The fact that I had to put our yellow lab "Cooter" down Tuesday, 8 months after I put down our Pug Ruby, has devastated me and our family. Being the guy who takes our beloved pets on their last car trip is an unenviable task I dread. I love God's creatures. Most of them, that is. When talking about facing fears great or small, should I or shouldn't I, and what defines great and small?
I have mentioned in other chapters about my fears of clowns, dentists and bats. My ultimate fear is going to the dentist only to find him dressed in a bat costume with a rubber nose and rubber shoes. Those are real phobias. I use comedy to deflect real feelings of discomfort. Taking them one by one, I never took my kids to the circus. Remember that chapter? I still have no guilt! That phobia is easily managed. No circus, no problem. The dentist has a note in my file about my phobia and I get gas, even for a cleaning. Problem solved. That brings us to the bats.
Everyone knows of my love for rescuing animals! I like animals better than people for the most part. I know, not very Christianly. Giving it to you straight has been my thing, why change now? I know others who fear the dentist and clowns. Being a comedian all 3 phobias can be material for me. Animals are God's nonspeaking buffers between humanity that bring us happy. That is except for bats. I find these creatures to be the most vile creation in God's animal playbook. I know he was very busy during those days of creation. It is a part bird, part rat-like thing, part blood or bug sucking thing, it is blind and only comes out in the dark to prey on the unsuspecting.
I don't get it! Birds are beautiful! I adore hawks and birds of prey! I think bats are actually what people see when they encounter the chupacabra! Why is a bat turd called guano? That sounds like something I want to dip a tortilla chip into! Why do bat turds get such a prestigious name for a dump? Cows have pies, okay. Horses have apples, okay. If you've been on a farm those are pretty good visual descriptions of what they leave behind. Guano sounds like the latest hot spot martini bar on Rush and Division. Why does such a filthy, deplorable, rabid beast get a designer turd moniker? Stop the madness!
Growing up in Mokena and around Joliet we saw bats. I was horrified by them. The way they flew erratically, possibly carrying rabies, lice or bubonic plague or a chunk of cow hair they took off poor Elsie in the field next door was paralyzing. The articles I still read in the papers freak me out. "2 rabid bats found in Joliet Forest Preserve." Plainfield bat tests confirm rabies!" I know it seems silly, but is my phobia silly?
You may say "Tom you made it through 20 years of addiction, alcoholism depression, anxiety, panic and homelessness. Why are you worried about the bat phobia? The roaches didn't bother you that much." The answer is multi-layered. We all have fears and inner conflicts. My addictions and depression were massive obstacles that had to be faced. The clown and dentist phobias had solutions I created to get around or deal with them
We all have fears, phobias and things that freak us out which we don't talk about for personal or societal reasons. I had a bat experience that terrified me as a kid. It involved me, my sister, my mom and my stepfather. I remember it like yesterday. I can tell you details including weather. I called them both this morning. My sister vaguely remembers the incident, my mom not at all. I think I remember it because the incident was between me and my stepfather and this bat that I dreaded going near. If I didn't I felt I would be a sissy. To fear bats in general is feminine, not that there is anything wrong with a man being in touch with his feminine side.
I have let these little flying varmints freak me out since I had the ability to remember things. I have stories about Mammoth Cave Kentucky and the exhibit at Brookfield Zoo that almost killed me with a panic attack because bats fly free in the enclosure. Note to self: Read zoo instructions before entering.
I don't talk about this fear with people because I feel it's stupid but it genuinely effects me if there is a bat situation occurring. Do you have a silly fear that maybe isn't so silly? I have only taken my kids to the zoo once. We have never been to a circus and never to the forest preserve (particularly after dark) all because of this bat thing. It kills me because I love animals so much and I let this one bastard flyin' rat prevent me from showing my kids 100's of other species I adore.
I can face an inferno, but I am terrified by a match. Laugh. I make jokes. I have never turned to my friend Patrick and said "Bats scare the shit out of me." Dudes don't do that. He would probably push me out of the car. No, really. If you knew Patrick, he really would push me out of the car.
I submitted to an ad to appear on a program that deals with fear of animals. I did it on a whim, half joking, half secretly crying out for help for this insane phobia. They called me and are interested in my fear of bats. Now I have to decide if I want to apply or not and tell the world I don't like bats. God sure has a sense of humor. God bless us all. If you're looking for something to do tonight, head on out to Guano. They have a live band Billy Bozo and the drillers.
Showing posts with label Germany. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Germany. Show all posts
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Hemingway...Bukowski.. and The Ol' Coot...
NOTE TO READER: As you sip your morning coffee or down your dinner tea insert some incredibly humorous anecdote about life's challenges from Mike Royko or Erma Bombeck here. Then continue with this chapter. Your day will start with a smile on your face. You will dance out the door like Carol and Mike Brady. I loved the "Chicago Daily News" and "The SunTimes." As a kid I devoured the paper like a religion. When I try to be a writer like these iconic figures, I sound like Charles Bukowski discussing his optimistic views on humanity. "It always comes out exactly the wrong way!" It does so lately at least.
When you're a comedian you are in an enviable and unenviable spot. The nice thing is that you can say things others wouldn't dare to and not get punched out or taken too seriously. You can also take tragic human events and turn them into "jokes" to make them more digestible for public consumption. The bad part is that when you try to talk seriously about a subject people don't know if you are kidding. It is the paradox of comedic art.
As an addict I've spent 20 years in an emotional ice age. I didn't know how to feel and avoided feelings I couldn't understand. People who are "normal earthlings" don't sympathize with the breakthroughs of growing emotionally that recovery brings. They can't relate because they have been dealing with their emotions all along. They are quick to be judge, jury and executioner when an addict reaches a seemingly elementary stage of growth in emotional maturity. These people frustrate me when they say "suck it up", "be a man" and other belittling remarks when they have not walked a mile in my shoes. It is as if I were to say to a woman, "Quit bitching about child delivery being so painful, they gave you an epidural!"
It is like the non-addict judging the addict and the man convinced he knows the pain of child delivery. We can not judge another until we have slipped into their sandals for a day. If you saw a man steal a loaf of bread you would call him a thief. If your kid was dying, and you had no other means to feed them, you would steal that loaf of bread in a heartbeat and think of yourself as doing what you had to do to provide for your family. It's all in the sandals my friend.
I have a way of saying exactly the opposite of how I feel. I want to tell my wife how beautiful her new shirt is and some how she ends up going upstairs and changing, thinking I hate it. I am working on that. Sometimes my love comes out as cynicism or coldness. On other days someone who thinks I have no feelings for them thinks I'm a nut job when they find me sobbing to them about how brilliant I think they are. Dealing with reality is new to me. Saying things the right way is foreign to me. Those are my sandals.
When I drove my eldest daughter away from our home through my controlling, overbearing, speed and weed induced behavior at age 18 she fled to Peoria and then lived with my in-laws. There she became inseparable with Dakota, their yellow Lab. She renamed her "Cooter." I loved the name. I loved that she loved her dog so much. I was proud that I had passed my love for animals on to her, as well as the other kids. I hadn't been completely poisonous in my darker days.
When my in-laws were beginning to look for a new home about a year ago, I happily took her into our home. I somehow knew she was going to be our dog in the years she lived with my in-laws. I can't explain it. I just did. When we got her, her health was already failing. She had glaucoma, was half deaf, her hips were going and she had other classic Lab related conditions. She was also approaching 12 years old. That's like 90 in people years for a Lab.
Cooter slept next to my bed and laid by my feet when I wrote my chapters. She was glued to me and loved everyone in the house. She was one of those dogs that just wanted love. Period! With Hemingway in Germany and Cooter deteriorating I was faced with some tough decisions. She is coming home in a few months and I knew she was looking forward to seeing Cooter and being with her partner in crime, the companion who filled a void I created by my selfishness and insensitivity. I prayed that Cooter could hang on through Hemi's trip home.
In the last week or so Cooter stopped eating and separated from the pack. She cried 24/7 and groaned endlessly; pack behavior I am familiar with. Here I sat as the frog again. I knew it was time to let Coot go. By putting her down before my daughter had one last chance to see her, I felt I was being that insensitive prick shitting all over her again. It was about me not wanting to hurt her again, like I always seem to do. Yesterday Cooter was in good spirits for the first time in many days. My plan was to make the appointment with the Vet and do the right thing for Cooter's well being and take the hit from my daughter again. I would tell her after Cooter reached heaven.
Foolishly I posted a picture of Coot on my Facebook page and stated I was letting her go. My daughter saw the post in Germany and went into breakdown. I did it again. I was doing the right thing for Cooter by letting her go. Sometimes getting kicked in the stones by your kids is part of the parent thing. I know Coot wouldn't make it to June and Hemi would be destroyed to see her in such terrible shape.
Sometimes we learn more from our kids than they learn from us. After we talked Hemi understood and was understandably shaken. She didn't hate me. I had the doctor check Cooter out before her exit. She had developed a severe heart murmur and did not have much time left anyway. I had made the right choice. The guilt I have for taking something my daughter loved so much burns. I still feel like when I try to hand her roses there's a thorn there to make her bleed. Those are my issues. She does not make me feel that way. Maybe one day I'll get things right. Probably not! The guilt stuff will take time. I am glad I have a daughter who is brilliant and emotionally balanced unlike her old man.
Coot went peacefully. I know she is better off. Sometimes it sucks playing God, choosing life or death for a pet. The happy times they give us makes that unhappy decision difficult but possible. I would rather have loved Coot and lost her than never to have loved her at all. Hemi, I love you. Coot is with Ruby and my dad is probably saying Ruby is too fat and Coot's breath stinks in Heaven right now.
When you're a comedian you are in an enviable and unenviable spot. The nice thing is that you can say things others wouldn't dare to and not get punched out or taken too seriously. You can also take tragic human events and turn them into "jokes" to make them more digestible for public consumption. The bad part is that when you try to talk seriously about a subject people don't know if you are kidding. It is the paradox of comedic art.
As an addict I've spent 20 years in an emotional ice age. I didn't know how to feel and avoided feelings I couldn't understand. People who are "normal earthlings" don't sympathize with the breakthroughs of growing emotionally that recovery brings. They can't relate because they have been dealing with their emotions all along. They are quick to be judge, jury and executioner when an addict reaches a seemingly elementary stage of growth in emotional maturity. These people frustrate me when they say "suck it up", "be a man" and other belittling remarks when they have not walked a mile in my shoes. It is as if I were to say to a woman, "Quit bitching about child delivery being so painful, they gave you an epidural!"
It is like the non-addict judging the addict and the man convinced he knows the pain of child delivery. We can not judge another until we have slipped into their sandals for a day. If you saw a man steal a loaf of bread you would call him a thief. If your kid was dying, and you had no other means to feed them, you would steal that loaf of bread in a heartbeat and think of yourself as doing what you had to do to provide for your family. It's all in the sandals my friend.
I have a way of saying exactly the opposite of how I feel. I want to tell my wife how beautiful her new shirt is and some how she ends up going upstairs and changing, thinking I hate it. I am working on that. Sometimes my love comes out as cynicism or coldness. On other days someone who thinks I have no feelings for them thinks I'm a nut job when they find me sobbing to them about how brilliant I think they are. Dealing with reality is new to me. Saying things the right way is foreign to me. Those are my sandals.
When I drove my eldest daughter away from our home through my controlling, overbearing, speed and weed induced behavior at age 18 she fled to Peoria and then lived with my in-laws. There she became inseparable with Dakota, their yellow Lab. She renamed her "Cooter." I loved the name. I loved that she loved her dog so much. I was proud that I had passed my love for animals on to her, as well as the other kids. I hadn't been completely poisonous in my darker days.
When my in-laws were beginning to look for a new home about a year ago, I happily took her into our home. I somehow knew she was going to be our dog in the years she lived with my in-laws. I can't explain it. I just did. When we got her, her health was already failing. She had glaucoma, was half deaf, her hips were going and she had other classic Lab related conditions. She was also approaching 12 years old. That's like 90 in people years for a Lab.
Cooter slept next to my bed and laid by my feet when I wrote my chapters. She was glued to me and loved everyone in the house. She was one of those dogs that just wanted love. Period! With Hemingway in Germany and Cooter deteriorating I was faced with some tough decisions. She is coming home in a few months and I knew she was looking forward to seeing Cooter and being with her partner in crime, the companion who filled a void I created by my selfishness and insensitivity. I prayed that Cooter could hang on through Hemi's trip home.
In the last week or so Cooter stopped eating and separated from the pack. She cried 24/7 and groaned endlessly; pack behavior I am familiar with. Here I sat as the frog again. I knew it was time to let Coot go. By putting her down before my daughter had one last chance to see her, I felt I was being that insensitive prick shitting all over her again. It was about me not wanting to hurt her again, like I always seem to do. Yesterday Cooter was in good spirits for the first time in many days. My plan was to make the appointment with the Vet and do the right thing for Cooter's well being and take the hit from my daughter again. I would tell her after Cooter reached heaven.
Foolishly I posted a picture of Coot on my Facebook page and stated I was letting her go. My daughter saw the post in Germany and went into breakdown. I did it again. I was doing the right thing for Cooter by letting her go. Sometimes getting kicked in the stones by your kids is part of the parent thing. I know Coot wouldn't make it to June and Hemi would be destroyed to see her in such terrible shape.
Sometimes we learn more from our kids than they learn from us. After we talked Hemi understood and was understandably shaken. She didn't hate me. I had the doctor check Cooter out before her exit. She had developed a severe heart murmur and did not have much time left anyway. I had made the right choice. The guilt I have for taking something my daughter loved so much burns. I still feel like when I try to hand her roses there's a thorn there to make her bleed. Those are my issues. She does not make me feel that way. Maybe one day I'll get things right. Probably not! The guilt stuff will take time. I am glad I have a daughter who is brilliant and emotionally balanced unlike her old man.
Coot went peacefully. I know she is better off. Sometimes it sucks playing God, choosing life or death for a pet. The happy times they give us makes that unhappy decision difficult but possible. I would rather have loved Coot and lost her than never to have loved her at all. Hemi, I love you. Coot is with Ruby and my dad is probably saying Ruby is too fat and Coot's breath stinks in Heaven right now.
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