It was my first day out pheasant hunting this year, so when two roosters disappeared into 6 foot tall mostly dead nettles the dogs and I had to follow. Partially becuase we were out pheasant hunting and partially because this was pheasant hunting in southern Wisconsin and the general rule seems to be if you aren’t slogging through mud or stuck in some sort of ridiculous cover, you’re not really pheasant hunting.

Despite the fact that dead nettles scratch more than burn and were well above my head, I managed to drop the first bird that went up in a beautiful head-over-tail somersault. Trip and I both marked its fall and we were off, up a slight incline where we popped out of the tangle of nettles at the edge of a canal. Only to realize that the bird had clearly dropped on the far side.

We were pheasant hunting in southern Wisconsin after all, where all public hunting land seems to involve the word, “Marsh ” and this place was no exception, a large chunk of public land with a network of man-made canals and natural ponds and waterways connected by a lot of soggy ground and cattails.

However, Trip was on it. He jumped down the edge of the bank and landed on what seemed to be a dryish spit of mud extending into the water. It was not dryish. It was, apparently, quite soggy and the mud came half way up his back as I yelled encouragements, willing him to keep moving since if he got stuck and I had to join him in the mud, I wasn’t sure either one of us was going to make it out. Trip wallowed and slimed his way to the edge of the mud, quickly swam across to the other side and encountered a tall, steep bank.

That old dog of mine jumped on his hindlegs and scrabbled with his front paws, whined and jumped some more while I yelled more encouragements from the other shore till he made it up and over the edge and disappeared into the cover on the other side.

Moments later he was back, rooster in his mouth. He ran to the edge of the bank, looking across at me like the beautiful, wonderful dog he is. Then he spit out the bird, gave me his best doggy smile and swam back over to me.

All the encouragements and re-direction could not get him, Goose, or my friend, both of whom had showed up in the middle of the fun, to re-cross the mud.

Fortunately, there was another way to the other side. A quick car ride and a rather long hike later (during which I only filled one boot up with water) Trip pointed my dead bird which was, conveniently, right where he left it.

Chasing pheasants in southern Wisconsin isn’t always very glamorous. But there is always a story.

Perhaps you remeber my futile foray into guided meditation? Well, I didn’t give up completely. Instead I decided to try (in that same afternoon brain rest time) just concentrating on my breathing while listening to my favorite non-music.

Apologies to the creators Macaroni Union, I’m sure this song made in a collaboration with sound therapists has got musical depth and integrity that are astounding. However I, having little of either, find it to be a soothing collection of noise that my brain can’t anticipate a pattern from. Making “Weightless” the perfect thing to use to block out background noise when trying to give myself some brain rest or outright fall asleep. This makes sense because it was scientifically created and then proven to be the world’s most relaxing song.

So back to my “meditation time”. I block out the light, turn on music found to lower listener’s anxiety by 65% and focus on my breathing until I either fall asleep, get bored but feel well rested enough to get up or actually achieve something like successful meditation as I fall asleep into a dream where my relaxed mind has let a demon crawl through the song into my realm and it’s now sucking the life from my body and it’s imperative that I “snap out of it” or die.

Meditation continues to not be my thing but I do recommend the music. Give it a try sometime and let me know what you think. I’m fairly confident it doesn’t always come with life sucking demons.

In my quest not to overdo it since the concussion I say no to things a lot, even by pandemic standards. It’s important I not get too tried and I do my best to meter out my energy carefully. But it’s hard to explain to anyone exactly what happens when I get too tired making invitations awkward to turn down.

Yesterday I got too tired but not pass out over dinner and go to bed early tired. It was a different kind of tired.

Last night I managed to flush an egg down the toilet. This is a bad idea. Plungers were required. I laughed about it.

I also licked my phone. This is a bad idea for obvious reasons that get more obvious mid-pandemic. I laughed until I cried wondering what I had just done.

Then I laughed hysterically about everything the rest of the night.

When I tried to put the girls to bed they looked at me and made up public service announcements about why you should avoid concussions and delivered them in poor Scottish accents while I howled and tears poured down my face.

I was too tired.

This morning I have rested and eggs went in proper places and I’ve brushed my teeth three times thinking about the phone tongue incident. I still have no idea how to describe what happens in my head when I get too tired nor do I know what kind of too tired will hit me next.

Even when I’m not tired it makes it tricky to respond to those invitations. “Sorry, I can’t come to your bonfire. I may flush an egg down the toilet.” Is probably the worst way to get someone to believe that you have a legitimate reason not to attend but, “Sorry, I’m too tired.” doesn’t quite catch the gist of the situation.

Fortunately my friends are understanding and I help insure life around here is never boring!