Cowboy here. The imp is beside herself with joy, into more mischief than usual, more mischief than the nonsense she pulls during “run amok week.” This is because my right hand was injured, a while before it’s completely healed. I’m keeping score; eventually someone I know walking around, a silly grin pasted on that sweet face, is up for some real retribution come hell or high water. You can bank on it. I told the imp my left hand was worthy. Sar fell over laughing at that remark. Now and again I notice she’s giggling for no reason.
Life continues – normal days plus bursts of chaos and mayhem – never a dull moment around that birbantella of mine. The newest dog, a Malinois shepherd was getting along with all the cats, changed its mind one evening, growled at one of them. The tomcat jumped on the dog’s head, basically beat the crap out of the dog until Sar stepped in. Dog got the message; peace reigns again. So! Life in on an even keel; back from Alberta. Doorbell rings while Sar is out shopping. Did I mention I married a birbantella?
Two guys are on my doorstep. One’s a Royal Mountie, the other looks like an Aussie ranch hand. They have paperwork for me to sign prior to taking ownership of a wild mustang. A wild mustang! That’s a horse in case you thought it was a Ford vehicle. I must have muttered something intelligible that got rid of them because my head was immediately filled with… “when I get my hands on her!”
Then I remembered my injured hand… that woman really pushed some limits. 1/The neighborhood covenants do not include horses as pets. 2/Neither do I. 3/Wasn’t planning on renting stable accommodations for a wild mustang. 4/Where in blazes was the imp planning to take it to tame it, etc? 5/Was she going to break her neck when the horse threw her off its back? 6/My left hand can accomplish a great deal!
Miss Innocent arrives home, a load of groceries in the car. I wait until all is put away. I casually mention the paperwork about a horse I specifically said was not imminent in our lives in this life time or the next. The imp raises an eyebrow in my direction; I cross my arms, give the imp a stern look. Sar giggles. Couldn’t help myself; burst out laughing, gave her a good hard swat using my LEFT hand. The imp runs out to the backyard; sics the Neo on me, climbs a tree.
I climb up after her, grab her, etc. Sar leans back in my arms…. Wait for it!
She says “ so when will the mustang arrive?”
It was easy enough to hold her in my right arm while my left hand made threatening gestures. I’m getting too old to climb trees; yeah, the imp keeps me young.
Other thoughts: A few questions some of you have asked over time.
Why do I hire Marines to protect my wife? Do you really think I’d put a well-trained Navy SEAL in a dangerous situation? I’ve seen Sar incapacitate Marines in a matter of seconds. They’re always amused to be watching over a pint-sized woman that I warn them about until they go against her wishes, breaks a few fingers, knocks a knee out of joint or puts them into severe intestinal distress. David says they should get combat pay; I agree. Sar’s a dangerous opponent when crossed. The kicker is the smile on that sweet face when she gets her way. I married a birbantella.
You asked how Sar can eat junk food and not gain weight. Sar has a high metabolic rate; burns calories while asleep. Also, she dances every day; jogs almost every day, lives life in double time. That burns a lot of calories.
How long have we been married? Not long enough; it will never be long enough.
Cowboy
Quick note: Sar posted a novella in the vanilla section of her fiction website - Tune the Violin, a favorite story filled with rich characters, a bit of history. Hope you enjoy reading it.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Spring!
Spring happened! It seems like overnight the mountains were brownish with snow caps – in between the evergreens – and the few deciduous trees and shrubs in the yard – in between the evergreens - were without leaves. We had a few really vicious thunderstorms (my kind of weather) and on the first almost drizzle-free morning, daffodils and other bulbs popped up through the ground. Flowers are starting to bloom everywhere; squirrels are plentiful and Woody Woodpecker and his family are back banging on the tops of the Douglas firs. My feeders are full of seed and suet and the dogs and I are anticipating rollies on the back lawn.
The giant squid is anticipating catching me. He doesn’t care if the dogs roll down the hill. Honestly folks, he was toilet trained far too early in life.
SWAT!
We have a new dog; a Belgium Malinois. That’s like a German Shepherd but from another country. Malinois are really smart pooches, a little smaller than a typical Shepherd and very easily trained. This one was not taken care of as well as it should have been, needs a lot of positive reinforcement and praise. He’s so lovable I don’t know how anyone could have mistreated him. So far, Henry Canuk, the homeless feline I found on the beach in Cape Breton, has taken him under his wing so to speak. I don’t know any Belgium words but the animal seems to understand Canadian French (which Henry speaks fluently but then he’s an articulate cat.) The giant squid understands some French – he’s fluent in other languages – said Henry knows too many naughty words. I wondered how Cowboy knew those words were naughty if he’s not fluent in French. Hmmm… Oh wait! I know why. He’s a sailor.
SWAT!
We were out of the country for a few weeks; went to the Baltics. Cowboy has friends there. The food was outrageously wonderful; I got a few new recipes. It’s amazing how much Western influence has changed this area since the Iron Curtain came down - a lot of entrepreneurs, a lot of kiosks, a lot of lovely wares. I met a few gypsy dancers and felt right at home; however, not one of them would admit to dancing naked under a full moon. That was a disappointment.
Vi and Glory are doing okay; without Max, there’s a huge void in their daily lives – mine too. Some locals have hit on them; they’re both beautiful women but savvy about life so I’m not worried. Vi is a kick boxer and very skilled in one of the martial arts; Max taught Glory how to box and Cowboy taught both of them where all the pressure points are on a man’s body. I think the men in Gulfport are just enamored of Vi/Glory’s good looks and the fact that Glory is a 5-star chef. Anything for a good home cooked meal.
We’re up in Alberta, Canada at the moment. There’s a wild mustang roundup. These horses are absolutely magnificent. Of course I want one. Of course the giant squid said no. I’m positive I could train one as easily as I train dogs but the Neanderthal I live with still says no. I’m checking into the neighborhood covenants to see if a horse is okay and whether or not I can get hay/alfalfa/oats delivered on a regular basis. As for treats, we grow apples here in Washington State. Sugar cubes are in the grocery stores and just think! Horses like carrots and I don’t! This could work out wonderfully! Naturally, I’d share my Twinkies (but not my chocolates.)
I’m sure the local vet won’t have a problem with a horse and there’s some guy – I think he’s called a furrier (which is nicer than some words he could be called) could take care of horse shoes or whatever it is they wear on their hooves. I really need to research all this on the Internet. I’m sure Bull would help me out; he’s from Arkansas. I’m positive they have horses in that state. I know it’s filled with a lot of horse manure…
A really awful thing happened shortly after we arrived in Alberta. Personally, I thought it was hilarious; Cowboy had a different view. We were in a paddock area oohing and aahing over a pretty mare. Cowboy stroked the horse’s neck; something startled the big beast and it slammed its shoulder into the side of the paddock – catching Cowboy’s right hand and bruising it. Tsk. What an absolute shame that was, not!
So-o-o-o I’m trying to decide on a mustang. If you think of a really great name, let me know. Also, please send healing thoughts to the giant squid. He’s going to be miserable until that hand heals.
~Sar~
The giant squid is anticipating catching me. He doesn’t care if the dogs roll down the hill. Honestly folks, he was toilet trained far too early in life.
SWAT!
We have a new dog; a Belgium Malinois. That’s like a German Shepherd but from another country. Malinois are really smart pooches, a little smaller than a typical Shepherd and very easily trained. This one was not taken care of as well as it should have been, needs a lot of positive reinforcement and praise. He’s so lovable I don’t know how anyone could have mistreated him. So far, Henry Canuk, the homeless feline I found on the beach in Cape Breton, has taken him under his wing so to speak. I don’t know any Belgium words but the animal seems to understand Canadian French (which Henry speaks fluently but then he’s an articulate cat.) The giant squid understands some French – he’s fluent in other languages – said Henry knows too many naughty words. I wondered how Cowboy knew those words were naughty if he’s not fluent in French. Hmmm… Oh wait! I know why. He’s a sailor.
SWAT!
We were out of the country for a few weeks; went to the Baltics. Cowboy has friends there. The food was outrageously wonderful; I got a few new recipes. It’s amazing how much Western influence has changed this area since the Iron Curtain came down - a lot of entrepreneurs, a lot of kiosks, a lot of lovely wares. I met a few gypsy dancers and felt right at home; however, not one of them would admit to dancing naked under a full moon. That was a disappointment.
Vi and Glory are doing okay; without Max, there’s a huge void in their daily lives – mine too. Some locals have hit on them; they’re both beautiful women but savvy about life so I’m not worried. Vi is a kick boxer and very skilled in one of the martial arts; Max taught Glory how to box and Cowboy taught both of them where all the pressure points are on a man’s body. I think the men in Gulfport are just enamored of Vi/Glory’s good looks and the fact that Glory is a 5-star chef. Anything for a good home cooked meal.
We’re up in Alberta, Canada at the moment. There’s a wild mustang roundup. These horses are absolutely magnificent. Of course I want one. Of course the giant squid said no. I’m positive I could train one as easily as I train dogs but the Neanderthal I live with still says no. I’m checking into the neighborhood covenants to see if a horse is okay and whether or not I can get hay/alfalfa/oats delivered on a regular basis. As for treats, we grow apples here in Washington State. Sugar cubes are in the grocery stores and just think! Horses like carrots and I don’t! This could work out wonderfully! Naturally, I’d share my Twinkies (but not my chocolates.)
I’m sure the local vet won’t have a problem with a horse and there’s some guy – I think he’s called a furrier (which is nicer than some words he could be called) could take care of horse shoes or whatever it is they wear on their hooves. I really need to research all this on the Internet. I’m sure Bull would help me out; he’s from Arkansas. I’m positive they have horses in that state. I know it’s filled with a lot of horse manure…
A really awful thing happened shortly after we arrived in Alberta. Personally, I thought it was hilarious; Cowboy had a different view. We were in a paddock area oohing and aahing over a pretty mare. Cowboy stroked the horse’s neck; something startled the big beast and it slammed its shoulder into the side of the paddock – catching Cowboy’s right hand and bruising it. Tsk. What an absolute shame that was, not!
So-o-o-o I’m trying to decide on a mustang. If you think of a really great name, let me know. Also, please send healing thoughts to the giant squid. He’s going to be miserable until that hand heals.
~Sar~
Sunday, April 07, 2013
Imp's Fury
Cowboy here. Don’t think I’ve ever mentioned that the imp has a temper – a serious temper. Outside of the occasional pout or under her breath mutterings about squids, bullies, baboon buttheads, Neanderthals, it’s a rare event that causes Sar’s temper to reach a boiling point. I thank the good Lord that fury wasn’t aimed in my direction.
Are you laughing yet? I know most of you are aware that my stealth (sneaky) warrior woman is pint sized next to me but that doesn’t mean Sar’s an easy pushover. It’s amazing how powerful a woman can be that weighs slightly over 100 lbs. I’ve seen women in the military use their highly trained maneuvers to take down a man twice their size. I’ve seen them use minimum effort to best an opponent that seemed overwhelming. Also, I’ve seen my wife lose her temper, curse, spit, fight dirty. Sar doesn’t recognize any rules of decent behavior when she’s mad as a wet hen.
So, we’re at a gathering of dogs, their handlers and owners – on base – all military, active and retired - watching obedience trials, agility trials plus just plain funny, dumb dog tricks. Lots of youngsters, families, old Neanderthals like me. Plenty of dogs, mostly large breeds, all on leads strutting their stuff.
We’re watching another agility trial. When it’s over, a dog that didn’t do as well as its owner expected – a Belgium Malinois, its owner a Marine Lt. Colonel on active duty – starts to beat his dog with the other end of the leash. The dog is cowering; the Colonel is cursing; my wife races toward the pair on Pegasus’ wings. Sar comes up behind the Colonel - - -
Did I ever mention Sar’s a kick boxer?
The imp has a look on her face that says the man is dead meat. She jump kicks the 6-foot, 200+ lb. man in the middle of his back. He goes down; the imp kicks a knee out of joint, grabs the dog’s lead, yells for an MP.
Chaos ensues. Folks are yelling at the Marine, cheering Sar.
The MP’s take the Colonel in hand – conduct unbecoming, etc.
Sar soothes the dog.
Base Commandant announces ice cream is on the house.
Sar tells me the Malinois belongs to us now until it’s ready to go to a new home. Our Neo, Sweetie snuggles up to the MALE Malinois. I swear that animal is gay.
I tell the imp she could have been hurt. I’ll discuss this further when we’re home. Sar says it wasn’t such a big deal; it wasn’t as if she maimed the guy. Sar’s version of maiming vs my version of maiming seem to differ at bit.
Other news: The imp and I have been traveling a bit. Visited friends overseas, spent time in the Baltics, ate a lot of good food. Sar’s been back/forth to Gulfport, MS to visit Vi and Glory. The ladies are being encouraged to write a bit of their life history; Sar has already written some of it accounting for the time they lived together. The stories make me ache a bit for the childhood she had, also for the childhood she should have had. Sar sees it differently, recounts all the good times to hold onto.
Just before we went out of the country, the imp was able to get several truck-loads of snow delivered from the Olympic mountains to our yard. Yeah, anatomically correct snow people – some of them monstrous in size – neighbors were appalled as well as delighted. Bull helped the imp; that man will do anything to stay on Sar’s good side. Bull’s mantra: She cooks. I eat.
Finally, we’re home. Spring is showing signs of happening. Sar is dancing again, climbing trees to wave to God, cooking, baking, working in the garden. Our home is full: 2 dogs, 4 cats, a retired sailor and marine, a very busy imp.
I’m content.
Cowboy
Are you laughing yet? I know most of you are aware that my stealth (sneaky) warrior woman is pint sized next to me but that doesn’t mean Sar’s an easy pushover. It’s amazing how powerful a woman can be that weighs slightly over 100 lbs. I’ve seen women in the military use their highly trained maneuvers to take down a man twice their size. I’ve seen them use minimum effort to best an opponent that seemed overwhelming. Also, I’ve seen my wife lose her temper, curse, spit, fight dirty. Sar doesn’t recognize any rules of decent behavior when she’s mad as a wet hen.
So, we’re at a gathering of dogs, their handlers and owners – on base – all military, active and retired - watching obedience trials, agility trials plus just plain funny, dumb dog tricks. Lots of youngsters, families, old Neanderthals like me. Plenty of dogs, mostly large breeds, all on leads strutting their stuff.
We’re watching another agility trial. When it’s over, a dog that didn’t do as well as its owner expected – a Belgium Malinois, its owner a Marine Lt. Colonel on active duty – starts to beat his dog with the other end of the leash. The dog is cowering; the Colonel is cursing; my wife races toward the pair on Pegasus’ wings. Sar comes up behind the Colonel - - -
Did I ever mention Sar’s a kick boxer?
The imp has a look on her face that says the man is dead meat. She jump kicks the 6-foot, 200+ lb. man in the middle of his back. He goes down; the imp kicks a knee out of joint, grabs the dog’s lead, yells for an MP.
Chaos ensues. Folks are yelling at the Marine, cheering Sar.
The MP’s take the Colonel in hand – conduct unbecoming, etc.
Sar soothes the dog.
Base Commandant announces ice cream is on the house.
Sar tells me the Malinois belongs to us now until it’s ready to go to a new home. Our Neo, Sweetie snuggles up to the MALE Malinois. I swear that animal is gay.
I tell the imp she could have been hurt. I’ll discuss this further when we’re home. Sar says it wasn’t such a big deal; it wasn’t as if she maimed the guy. Sar’s version of maiming vs my version of maiming seem to differ at bit.
Other news: The imp and I have been traveling a bit. Visited friends overseas, spent time in the Baltics, ate a lot of good food. Sar’s been back/forth to Gulfport, MS to visit Vi and Glory. The ladies are being encouraged to write a bit of their life history; Sar has already written some of it accounting for the time they lived together. The stories make me ache a bit for the childhood she had, also for the childhood she should have had. Sar sees it differently, recounts all the good times to hold onto.
Just before we went out of the country, the imp was able to get several truck-loads of snow delivered from the Olympic mountains to our yard. Yeah, anatomically correct snow people – some of them monstrous in size – neighbors were appalled as well as delighted. Bull helped the imp; that man will do anything to stay on Sar’s good side. Bull’s mantra: She cooks. I eat.
Finally, we’re home. Spring is showing signs of happening. Sar is dancing again, climbing trees to wave to God, cooking, baking, working in the garden. Our home is full: 2 dogs, 4 cats, a retired sailor and marine, a very busy imp.
I’m content.
Cowboy
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Happy Holidays!
Cowboy here. Our house is in holiday chaos as it is every year at this time, my wife busy decorating, hunting for presents she’s sure Santa has already bought and hid. Hiding places are getting harder to find. The imp is easily distracted by chocolate treats I stashed in the usual hiding places. Eating them hasn’t ruined her appetite at all; Glory’s doing the cooking/baking.
The ladies have had a few hard months now that Max’s gone. We’ve been back and forth to Gulfport to settle some details. We invited them to stay here but they’ll go home after the New Year.
Sar has slowly come back to life after Max’s passing. She’s kept busy creating art, making some outstanding pieces, might do an exhibition in the spring. Glory’s energies result in culinary wonders. Vi is the organizer – from the house to managing the marketing of Sar’s art work. Vi organized the children’s Christmas party for the neighborhood, dragged David over to be Santa, made the rest of us run around fulfilling her demands, would have made a fine officer if she wasn’t so tiny. Don’t let her know I said that.
There’s been a lot less mischief lately but never fear, there’s still a bit to go around. Despite the weather, Sar has been doing plenty of tree climbing. It boggles the mind to watch that woman scamper up a tree. Bundled up she can sit on a high branch far too long to make me comfortable. A bit of a breeze has me out there pulling her down before pneumonia slips in. Bull – who has yet to move out – has braved the imp’s temper on occasion, pulling her down unceremoniously, hauling her over his shoulder while she yells a bunch of ugly words she knows. He’s not immune to being kicked either when she’s mad. He takes it all in stride, slipping a piece of chocolate out of his pocket to appease her. That usually stops the fuss for a bit. Come to think of it I think all of us males fill our pockets with chocolate for those just-in-case moments.
No snow so far this year so no anatomically correct snow people either. That’s a blessing in itself. I think the neighborhood might be a bit disappointed. My money’s on the imp; Sar’s bound to find a way to make up for that.
The monster dog we’ve adopted has filled out – a sweet personality for an animal that was bred to ride the Roman chariots and go to war. Our smallest cat Pipsqueak has attached itself to the dog. Apparently it’s fearless of a muzzle that could gulp it down in one bite. Another one of our cats, Miss Emmy, has for some reason developed an extra thick coat of fur. The animal sheds like crazy and leaves its fur everywhere. I’m tempted to shave the beast.
Our garage is overloaded with Twinkies. By now you know the company that makes these god-awful treats went bankrupt. Sar must have bought every one of them that was available in western Washington. Friends from all over the country – plus some from overseas – have been sending boxes of Twinkies wherever they are. I told the imp some other company would start making them but she’s determined to eat the originals for as long as possible. Glory made up a batch just to see if she could match the recipe. Glory’s version was outstanding so at least we have a backup when we run out of the originals. According to Sar, that’ll be a dark day.
Happy Christmas, Happy Chanukkah, Happy New Year. As always, this old warrior prays for a more peaceful year - from our family to you and yours.
Cowboy
The ladies have had a few hard months now that Max’s gone. We’ve been back and forth to Gulfport to settle some details. We invited them to stay here but they’ll go home after the New Year.
Sar has slowly come back to life after Max’s passing. She’s kept busy creating art, making some outstanding pieces, might do an exhibition in the spring. Glory’s energies result in culinary wonders. Vi is the organizer – from the house to managing the marketing of Sar’s art work. Vi organized the children’s Christmas party for the neighborhood, dragged David over to be Santa, made the rest of us run around fulfilling her demands, would have made a fine officer if she wasn’t so tiny. Don’t let her know I said that.
There’s been a lot less mischief lately but never fear, there’s still a bit to go around. Despite the weather, Sar has been doing plenty of tree climbing. It boggles the mind to watch that woman scamper up a tree. Bundled up she can sit on a high branch far too long to make me comfortable. A bit of a breeze has me out there pulling her down before pneumonia slips in. Bull – who has yet to move out – has braved the imp’s temper on occasion, pulling her down unceremoniously, hauling her over his shoulder while she yells a bunch of ugly words she knows. He’s not immune to being kicked either when she’s mad. He takes it all in stride, slipping a piece of chocolate out of his pocket to appease her. That usually stops the fuss for a bit. Come to think of it I think all of us males fill our pockets with chocolate for those just-in-case moments.
No snow so far this year so no anatomically correct snow people either. That’s a blessing in itself. I think the neighborhood might be a bit disappointed. My money’s on the imp; Sar’s bound to find a way to make up for that.
The monster dog we’ve adopted has filled out – a sweet personality for an animal that was bred to ride the Roman chariots and go to war. Our smallest cat Pipsqueak has attached itself to the dog. Apparently it’s fearless of a muzzle that could gulp it down in one bite. Another one of our cats, Miss Emmy, has for some reason developed an extra thick coat of fur. The animal sheds like crazy and leaves its fur everywhere. I’m tempted to shave the beast.
Our garage is overloaded with Twinkies. By now you know the company that makes these god-awful treats went bankrupt. Sar must have bought every one of them that was available in western Washington. Friends from all over the country – plus some from overseas – have been sending boxes of Twinkies wherever they are. I told the imp some other company would start making them but she’s determined to eat the originals for as long as possible. Glory made up a batch just to see if she could match the recipe. Glory’s version was outstanding so at least we have a backup when we run out of the originals. According to Sar, that’ll be a dark day.
Happy Christmas, Happy Chanukkah, Happy New Year. As always, this old warrior prays for a more peaceful year - from our family to you and yours.
Cowboy
Friday, July 27, 2012
Sweet Peace
My Max died.
I can barely write the words it’s so darn painful.
This is the man who didn’t blink when Glory dragged me to their basement apartment when I was 10 and cold and hungry and had nowhere to sleep. This is the man who took one look at a skinny smart-mouthed girl and pronounced that I was now a part of his family. This is the man who called me his girl child and was more than a father to me – a friend and mentor. This is the man who loved me when I had no idea that there was such a thing as love.
In his last days he slept a lot. We made up a bed for him on the back deck so he could see the ocean, listen to the tide and feel the ocean breezes. Tucked him in comforters and quilts so he wouldn’t take a chill. We slept out there with him – Glory, Vi, me, Cowboy, Bull, David and the cats. Sweetie the Neo slept with his head on Max’s bed, the cats near his chest. We told him how much we loved him; he knew that already and when he could no longer speak, we told him we knew how much he loved us. I whispered it was okay if he wanted to go; we would understand. We made sure he was pain free and finally, in the middle of the afternoon a couple of weeks ago, he slipped into a coma and left us.
I was holding his hand when he took his last breath.
Vi keeps everything inside; Glory fell apart. I needed to be strong for all of us and I was until the funeral home folks came for him. It’s so darn hard to say goodbye.
Max was cremated at his request. We flew to New Orleans to hold a memorial for him. Folks came in from Chicago and Gulfport. It was an old-fashioned New Orleans wake with old jazz musicians he knew playing “Saints” as we walked through the French Quarter to the church. Afterwards we hosted a reception at Antoine’s swapping Max stories – his youth, his “stable of working girls” in New Orleans and Chicago, his generous heart – making Thanksgiving, Christmas and other special days a free banquet for the street folks.
Although Max grew up in Kingston, Jamaica, he was actually born in Gulfport, Mississippi and that’s where his ashes were scattered. Glory and Vi will probably return to their home in Gulfport but for the time being, they’ll stay with us in Western Washington. Cowboy will help settle their legal issues; Max made sure his ladies would live comfortably after he was gone.
I’m not sure how we’ll all get on without him. He was such a strong presence in our lives.
Glory and Vi and I danced under the last full moon in his honor. Cowboy stayed inside; left us to do what we had to do to ease our hearts. Later, I slept in my lover’s arms grateful for his strength and support. Max was his friend as well.
Max always said “Life be short; you best be ‘preciating it for all it be worth.”
Sweet peace, Max.
~Sar~
I can barely write the words it’s so darn painful.
This is the man who didn’t blink when Glory dragged me to their basement apartment when I was 10 and cold and hungry and had nowhere to sleep. This is the man who took one look at a skinny smart-mouthed girl and pronounced that I was now a part of his family. This is the man who called me his girl child and was more than a father to me – a friend and mentor. This is the man who loved me when I had no idea that there was such a thing as love.
In his last days he slept a lot. We made up a bed for him on the back deck so he could see the ocean, listen to the tide and feel the ocean breezes. Tucked him in comforters and quilts so he wouldn’t take a chill. We slept out there with him – Glory, Vi, me, Cowboy, Bull, David and the cats. Sweetie the Neo slept with his head on Max’s bed, the cats near his chest. We told him how much we loved him; he knew that already and when he could no longer speak, we told him we knew how much he loved us. I whispered it was okay if he wanted to go; we would understand. We made sure he was pain free and finally, in the middle of the afternoon a couple of weeks ago, he slipped into a coma and left us.
I was holding his hand when he took his last breath.
Vi keeps everything inside; Glory fell apart. I needed to be strong for all of us and I was until the funeral home folks came for him. It’s so darn hard to say goodbye.
Max was cremated at his request. We flew to New Orleans to hold a memorial for him. Folks came in from Chicago and Gulfport. It was an old-fashioned New Orleans wake with old jazz musicians he knew playing “Saints” as we walked through the French Quarter to the church. Afterwards we hosted a reception at Antoine’s swapping Max stories – his youth, his “stable of working girls” in New Orleans and Chicago, his generous heart – making Thanksgiving, Christmas and other special days a free banquet for the street folks.
Although Max grew up in Kingston, Jamaica, he was actually born in Gulfport, Mississippi and that’s where his ashes were scattered. Glory and Vi will probably return to their home in Gulfport but for the time being, they’ll stay with us in Western Washington. Cowboy will help settle their legal issues; Max made sure his ladies would live comfortably after he was gone.
I’m not sure how we’ll all get on without him. He was such a strong presence in our lives.
Glory and Vi and I danced under the last full moon in his honor. Cowboy stayed inside; left us to do what we had to do to ease our hearts. Later, I slept in my lover’s arms grateful for his strength and support. Max was his friend as well.
Max always said “Life be short; you best be ‘preciating it for all it be worth.”
Sweet peace, Max.
~Sar~
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Catching Up
We're back at the beach again. Went home for a few weeks to take care of things but Max feels better when the ocean breezes come through the windows.
My Max is dying. It's hard to see him this way; he's dropped about 30 lbs – chemo and a bunch of drugs to stave the pain, others to stop the side effects that drugs do to a human body. Mentally, he's everything Max has always been – strong, supportive, loving and determined to ensure that Glory & Vi will live comfortably when he's gone. Cowboy and I will make sure that happens as well.
We're eating large, of course. Glory makes all the foods Max loves – anything to entice him to eat; his appetite is shot. We've had a few visits all the way out here on the West coast from Max's New Orleans & Mississippi friends. The mail, email and texts come daily and it does our hearts good to know Max's friends care that much about him. Two of our cats – Pipsqueak and Henry Canuck (also known as Mr. Chunky) sleep on Max's bed with him, follow him as he moves around the house.
Bull & David are back from DC. Bull's recuperation and rehab is on the upswing; we're optimistic he'll be even stronger in a few more months of therapy. He's back to eating for 6 and still on the thin side. I told the giant squid we need to start raising cattle, buy a chicken farm and a few dairy cows if that boy doesn't get married and move out. I keep a lot of lasagna in the freezer ready to nuke in case we have other company. That way, I can get him partially full before dinner so the rest of us have a chance at eating a meal. (He has a BAD habit of sneaking food to Sweetie under the table. Considering the animal is pushing 160 lbs, it's amazing the dog can fit under the table without constantly bumping its head.)
Easter and Passover were in the same week this year; we had a seder as well as sunrise services on the beach for Easter. Glory helped me with the cooking; she was beside herself trying out recipes new to her and sampling everything. Vi, who watches her figure, sneaked a bunch of foods she doesn't usually eat and Max found his appetite for a few days. I think it's the ocean air that does that. Sweetie, the Neo thought the guests were there for his benefit and graciously accepted all the food they shared with him from their plates. The animal howled when the prayers were said before the meals. I'm not sure if he was praying along with the rabbi & priest or if he was saying let's get on with it and eat.
Have I ever mentioned that the giant squid is O-L-D? There's no doubt he's slowing down. It took him about 6 minutes to catch me when I decided to dance naked under that gorgeous full moon we had recently; usually it only takes him about 2.5 minutes. My mistake was running into the water to evade him; he's a former SEAL – swimming is part of his DNA. He might have been an Orca in a previous life… or a water buffalo… or a stubborn warthog… or…. Oh! I hear ice cream and twinkies happening.
~Sar~
My Max is dying. It's hard to see him this way; he's dropped about 30 lbs – chemo and a bunch of drugs to stave the pain, others to stop the side effects that drugs do to a human body. Mentally, he's everything Max has always been – strong, supportive, loving and determined to ensure that Glory & Vi will live comfortably when he's gone. Cowboy and I will make sure that happens as well.
We're eating large, of course. Glory makes all the foods Max loves – anything to entice him to eat; his appetite is shot. We've had a few visits all the way out here on the West coast from Max's New Orleans & Mississippi friends. The mail, email and texts come daily and it does our hearts good to know Max's friends care that much about him. Two of our cats – Pipsqueak and Henry Canuck (also known as Mr. Chunky) sleep on Max's bed with him, follow him as he moves around the house.
Bull & David are back from DC. Bull's recuperation and rehab is on the upswing; we're optimistic he'll be even stronger in a few more months of therapy. He's back to eating for 6 and still on the thin side. I told the giant squid we need to start raising cattle, buy a chicken farm and a few dairy cows if that boy doesn't get married and move out. I keep a lot of lasagna in the freezer ready to nuke in case we have other company. That way, I can get him partially full before dinner so the rest of us have a chance at eating a meal. (He has a BAD habit of sneaking food to Sweetie under the table. Considering the animal is pushing 160 lbs, it's amazing the dog can fit under the table without constantly bumping its head.)
Easter and Passover were in the same week this year; we had a seder as well as sunrise services on the beach for Easter. Glory helped me with the cooking; she was beside herself trying out recipes new to her and sampling everything. Vi, who watches her figure, sneaked a bunch of foods she doesn't usually eat and Max found his appetite for a few days. I think it's the ocean air that does that. Sweetie, the Neo thought the guests were there for his benefit and graciously accepted all the food they shared with him from their plates. The animal howled when the prayers were said before the meals. I'm not sure if he was praying along with the rabbi & priest or if he was saying let's get on with it and eat.
Have I ever mentioned that the giant squid is O-L-D? There's no doubt he's slowing down. It took him about 6 minutes to catch me when I decided to dance naked under that gorgeous full moon we had recently; usually it only takes him about 2.5 minutes. My mistake was running into the water to evade him; he's a former SEAL – swimming is part of his DNA. He might have been an Orca in a previous life… or a water buffalo… or a stubborn warthog… or…. Oh! I hear ice cream and twinkies happening.
~Sar~
Wednesday, March 07, 2012
Hogwash, Balderdash & Shitake Mushrooms!
I yelled at God today. I do that from time to time. Makes me feel like I'm being heard above all the other folks yelling. I yell when things happen that shouldn't happen. I yell when it's obvious someone is going through a hell that wasn't necessary. When I'm feeling charitable toward God I ask that someone I know comes home from deployment alive, in one piece and emotionally able to live a normal life. Sometimes I ask that someone be able to recuperate from an illness, helacious disease and if that's not possible, to allow that person to go peacefully. My yelling hasn't done a lot of good as far as I can tell but sometimes that's the only I can do – a prayer, a positive healing thought, maybe just wishful thinking that got loud and vocal and yes, sometimes I curse. The giant squid doesn't say much when I start yelling. He's a good Catholic – goes to mass regularly. Tells me he always asks God to watch out for me; lights a candle to that saint who's supposed to be responsible for hopeless souls. I know he's thinking of me when he does that but he never says so. I'm not really hopeless, just cynical.
I'm not hyped up about organized religion; it's enough that I believe there's a "something" greater than I am. Two of my dearest friends are believers – one a Buddhist, the other a rabbinical scholar. When the three of us get together, we generally spend a lot of energy eating fried Twinkies and drinking root beer floats. We curse politicians and pedophiles, toast warriors and strong women and usually fall asleep on the deck coming down from a sugar high. Cowboy says I'm a bad influence on them. If he thinks that's bad, I'm not letting him know what I used to do to nuns when I was a grade school kid. If there's another life after this one, I'd like to skip childhood, thank you very much.
My Bull is recuperating nicely. I make him run with me and I ride his back when he does pushups. He's still getting physical therapy for his shoulders and I don't know what else but every day he looks more like his old self. He's off to DC in a few weeks for a follow-up visit with the docs that saved his life. David will go with him; give both of them a chance to spend some time without me badgering them. He misses the Corps; he misses his unit and he misses fighting for his country. I keep telling him he's done more than most, time to do other things, get back to civilian life. I might have to break down and invite a bunch of pretty ladies over to keep him occupied. Hope they can cook… he's back to eating like it was going out of style.
Max had a "port" inserted into his clavicle; he's decided to go through chemo. I'm hoping it will relieve some pain and give him more time on earth. We're going to be totally insane when the time comes to say goodbye.
I agreed to rescue a Neapolitan Mastiff. His name is Sweetie and he's a gigantic monster of a dog that's been neglected. He had to be anesthetized to cut his nails; they were extra long and horribly deformed. Had his teeth cleaned at the same time as well as his ears irrigated. Neos have lots of wrinkles and a really pugnacious face but the critter lives up to his name – extraordinarily sweet. The cats adore him and groom him; he eats anything including my t-shirts. He might be part goat… I made mac & cheese for the first time in a long time; he slurped it up and looked for more. It won't be too much longer before he's back to fighting weight. Slowly but surely the animal is learning to follow commands and like my Rott, SweetPea used to do, is sleeping outside the bedroom door. Yesterday, the giant squid raised his voice…. yelling that I'd be sleeping on my belly if I went running in the rain. Tsk. Sweetie let him know that wasn't something he wanted to hear. I noticed the squid waited until we were behind closed doors to give me a swat. I yelled for Sweetie and the animal charged into the bedroom and aimed a "stink-eye" in the squid's direction, showed a little teeth, too.
I laughed. It made me feel good.
The giant squid's still mumbling about that.
~Sar~
I'm not hyped up about organized religion; it's enough that I believe there's a "something" greater than I am. Two of my dearest friends are believers – one a Buddhist, the other a rabbinical scholar. When the three of us get together, we generally spend a lot of energy eating fried Twinkies and drinking root beer floats. We curse politicians and pedophiles, toast warriors and strong women and usually fall asleep on the deck coming down from a sugar high. Cowboy says I'm a bad influence on them. If he thinks that's bad, I'm not letting him know what I used to do to nuns when I was a grade school kid. If there's another life after this one, I'd like to skip childhood, thank you very much.
My Bull is recuperating nicely. I make him run with me and I ride his back when he does pushups. He's still getting physical therapy for his shoulders and I don't know what else but every day he looks more like his old self. He's off to DC in a few weeks for a follow-up visit with the docs that saved his life. David will go with him; give both of them a chance to spend some time without me badgering them. He misses the Corps; he misses his unit and he misses fighting for his country. I keep telling him he's done more than most, time to do other things, get back to civilian life. I might have to break down and invite a bunch of pretty ladies over to keep him occupied. Hope they can cook… he's back to eating like it was going out of style.
Max had a "port" inserted into his clavicle; he's decided to go through chemo. I'm hoping it will relieve some pain and give him more time on earth. We're going to be totally insane when the time comes to say goodbye.
I agreed to rescue a Neapolitan Mastiff. His name is Sweetie and he's a gigantic monster of a dog that's been neglected. He had to be anesthetized to cut his nails; they were extra long and horribly deformed. Had his teeth cleaned at the same time as well as his ears irrigated. Neos have lots of wrinkles and a really pugnacious face but the critter lives up to his name – extraordinarily sweet. The cats adore him and groom him; he eats anything including my t-shirts. He might be part goat… I made mac & cheese for the first time in a long time; he slurped it up and looked for more. It won't be too much longer before he's back to fighting weight. Slowly but surely the animal is learning to follow commands and like my Rott, SweetPea used to do, is sleeping outside the bedroom door. Yesterday, the giant squid raised his voice…. yelling that I'd be sleeping on my belly if I went running in the rain. Tsk. Sweetie let him know that wasn't something he wanted to hear. I noticed the squid waited until we were behind closed doors to give me a swat. I yelled for Sweetie and the animal charged into the bedroom and aimed a "stink-eye" in the squid's direction, showed a little teeth, too.
I laughed. It made me feel good.
The giant squid's still mumbling about that.
~Sar~
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