Goodbye Old Girl
- Mike Dickey
- Jun 18, 2025
- 2 min read
"Some of us think holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it is letting go."
The movers came yesterday.
The took pretty much all of the big stuff, including the desk where I would otherwise be sitting right now.
On the veranda instead on a muggy morning. Dean's chasing a chipmunk. He's not very good at it, with him dashing up the side of the huge red oak out front and the chipmunk down the backside of the trunk. Then Dean runs across the street in pursuit as Alvin tries to make it to the park, and somehow Alvin makes an abrupt turn to roll in behind Dean and stand very, very still. As an old fighter pilot, I'm impressed with his maneuver from a defensive perch to the offensive.
Then Dean realizes he's being trolled, and bursts into an angry chase that leads under Dio's car. Then stillness. I worry that he's killing poor Alvin, so I come down off the porch to the rescue. When I crawl down on the wet pavement to evaluate the situation, I see Dean razor poised and staring up into the undercarriage of the Corolla, where apparently his prey has taken refuge. Now Slane joins, and the two are circling the old Toyota like a pair of sharks drawn by a chum bag.
I'm pulling for the chipmunk. None of this is particularly funny to him.
Back to my source of grief this morning. Somehow I missed the memo that this was the week we were moving up the hill. When I visited the new condo to check progress it seemed a long way from completion, and the sale of this place doesn't close until August. So what's the hurry?
But it's happened, leaving only a guest bedroom suite for us and one for Dio, who runs back-and-forth between Tara and the condo each day to supervise this phase of the transition.
It doesn't help that I feel like merde on a stick today. Peg brought home a bug from the hospital, and last night it arrived to attack my poor old immune system. Rumors that this may have been caused by tongue-kissing ICE Barbie are as false as her boobs and extensions.
Note that her "allergic reaction" came a few hours after visiting the Army's biological weapons lab. These guys tell the truth about nothing.
Time to clean up and head down the hill to the hive office I never use, but now desperately require because I have a Zoom meeting and no furniture here. The foxes have holes and the chipmunk has the grill of a 2013 Corolla to make his nest, but the Donkster has no place to sit on his arse.
The grief today is real. Finding myself coming around the corner from room to room, or sitting here across from Canfield Park, and encountering in my mind's eye so many very good days and nights now slipping inexorably into the past, impossible to touch now. This time was the best.
Goodbye old girl.
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