It is at this point I would like to point out that, yes, although I am pushing four decades of tred on these tires, I have never grown tired of boyish pastimes like playing with bullfrogs. Bullfrogs are cool. And so I will teach the boy to never completely grow up.
And so outside I dash into the gray chill morn. To my disappointment, I spy a squirrel. Whereas bullfrogs are cool, squirrels are the antithesis of cool. They are rats with good marketing. I mean, look at that cute tail. Tail = packaging = good marketing. Anyway, I watch a while, realize the squirrel's prospects for escape are nil, I help it out. It shivers off the water, chatters a bit at me, and runs off. I saved one of God's creatures. Thank God for that tail, little squirrel, cause without it, you may have paid a visit to Davey Jones. I don't know. I prefer not to think about it. Anyway, my point is, the squirrel breathes because of my small kindness.
Fast forward a couple hours later. The Boy's meltdownedness, coupled with some family illness upsetting our plans for the day, motivate us to cut our visit to H-town a day short. We load up, and as we are leaving the neighborhood, Rick's Wife spies a car on the side of the road, with its occupant fussing about something caught in a wrought iron fence. A baby deer! I pull over, get out, and proceed to bending iron with my bare hands.
Que the Bionic Man soundtrack. Ya-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta. Ya-ta-ta-ta-ta. insert sound of bending steel. The fawn protests my presence and attempts at aid. It jumps and bellows, not much unlike a baby goat. Soon, it is freed from its self-imposed prison and bounds off through the forest. I thank the ladies for their help, wish them a lovely holiday, and return to the car.
Weekend checklist:
- save squirrel. check.
- save deer. check.
