Monday, January 17, 2011

Questions from Readers

Today's question comes from Myrtle, my neighbor, who writes:

Mr. Johnson, it was a pleasure speaking with you at Ralph's Grocery last week. I meant to ask you - oh, Professor Snugglepuss, quit fighting with Sir Snuffle Muffins! Mischievous little kittens! I apologize, Mr. Johnson. The kittens have been quite naughty these past few days, perhaps on account of a different brand of milk. Momma Myrtle loves her kittens, but sometimes, she doesn't know what she's gonna do with all twelve of them. Speaking of kittens, thank you for picking up that kitty litter for me - it was a lifesaver. Brother Whiskers was beginning to get restless. Anyways, I meant to ask you while we were talking at Ralph's Grocery - what is your favorite ferocious animal? - Your neighbor, Myrtle P.


Thank you for your thoughtful question, Myrtle. I would have to say a wolverine. Why? Maybe because it reminds me of my best friend. Allow me to explain.

As we've discussed before, Ms. Peterson, probably in Ralph's Grocery or at the Rocky Top Cafe, my older sister, Andrea, is undoubtedly my best friend. But, things weren't always this rosy, you know. Twenty years ago, my sister was not someone I considered to be morally upright or a “good” person. She was certainly no Mother Teresa type figure, nor was she someone I would nominate for the Nobel Peace Prize. Rather, she was my sworn enemy, a formidable foe which shared the same roof as I, someone with whom many battles had been fought, and campaigns had been waged. Perhaps, a little like Sir Snuffle Muffins and Professor Snugglepuss?

In these battles and campaigns, she was usually victorious because A) her strength was overwhelming, like that of a grizzly bear, B) she was more aggressive than an hornet who's hive had been provoked and it's sole duty was to take exact vengeance on the perpetrator, and C) she possessed a vast arsenal of weapons at her disposal – she could push, she could punch, she could pinch. She had mastered the Indian burn, as well as the psychological warfare - she could blackmail me for something I didn’t do – not vacuuming the corners and edges of my room, for example. The pushing, punching, and pinching, I could handle. The Indian burn and the blackmailing, these too, I could handle. But the most effective, the most potent, and the most persuasive weapon in this arsenal were her razor sharp claws. They held a remarkable resemblance to that of a ferocious wolverine, only painted with deceptively pretty colors. These claws struck terror deep into my heart and served as a constant reminder of my mortality here on earth. Powerful deterrents against any sudden inclinations of an offensive attack, they were. My main line of defense against these claws was to assume the fetal position, or what I referred to as the "turtle defense", where the object was to protect all the vital areas of my body. If this line of defense was breached, my last resort was prayer. I would pray Psalm 23: “Yay, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.” I had memorized that much in Sunday school, but always floundered on the next part, so I would just create my own lines: “And... I thank Thee that... she haveth not this rod.... nor this staff. Because, she probably would not… useth them to comfort me like Thou wouldst.” And, it's true. Given the opportunity, she most likely wouldn't have.

But, alas! One day, a pivotal change took place - my greatest foe would become my greatest ally. I remember it like it were yesterday. I was in the sixth grade, my sister in the eighth. She and I were on the school bus riding home one fine autumn day. The bus reached our stop, my sister and I both got up, and squeezed down the crowded aisle of yelling screaming barbaric hordes of school children. All of a sudden, I sensed this dark premonition, this disturbance in the force. A leg had been imperceptibly thrust in front of mine, causing me to stumble and fall, backpack and all, down the aisle of the school bus, provoking the laughter of many of the surrounding children. It was the leg of who else, but Jeremy McMillen, the school bus bully.

Jeremy McMillen picked on everybody – he was an equal opportunity bully - but lately, I seemed to be his favorite target. His expertise in spitwad shooting was unparalleled, as he had proven over the course of that week, not to mention the numerous paper wads he had launched at me with alarming accuracy, or how he had flicked my ears from behind until they were blood red. But, everybody has a threshold, Myrtle, and that day, I reached it. My blood boiled. I leaped up and pounced on Jeremy, administering every ounce of pain my small frame could possibly administer. The other children on the bus seemed pleased with the spectacle. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”, I could hear them chanting in unison as I swung furiously at any undefended region of his body. My sudden rebound from the aisle-way must have overwhelmed him, or at least, he didn't seem to expect anything like this at all. I could hardly believe it! Me, the hero of the day, unbridled, throwing fists of fury at the school bus bully! And everything was going so well! Until somehow, Jeremy got me into a headlock.

Historical records have indicated that the moment one finds themselves in a headlock is the moment the tables turn out of his/her favor. Further research indicates that, at this point, the chances of one getting one's face pounded tend to increase exponentially. I don't know about you, Myrtle, but I have never enjoyed being in headlocks - not in a box, not with a fox, not in a train, not in a plane, and especially not on this school bus. But, there I was, beginning to regret my reckless retaliation against such a formidable opponent. Perhaps, I should've turned the other cheek, I thought, or followed the path of least resistance. I'm not sure if I actually thought these thoughts at that moment, or not. To be honest, I was somewhat preoccupied with trying to escape from his powerful clutches, which made it difficult to evaluate the moral implications of my actions. All looked lost, when suddenly! I felt these two hands – like the hands of an angel – grab me by my waist, extricate me from this precarious position, and push me to safety. They were the hands of who else, but my sister - those same hands that I had suffered dearly under for so many years. Perhaps, she was driven by jealousy when she saw that someone else besides her got to have all the fun with me? I don’t know. But, I’ll never forget - she grabbed Jeremy's collar, and administered the worst pounding I've ever witnessed up until that time. It was like watching two massive forces of evil collide, with the lesser of two evils prevailing. She had rescued me, in seemingly effortless fashion, from experiencing the public humiliation of falling prey to the hands of a school bus bully. And, from that day onward, it was like a truce had been called and the Treaty of Versailles had been signed and sealed. Sure, we had the occasional fight afterward, but from that day, I looked at her, this ferocious wolverine with her razor sharp claws, differently. Still with fearful trepidation and trembling, of course, but now with more reverence, more respect and more pride.

How all this applies to your mischievous kittens, I cannot say. But, I can say this: gold may make a man wealthy, but only friends can make a man rich. And, today, Myrtle, I am rich because I have great friends, the best of which is my sister. She's the mother of four beautiful children. She's the wife of wonderful husband. She is studying to become a nurse, and will undoubtedly be an excellent one. She's someone who continues to inspire me. And, yes, though she may have been a ferocious wolverine at one time, she is still my sister, and remains my best friend.

I think this is why I would choose the wolverine as my favorite ferocious animal. Does that answer your question? And, hey - you're welcome for the kitty litter. Anytime.

- Your friendly neighbor, Erik

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