Adaptation and Survival
I was rubbing a throbbing forehead—my throbbing forehead—when a client called to report on her time in detox. “It went really well,” she said, with a sort of sunniness not typically found amongst heroin addicts. “I only had one seizure,” she added brightly. I continued to rub my head as she talked and wondered if I might actually be dying from going a few hours without caffeine.
This was just prior to my drive home. It was raining. Still. It has been for days. I purposely took the back way so I could drive over the Great Miami River and past all the little tributaries that vein out into the countryside. But I could no longer drive ‘over’ or ‘past,’ but instead ‘around’ and ‘through.’ The latter done whilst holding my breath. There is no way I want my fat ass plucked from the hood of my car with local, TV cameras rolling.
The sky got so heavy with rain that any distinction between sky and earth was lost. I was really scared for a moment and wondered about those folks who watched end-of-time water rushing towards them during Katrina.
Around the next curve was dry land with thirteen deer munching between long-dead rows of corn. I know there were thirteen because I slowed down to count. I see them here everyday, sometimes as many as thirty. It is a deer happy hour; a haven from the new development that has reduced their roaming. If they could read English they would know their little all-you-can-eat buffet is slated for development as well.
The squirrels have it easier, I thought. The other day I looked out my office window to see a squirrel eating a leg of fried chicken. He was sitting there on the wooden fence, one end in each hand. (Or is it paw?) He took a bite and then held the leg out to search for more bits of meat, then took another bite. When he was done I swear he licked his fingers. (Or is it claws?)
I shared this vignette with a colleague who informed me it is common practice for squirrels in this particular neighborhood. Her and her husband have gone to the park and directly handed fried chicken to beggar squirrels from their picnic blanket. They apparently like corn on the cob as well, smothered in butter. “There will probably be squirrels running around with heart disease and diabetes someday,” said the colleague.
By the time I made it home my headache was fading. Sophie the dog wagged her tail at the sight of me, which is nice. “Sophie,” I said, "despite my persistent grumpiness and a canyon of a wrinkle forming between my eyes, I feel brand new most days.”
She nodded an affirmation and then nosed her empty dish.
This was just prior to my drive home. It was raining. Still. It has been for days. I purposely took the back way so I could drive over the Great Miami River and past all the little tributaries that vein out into the countryside. But I could no longer drive ‘over’ or ‘past,’ but instead ‘around’ and ‘through.’ The latter done whilst holding my breath. There is no way I want my fat ass plucked from the hood of my car with local, TV cameras rolling.
The sky got so heavy with rain that any distinction between sky and earth was lost. I was really scared for a moment and wondered about those folks who watched end-of-time water rushing towards them during Katrina.
Around the next curve was dry land with thirteen deer munching between long-dead rows of corn. I know there were thirteen because I slowed down to count. I see them here everyday, sometimes as many as thirty. It is a deer happy hour; a haven from the new development that has reduced their roaming. If they could read English they would know their little all-you-can-eat buffet is slated for development as well.
The squirrels have it easier, I thought. The other day I looked out my office window to see a squirrel eating a leg of fried chicken. He was sitting there on the wooden fence, one end in each hand. (Or is it paw?) He took a bite and then held the leg out to search for more bits of meat, then took another bite. When he was done I swear he licked his fingers. (Or is it claws?)
I shared this vignette with a colleague who informed me it is common practice for squirrels in this particular neighborhood. Her and her husband have gone to the park and directly handed fried chicken to beggar squirrels from their picnic blanket. They apparently like corn on the cob as well, smothered in butter. “There will probably be squirrels running around with heart disease and diabetes someday,” said the colleague.
By the time I made it home my headache was fading. Sophie the dog wagged her tail at the sight of me, which is nice. “Sophie,” I said, "despite my persistent grumpiness and a canyon of a wrinkle forming between my eyes, I feel brand new most days.”
She nodded an affirmation and then nosed her empty dish.
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