Avoiding battling conflicts,

Deflecting effect fears,

Gaining hellish instabilities,

Just keep living...

Making new obstacles,

Pacifying quality results.

Superficial tenuous understandings,

Valiant waning xaern.

Years?

Zero.

Insecurities ravage me

like a predator upon its’ prey.

Logic has no place here,

for the mind doth play its’ games.

I do my best to argue,

but pleas falls upon deaf ears.

Instead I suffer within the silence,

waiting for monsters to make the kill.

I do not wish to listen.

I do not wish to speak.

I do not wish to live within

these moments of the weak.

Still the moments haunt me

the laughter that is not mine.

Knowing for a second,

you once had what is now my prize.

History repeating, or so I believe.

Pelting doubts, they haunt me,

Doing everything to deceive.

I do not wish to worry.

I do not wish to cry.

I do not wish to waver,

convictions waining,

with the passing of time.

Forgive my imperfections

they are but bittersweet.

A canvas predetermined,

measured by the meek.

I know not how to conquer,

these feelings of repeat.

I do not wish to feel.

I do not wish to seek.

I only wish to be,

a victim of defeat.

It’s no secret that the gray wolf has been a major political issue for years; more so since their reintroduction to Yellowstone Park in 1995. Environmentalists insist that the Gray Wolf is an integral part to the eco system. Whereas, farmers and hunters say they are too much of a threat to the domestic animal and ungulate populations. It has been the same argument for years without either side giving in to the other. I’ve come to look at the gray wolf from a different perspective. ..not one from the natural world in the sense of the predator/prey relationship, but through one of a fellow mammal.

It all started with a crisp morning in Yellowstone National Park in the spring of 2013. As the sun began to seep down into the Lamar Valley on the morning of June 3, a few lucky onlookers found themselves captivated by two slender legged giants enjoying their breakfast. One black colored and one sandy colored wolf. The pair of wolves were two of the Lamar Canyon pack. I found myself among those happy and privileged onlookers. Tourists cramped the roadside and scaled the hill by the Lamar river just for the chance to see these controversial legends. I watched the two wolves with baited breath through my vintage Jason Empire binoculars. The wind was frigid and my fingers were beginning to lose feeling. I didn’t care. This was possible one of the most amazing moments of my life. As I stared through the binoculars, I had a handful of thoughts creep into my mind…. My mother and her love for wolves, and how jealous she would be when I told her this story, and how I desperately wished she was there to share this moment with me. Watching the wolves also made me think of the story Dan Hartman had told my class when we visited his studio.

Dan Hartman, a resident wildlife photographer of Silverpine, Montana spoke of 06, the Alpha of the Lamar Canyon Pack. 06 was one of the most well known alpha females of the Yellowstone wolves. She was smart, powerful, a good mother, and a good leader. In December 2012 she lost her life. She and her pack had been outside the parks protective border and a Wyoming hunter claimed her for his prize. Her death lead to the dissolving of her pack. Her mate went off in search of another female, the young ones were left to fend for themselves…a family broken up and dispersed by one greedy, selfish, and uneducated trophy hunter.

After hearing Dan Hartman’s story about 06 and watching the Lamar Canyon duo, I set off in search of other powerful females in the animal kingdom. As it turns out, there are many. So, I turned my research instead to finding a powerful male wildlife figure in a family setting. This was a much harder search. There are plenty of fish (male sea horse, catfish, etc.), birds (Emperor Penguin, Rhea, etc. ), and even insects (giant water bug, etc.) The lists went on and on for most species, but not for mammals. It was challenging to find a mammal father figure who would play an integral role in the care, raising, and protection of his kin.

Some would argue that it is hardwired into the DNA of every creature to pass on the genes and secure the next generation. For a male, it's typical to procreate with as many females as possible. For females, it’s to find the best specimen of male to ensure strong offspring. Is it true? Most definitely. So what does this have to do with the wolves? Everything, because they have something I didn't. A father.

My parents divorced when I was 5 years old. They had been separated some time before they made their divorce final. With the separation from his marriage he became totally uninterested in his children. Our family dynamic revolved around our strong-willed amazing mother. My father disappeared from the picture as best he could. Minus child support checks and our one week a summer custody agreement. My father never taught his children anything, and he knew nothing about us. Our neighbor taught my brother and I how to ride our bikes. Our mother's boss would buy us shoes when the child support check did not show up on time. To this day he still cannot get our birthdays right.

Wolf families, like our own, start with a set of parents. These are the alpha's in the group. The alpha male and the alpha female form the breeding pair in the group. In most packs, they are the only breeding pair. Wolves are monogamous unless a partner is killed. Something we as humans try to emulate this behavior with our own marriages. This is “good fact number one” about father wolf. He doesn't cheat on his Mrs. This is something I could not say about my own father and his marriage to my mother.

Once the female wolf is pregnant and has gone through her gestation period, she finds or creates a den where she can whelp the pups. While mother is busy feeding her new born babies, it becomes dads’ responsibility to bring food home for the whole family, and in conjunction, he protects the den from any intruders. As the pups grow, father wolf plays an important part in their education and maturing. He will play with them and help teach them to hunt, while disciplining them when they misbehave. He is a well rounded parent, especially for the animal kingdom. As the pack grows, so do the social and family dynamics. The big sister can be trusted to help Mom take care of the new pups. Big brother helps Dad bring home food for the new young. When not whelping and raising young, the pack works as a well oiled machine. Generally, the pups of multiple litters (one litter per year) will help mom and dad hunt and kill bigger/more prey so that the whole pack can all thrive. There is no lack of family time or devotion in these packs. Wolf families are an uncelebrated should-be icon. An extreme rarity among mammals; and this rarity, if emulated by multitudes of others, especially homo sapiens, would make the world of mammals a much better, happier, and peaceful place.

My mother once offered me a piece of advice as I got older and began to become interested in the opposite sex. "Don't look for a man who you can spend your life with… look for a man who will be a good father." Her words have stuck with me throughout the years. I took her words with me moving forward in life. I did not want my future children to experience the lack of paternal love and support that I had to endure. I don't blame my father. I don't think he did anything to be purposefully hurtful. I just think he is a selfish soul who was never taught to be a good parent nor wanted to be. A very typical male mammal.

I often look back on my extraordinary experience of watching the wolves of Lamar Canyon and hope that they can continue to survive. For those of you out there that could care less about the ecological and political situations that the wolves face, I encourage you to look at them through new eyes. Realize that they represent everything we want for ourselves, our children, and future generations. We want them to have a strong family dynamic with parents who will protect them, provide for them, and love them. Parents who will teach them. Parent's that won't abandon them. If we are born again unto this world via reincarnation, I'd like to be a wolf because then I would finally have a father who cared.

Battle was all I knew. Perhaps that is why I find myself in the predicament I am in now. It is not a position of glory (which I was promised) and it's not a position of honor (which I am due). It is a position of circumstance.

The dim lights hurt my eyes, I should probably stop staring at them. My swollen left eye is hazing in and out of focus. I can still taste blood on the back of my throat, and my nose won't stop sending me fungal orders. I can hear muffled footsteps beyond the door. That'll be my Thanatos, coming to judge me.

I find myself thinking about all the propaganda I had bought into. I’d like to blame it for bringing me here, but it was actually just youthful ignorance. Years later, I know the truth. Too bad one can't turn back time. A shame really.

My whole life I had lacked a voice. As a child I was taught that children were to be seen and not heard. My very function was to play arm candy to my mother in family portraits. I shouldn't say that my parent's didn't care, they just cared more about their own ambitions.

Condensation falls from the ceiling bringing me back to my senses, or maybe I am sweating. Pushing my auburn hair from my face, I hear the door crack open. Enter the Grim Reaper.

For being the very picture of Death, he looks oddly like the old grocer I remember from down the street in my hometown. Homely in nature, with a dark complexion and thick eyebrows. He makes eye contact with me as he enters, seating himself at the table across from me. "Missing your scythe aren't you?" I sneer.

He ignores my remark. "Can I get you anything before we begin?" he asks.

"If you happen to have a Frank Sinatra vinyl I can listen to, that would be sublime. ... Sir"

He eyes me for a moment gauging if I am serious. Finally he says "If there is nothing lets continue."

I nod, "Yes. Sir."

"Do you understand why you are here?"

"Because I was arrested, Sir."

"Do you know why you were arrested?" he presses. His chin wiggles when he talks, not a very intimidating feature for Death to have. I choose to ignore his question, looking up and closing my eyes; trying to envision my barracks. My cot...how nice it would be to be laying there right now. Death clears his throat.

"Private Schultz..."

That brings me back to the present. "You know," I begin. "Joining the service was the first and only decision I ever made by myself. I worked hard to get here, and I deserve to be here, but I have definitely come to some realizations."I put my hands behind my head and kick back the chair, putting my feet on the table. He is obviously offended. Good. "I know how it all works and yet I continue to fight. I hate myself for that. I am a pawn of the system and my lack of action makes me as bad as they are."

"Who are?" Death asks. I ignore him.

"They'll tell me that my contributions make a difference, but I know better. I continue to do mission after mission, duty after duty. Upon my return I am rewarded with a 'job well done solider', but really what they mean is 'good job not dying'. I hate false praise, reminds me too much of home.

"I think you misunderstand." He interrupts. I bolt my head straight up and bring my fists down on the table. BOOM!!!! It echoes off the empty room.

"Don't patronize me! Just because I am a drone doesn't mean that I lack intelligence." I shout. Inhale. Breath out. Inhale. The door is opened by one of Deaths’ servants coming to check on my fit. Death nods to dismiss him, similar to what he is doing with my words. It's hot in this room. The longer this conversation goes on, the more irritable I find myself becoming. I think I can hear wind chimes, but that could just be wishful thinking.

"Private Schultz." Death starts again. I blink, looking at him, his chin still vibrating. "I'll ask you again. Do you know why you've been arrested?" I know. I just don't want to say it. To relive it. Silly Death, why must we play these word games, just be done with it already. I used to believe strongly in God, but what God would let me live on in this hell.

"You know D…. May I call you D?" He shrugs so I continue."All soldiers say they serve for their country and their country alone, but we detest ourselves for putting on that front. In truth we hate what we do, and could care less about the millions of unappreciative civilians back home, or the politicians who pretend to have our best interest in mind. " I shift in my seat, reflecting for a moment before continuing, Deaths’ gaze is unwavering. "The down and dirty of it is, we really care and respect our fellow peons the most. The peons who wage war on your behalf. We replace one sense of self-loathing with camaraderie. Our country says they'll never forget us, but they will. So that's why we hold onto each other so tight, because we will remember.”I miss my platoon. I miss the cold showers. I miss the freeze dried food, but now is not the time. Not when Death is visiting.

"Private Schultz, I won't pretend that I don't understand what you're saying" he starts. You'd better not, I think. This is right up your alley. The side of my face almost twitches in a nervous smile.

He continues, "but unless you speak to me more directly about the incident, I won't be able to help you."

That's true... only Death can help things at this point. "I was arrested for..." The flashbacks start. "Killing a fellow soldier..."Make the images stop."Who forced himself upon me..." Please God, if your still listening..."Beat me..."I still feel his fists." and proceeded to rape me."See.. I told you I only ever made one decision for myself. "So, after he was done with me..." My self worth depleted. "I struck him repeatedly in the head with a rock..." I don't remember if he screamed or not. I remember the warm splash on my face, like a fall rain. Might have struck him repeatedly in the crotch too. "Until he stopped breathing. "

Death almost seemed sympathetic with my confession, not that he didn't already know. I turned away from him. I hated him. Even though he was there to help me. I hated this place. The way it smelled, mold hinging in the air. I hated the pain I felt in my face and the rest of my body. I hate him. I hate me. I hate everything.

I got up from my chair and knelt in the corner of the room, clutching my knees to my chest, breathing heavily. I heard the door close behind me but I dare not look. I retreated into my subconscious trying to survive, but all I could think was...

They promised me glory...freedom...independence...

They promised me...........

We ran through the woods laughing,

desperately chasing that cloud.

We had to dance in the rain,

it was our mission,

until we stumbled upon this ancient garden.

Both of us inhaled deeply

as we took in our surroundings,

gazing widely.

The cloud we had been chasing stopped,

as if it, and we,

had reached the purpose of our destination.

The rain started to sprinkle lightly upon us,

sheltering my eyes from it

I looked up at him,

and he was smiling.

How that smile melted me.

I smiled back at him

and he grabbed my hands

throwing me into motion.

There we danced in the rain,

the music of it falling on the water

was the perfect rhythm for our feet.

I don't remember how long it lasted

only that I didn't want it to end.

At the end of our dance

he leaned in kissed me softly.... Yep, magical.

I smile looking into the rain.

I don't try and shelter my eyes anymore.

Your hazel eyes so loudly speak

of the mischief in your mind.

Long and slender and bright

They hide the truth of what you seek.

Your frosted hair shimmers of secrets

Red and brown burn slyly from below.

The black on your toes is whispering

Hunt little friend, but do not speak.

Words may ruin this encounter

Your curiosity amuses as your intelligence shines.

Tilt your head with those pointed ears

The black heart on face revealing

A secret smile as you sneak

But remember, remember...do not speak.

Kelly had been an emergency room nurse for over 20 years, working in pediatrics all the way to hospice care and everything in between. The very essence of life and death were her bread and butter. Very few things surprised Kelly these days, so when her husband told her they were going camping, she was mortified.

The last time Kelly had gone camping she had been a little girl. That last time she had gone was with her father just weeks before he passed in a horrible accident. The two resonated with each other, and even though she knew now they were unrelated, she couldn't help but place them in the same boat.

"Do we really have to go?" she pleaded with her husband.

"You know the answer to that. I've been begging for years and you promised me for my birthday."

Kelly grunted in defeat. Why had she made such a ridiculous promise anyway? What was in the woods that wasn't in the luxury of their home?

The next day she found herself neck high in fresh air and waist deep in mosquitoes. She frantically dug through the pack her husband has prepared looking for the bug spray. "Dear, where is the bug repellant?" she asked. Her brown eyes were brimming over the pack like Kilroy. Their message was one of silent panic and even louder frustration.

"Didn't bring any.... I told you yesterday we are doing this the old fashioned way. Under the stars, no tents, no matches, no electronics, very few perks of modern day." He chuckled to himself, "I did forgo letting you brush your teeth with your finger through. Your brush should be in there somewhere."

Kelly tried very hard to keep her composure. This was going to be the longest three days ever.

Kelly awoke the next morning to the soft chirping of birds as the sun cascaded over the horizon. Stirring in her sleeping bag, she sat up to greet the dawn. "This isn't so bad," she thought to herself. The sky was a comforting shade of blue, the air fresh with a mild crispness, and everything so serene without the noise pollution of the city. Kelly lifted both her arms, stretching them behind her. Today could be a good day.

Kelly's momentary appreciation of the situation suddenly shifted when she realized she was alone in the campsite. Her husband! Where had her husband gone? "Honey...." she started softly, afraid of disturbing who knows what in these woods. The vessels in her eyes strained as she looked around for some sign of him. Why would he leave her alone like this? It was almost too cruel for words. Her whispers became words, and her words became shouts, and her shouts became screams. Surely he would hear her and come running? She waited. Nothing. “Screw this!” she said to herself. “I will go find him, or get off this damn rock, whatever comes first!” With that, she loaded up her pack and set off into the woods.

Over this rock, through those trees, up this hill… on and on she went. Kelly didn't know east from west or north from south. All she knew was one step in any direction would take her away from the site of her abandonment. She seethed all over again with resentment. He could have written a note in the dirt or something! Unless his intention had been to leave her out here. She shook her head. Her husband was many things, but that wasn't one of them. Fishing! He must have gone fishing! Preoccupied, she failed to notice the large raccoon on the boulder in front of her. She was blissfully unaware as she crawled on hands and knees up the rock, until she was eye to eye with the small bandit. Kelly blinked twice, hoping it was an illusion, until the raccoon hissed. Screaming, Kelly pushed out with her arms, flailing backwards. She not only bounced off the boulders, but also proceeded to roll down the hill some 20 feet.

Shock had set in for Kelly. The woman of few surprises was now in a situation that she had no logical way of dealing with. She felt lost. A deep sigh escaped her lips as she looked down to access the situation; she was dirty and bruised, but not broken. “All appears ok after the initial review” she told herself. As she gazed at her injuries more closely, she noted a four inch laceration on the back of her leg. It was bleeding profusely and had begun to swell. "Freaking fabulous!" she screamed. "Gotta go holistic when in nature. God forbid we bring a Band-Aid or bug spray!"

The rage felt good. "Now what the hell I am I suppose to do!?" She would have to clean up the wound, but the water in the area was bound to be full of animal feces and other types of parasitic debris. She had no bandage material to wrap it and now her clothes were covered in dirt. Left alone, the wound would fester. "Think. Think. Think. Old wives tales, medical myths, something had to be able to help. Honey! Of course! It's an antiseptic,” she exclaimed in her head. Where to get some honey? If this was a cartoon, Yogi Bear and BooBoo would come along with a picnic basket and all her problems would be solved.

As if prompted by her thoughts, Yogi appeared on the horizon. Kelly squinted at first. Obviously she had lost more blood than she had first anticipated and was now having desanguination illusions. No, that was a bear all right. Forcing herself to her feet, she set off after it making sure to keep enough distance as to not attract attention, but close enough so he could lead her to the golden goodness.

Bear droppings here, big paw print there, broken branches everywhere. This was certainly the right direction. She could easily follow these tracks to find the bear and then trace them back to find her way back to her own camp. After perusing the predator for about 30 minutes, she was on the verge of giving up. Bears should go straight to honey, right? That's what nature has preprogrammed them to do. Her patience was wavering when she heard the slight buzz of something delicious above her.

Cranking her neck straight upwards she saw in the midst the branches, some 30 feet above her, something wonderful. She used to be able to climb…shouldn't be so difficult now. The real question was how to collect the honey to apply to her wound. Something long, like a spoon, that could scoop up the golden goodness. Ah ha! She dropped her pack and pulled out her toothbrush. She might not have a spoon, but she had something close enough. Aching pull after aching pull, she climbed the tree to the honey hive. She scooted herself carefully out onto the branch. Extending the toothbrush to the hive, the bees became aware of her presence and began to circle her in a threatening warning. She was running out of time, but a few bee stings were worth the price of not letting her leg get infected. She needed that leg. With a mighty thrust she pushed her arm out and scraped inside the hive with her toothbrush, dipping it into the golden cure.

It has been early eight years since I have seen my father. I invited him today lunch on a whim. In the hopes that things would be better, in the hopes things will have changed.

I sit down at the table across from him. He doesn’t look well. It has been a while since I’ve seen him, but his aging seems to have hastened tenfold since our last interaction. His hands bear more wrinkles than I remember. The age spots on his skin are more prominent. Gray dominates his hair, or at least what hair I can see poking out from the baseball cap.

”Hey” I said as I picked up the menu. I see him look me up and down and can only imagine what he is thinking. He’s always been judgmental of me. I don’t take it personally anymore… that’s just how he is.

”Hi Stephanie,” he finally greets me.

”What’s new?” I ask. I knew when I extended this invitation that it would come with a great deal of work. My father is the type of fellow who practically needs cattle prodded into talking to his children. I would have to throw conversation starter after conversation starter at him if I didn’t want to spend this luncheon in silence. He ponders for a moment.

”Same shit different day. Although, Bobbi and I went on this cruise down in Florida.”

”Oh that sounds great. How was it?” I find myself surprised that Bobbi, his girlfriend, is still in the picture. He’s never been the long term commitment type, with three divorces and all. With him, I guess long distance relationships last longer.

He starts off into a bragging tale of their adventure. My father was always good about having the ‘biggest fish’ story. This tale begins to sound like that again.”So, they screw up and don’t have our reservation. So, obviously I complain and tell Bobbi how unacceptable this situation is! Well guess how they decide to make it up to us? They put us in one of the master suites on the ship! We are talking huge! A living area, a walk out patio, a hot tub in the bathroom, this room was gigantic!”

The story just gets grander and grander. I nod in the appropriate places, not because I actually care, but because it’s the polite thing to do. Who was he trying to impress anyway? I make sure to add the “amazing, beautiful, and lucky” comments when needed.

My father and I have a love/hate relationship….as in I love to hate him. Not because he cheated on my mother and left her to care for her two kids on her own. No, that is between them. I was fortunate enough to develop my own feelings toward him through his many years of action or inaction. I decided when I invited him today that I was going to stop tiptoeing around him. He was either going to like the woman I have become or not. I am too damn old to play these games and if I am too old, then he sure as hell is.

He continues on with his tropical adventures and I continue to listen. There is no actual conversation taking place; I am just convinced he likes to hear himself talk. The waitress arrives just in time…. I am on the verge of sticking a spoon in my eye. We both order the special. I wonder if we have other similar tastes in common, or if this is just a coincidence.

“You know,…” he says, interrupting my contemplation, “you got my age wrong on my last birthday card. I’m 71 not 70.”

”Ah. Yeah, sorry about that. I did realize that after I had sent it.” I stop to take a drink of my tea. “But, you spelled my name wrong on my last Christmas card, so I’d call it even.” I try to make it sound like I am playing when really I am biting my tongue trying to not list off the mistakes he’s made. He doesn’t drop it.

”I added an ‘s’ to it.” It’s not a question. Ever since I got married 8 years ago (which was probably the last time I spent more than 10 minutes in his presence) he has always been writing my name as a plural, no matter how many times I correct him.

”Yes, you did do that, but you actually misspelled my middle name, too.”

”It’s Ann, isn’t it?” This one is a question.

I nod politely, “Yes, but you forgot the ‘e‘. A-n-n-e.”

He grunts at me.

“Like I said, let's just call it even.” He dwells on the fact there was a mistake in his card. I dwell on the fact that we mail cards when we live in the same town.

The awkward conversation is followed by an awkward silence. I find myself starting at the tablecloth, it is vinyl and plaid in design. Reminds me of a picnic table. It crinkles beneath his fingers as he drums them on the wood. The clinking dishes in the kitchen chime their own melody. He picks up his spoon to stir his own tea. I stare at his right hand. Cocking my head to the right, I look at his index finger where the final joint is missing. I’m pretty sure he’s told me the story of how he lost the end of his finger, but I don’t remember it now.

”How’s your brother doing? Still living at home?” he asks, rolling his eyes. I immediately find myself on the defensive. The hair is standing up on the back of my neck. His tone is saturated with judgment and disapproval.

”Yes, but it works for them. He pays rent to help out. Mom likes it because she doesn’t have to be alone.” My brother is beyond introverted. From a young age, he had a hearing disability that wasn’t diagnosed until he was older. Before this point, people though he had a learning disability when really he just couldn’t hear. This was just one of the first marks that my father put on his record. Truth be told, my brother is 10x more intelligent than him, but I won’t tell him that. He never tried to understand my brother, or any of his kids for that matter.

Our food arrives just at that moment, and for this I am grateful. Broccoli cheese soup and grilled cheese never seemed so divine. I watch as he dips his fries into his soup. This is a characteristic we don’t share. The seconds become moments and the moments become minutes.

“Sho,” I start with a mouth full of food, “how are your brothers?” I have three uncles, all of whom I have zero contact with. This question is a formality at best.

“Tony and Terry are doing well, I assume. Haven’t talked to Jerry since the funeral.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah – screwed me out of my inheritance. Seems to think when Mom cashed in a bond to help me - that was all I was entitled to.”

My grandmother was a strong, powerful woman with impossible expectations and a general lack of empathy. If you asked anyone else, my mother included, most would have called her a bitch; a modern day Elizabeth Bathory. I never felt that way though. She had always been kind to me. She was the only member of his side of the family that had ever attempted a relationship with me. Her efforts were triple that of her own son. Her death intensified the loathing I have for my father exponentially. When she died, he never told me. I only learned of her death months later when her obituary was printed in my hometown paper. My mother had seen it and called to tell me. Immediately after getting off the phone with her, I called my father and screamed at him for his lack of communication. She might have been his mother, but she was my grandmother. He blew me off with a half-assed apology and told me that he figured my mother would have informed me. This had merely provoked another round of rage. Expecting his ex-wife to deliver news she was no more aware of than I was was ridiculous. This event created another few years of silence between us, minus the minimal acknowledged at the funeral. I threatened him with womanly repercussions (throwing a fit in front of his bar buddies) if he failed to tell me when the service would be held. So, I got 10 days notice - I'm sure he saved it for the last minute, hoping I would be unable to attend.

Noticing that I had eaten most of my lunch because he had been talking and I had been listening, I tried to speak a little. “I got a promotion at work.”

“Hmm?” I take that as cue to go ahead.

“Yeah, they had someone quit, so I got to move up. Came with a pay raise and a lot of new responsibility! I practically run the place. Doing this while going to school leaves me with very little free time, but I am proud of myself because I seem to be doing well at both. Being a late bloomer seems to suit me well.” I dive into all the details of my new position and the duties that have been placed on my shoulders. I want him to see that I am a capable person and that he doesn’t need to worry about me needing anything from him. He is making eye contact with me, but it is that kind of eye contact that is more like looking through you. Wait, he’s looking past me. Yep… that seems about right. “Do you know someone back there?”

“Huh? What?”

“Well, you are staring past me. Thought there might be someone you recognize back there.”

“No, No” He refocuses his gaze.

As soon as the plates are cleared we sit grasping at the final strings of conversation. I am trying my best to behave myself and keep my resentful feelings at bay, but the thoughts are creeping in. Images from my childhood are leaking like a sieve into my consciousness… the days when my brother and I had to drag his drunk ass to bed after he got back from the bar… leaving us little kids at the carnival with 20 bucks and not coming back for hours… calling bar to bar until we found him if we needed something when we visited him on summer break… leaving me medication on the outside of my apartment door when I was ridiculously ill instead of checking in to see how I was…never teaching me how to ride a bike… never defending me from boys… never really acknowledging my existence.

As the final conversation pool is all but dried up, it is becoming more and more stagnant. The waitress drops off the ticket. I snatch it up quickly. “I’ve got it.” I announce.

“K, I’ll get the tip.” He stands, reaches into his pocket and throws money down on the table and grabs his coat with force enough to make the chair rock on its back legs.

We walk out, side by side, in silence. I stop when he gets to his vehicle and starts digging in his pocket for the keys. “Well, thanks for lunch, Stephanie.”

“No problem.” I’m waiting patiently.

He jumps in his car, shuts the door, lights a cigarette, and drives off. No hug, no ‘I love you‘… nothing.

I stand there for a moment. Then I give myself the same speech I’ve been giving myself for years. I remind myself it’s nothing I did or didn’t do. It’s not something I am or I am not. It’s all him and it is completely out of my control. With a heavy sigh, I get in my car and head home… back to the known.

At some point in your life, no doubt at the most inopportune moment, you will be served with a jury summons. This is, of course, assuming at some point in your life you've registered to vote. In hindsight it will be such a silly thing. Then, there will come a moment when you receive the notice. It will come in the mail to your home, proving they know where you live. The envelope will have extra postage to ensure its timely arrival to your doorstep. You will open the letter hoping it was misaddressed, but you will know better. Chances are you will get a paper-cut during this process and blood will spill onto the summon, making a new type of contract. Escape is now impossible.

You will spend your days counting down. Food will lose its taste, water will make you thirsty, and you will become bitter towards everything. You will blame fate for giving you a summons a mere week after you retire. Retire after 50 long years of working. You knew it was too good to be true, kids grown and gone, no man to grind your nerves, no underpaid responsibilities to attend to, freedom, freedom to watch TV and become amalgamate with your sofa. You will begin to scheme. A plot will be needed, as necessity has just become your bedfellow.

The day of jury duty will begin with an ominous feeling. Persevere! You must ignore it. Today will be a day of your victory. Step one of the plan, make sure to misplace your makeup. Step two, in the process of looking for your make up you will lose your hairbrush. Given your age and the wear on your face from a tough life, you will probably resemble something like a meth head. This, after all, is a fashionable look nowadays. Just for good measure, make sure not to shower at least four days prior to jury duty.

You will arrive at the courthouse and sit with the other victims. Most will have properly prepared themselves for this civic responsibility; others will seem just as disinterested as you. The well-groomed in their suits and ties will occupy one part of the pew, the housewives and middle class citizens the middle, and toward the end you will seat yourself where you get to play the who's who of smell games. Not because you belong in this section, but because it is part of a grander plan.

As the judge enters the room, you will give him a once over, as he does the same to the room. He will sit himself above in his high perch, a shepherd overlooking his sheep. He will introduce himself to the flock, and give a brief description of why you have all gathered today. Listen only half-assed with your eyes glazed over. Make sure to save the complete lack of listening for when the lawyers begin to speak. The interrogation of the lawyers will commence, but you will be too busy looking around the courtroom to take any notice of what they are actually saying. Counting ceiling tiles will be your priority at this moment .. 44, 45, 46. The judge will clear his throat, be prepared for this."Miss, do you not take this seriously?" Point at yourself and give him a quizative look. You'll notice the slight nod of his head.

"Of course I do. What would make you think otherwise?"

"Your clothes."

You'll look down at your outfit; dirty moccasins, worn sweat pants, and a dingy white t-shirt you've used for painting in the past. "What about them?" He will roll his eyes at you, but you'll endure. "I got dressed. Normally I just run around in the skin God gave me; drooping breasts, gray hair, and wrinkles galore. Must keep the goods aired out or they will sweat and stink, you see? So the mere fact that I got dressed is proof of my dedication to this endeavor.” The judge will eye you, trying to gauge if you are serious or not. Contempt will cross his mind. Not the emotion but the judicial action. He will begin to motion with his hand that you should sit down; when a sudden sound will halt his hand and you feel his scrutinizing gaze upon you once again.

"Miss"

"Yes, your Honor?"

"What was that noise that just came from your bag?" he'll ask.

"My bag, sir?" Be sure to act innocent. Your choice of words will shape this entire situation.

"Yes Ma'am."

"Why your Honor, that is my cat, Sir Felinicuss, and the noise you heard was him talking."

"Meowing you mean?"

"No, talking Sir."

The judge will shake his head with irritation. "Regardless, why would you bring a cat into the court room?"

"Sir Felinicuss needs me, sir. Once I retired I decided I was going to take on a special needs child. Felinicuss here is diabetic. He needs his insulin at set intervals. I had to bring him with today so he could get his injections. My vet was very adamant that I should be religious with his insulin schedule. Don't want any funky glucose readings, ya see?" About this time another meow from your bag will echo throughout the courtroom. The judge's brow will furrow, his face will begin to turn red, and you'll feel a spasm of panic begin to creep up your spine, but stand firm. 'Just let me go home', you'll think.

With a sign of reservation, the judge will instruct the attorneys to question you next. He will desperately want you out of the courtroom at this point, annoyed by your appearance and your companion. At the same time he will be intrigued by how you hold yourself up and speak with no hesitations, you are so sure of yourself. Regardless of how he thinks of you, your mind will be preoccupied thinking of how the evil twins on your soap will reveal each others identity. Oooo Drama! The desire to escape this judicial prison will heighten ten fold.

The lawyers will reiterate you will be hearing a case of petty theft and larceny, a case involving stolen tires. You’ll grunt to yourself, reminded by what a waste of time this is. You mind will sweep you away; back to your home, where the TV is waiting with bated breath for your return, such a loyal device. The lawyer will interrupt your happy daydream with a tedious question, “Have any of you here today been accused of breaking and entering, theft, or larceny?” You will shoot your hand into the air faster than diarrhea shoots from a bodily orifice. ”Which one of those applied to you Ma’am?”

”Breaking and entering, Sir.”

”Were you convicted?”

”No Sir, only accused.”

”Is it on the record?”

”I doubt it, Sir. My Sister accused me of breaking into her home. Where I supposedly proceeded to fold her husband's jeans, and then left. It seems far-fetched, but you just can’t make this stuff up. And I assure you, Sir, I never do laundry whenever at all avoidable.”

The lawyer will give you a look similar to the judge. “Is that all Ma’am?” You’ll nod and sit down, with a proud grin covering your face.

The interrogations will continue from person to person and people will be excused here and there. Your anxiety will increase as the numbers dwindle, and you may in fact get stuck serving as a member of “one’s peers.” Finally, when it seems that all hope is gone, a miracle will happen.

”Do any of you here today know the defendant, John Stevenson?” A murmur will go out amongst the remainder of the flock, but ultimately no one will know him. Lean over to your neighbor and comment on how if this was a soap opera, it would be giant conspiracy. Everyone would be in cahoots.

”Do any of you here today know the victim, Alfred Roberts?” A similar murmur will spread like the plague among the sheep but you will stand.

”I was married to him!” you’ll exclaim. The attorneys and the judge will stop and gawk at you, like a charmed cobra swayed by a flute. “I swear it, check the records. It was many…many years ago, but we are still friends.”

Like a hymn to a heavenly chorus the words “You’re excused” will be uttered. Freedom will be yours. Fly quickly from the courtroom as if you’re a virgin trying to catch the bridal bouquet. In the midst of your getaway you will find yourself pondering about all that time you spent plotting and scheming, it will feel as if it’s been for nothing. Leaving a slightly bitter taste in your mouth. Persevere. Head towards home, to the TV and the newest episode of Days of Our Lives, but remember to first return Mittens to your neighbor. His identity is safe, his alias will last for another day.

I was not there the day my nemesis was born but I imagine it was a wet spring. The silver lupines were just starting to bloom. Their misaligned petals were reaching for the few strips of sunlight that seeped through the canopy of ponderosa pines. Upon hitting the ground, the shock of the fall compressed her lungs. Her body reached out for air. The first breath of life was sweet and crisp.

As I was not there, this is all speculation. It might also seem weird that my foe resides in a forest. As a rule of thumb, my nemesis can live about anywhere; not limited to just the forest. Her preferred habitat is "steep and rugged topography that provides brush-like vegetation." (Rick Olson, University of Wyoming). This will make sense in a moment. Also, my nemesis is more than just one. and probably closer to 500,000 in Wyoming alone. I have an army of adversaries. For the last fifteen years I have been plagued by Odocoileus hemionus, also known as the common mule deer. So, how can one loathe Bambi so much? I assure you it’s quite easy. (On a ironic note hemionus translates roughly to "half-ass", how appropriate!)

It all started with my first encounter with these hooved devils. I was young, excited, arrogant, 15 and just learning how to drive. My mother and I were returning from a shopping excursion out of town. I remember she kept repeating herself (as mothers often do) "Be extra careful because the deer are out” and "Are you sure you want to drive? There will be animals on the road". I brushed her off, ignoring her wisdom (as teenagers often do) only to be greeted by the first of many "deer dartings". My enemy jumped up onto the road directly in front of me, ran across the road, and disappeared into the brush on the other side. I braked hard, my knuckles completely drained of color, the death grip on the steering wheel refusing to release. It was as if the deer had waited for someone to light the path, so that she could cross the illuminated black river. The arrhythmia of my heart was almost palpable. The encounter had successfully kicked the knees out from my ego. The rest of the drive home was done at a safe 30 mph with frequent panic attacks and stops due to the dancing shadows on both sides of the highway. This was the first of many deer-darting episodes in what would later become known as the Indy 500 of Wyoming highways.

The fear of hitting a deer created a life-long paranoia that I take with me whenever I drive anywhere. I can spot them at almost any range, alive or dead. Radar had nothing on my deer-dar. I refused to drive at night unless absolutely forced, and those drives could be guaranteed to be slow, with me strangling the wheel until all the color had flushed from my hands, my breaths were short with frequent panicked inhales.

Regardless of my special preparations, the day still came when a deer kamakazied itself into my vehicle. The image plays in slow motion in my mind whenever I recall it. It was a warm summer afternoon at a time and location that was not favorable to deer (they prefer to be out at dawn and dusk). Nonetheless, my rival struck a deadly blow to my truck that day. She ran across the highway directly into my driver’s side fender, her body contorting in unnatural ways as it flipped back around and smashed into the radiator. The next image I remember witnessing is the deer floating away, like a kite, in the rear view mirror. It looked oddly like a banana peel. I pulled over to inspect the damage. I was unable to open my door; partly because of the damage, but the major cause of the jam was deer intestines. The deer had gutted herself on and in the door. Those bodily organs hung from it dripping ooze and smelling worse than anything I could ever remember. If my nose could have vomited it would have. My poor mother had been my companion on this noteworthy day. I vividly remember her elderly frame bent over on the side of the road, holding a piece of broken blinker, digging deer guts out of my door. What a champ. (You see, I was in shock and useless at this time.) Now, however, I take solace in knowing that after the first battle, I was the victor, and my opponents were down one soldier.

Wyoming is in the top 10 states in the nation for deer related accidents. According to a report done by State Farm insurance; deer were responsible for more than 3,796 claims in 2011. The chances of hitting a deer on a Wyoming highway is a nerve wracking 1:114. Even with recent construction of deer friendly tunnels by the Wyoming Department of Transportation, deer collisions are still one of the top annually reported accidents in Wyoming. There is some speculation by Game and Fish officials that thinks the recent development of oil and gas has pushed deer closer to the roads, but there is no substantial research at this time to prove the claim.

The frequency with which the deer followed me began to grow. No longer was their presence limited to the highways and roads. Soon, they began to infiltrate my everyday life. The first apartment my husband and I got together was on the outskirts of town, street on one side, cactus and sage on the other. It was not uncommon to see Pronghorn grazing in the distance. If I squinted hard enough I could make out the mulling motion of their lips as they consumed their sagebrush dinner. Almost as if they were sharing inaudible secrets. I bore no grudge against these pronged creatures. When I adopted my first Corgi, I would take her for an evening walk in the desolate area next to our house (the Pronghorn posed no threat). My being out in the open, deer must have smelled me and they started to arrive.

If you know anything of Corgi’s, you know they are stubborn short-legged little dogs with big attitudes. This brave yet ignorant canine’s first encounter with deer involved running head first into a herd of them. The deer treated her like they would any other predator, pawed at the ground, threatened to trample the short-legged beast underneath them. The dust from their footwork created dust devils that hindered my vision. The less I could see, the more I panicked. I held my breath as I ran toward her and them while praying to the God I don’t know if I believe in to save her from what I imagined to be her fate (trampled Corgi alamode). Bless that little dog’s soul, dodging and jumping, this was the best game next to tug-a-rope. Her happy nub of a tail kept wagging long after I was able to catch up and scare away the mangy herbivores. Proud of herself and the adventure she had just had, this Corgi child of mine insisted on repeating it as often as she could duck past my legs when I opened the front door.

I can't say that all my encounters with deer have been unfavorable. I was fortunate enough to be visited by the albino deer that lived in Natrona County until recent years. It was one of the few moments in our "war" that I took time to truly appreciate the other side. This doe was so distinctly different and yet very much the same. I was captivated by her garnet colored eyes. She knew she was special, an ungulate Hester Prynne among the masses with her brown child. An odd feeling, to respect a deer. Nonetheless, a momentary ceasefire would not bring about a peace for this war of ours.

People think I exaggerate when I talk about how the deer stalk me. The doubters don’t doubt for long. The deer arrive at night and eat the plants outside my bedroom window. They stir from their hiding places when I walk to work to make sure their presence is known. They jump in front of my vehicle for the annual deer-darting panic attacks. The war continues to wage on between them and me, but I am hopeful for the future; hopeful that they will get bored and move on to another victim and give them a lifelong complex. Hopeful that I will be able to overcome my own fears. Hopeful that humans will invent a deer repellent that will actually work. Alas, I will continue my days sleeping with one eye open for the deer are lurking in the dark.