As fate—that fickle old rascal—might
have it, a few weeks back, when summer was in full swing, and those silly
little battery-powered fans you can clip onto your baseball cap, didn’t seem
like such a silly idea after all, myself, the missus, and the little squirt,
ended up going on vacation. Well, it was more of a glorified weekend trip to
PA, but for a family of New Yorkers that most certainly qualifies as a prim and
proper vacation with all the trimmings.
According to the tenets of New York
City life, any activity which includes pets, greenery, and a decent view, can
be considered a vacation, because daily life in the apple that never sleeps includes
none of the above. Pets are not allowed in our (expensive, but too small) Bronx
apartment, and plants of all religions and denominations worldwide consider me
their mortal enemy (having not two, not three, but TEN brown thumbs), and the
view from our apartment is exactly what one might expect from a place named
after a man who unironically sported the last name of Bronck.
Thus it is with great pleasure I
present to you, dearest reader, Gracie—the closest thing I'll ever have to a pet.
Gracie lives a quiet, equestrian life
on a small farm in rural PA. Our eyes met the moment the blond-headed Amish boy
led our small tour group into the whitewashed stable, filled to the brim with
the unmistakable aroma of reality. There she stood with a yearning look and a
mouthful of hay. Within a mere moment the air was abuzz with the sizzle of
magic and romance (It may have been horseflies, though. I'm not 100% sure).
I said: "Why, hello
Beautiful." She playfully nuzzled my forehead. I laughed gaily and pulled
an extra-absorbent napkin from my pocket. I then offered her a big lump of
sugar, of which I always carry a few (you never know who you might meet!). She
excitedly stepped forward, graciously accepted the sweet treat, and returned
the favor by giving me a massive lump on the shin. Stars filled the room,
ecstasy overcame me, and twenty-two simple words imprinted themselves upon my
heart: Sometimes love, true love, pure love, the kind of love that makes you go
"Mhm, mhm, mhm," is so real, it hurts.
"But, Casual-T," I hear
you say, "what about Mrs. Casual?" Yes, of course, you are right. I
am a married man, and I love my wife dearly. I would never leave her (for a
horse). But I simply can't bring myself to forget those tender, honest, and
ever so bittersweet moments I shared with Gracie on that hot summer's day in
Pennsylvania. I will remember her for as long as I limp. (Have you ever seen a
shin the color, shape, and consistency of an eggplant? It's quite a sight to
behold.)
