Readers Who Write

Why am I becoming so sensitive? 

As a boy, I explored the world I was born into with a curious spirit. Like most boys, I had no problem putting a worm on the hook or killing ants with a magnifying glass. I even ate live grasshoppers, just to get a reaction from the girls within my circle of friends.

Then came time for me to put away childish things and prepare myself for the real world. Those were good years, educational, fun and scary. I survived when many of my friends didn’t. How quickly time passes when you’re having fun.

I once owned a 15-acre hobby farm in Roslyn, Ontario, about halfway between Montreal and Toronto. I would grow my own vegetables and hunt for meat. I ate well during the day and slept well at night. Just like worming a hook, or roasting ants, killing didn’t intimidate me.

As I aged and slowed down, I started feeling there was something missing. I couldn’t put my finger on it until my 16th year of marriage to Kerry. That was when we had to put down Boris our Doberman. His 15 years of chasing butterflies and running away from thunder had taken its toll on his hips.

I waited until Kerry was out of town before I did the deed. I wanted to spare Kerry the grief of saying a forever goodbye to Boris. That was a huge mistake. Apparently, she wanted to say her own close-the-Boris-chapter goodbye, and I took that away from her. Another life lesson learned.

Here is the realization that affected me the most. Walking Boris from the car into the vet’s office, I was glad I had the forethought to call ahead. The team was waiting for us. Within five minutes, the paperwork was done. They asked if I wanted to stay with him during the event. I whimpered, “No” and ran to my car, locked myself in, and cried like a baby. Since Boris, we have put down four dogs, and I shed tears for each of them. Rosie, our most recent loss, was the one that affected me the most. I sobbed openly for Rosie.

Recently, Kerry and I visited the Southern Oregon Humane Society. As I looked into the hopelessly lifeless eyes of these caged animals, my heart ached. For a brief moment, I wanted to adopt them all.

Then it hit me. I couldn’t remember the last time I actually sorrow-cried. Sure, in 1991 when my father died, I was sad. The first time Kerry met my father was at his open casket memorial service in Victoria, B.C. (no tears). My mom used to come to stay with us for a month every year. When she passed away 12 years ago, not one tear surfaced. My brother Kevan died a few years ago, and you guessed it, no tears.

Maybe it has to do with the aging process. Some folks get old and cranky while others just age and live a gentle lifestyle. I refuse to fish, for the sake of the worm and the poor fish being yanked from the reality of his world to the reality of your frying pan. Like a Buddhist monk, if I see a worm in the garden, everything stops until the little fella is out of harm’s way.

Maybe it’s my 10-plus years of living with Parkinson’s or simply old age that has created this guy — a compassionate cry-baby.

So you say you want to write?

Go for it.

Send us 500 or so words of scintillating copy. Make it funny. Make it poignant. Make it count. Make it any way you want.

Just don’t cuss. Don’t be boring. And have a point.

If we like it, we’ll run it.

Email submissions to community@rv-times.com. Put “Readers Who Write” in the subject line, and tell us the city where you live.