Pook had his 10th birthday 3 days ago. I took him to the veterinarian. I’m sure he would have chosen to do something else, like go swimming in the river in his shorts and t-shirt or wander the neighborhood “Building streets”, imagining a new little city, fitting and layering his own roads and highways upon what already exists.
But we went to the vet. He happily listened to MPR with me because that’s the kind of boy he is, curious and easily engaged.
He is the kind of boy who makes up jokes like this:
“Why does time fly faster as you grow older?”
“Because Earth’s rotation speeds up.”
He is the kind of boy with quickly shifting passions. He can move from zero to frustrated fury in less than a second. It’s like a frozen, forgotten can of pop warming in the back seat of the car. BOOM!.
He’s the kind of boy who is continually surprised by his sensitivities.
“Mama, when you told Betty we’d get her poor little body fixed up, it made me cry. Look.”
Betty has Heartworm and, for the last 10 days, mostly what I’ve been thinking about is her, imagining a hand full of cooked long spaghetti wriggling in her heart. Evil worms and their spawn.
And he’s also the kind of boy who keeps reminding me that everything will be fine, that I have to trust.
Now I’m reminding you.