At Home . . .
My Sabrina cares for birds and animals more than she cares for most humans. She routinely visits animal stores and recently ran into a very personable red parrot. He would talk to her, stand on her shoulder, tuck his head coyly at her. When she left the store, her heart remained behind
But 1500.00 dollars? We both agreed this was – for the time being – beyond our means. She continued to go visit him. She’d come home and say wistfully, “I really want a red bird” meaning of course, the parrot.
Three days ago, driving in town, she noticed a small bird on the shoulder of the road not moving despite the traffic whizzing by. Sabrina pulled over and collected the little guy, tucked him under her coat for warmth and headed for home.
We fed it, warmed it, and that afternoon, he was ready to leave. We opened the cage, he flew off.
Funny thing: the next day he was perched in our tree right next to the front door. Sabrina walked out and stood under the tree watching him above her just out of reach, but he didn’t fly off. Everyday she would spot his distinctive markings in some tree close to the house, as if watching for her. So, in a way, Sabrina got her bird.
By the way, the little bird?
A Cardinal.
At Home at Night . . .
Sabrina is under the delusion that our pet Onyx is a guard-dog. Onyx distinguishes himself in this regard by fainting at the sight of strangers.
The other night I’m in a deep sleep when I catch a sudden elbow in the chest. “Gahv! Gahv!” came her intense whisper, “I heard a noise. Someone might be in the house!”
I grab my pistol out of the drawer; she hands me my one bullet. I load. I sit up in bed. “You coming?” I say to her.
“I’ll guard the bed.” [She always takes the risky assignments. You can’t buy help like that, you’ve got to marry it.]
I get out of the bed and nearly kill myself tripping over Onyx – my strength and stay – sleeping soundly through the crisis. The only noise I know that will wake that dog is food being poured into his bowl.
I walk around the house; turn on all the lights. Between Sabrina’s snores, I listen for the noise. [I’m protecting the castle from rape and pillage, she’s in REM sleep. She doesn’t have a very high stress level. If we were robbed she’s have to hear about it on the news.]
No noise. I come back to the bedroom. I hear the noise again . . . Onyx is the one! That dog is snoring too!
I get into bed. Sabrina mumbles, “Did you find what was making the noise?”
“Yup.”
“Did you shoot it?”
“I gave it considerable thought.”
At Work . . .
The description of her pain was critical. I suggested, “sharp? Heavy? Dull? Achey?”
She thought a moment and announced, “It’s a hurtin’ kind of pain.”
…
My patient was a fourteen-year-old girl hit in the head with a softball. “Were you knocked out?” I asked.
“Not unconsciously.”
…
His urine was burning.
“How long has it been burning?”
“Ever since it started.”
At Home Again . . .
We have a huge cat. He’s so big, when you first look at him, you think you’re seeing double. He’s ginger and white. His name’s `Red.’ Red Garvin to be precise.
I think Red may be a genius cat. He knows more about how to enjoy life than I do: he’s always purring. Awake, asleep, eating, playing, he purrs. It’s a deep, contented hydraulic kind of a purr. He takes delight in his food and his naps; his play and his sunlight. He loves to love and be loved. I can’t think of anything he doesn’t care for. [Well, there was that day he tried to walk on the fish pond and fell in. He learned that Gravity is not merely an opinion, it’s the law. But such things set aside, he is well pleased.]
I suspect when it comes time for him to return Home, he, like we, will face the question: Looking back over your life, what would you have done differently? He is one of the few creatures I know who will be honestly able to answer: Absolutely Nothing.
