Are You a Hamster or a Gerbil?

Dear Readers:

You may think a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but it's not true. Hamsters and gerbils are distinct and not the same. I know this to be a fact because I am an expert on both. For a time, my family residence was graced with the very likes of both hamsters and gerbils who called our house their home. My children dutifully cared for their needs, while I, an astute psychiatrist, carefully observed their behavior. I noticed several things about their behavior that reminded me of human beings. First of all, they get in fights a lot, just like us. Sometimes the fights were downright nasty and divorce arraignments had to be made quickly. Occasionally this required returning the offending "hammy" or gerbil to the store for a refund.

Hamsters and gerbils also like to celebrate family time. One time we were blessed to discover middle daughter's hamster had given birth on Christmas morning. What a beautiful present -- baby hamsters on our Lord's birthday. We cooed as we watched the little babies wiggle in their nest. Then, a few minutes later all hell broke loose, as I learned for the first time hamsters waged war against their kids. We discovered baby hamster parts scattered about the cage. I'll leave some of the gory details to your imagination. I guess Mommy had a violent streak. All I can say is, I'm glad she wasn't my mom. After that incident, I'm not sure if my kids will ever be normal. Middle daughter still has that glazed look in her eye.

Finally, did you know gerbils and hamsters have distinct personalities? Hamsters are lazy bums that sleep all day and run on the wheel at night. You'll be up all night listening to squeaking, moving parts. Gerbils are nervous Nellie explorers who are always on the move. Their different behaviors relate to my indoor workouts at the gym. If I'm in the mood to be a gerbil, I hit the gerbil track -- some teeny-weeny track that circles the upper floor of the recreation center. I can pretend I'm exploring this new and novel place. If I'm in the mood to be a hamster, I stand on the treadmill and zone out and let the machine move my feet. All I have to do is make a few corrective movements with my lower extremities to keep from falling off the back end.

Until later.

Runner's High

Dear Readers:

People talk about endorphins that kick in from jogging -- the runner's high. For me, it's not really true. Running just clears my mind and mostly invigorates me, but no high. It's enjoyable in its own right and offers a good stress buster when you need one. Trouble is, try to keep up with the motivation to hit the trails year round. This time of year in Ohio isn't the most conducive to running, unless you like being cold; wintry weather leaves one's teeth chattering. Spring and early Fall are good times; the cool weather motivates you, but doesn't freeze your hands and toes.

Today, my legs weren't so willing to run. So I gave them a rest and took them to a movie instead. I think I burned a few calories walking from my car to the theater, so that should count for something, right? Oh yes, I forgot -- I also walked back to my car after the movie. Anyhow, I'm tired from all this exercise. I think I'll call it a night after this post is done and hit the sack. Maybe tomorrow I'll tackle the indoor gerbil track and get in some laps. It does help to know I've got a marathon scheduled in February next year. Knowing I have to remain fit or risk "hitting the wall" in a marathon spurs me on to get in the daily runs.

So, enough with the runner's high. Getting high isn't all it's cranked out to be. It takes work to get off one's butt and pound the pavement. Sort of like on Monday mornings, when it takes all you've got to roll out of bed and head toward your place of employment. It takes a lot of effort, right? Runners differ in the time of day they like to put their effort to work. I'm definitely not a morning person, but one time I got out at five in the morning to lace up my shoes and go for a spin. Some runner guy who looked fully awake greeted me with a cheery hello. I felt like telling him to keep his thoughts to himself.

Until later.

Factoid

Dear Readers:

There you have it -- this story is a factual one. Okay, I have this problem -- telling tall tales. Don't get me wrong, I like telling goofy stories. It's just, I forget other people can't always recognize when I'm venturing from the truth. It's not dishonesty -- I'm as "painfully honest" (my mother would say) as they come. But as long as I can remember, I'll start to tell a tale, and then then my story takes off on its own, not necessarily in reliable fashion. Hence, the title of this post: FACTOID. Now you know I'm telling the truth.

This venturing from the facts goes back a long way. Remember grade school and SHOW AND TELL? I loved that part of elementary school. Doing homework and sitting all day attached to my desk was boring, but I looked forward to story time. One day, in second or third grade, my time for SHOW AND TELL had arrived. I had lots to say. My story was about a family vacation. I told how our family went on vacation and found this interesting house to explore. Next thing you know, we were finding secret passageways, walking in dark, scary corridors, and falling through hidden trap doors. I was really enjoying this yarn, when all of a sudden, my teacher interrupted my storytelling.


Teacher Lady: "Now, you know that really didn't happen, right?"

Student Master Story Teller: "Yes, it did happen," I said, alarmed my credibility was being attacked. (My honor was at stake. I had to say something.)


Teacher Lady gave me a stern look. I crawled back to my desk and slunk into the chair, feeling somewhat ashamed for telling tall tales. I should have proclaimed my innocence. I really wasn't trying to lie. I just got carried away by my story, is all. Let that be a lesson to all us old fogies -- embrace our inner child! Stand up and be heard. Revolt, I say, in the name of justice! Well then, protest if not revolt -- at least stand by our stories. There are too many constraints placed on childlike wonder and excitement these days. Let us not distance ourselves from our creative pasts. Open up our sandboxes and play, play, play. (Do you think I'm losing my marbles?)

My middle daughter's artistic ability was cramped by a nice teacher. She was coloring an animal, and the teacher noticed her crayon marks strayed outside of the outline. She was told to "draw within the lines." I asked middle daughter why she didn't do as the teacher instructed. She told me that she was drawing the dog or cat's fur and that fur "doesn't look like that" (the line drawing). I think her teacher needed to be taught a thing or two. Well, I'm done talking about this -- moving on. Now, it's time for stories from Father Funny.

This past Sunday I listened to a visiting priest tell a few jokes. I actually remembered what he said. Usually I'm clueless what happens in Mass because I zone out. The pews are too comfortable, and I'm never awake. This was a visiting priest, and he was fun to listen to. Here are two of his humorous stories.


Funny number one:


An Irish man's parents immigrated to Texas, hoping for a better life after living in poverty and hardship in Ireland. Their son became a wealthy man, and he planned a return trip to Ireland to survey the land of his fathers and to show off his wealth. He arrived in Ireland, and his chauffeur drove him around the island in a luxury sedan. He came upon a small plot of land and eyed a poor farmer chewing on a piece of straw. The rich Texan stopped his car and walked toward the farmer.

Texas Money Bags: "Say fella. How big is your spread here?"

Irish Farmer: "Oh, she runs to the tree over there, to that boulder and back," he said, pointing to a small pittance of land.

Texas Money Bags: "You know friend, where I come from, I can start my car on a Saturday, and it takes me until Wednesday to circle my property."

Irish Farmer: "Oh, I know what you mean," he said, pointing to the Texan's luxury vehicle. "I used to have a car like that. Had to get rid of it."


Funny number two:


A Irish priest gave a spirited homily one Sunday morning. He was banging on the pulpit and screaming and hollering at the congregation, when all of a sudden he looked out over the parishioners and shook his finger. "Which of ye wants to go to heaven? If so, stand up now!" He looked and saw nary a soul sitting -- all were standing. Then he proceeded to preach some more, and his face flushed from all the enthusiasm. He banged the pulpit some more and stretched out his hand again and shook his finger. "Now, declare your allegiance. Which of ye wishes to go to hell. Stand, if it be your desire to go to hell." All immediately sat down, save one.

A hush swept over the congregation, and all eyes were on the lone man.

"So, Sean Flanagan," the priest said, seeing Sean standing in the last pew of the church and trembling a bit. "I have it, you want to go to hell?"

"No Father," Sean replied, his voice quaking. "I just didn't feel right seeing you standing there all by yourself."

Until later.

Cold Nights

Dear Readers:

Yikes! It's cold here. Fetch me my hot chocolate and blanky now. I'm still in that summertime, breezy mood; you know -- find a little downtime, take a walk, jog outside under a warm sun. Today that changed. I could tell something was wrong as soon as I arrived at the recreation center and stepped outside the car to face an icy gust of wind. There's a running track inside the building (I think a thousand or so loops make a mile). My goal was to stay fit and get in some running. But then, I thought about how cold I'd feel once I was done and had to go outside to find my car. That image was disturbing, so I wimped out, retreated, and passed on the running opportunity. That's really lame, don' t you think?

A few years ago, I braved any weather, hot or cold, and ran outside under all kinds of conditions -- the indoor gerbil track was not for me. Others seemed inspired by this old guy who kept up the effort. One time it was fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. All the runners were blowing icy breath-clouds and jumping up and down just to keep warm. We all ran and sloshed through snow and water, and slipped on ice. It was fun. Now, I'm ashamed to say I've become domesticated. Give me a bone and a warm hearth, and I'll be happy. Just don't make me go outdoors where it's cold. There must be something that can shock me out of this stupor.

Until later.

The Angel, the Witch and the Clown

Dear Readers:

'Tis my dream to wake up some day and behold an angel. It's never happened, but I'm holding out for the right moment. Several decades ago I talked to a man who told me he saw the wing of an angel. Maybe I need to pray and work on my holiness, and then one will appear. Today I ordered a chocolate chip cookie that I really didn't need; I should have fasted and done without it -- shown some humility for Pete's sake. Well, I'll let you know when an angel appears. I figure it won't happen for some time, but my heart quickened recently after my daughter talked to my wife. She called my wife to tell her she bought Halloween outfits for our three dogs. One was slated to be the angel. Maybe that's as close as I'll ever get to seeing one.

I could go on. The dogs' costumes befit their personalities quite nicely. Allie is white, cute, and cuddly, so she gets to be the angel. Sandy is black and lurks in the shadows, so she gets to be the witch (Sandy's offended). Maggie is yellow and dumber than a door nail, so she's targeted to be the clown (She doesn't know enough to complain and will probably savor the moment). I don't get to dress up like anything, because I'm not costume-worthy. (I'm working on that.) Give it time, and before you know it, an angel in heaven will notice our devotion to otherworldly things and grant my request to see the real thing. Allie doesn't quite cut it for me. She licks everything she touches, and her wings don't move. Besides, angels don't have tails.

Until later.

Grandma's Sports Car

Dear Readers:

Grandma needed a new mode of transportation, so we bought her one of those four-wheeler jobs; not the kind with a motor, but the kind older folks push around in grocery stores and at church. She's not too excited about her new roadster, and if it were up to her, I think she'd throw it out with next week's garbage. I've tried to highlight its positive attributes: It's blue, her favorite color; it's economical (she pushes it, so there's no sticker shock at the gas pump); she can sit on it and pretend it's a rumble seat; it keeps her from falling on her proboscis. My efforts to convince her of its desirability haven't worked so far.

A week ago some two-year-old kid in a stroller whizzed by her on the bike trail, and I think Mom felt usurped. (That kid's father must have been using non-regulation tires.) I'm wondering if I should put some racing stripes on her four-wheeler to make it look more serious; an attached, collapsible beach umbrella for hot, sunny days might also be a nice addition. Anyhow, I'm still working different angles to see if I can get Grandma to smile and not sneer. I'm impressed with the speeds she can attain with her new vehicle -- especially downhill. Sometimes she charges down the hills so fast, I'm afraid she might become airborne.

Until later.

I'm Back

Dear Readers:

I haven't been myself lately. Some virus-from-hell took up residence in my brain cells for the past two weeks, and I've finally kicked it out. It was either me or it -- one of us had to go. Man, that was some bugger. I got tired of being brain dead, headachy, irritable, foggy, and stuck in that zombie state. It didn't seem like I could enjoy anything -- I stopped running, food lost its taste, and my mind was mush. All I was good for was coughing and sneezing. Trouble was, I couldn't drum up any sympathy for my recent plight (except from other family members similarly accursed). People don't stop to register others afflicted with colds on the list of things to pray for.

When is someone going to find a cure for the common cold? Yes, I'd rather have a cold than some serious illness, but it's amazing how such a common malady can steal your vigor, initiative, and peace of mind. When I was an intern, my body seemed to have an uncanny ability to get sick on my vacations. I felt like getting back at the sick bug for ruining my time off, but how do you punch a virus in the nose? Needless to say, I'm on the mend now and feeling much better. As I told a colleague who asked how I was doing: "It feels good when you stop hitting yourself with a brick." Even though it's Monday, I can celebrate because that big bad virus is gone.

Until later.

Big Bad Bart

Yeah, you heard right -- Big Bad Bart. Triple B for short. Since you're my homeys, you can call me Bart. I decided on the name change after returning from the western range. On the plane ride home, I read stories of bad guys, desperadoes, soiled doves (prostitutes), cigar smoking ladies, gunslingers, and lawmen. I also read Native American stories -- tales from the First People. All those stories got me to reminiscing. For several weeks in my last year of medical school I lived on an Indian Reservation and worked in an Indian hospital. The generous spirit of the people was obvious, and I was fortunate they invited me into their lives.

I tried to learn some of the Assiniboine and Gros Ventre language. Many Indians didn't know their native language, but I found an elderly Gros Ventre woman who did. She agreed to talk to me. She was in her eighties and shared some of her early childhood experiences. When very young, she was taken from her parents and forced to stay at a missionary boarding school to learn English; she wasn't allowed to speak her native tongue. She also had to wear hook and button shoes, adopt the White way of life, and take a "Christian" name. Normally, an Indian child was given a single, descriptive name, but not a first and last name.

Names like Lame Bull and Cut the Rope I still remember. George Lame Bull and Donna Cut the Rope would have been the Anglicized versions (I made up the first names). This elderly woman was proud, but probably unrecognized, for her golden stories from a time gone past. I don't know what came of her, or if she mattered to anyone else, or if she had surviving family, but I do remember some of the Indian words she taught me -- so her story lives on. Sadly, many of the young people didn't know their native language, or show interest in Indian ways. Hopefully, they've since rediscovered their roots.

Years ago I looked into my own roots, trampling around cemeteries to find old gravestone inscriptions, and checking out census records. I discovered my surname is Celtic in origin, likely Irish or Scot. Three hundred years ago my ancestors probably changed their last name to an English sounding one so they wouldn't be persecuted. Name picking took some serious thinking. Did you know Doc Holliday was a dentist? I guess that explains the Doc part. Anyhow, back to my new name. I've decided to pick a mean and ornery one like Big Bad Bart so I won't be persecuted. Wonder what will happen at work when I show up wearing my chaps and spurs?

Billy's Blog

Dear Readin' folk:

Hi. M' name's Billy. Some call me The Kid. I know what yer thinkin' -- How'd a sheep get himself tacked to a goat's name? Welp, that's a long story, and one best suited fer tellin' at 'nother time. Thang is, it ain't always proper to call a feller by his birth name. In my case, I was raised by a pack of goats, so I think my name fits me fine. (I know what yer thinkin' again -- goats don't run in packs, they run in flocks; but that don't do justice to a goat's dignity, making it kin to flocks that ain't even related, like geese.) 'Nough said. M' daddy's a Billy, and my posse runs in packs, which makes us square even. I'll butt heads with anyone who sees different.

Anyhoo, I'm writing fer a specific reason. Folks tell fancy tales these days, but none makes fer as good a butt slappin' as the one I'm 'bout to tell you. It's 'bout that feller Doctor Rick. Somethin's strange 'bout him. He's not right in the head, if you know what I mean. The other day, I was minding my own business, chewing bear grass on Logan Pass, when I seed this feller climbing toward me. He looked like one of them city slicker types. You know, the ones who carry their cell on a belt clip and think they're somethin' cool. He was hollering for help, coz he got himself stuck. I guess he twarnt sure-footed enough to keep himself from fallin' off the side of the mountain.

Welp, I didn't take kindly to some greenhorn botherin' me on my break, but the wife said to help him, so's I did. From the looks of that Doctor Rick feller, you'd had thought he'd been drinking too much huckleberry squeez'ns, staggerin' like he did. He was some sight -- screamin' and hollerin' like a polecat steppin' on a cactus. Seems curiosity got the best of him, so'd he took to walkin' till the trail got smaller and smaller, and higher and higher -- then he seed how high he got and turned scared. Losin' his grip and crazy thinkin's what got him in this fix in the first place. I shook my head, disqusted with the sight, but made toward him straightaway. When he saw me comin', he grabbed his britches and stared at me like he was sunstroke. I moseyed past him to show him the way, and he followed after me -- didn't hear him speak one word the whole time.

We made it best we could down the mountain, and that feller thanked me fer my helpin'. He asked to repay me fer the kindness. It got me to thinkin'. What, with the weather turning cold pretty soon, and vittles running scarce, I thought a small tip would be kindly -- you know, some token of appreciation. My wife needed the money; she's been nagging me for months to buy her some of that newfangled sheep scent (I think it smells like a whorey marmot, but don't tell her I said so). Well, do you think Doctor Rick was ready to offer some token of thanks? Hell no! I even posed for him through his car window, and that no-good, spiny-assed lowlife turned his back on me and sped off -- didn't even drop a dime.

I recken some folks don't take to be'n nice to every feller that passes their way. Why, I'll even admit, I was tempted to let him slip off the slope, fer all I cared, but the wife wouldn't let me. Still, you woulda thought saving his backside counted fer somethin', right? I felt like tellin' him, "Go back to yer rat-invested life in Tenbuckstwo, Doctor Rick," but I figured he twarnt schooled in English well 'nough to possess the necessary understandin', so's I let 'er pass. Still, it torqued my shorts, thinkin' 'bout the injustice of it all. I guess I'll just head back to my bear grass and ferget 'bout it. Thanks fer takin' time to listen. The way I figure, somewheres along the way, every ram gets his just due. While yer at it, teach that lowlander some manners.

Moose Tales

Dear Readers:

Ah, yes. Back to the real world. It's Monday and I'm wearing my work clothes, so my vacation must be over. Two days ago my wife and I were living in the land of moose and honey. We breathed clean air and walked on pristine mountainsides. Today I'm fighting traffic, dirty air, and brain pain. Wouldn't it be great if you could live off the land in a natural environment without going broke, looking like Sasquatch, or having your blood sucked dry by giant mosquitoes? Of course, to survive, you'd need to have adequate provisions.

As for me, I'd only plan on taking the necessary essentials: soap, toothpaste, dried food, and a hot tub. My wife would probably add eyeliner and mascara to the list. We realize it's only a spartan list (oh, yeah -- add a cell phone), but we're trying to be frugal. Wild animals live minimalist lives and don't complain; we could stand to learn from them. Last week I came in contact with one of those fellows in its natural habitat. We were lodging near a lake in the mountains of Western Montana and took a morning stroll to the shore. Our hike stopped abruptly as we neared the open water. A rattling sound, like sticks clattering against each other, alerted me. If I took another step, I'd be ten feet away from a huge set of antlers rising above the rushes. Suddenly, I heard a loud grunt and snort; fear froze me in my tracks. Some giant animal was on the other side of that shrubbery. I didn't believe the beast knew I was there, but if I got any closer, it'd be looking me in the eye. If it charged, I'd be a goner. Just what was on the other side of those bushes? Finally, a flick of the antlers revealed it was a bull moose. I've never seen one before, and he was really huge.

I wasn't able to find a spot to take a good picture; the moose, for sure, would've detected my movements. I knew enough to stay out of his way, so I just stood motionless. Some lucky guy who already positioned his camera nearby was getting perfect head shots of my moose. Still, I was enthralled. I had arrived at this serene lake early in the morning to find myself in spitting distance of a large wild animal. The moose grunted loudly every time it breathed (my wife said like a galloping horse). Finally, he sauntered over to the other side of the lake, so I was free to step out into the open and watch from a safe distance. More drama followed. A doe and her fawn pranced across the shallow waters of the lake in front of the moose, occasionally glancing toward him. He didn't like their approach and snorted loudly at them. Then he charged after the deer, causing them to pick up their pace; water splashed in their wake as they double-timed it to the other side, and the fawn's tail stood up like a white flag as it stared nervously at the moose. My wife managed to snap this picture for you to see. How fortunate to be in such a wild place at this opportune moment. The air smelled of fragrant pine, and the scene was surreal.

Until later.