Rest Stop, Day Two: Perspective

     I was forced to the side of the road this morning by my own body. There's been this weird-awful pain in my neck--no, really-- for nearly two weeks now, and for some reason this morning it decided to check out my chest. (I would say "lungs", but I'm no doctor.) It's like I've swallowed some bone sideways which, like a plucky about-to-be-newborn, has no intention of turning itself right.

     I talked with my like-named good friend yesterday who has consented to introduce me around her doc's spot, as I've decided that after 15 or so years, it's time to make a change in the health care professionals rotation. Not that I'm at odds with the doc so much as the Corporate Overlords which are flat out ruining the joint. And there's a political angle...no doubt some of you have experienced the same. But that's another story.

     Speaking of politics, I've lost touch with my cousin. Not just any cousin, he's pretty much the brother I never had. We are polar opposites on some things but the real things, the stuff that matters, finds us symbiotic cells flowing through the same blood, sweat, and tears together. He called in the final weeks of the election cycle of 2012 and left a message which I waited too long to return. (There was the life-altering, awful intervening episode from home in that time frame which put me on the DL for a LONG time, as I recall.) Now the numbers, e-dresses, and addresses don't work and I'm not sure where he is. Maybe he's reading this now. If so, I'd want him to know that I haven't forgotten, I love him, and I hope he's okay.

     Since childhood crossed the fields of my mind, I decided to drag out Dead Dog the First, my precious and smarter and better than all of us put together bouvier, Sasha. Not the ashes, that's just...you know. I took out the burlap sack from a Ren Faire years gone by which holds the hair from her last cut (which I wrapped in the remnants of a favorite old Pier One tribal skirt), her tags and collars, and her vet records. You see, like an idiot who really needed yet another dog, I've adopted a puppy. Our first puppy in 25 years, the kids' first puppy ever. I was curious as to where this new, lively, irrepressible beast fit in the size scheme of things. At two months, Sasha was 12 pounds. At four months, she was 29. She peaked at 120ish, but probably should have maintained at 110 or so. But we were young...
Puppy is in the ballpark, weighing in at 18 pounds at 11 weeks. She's gaining about a pound-and-a-half a week right now. As the innings roll by, we'll discover who hits the most runs: the Bouviers or the Great Pyrenees. Play ball!

     So I'm in the on-deck circle: tomorrow's pet food distribution day, then my girl and I, smelling of both kibbles and bits, will head over to that doc of hers to begin the process of sorting me out. (Best news for all right now: Mama has no voice. Well, that'll never happen, I just can't talk.)
 
     So I pause to look in the rearview mirror at the people and pets I've loved and lost. I put a toe in the soft Spring baby grasses that inhabit the off-ramps of my life: the places we get happily stuck in absentminded wonder. My hand trembles a bit before turning over the key, before igniting the fire in the belly of my Ellie. (I name my cars and so should you. All means of conveyance are female, don't forget.) It's go time. It's "oh for god's sakes go on with it" time.

     As I replace the burlap bag with tribal skirt in the closet, and go see which doctor can get the bone out of my throat (oh, homophones!), I go with today's travel posters clearly in mind, images of times rolled by. I go.