Deep Spiritual Lesson, or Wanton Destruction?

I have a favorite shirt. I bought it while on holiday in the Caribbean and it immediately became my favorite shirt. Each time I put it on (or I should say both times - I only wore the damn thing twice) I swear I could smell salt, feel the soft grit of sand behind my knees and taste the vague linger of some froofy rum drink rolling around in my mouth. Yes, I drank girly cocktails, concoctions of rum (and rum and rum) with a splash of fruit juice, the sort of silly drink that I wouldn't even consider ordering while locked in the center of this vast beer guzzling continent, but so easily became a part of the afternoon routine during our ridiculously brief respite on St. John. I tried to bring the "no problem" attitude of the island home with me by buying a bottle of Cruzan rum, but the little umbrella here in the heartland was like Christmas in July--all wrong.

The shirt, however, transcended attitude and distance. Soft cotton the color of faded blue jeans with a Jolly Dog logo creating the fabulous image of dog as pirate--my little scrap of the island and it made me happy.

Now comes the unfortunate incident.

Last Saturday Bubby got a pedicure. Much to my dismay the nails sometimes bleed after being clipped, but not much and a little styptic powder usually solves the problem. The clipping routine is a traumatic event for both of us, but Sara is calm, grasping him in a towel, pinning his head between thumb and forefinger, leaving him desperate to bite the crap out of anybody, but completely unable. I peel his little toes out of his tight fighter's fist and hold them steady for the toenail guillotine Sara wields so confidently. I flinch feeling it all as I imagine he does. But I know, no matter how unpleasant, it has to be done or his nails grow back into his feet (yet another reason birds shouldn't be captive - but that's a topic for another day). The whole thing is over in a matter of seconds. With a chunk of walnut in his beak Bubby forgets all about the trauma. I need a beer to repair my nerves.

Once we'd both returned to normal, Bubby flew to my shoulder, as is his habit. We both enjoy the game: I say "Garr! Ye be me parrot!" and he bobs his head, imitates my laugh and plays along. This time, however, he landed on my shoulder and his toe immediately erupted in blood, a shockingly large bright red circle spreading out over my shirt making it look like I'd just been tragically shot by a hidden assassin. (Yes, I watch too many bad movies.)

After helping Sara control the bleeding I took off my favorite shirt to hit it with the stain stick. Right on the damn package was the claim that it could remove blood stains. I won't tell you what brand it was, but it certainly did remove the stain, along with the jolly blue jean color, leaving a large bleached out spot in a pattern that I think looks like Africa. Or Martha Washington's profile. Hard to tell which. At any rate the shirt is ruined. I draped it over the upstairs railing to dry and tried not to look at it.

Later that afternoon Bubby followed me upstairs and while I thought he was playing in one of his many boxes filled with shredded bedding of junk mail and LL Bean catalogues, I looked around to find him ripping holes in my formerly favorite shirt. Just for good measure, I suppose. I watched him having a grand time, shaking the cloth in his beak and making his happy sounds. It's just a shirt, I thought. Just a thing. Maybe he's come into my life to teach me lessons that I should have learned by now: to let go of the material and embrace the spiritual; to celebrated joy wherever I find it--a piece of cloth to shred or a flower to rip the petals off of. I learn so much from such a tiny creature.

But, a part of me resists enlightenment and hopes that Sara will read this and order another really cool Jolly Dog shirt for me.