Classes are winding down. It's Hell Week, and we're clearing through the inexorable schedule of exams, one at a time, quiz after final after practical. Notebooks are turned in, the last finishing touches placed, the last-minute cramming has already started. The summer is hot, the sunlight bakes the air and makes the cool grass smell like the most inviting place to nap that ever was.
Last class of VT51 - the Intro to Vet Tech class I'm in - they brought out rats. The week before, they'd introduced us to a couple snakes. Beautiful beasties: a Rainbow Boa, a couple of California King Snakes, a Burmese Python, even a little Eastern Hognose which - up until halfway through the explanation - the professor did not know was classified as venomous. The entire class laughed as she blanched a little, given that she was suddenly aware of the fact that she was holding this potentially deadly creature. Safely enough, it turns out - Hognoses are rear-fanged, and it's VERY difficult for them to envenomate humans. Beautiful animals, and they let us come up, hold them, say hello... it was fantastic.
I knew people had problems with snakes. I do not. I love them. The feel of them, the look of them, the softness of scale and the coolness to touch. The patterns and brightness and fluid grace. Some people, however, could not stand to be near them. I shrugged, knowing a fear of snakes was pervasive.
For some reason, however, it surprised me when girls actually had to excuse themselves from the room entirely when the rats were brought out.
I know, peripherally, that some people dislike rodents. Again, I do not. I find them to be adorable little beasties with fantastic personalities and curious natures. Friendly, social, intelligent... what's not to like? But, like snakes, these creatures are terribly misunderstood and often maligned because of their wilder cousins. The misconceptions - perpetuated by Hollywood in its worst cases - leave us believing that rats will gnaw your face off as you sleep, carry every disease under the sun, and are vicious, vindictive monsters that have a taste for human blood. Nothing could be further from the truth. (Special effects guys have to coat actors with peanut butter to get the rats to even consider licking them. Rats LOVE peanut butter.)
I'm not sure why I found it more strange that people were weirded out by rats. Snakes, sure, I understand. Many are venomous, and if you don't know how to tell the difference, it's best to just avoid them altogether. But rats? Rats are usually just pests at the most, and on their worst wild days they can be vectors for disease. But then, so can cats, dogs, foxes, guinea pigs, and half a dozen other things people almost universally find "cute". There are people who absolutely cringe when they think of bats who think foxes are cuddly, when the truth is that there are more reported cases of foxes transmitting rabies to humans than any bat or rat could ever manage.
I've heard people say it's the tail. What about it, really? Many of these rat-haters still think mice are cute. They look nearly identical to the untrained eye, with the obvious difference in size, which has led to - I'm not kidding - the perpetuated belief that mice grow into rats eventually. So how can you adore one but despise the other?
I watched the girls leave. If anyone had departed when the snakes were out the week before, I never noticed it, and they were exceptionally discreet, and never came back. It's hard to leave the classroom without being noticed. But several girls - all girls, to my shame - left the room when the rats were introduced.
Apart from my shock and confusion ("really? you can't tolerate rats?"), I felt a pang of scorn. Here were were, in a class - the last WEEK of this class, mind you - where we were purposefully staring down the career wherin we would take in every variety of pet for medical care... and they were grossed out by a common domestic species. How on EARTH did they expect to pass the course? Just conveniently skip all the rodent classes? All the small-animal nursing labs? Or perhaps the Animal Care Course, where we're supposed to take care of the facilities rescued dogs, cats, horse, sheep, goats, rabbits, and - yes - rats and mice? You know, those little absolutely critical classes to passing the course? How on EARTH did they think this career was appropriate for them?
I'm not sure why I found it more strange that people were weirded out by rats. Snakes, sure, I understand. Many are venomous, and if you don't know how to tell the difference, it's best to just avoid them altogether. But rats? Rats are usually just pests at the most, and on their worst wild days they can be vectors for disease. But then, so can cats, dogs, foxes, guinea pigs, and half a dozen other things people almost universally find "cute". There are people who absolutely cringe when they think of bats who think foxes are cuddly, when the truth is that there are more reported cases of foxes transmitting rabies to humans than any bat or rat could ever manage.
I've heard people say it's the tail. What about it, really? Many of these rat-haters still think mice are cute. They look nearly identical to the untrained eye, with the obvious difference in size, which has led to - I'm not kidding - the perpetuated belief that mice grow into rats eventually. So how can you adore one but despise the other?
I watched the girls leave. If anyone had departed when the snakes were out the week before, I never noticed it, and they were exceptionally discreet, and never came back. It's hard to leave the classroom without being noticed. But several girls - all girls, to my shame - left the room when the rats were introduced.
Apart from my shock and confusion ("really? you can't tolerate rats?"), I felt a pang of scorn. Here were were, in a class - the last WEEK of this class, mind you - where we were purposefully staring down the career wherin we would take in every variety of pet for medical care... and they were grossed out by a common domestic species. How on EARTH did they expect to pass the course? Just conveniently skip all the rodent classes? All the small-animal nursing labs? Or perhaps the Animal Care Course, where we're supposed to take care of the facilities rescued dogs, cats, horse, sheep, goats, rabbits, and - yes - rats and mice? You know, those little absolutely critical classes to passing the course? How on EARTH did they think this career was appropriate for them?
The professor had stated at the beginning of the course that this was not a "pet the kitty" career, and yet every year she had applicants who couldn't stomach surgeries, had objections to euthanasia, and yes, could not deal with certain species. Being a vet tech isn't all about Little Timmy and his new puppy coming in for boosters. Sometimes it's about Ms. Jane with her aged Guatamalan Monitor with a prolapsed colon, or Mr. Smith with the family cat half mangled from being struck by a car. There will be limbs that cannot be saved, insides conspicuously outside, rotting flesh and smells that will turn the stomach of even the strongest tech, pus, blood, and feces ALL the time. Hell, my second day as an extern as a vet assistant, we lost a patient who was constantly vomiting, evacuating his bowels, his bladder, and salivating all over himself. If you can't handle a healthy rat being in the room, what the hell are you doing in the course?
We didn't get to handle the rats, sadly. The assistant professor walked around the room, showing off various points of anatomy, explaining how social they are, how to train them, and so on. The males were Kraven, King, and Koontz, where the females were Godiva and Hershey. They rode comfortably on her shoulder, venturing an inquisitive nose into the air as they passed by.
I shake my head sadly, and hope dearly that the professor noted the people who couldn't handle the species we'd been introduced to. I would hate to think that the class would be too full to give me a spot with folk like that getting a place. I don't begrudge people their phobias, even if they ARE misplaced (a phobia being an "irrational fear" to begin with), hell, I have a few of my own. But I'm never going to be asked to do a physical on a spider (and yes, I asked). If you can't handle what the job WILL entail, you shouldn't even be in the class. Go be a groomer, or a trainer, or a breeder, or a sitter, or a walker, or whatever you like. But you cannot reasonably expect to be successful in this field with that kind of block.
June 20, 2012
June 08, 2012
Memories: Installment 6
Final installment for now. But I thought I'd part with one of my absolute favorites.
Try to read it along with "Good Life" by OneRepublic.
-----------------
When I was a kid, we had two sets of neighbors, one on each side of our house. In front of us was a wide yard, then an irrigation canal, then a bit more land, then the road, then a huge creek. Behind us was an expansive back yard, a fence, and then a wide open field that was the park. Surrounded by trees and gardens and water, my home might as well have been what heaven looked like to my young eyes.
The creek was wide and mysterious, deep and fast, and its banks were the home of huge snakes and mischievous raccoons, blue-bellied Western Fence Lizards, bold possums and countless rats and mice. The air was positively filled with the sounds of birds, everything from Scrub Jays to Red Tails, Common Crows to Cedar Waxwings, Sparrows and Starlings and half a dozen more. In the canal were the bright-red crayfish, the absurdly loud bullfrogs - half as big as a dinner plate, and thousands upon thousands of tiny singing Tree Frogs. Tadpoles every year numbered beyond count. Dragonflies as wide and as long as my hand darted through the air, along with the honeybees, ladybugs, Tiger Swallowtail and Monarch Butterflies, and even the incredibly beautiful Gypsy Moths at dusk. They bobbed in and out of mom's garden, the dancing heads of crocus, freesia, flox, lantenna, and roses, half-hidden in the soft light of the birch forest mom had planted, all protected by the enormous guardian White Ash tree in the center of it all.
Summer, and everything green and bright. I was twelve.
I'd spend half the morning lying on my back in the front yard, staring at the deep-blue sky through the leaves of the guardian Ash, watching it dance with the blessedly cool summer breeze. It was hot, just the way I loved it. Mid nineties, I think. There would be swimming later, and I'd spend a ridiculous amount of time in the pool, until my fingers and toes were pink-white prunes and my voice cracked from the chlorine. But it was still mid-morning. Dad was working on his brand-new bike in front of the garage. Beyond him, our neighbors' apricot tree hung over our seven-foot redwood fence, bobbing in the wind with its heavy burden of overripe fruit.
The S family had this tree, but never tended it. Didn't care to, I suppose. It was enormous, far bigger than a stone fruit tree should ever get, and it seemed perfectly happy to grow wild. It produced fruit like nobody's business, and the ripe golden orbs would drop to the ground, spent. I don't know what possessed me on this day... but I have never regretted it.
I went inside, and grabbed an old costume from a ballet recital some time prior. I'd been a Pastoral Girl/Maypole Dancer in "La Fille Mal Guarde", and the costume was simply a blue dress with a green apron. I put it on and ran outside barefoot... across the cool grass, the searing pavement in front of the garage, and - true to my tomboy nature - proceeded to climb the fence in a dress. Like the cats often did, I scampered along the top of it like a highway. I often used it to climb up on the roof, or into trees, or really just for whatever reason felt right at the time. This time, it was to the apricot tree.
I know now that I probably should have asked first. But to my twelve-year-old mind, if they'd wanted the fruit, they wouldn't be letting it drop to the ground to rot.
I reached the tree, its burdened branches stooped like old men over the fence. Without a worry of falling whatsoever, I kicked my legs over, and sat on the top of the fence like a normal person would sit on a park bench... and picked an apricot. Without so much as a moment's hesitation, I bit into it, and instantly the juices ran down my fingers, wrists, arms, to drip from my elbows like liquid gold. The sun shone brightly through the leaves as the wind stirred them, and a hawk cried overhead. I finished that one, and had another.
That moment - the warm air, the cool breeze, the hot sun, the sound of life all around me, in the welcoming green embrace of the apricot's leaves, my hard-as-horn bare feet dangling off the side of the fence, dressed in a tattered blue dress with a little green apron, pale and skinny and all arms and legs, covered in apricot juice as I stole the fruits right from the trees - that moment is frozen in time for me. In a strange sense, it felt like I was tasting the very heart of Summer itself, with all the innocence and wonder and fearlessness a child alone can have.
For the record, no - I never got sick.
A part of me clings to that moment in time, when everything was perfect, and worries were for other people. That moment in the summertime is as sacred to me as my own body, and I hold it truly dear. Even now, when I can, I eat apricots - nectarines will do in a pinch - and think of that day.
If you ask me why I'm smiling, I'll tell you it's because apricots taste like summer.
Try to read it along with "Good Life" by OneRepublic.
-----------------
When I was a kid, we had two sets of neighbors, one on each side of our house. In front of us was a wide yard, then an irrigation canal, then a bit more land, then the road, then a huge creek. Behind us was an expansive back yard, a fence, and then a wide open field that was the park. Surrounded by trees and gardens and water, my home might as well have been what heaven looked like to my young eyes.
The creek was wide and mysterious, deep and fast, and its banks were the home of huge snakes and mischievous raccoons, blue-bellied Western Fence Lizards, bold possums and countless rats and mice. The air was positively filled with the sounds of birds, everything from Scrub Jays to Red Tails, Common Crows to Cedar Waxwings, Sparrows and Starlings and half a dozen more. In the canal were the bright-red crayfish, the absurdly loud bullfrogs - half as big as a dinner plate, and thousands upon thousands of tiny singing Tree Frogs. Tadpoles every year numbered beyond count. Dragonflies as wide and as long as my hand darted through the air, along with the honeybees, ladybugs, Tiger Swallowtail and Monarch Butterflies, and even the incredibly beautiful Gypsy Moths at dusk. They bobbed in and out of mom's garden, the dancing heads of crocus, freesia, flox, lantenna, and roses, half-hidden in the soft light of the birch forest mom had planted, all protected by the enormous guardian White Ash tree in the center of it all.
Summer, and everything green and bright. I was twelve.
I'd spend half the morning lying on my back in the front yard, staring at the deep-blue sky through the leaves of the guardian Ash, watching it dance with the blessedly cool summer breeze. It was hot, just the way I loved it. Mid nineties, I think. There would be swimming later, and I'd spend a ridiculous amount of time in the pool, until my fingers and toes were pink-white prunes and my voice cracked from the chlorine. But it was still mid-morning. Dad was working on his brand-new bike in front of the garage. Beyond him, our neighbors' apricot tree hung over our seven-foot redwood fence, bobbing in the wind with its heavy burden of overripe fruit.
The S family had this tree, but never tended it. Didn't care to, I suppose. It was enormous, far bigger than a stone fruit tree should ever get, and it seemed perfectly happy to grow wild. It produced fruit like nobody's business, and the ripe golden orbs would drop to the ground, spent. I don't know what possessed me on this day... but I have never regretted it.
I went inside, and grabbed an old costume from a ballet recital some time prior. I'd been a Pastoral Girl/Maypole Dancer in "La Fille Mal Guarde", and the costume was simply a blue dress with a green apron. I put it on and ran outside barefoot... across the cool grass, the searing pavement in front of the garage, and - true to my tomboy nature - proceeded to climb the fence in a dress. Like the cats often did, I scampered along the top of it like a highway. I often used it to climb up on the roof, or into trees, or really just for whatever reason felt right at the time. This time, it was to the apricot tree.
I know now that I probably should have asked first. But to my twelve-year-old mind, if they'd wanted the fruit, they wouldn't be letting it drop to the ground to rot.
I reached the tree, its burdened branches stooped like old men over the fence. Without a worry of falling whatsoever, I kicked my legs over, and sat on the top of the fence like a normal person would sit on a park bench... and picked an apricot. Without so much as a moment's hesitation, I bit into it, and instantly the juices ran down my fingers, wrists, arms, to drip from my elbows like liquid gold. The sun shone brightly through the leaves as the wind stirred them, and a hawk cried overhead. I finished that one, and had another.
That moment - the warm air, the cool breeze, the hot sun, the sound of life all around me, in the welcoming green embrace of the apricot's leaves, my hard-as-horn bare feet dangling off the side of the fence, dressed in a tattered blue dress with a little green apron, pale and skinny and all arms and legs, covered in apricot juice as I stole the fruits right from the trees - that moment is frozen in time for me. In a strange sense, it felt like I was tasting the very heart of Summer itself, with all the innocence and wonder and fearlessness a child alone can have.
For the record, no - I never got sick.
A part of me clings to that moment in time, when everything was perfect, and worries were for other people. That moment in the summertime is as sacred to me as my own body, and I hold it truly dear. Even now, when I can, I eat apricots - nectarines will do in a pinch - and think of that day.
If you ask me why I'm smiling, I'll tell you it's because apricots taste like summer.
June 02, 2012
Memories: Installment 5
This is the second to last installment of this series. I have to put a stop to it eventually, or this place will become nothing more than a collection of anecdotes and cease to be a part of my forward momentum. It's good to reminisce, but it's important to acknowledge that the past is over, and we move on from there.
Today I made a comment about my eldest nephew growing quite so tall that reminded me of something a important to me, which is the moment that I realized that - even though he wasn't necessarily related to me by blood - he might as well be. I knew in that moment I was willing to offer my life for him.
---------------------------------------
There is a sacred place in the mountains. Few ever travel there. It is nested deep in the wilderness, inaccessible to vehicles even if motors weren't forbidden. It sits quietly along the length of the South Fork of the Stanislaus River, several miles in on horseback. It is peaceful, quiet, pristine. The grass grows a deep green, the trees surround it like guardians, and the water runs as clear as crystal. In mid-June, there is often still snow clinging to the nearby peaks. It is, in my mind, what heaven truly looks like. This place is called Hiram Meadow.
I went with my family there a few times. We would camp at the mouth of the river where it meets the reservoir, and wrestle the gleaming trout from the snowmelt-waters as they raced and jockied to get upstream. We tossed the females back... we would want fish in the next years too, after all. But those fish bite anything. ANYTHING. I've seen people catch a trout with a bass lure. Bait. Dry fly. Wet fly. Salmon eggs. Worms. And bless his heart, my nephew caught one using nothing for bait at all. Just a hook. Those fish were starving on their route upstream, and we'd cheer them on when one lept the eight-foot waterfall.
Every trip, we would venture at least once to Hiram Meadow to let the horses graze a little and to bask in the sacred beauty. This trip was no exception. We had more people with us than most times, including a lady I didn't know hardly at all, but she claimed to know horses, and so she came with. I was on Cloudy, the soft-mouthed snaffle-trained plush-coated quarter horse that somehow decided I was worthy to ride her. (Snaffle-bits are used on horses with VERY sensitive mouths, and using it wrong is a big problem. Her owner trusted my reputation in horsemanship to not harm her, and I did not disappoint. Ever since then, Cloudy was my steed on these trips. She developed this weird kind of kinship with me, but I did NOT complain.) My nephew - being still quite wee at the time - rode with the lady I didn't know on a strawberry leopard-appaloosa.
I rode behind her, keeping an eye on the wee one, and pointing out things to him as we rode past them, like a set of fresh cougar-tracks at the edge of the river in the soft wet sand, or a hawk soaring overhead. I wanted him to come to know and love nature as my father and brother did, as I and my mother do, to really bring him into the family. My brother and his future wife were very serious about one another, and I had this strange need to pull her son into the family and envelop him in a way. I needed to make it known that - blood or not - if he was to be a part of the family, then we would accept him with everything we could offer. And so I hovered a little, I'll admit. Needing to include him. Wanting to show him things. Hoping to make him see, so that he would never doubt.
Hiram Meadow was beautiful as always. It was a sunny day and clear, and the air was that perfect temperature to counter to warmth of the sun so you couldn't get too hot. The water was running swift and glassy over the well-worn stones.
I don't remember all of the details of when it happened, but I remember it happening, I don't remember if it was before we let the horses graze, or after, or during, or which. But I do remember it vividly.
I was on Cloudy, and facing the river, about 20 feet away from the bank. The river ran swift enough through the semi-granite-clay that it had etched the banks into the earth a good three or four feet before hitting water. The water itself was at least three feet of freezing-cold snowmelt, and travelling at a good clip. And that's all I could think about when the strawberry appaloosa decided she wanted to go into the river.
All I could see was the woman's back as she yanked ineffectually on the reins, and my nephew's little legs dangling off either side of the saddle. I didn't have time to think of anything else. All it would take would be a stumble and he would go plunging into the icy water. I don't remember doing it, but somehow I got Cloudy to understand the urgency. She doesn't like to go fast normally (the one time I spurred her into a gallop we were halfway across the meadow before she complied), but as a pair we sprang into action. We came up on the other horse's left side just as its front feet splashed into the water, and gripping the reins in my right hand I reached out with my left to grab the stunned (and now slightly damp) little boy by the ribs and pulled him bodily onto my saddle before turning Cloudy away from the splashing ruckus that was the appaloosa.
In retrospect, I realize now I hardly gave a thought to the woman on the horse. She was kind of one of those "Gee, My, Ain't Nature Grand" kind of people my dad dislikes so much. She had no respect for how deadly even the simplest things could be. No concept of how fast hypothermia can set in, how cold snowmelt really is, and how easy it is for little boys to be swept downriver. Three feet of fast-moving water is nothing to sneeze at. It can kill a grown man, to say nothing of little boys. Hell, I was in danger getting that close.
But I didn't care how dangerous it was to me. It didn't matter. What mattered was the boy, helpless and unaware. He didn't come out of it completely unscathed - his pants were soaked through. But I shudder to think of the misery he might have suffered if he'd gotten completely engulfed by the river, or what might have happened if he'd come loose. In that moment, I didn't give a damn about whether I was risking myself. I needed to get my nephew out of there.
I wouldn't let anyone else take him from me. He rode with me the whole way back to camp, a good solid hour in his little soaked jeans. I kept him tucked into my core to keep him warm; even the warm sunlight couldn't dispel the chill of the water when the breeze kicked up, or when we passed under the shady canopy. All I could think of was how close a call that had been, and how I didn't trust anyone else - anyone else - to keep him safe. And then it hit me.
Blood or no, I'd give my life for this kid.
Scrawny, feisty, full of sass and imagination, wonder and curiosity, this wee lad was Family already. I didn't have to try to welcome him in - he was already there. Protect the young, safeguard the weak. Watch each other's backs. Pick each other up when we fall. "I've got your Six." I'd done it without hesitation. And I'd do it again in a heartbeat, probably without thinking about it.
I'm not sure if he remembers it, though I'm sure he remembers parts of those trips. He'd been on a few of them, riding horses, catching fish, building fires, taking the boat out with dad. It doesn't ultimately matter, I suppose. All that matters is that he's one of us.
Today I made a comment about my eldest nephew growing quite so tall that reminded me of something a important to me, which is the moment that I realized that - even though he wasn't necessarily related to me by blood - he might as well be. I knew in that moment I was willing to offer my life for him.
---------------------------------------
There is a sacred place in the mountains. Few ever travel there. It is nested deep in the wilderness, inaccessible to vehicles even if motors weren't forbidden. It sits quietly along the length of the South Fork of the Stanislaus River, several miles in on horseback. It is peaceful, quiet, pristine. The grass grows a deep green, the trees surround it like guardians, and the water runs as clear as crystal. In mid-June, there is often still snow clinging to the nearby peaks. It is, in my mind, what heaven truly looks like. This place is called Hiram Meadow.
I went with my family there a few times. We would camp at the mouth of the river where it meets the reservoir, and wrestle the gleaming trout from the snowmelt-waters as they raced and jockied to get upstream. We tossed the females back... we would want fish in the next years too, after all. But those fish bite anything. ANYTHING. I've seen people catch a trout with a bass lure. Bait. Dry fly. Wet fly. Salmon eggs. Worms. And bless his heart, my nephew caught one using nothing for bait at all. Just a hook. Those fish were starving on their route upstream, and we'd cheer them on when one lept the eight-foot waterfall.
Every trip, we would venture at least once to Hiram Meadow to let the horses graze a little and to bask in the sacred beauty. This trip was no exception. We had more people with us than most times, including a lady I didn't know hardly at all, but she claimed to know horses, and so she came with. I was on Cloudy, the soft-mouthed snaffle-trained plush-coated quarter horse that somehow decided I was worthy to ride her. (Snaffle-bits are used on horses with VERY sensitive mouths, and using it wrong is a big problem. Her owner trusted my reputation in horsemanship to not harm her, and I did not disappoint. Ever since then, Cloudy was my steed on these trips. She developed this weird kind of kinship with me, but I did NOT complain.) My nephew - being still quite wee at the time - rode with the lady I didn't know on a strawberry leopard-appaloosa.
I rode behind her, keeping an eye on the wee one, and pointing out things to him as we rode past them, like a set of fresh cougar-tracks at the edge of the river in the soft wet sand, or a hawk soaring overhead. I wanted him to come to know and love nature as my father and brother did, as I and my mother do, to really bring him into the family. My brother and his future wife were very serious about one another, and I had this strange need to pull her son into the family and envelop him in a way. I needed to make it known that - blood or not - if he was to be a part of the family, then we would accept him with everything we could offer. And so I hovered a little, I'll admit. Needing to include him. Wanting to show him things. Hoping to make him see, so that he would never doubt.
Hiram Meadow was beautiful as always. It was a sunny day and clear, and the air was that perfect temperature to counter to warmth of the sun so you couldn't get too hot. The water was running swift and glassy over the well-worn stones.
I don't remember all of the details of when it happened, but I remember it happening, I don't remember if it was before we let the horses graze, or after, or during, or which. But I do remember it vividly.
I was on Cloudy, and facing the river, about 20 feet away from the bank. The river ran swift enough through the semi-granite-clay that it had etched the banks into the earth a good three or four feet before hitting water. The water itself was at least three feet of freezing-cold snowmelt, and travelling at a good clip. And that's all I could think about when the strawberry appaloosa decided she wanted to go into the river.
All I could see was the woman's back as she yanked ineffectually on the reins, and my nephew's little legs dangling off either side of the saddle. I didn't have time to think of anything else. All it would take would be a stumble and he would go plunging into the icy water. I don't remember doing it, but somehow I got Cloudy to understand the urgency. She doesn't like to go fast normally (the one time I spurred her into a gallop we were halfway across the meadow before she complied), but as a pair we sprang into action. We came up on the other horse's left side just as its front feet splashed into the water, and gripping the reins in my right hand I reached out with my left to grab the stunned (and now slightly damp) little boy by the ribs and pulled him bodily onto my saddle before turning Cloudy away from the splashing ruckus that was the appaloosa.
In retrospect, I realize now I hardly gave a thought to the woman on the horse. She was kind of one of those "Gee, My, Ain't Nature Grand" kind of people my dad dislikes so much. She had no respect for how deadly even the simplest things could be. No concept of how fast hypothermia can set in, how cold snowmelt really is, and how easy it is for little boys to be swept downriver. Three feet of fast-moving water is nothing to sneeze at. It can kill a grown man, to say nothing of little boys. Hell, I was in danger getting that close.
But I didn't care how dangerous it was to me. It didn't matter. What mattered was the boy, helpless and unaware. He didn't come out of it completely unscathed - his pants were soaked through. But I shudder to think of the misery he might have suffered if he'd gotten completely engulfed by the river, or what might have happened if he'd come loose. In that moment, I didn't give a damn about whether I was risking myself. I needed to get my nephew out of there.
I wouldn't let anyone else take him from me. He rode with me the whole way back to camp, a good solid hour in his little soaked jeans. I kept him tucked into my core to keep him warm; even the warm sunlight couldn't dispel the chill of the water when the breeze kicked up, or when we passed under the shady canopy. All I could think of was how close a call that had been, and how I didn't trust anyone else - anyone else - to keep him safe. And then it hit me.
Blood or no, I'd give my life for this kid.
Scrawny, feisty, full of sass and imagination, wonder and curiosity, this wee lad was Family already. I didn't have to try to welcome him in - he was already there. Protect the young, safeguard the weak. Watch each other's backs. Pick each other up when we fall. "I've got your Six." I'd done it without hesitation. And I'd do it again in a heartbeat, probably without thinking about it.
I'm not sure if he remembers it, though I'm sure he remembers parts of those trips. He'd been on a few of them, riding horses, catching fish, building fires, taking the boat out with dad. It doesn't ultimately matter, I suppose. All that matters is that he's one of us.
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