I almost considered taking a week off from my column. Why? A rather inconvenient injury to my right thumb. Now, I’m not a touch typist, more of a dedicated “hunt and peck” enthusiast, but even for me, that thumb is crucial. It’s the unsung hero of keys like “B” and its neighboring letters. Imagine trying to construct a coherent sentence, let alone a 700-word column, with such a vital digit out of commission.
But duty called, and frankly, so did the need to pay the bills. Plus, I have to believe those dozen or so folks – bless their hearts, and they aren’t even relatives – who claim to read this weekly actually mean it. My own family? Radio silence. Not a like, not a comment when I share it on Facebook. Yet, come Christmas, they have expectations!
You’d hope such an injury would come from a tale of bravery, perhaps rescuing a damsel in distress or, in my world, fending off a particularly feisty feral cat during feeding time. Alas, no such heroic narrative exists. For those keeping score, my feline crew, my “clowder” as it were, has expanded to ten. We have the fringe dwellers, the snack opportunists who appear at the edges, a solid nuclear family of five, and then there’s Top Step, the newest member. This brazen newcomer thinks nothing of darting into the house at the slightest door crack to pilfer food from Boots’ bowl. The audacity!
Yes, this feline family is a bit of an expense, but it’s a price I willingly pay. They are, after all, my copperhead deterrent squad – their confirmed kill count is now at fourteen snakes – and they keep the rodent population of voles and moles in check. Occasionally, I stumble upon the sad remnants of a bird, mostly feathers and a forlorn-looking head. While it tugs at my heartstrings, I chalk it up to nature’s course, a touch of Darwinism in action. Birds have wings; cats, regrettably, do not.
Boots, my indoor cat and the recipient of stolen meals, bless his furry soul, is the sole indoor resident. If only I could decipher his feline thoughts, what tales they would tell! I’m certain he reminisces about a bygone era of unchallenged reign, pondering where it all went wrong. He now spends considerable time observing the feral contingent from the back door, watching them gather on the porch, anticipating feeding time with an almost human level of anticipation. He reminds me of that neighborhood kid, always picked last for the basketball game, watching forlornly from across the street. But as I constantly remind Boots, he is the privileged one, the only cat granted indoor sleeping privileges, choosing his royal napping spot at will.
This very column, ironically born from a thumb injury, will provide sustenance for my feline dependents for approximately ten days. A balanced diet of mostly dry kibble, enhanced by a tantalizing hint of wet food. So, the thumb, despite its throbbing protest, must persevere.
The unglamorous truth behind the injury? It wasn’t a heroic cat rescue, but rather a battle with a wine bottle. My go-to, everyday wine, Rex-Goliath merlot, affectionately nicknamed “Nine-ninety-nine” (its usual price point, unless I can snag it for “Eight-ninety-nine” or, jackpot, “Seven-ninety-nine”). The wine opener, in a moment of rebellion, pinched my thumb, resulting in a surprising gush of blood. Now it’s bandaged, and I can practically measure my pulse by the throbbing pain.
This should tell you volumes about my unrefined palate when it comes to wine. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate a truly exceptional, expensive bottle of wine as much as the next person, savoring both its complex flavors and rich aromas. But let’s be honest, the real appeal of those pricier bottles is usually that someone else is footing the bill.
Another compelling reason to push through the thumb pain and write this column is a sense of duty, a trait I inherited from my father. A man who, in my memory, never succumbed to a “sick day.” In my own 24-year tenure as editor of this very paper, I only missed work twice: seventeen days for open-heart surgery and a single day for elbow surgery. Hindsight is 20/20, isn’t it? I should have pursued a career in government, stockpiled sick leave, and made a grand exit into early retirement.
My beleaguered thumb has valiantly carried me to the column’s near completion. But there’s one final test looming. I’m scheduled to participate in a golf tournament tomorrow, a fundraiser for Camp Grace, a truly worthy cause.
Fortunately, fate, or perhaps just clever golf club grip design, is on my side. My right thumb barely makes contact with the club during my swing. So, golf should be thumb-injury proof. I even managed to navigate the TV remote control earlier, another potential disaster averted.
Thus, while the initial wine opener incident was undeniably painful, accompanied by a dramatic (albeit swiftly contained) bloodletting, and the throbbing persists, I am now prepared to downgrade this injury to “minor.” Perhaps even worthy of a “Cat Thumbs Up” of resilience.
