Tales of another reality. Reminiscences of my time in the sick people business, and random thoughts otherwise clinging to my attention, like a baby monkey on a weimaraner.
So, once upon a time, my bad example led TDW-Mark II (The Darling Wife-Mark Two) to obtain her own concealed pistol license. She spent some time at the range with me, and eventually decided that she would carry a Springfield Armory XD pistol in 9 millimeter.
As these stories of mine develop, she was driving about our little town, and one observant police officer noted that she had a brake light out. He pulled her over to explain to her his observation.
Being a good doobie, she announced as part of her opening conversational gambit, “I am a CPL holder, and I have it here in my purse on the floor of the passenger side of the car!”
He acknowledged this tidbit, and invited her to carefully produce her license, registration, and CPL license itself.
She did so, and the officer walked back to his vehicle to run her plates and license.
He returned, and returned her cards to her. “So,” he asked, “What made you select the XD for your carry gun? My wife just took her CPL class, and is considering her own choice of pistol.”
TDW recounted her experience with my array of pistols, finding them overly large for her hands (Glock, Browning High Power), or not enough ammunition in the magazine for her preference (Revolver, Colt Government Model). “When I picked up the XD in the gunshop, it felt just right in my hand, and when I shot it, I did pretty good with it!”
They soon concluded their conversation, and she returned home, excited about her contact. “We simply had a nice conversation about concealed carry, and women’s choices in pistols, and why this or that pistol might be more or less suitable. It was kind of nice!”
Entry number 4,385 in my Catalog Of Why I Love Small Towns.
So, TINS, TIWFDASL, years and years and years ago. I was in nursing school clinicals, and working for EMS in Da City. This was so long ago, that HIV/AIDS was not even on the horizon.
One day in clinicals, I was cleaning up an incontinent patient, and my instructor motioned me outside once I was done and the patient tucked in to a nice clean bed, and he, himself, was clean and dry and in a clean gown.
She began: “Mr. McFee, You did very well keeping the patient covered so that he would not get chilled as you bathed him. There is, however, one item I ought to call to your attention.”
“Yes, ma’am? What is that?”
“I noticed that you were wearing gloves. That concerns me, because your patient might feel insulted at your wearing gloves for personal care.”
I responded, “So, you are telling me that the fact that I am wearing gloves to clean a patient who has been incontinent, of stool at that, might be seen as insulting?”
“Yes, Mr. McFee, that is exactly what I am telling you.”
“Well, ma’am, I worked last night, on the ambulance. I spent the night crawling in and out of cars, and over broken glass, removing injured people. I probably have a thousand little cuts on my hands alone. I am pretty certain that any patient of mine will get over their hurt feelings way before I recover from Hepatitis B. But, you are the instructor, and I am the student. Let’s write down your directions for me in this matter, and make a couple of copies. We’ll both sign each copy. That way you will have a copy, establishing what you directed me to do, I will have a copy and therefore cannot claim that you never told me to do what you told me, and there will be no questions moving forward what I am to do.”
She looked aghast. “I am not going to write that down! No way!”
I smiled. “Thanks for the counseling session. I will certainly keep your words in mind, moving forward!”
So, TINS…. OK, this is not another firehouse/”sea story”. I was lolling around the house one evening, and TDW-Mark II came to me, cradling our petite, mostly white (well, most of the time…) cat, Trixie. Said cat appeared to have settled herself, right side first, into an ash pile.
This was concerning, since when the kittens had first joined our household, four of them had taken to exploring our heatilator style fireplace. Said explorations were made considerably easier (for the kittens) due to the fact that one of the grates, in place specifically to prevent such explorations, had become loose. TDW-Mark II had (a) noticed that the kittens were not accounted for, and, after a frenzied search, (b) had noticed that one of the older cats, Max, had, pointer style, settled in in front of one of the fireplace warm air outlets. When she (TDW) investigated Max’s pointing, she discovered four grimy, meowing, kittens, noses pressed against the grate.
She removed that grate, and extricated the kittens. They were brushed off, and pranced away, none the worse for wear. Since I believe that too much of a good thing is just about enough, we expoxied the offending grate back in place, replaced the unscrewed-so-we-could-extricate-kittens grate, and placed the fireplace screen in a closet, and backed a piece of furniture against the opening for the fireplace, after placing a large sheet of cardboard over the opening.
Remember that cardboard bit.
So, Trixie’s ashen demeanor elicited some concern that other cats might have taken up spelunking. A hurried cat census revealed that everybody was accounted for, and the only problems remaining were cleaning Trixie, and more effectively securing the fireplace.
Inspection revealed that the cardboard had been bowed, producing a kitten sized sort of funnel devolving into the fireplace. Well, THAT was a permanent fix! Worked fine, as well!
Second things first. I retrieved a sheet of plywood (now, kiddies, once upon a time, mere mortals could afford this thing called “lumber”. Indeed it was so inexpensive that folks built entire houses out of the stuff! In a manner similar to the query, how did Californians light their houses prior to using candles? Electricity!) I placed this sheet in front of the fireplace, between the cardboard and the opening, and wedged it in place with that furniture I spoke of 3 paragraphs ago.
TDW-Mark II had determined that Trixie T. Cat had a bath in her future. Golly, I was so, so, soooo looking forward to that!
Fortunately, Trixie had previously decided that she needed to supervise my med passes, as well as my shaving and my tooth brushing. In the process, she would bat at the stream of water coming from the faucet, then licking her paw as if in surprise at that wet stuff appearing thereon. And, repeat. So, the water-running-in-the-sink thing did not concern her. She was even relatively copacetic with the run-warm-water-over-the-kitten part.
Not such a fan of the baby-shampoo-on-the-kitten part. Pro Tip! If you have occasion to bathe a cat, even such a placid cat as Trixie, bathe said cat with DROPLETS of baby shampoo, NOT streams. That latter initiative will lead to a prolonged period of cat rinsing, and, well, cats have a limited desire to play in the water. Particularly when said water is all over them. Trixie rapidly reached the part of our tale wherein she declaimed “Let me the fook out of here! I. AM. DONE. HERE!”
That is the bad news. The good news is that she articulated this complaint with pushing at us with her paws, claws retracted. Good on’er for the retracted part!
Soon, we had rinsed the shampoo from her, and wrapped her up in a bath towel, halfway drying her. Another towel, and she was as dry as we were going to get her.
We released her, and she walked away, pausing from time to time to shake one leg or another, as if to shake the remaining water off. She still looked bedraggled, but considerable less sooty.
By the following morning, between her own cleaning efforts, and grooming from her siblings, she was nearly entirely clean. And dry.
So, TINS, TIWFDASL…. er, well, OK: I was NOT FDASL, rather, this was long, long ago, and far, far away, and Doug, my partner, had his car in the shop, and so I picked him up, and we went to headquarters in order to pick up our paychecks.
I was driving him home, and we were chatting about inconsequentials, when I had stopped at a traffic light. Coming from our right, a soul had stopped in order to make a right turn, and once he attempted to make his turn, another idiot (wait for it!) had stepped out in front of the vehicle.
The driver slammed on his brakes, and chastised the pedestrian-idiot (who had not been paying attention), whereupon the pedestrian rejoined with some unwelcome insights about the driver’s mother, and her lifestyle choices.
The driver exited his vehicle, displaying a knife (that was clearly visible from across the street!), and chasing the pedestrian. He (the driver) was bellowing, “You sunovabitch! I could have killed you!”, as the pedestrian retreated around the parked vehicle, retreating for his life.
Just past this dance, was a pair of pay telephones (remember them? Another artifact from my youth!). Doug went to one, and dialed 9-1-1, and I took the other, deposited some change, and called our dispatch Bell line.
My call got answered first. Ronnie the dispatcher answered my call, took my information, and passed it to another dispatcher. Then, he chastized me.
“Mcfee, you DO get, that you are off duty. Right? Why don’t you let the other guys get some excitement, for a change?”
Tales of another reality. Reminiscences of my time in the sick people business, and random thoughts otherwise clinging to my attention, like a baby monkey on a weimaraner.
Tales of another reality. Reminiscences of my time in the sick people business, and random thoughts otherwise clinging to my attention, like a baby monkey on a weimaraner.
Tales of another reality. Reminiscences of my time in the sick people business, and random thoughts otherwise clinging to my attention, like a baby monkey on a weimaraner.
Tales of another reality. Reminiscences of my time in the sick people business, and random thoughts otherwise clinging to my attention, like a baby monkey on a weimaraner.
Musings of A Stretcher Ape 