Little cow

little cow

These have been difficult days; in fact, this has been a difficult decade. In these ten years, hard-to-bear things have happened. I was sitting here, half-reclining, eyes closed, when something bonked into my face and bounced onto my chest. Der Bingle had tossed  this little cow at me as he was on his way out to take Alison to Wal-Mart.

As I simultaneously opened my eyes and grasped the thing on my chest, raising it to my line of vision, my first thought was, “Poor little cow, you don’t even have a name.” And then I pressed her to my face and just sat like that – me and the nameless cow. Her cow snout stuck out, as did my nose, so we compromised and she rested her snout on my forehead and my nose fit in the spot under her snout chin. Whatever you call that area – I suppose her neck, chest region.

She is a comforting little cow. She has a way about her.

Yesterday at Redbox I stood in line behind a little blond boy about four and his parents. He was squatting down the way little four year old boys do, pointing a the picture of a cartoon movie in the very bottom row. I guess, though, there was nothing available in the Redbox the family wanted and they stepped aside. As I stood there, looking at the titles, a little voice came up and asked about that cartoon movie. I looked down at that little face, and if I could have, I would have gotten it for him.

I saw a face asking about Masters of the Universe and Tranzor Z and a slow-witted robot called Bobobot. I looked at the parents who were still there talking about something and I said what so many people once told me: “These years, cherish them.” And my mind added, “for that face will always be so dear to your heart.”

Now, Little Cow is going to help me get my act together.

Hey, LC, stick with the cuddling . . . this tough love punching is annoying.

Nice little comfy sleep

Last evening I realized that if I started watching a movie, I would fall asleep about ten minutes in and so I actually turned the TV off. Then I snuggled my head into the pillow, pulled the soft and fluffy comforter with the satin edge right up to nose level and . . . I don’t remember any more.

I think this has something to do with a threshold I am crossing in my lifespan. I just accepted it would be wisest to admit I would drop off to sleep. I guess I’ll just sigh and adapt to this development. Gone are the days – and nights – when I would have this sort of calculation in my mind:

Okay, if I crank this stuff out at such and such arate, I should be done by 2 or 3 am. Then I can sleep until 6 am and get up. I took it for granted I would, after a few minutes of bleary-eyed grousing, be an alert and bouncy grouse.

No more. Well, I don’t think I can call this one of life’s surprises.

Now, I have to go search for the reason the sperm whale exploded on a Taiwanese street because I think I may have dozed off for a few critical minutes of explanation. Maybe I’ll spend a year of so fooling the guys here at the PBC&R Cafe about this aging thing. . . I’ll  just bop over to where folks are eating their morning foldovers and ask with my really big grin – that still has teeth – if they saw the show about  whale blood and guts dripping all over everything.

I should probably reconsider that.