Raccoon encounter #2...no dancing this time.

This is a continuation of my previous story of triple-dodging a raccoon. It just so happened, that only couple days after I danced with the raccoon, I saw another one in almost the exact same spot. Now, naturally, I was feeling a little bolder. I was probably still on cloud nine from my dance a couple nights before. And here, right in front of my path is ANOTHER raccoon! In all probability, it was the same exact one. It was hard to tell because this one had its face buried in a trash can. So, at first, I just watched the little guy eat.
It gets better. It left the one trash can and went to another. So, I followed him to the next. There was something going on in my mind as I was watching and following this critter. The poor guy was hungry...and having no luck finding any crumbles in the trash and I was thirsty...thirsty for some excitement involving this natural born thief. He went to another. As I watched him go to this trash can, a plan hatched in my mind. Yes, exactly. It hatched. I realized that I wanted to touch this raccoon.
I pictured myself grabbing it as it stuck its head into the bin, but the picture that unrolled in my mind consisted of me turning my head away and holding the raccoon as far away from my body as I could, while the raccoon made unusual noises, wriggled and squirmed, clawing my arms like a farmer hoes his garden. There would be no grabbing this thing. However, during all of this thinking, I had been inching closer to Reginald, which is the name that I have just given to the raccoon.
I was two feet, TWO FEET, away from this amazing masked critter, Reginald. He looked at me, but the hunger in his eyes pushed away all fear in his bones, and he stuck his masked face into the garbage can. Politely and eloquently, I extended my hand towards its body. I am physically shaking with excitement and anticipation. If someone were to walk by me, they might have thought I was having a seizure. I don't really know what I was planning on doing. After I had decided I would not grab Reginald, I ceased to come up with a plan B. I did know that the rarity of the opportunity that sat before me was mind-numbing.
I extended my hand a little closer. My arm is jolting up and down with the rapidity of an automatic shotgun that is pointed at the ground. In all likelihood it would have registered as a 4.0 earthquake on the richter scale. I have a smile on my face that no professional window washer from New York could have wiped off. My hand extends a little further and--the only picture I had in my mind was Reginald, wildly turning around, showing its teeth and gnawing on my hand because it couldn't find anything in the trash can. I am right outside the library. Anyone could be passing by, but nobody is. Probably for my demise.
Reginald is feasting away or looking desperately for some leftover sushi scraps. I have no idea what it was looking for.
I POKED THE RAVENOUS RACCOON!! It didn't even turn around or pull its head out of the trash bin. So I poked it again, turned around like a champ and walked off with some bounce in my step, feeling like Napoleon Bonaparte when he took the crown out of the Pope's hand and placed it on his own head.

You've heard of the artful dodger? Well, friend...

I am the artful double-dodger.

For my reader, let me explain the "double-dodge." It's a skill that many possess and do not even know it. Children and adults alike take part in this art and billions have no idea. People are exposed to it from an early age in the form of "playing chicken". Now, this is a far-cry from the skill of double-dodging, but it is where we see the first beginnings. I will unfold the workings of a double-dodge.

As young children grow into older children, they will, no doubt, have to get up to sharpen a #2 pencil while in school.

Let the reader understand, that this part of childhood is inevitable and must be undertaken by all, legible handwriting or not. It is also inevitable that during one of these secretly loved trips to the sharpener, the child will "run into" another, who is returning from the little monster who eats the wood shavings. It is during this encounter (and innumerable others like it), that children are exposed to the "double-dodge."

First, one will go left and the other goes right. It even sounds good on paper, but his left is the other's right. The first dodge has failed. Once the two feet hit the ground, eye contact is made. The eye contact in between the first and second dodge is very important. If they can read the other's mind and pass each other on the second attempt, the rest of the sharpening excursion will be carried out with whistling and gladness of heart. The odds are, however, that both children attempt to pass by on the other side, unable to read the other's eyes. The reading of eyes is not taught in most contemporary schools, unlike phonics or mathematics or pecking orders.

Both children then swing the back foot forward and the feet almost touch. The eye contact is still held and little minds are racing trying hard to not make it awkward and both parties show a quick smile accompanied by a slight nod.

Now the dance is almost over. Whichever party has the most manners (I think this is silently decided on during the "reading of the eyes" or lack thereof) will step aside, swing their arms in the desired direction of their worthy opponent and maybe even give a slight bow. The dance has ended and the double-dodge has been completed.

Note that no words have been exchanged, because it is an unspoken rule, and for all we know, forbidden, to exchange any words until after one is on their way.

Now that you know the art of the double-dodge and how it comes about, be encouraged to know that I have been perfecting this art, honing my skills in it for several years. I have intentionally been the cause of many double-dodge dances. I thoroughly enjoy them and have tried to spread the joy to many of my close friends. My best moments, is when I could prolong the double-dodge into a triple-dodge. Only once have I ever completed a quadruple-dodge. Amazing. And only once have I ever been in any such dodging dance with a raccoon, and it graced me with a triple.

You have been incredibly patient with my rambling explanations, so, friends, here is my story:

I triple-dodged a raccoon. Not double-dodged, but triple dodged. We were practically, theoretically, physically and emotionally two-stepping.

I was walking towards my college's campus coffee shop. Even though, I was not going to buy any coffee, at the time, it is what I was doing. Now, raccoons are a common occurence on this campus. They are so common, that even with their masks you can recognize them. Ironically, if they were to remove the masks, we wouldn't be able tell one from the other.

As I was walking towards the coffee shop, I hear one of these masked-bandits in a trash can. I look up and see that he would have to run by me in order to make it to his getaway. That was his only mistake and it worked out to my benefit. I approached it and it hears me. Then it sees me. I'll be honest, I wanted to catch it. I had already chased one across a parking lot, but that one was gone before I started running. This one...this one was right where I wanted him. He knew it, too. He jumps off the trash can. We are about 30 feet away from each other. My feet are planted and his paws are tensed. I could see it.

Obviously, I start tip-toeing toward it slowly, arching my back and bending my arms like a T-Rex. This is so he doesn't think I am moving towards it. My approaching skills are not as honed as my double-dodging skills. The raccoon immediately recognizes that I am approaching it and begins to run towards me. I get out of stealth mode and brace myself. It tried to go right, thus I went left.

And the rest is pretty predictable. We completed the triple-dodge and then, being the more civilized of the two, I stepped aside and bowed graciously as it sped to its getaway.

The bird and the boy

The boy sat in his study, and strangely enough, his window was open. Autumn had come quickly, but this was not the expected weather that autumn normally brings. The rain and muggy air stifled any of the crispness surrounding the fall days. That's why it is strange that the boy had his window open. Not exactly the kind of weather that breeds creativity.
Insignificantly, a bird perched on his window sill. Seeking shelter from the rain, no doubt. The boy dropped his head and continued scibbling doodles on his piece of boring paper. The bird hopped a little closer to the lad, trying to be discreet so as not to startle him and cause him to run away. The boy, thinking he noticed a movement out of his periphrial, looked up. But, there the bird sat staring intently into the drops of water. The eyes drop back to his ever-scribbling hand and the bird, seeing its opportunity comes a little closer. This continues, until the bird is practically perched on the dull boy's arm. It seems the rain and muggy air had stifled the boy's observing powers as well.
The bird could hardly contain its excitement. Here it is, sitting on the shoulder of an actual wild boy. These are dangerous creatures, known for killing two birds with one stone. Overcoming its excitement, it tweeted something into the boy's ear.
The boy arose. The bird flew out the window. The boy walked downstairs and sat down at the dinner table.
"How did you know it was time to eat?" Mum asks.
"A little bird told me," says the dull boy.

Roasted Duck: Recollecting Solemn Happenings Over a Quaint Meal of Duck

It’s 0900 hours. I am sitting in my mother’s dining room eating a roasted duck.
Last night I saw a party of midgets running across the street towards the lake that sits in the middle of our small town. I can remember them laughing like little children and throwing balloons filled with tomato juice at each other. Come to think of it, they might have been children. I don’t really remember. It could have just been their shadows I saw.
I’m diving into this duck now with a fervor that would have filled Paul Newman with so much glee, he would have come out with a new Fun Duck Salad Dressing.
There was a tiny man on the streets last night who also watched the group of midget children running. He was a strange looking man. He carried a lunch pail and a pair of long green socks. His hair was as red as the tomato sauce in the balloons and came down on his shoulders. He kept looking at me, jumping from one leg to the other and mumbling something that sounded like “Give me some flap jacks, kid, or I’ll eatcha!"
Crumbling Christmas trees! This duck is good.

Behold, He stands

He stands at the door. He knocks. If I open it, well, I'm eating dinner. He will come in and eat with me. He will see all I am. He will know me fully. That’s why no one eats dinner with anyone. If I open the door, though, I will know Him. If I invite Him into my place with all its waste and smell...well, He came here. He said I would know Him fully. His, all He has is mine if I just answer his knock and let Him in to eat with me. Then I will get to eat with Him. The trade is so much better for me.

My house is old and filled with pictures, framed memories of the lives of people I have hurt. The pictures on my walls are cracked reflecting all my relationships I've had in the past. All my masks and different costumes that I wear outside are tossed in the corner. When I eat, it’s just me. No dressing up. No masks. Me. But He is here. He wants to know me, and not just know me but know me fully. I don’t really know what He means. It scares me. I am not sure what it will look like, but He keeps knocking. He is knocking still. So persistant, but not pressing. I don’t feel rushed to answer it. He just called my name. I heard Him. The door opens by my hand. It’s time. I want to know Him.

As we sit down, I wonder: He came all the way to my home. He stood there and knocked for, I don’t know how long. He called out for me. I wouldn't do that for another person. People walking along the street, eyeing me as I am knocking and yelling for a strange person. How far did He have to come I wonder? If He came here for me, how far would He go for me? How far has He already gone?

He knows me. He sees it all. I think he knew before He came what I would be like...just another one. I'm wrong. He wants me to come with Him. There is a place in his Father's house waiting for me. It's time for me to know Him. He's going to show me how far He has come; we are going to walk back together. I can’t go in my clothes though. He says I need new clothes. He reaches into his bag and pulls out white clothes. He reaches to pull of my tattered shirt. I try to tell Him that it won’t come off; that I've worn this since I can remember; that I thought it was clean and fresh at one time, but then it started to smell terribly, and it turned a nasty color; that each time I tried to wash it, it would get worse; that I could never take it off which is why I sold all I had and even myself for costumes and masks. He insists on taking it off. It's impossible though. He doesn't seem worried about my opinions. No one ever was. His persistence has carried over from the knocking. It didn’t stop at the door, obviously. He wasn’t put off by the stench in the house or by me. He wasn’t shocked by my pictures. He is relentless.

He rips off one sleeve with such power I thought my arm had fallen off and my body had gone through my sand floor. The pain and rawness was almost unbearable. After I opened my eyes, His arm is the first thing I see and it is dark red with blood. My arm is off and there's all my blood, I think. But my arm is still there, but it is fresh and clean. Cleaner than when I was first born. But how-- He rips my other arm. Squinting through the pain, I see the same result. My arm is brand new, even newer than new. His other arm is now covered in blood, but I don’t think its mine anymore. He is bleeding, where I should be. He rips my chest and it tears down but gets stuck on my heart. It was like sticking a shovel into the ground and hitting a rock. Oh, the immense pain that came with each tug. He grabbed my shirt-skin with both hands on either side of my heart and pulled two sharp times. I couldn’t take it. The very core of me was being gutted and wrenched from me. My eyes gaze pleadingly into His, but I see that there is pain in His eyes deeper than mine. I realize that with each pull and tear, He has felt it more than me. He is taking most of the pain. There is an endurance in His eyes and I know that love endures all things. And with one final pull and twist He wrenches out my heart. I tried to scream. I wanted to scream. But the cry came from His lips and from the very depths of His eternal being. I knew my cry would have been shallow and insufficient for the pain. My eyes glance at His chest and it is soaked in blood. It should be mine. It’s too dark and rich, carrying such life in it. He continues to tear and rip off my old, worn clothes. Each tear reveals new born skin leaving a fragrance that is crisp my nose and lungs, stinging as I breathe in.

Then He takes all the rags and skin and with His bleeding hands, he puts it on Himself. He Himself carried my sorrows. I am weak. He holds out His hand and there's my heart. But it is alive and powerfully beating. It’s larger than before and almost jumping out of His hands as He places it in me. He looks at me and tells me it is done. The rags are gone and His clothes are stained with blood. He places the white clothes on me that I had seen before. As we walk out of the house, I don’t look back. I know Him in part. He is Jesus. His clothes are red with blood and mine are white and clean. As we talk, I suddenly fall, but He picks me up. Frantically, I check the clothes to see if they are stained. They are not. I know that if I should fall hundreds of times, they will always stay white because they are His. But I don’t wish to fall anymore. I want to talk with Him. I want to know Him. We are walking together and He will show me how far He has come. I have seen a little and know in part, but one day, I will know Him as He knows me: fully.

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This is eternal life, to know the true God, and the one whom You sent, Jesus Christ.