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“Okay, so if you’re going to complain that much, next time I’ll be Lazarus, and you can be Jesus.”
“When Jesus said we should love and pray for our enemies, he didn’t really mean fleas and ticks, did he?”
So does this mean the bailout is working?
I’m seated at a roadside table, listening to symphony of percussive raindrops on the pavement and the hum of the wheels rolling around the curve in the road.
And a howling cat.
His mother’s cat.
Whenever it comes to me, he wont mind—not one bit.
But now he’s in the bag—yellow with pawprints and black mesh.
I dont know whether he’s hollering at me, the cars passing by, or just life in general.
Now the dog—he doesnt mind but in the other sense of the phrase.
He’s just sniffing around, marking each of the picnic tables, the posts of the shelter, twice each.
Now he’s lying down, wet—another post out in the rain he figured was his.
Pauses.
Only the raindrops.
Refreshment to the dry earth.
Maybe it will be a colorful Fall after all.
But is it working?
The reason I’m out here, listening to the rain, feeling the mist stirred up by the occasional breeze—watching for my wife to drive by—is b/c someone’s looking at our house.
Only the second in twice as many months.
Suddenly ours has become one of the hotter possibilities on the market—less than six figures.
Like the automobiles rolling by—less of the big ones—status cars.
It’s what goes in the tank these days.
So maybe it’s working after all.
People living w/in their means.
Buying cars that simply get them where they’re going.
Houses with just enough room to love passionately—and dream.
And cats that dont hold grudges.
I wish more of the world was like Doc Brester’s.
Here’s what the world would look like if it was more like Doc Brester’s:
1. NOBODY’S SPECIAL B/C EVERYBODY’S SPECIAL. At Doc Brester’s, everyone has to wait their turn. You sign up, and you wait. No exceptions. Today, for instance, a man tried to plead w/ the secretary to have Doc Brester look at his dog, immediately. “He knows this dog. He’s deterioriating fast, and miserable. Surely the Doc would see him and put him down.”
“I’m sorry sir, but there’s three other dogs here to be euthenized, too. They’re in the same situation as you.”
Every animal is important to Doc Brester. It’s why he does what he does. “Love what you do and you’ll never work a day in yr life,” says a sign hanging in one of the examination rooms—a sign which says more about Doc Brester than he’ll ever say about himself.
2. EVERY STRANGER IS A POTENTIAL FRIEND. At Doc Brester’s it’s hard to do anything while you wait. You’ve either got a leash in yr hands or a pet carrier on yr lap, so you cant read a magazine or work a crossword. Thus, you strike up conversation w/ complete strangers—easy to do, considering that you know that you have at least one thing in common.
“What kind of breed is that? What are you here for? Have any others at home?” These arent pick-up lines, though I wonder if any relationships have ever bloomed in the hours of waiting at Doc Brester’s. These are conversation starters. Even the most anti-social person in any other setting feels free to open up at Doc Brester’s.
“I got three more at home,” the woman in the Tweety-bird tank-top smiled. “A baby racoon I’m bottle feeding, and a goat.”
Anywhere else, nobody would probably care. They might ignore her. But at Doc Brester’s everyone listens, intently.
3. THE PRICES ARE RIGHT. Actually, they are too right. That’s why the parking lot is always full.
Some people might say that Doc Brester doesnt charge enough—and that might be true, but he doesnt care. In fact, almost every bill seems to reveal that he’s even thrown something in for free. And even though my dog always gets a shot and two prescriptions, it never costs more than thirty dollars.
In a world where prices are so inflated, Doc Brester’s sits as an oasis. He charges what he wants, what HE thinks is fair.
Imagine a world like this—where nobody’s special b/c everyone’s special. It doesnt matter where you came from, what you drove, and who you are. Your pure-bred mastiff with the menstral issues is just as important as the wiry-haired mutt with the allergies.
Imagine a world like this—where every stranger was treated as a potential friend. Everyone with a shared interest and time to talk about current pets, former pets, and sometimes football. But never politics. It would just bore the pets.
Imagine a world like this—where the prices were right. Where what you paid at the pump was exactly all that was needed, and sometimes you even got a gallon free. Where nothing came w/ interest. Where the wholesale price was always the resale price. And where you always paid for what you got—and usually got more.
Imagine a world like this—it’s possible b/c I’ve seen it, nestled in the heart of Bean Blossom, Indiana. People passing the time together. Dogs sniffing each other’s butts. Cats rubbing up against your legs. And one man in blue, hands curled from arthritis, from whom you get only a few words, but deserving of only one himself.
Thanks.
