Childhood's End

Tonight, for the first time in 23 years, we do not have a pet in the house.  We had to put the last of the children's pets down today.

There has been a variety of animals wander through over the years, but the core was The Big Three: Skipper, the big, Persian kitty; Lucy, the little, tortoiseshell kitty; and Ghost, the blue merle sheltie.  We rescued Skipper as a kitten in 1992; his mother had been trying to kill him.  Almost entirely black with two, big, yellow eyes, in the dark the eyes were the only things visible, and he could pass for something out of a Wes Craven movie.  He started getting seriously cranky when we moved back to Utah in 2005.  Can't say I blame him.  His favorite thing became lying in the garage doorway in the morning and watching the sun come up.  One morning in June 2006, we found him lying in his usual place and saw he wouldn't be seeing any more sunrises.

Ghost was another rescue operation.  Born in 2000, he had AKC papers but was unsuitable for breeding because of some imperfections.  By the time they neutered him, though, he had already acquired all the alpha male bad habits and would never lose them.  Then his owner, an elderly gentleman, died, and he was dumped back into the kennel he came from, and spent most of his time trying to fight every other dog there.They were about to get rid of him when we showed up.  He was so happy to be with people again, he even put up with the cats, for the most part.  In 2011, though, he suddenly lost control of his hind legs, a condition we learned is fairly common with blood-lined shelties (Gotta love those reinforced recessives.).  We had to put him down in the Summer.

Lucy was even more of a rescue project.  In May 1997 a tiny kitten appeared on our porch, desperate for food, shelter, and protection.  We coaxed her into our household, little, white chin, oversized paws, and all.  Skipper grudgingly tolerated her, and she let Skipper run the show.  So long as Skipper was alive, she hardly said anything, but right after Skipper died she started talking and wouldn't shut up.  Along the way she lost both hips and started having a hyperactive thyroid, but these things didn't seem to faze her.  She outlasted Ghost without a problem and kept going.  When she hit 18 this Spring, though, it was obvious she was running out of gas.  This month she started having real trouble with intake and output, started losing weight, and was having trouble doing anything other than lying around because her joints were hurting.  We took her in this morning, and it was over in seconds, the fastest I've ever seen.  She must have had nothing left.

The two kids remaining at home don't remember a time before Lucy.  The older wasn't even two, and the younger wasn't born.  I grew up rural and saw countless animals come and go, so this death doesn't affect me anywhere close to the way it does the others, but it's jarring to see the kids come to grips with the realization that a big piece of their childhoods is gone, and those childhoods themselves have ended.

The Journey Begins

As I said last week in my business blogs, I've decided to blog here about what a "long, strange trip it's been."  Have to do something here, since I don't really get around much anymore.  I've decided to tell this journey as a series of cautionary tales, laying out the mistakes that have dictated the course.

Journeys really begin in high school years.  Up until then, life is almost entirely inflicted on you.  In high school you start making choices for yourself.  And you start screwing up under your own power.

I committed a life-altering screw-up in high school.  I was good in math.  I took two years of calc in high school, and I've tutored college algebra.  My math and science teachers did their best to get me to press on, but I just wouldn't have it.  I was more interested in history.  Didn't think it through very well.  Apologies to Bob Oliver, Ray Fielder, and Leonard Warren.

It would have been good if someone had smacked me between the eyes and said, "Just what are you going to do with that?  The alternatives are limited to the following: teaching school, getting a doctorate and entering academe, and law.  Anyone who says there are other options is speaking with a big shovel."  No one said anything like that, though.  And doubly no one said anything about the real prerequisites for academe and law, mostly because none of them had clue one about it.

So I abandoned STEM and blundered on in the humanities.  And now let me tell you, kiddies: Those motivational speakers who tell you to do what you love?  That's a dangerous crock.  First, you can't really know if you love a certain activity until you're settled deeply into it, and then it's too late.  Second, only two types of people have a decent chance of doing what they love: people who had it handed to them by Daddy, and people like those motivational speakers whose great love is ripping people off.  The best you can hope for is something you're interested in that will support you and keep you interested.  You have to keep that hard, cold truth right in front of you and plan everything accordingly.