Nothing energizes my walk/run like knowing that when I complete my daily exercise quota, I get to sit down and write. Today I’ll begin an article on the youth delegation that went to Kazakhstan a couple of weeks ago. I’m so pumped and have so much information from which to choose that narrowing the article will be my biggest challenge. Usually when I need to know where to begin, I take a walk and sort it out.
Today, my routine went like this:
Walk/run; waaalk/ruuuuuuun; waaaalk/ruuun; waaaaaaaalk/run; waaaaaaaaaalk/rn; waaaaaaaaaaalk/r
I got sidetracked and de-energized by thinking of this week’s incidents:
Jordan broke his nose for the 3rd time.
Kristin weathered a crisis, went to Kings Island and returned with her first real sunburn.
A fox took up residence in our backyard and won’t leave unless I open the door and yell at him.
Katie had her wisdom teeth pulled. She was pretty pitiful and loopy when I brought her home—slurred speech, swollen cheeks, incoherent and desirous of my motherly attention and my company, which had to be a direct effect of the Percocet, I’m sure. But then, a miracle happened.
Shad, the boyfriend, came to visit. Instantly, Katie the Pitiful became Katie Couric, perky as anything, smiling with those chubby cheeks, sitting up, carrying on windy, lucid conversations, making plans to go to the state fair, etc. Shouldn’t the world know about Shad’s miraculous healing powers? Shouldn’t we get him a televangelism healing program on CBN?
Zoe had to spend the day at the vet’s, where she was sedated and x-rayed. She has arthritic knees. Now she is on Prednisone for 15 days. These pills are like the size of Baby Aspirin, but broken into fourths, making this “pill” smaller than a mini-chocolate chip. I can hardly hold it. I looked at it and thought How can this crumb do anything?
But it worked. She entered the family room very early the next morning, when almost everyone (not the genetically twisted Crow family) is slow and rickety, but she trotted in with a puppy-ish spring in her step. George said, “You know, she’s on a steroid. What if she develops ‘roid rage and tears up our . . . couch hem . . . or human ankles?” By this time, she had rolled over on her back in her usual timid, submissive greeting, as if she’s meeting us for the first time and wants to acknowledge that we are sovereign.
Not an ounce of ‘roid rage in that 4 lb. body, but just once I would like to see her bulk up like a pit bull and scare that fox away for good.
Posessed by 'roid rage? Look at those eyes--you be the judge.