Since it was discovered that Ron (my beloved husband) had an infection, he began several weeks of anti-biotics.  “They” say (who are They?) that anti-biotics destroy the flora (and fauna?) in your intestines (if you DO have tiny little flowers and fawns in there) and various other places.  Therefore it was recommended that Ron take pro-biotics.  They are said to help the body reproduce the good flowers and fawns.  Anti-biotics versus pro-biotics.  I don’t get it; when it comes to biotics are we for or against them?

One of the symptoms Ron has in his eighth year of Parkinson’s is a low volume of speech.  When he does speak in a normal tone of voice, he says he feels like he’s shouting.  The other day I heard him utter a Real Live Shout.  I was driving in heavy traffic and needed to change lanes.  I had just turned my head to make sure there wasn’t a car in the “blind spot” when Ron shouted “STOP!”  With amazing dexterity I slammed on the brakes.  They worked.  Our car stopped mere inches (okay, maybe a foot) from the car in front that stopped suddenly because of the car in front of that car that stopped suddenly, because of the car. . . . well, you get the picture.  I told Ron, “YES, that’s the volume I’d like you to use all the time!”  So if I really want to hear what Ron says the first time, I just need to do something that brings him inches away from death.

Speaking of death, Ron accompanied me as I went to put mouse poison under the house.  We keep our spare supply of canned food under there, in case of earthquakes, hurricanes, volcanic eruptions or the most dreaded of all, an attack by a herd of wild rhinos. It is carpeted under the house (over the cement), so although it’s dirty, it isn’t completely gross. I had to crawl around, since the space has about a three foot ceiling. The little tray of poison was empty, so I replaced it with a full tray.  I was going to reach over to grab a can of apricots when Ron (crouching in the doorway) asked, “What’s that by your hand?”  I said, “You mean the peaches?”  He again said, “No, next to your hand.”  I said, “You mean what’s in this black plastic bag?”  Finally Ron got the message across, “Your RIGHT hand.”  I looked down where my right hand was keeping me from falling over.

I screamed, “Eeeeeeek!”  There, only an inch away from my bare hand was a giant nine-foot long mouse!  Okay, it was actually a small mouse. Now, why would I scream at a mouse that was obviously weeks beyond CPR?  I have no idea.  Ron then had the bright idea that I should use a nearby can of green beans to scoop the cadaver  into the empty tray.  As I tried to move the little corpse over the edge of the tray (using the tin can) I couldn’t help but squeal as it appeared the mouse was moving.  The Day of the Walking Dead!  Zombie Mouse!  But no, it really wasn’t moving and I was assured of that when it flipped over to reveal it was flat on one side (talk about bad hair day).  I handed off my grisly package to Ron and he took it to the garbage can.  My adrenaline was flowing—it was as good as a cardio workout.  Back in the house as I was washing my hands, I advised Ron to wash his hands for five minutes, or maybe an hour just to be safe.

Since I had been successful in moving the mouse corpse, Ron could have used one of his malapropisms at that moment, “It’s as easy as falling off a tree.”