The life you save may be your own…

Charlie is busy romping with Mia while Max looks on disapprovingly, so I have reclaimed the iPad. Mom is rewatching Game of Thrones, claiming that she is trying to decipher the more subtle nuances, although she seems to be spending an inordinate amount of time on the scenes involving the Faceless Man; she always has shown a preference for odd looking men.

No huge insights tonight, just an appreciation for how quickly or slowly an action can change a life, whether it be in a instant with the opening of a crate, or over a prolonged series,of events, as in Stevie’s case, where it took weeks to gain her trust. As much as their lives were changed then, they in turn are still changing ours, Charlie as the elemental force of nature that she is, and Stevie as the ephemeral spirit that she was.

Ephemerality (from Greek εφήμερος – ephemeros, literally “lasting only one day” is the concept of things being transitory, existing only briefly, in her case, making an unexplainable impact; but in the overall scheme of things, which of us can lay claim to anything more?

As odd as it may sound to some,I value the stories of Charlie as a ministry of sorts, not just as a diversion from the steady barrage of swill posturing as “news”, but more importantly, as a reminder that we all matter, and our actions do make a difference.

A survey was recently conducted concerning people’s predominant fears; fear of flying, public speaking, clowns, getting in between a Kardashian and a camera, all were prominently represented, but one unexpected phobia was mentioned again and again:

The fear of not mattering, of not making a difference.

Whoever confined Charlie to the crate, dumped Stevie at the bridge, tied Dash to the trash, left Beau in bondage, thought that those lives didn’t matter, if they even gave the matter any thought at all, but look at what their own callousness has now deprived them of. I like to imagine these selfish little souls watching from afar, not suffering the bondage of their own crates(although I’m sure that they are), but instead feeling intense remorse at what might have been for them had they taken the time to see the value of the lives they cruelly abandoned.

Now the inmates have hit the wall,sprawled out on the bed like hairy ectoplasm, snorting and chuffling through whatever doggy dreamscapes they’re dragging their respective butts across, making sleep a distinct improbability until I finally drift off, at which point they will all awaken to demand to be let outside to sniff at everything and actually pee on nothing. Two will come back in posthaste, while the others will wait until you get settled back in to begin destroying the outside doors in a demand to be let back in.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.