Counting Ducks: Being Where You Belong

MY FATHER ONCE TOLD ME that he sometimes felt as though he had spent half his life in gin joints. Having known my father rather well, I tended to believe him. In fact, when I reached adulthood, I became his favorite drinking buddy, and we had some good times, many of which, for some reason, are now lost to memory. He came about it honestly. His mother, whom I remember well, was a severe Baptist. To her, anything that was fun was sinful. A woman of the nineteenth century, she wore her ankle length white hair in a severe bun, and covered her entire body, wrists to ankles, in a dark dress, daily. My father wanted to be a musician, but was forced to go to law school. Just as he got started practicing law with my grandfather, World War Two broke out, and off he went, drinking his way through the navy. Then, he married, had kids, and practiced law, and, well, all of that together will turn the best of men into heavy drinkers. The stresses of the legal profession have driven many a good man to the bottle. At least that's what John Grisham says. Dad imbued me with a love of knowledge, learning, and reading. Thus I sometimes feel as if I have spent half my life in libraries, and relatively little in bars. One of my favorite local libraries has a wonderful duck pond. It was a bit rough around the edges, so a massive renovation project involved draining it, adding an encircling wall, and refilling it. The ducks, which were plentiful before the renovation, mostly green headed mallards, never came back. At least, not yet, and its been awhile. I started to worry about them, until I realized that they undoubtedly simply lost patience and took their business somewhere else, like out in the country. I still miss them, and hope they come back, because they were quite an attraction. I comfort myself knowing that they may yet return, but that if they don't, its only because they went to a better place. I use the same reasoning to comfort myself ever since one of my beloved cats sneaked out of the house and ran away about three months ago. All strictly indoor cats want to go outside. Anyone would. He still hasn't returned, but I maintain a faith that he will. For me, my cat, Shylow, shall return! The second coming of Shylow is my version of the second coming of Christ. Hey, we all have our religions. He might have already returned, but is probably enjoying the outdoor life, and maybe he found a new home where someone feeds him, and lets him live outdoors. I have noticed that stray cats tend to do rather well for themselves. All the ones I have seen are healthy looking, not underweight. Also, when they leave home, they know exactly how to come back, where to go, and whether they want to go home. Maybe some fine zero degree night this winter Shylow will show up on the front porch, knowing where to get warm. Wherever my dad is, maybe he finally found the right gin joint, or at least someplace to achieve peace of mind, away from the law office, away from the navy, and most of all away from his mother, whom he despised. I trust the library pond ducks, wherever they are, are doing well, and are somewhere where they want to be. As for my beloved Shylow, I will never give up hope. I may end up, twenty years from now, in a nursing home, wondering how his life turned out. He may come home tomorrow. But if not, I must have faith that my sweet baby boy is happy, being where he knows he truly belongs.