the Truth Hurts

Fabulous Celebrity SpokesCreature:
Cindy Crawford Does the Wild Thing

“The truth which sets men free is, unfortunately, the truth men prefer not to hear.” — Agar

“When people who are honestly mistaken learn the truth, they will either cease being mistaken, or cease being honest.” — Anon

“The truth is something that mankind instinctively dislikes. Every man who tries to tell it is unpopular, and even when, by the sheer strength of his case, he prevails, he is put down as a scoundrel.” — H.L. Mencken

Truth is, one of my biggest pet peeves is the general reliance upon a gleefully and self-servingly truncated unTruth, “ignorance is bliss.” The original will [by design] be lost to the ages, I fear. But here it is, sans Oxford commas, for posterity [author unknown to me]:

“If you believe that when ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise, you are indeed a fool.” “If you believe that when ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise, you are indeed a fool.” But I repeat myself…

Everything seemed to be going so well, in the beginning. A quick paragraph, here, some medical info, there, a bit of reminiscing about the ‘canes, introducing our Fabulous Celebrity SpokesCreatures, paparazzing for Celebrities without MakeUp. And [I ask you], who wouldn’t enjoy reliving Her Fuzzy Highness’ wonder-bread years. This’ll be a cakewalk!

So, why has it now been almost three weeks since the last entry, though I’ve made the time and assumed the position more often than I care to reveal?

Truth is, Wild Things come with a lot of baggage…

I wanted to tell their stories as they were being written, but we were too busy with the “living them” part. Living is much easier than remembering. Fortunately or unfortunately, Bro and I found ourselves knee-deep in blood and gore, early in life. Over the years, the knowledge and experience gained from one emergency simply made themselves useful in the next. And there’s been no shortage of nexts. But we’d never seen anything quite like this.

A preface. As mentioned in previous posts, Bro is deaf. He’s also extremely dyslexic, and, though his IQ has been declared “off the charts,” and though he’s considered the bastard child of McGuyver and daVinci, he’s functionally illiterate. Even worse, he thinks that’s “okay,” and puts little effort into developing his language skills. Worst of all, he looks unbearably smug as he retorts, “when you can do half the things I can do, I’ll learn to read.” There is, however, much to love about his abuse of the English language [funny Bro stories link to be inserted, here, at some point]. Especially his refusal to learn/use “proper terminology” when he’s deemed it unnecessary.

He’s never used “male” and “female” when speaking of animals. It’s always been “boys” and “girls” and “men” and “women.” And there aren’t 50 animals staying at the house, right now, but 50 people. I draw the line at accepting “push” and “pull” as interchangeable, but this one, I like. Mucho. It’s harder to “discount” creatures if they’ve not also been “dehumanized.” The only thing “special” about us humans is our ability to articulate our insistance that we’re “special.” God loves us best [and to Hell with the rest]!

We don’t discriminate on the basis of species. If someone needs help, they need help. We’re not big on the whole “for the children” thing, either. At what point is it okay to stop caring about another being. When they’ve passed “the cute stage?”

So, we found ourselves front and center in an area I will forever call “Headquarters for Future Serial Killers of America,” and the “living it” began. Almost a decade on, and suddenly having more control over both life and schedule, this seemed a blog whose time had come. At least, it did until its time had actually come…

What can this be but a compilation of horror stories and sad stories, where even “happy endings” lead to “heart-wrenching conclusions?” Did I think the stories would write themselves? Or did I assume I could write them without thinking? What was I thinking [or smoking]?! And, maybe I forgot that most people don’t want to hear these stories? They say far too much about us, as a species.

I became determined to make the time to tell these stories when an inattentive, distracted, just-returned-from-vacation vet accidentally euthanized one of our boys, who’d only been sent for a minor procedure. Then, said inattentive, distracted, just-returned-from-vacation vet informed us of his death in a manner more suited to a “hey! We’re all at the club having a liquid lunch — get your ass down here and join the party!” This death meant less than nothing until he heard me gasp and start to cry. Only then did he “appreciate the gravity.” And quickly attempted to defend his appalling negligence. But he still thought this death meant less than nothing.

Why. Because Frack had once [through no fault of his own] been “a wild thing?” Or maybe he believed that, because we had 50+, one wouldn’t be missed? We’re still not over that death — and neither is Frick. They were inseparable. Frick & Frack, Cheech & Chong, Bartles & Jaymes, Soup & Salad…they came to us as [frightened, tortured] kittens, and, for six years, one was never far from the other. Their “always names” are Scaredy Cat and Goofy. And they matter. They matter. Every life matters. That’s why I need to do this blog…

Tomorrow. We’ll go in chronological order. Beginning with CC. The Truth, the whole Truth, and nothing but the bloody Truth. So help me, God.

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