That’s Just Sick

Thought I’d made it through this winter without getting sick. The horrible flu everyone has been talking about somehow evaded me. People all around were sick, sometimes for weeks, but I just kept going apparently unaffected by it all. Until last week.

I noticed on Monday that I was extremely tired. Odd because I’d gotten more sleep than usual the two previous nights. Tuesday, things turned a little worse and I knew I was getting sick. I started gulping large amounts of water, juice, and Gatorade. These helped somewhat but by Wednesday night, I knew I’d lost the battle.

I stayed home from work Thursday, something I rarely do. In fact I’ve only called in sick once before, twice if you count when I was in the hospital. But that one wasn’t really up to me, so I don’t count it.

Friday came and feeling a little better, I went to work—only to stop in the middle of my run to go home. Saturday wasn’t any better. Actually, it was probably worse. Sunday continued the same way. I’ll spare everyone the details, as I’m sure everyone knows what being sick is like. The problem for me is I’d never been that sick for that many days in my life. Usually, the bad part, the debilitating part, lasts only a day or two. The rest of the time is no picnic but bearable. Not this time, unfortunately.

By Sunday night, I was thankfully feeling much better. Good thing, I have a blog to write. Haven’t done a thing all week so I’m sure writing and posting this will wear me out. So, I’m going to wrap it up. Sorry I had nothing interesting to report but as you can see, the only thing on my mind all week has been this sick idea of writing about my unhealthy health. ~

 

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. Bruce A. Borders is a proud member of Rave Reviews Book Club.

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Canis Latrans (Coyote)

Growing up in rural Oregon, I was quite accustomed to seeing various wildlife, including coyotes. These days, seeing a coyote or two in my daily travels is still pretty normal and I usually don’t pay that much attention. Except for the other day.

I was working. Driving the truck downtown Portland. At first, when I saw the coyote, walking leisurely down the sidewalk, I thought it must be a dog. It had to be a dog, I told myself. Why would a coyote be running around the city? Especially, downtown.

But the closer I got, the more I was convinced; it definitely looked like a coyote. Still, I wasn’t positive. It was dark and headlights do not always show things clearly. But then, stopping for a red light, I got a better look. Wise to the city ways the animal paused under the streetlight, waiting for traffic to clear. Being just a few feet away, I was certain this was indeed a coyote.

Then the light changed and we both took off. As I lost sight of the coyote in my mirror, I again started thinking that it had to have been a dog.

But now, I was curious. Doing a search, I was surprised to learn that coyote sightings in the Portland area are common with upwards of 2000 sightings per year. However, these sightings are usually on the outskirts of town or in the suburbs, not downtown. Still, with a thriving coyote population, seeing one in the busy part of the city was not out of the question. When I was a kid, coyotes never even made it close to Portland. Apparently, times have changed. There is now an estimated 500 or more living in or around Portland.

Okay, so I guess I wasn’t imagining things after all. Good to know. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised though. The part of town where I saw the coyote was near where I pick up my load—of garbage. I think a transfer station is sort of like a buffet for coyotes.

I still find it odd, however. I’ve always considered coyotes to be more of a rural creature, not really an urban one. But since we’re providing them with fine dining establishments these days, I guess they’ve discovered it’s easier to find a good meal in the city than in the country. ~

 

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. Bruce A. Borders is a proud member of Rave Reviews Book Club.

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Mileage May Vary, Or Not

Mileage May Vary, Or Not

Time for a new pair of boots. Seems I’ve walked holes in the soles—again. Boots typically last me about a year. Been that way for most of my life. And it doesn’t seem to matter what brand I buy, I get about a year out of them. It’s been a little longer than that this time but only by a month or so.

To a lot of folks, a year may not seem that long for footwear to wear out, but most people do not wear one pair continuously. I do. I own just a single pair of boots at a time. I wear them every day no matter where I’m going or what I’m doing, from the time I get up until the time I go to bed.

I’ve often wondered just what sort of “mileage” I get with my boots and now, thanks to the Heart app on my phone I can see exactly how far I walk each day, week, month, or year. And since I always wear the same boots, I know that every step, every mile recorded was taken in those boots.

What I’ve found is that I walk an average of about 3,600 steps per day. That’s around 1.5 miles, which translates to 547.5 miles per year. While that seems like a lot of walking, (to me) I know it’s nowhere close to the recommended 10,000 steps, or 5 miles, per day.

But really, that amount of walking is just not feasible for me. No, not because I don’t have time, or that I’m a truck driver and we don’t like walking, or the fact that I’m old. No, the reason I can’t walk more than I do is simple. My boots just couldn’t take it. They’d never make to the year mark because apparently, I’m only getting about 550 miles to the pair. ~

 

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. Bruce A. Borders is a proud member of Rave Reviews Book Club.

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Grand Wisdom

So, my wife, seamstress extraordinaire and specialty quilt maker, is currently making me a quilt. Yep, no cobbler’s son syndrome here, I’m getting my own quilt. She’s made dozens of quilts for many people but this one will be mine! No, this isn’t the first time I’ve benefited from her sewing skills, it’s not even the first quilt she’s made me, but this particular quilt is very apropos. It’s a western/patriotic themed design with hats, guns, boots, and flags. In other words, it’s me—in quilt form.

This past weekend, she was working on the quilt; multiple sewing machines on the table, material scattered about the house, and pieces of partially finished quilt here and there. When one of my grandchildren came in, he glanced around and, apparently quite used to his grandma’s projects, asked me, “Who is this one for?”

“Me,” I said, thinking he should have already known, since she’s been working on it for a while.

The grandson gave me a strange look. “You don’t need a quilt.”

“Why not? What do you suggest I use to stay warm?”

He shrugged. “You have a coat.”

True, I thought. (Strangely, it wasn’t that long ago that he was concerned that I didn’t have a coat. Guess times have changed.) I almost said to him that while I do have a coat, I don’t usually wear it in the house. Except, I do, ’cause my wife is from Wisconsin and likes to keep the house COLD. For years, my children and I gave her a hard time for running the air conditioner in the winter. Incidentally, just in case anyone is wondering, it is very efficient to do that; the house cools down quickly!

The kids have since moved on to a warmer climate—their own houses—while I’m still here, freezing. But, as my grandson pointed out, I do have a coat. And soon, I’ll have a brand new quilt too! ~

 

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. Bruce A. Borders is a proud member of Rave Reviews Book Club.

Right Lane, Wrong Road

I’ve written about this before and while I hesitate to recycle old material, it is evidently that time of year again—meet a car on my side of the freeway season! Not that there is an actual season, at least I hope not. Besides, a season would suggest a regular spate of fruit, ripe for the harvest. In other words, me meeting a lot of vehicles going the wrong way. And I’d rather limit those incidents. But, I don’t think it’s up to me. In any case, perhaps “season” was not the best choice of words.

As you’ve most likely guessed, last week, I was once again privileged to run across (and not into) a car coming toward me on the freeway. This happens occasionally, or frequently, since it hasn’t been that long since the last time.

I was only a couple of miles from my exit, finishing up my night and going home, when the unmistakable shine of headlights on my side of the median told me my uneventful night might turn out to be a little interesting. With a combined speed of around 140 mph, a guy doesn’t have a lot of time to react when this happens. I was able to determine the vehicle was in the left lane—which they usually are since the disoriented driver THINKS they’re in the right lane. (Like how I refrained from saying the driver was an idiot?)

I flashed my lights repeatedly; hoping whoever was behind the wheel would see the error of their way. No such luck though; the driver kept right on cruising and simply flashed their lights back, presumably to show me they weren’t driving with their high beams on, which was thoughtful of them. Still, I’d prefer they just drove on their own side of the road. Call me crazy but I’d feel much safer having a headlight dual with some sort of barrier separating us.

I tried to get a look at the driver as the car zoomed past but couldn’t see much. By this time, other drivers were aware of what was going on and the CB was blaring away. Someone said they’d called 911; others were strategizing on how to stop the car before there was a major crash. Figuring there was nothing I could do, I took my exit and headed home, glad to be done dealing with the insanity.

Then, two days later—or two nights, since I drive at night—the insanity returned. On the road ahead of me was another fast-approaching set of lights. The lights of a semi this time. A car is bad enough but a semi? Really?

Thankfully, again there was no crash. But now I’m a little leery every time I head off down the road. A pattern seems to be developing here. On second thought, perhaps “season” was a good choice of words after all. ~

 

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. Bruce A. Borders is a proud member of Rave Reviews Book Club.

The Painful Truth

A few years ago, I learned that dogs do not feel pain—at least according to the person with whom I was speaking. Pain, this person insisted, does not affect a dog, they feel nothing. This was an “educated” person. A person who should know. A person who has a lot of experience with dogs. Still, I think I’ll have to disagree.

While dogs may not show it in the same way humans do, and while they may not complain much, I’m quite certain dogs feel pain. I realize sometimes it can be difficult to know if a dog is in pain and if so, how much, and I know they are quite resilient creatures, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that canines are not insentient to pain.

Recently, I’ve been reminded of the conversation with the above-mentioned person. My wife and I have an aging collie that is beginning to have trouble getting around. Going up and down steps is becoming more difficult for her, as is simply standing up. The problem is we’re not really sure if she’s in pain or not. She doesn’t really give any indication of pain, no yelping or anything, so perhaps it’s just her joints are a little stiff. Unfortunately, we can’t simply ask her. Well, we can—and do—but she doesn’t really answer. If the problem continues to get worse, we may have to consider medication, I suppose. We certainly don’t want the dog to suffer; i.e., experience pain.

Incidentally, pain is defined as a physical hurting sensation caused by an injury (or illness) to the body; it is not unique to the human race, as anyone who has ever owned a dog knows. Common sense should be enough to settle any debate. Even a complete imbecile should be able to figure out that dogs do indeed feel pain. So, obviously, the person who told me dogs are immune to pain took a crash course in junk science. Which is odd being that the person was a veterinarian.

On a related note, we no longer use that particular vet. ~

 

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. Bruce A. Borders is a proud member of Rave Reviews Book Club.

On Second Thought

Well, the year has gotten off to a great start—most of the snow is gone and temperatures are warmer. A few more weeks and winter will be gone!

But as I was told by my grandson, Christmas will be back. This was after he sadly lamented that only a little Christmas remained, pointing to the scattered remnants of snow piles. I guess that is winter’s one redeeming aspect—Christmas, because it makes all the kids happy. Not sure if that makes up for all the cold, snow, icy roads and the like but it does help.

He also informed me that I do not need to wait for Christmas to give him gifts. I could do that any time of the year, he said. He just turned four so he thinks everyone else in the world exists to do his bidding!

We were taking a walk across a bridge and looking down, I saw an acorn. I picked it up and handed it to him. “Here’s a gift,” I said.

“What is it?”

When I told him it was an acorn, he shook his head. “That’s not an acorn, it doesn’t have the top.” (The cap had fallen off).

“It’s still an acorn,” I said.

“Will it still make an oak tree?” he wanted to know. So much for explaining the acorn turning into a tree to him! Apparently, he already knows this.

“Maybe.” I was hesitant to give him a definite answer. He’d plant it and something would kill it off and then he’d blame me for not having his tree.

He was shaking his head again. “I don’t think it will. It’s broken.”

“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “It’s what on the inside that counts.”

He didn’t answer for a little bit. Finally, he says, “Grandpa, you can just wait until Christmas and then buy me a gift.” Guess he wasn’t impressed.

Think I’ll wrap an acorn for him for next Christmas. One with the top still attached, of course. ~

 

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. Bruce A. Borders is a proud member of Rave Reviews Book Club.