My daughter's bravery

Last week, we visited a place called Snake Farm just outside of San Antonio on the way to Port Aransas. While we were walking around the outside animal sanctuary, a man and his family decided that they wanted to feed a macaque. So he broke off a branch from a nearby tree, and gave it to his daughter who was straddling the fence separating the animal's cage from the public.

That's when Stacy stepped in.

"I don't want you to do that," she told him. "You could make the animal sick."

Now this guy was well over six feet tall, and heavily built, and he towered over my daughter. "Do you work here?"

"No, but that doesn't matter. You're not allowed to feed the animals. You could make them sick."

"It's none of your business," he said. "You don't work here. You don't know anything about these animals. What gives you the right to tell me what to do?"

At this point, my wife, my son and I all chimed in at the same time and told him flat out he was absolutely wrong, that my daughter was absolutely right, and she had every right to tell him to stop.

"I work for an animal sanctuary a lot like this one," Stacy said. "What you're trying to do is going to make the animal sick. You keep away from it."

"Or you're gonna do what?" he challenged.

"Or I'm gonna go and tell the people that work here what you're doing."

And at that point he glared down at her, this petite 5' 4" young woman standing resolutely in front of him, standing up to him for what she knew is right, and....the best response he could come up with was to call her a tattletale.

A tattletale.

Really?

Is that the best you can do, big guy?

We walked away from him at this point and headed for the back entrance of Snake Farm, looking for someone who worked there. He didn't follow us inside, though. Although my son said that he saw the guy grimace and hit his fist against his own arm in anger.

And so Stacy "tattled" on him. We found a man who works at Snake Farm, told him what had happened, and headed on back to the car. Not because we were afraid of the guy, but because we needed to get back on the road to Port Aransas.

To be honest, I don't know that I would have stopped the guy if it had just been me. I'd like to think that I'd have had the courage to stand up for a helpless animal like that, but I'm really not sure. Regardless of my own self doubt, my daughter has the courage to stand up for what's right against what's wrong in great abundance.

You go girl. I'm really proud of you.

I'm beginning to be concerned about what my iPod song list says about me

Five days a week, I get up at 5:15 in the morning to power walk as fast as I can around my neighborhood. Step-by step, frightening bunnies around ever corner, I blow through a 2-1/2 mile route in a little over 30 minutes. While I'm sure there are those who could do more in less time, I'm totally OK with that. I'm doing this for my mental and physical health, and not to compete with anyone.

This morning, wearing my Bob Dylan "Love and Theft" black T-shirt, gray gym shorts and my beige cap, I was sleepwalking through my regular route, listening to my old iPod shuffle while the house key I have attached to my lanyard bounced painfully back and forth against my chest. About halfway through my walk, I finally came to and really started listening to the songs my iPod was playing:

Get yer motor running
Head out on the highway
Lookin' for adventure
and whatever comes our way
Born to be wi-i-i-i-ld...

I don't even own a motorcycle. They're loud. They frighten me. The one time I got on a motorcycle was when I was a teenager, and a friend invited me to take a ride. I put on my helmet and sat behind him and we tore off down the busy highway. Only later did I realize it was inappropriate for me to wrap my arms around his waist.

Agents of the law
Luckless pedestrian
I know you're out there
With rage in your eyes and your megaphones
Saying all is forgiven
Mad Dog, surrender
How can I answer?
A man of my mind can do anything

I'm no bookkeeper's son. I don't want to hurt no one. Why do I enjoy this song about a guy who's paranoid, insane and plotting destruction?

I dip my cup of of soup back from a gurgling, crackling cauldron in some train yard
My beard a rufflin' coal pile and a dirty hat pulled low across my face
Through cupped hands round a tin can I pretend to hold you to my breast and find
That you're wavin' from the backroads by the rivers of my mem'ry
Ever smiling, ever gentle on my mind

What am I? A bum who dumps women and leaves them crying to their mothers when they turn and I am gone? Yeah, my hat's a little dirty, and it's pulled low across my face, but I'm definitely not going to be sharing soup with a bunch of transients in a train yard anytime soon. I hope.

Oh daddy dear, you know you're still number one
but girls just want to have fu-un
oh, girls just wanna have fun

Oh, God.

I'm Shrinking

At 5'8", I'm not tall by any means. Yes, I might tower over Peter Dinklage, who plays Tyrion Lannister in the "Game of Thrones" TV series, but not by much. I treasure each and every one of my centimeters, as limited in quantity as they are. So, it came as quite a shock recently when I came to the realization that I'm shrinking.

Each and every morning when I wake up, I leap out of bed like I'm the star of the Bolshoi Ballet, stand up straight to maximize my height, thump my chest with a clenched fist, and thoroughly admire my plaid-pajama-clad 5'8" physical form in the bedroom mirror. And although my wife groans and pulls the covers over her head at this point, I tell you truthfully, I like what I see. I am 21st Century man. Glorious, and without fault.

Proudly, I parade to the shower to buff my body to its maximum shine, and after lovingly, carefully, drying myself with a large, soft towel (which is then donated to charity), I clothe myself in fashionable casual business attire and take another good, long look at my form in the full-length bathroom mirror. Then, with sparkling teeth and every hair in place, smelling vaguely of a manly variety of soap, I cheerfully call to my wife and say, "What a beautiful day! My appetite is ferocious! What is on the breakfast menu for today?"

My wife groans and pulls the covers over her head.

Fending for myself, I gather a bowl and a spoon and choose to break my fast on whatever delicacies I can find in our cupboard. I choose some breakfast cereal, pour on the milk, dust it with sugar, and with a large mouthful I begin to crunch loudly and read the morning paper.

"Didn't your doctor say you had to cut back on the salt?" my wife inquires, shaking the now-empty Tupperware container that used to house potato chips.

Not wishing to embarrass myself, I pour on more sugar, finish the bowl with a determined gusto, glance at the clock, and see that it's time to bid a hasty goodbye.

"No time for conversation, my dear." I say. "I must be off!"

Ever the helpful helpmate, she thrusts my coffee mug and lunch bag into my waiting hands and fairly pushes me out the door to my waiting car. I give her a quick peck on the cheek and wish her a happy day.

She groans and heads back to bed.

Positioning myself in the driver's seat, I tweak the position of the rear-view mirror slightly, and drive off to my place of employment.

Later that day, one of my female coworkers comments, "Steve, you look a little shorter today."

I shake my head and smile and say, "Ah, no. I am still 5'8" tall, as I was yesterday and the day before that, all the way back through the years to that fateful day when I reached full maturity. However, although my vertical measurements not be what current society considers "tall", I do possess a reliable height, if I say so myself, one that serves me well and does not waver. I am just as tall today as I was the day before."

Curiously, my coworker groans, backs away, and quickly disappears into the recesses of her cubicle.

As the day ends, I head to my vehicle for the drive home. Again, I position myself in the driver's seat and glance at the rear-view mirror. Curious. It appears to be positioned for someone slightly taller than myself. I think nothing more of it, and head home.

However, the very next morning, as I sit in the driver's seat and prepare to head back to work, I see that the rear-view mirror has once again been adjusted for someone slightly shorter than myself. Is someone else driving this car without my knowledge? If so, it must stop!

And again, later that day, as I prepare for the drive home, I see that the mirror has been adjusted for someone taller than myself. How can this be happening?

And it occurs to me. There is no one else. It's me.

I'm shrinking.

I ponder this on my way home, feeling strangely insecure and vulnerable as I drive past the Big & Tall Men's shop and a local movie house playing a revival of "Attack of the 50-Foot Woman".

There's no denying it. I am, slowly, gradually, inevitably, shrinking. My skeletal frame is compressing more and more with each passing day. The weight of the ages, or at least my own age, is upon my shoulders, bearing down on me and pushing me toward an unstoppable digression: 5'7", 5'6", 5'5". Or less.

At home, at bedtime, I share my personal revelations with my dear wife. There is no response at first, and then she groans and pulls the covers over her head.

In bed that night, my mind drifts, and as I prepare to dream, I wonder for a moment if Peter Dinklage could use a stand in.