status uncertain but there might be blame – “Have you seen my hairbrush?”

Threat Level 3 – serious misdeeds by pets or children, these are problems, but passive in that I only have to moderate – “The kids are killing me today!”

Threat Level 4 – these are problems I have created. No examples will be provided.

Threat Level 5 – usually reserved for natural disasters, impending riots, police visits, or the horrors that occur when the wifi is out. When we hit Threat Level 5, I immediately grab my keys knowing that I am either going to have to hurry home… or the other way if I am the cause. But this time:

“Winston’s carrying around a dead chicken,” she cried with horrific drama in her voice.

This is one of those places where the male and female minds diverge. While she can’t see past the fact that there is a carcass, I begin the forensic analysis of where in the world Winston got the chicken. And how?

The first thing you have to know is that Winston is old – Very old and feeble. In fact, he has basically become a door stop with fur. He can’t hear anymore and his voice is just a raspy yelp now. Like an old man, he gets up early to make water, then settles onto the rug for a nice nap that basically lasts until bedtime.

So I’m thinking rationally, “there is no way Winston caught a chicken!”

But she is hysterical, “I’m looking at a chicken in his mouth!!!!”

To be fair, she is on the scene and I am not.

Then it dawned on me, our neighbors just got chickens… uh oh! Now I still do not believe that Winston is capable of climbing their fence, chasing a chicken and killing it. Also, as much of a pain as he is, he is a nice dog. Never once has he shown anger to the cats in his domain. I don’t believe he has ever killed anything in his life, but he has a nose for dead things and likes to carry them around.

“You have to go apologize to the neighbors,” I say.

“What? Why?” She cries. “What would I say?”

“We have to apologize,” I argue. “Say this: I don’t think that Winston is capable of catching a chicken, but he had one and we’re sorry and will make it right.”

“Okay…” Said with a deep sigh.

She made the walk next door to the neighbor’s house. The neighbor was very kind. They counted the chickens together and none were missing. Hmmm. So where did Winston get his chicken?

When I got home, I walked the yard looking and sniffing for the carcass. I walked it twice and the chicken was nowhere to be seen or smelled. Winston sat smugly on the porch, awaiting the bath required to come back into the house. My daughter, Jenna suggested we let him off the porch and watch him from a window to see if he would go back to it. That education is paying off!

He did. After waiting to make sure we weren’t watching (he literally looked both ways like a criminal), he wandered down into the woods and picked up his prize chicken. I went down to take it away and figured out immediately why it wasn’t one of our neighbor’s chickens. Because it was a rabbit. I am certain that Winston didn’t catch this either. He just found it somewhere. But he was proud of it and very distraught when I took it away for disposal.

Now my wife is a smart lady who can differentiate between a chicken and a rabbit, except when we hit Threat Level 5. Then all bets are off. She has cleaned poop stains from walls and vomit from every surface in the house in her role as mother. But dead animals… evidently those are mine… especially when they are chickenrabbits.

We’ve had fun teasing her about her chickenrabbit. She’s fine with the mockery only because it is gone now.

And Winston? He’s back to his old, sleepy self. The excitement is over until he stumbles onto another carcass. I wonder what that one will be!

The Lonely Valley of Whatifs

February 12, 2018.Reading time 6 minutes.

Two forks emerged in the rolling wood and the weary traveler sat upon a broken stump to consider his options. One way was canopied with thick arbors above and a narrow path below. While it looked pleasant, it was dark and uncertain. The other took an immediate turn and appeared to open into sunshine.

As he wiped the sweat from his brow, he studied the map given him when forced upon the journey. He knew there had been directions, but that was long ago and he had been under duress – so many voices, so much information. If truth be told, he had never in his life been one to listen well to others. This time he had tried, for the stakes were high. There was life and death in the balance so reckless he couldn’t be.

The map told him to follow the path through the woods. Yet he wasn’t certain. Was that the right way? He pondered until he heard the ravenous bark of the hounds. His pursuers were nearly upon him so he pulled himself up and followed the dark path under the trees.

The way was no easy fare. It brought roots and rocks that jumped up and pull his legs from beneath and branches that clubbed him from above. Every time he reached a lazy downhill stroll, a climb ensued – each hill steeper than the last until he found himself at the edge of a perilous cliff where the howling wind at his back threatened to push him into an endless abyss below.

Still he pushed, and fought, and kept moving; though he was uncertain and afraid.

And when he reached the other side having gone the way he was instructed, he hoped with all his might that his journey was ended. But the poor fool’s hopes were dashed as he held his lifeless babe in his arms.

Looking back over where he had come, he didn’t see mountain, cliff, or forest. He saw nothing but a long, murky valley that seemed to stretch on forever.

The Lonely Valley of Whatifs.

What if he had started sooner? What if he had taken a different path? What if he had pushed harder? Would the outcome have changed?

Every journey is marked by decisions – both easy and hard. The difficult decisions are made using the best information you have. In a perfect world, we could make those choices and move on. But that’s rarely the way life happens, is it?

We all enter The Valley.

For those whose path lead to sunny shores, the valley is short. Whatifs are only fleeting thoughts of perils that could have been.

But if, due to difficulties beyond your control or decisions you’ve made, your life has become less than you wanted, the Valley of Whatif stretches on like an endless bog. The earth gives way to dark mud that sucks us down further with every step. Early it covers only our shoes until we get weary and our feet grow heavy. Another step pulls us in to our knees, then slowly we are chest deep and sinking fast.

Tomorrow marks three years since we said goodbye to Kylie and I taste the mud. It cakes my ears and my nose until I hear nothing and can only smell its earthy, rich scent. I smell it like I remember the smell of the freshly dug earth on the hill where we laid her to rest. Regret is inescapable.

My head knows we did everything we could, but my heart will second guess until that day the earth covers me. The wind brings whispers of wounding questions. What if we had discovered the cancer sooner? What if we had chosen a different treatment? What if I had pushed harder or educated myself more? Would she be here if… If… IF…

There are no answers. The Lonely Valley of Whatif never yields answers and the even world’s finest mud tastes awful.

If you’re tasting mud of regret over something past like me, spit it out. I realize this is very cavalier advice whilst I still chew on my own mud. I intend to spit it out… someday. I would be lying if I said today was the day. Or especially tomorrow. It may take a thousand tomorrows and I doubt I’ll ever be able to remove the taste completely. But I refuse to allow the filthy swill of the past completely sully the tastes of the future.

I know Kylie wouldn’t want that.