Shoe droppings

I have one of those weird lives. The shoe is always dropping but we somehow manage to find another covering for the foot.

A couple weeks ago, an old friend offered me a quick job which, thankfully, came along to save Christmas. This happens every year. Last year, a follower of this blog came to my rescue with a generous donation. Other years, we've gotten small contracts that pay off the mountain of bills accumulated during the dry times, put presents under the tree for the family and sponsor the annual turkey.

Along the way, we've tried to make our own luck, but it isn't easy. Scott sells cars for a living and thanks to that Grinch, Jim Flaherty and his little elf Stephen Harper, there aren't many public servants who can afford Subarus these days. Me, I've been out of work since May.

So we're juggling a number of shoes this year.

We are in the precarious situation of having to make an end of life decision for our beloved Gordie who will soon join his pals Hannah and Ming in doggie heaven. He's shutting down, the poor fellar, unable to walk anymore, incontinent, anxious and spacey and generally undignified. So we will have to be the adults in the relationship and send him on his way, with his little suitcase of dog biscuits and bacon for dessert. Certainly not today, but maybe tomorrow, maybe after Christmas. When it's time, we'll know. We've been to this rodeo a few times.

To make matters a little worse, our beloved Subaru cut out on us last night. Subrina has been a good old car and has served her owners well over her 14 years, but she, too, is on her way out. She will simply be too costly to fix and so we'll be hoofing it for the next while as we try to decide our next automotive move. We can't afford car payments, but maybe somebody will bring in a good trade at the Subaru store. You never know. That's how we got Subrina.

And the third shoe is Scott's bad tooth. He's in a mouth full of pain right now, just weeks before his benefits kick in. Isn't it always the way? Too bad for him, but he's gonna have to rough it out on a diet of Ibuprofen and cheap whiskey.

Oh, well, I tell myself. It could be worse. Our friend Ron is going into the hospital to cough up a lung, or at least a piece of it in the next few days. My other friend, Bob, is so weak he won't be coming over for Christmas because he can't make it up the stairs. He's a little like Gordie, except for the incontinence part.

Bob is lucky in some ways.

Gordie doesn't have the benefit of Oxycodone but Gordie also has the advantage of not understanding that he's sick -- not like Bob who's fighting tooth and nail for his life and taking his wife Doris down with him. She's been holed up in her apartment for weeks drowning her depression in vodka.

So it could be worse. It could always be worse.

Still, all the shoes keep me up at night. Five o'clock this morning, I woke up and my mind started racing mentally lurching from crisis to God damned crisis. At six I got up and made the tea and sat down here to tell you nice folks about my bad day yesterday.

Gordie's been out, dropping logs as Scott carried him to the yard. He didn't pee. He couldn't stand to pee so he's sitting here beside me in his diaper waiting for breakfast. Good news is, he still loves to eat. The car is in the driveway, on a battery. We're hoping for the best. And Scott's gone back to bed carrying a bottle of Ibuprofen.

Me, I'm going to soldier on.

Later today, I'll be with my lovely daughter Marissa at a bridal show at the Chateau Laurier. We're putting together her Wish List (all donations accepted, ten and twenties included, to the left of this blog). The wedding's not for another year but plan we must, for every eventuality, for every shoe.

By the time the wedding rolls around, Gordie will be just a wonderful memory and we will be in another car of some sort. And thanks to the benefits, Scott will finally get his teeth fixed.

There will, no doubt, be more shoes to drop. But hopefully, there will be other boots to replace them.

In the meantime, all we can do is dance.



Popular posts from this blog

Ashley Simpson: A Father Remembers

Ashley Simpson: Love and Loss on Family Day

What Bell isn't telling you about Fibe TV