Tag Archives: writing

January 30, 2026 · 7:13 am

Queen of the Kingdom

Jackie Wells-Fauth

She was a rescue, I guess you’d call her, but Haruka, named for her people’s respect for the Japanese culture, never saw herself as being rescued. More like, she was the one doing the rescuing…of people who obviously needed her to come and take care of their home.

When I first met Haruka, or Haru, as I was permitted to call her because I didn’t master her full name very well, she was already comfortable in her new home. It never occurred to this cat, who had excitability issues, that there was anyone in charge at her house other than her.

She permitted people to visit with commendable patience and grace, but it was always clear that she was granting you a boon to visit “her people.” And her people were devoted, which gives you some idea of the personality that is this cat.

My favorite view of her is always of her sitting at the top of the room on her cat tree shelf, staring down her somewhat stubby, feline nose at the occupants of the room. Sometimes, she permitted petting, but it was always on her terms.

She claimed her share of the bed before anyone else climbed in and considered it a painful accommodation when company came. I still remember the morning I woke up; her owners having given me their bed. I opened one eye and I could see a funny-looking blur at the end of the bed. When I put my glasses on, it was Haru, sitting at the end of the bed with pointed patience and a twitching tale.

“I’m so sorry,” I found myself apologizing to a cat, “I will just get out of here and leave you to your morning nap.” She waited until I had smoothed the covers and then she very regally marched to the head of the bed, arranged herself, gave me the stink eye out of one feline peeper and promptly went to sleep. She had made her point.

She loved close, quiet places and nothing pleased her more than when she could get into the towel cupboard in the hall—so much so that her owners eventually made her a particular place there. They also turned the coffee table into a tent and she loved the sanctity the place provided.

She was a snuggler, with her owners; when she wished, but much of her time was spent patrolling the house or resting in a place where she could observe what was going on in her dominion.

She had some odd tastes. I remember the first time I saw her owners feeding her watermelon. I thought it was a terrible waste of a piece of watermelon to let her lick it, but she didn’t just lick it—she lapped it up. Turns out, she was a fruit junkie who loved watermelon best!

A little while ago this queen of the cats developed medical issues. She visited the vet, underwent all kinds of tests, but in the end it was clear that Haru was coming to the close of her reign. Her people gave her all the love and support they knew how and with grief in their hearts bid her goodbye. I don’t know if another cat will come into the house, but I do know that there is no way for Haru to be replaced. She was truly, “their girl.”

With all of the grief in Minnesota this week, it was too hard to write something lighthearted right now, but I did want to note the passing of Haru with respect. While this is probably not the greatest tragedy in a city in turmoil, to those who loved Haru best, it is a critical blow.

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January 16, 2026 · 4:00 am

Big Brother is Watching

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I saw an interesting video on the Internet the other day that may forever stick in my mind. It was a group who were demonstrating a robot equipped with a head, arms and legs—all machine-like. They had a human working with the robot, getting the machine to mimic their movements. The human punched out with his left arm, then his right and moved on to kicks and the robot aped everything he was doing. Until, for a reason unclear from the video, the robot kicked the man in the spot where men least like to be kicked (I think) and doubled him over.

This video is a visual representation of what AI and the whole technology industry are doing to me metaphorically. Everyone knows I’ve never been a fan of technology (even though I acknowledge there is some help in it) and AI (standing for artificial intelligence; think about that for a minute) is not generating any love in me either!

I find those home information systems to be just a little scary. I will turn off my own lights and check with the thermometer outside for temperature myself, thank you. I think I decided against those systems after my niece described her experience. “I got up one morning and everyone else was already gone. I stood in the kitchen and said, ‘I wonder where everyone went?’ The machine answered—and it was right!”

AI is everywhere today, whether I like it or not, and I’m starting to think it is the “Big Brother” we have all heard about in George Orwell’s writings. I was complaining bitterly one morning about all of my aches and pains and how I can’t remember anything and getting old is hell. Within hours, Facebook was flooding my feed with advertisements for assisted living and nursing homes! Who was listening and drawing their own conclusions?

I’ve been blaming my computer for that and have started religiously turning it off, but it seems to make no difference. Someone told me, “Oh, your phone picks things up as well, and you have that with you all the time.” Just so you know, my phone and I are discussing divorce, and I presume that means a whole new flood of information on good divorce lawyers!

Even the simplest things are being turned over to AI. If I call a large company, an artificial intelligence decides whether I get to talk to a person or not. Ever been hung up on by a machine? It’s a daunting experience!

I was sitting in a doctor’s office the other day, when I was approached by a tall machine, lit with blue lights and humming away. As it approached me, it stopped suddenly, corrected its trajectory and moved around me. I am really hoping this is a gigantic version of a Roomba, because otherwise, if that is what is going to handle my examination, I think I’ll pass, thank you!

Even in writing this article today, I am plagued by AI. Programs are all over the computer, offering writing assistance. They will write whole letters on various topics, which I guess makes me superfluous. But what’s annoying is that when I am writing, it starts second guessing what word I want to use next. I’ve become very petty about that. “No, AI, I am not going to use the word green; I’ll just make it blue instead!” I’ve sunk to the level of arguing with a computer! Even as we speak, there is a little symbol at the side of my copy, moving up and down with me and offering every couple of minutes to take over. Very creepy.

The thing I least like to do, though, is talk to an AI entity. I am not a logical person, and I object to talking to something I can’t gossip with or share a secret. Although that’s probably out there too, I just don’t want to think about it. I still remember the first time I encountered talking AI. I was in a bathroom. I washed my hands and threw the towel in the garbage. The garbage can said, “Thank you!” I don’t want to talk to my garbage can, but that might just be me!

I love Facebook, because of the connection with other people, but Facebook, based on the articles it presents, apparently knows that I’m older, nervously contemplating knee surgery and I love history. So, after everything is said and done, George Orwell was right. Big Brother really is watching!

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January 1, 2026 · 9:04 am

History Humiliation Game

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I am reminded this week of that old saying, “Sometimes I think I am smart enough to conquer the world, and other days I try to get out of the car without unhooking my seatbelt.”

Most of us, me included, would like to believe that we are at least of average intelligence. I can’t calculate the subversion of PI in my head or anything, but on most days, I can read a label or follow the weather report on television.

However, years ago, I stopped playing the board game known as Trivial Pursuit because I always felt stupid not being able to answer sports or science questions and even some of the history questions, which should have been easy for a history major like me, tripped me up because they were just too…well, too trivial!  I don’t know when binoculars were invented, but I know it was before the Titanic; everyone knows the ship sank because they didn’t have theirs! That should count for partial points, right? It didn’t!

My confidence in my own intelligence isn’t so great that I could take the blows caused by not knowing which of the planets is the hottest (hint here: it’s NOT Mercury) or who owns the Miami Dolphins (No hint here.) So, I put the Trivial Pursuit at the back of the closet and felt better about myself—living in my little false world!

Then, this Christmas, along came Trivial Pursuit – History Channel version. Now I will admit that I only actually heard Trivial Pursuit “History” and all my old bias against Trivial Pursuit collapsed. I am a historian, let me show you how brilliant I am!

Except that Trivial Pursuit is Trivial Pursuit and after I nagged everyone to play, I discovered that it contained the history of Culture, People, Geography, Science and SPORTS. Oh lord, just shoot me now…into the rough…miles from the putting green. (See, I know sports!)

So, I heard questions like: ‘What play is West Side Story based on?’ or ‘Which famous painter founded Impressionism?” Easy questions for me…except these were the questions other people got. When my turn came around, I got questions like ‘What is the most common element in the earth’s atmosphere (kids, stay awake in science class, I beg you) or, ‘In what decade was the Rugby Football Union formed in London?’ (Hint, the answer is not ‘Who gives a damn?’)

I protested, I shouted, I cried, but the questions kept on coming. I got the Culture category right away because I knew that Anne Frank nicknamed her diary Kitty. From there on out, it was a sea of sports trivia and me figuratively trying to get out of the car without unhooking my seatbelt!

I am positive the game was rigged: my daughter and son-in-law are neither one a sports fan. What were their questions? ‘What is the center of a target called?’ (In frustration, I shouted out a suggestion, but it was rejected and I can’t print it here.)

‘What does the NBA stand for?’ (I could have answered that one, but my son-in-law beat me to it.)

Now it was my turn. The question? “What substance do sumo wrestlers spread in the ring during a match?” (It wasn’t baby oil, what do I know about sumo wrestling?) and the one I finally fell on the sword for? ‘In cricket, how many runs are scored if the ball is hit over the boundary without bouncing?’

“National Basketball Association!” I shrieked. They all looked so sorry for me. But not as sorry as I felt for me!

I have only three things to add: 1) If you really want to try Trivial Pursuit and you don’t mind dumpster diving; you can have my game. 2) I made up the subversion of PI thing—I don’t really think that’s real. And 3) When did crickets start playing ball????

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December 26, 2025 · 3:48 pm

A Matter of Time

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

My basement stairs were pretty dirty, so I finally hauled out the “big-guns” vacuum to take care of it. I was crawling down, hanging onto the railing with one hand and trying to manipulate the vacuum hose with the other.

Roy came along and watched me for a few minutes. We’re at the stage of our marriage where he doesn’t have to ask why I’m doing something—I’ll usually explain it. In fact, the more bizarre the thing I’m doing, the more likely that I will volunteer an explanation of why.

“I don’t want to fall on the basement steps,” I shouted over the noise. He nodded, that seemed reasonable.

“I could die, if I fell to the bottom, so I’m hanging on,” I continued. He nodded again.

“If I’m going to die, I don’t want to be vacuuming the basement stairs,” I concluded. This was as clear an explanation as possible, but now he looked puzzled.

I shut off the vacuum. This was an important point and I didn’t want him to miss it. “I read a book about ghosts. It said that if someone dies suddenly, they are likely to return as a ghost and keep doing whatever they were doing when they died.” He walked away shaking his head, but I am very serious.

It’s all a matter of timing. If I’m going suddenly, I want it to be from a massive systems failure while I’m stuffing myself with cookies and reading books. I could haunt a library or a sweets shop, but I’m not spending eternity sucking the cobwebs out of this stairwell!

I try to take the passage of time into consideration for a lot of things. I think it’s important to always be prepared. I love a smoothie in the morning. Therefore, I must always have a blender to make it. What if a morning dawned and my blender died? This would be unacceptable, so, in my closet, I have a brand new blender, still in the box, ready to go if my old one cashes it in mid-smoothie. It should be noted that along this line, I also have a brand-new microwave sitting on the shelves in the basement on the principle that someday, the microwave I have will cash it in. The “new” microwave is now officially four years old, but someday, it’s gonna come in handy! It’s just a matter of time.

Now, if you think my philosophy is a waste of time, you probably might have been joined by Roy in this thinking. It isn’t possible to plan for everything and sometimes, the timing is going to be off. However, I believe we might have made a believer out of Roy.

My morning is never complete without a cup of coffee. When I was teaching, the students knew that it was better to approach me with a problem after I’d had coffee. It’s all in the timing you see.

So, it was a bad moment for me when I managed to drop a cup (which didn’t  break) and shatter my coffee maker—the only one I have—on a late Saturday night. Where was my planning for time? Now, Sunday morning, I not only wouldn’t have a cup of coffee, but I’d have to wait until stores opened, to get a new coffee-maker. Why, oh why, did I not plan for this! What terrible timing!

I was in mid-meltdown over my loss of coffee time, when I looked up to see Roy standing in the doorway of the kitchen, with a sheepish grin and holding a brand new coffee maker. “Merry Christmas,” he said, handing it over to my astonishment.

Just like that, Roy understands my issues with timing. I don’t think he could have come up with a better moment to deliver my Christmas present than at the exact moment I needed a new coffee maker. Now that he understands that, I think I’ll go out and buy a new wash machine and dryer, just in case, and maybe I’ll get a new television as well…you never know!

And meanwhile, I am going to keep hanging out in tea shops and libraries, cause you know, it’s just a matter of time!

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December 19, 2025 · 7:19 am

Opulent Outlook

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I read a long list of hints or household tips for making my house look richer than it is. This was kind of a shock, since I don’t plan to have Elon Musk or anyone of the kind over for a visit and if I did, they could put up with the squalor that is my comfortable house.

The tips were, to say the least, rather amusing. I didn’t go through all of them because there were forty-five (it takes a lot to make your house look rich, apparently), but a few of them did catch my eye and some of them made me howl with laughter, the laughter of the poor, obviously.

The first tip I would like to address has to do with my cushions. The tip is to add matching cushion covers to all of my soft furniture. If I could find cushion covers that would match, I can’t imagine why I would want my house to look like the impersonal waiting room at a large business firm. My mix of blues and yellows, grays and oranges catches the eye as you walk into my house. If I want to feel rich about this conglomeration, I would tell you that my style is “eclectic.” That sounds very snobby and upper crust, right?

It suggested that to look wealthy, I should use trays to group décor. What décor? On the same note, it said to declutter open areas. So, I ask, what open areas?

“Hang curtains higher to elongate a room.” Does this really make me look richer or just too stupid to correctly hang curtains?

Then they got nasty. “Make your bed every day.” Let’s not get crazy here! And “Use two pillows each side for hotel vibes.” Am I really going for hotel vibes? And finally, “Tuck your throw at the foot of the bed.” This is not where I usually need a throw!

“Decant pantry items into matching jars.” Decant…what a nice, snobby word. And the bag the noodles come in will work just fine, thank you! “Use glass containers or baskets in the fridge.” Answer me one question: If I’m so rich, why am I giving tours of my refrigerator? “Wipe down cupboard fronts regularly.” I want to look rich, not obsessive!

“Keep cleaning products out of sight.” Because…rich people don’t have cleaning products? “Keep one candle, reed diffuser or eucalyptus in the shower.” There are several problems here, beginning with why would rich people invite others into the shower, how would you keep a candle lit in the shower and what the heck is a reed diffuser???

“Add a small hand towel on the basin, folded neatly.” I can’t tell you how this would make me look richer. Also, I can’t tell you how fast it would no longer be “folded neatly” at the side of the basin. I’m trying to imagine explaining to Roy, “Yes, this is a towel and no, you are not to use it; I want other people to see it, and think we are rich.”

“Move furniture slightly away from walls.” So…in the middle of the room? I like furniture placed as the good lord intended—plastered against the wall, scraping the paint.

“Keep entryways clear and welcoming.” If I do that, how will people know where to leave their shoes and coats without mine thrown right there in front of them, to give them the hint?

“Declutter one thing from every room.” This is the first really good idea I have read. And the first thing I’m going to declutter from the living room is the magazine containing the article about tips for looking richer!

I’ve given it a lot of consideration, and I’ve decided to stay with my lower middle-class house-with-a-lived-in-look-to-it status. I’m sorry if this means Elon Musk won’t consider my home grand enough to visit. I confess, however, that I would like to visit his house (or one of them). I want to look in his shower to find out what a reed diffuser is!

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December 14, 2025 · 10:07 am

An ill wind

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

Imagine me writing about wind! Wonder what gave me the idea. Maybe it was the random bit of cardboard box that slapped me in the teeth as I stepped out into the “gentle breezes” this week!

There’s an old saying that goes something like: It’s an ill wind that blows no good. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I’m here to tell you that this is, indeed, an ill wind!

I’m used to the struggles we all have with the “light zephyr” type winds that spread their teasing fingertips across our land. Okay, it’s more like a sonic boom that has the power to knock you flat! Knowing all this, however, doesn’t make me any fonder of the blast and if my wording above misleads you, I can assure you that I am taking refuge in sarcasm!

It’s not that I don’t hope. I was checking my phone for the weather (and that’s a new one for me) and all of the sudden, it flipped to a new screen which said, “sunny skies, 69 degrees.” How wonderful! I knew I was on the wrong forecast, however, when it continued, “calm winds, quiet night.” Okay, so with my great technological skills, I had found the forecast for San Diego, California. Disappointing for here, but from the sounds of it, maybe I should go there!

But back to South Dakota and the less than calm winds we are getting. I went out to get the mail the other day and this was not on the worst day. I get my mail from a community mailbox stand and when I got it out, I laid the letters on top so I could turn back and lock my box.

Immediately, the wind picked up the top letter and flipped it to the ground. I debated: did I really want to get down between those two boxes to try to retrieve it? It could just be a bill, but then again, maybe it was a Christmas card—it is the season.

Getting down on my knees in the snow is probably pretty amazing for me, but getting back up is a Christmas miracle. I had retrieved the letter, however, and it was definitely a Christmas card. Standing there, so proud of my achievement, I reached up to get the rest of the letters from where I had placed them on top of the boxes. Just as I did, the wind flipped them onto the ground beyond the mailboxes and in the neighbor’s back yard.

They were scattered around and again, I considered how bad did I want to retrieve them. With my brand new coat’s long skirts (the reason I bought it) twisting around my legs and my not waterproof shoes wading through snow, I chased down all of those letters. Every one was an advertisement!

Oh well, at least I had the Christmas card. I put my hand down to be certain I had placed it in my pocket. In so doing, I knocked it out and the wind took it for another playful little run, with me running behind!

By the time I got it, the paper was somewhat saturated and the Christmas letter inside a little hard to read. But never fear, every one of those ads was warm, dry and undamaged. They also quickly hit the garbage!

The only other thing I had gotten in that ill wind was a couple of large rolls of Christmas paper, which I stacked on the landing to my front door, just a little above my head when I’m on the ground. I was going to fetch something else (I’m not remembering what), so I turned away just in time for the wind to blow both of those rolls of paper off, hitting me neatly in the back of the head.

By the time I got in with soggy mail and damp but dangerous Christmas paper, I was a trifle grumpy. I scraped the hair out of my face with my very best Taylor Swift gesture and said to the dog staring innocently up at me: “What are you looking at? I’ve been out on this lovely day and it just blew my mind!”

It’s an ill wind, folks! How far is it to San Diego, anyway?

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December 5, 2025 · 10:51 am

Letting it Hang

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Right now, as I’m writing, I’m looking at the wall behind my computer and I am rather proud of it. There are two framed photos, a calendar (on the wrong month) two cardboard pieces with chalk drawings and the painting I made at a painting party many years ago.

I love looking at these things, but Roy avoids looking at this wall because it offends all of his sensibilities. It’s not that he minds the things I have on the wall (well, maybe he wishes the calendar was right), it’s the way I have hung them up. I like to say that my ability to decorate a wall with artwork or pictures is somewhat random, if you know what I mean.

Where Roy will measure and estimate and carefully string up a hanger on the back of the item, I prefer the thumbtack and sticky tape method. As for placement, well, I’m a little random there as well. It’s hurtful to the eye of a man who prefers precision in the hangings on his walls.

He came out of the bathroom after his morning shower one day rubbing his shoulder and holding a framed picture that I had just hung up the day before.

“Why did you take that picture down? I want it to hang over the shower,” I whined.

“Explain why we need a picture over the shower in the bathroom, where no one is likely to notice it?”

“It’s a beautiful picture of rain on flowers; perfect for the shower,” I said. “Now why did you take it down?”

“I didn’t take it down. Your perfect rainfall picture fell on me when I got out of the shower,” he explained, handing me the picture. “What did you hang it up with?”

“That little needle, right there,” I said, pointing to a tiny shard of metal on the wall above the shower.

He shook his head, walking away. “It’s too small to hold that picture and besides, it’s way off center.”

“Well, I’m hanging it back up, so just watch yourself when you come out of the shower,” I said, defiantly.

“Just the words a fella wants to hear concerning his own bathroom,” he was getting sarcastic. “Maybe none of my relatives will have to use the toilet when they are here.”

It’s always the same. What should we hang up and where should we hang it? It’s a question that can at least cause ripples in a marriage. While I am holding the picture up approximately where it should go on the wall, he is dragging out the tape measure and sorting through his supplies of nails to figure out which one goes.

After hanging a picture recently that required him to get up and down on a ladder, he said to me, “Is this hanging evenly?”

“Yes, it looks just fine,” I answered. “Don’t worry about it.”

It seems those are exactly the wrong words to say to him about pictures. He climbed down off the ladder, stepped back to look at the picture, got back on the ladder, adjusted it (he didn’t ask my opinion that time), got down, looked again and went up for one final tweak. I’m convinced the last one wasn’t necessary; he was just showing off.

I have several more things that I would like to hang up, but I am going to wait until this latest round of marital picture hanging has faded into memory. In other words, I’m just going to let it hang!

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November 23, 2025 · 10:42 am

Day of Grace

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Jackie Wells Fauth

As a child, I really wanted to grow up to be a ballerina. Then I discovered you had to be in top athletic shape, practice continuously and most of all possess great balance and grace and I soon got over that notion.

Although I will never dance the lead in Swan Lake, I do try to be as coordinated and careful as I can, but the older I get, the harder this becomes. And this week, I abandoned all notion that I might be considered graceful and poised.

It’s the carpets that get me. I have discovered the joys and comforts of sneakers, but the one thing they don’t like is carpet…especially short nap carpet. I tend to drag my feet a little (okay, probably a lot) and I discovered this week that the combination of sneakers, short carpet, dragging feet and lack of grace can be pretty lethal.

While walking across a short carpet, I pulled a pretty complicated dance move. My shoes stopped short, but the rest of me kept on going. This meant that I took a headlong plunge across the front of the theater at the school. Not one of my finer moments and a bit startling for the student I was coaching in oral interp.

By the time he got over to where I was sprawled, full length, I was dazed but already trying to get up. I had a bloody nose and my glasses flew off and bent, but I was able to scramble to my feet. Perhaps the worst part was that the coffee mug I had been drinking from fell from my hands and landed just perfectly to cushion the fall for my face. This sounds like it might be fortunate, but it’s not!

A coffee mug to the face at full speed tends to “knock you for a loop” as they say, so it took me a few seconds to realize I was bleeding profusely from the nose. I charged headlong into the bathroom, frightening two girls so much, I think they may have kept running until they were several blocks from the school.

Everyone was sweet and helpful, and I got ice packs and cloths and whatever I needed. I was really panic stricken because my vision was completely blurred, but this fear was allayed when they handed me my glasses. Oh, yeah, those help! My vision was still a little fuzzy, but if I set the glasses on my face at just the right angle, they still work! Hopefully I can get them straightened soon!

My most painful injury was along my side where I hit the ground, but because of public decency laws, I can’t show those bruises to anyone. The least painful, but possibly the prettiest is my eye. It developed a shiner like no other and it has been all the colors of the rainbow for the past few days.

Now, I want to just ignore the fact that I have a black eye, but when half your face is swollen and purple, people tend to notice. I tried all the regular jokes, “You should see the other guy,” or “It was a heck of a bar fight, but I won.” It still ends with me having to admit that my lack of grace and addiction to coffee collided in a bad way.

I am already starting to lose the worst of the color from the eye and even my side isn’t as painful as it was, but the fact remains that this accident happened due to my careless way of walking; time to learn how to do that all over, I guess.

The doctor may have had the best suggestion moving forward. “Go home and rest,” she advised. “Relax, read (if you can) and have some coffee…but maybe we should try a sipper cup.” Sound advice to wrap up my day of no grace!

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November 23, 2025 · 10:36 am

The art of not being nervous

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I bet you think I’m going to give you tips on how not to be nervous in nerve-wracking situations, right? Well, you would be 100 percent wrong!

The only “art” I have when it comes to nervousness is how to make it so much worse! It doesn’t matter what I am nervous about, good or bad; I can always add to the drama.

If I’m going to the doctor, it’s a mad rush. I am always there early, bringing an entire backpack of self-care. Reading materials that I don’t read or maybe snacks—too much sugar might affect my blood pressure, so I’ll have chips with the satisfying crunch and lots of salt—which will affect my blood pressure. We can’t have that when my blood pressure is already going to be high.

So no self-care packet. I must do something to ease the tension, but what? I know, I’ll tell a few amusing jokes:

“These gowns are so chic; who is your designer?”  Or perhaps:

“I prefer cold instruments because then I know I’m alive.” No? Maybe:

“Awww…only two shots; how disappointing. I have four limbs to stab, you know.”

Yeah, maybe no jokes.

Waiting for planes, trains, buses or taxis is also very nerve-wracking for me. Again, I arrive very early, so while anyone else at the station is trying to uncomfortably nap, I am busy rearranging all the luggage, adjusting everything and taking inventory. That way, I know right away all the things I remembered and I have more time to stress over the things I forgot. And there’s always that nervous uncertainty:

“Is that our plane? I don’t think that’s it; it should be bigger.”

Or, standing in the cold morning air on a street corner:

“They are not here yet and it’s only ten minutes to the set arrival time. Did I give them the right address? What if I said it wrong?”

And if all else fails, I can make a joke:

“Well, if they don’t get here, we can always walk; it’s only five miles to the airport.” (Upon reflection, this is not a very funny joke.)

If you’re wondering where this rumination on nervous anticipations is coming from, it’s because I am at a drama competition where all I can do is wait for the students to compete. That might be the worst nervousness of all. Nervous anticipation on behalf of others.

So, I do the other thing I do when I’m waiting and nervous: I write. It doesn’t always make sense, but I write. My other choices here are to go around and listen to the competition:

“Did I tell the students to do that move when they are presenting? Oh, I couldn’t have! Oh, now I can’t look!”

Or, I can spend the time waiting with the kids about to compete, sharing my nervousness all around:

“Straighten your tie, and make sure your shoes are knotted. You look nervous; you’re not nervous are you? I’m sure not nervous.”

I have had students specifically request that I go sit in a quiet corner somewhere and breathe deeply.

“Okay, I’ll do that. Or, better still, I could tell a joke. I’ve got a million of them!”

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October 31, 2025 · 2:28 am

Josie’s Dreams

Photo by Steph Munden on Pexels.com

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I read an interesting article the other day. According to some study out there, dogs dream all the time. And more than that, their dreams are about us, their owners. I’m not sure who interviewed the canines for this or how it was accomplished, but how interesting.

I looked at my dog, Josie, lying on the floor, just waking up from her tenth nap of the day. She blinked up at me and I said, “You must have a lot of nightmares.”

She simply yawned and went back to sleep. She has nothing to worry about as long as she has Roy.

I generally refer to Josie as “stupid,” but in reality, she is pretty smart for a four-legged mammal who drinks out of the toilet and chews on a rubber pig for fun.

When we plan any trip or activity, I plan what to pack and who to visit and Roy plans for the dog. I love to stop and eat at a nice restaurant along the way on our frequent trips to see the kids. But we can’t do that with the dog along—unless we can find a spot that’s shady enough or warm enough, or just plain fine enough for the dog.

We once parked three blocks out of the way of a restaurant, so the dog was in a shady spot. That, while we strolled through the hot sun to get to the restaurant. But normally, she’s much nearer to us than that. Roy has been known to go out during a meal and move the car, so he has a better view of her circumstances. Now, I don’t want the dog to fry in the car, but I also dread the day when we invite her inside to enjoy a steak and fries and maybe some ketchup to dip them in!

It isn’t only when we travel that the dog lives well. She has chewed up countless dog beds, I presume in protest to the indignity of lying on the floor. She leaves them in absolute shreds while she commandeers the couch I had planned as a bunk for grandsons when they visit. Not that they would mind sharing with her one bit—she has them wrapped around her paw as well.

Josie is beginning to show her age—and aren’t we all? She’s getting gray around the muzzle, and she takes a little more effort to jump in the pickup for a hunting excursion. And after an hour or two of tramping through the tall grass and chasing pheasants, she’s pretty tired, but she and Roy still enjoy the outing!

But even this doggy-master romance has its rough patches. The dog came home with a limp and a sheepish air about her from their latest outing. I noticed with surprise that her best buddy had a bandage on his hand and an air of regret.

Turns out loading an aging dog is not so handily done as before and as Roy was helping her in, she caught her leg. Roy, not realizing this, continued to push and in her distress, Josie drove home her point by driving her teeth into his hand. She obviously felt bad about what was, for an animal, a purely instinctive survival action, but I couldn’t resist a little “jab” of my own.

“So, biting the hand that fees you, are you, dog? That is not very smart.”

She turned and gave me that grave, considering look she has, as though she’s mentally measuring me for a pine box and a hole in the ground.

Yeah, I don’t think I’d care to analyze any dreams that dog has about me!

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