Me. Ow. - John Rosenbaum

Dear Reader, this is John's 3rd (and 4th) submission to the Fire Bowl.  What follows are two pieces that I have posted together for your thoughtful perusal.  Please note that the Fire Bowl is a creative writing community that explores variations on a theme.  The current theme is stories about bad times that turn out for our good.  John's two short submissions here contain some...ahem...honest language and for that reason, we are warning you ahead of time.  Thanks, John, for these posts...rated PG-13.

Me.

Ow.

God, I’m disgusting.  Look at me, practically wallowing in my own filth.  Not that I would have to, but that jackass hasn’t cleaned out my box in days.  It’s like he even enjoys my filth, despite all the ruckus and insults he throws my way about the stench.  Always demanding perfection, cleanliness, even “shit that doesn’t stink.”  Guess what, dude!  I’m an animal!

Man, I’ve gotten so fat.  This comfortable life is my own gallows.  I can leap small buildings in a couple bounds, and I can do it with perfect balance and grace.  If I wanted.  Oh sure, I will cry and wail wanting to go outside, stare out the window for hours, and try to weasel my way out the door given the opportunity, but you know what I do once I get out there?  Immediately regret it.  These four walls have made me soft.  With all my fur and the pudge around the middle that I pass off as fur you would think I’d be able to stand even an afternoon in the cold, but no.  The life given me by this jerk has even ruined me of my own nature.

Damned if you do!  Sure as hell damned if you don’t!  What a lot is this?

Somehow I picked up this A-load of fleas, these parasites crawling around my portly body like anxieties that won’t shake.  Fleeting little buggers!  Every time I think I got a hold on one (and there’s plenty to choose from) the little bastard slips through my teeth, vanishes like a whisper, and I’m left chewing on my own flesh.  Not that that is a deterrent from trying and trying again.  It’s like eating away at my own flesh, creating my own open sores which are infinitely worse than the pricks caused by my tormentors, is somehow control.  I am not accomplishing anything save gnawing off parts of who I am, but it’s the only thing I can seem to do.  Not that the tyrant would have to expend any energy on my behalf—a couple drops of medicine once-a-fracking-month and I would be free from torture, freed from my own destructive behavior, the sin of self-mutilation under the thinly-veiled guise of comfort.  It’s in that jackass’s power, but what do I get?  A few sympathetic comments thrown my way and hands that prod my self-inflicted wounds.  Agitation, not restoration.  Wow.  Thanks for caring.  I’m treated worse than a pet, but you will parade your progressive self flouting the term “animal companion.”

With all this ranting I think I’ve worked up an appetite.  Or not, but I’ll eat anyway.  And commence with the routine: I jump up on your precious countertop and cross the proverbial line.  You spray me in the face with that squirt bottle of yours and after a couple of rounds of that I’ll get what I want.

God, you’re worse than the Dursleys.

Meow and Forever

Oh, you little cat!  Why do you keep jumping up there, forcing me to spray you?  How I wish I could explain to you that your last owners did you a disservice by leaving out a bag of dry food for you to just munch on as you saw fit.  Not only is dry food bad for you, but you shouldn’t graze; you need set meal times.  We got to get that extra pudge off of you!

Speaking of pudge, I got a string here that I can wave in front of your face if you’d like.  Man, I could do that for hours, you’re so cute.  You don’t seem to want to go outside, even though I’ve done what all the cat experts have advised—I’ve helped you chase off those other cats so we can establish your territory.  So until you learn to trust my perimeter we got to get you exercise some how.  Remember: I got yo back, cat!  Now chase the string!

Come here!  I know you don’t like when I comb through your fur picking off fleas one by one, but what choice do I have?  It breaks my heart to see you chewing yourself to bits, but I can’t afford flea medicine until I work off that vet bill; I’m still not sure what was causing you to throw up all the time, but I’m sure glad your tummy has been doing better.

Ow!  I’m not sure if you know this, but your front paws are wrapped around my wrist and your hind legs are ripping my forearm to shreds and your little, razors-for-teeth are sinking deeper and deeper into my tender, nerve-ridden hand.  Oh, man.  You’re bringing me to tears!  I’m going to wait it out, though.  Whew, I want to smack you so you get off!, but that isn’t going to help you; your little instincts will interpret that struggle as a challenge, but I want you to know you are safe and loved and don’t need to protect yourself from me.

Now please remove your claws because I got to clean out your box.  Your shit stinks.

The intersection of belief and behaviour - Jamie Arpin-Ricci

Jamie is a Canadian (which is why behaviour is spelled that way), a pastor, a ywamer,  a writer but most importantly a husband and a new father (woo hoo!).  He regularly writes at missional.ca where you can find out how to pre-order his soon to be released book The Cost of Community: Jesus, St. Francis & Life in the Kingdom (IVPress, Nov. 2011).  http://about.me/missional

Few things in life are more memorable than the rite of passage that is being allowed to drive a car. I remember the years leading up to it being filled with anticipation. And then, my 16th birthday rolled around and went to take the drivers exam. After making only one mistake on the written, I was given my learner permit. One evening shortly there after, as the family was getting ready to return home after an evening in town with friends, I asked if I could put my new government approved driving skills to the test. My parents exchanged a nervous glance, but decided to allow me the privilege. So we loaded up and headed home.

Now, I should note that growing up in a forested rural area, learning to drive required special knowledge that is not "normal" to the typical urban driver. After all, it is not all that common for city drivers to swerve around an unexpected bull moose who views your oncoming car as little more than a minor annoyance. This was an expected lesson for me, as I had grown up as a passenger in the car when one or the other of my parents made such necessary evasions. So as I drove the 10 country road miles towards home, I knew well enough to be watchful for wildlife, ready to avoid them.

We were just over a mile from our destination when it happened. The animal ran out in front of the vehicle. With instincts sharp, I made a maneuver that I believed demonstrated the control of a NASCAR veteran, swerving to the left, narrowly missing the gravel shoulders that led into the 8 foot-deep irrigation ditches. Righting the car, I was about to turn with a triumphant smile to my father in the seat next to me. Before I could, however, he roared:

"What the heck do you think you are doing?!?"

I looked at him incredulously, "Why do you think? Did you want me to hit the animal?"

"Jamie," he said through gritted teeth, "It was a chipmunk!"

With a force of will, my father calmly explained that we try to avoid moose or deer because they will seriously damage the car and possibly injure the passengers. It was not, he emphasized slowly, about protecting the innocent animal (to which my older brother in the back seat added, "Yeah, you moron").

"Next time, you run over the damn chipmunk!" I stared at him in horror. All this time, I had sat in the back seat of the car under the illusion that my parents avoided the animals to protect their precious and beautiful lives. For years I had interpreted their behaviour through the lens of my own assumptions and values, only to learn that they were very different indeed. It was a long time before I forgave them of their heartlessness (and even longer before my dad let me drive again).

The intersection of belief and behaviour is a unique dynamic. Often times, we can find ourselves behaving in ways that are the norm for our context. We assume a unity of belief, when in fact, our choices are often informed by very different, even contrary motivations. The reverse is true as well: many people who we see as behaving in ways that are contrary to what we belief is right are actually making such choices out of the same beliefs that inspire our very different behaviours. I am not suggesting that there are no absolutes. Rather, we must learn that things are not always as they seem. This knowledge should give us pause before we affirm or reject people without going just a little deeper.

This knowledge might also be a lesson for parents of soon-to-be-driving teens, but that is another story altogether.