These Were the Best of Times....
The sun is just now coming over the ridge, and every ray that finds its way through the tangle of trunks and branches cuts straight to pasture, garden, the roofs of house and barn. Steam is rising like last night's sleep, like incense made by and returning back to God in heaven. And all is right with the world. Or so it should be.
Instead, Buster and I are dealing with the indignities of age, victims man and beast of failed warranties on our chassis and suspension systems, moving in slow groaning motion, the blind leading the blind. His problem started last fall, and we have no other explanation than multiple-joint arthralgia resulting from tick-borne disease... possibly Rocky Mt. Spotted Fever. This morning, and for most of the last week, he is barely able to get up, in considerable pain, and only walks as far as necessary to lift his leg feebly and come straight back inside to collapse on his dog bed. And poor pup, he's just past four years old, too soon to act like his master who's put in the real mileage to warrant the groans and crepitous joints.
I'd like to think that I feel like I've been kicked by a horse because I had been kicked by a horse; or fallen over the handlebars of my mountain bike on the Rock Castle trail; or had a hard collision with my partner in a round of racquetball doubles at the club; or maybe fallen out of a tree rescuing a stranded raccoon cub. Nope. I cannot give a cause. I can't put a diagnosis on my condition other than 'undefined myalgia'... mid-back muscle pain. Maybe I can blame the pain on planting a dozen tomato plants, or holding an odd lower thoracic configuration while reaching in the fridge for the mayonaisse; or maybe I sneezed wrong. I'm not so bad off that I can't do for myself, which is good, since I must do for myself with Ann away at work all day. Wasn't so sure, in the wee hours, if I was going to be able to attain the vertical this morning or not. So it could be worse.
Still, me and Buster are self-pitiful, cut off in our prime by the fickle finger of entropic fate, not able to take advantage of this perfectly beautiful, never-before-used spring day. And tomorrow. Oh boy. How will I get 90 pounds of dog into and out of the car to the vet to see if we can come to some decisions either to allow a future lifetime of misery for him, or the agonizingly woeful alternative. Sometimes, I don't much care for the choices, and yet you must chose. Doing nothing is also an answer.
And yes, I'll have some cheese with my whine. And maybe I'd like one of these. Good Fairy? Are you listening?