This morning, Bedlam broke loose -- quickly followed by the routines of Disruption, and my personal favorite, Chaos.
Those three musketeers danced an Irish jig in the back yard, with the Celtic ladies doing background vocals.
Moon walks were dragged out of the closet and set afire with wisps of wackiness. Spins and whoops and whoots and the ol' Kentucky hills version -- hollers, of course -- were doused in kerosene and whoosh there they went. By the way, as we go through here, make a mental note about how often and how much often spell-check comes into play this morning as I make up words on the go.
One minute the dogs were going for their morning scheduled meeting with the pee-pee wizard, following a time-honored tradition of leaving the building brought on by the church and Elvis (give some thought to it and you will see where it leads, I promise). The next minute, Bedlam and its crime-fighting partner Havoc descended upon us like a a Saturday summer rain storm. All that was needed was a steady beat you could dance to (for those old enough to remember Saturday mainstay American Bandstorm, er, Bandstand).
Amidst the screams from Ma-maw, the barks of the other members of the Motley Crew who wanted to look and sound tough but were not, not really, part of the contest, and certainly were not tough sounding, were other morning echoes.
From the bushes came someone, some-THING shouting in tongues (possum language, as it turned out), "run for your ife. RUN for your ife. RUN FOR YOUR IFE." I would discover later that it was perfectly natural for these beasts to drop the letter for their lingo. LIFE becomes IFE and so forth. (That's my story and I'm sticking to it).
Still, one of our two daschshunds was doing his best to sound like a run-away ambulance sitting at a red light with its horn playing the anthem of football teams near the end of a game. Really. That's what it sounded like. You know the tune.
Nah, nah, nah ... nah, nah, nah ... hey, hey, hey ... goodbye.
That's what I heard, or would have if I had been awake, but I digress.
American audiences, particularly in the Jefferson neighborhood in which we live, suddenly were treated to Ma-maw's very feminine screams both mocking and mawking the screams of those long-ago Ed Sullivan audiences when the Beatles or Elvis came rocking out, were given memory. Very suddenly, it was a WWE wrestling match, live (or mostly) from Madison Square yard, our Madison Square yard. Really. Our full sized doxie Copper versus a dinosaur-sized possum (o-possum to you, but this being the South and all, the beasts drop the o at the beginning the way we drop the g at the end, and that's just the way we talk so get used to it). IFE as we know it.
It was a battle that lasted a good, well, seconds.
Let's just say, Copper won. The o-dropping dinosaur-sized possum did not.
And that's the way the morning began.
So, now I know we are quite protected against yard-hopping, thieving o-dropping possums. I strongly suspect moles have heard by now that the Turner yard is on the do-not-break-in list.
See, doxies are programed right on down into their DNA to fight to the end (or who ever is scripted to win or lose, this being the NWE and all). Their genes tell them to fight and to win the fight against such creatures of the night -- excluding vampires, because after the strike of 1981, doxies are card-carrying union members who have won the right to make sure vampires are never, never, ever on the list of potential creatures of the night. I would have to agree with them.
Therefore, Copper lit out of the house like a Doxie on fire. He would have danced into the fight like Ali against Frazier no matter what else happened. He had no genetic choice. O-dropping possum in the yard? Ka-boom goes the Doxie, particularly if the sliding glass door is indeed open. Down goes Frazier. Down goes Frazier.
I say ALLLLLL of that to make this one little point: I heard often how we are who we are because we have been programed to be who we are. That, I believe, is true. We are who we are because God created us to be that way.
UNLESS. (Notice how often I use cap letters? Programing. That's what it is. Programing). Unless God, the same God who created us, changes us. Transforms us. Makes us a new creature.
See, I am who I am, unless the one who made me who I am is the same one who is changing me into the new me.
Get that?
Create. CHECK.
Change. CHECK.
Transform. CHECK.
Redeem. CHECK.
NEW ME. CHECK.
THAT'S THE PLAN.
He takes the lump of clay (the old, worthless, useless, without redeeming qualities thing we shall call for lack of a better term me). God almighty changes that lump. What is new is me.
Blood-cleaned, redeemed, full of worth though still quite old ME.
To quote the creature who found himself in a yard with a DNA-enforced dog who ain't on the Einstein list to begin with, "O
.............. POSSUM."
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