Monday, March 23, 2009


A living dog is better than a dead lion.
Ecclesiastes 9:4

Thinking of her whippet who’d been recently castrated, my adult daughter asked if I’d need to wear one of those protective cones so I wouldn’t lick myself. After the surgery, upon my release.

I would if I could, guess I said.

My surgeon says there’s a slight chance they’ll find no additional cancer in the prostate – with it removed, and once they’ve had a chance to examine it. My response was something along these lines: I suppose at that point, it’s too late to think about putting it back?

They harvest a cancerous prostate, no different than harvesting a rutabaga or a summer squash.

It’s never a good thing when in the throes of a compromising position, someone tells you to take a deep breath or bite on a towel.

For my Florence Nightingale, my lady with the lamp: this is the in sickness and in health part.

The catheter, upon having finally been removed and hung on a nail above my workbench: ideal for draining the old engine oil from my lawn tractor or the Simplicity snowblower. We all aspire to something of a far greater value, finding new purpose long after we've exceeded our useful lives.

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