When I was in junior high, I was asked to pet-sit for some family friends while they went away for the week. It was an animal lover’s dream come true – horses, cows, dogs, cats, and ducks, all to myself – and I got PAID. I showed up once in the morning and once at night to feed the beasts, and would run from pen to pen while my mom waited in the car.

Early one misty Colorado morning, I walked into the coop where the ducks were housed to find every last one of them beheaded.

Decapitated.

Guillotined.

Their lifeless bodies lay in the sawdust and dirt, blood soaked into the ground around them, their heads nowhere to be found. I screamed a scream that screamed “TRAUMA”, and then ran to get my mom. It turns out that both skunks and raccoons kill ducks and eat their brains, and this was our best guess as to what happened. Needless to say, that pet-sitting job was a bust.

I once pet-sat for a family in Seattle who had a golden retriever and a rat. At the time, the rat had a large tumor on its chest, and before the family left on vacation, the mother pulled me aside and told me that they would pay me extra if I killed the rat while they were gone, thus sparing their children the anguish. “How?” I asked, and she replied, “Any way you want.”

At first, I thought, “No way” – how sick and wrong is it to put a 20-year old girl up to murdering an animal for cash? But as the week wore on, I thought of the money. And as a result, I found myself imagining sealing the rat in a Ziploc bag, or putting it in a box in the freezer, or employing the ever-handy RAT POISON. I mean, if there’s payment involved… but alas, I chickened out, and wound up letting it live.

There was only one woman in Seattle who I would consistently pet-sit for, and she had a black hell-cat named Tika. Tika was aloof and sleek and sexy and absolutely unperturbed by life. She wore a leopard print collar, and casually batted around orange balls and feathered cat toys. I would call her in at night, and then wait about 20 minutes for her to show up, as if to communicate, “I’m here, but not because you called me – I’m here because I DECIDED to come.” She could be a bit eccentric, which is why she was on Kitty Prozac that I had to mix into her Fancy Feast every morning.

Once, Tika pranced inside with a still-alive sparrow in her mouth. When she let it go, it started flying around, dripping blood and shedding feathers. I SCREAMED, grabbed a broom, and Mark McGwired it, mid-air, straight out the front door. I thought that was the worst thing that could possibly happen. But.

The next time, Tika dragged… dragged… in a pigeon the size of football. She lugged it to the middle of the kitchen floor, and then let it go, revealing its OPEN CHEST, its STILL-BEATING HEART, its arteries pumping blood out all over the tiled floor. Its wings would occasionally ruffle up, and its mouth was opening-shutting, opening-shutting, in final desperate, heroic efforts toward life. The blood was everywhere. It was dying. Tika was watching it die. I was watching it die.

I did not know what to do. I almost vomited my guts out, because WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH A BLOODY STILL-ALIVE ALMOST-DEAD NEARLY-ALBATROSS-SIZED BIRD? On the kitchen floor?

I curled up in a ball on the couch, gasping for air, and felt silent tears squeeze out of the corners of my scrunched-shut eyes. Then I called my mom, because what else was I going to do? She told me to think of it as a giant spider that I needed to catch in a jar, and then release outside.

Gee, thanks.

But her words inspired me to find a dust pan and scoop the (STILL-ALIVE, and BLEEDING, and MUTILATED) pigeon into a bucket, and finally deposit it behind a bush outside. Needless to say, I am still suffering the aftermath of this agonizing event.

I have not had the best luck with pet-sitting, as the animals in my care have either wound up killed, almost killed, or killers. And I have no larger moral or point to this report.

When I moved into my apartment in February, there was a strong, unprotected wireless signal for me to pick up on. But now, it’s broken. Broken like Shania’s heart. Twenty-four days ago, the signal disappeared, and so during the evenings and weekends, I have been left internet-less.

This is probably a good thing. Having a desk job that requires no responsibility with the exception of answering the phone (that rings approximately 3 times each day – and at least once, it’s a wrong number), I spend 8 hours, Monday through Friday, staring at my computer screen. I check emails as soon as they arrive, I respond to wall posts and blog posts and comments and messages in real time, I read CNN.com and NYTimes.com and dooce.com. I leave work feeling exhausted from all that I’ve DONE, even though I haven’t DONE anything. The cyber world is a dangerous world to get wrapped up in, and something awful is happening to my brain.

My creativity is seeping away. And I am becoming lazy.

Does anyone else feel this way? The internet is a convenient tool, and makes our lives so much easier. But when it takes the place of real-life communication, or gives the brain a quick-fix of instant stimulation or distraction, we wither.

I’m withering.

I am so thankful that it is Friday afternoon, because this means that for 2 glorious days, I will not be sitting in front of a computer. My eyes will be given a break from that terrible glare that causes me to leave work doing a slow-blink. I will bask in the glory of being far-removed from the instant fingertip access that I have to information – information thought up by OTHER minds, and presented to me by OTHER people, and funny stories about OTHER worlds.

This weekend, I will think and create and read and play my guitar and MAYBE interact with real humans. If they’re lucky.

[Attention: if you have not finished the Harry Potter series, don’t worry. There are NO PLOT SPOILERS in this blog. Read on, my readers. Read on.]

I just finished “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,” which, if you’ve been living under a rock, is the seventh and final book of the Harry Potter series. The book came out in July, and because of life circumstances, I didn’t have the chance to read it until now. Somehow, I miraculously (or… magically…) made it until now without having the ending spoiled, but I began to realize that I was pushing my luck.

It became a race against time – I didn’t tell anyone what I was reading for fear that they might give away the ending. I snuck onto the plane to Richland on Tuesday, and as covertly as I could, slid the HUGE, HULKING volume from my bag, trying to block the title from everyone around me to avoid a plot-spoiling comment.

I have spent the past few nights lying awake in bed for hours and hours, turning pages and savoring each image. Each time that a chapter would come to a close, I would think, “Just one more.” This continued until my eyes saw spots and drooped unwittingly. And then, when I would wake up in the morning, before even brushing my teeth, I would simply roll over and open the book again.

And yes, I made it to the end of the book having maintained the surprise.

The ending of a series has always felt like a death to me. When I finished “Lord of the Rings,” I sat quietly in my little armchair for what felt like an eternity, just staring at the blank page at the end. A good story brings characters to life, and they become close companions. A poignant tale can delineate my thoughts, and punctuate my emotions. I am not ready to give up Harry and Hermione and Ron and the rest, just like I was not ready to give up Peter, Susan, Edmond, and Lucy.

I feel sad. When a family member dies, we have the promise of seeing them someday in heaven. Maybe it’s silly, but I wish I could see the Hogwarts crowd in heaven, too.

My dad and I are flying to Richland, WA, today to say our goodbyes to my grandpa. We bought last-minute tickets, and needless to say, the past 24 hours have been chaotic.

One of the tasks I had last night was to find something appropriate to wear to a memorial service. Now, given the circumstances, perhaps this should have been the last thing on my mind. Maybe this was a vain endeavor. But when it comes down to it, I simply do not own anything appropriate to wear to a funeral. Period. The only black dress that I own is a saucy little number that someone once called my “sex on a stick” dress. And can you imagine? The blatant impropriety? It would be the horrifying equivalent of wearing white to someone else’s wedding, or saying “bomb” on a plane.

And yes, even if I wore a shawl.

Earlier yesterday, at Dooce’s recommendation, I went out and bought these shoes – and on a terrific sale, I might add. So last night, I was searching for something that would complement my new wedges. Perhaps I was working backwards?

Here’s the problem with shopping for a funeral dress during the holidays: nothing is basic. Everything is flashy. Everything is jewel-toned and sparkly and velvet and see-through. Rule of thumb: funeral attire should not be capable of doubling as your New Years’ get-up. In fact, if you can even refer to something as “get-up,” then it should get the proverbial trap door.

In a brief hour and a half period, I searched high and low: Nordstrom, Macy’s, Dillard’s, Banana Republic, Ann Taylor, Target, even Kohl’s (gasp) and Wal-Mart (scandal!). I ventured into stores playing music featuring backup singers who were panting. I saw sheaths that appeared to be shredded, but were, in fact, “meant to look that way.” What ever happened to a basic, affordable, modest-yet-well-cut dress? That I could possibly wear again?

I returned home defeated, empty-handed, with a blister from my new shoes. And I went up to my room, opened some boxes, and searched until I found a black skirt and top. That’ll do.

Perhaps my urgency in insisting that I find a new dress was in order to distract my mind from the fact that I am about to see death up close – something that has never happened before. I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t a little bit scared.

And yet, selfishly, I pray that we arrive in time. I hope we’re not too late.

For the first time in months, I am experiencing a quiet moment. I suppose that I have had plenty of quiet hours in the car by myself throughout the fall, but this is the first time that I have been still, silent, with a hushed heart and nothing vying for my attention.

There are different types of “quiet.” Awkward silence. Screaming silence. Pregnant pause. That stale, uncomfortable deadening that occurs when there is no fan, no noise machine, as I try to fall asleep. Our culture tends to see “silence” as something bad, something to be avoided, and so we are constantly bombarded with an onslaught of stimulation. Noise, activity, electricity.

It is so overwhelming. There is no escaping the flurry of action.

And so when I find myself alone – alone – in my parents’ house, in the aftermath of the busy hubbub of Thanksgiving week, filled with family and friends and food, I breathe. My sisters have each gone back to school, my dad is at work, and my mom has flown back to eastern Washington to be with her father as he dies.

I think of him this morning, old, sick, and uncomfortable. He has known that death is inevitable – but do any of us really think that it is coming for us? I wonder what is going through his mind, if his heart is gripped with fear or with peace? I suppose he has been given a gift in knowing that he is going – so many are not given the advantage of this knowledge – but along with this understanding, does terror come? I hope not.

God only knows what the coming week holds for my family. In the meantime, I am soaking in the quiet, and praying for the peace of my dear, sweet Grandpa.

Yesterday, our family friend Otto was taken off of life-support, and died in the late afternoon. His life was cut tragically short, and there are no words to explain why. There is nothing to say to his wife and family. There is no silver lining. He is gone, and I don’t know what to say except that I know that Otto belongs body and soul, in life and in death, to Jesus. And that’s really the only hope that any of us have.

I have another friend who has a serious form of cancer. Someone recently asked, “Do you think she’ll survive?” And it occurred to me: none of us survive LIFE. None of us are getting off this earth without dying.

I have been very lucky, and in almost 25 years, have never lost anyone close to me. As a result, I have lived in constant fear. When is tragedy going to strike? Who will be the one that dies? In that light, I don’t know if it is distressing or comforting to remember that EVERYONE that I know is going to die. Not just one person, the “first” person. All. You and you and me and her and him and they. Every single person that I know, every person that I have ever seen or come into contact with, will die. It is a part of the natural cycle of life. It doesn’t make it any happier or easier, but it definitely brings my life into focus, and reminds me of the fleeting time that we all have.

And if I believe in the sovereignty of God, then I can believe that my life was never mine to begin with. Who am I to feel entitled to any amount of time?

In spite of my propensity to walk the “Via Negativa,” I actually do not intend for this post to be morbid or a downer. But I have been thinking a bit about my own death, and the possibility of death coming for me too early. God forbid that ever happen. But in the event that it does, I offer the following instructions:

1) I want to be an organ donor – they’ll probably want everything except my liver. And then cremate me – no use tearing down trees for a casket and tearing up the earth to swallow me. Go with whatever’s cheapest.
2) At the service, no one is allowed to wear black. I want colors and celebration and women in red dresses! And please, please have wine and cheese at the reception.
3) I used to think that I would want songs like “It Is Well With My Soul” and “Be Still, My Soul” at my funeral. But seeing as how I cannot make it through those songs without losing it, even when things are going well in my life, I opt against them and instead choose “Before the Throne of God Above” and “In Christ Alone.” Sing about victory and hope and the fact that we are loved more than we can know or understand.
4) Don’t be too sad for me. You can be a little bit sad, but not desparing. I’m really excited to go to heaven, mostly because I’m convinced that it’s going to be one long karaoke dance party starring Margaret Shoop, Ryan Church, and JJ Kissinger.

Really. Tell your family and your friends that you love them. Today. It’s all that we have.