HIS VIEW
I almost skipped on this week’s column because I have an injury to my right thumb, and although I mostly hunt and peck, that thumb is responsible for a few keys such as “B” and its neighbors. Try writing a sentence without those keys, much less 700 or so words.
I decided to work through the pain because I need the money, and I know a dozen or more folks – not relatives, mind you – who swear they read this column each week. If my relatives read this column, they never mention it or even give it a like when I share it on Facebook, yet they expect a gift come Christmas.
I wish I could say I suffered the injury doing something heroic, like feeding another feral cat that took a swipe, but that would make this a piece of fiction. For those who are keeping count, my clowder of cats has grown to 10, three of whom live on the periphery, sneaking in for a snack here and there, a nuclear of family of five, and Top Step, the latest addition who has the audacity to dash inside the house given a crack in the door and raid Boots’ bowl.
Yes, they are bit expensive, but it is the price I pay not to worry about copperheads – the death count is now 14 – and rodents such as voles and moles. Occasionally, I will find what remains of a bird, mostly feathers and the head, and while that saddens me, I blame the bird and Darwinism. Birds can fly, after all, and cats cannot.
Boots, bless his heart, is the only inside cat, and if I could read his mind what a story it would tell: I am certain he would be yearning for the good old days, wondering where it all went awry. He spends a lot of time at the back door, gazing at the ferals hovering around the back porch, waiting for feeding time. He reminds me of the neighborhood kid who does not get chosen for the pickup basketball game and watches across the street.
But, as I remind Boots often, he is the only cat who sleeps inside, the spot of his choosing.
This column will feed those cats for about 10 days, a mixture of mostly dry and a scent of wet cat food, so the thumb will just have to persevere.
The truth is that I punctured my thumb opening a bottle of my favorite wine, which is Rex-Goliath merlot, or as I call it, “Nine-ninety-nine.” It is what I buy unless I can find “Eight-ninety-nine” or even better, “Seven-ninety-nine.” The thumb got pinched by the wine opener, blood gushed, and now it is bandaged and I could count my heart beats per minute with it.
You know now that my pallet is not discerning when it comes to a glass of wine. I do enjoy an expensive bottle of wine now and again, both for its flavor and aroma, but also because odds are heavy that someone else paid for it.
Another reason I decided to gut it out today is a sense of duty, a gene I inherited from my father, who I do not remember ever taking a sick day. In 24 years as editor of this paper, I only missed work twice, 17 days for open-heart surgery, and a single day for elbow surgery. Looking back, I should have worked for the government and accrued all the sick time for early retirement.
The thumb has managed to get me almost to the end of the column, but there is one other test that it must pass. I am supposed to play in a golf tournament tomorrow that will benefit Camp Grace, certainly a noble cause.
As good luck has it, my right thumb hardly touches the golf club when I grip it, so I should be good to go. I was also able to use the remote to turn on the television and maneuver through the channels, another bullet ducked.
So, while the initial accident was painful, there was a loss of blood even if quickly controlled, and the throbbing persists, I am now willing to classify this injury as minor.
Reach Donnie Douglas by email at ddouglas521@hotmail.com.