Fire and Wolves

[Self-indulgent, whiney blog alert: Don't read this post if you don't enjoy self-indulgent, whiney blogs.]

"Why are you always so stressed out?" my friends keep asking me. I'll tell you why.

I reckon a large part of it is the incessant background noise of disgust and horror that comes from living in a Dick Cheney world. Eight years of atrocities is enough to give any thinking person the screaming meemies. Try as I might, I just can't stop reading the news.

Sure, I try to do my bit to stop the madness. I march in marches, I write letters (I scooped the New York Times by two months on the fact that the U.S. is holding about a thousand minors prisoner in Iraq), I send money to worthy organizations, I vote. But none of it has any tangible results. I'm worn out. I can only hope that a hard rain's gonna fall come November.

And then there's the seemingly endless parade of dead pals. I hate to keep harping on that, but it has affected my mood. Nobody's keeled over in the last two months, mind you (knock on wood), but last week two friends informed me they have advanced-stage cancer.

Another thing that's stressing me out is the usual litany of day-to-day problems: overdue bills, a dead car, a sewage leak, daily sleep deprivation because they're building a monster house next door, a soul-sucking day job at Microsoft, making preparations for a delivery of wolves.

Let me elaborate on the latter item. An acquaintance of mine named Harry operates a sanctuary for wolves and wolf-dog hybrids near the hamlet of Corralitos in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Last week a huge wildfire swept through the Santa Cruz Mountains, and Harry's home and kennels were in its path. On Friday I got a call saying that Harry and six wolves might need to spend the night at Bear Creek Stables, which I was managing that week while my boss was out of town. I was all for helping Harry out, as he has helped us out in the past, but the thought of half a dozen wolves bunking -- and possibly escaping -- at a stable that holds 70 horses nudged my stress meter into the red. I mean, can you imagine telling your boss "I'm sorry, but while you were away some wolves got loose and ate your horses." (I might be wrong, but I think most people's job stress is more along the lines of "I'm sorry, but my computer crashed and I'll be a day late with the Wilson Report.")

I'm very fond of these particular wolves, mind you (the photo above shows a couple of them snacking on my shoe), but I was't looking forward to having them stay at the stables. Fortunately, another friend offered Harry and his pack lodgings for the night, and the fire skirted his house, allowing them to return home the next day. So everything ended happily ever after.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that last week was a pretty typical week for me: wildfire, wolves, cancer-stricken friends, and all. And that's why I'm stressed out.