My Thought of the Day

One of my most favorite sounds in the world is the low grumbling of a coming thunderstorm.

Something about the tumbling vibrations as  the clouds charged with energy slowly rambles across the sky, complete with flashes of hot white lightning, is so soothing to my ears. When I was little, I used to love sitting out on our enclosed porch with my parents during the heat of summer, stripped down to only my diaper, and watching the dark skies with awe and delight as they lumbered by, striking the ground with each bolt.

There was only one time I can remember where the ferocious storms scared me. It was a hot summer afternoon – sometime in either July or August, I think – and I was home alone with my dog, Katie. Katie had always been afraid of thunderstorms. I believe it was either something to do with the noise, or the fact that our old house seemed to shake with every boom. The day was hot and sticky, much like the ones these past few days. Katie and I were sitting on the porch, enjoying what little breeze was floating through the mesh window screens. She was laying down next to my feet, tongue lolling out heavily and all four legs spread out wide. She had received a haircut just a few days before, taking off almost all of her long thick white/black/tan fur and leaving her with maybe a half inch of soft tufts, save her fluffy long tail. Still, the heat was getting to her. I was sitting in one of the old white wicker chairs reading a Wrinkle in Time for the 100th time.

Suddenly, the bright summer skies grew dark and a thunderous BOOM shook the air. In less than 10 seconds, Katie and I were both out of the porch and rushing through the house, unplugging as many electronic devices as I could. Then, I watched as rain pelted the house like Muhammed Ali taking out one of his opponents. The sky lit up in bright flashes, immediately followed by the house shaking in the midst of the after shock. Katie and I ran to what we thought was the safest place in the house: the bottom of the stairs. I wrapped us in an oversized beach towel as we whimpered and cried.

I was barely able to move from that spot when the phone rang.  My father’s voice rang out into the air as he went to voicemail, trying to console me and tell me that he was coming home as fast as he could. Katie dug her nose hard into my armpit, pushing me into the steps as she hid  her eyes. I remember tears streaming down my face as I crawled to the voice recorder, begging Dad to come home. By the time I reached the phone, Dad had hung up. As quickly as I could, I scrambled back to the safe spot where I had left Katie under the beach towel.

It wasn’t until after the storm had passed when Dad came home. He apologized again and again for leaving me home alone during a frightening experience.

That being said, I think – no, I’d like to believe that something inside me changed a little during that storm. I feel as though something between the lightning and thunder above the house called out to me, waking up a slumbering warrior to stand in arms and become a force in her own right.

Since then, I’ve never been afraid of thunderstorms. I grew to love them and to feel grounded when one comes around. Oftentimes I’ll sleep right through one, as if Nature was singing me a lullaby to calm my restless soul.

But my most favorite part after a particularly bad storm: The way it feels as though the earth, sky, and everything in between has been scrubbed clean from dirt and grime. Sometimes, I even get to see a rainbow.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Photo by Brett Sayles on Pexels.com

Yesterday’s events at the White House were pretty… wow. And not a good kind of wow, either. I don’t know whether to cry for my country’s even more uncertain future, shake my fist at the man who’s pulling all his might to lead us there, or to be physically and violently sick.

Watching the aftermath on the evening national news, I could feel some part of myself go numb. And I think – no, I’m pretty confident I’m not the only one who feels that way too. What we have witnessed is nothing short of cowardice, distain, and general apathy toward one’s own government. Taking another world leader’s words – one who has been known to use drastic measures to get his own way more times than not – over our own country’s leading investigators and their mountainous load of evidence is beyond frightening. It’s essentially the equivalent of wrapping up the States in a pretty Russian-inspired ribbon and handing the reigns over to a malevolent demon who dares call himself a man. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Putin started sending troops over here to begin his territorial reign over us, like some sort of dictator over a newly-acquired colony.

The point to being a leader is to lead your own people toward a future that will continue to thrive long after you’re gone. Being a good leader is someone who puts their people’s needs above their own. Mr. Trump has done neither. Look up any trustworthy news source, and you will find a long list of the things he has either repealed already or is already in the process. He has begun the repeal of a rule that would weaken emission standards, reversed a rule banning hunting bears and wolves, ended a rule banning dumping waste from mining into streams, chosen a Chief Justice who wants to end the Roe v. Wade decision, chosen a woman with no education background whatsoever to the head of the Department of Education, who believes that only those who can afford to go to college without student loans should, and also has a goal of ultimately ending the entire department all together. The list truly goes on.

This is not the America I grew up on. This is not the home I came to love. This is not the government I learned about in school. Something needs to be done, and it needs to be done now more than ever. The clock is ticking down to the last minute on this man.

We are watching, Mr. Trump. Believe you me, we are most certainly watching. And the moment we find out chance, the people of the United States of America will take back what is rightfully ours.

And we will do it without your help.

In the early hours of Sunday morning, I had to bring my little black and white cat Pepper to the emergency clinic.

Let me back up a bit: I woke up to the smell of dark grey liquid-like foul odor of feline diarrhea. As I opened my eyes and sat up in the early grey morning, I looked around on the floor and found smears of the awful excrement everywhere. Jumping out of bed and tip-toeing over the splotches, I ran downstairs and found my other cat Binx laying on the floor just outside the laundry room. I gently lifted his tail and took a tentative sniff, half expecting to have my nostrils filled with the odor. Nothing. Surprised, I went back upstairs with paper towels and cleaning solution in hand to clean up the mess. As I cleaned up the mess, I found my little girl laying on the floor just a few feet from my bed. She was panting slightly, hardly moving at all, and her backside covered in hardened mats of poo.

Gently, I picked her up and brought her downstairs into the kitchen. I laid her on a towel on top of the table and started cleaning her up. Normally, she would protest and try to escape every which way she could. However, she simply let me wipe her bottom without even the slightest mew. I turned to my mom, who was watching everything from behind, and we both decided to bring her to the closest emergency clinic.

A little less than an hour later, we arrived to a clinic filled with people waiting for their animals to be seen. We probably waited for at least two hours, talking with other pet parents about our fur-babies’ ailments, including a very friendly 7 month old German Shepherd pup who was highly interested in making friends with Pepper.

At last, it was our turn. I watched carefully and with apprehension as the vet tech took Pepper’s temperature, weighed her, then took diligent notes of every symptom we witnessed. Then, the vet came in and talked with us about various tests that could be done to try and narrow down the problem, including x-rays and blood-work. Once we came up with a game plan, the vet tech came back in and took Pepper out of the examination room. We waited for what seemed like an eternity. The vet tech came back with a disgruntled Pepper, telling us she behaved well, yet was more than eager to come back to her human mommy.

After waiting for another 20 minutes, the test results came back. No failing organs, no stray chemicals within her body, yet her white-cell count was way higher than it should be. This meant she was either fighting a virus, a bacterial issue, or something along the lines of Pancreatitis. After some more discussions, we decided to take the route of antibiotics and bring Pepper back home for some much needed R&R.

I stayed up for almost half the night watching over her. She had decided it would be much better laying/sleeping in the litter box in my room, probably so she wouldn’t create any more messes. Then, right around 11:30ish, she had her first solid bowel movement, instantly gained some of her pep back, then jumped onto the bed and snuggled with me for the rest of the night. I didn’t care that she still smelled like a septic tank long overdue for a cleaning.

Earlier this morning, I am happy to announce her appetite came back in a voracious volume. She still has to take her medicine – which she absolutely hates, by the way, and spends as much energy as she can to try and spit it all back out.

During all this emotionally draining experience, I couldn’t help but to think: Is this what it’s like to be a parent?