Hiding a cache

My geocaching adventures continue. Waiting on approval for my second cache hide. It's in a nearby park and will bring people to a lovely view of the creek.

First geocaching trackable

I've gotten into geocaching recently. I'm about to release my first trackable. I'm calling it the Turtle and Hare and giving him the mission of visiting as many national parks and monuments as possible. Can't wait to see where they go!

Collections Agent

(Friend and author, Eric Douglas, challenged his fellow writers to produce a short story for Halloween. Here is my entry. Would love to hear any feedback. Love it, hate it, or just general comments are all welcome.)

The woman was pleading. They always plead. It gets tiresome. Every client runs through the five stages of grief -- denial, anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance. It's almost like clockwork.

Ten years ago, the petite blonde in pink yoga pants before me was pleading for the universe to make the star high school quarterback fall in love with her, marry her and have a McMansion in some well-manicured suburbs. She was willing to give or do anything. Anything, she said over and over as she lay in her darkened bedroom each night, dreaming of a jock's hands touching her secret girl parts. So when I showed up, offering to make her dreams come true, she barely hesitated signing the contract and letting me caress her plump young lips with mine to seal the deal. Ah, teenage hormones. They are often my best sales tool.

As the woman continued to beg for at least another year, I pulled out my pocket watch to check the time. The watch was a strange affectation, especially for a female demon. I took it from a particularly greedy banker in October of 1929, just before he decided to leap from a window on the 20th floor. I think he was in the depression stage. He was my first collection, so the expensive gold watch seemed a nice souvenir.

"...only seventeen so it can't be a legal contract. You can't possibly hold me to it," the woman was saying as my attention returned to her.

I snapped the watch shut. "The age of consent is lower in Hell. So the contract is indeed valid for our purposes."

Her shoulders began to slump slightly. I sensed she might be entering the depression stage. I watched her silently, letting her process her fate. It's better not to rush the client. They do unexpected things when rushed, as in the banker splattering himself on the sidewalk. That was quite the mess. My superiors were not impressed. We prefer to collect our souls quietly, preferably in private without a crowd of onlookers.

She lifted her head, shook her perfectly coiffed locks back in place and squared her shoulders once more as she prepared a final argument. "What if I... You could..."

She trailed off as I dropped my chin slightly and raised my eyebrows to give her a pitying look. Her shoulders sunk again, deeper than before. She was finally accepting the hopelessness of her situation. Her soul was due, and that was that. There was no further negotiation to be had.

I understood her distress. Few who strike bargains with me stop to consider the future. Ten years can seem so distant, like another world and lifetime away, when your heart's desire is being presented on a silver platter. Half of them don't even think it's real. They think selling their soul is a joke. Until the day I reappear on their doorsteps, letting them know it's time to get their affairs in order as I will return in one week to collect final payment. Then the stages of grief begin, usually with the door being slammed in my face. Denial. So predictable.

This one was like all the rest. She pretended not to know me, although I saw the recognition in her eyes as her pupils dilated in fear. She swore she didn't remember ever signing a contract. After I produced the document with her adolescent signature, complete with cutesy heart dotting the i in Bridgett, she cursed me repeatedly with a string of rather impressive, and creative, epithets. Anger. I get it. I left her alone then. Now, seven days later, her pleading was thankfully nearly finished.

Bridgett collapsed into the overstuffed chair of her living room, dropping her face into her hands. "My children. How can I possibly leave them? I'm only twenty-seven. They're so young," she sobbed. I turned my head to view the family portrait above the fireplace. The former star athlete, still handsomer than should be possible, is smiling at his well-groomed wife on a sunny autumn day in the park. The six-year-old boy is riding piggyback on his daddy, while his three-year-old sister squirms happily in her mother's arms. It's the epitome of the American family.

"I wouldn't worry too much," I said, pulling out the watch again. "Your husband is bound to find a new wife to help care for them." She sobbed harder. "Are you ready? I really need to get to my other scheduled appointments."

She shook her head. I sighed inwardly. I would have to force the issue after all. I took a step toward her and her head bolted up, eyes wide in terror. "Shhhhh......," I said. "This doesn't have to hurt. Try to relax. It's better if you don't struggle."

Fortunately, her fear kept her glued in place. Even her sobs ceased as she held her breath at my approach. "Now, I'm afraid I'll need to take my natural form for this part. But it's still just me, so don't be alarmed."

I placed a hand on her shoulder. I felt her shudder slightly at my touch, but did not take offense. I let my blue eyes turn solid black with no whites at all and felt the body I had been maintaining melt away. The hand that rested on Bridgett's shoulder transformed into a massive black claw covered in red-tipped scales. My smile widened to accommodate the additional fangs now apparent. My auburn hair turned white and spiny, like porcupine quills, trailing from my head down the length of my back and ending at my tailbone.

Bridgett watched my transformation and stifled a cry. "What....what are you going to do to me?" she stammered.

"What begins with a kiss ends with a kiss," I replied, my voice now deep and gravelly.

I leaned down until my monstrous face was inches from hers. She did not try move, not that she could have escaped at this point. Her eyes were still as big as saucers as I placed my scaly lips on hers. Keeping one claw on her shoulder, I used the other to grasp the back of her head tightly so she couldn't pull away. Using my forked tongue, I forced her lips open and inhaled deeply. Her soul came loose immediately. When I felt it touch my lips, I broke contact with her, but kept inhaling as I moved backward. The soul stretched between our open mouths like a glowing silver cable. Once enough of it was free of her body, I simply grabbed the soul and pulled the rest out.

As soon as the last silver tendrils escaped her lips, Bridgett's body gave a final shudder before her head lolled back on the chair and her eyes went blank. She almost looked like she was taking a nap. Acceptance. The coroner would probably say she had an aneurysm.

The soul pulsed with energy as I balled it up and placed it in my bag along with two others I had collected earlier. I took a moment to breathe in their scents and enjoy the lingering aromas of hubris, lust, envy and greed. Each collection was exhilarating. I willed my human form back into place. It felt terribly confining after having been free of it for the extraction, but it was a necessary tool of the trade. I checked my appearance in the mirror by the front door before stepping out on the front porch.

My pocket watch said 2:15. I had plenty of time to get downtown to meet with a rather successful playwright whose contract was up in a week.

Robin, I understand

Ten years ago, I came to understand why people kill themselves.

A legend.

I didn't get it before that. It seemed senseless. Tragic. Even selfish for someone to give up on themselves and leave loved ones behind to deal with the aftermath. In the shock of having lost one of the great comedians of our generation, many are questioning and wondering why. Why would someone who seemed to have it all choose to end their lives? I'm not asking why.

I'm finding myself shaken by Williams' death in a way I've never experienced before. Other famous icons of my youth have met tragic ends in recent years. Michael Jackson. Whitney Houston. We've lost incredible actors I've admired, like Heath Ledger and Phillip Seymour Hoffman, who undoubtedly had years of amazing performances we'll never see. But all those deaths were not as unexpected, as most had struggled publicly with addiction and their deaths were related to those struggles. Robin was different with his manic energy persona, his whirling dervish of comedy, whipping jokes at you so fast you caught perhaps only a quarter of his genius, the rest lost in laughter. He brought us so much joy, we assumed he must have been overflowing with it. Instead, he was giving it all away, keeping none for himself.

Perhaps I'm more affected by this loss because 10 years ago, I experienced my one and only bout of clinical depression. I learned there are different types of depression. Situational is one, meaning caused by a traumatic event and usually temporary. The other is chronic, caused by chemical imbalances in the brain and it can last a lifetime. Fortunately, I had the former, brought on by an especially harrowing split with a fiancé that simply broke my spirit. I won't go too much into the relationship other than I thought I had finally found my Prince Charming only to discover too late he was a narcissist who manipulated and lied and cheated, while making me feel I was responsible for his transgressions and somehow wrong to be angry or upset. After all, if I would be just better in some way, he wouldn't do these things to me.

Even though I finally found the strength to leave, the experience wounded me beyond repair. I'd had plenty of breakups in my past, from which I recovered just fine after the usual ice cream sessions with girlfriends. This one was different. I was 36, still single, convinced that my last chance at a happy married life and family had just evaporated. I felt rejected not by one man, but all of humanity. I felt worthless and unlovable. I sunk into a well of darkness. I cried daily until I couldn't, and then I just stared into space. I was functional. I managed to get up, go to work, even join friends for dinner. I put on an act that I was okay. But I was a hollow inside. Just a few steps above an extra on The Walking Dead, really. I would cry in my car the whole way to any function, where I went through the motions, before ducking out as quickly as possible and crying the whole way home. At home, I would lie on my sofa, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how happiness felt. Nothing that I used to enjoy held any allure anymore.  I'd imagine my own funeral and wonder if anyone would come. Would anyone care? Would anyone miss me? I couldn't imagine anyone's life being lessened by my absence. I was nothing. I meant nothing to anyone. And all I could see before me was more nothingness.

That's when I got it. I understood for the first time. Depression is a horrible state of mind. It's a sickness that seeps constant emotional pain. When in it, you just want it to end. Every waking moment is filled with a debilitating despair of the soul. Even when you see something sweet that makes you smile for a moment, like puppies playing, you feel like you're only smiling because you're supposed to smile at puppies. And then you're sad because what is wrong with you that you don't want to smile at puppies??? You become desperate to stop feeling this constant weight that makes breathing hard. That makes moving hard. That makes living hard. You become exhausted from the effort. And when you truly have difficulty even imagining a different reality for yourself, you begin to sympathize with those who choose to exit life altogether rather than carry on in such a hopeless, painful state.

My depression only lasted about eight months. I went to counseling, took antidepressants for a short period and finally began to see light at the end of the tunnel. While it took years to fully recover, I was at least able to experience happiness again and laugh without faking it. I kept building from there. I am so thankful I made it out of that hole. Since that time, I don't use the term "depressed" in a casual way when I simply have the blues. I know the difference now. I know the desperation to make it go away, even if it means you go away too. For anyone who hasn't been there, I'm not sure there's a way to fully convey what it's like. Just be grateful you don't know.

It's heartbreaking that Robin was unable to find a way out. Our world is a dimmer without his incredible comedic brilliance. Rest in peace, Robin. May we all gain a better understanding of the illness you suffered and help each other find the light at the end of the tunnel.

Last Goodbye

“It’s her time.”

The vet spoke some other words but those were the ones that continued ringing in my ears. A few
others added to the echo. Tumor. Ultrasound. Malignant. Liver. Chemo useless. I stared back at him
trying to think of what I should ask, what I should say. What I should do. I looked to my 15-year-old
pointer mix Sophie, who was standing next to me, gazing about the exam room with her near-blind eyes. Her sides were sunken in, ribs jutting out, beginning to resemble those poor neglected animals in the ASCPA commercials.

She had been refusing to eat for weeks. She’d stopped eating dog food altogether. Wouldn’t touch any brand. Not the expensive, premium, all-natural, grain-free, wild buffalo and geese (or whatever), and not the cheap, might-as-well-be-McDonald’s, doggie junk food equivalents. We’d tried desperately to find something appetizing to her. We cooked chicken breasts, made meatloaf, bought cans of tuna, even offered her pizza and other table scraps she’d never been allowed to have for the majority of her life. She’d perhaps nibble some, but quit after a few bites. Occasionally she’d eat a respectable amount, enough to give us hope we had found something to please her aging palate. It would last a few days at most. Sooner or later, we’d present it to her and she’d turn away again. She was losing weight. She didn’t look healthy anymore.

I lived in partial denial, thinking that I just needed to find the right food for her. If I could do that, all
would be well again. Finally, after several days of her eating hardly anything, we went to see the vet.
We had just been to the vet two months prior. We had a full senior blood panel done. The results said all her internal organs were working not just fine, but great. Like those of a much younger animal. So I wasn’t overly worried. The refusal to eat was concerning, but I was sure the vet could advise us how to solve it. We’d go home with our solution in hand, buy whatever we needed, take whatever medication warranted and have Sophie back on track to an enjoyable old age.

When the vet started speaking about the tumor he just saw on the ultrasound and how these things
come on quickly and often don’t show up in the blood work, I felt the room tilt sideways for a moment.  I listened, but only registered about half of what he said. All that sank in was that Sophie was not going to get better. Still, I heard myself asking, my voice wavering and my chest tightening, “So is she in pain? How do I know when it’s time?”

The vet breathed in slowly, paused and gave me a pitying look. With the knowing sigh of someone who’d faced many a pet owner unable to face the truth, he gently said “It’s her time.” I swallowed all the protesting words wanting to spill forth. I nodded slightly. “Is there anyone you need to call?” he asked. I said I needed to call my husband, Robert, my voice beginning to crack. The vet and the tech told me to take all the time I needed. He instructed me to just knock on the door leading to the lab area when we were ready.

As soon as they left the room, I dropped to my knees beside Sophie and hugged her. The tears came instantly. My shoulders shook as I choked back the sobs and grabbed my phone. I noticed the battery was low as I called Robert. It rang until voice mail picked up. My stepson was having a yard sale at our house that morning in an effort to raise money for a camp he wanted to attend. I knew it was quite likely Robert was out in the yard without his phone. I dialed again. Voice mail. Once more. Voice mail again. A tech came in with a blanket and made a bed for Sophie on the floor. I sat on the floor with her, petting her side and holding her head in my lap. I tried dialing again to no avail. The phone alerted me that my battery was down to five percent power. Finally, I called one of Robert’s sisters who was visiting and staying at a hotel near our house. She answered and immediately recognized that something was wrong. I managed to tell her what the vet had said and that I couldn’t reach Robert. I needed her to go to the house and tell him to come to the vet’s office.

I continued trying to call Robert nearly every 60 seconds, getting voice mail each time. In between
attempts, I cradled Sophie’s head and cried harder than I could recall in recent memory. Finally, my
phone buzzed with a text saying “I am on my way.” I dropped the phone in relief. Sophie was resting
comfortably, though shivering some. I told myself it was because of the air conditioning, not because
she was scared or knew what was to come. The tech checked in on us. I asked for another blanket to cover her and warm her up. At last, I could hear Robert’s voice outside asking which room we were in. It had been hour since my heart began to break.

Robert entered and bent to hug me. I broke down against his shoulder, leaning on his strength. I tried
to convey the situation as the vet had laid it out. Bottom line, Sophie would not get better than she is
right now. She would slowly starve herself to death. It was up to us to help her avoid a slow, painful and cruel death. I told him they said to knock on the door when we were ready. “I need you to do it,” I said. “I can’t knock on that door.” As I looked at the sweet face lying in my lap and stroked her silky ears, I couldn’t fathom how one decided it was time. How do I not sit here with her for another minute? For another hour? How do I not take her home and give her one more day? One more pat on the head. One more hug around the neck before I ask the vet to take her away from this world.

Robert sat with me for a bit, holding my hand and letting me cry. Finally, he quietly asked if I was ready. I nodded silently in response. He knocked on the door, then opened it slightly to catch a tech’s attention. He nodded and said we were ready. After a moment, the vet came back in with a syringe. He said it was just a sedative. He would administer that, let it take effect for a bit and then be back with the final dose. Sophie barely moved when he gave her the first shot. Her shivering quickly ceased and she became completely relaxed in my lap. I put my hand on her side to ensure she was still breathing. A few minutes later, the vet returned.

He crouched down on the floor beside us and met my red eyes. I don’t even remember if he actually
said the words, but I knew he was asking if I was ready. Once again, I gave the slightest of nods and
closed my eyes as he prepared to give Sophie her last shot. As he injected the solution, I continued to stroke her head and side. I whispered over and over that she was a good dog, a sweet dog, the best dog. I said I loved her, and I was so sorry to let her go. That I would miss her so very much. Tears dripped from my face, but I couldn’t bring myself to remove a hand from Sophie’s head or side to wipe them away. The vet listened to Sophie’s heart until the last beat. When he removed the stethoscope, I asked if she was gone, and he said yes.

Again, the vet said to take as much time as we needed in the room with her. We had signed papers to have her cremated and the ashes returned to us. They would care for her body after we left. I sat with her head in my lap a while longer, with Robert’s hand on my shoulder as I cried some more. Taking a deep breath, I willed myself to move. I rolled up the end of the blanket to create a pillow for Sophie’s head and positioned her paws in her familiar sleeping position. She looked so peaceful, like she truly was resting at last, the ravages of old age no longer troubling her. All her aches and pains, her blindness and deafness, her nightly incontinence, her arthritis that made it impossible to manage stairs, her back leg weakness, all of it was over. Still, leaving her behind, no matter how peaceful-looking, was a heartache almost too much to bear.

Sophie was an amazing dog. She drove me crazy so often. She was willful and stubborn. She had
selective deafness and could ignore the entire world if she had caught the scent of something
interesting to follow. She loved the water and swimming. She would chase tennis balls for hours and
preferred people to other dogs. She had her own queen-sized bed to sleep on until she could no longer jump up on it. She was spoiled rotten, but she loved everyone. She was goofy and funny and full of life. I was lucky to have her for more than 15 years. She taught me so much about taking care of another creature. I’ll always love her and treasure our amazing time together.

Who's There?

Written in response to challenge from Eric for Halloween stories....

The whispered laughter froze me. My eyes flew open only to be greeted with the complete darkness of my bedroom. I silently willed my pupils to pick up any inkling of light so that I might discern the source of the hushed chuckle I had just heard coming from across the room. But the black of a moonless night in the country is implacable, indifferent to the fears of a twelve-year-old girl lying motionless in her bed at 3 a.m. The faintest outline of the window began to take shape, but everything beyond the sill remained stubbornly cloaked.    

“heh, heh, heh….”

It came again. As though the intruder could barely contain his delight at sneaking into my room. His mirth overflowing as he contemplated the atrocities he would visit upon my vulnerable being.

I clutched the covers, waiting for the inevitable, waiting for the feel of cold hands clamping around my throat. I should scream, I thought. I should yell and scare him away. But what if I don’t scare him, I argued back. What if sound just spurs him into action and hastens your death? I lay as still as possible, holding my breath, hoping this potential murderer would change his mind and quietly depart. I listened intently for movement. Moments passed with no sound. I began to think I had dreamt it all. I closed my eyes once again.

“heh, heh, heh…”

Oh dear God. He’s still here. He’s in the room. Why doesn’t he do something? Why does he just stand there and laugh? Does he know I’m awake? What does he want?

As I lay there imagining the horrors soon to descend upon me, I heard the familiar distant sound of a car coming up the rural road where our house was located. I breathed an inward sigh of relief as I knew at one certain curve, the car’s headlights would flood my room with precious light. I would be able to see my tormentor at last.

I waited the few seconds that seem a lifetime in such moments. The car drew closer. The beams shot through the window, thoroughly illuminating every corner. From my prone position, I scoured the room with my eyes, seeking the source of the laughter. I saw the dresser with my collection of unicorns on top. I saw the child’s rocking chair with the oversize stuffed dog sitting in it. I saw my desk covered with scattered books and papers. But I saw no intruder. No one was there.

The car’s headlights moved on, sinking the room into darkness once again, even more so after the momentary brightness. I was confused, but relieved. I’d heard it. I know I did. It was definitely the crazed laughter of a serial killer intent on harm. But the headlights don’t lie. There was nothing to fear. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.

“heh, heh, heh…”

My eyes shot open again as fear clutched my heart. My chest tightened as thoughts of escape furiously circulated through my brain. The sound came from the direction of the door, which was located near the foot of my bed. The light switch was also at the foot of my bed. I’d never wished for a bedside lamp so desperately.

“heh, heh, heh…”

There was no question now that action must be taken. My plan quickly took shape. I would throw off my covers, jump to the foot of my bed, hit the lights and dart out the door before anyone -- or anything -- could catch me. I calculated the angle, the speed, the coordinated motion of spindly, girlish legs bounding for the door and arms flailing for the light switch in one smooth jump. I mined my will for the courage to move, to confront the hushed joker across my darkened room.

“heh, heh, heh…”  

I sprung into action, leaping in fluid fright, landing at the corner of the bed nearest the door and frantically feeling for the switch. My searching hand caught the small knob, and light immediately pushed away all shadows. I turned sharply to catch a glimpse of the ghoul I was certain would be there. And indeed there it was, lying on the floor at the foot of my bed, hidden from my sight. It looked at me with mocking eyes, mouth open and long red tongue lolling out between dozens of sharp teeth. It tilted its head at me and licked its snout. Its long bushy tail began to wag slowly, gently slapping the wood floor. “heh, heh, heh…”

“Niki!” I sighed with exasperation. “When did you sneak in here?”

Feeling decidedly silly, I cradled my beloved dog’s face in my hands and nuzzled her forehead to mine before hopping back in bed. Under the watchful eye of my canine guard, I fell into a peaceful sleep at last.