Ramblings from the Desert

The man who trades freedom for security does not deserve nor will he ever receive either. ~Benjamin Franklin

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Location: New Mexico

Author of the urban fantasy novel, The Music of Chaos, and the paranormal romance, The Canvas Thief.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

The Definition of Bling

My husband's never bought my fancy jewelry. Or flowers.

That's just fine.

When I was in grad school, I lived in a tiny little house with no real yard. Just a 3' x 20' strip of dirt by the side of the driveway. To give the Rat Dog a place to do her business--besides the carpet--I built a little pen in the dirt. My budget was limited and construction materials limited to chicken wire and metal stakes. The pen didn't have a gate; I just lifted the Rat Dog in and out.

Anyhow, along came the J-man. One day, after we'd been dating a few months, I came home from work and found him already there, surrounded by a pile of two by fours and wire. The Rat Dog's current pen had been dismantled and he was building her a new one. This was much sturdier, a zillion times less ugly, and had a gate.

"You were appalled by my lovely construction, weren't you?" I asked later. "Yep," he said. (This is when I knew he was a keeper.)

Fast forward about several years. Nikster the wonder horse is at the veterinarian's place, ostensibly dying. It's mid-June and I'm moping in bed, absolutely devastated by the idea that my horse is so sick. The vet has no idea what caused the colic, though ingesting too much sand while eating might be a possibility. Anyway, it's a hot afternoon and I don't know what the J-man is up to.

After a few hours, he comes in the house and drags me out to Nik's empty paddock. He's purchased several study rubber stall mats, leveled and prepared the ground under Nik's porch and installed the mats. So the horse would have a sand-free spot to eat. He does all this in the New Mexico heat. "For when he comes home," he says*.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is bling. Better than diamonds or wilting flowers.

Tomorrow we hit the eleven-year mark. Poor guy's put up with me a long time.

For My Guy, With Much Love

Pat

(*A week later, Nik came home, looking skinny and dreadful, but alive.)

 

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