Guns

Each murder ends a life. Each murder changes lives. Today, a troubled individual shot to death children and adults in an elementary school in Connecticut. He also murdered his mother. Experts, most of whom have never lost a loved one to violence delivered by gunfire, will declare--with the confident detachment of onlookers--that guns do not kill people.

Seven months ago, in Ellicott City, MD, I walked the floors of the sanitized aftermath of a killing field--the offices of St. Peters Episcopal Church. I stood on the vacant spot that marked where sister-in-law Candy Squared was shot, sitting in her chair at her desk. I skirted around the fresh laid plywood floor where the other woman died, most likely trying to flee. If the mentally ill person who shot and killed both women had not had a gun--if he had been forced to use a different weapon--perhaps both or even one of them would have escaped.

Madness will envelop some lost souls; anger will feed others and the consequences can be horrific and unfocused. Once again today, as in May, I wonder bitterly: Why does my nation--why do my elected leaders, neighbors, friends and those who share my blood--support laws that supply killers with weapons that multipy death with such cruel and aching certainty? 

And So She Reminds Me

Lately, Tequila and I walk a lot with Angelina.. For an hour or so, Tequila gets two moms. Almost with one voice, we instruct her to stay on the path, catch up, slow down and behave herself around other dogs. The only thing we don't do in tandem is pick up after Tequila. Like a favorite aunt, Angelina holds Tequila's leash while I fish through the fallen leaves with my plastic bag-encased hand.

Our chatter is wide-ranging as we walk. But Angelina always covers one point very well: Never again does she want a cat. I deserve the reminder. When Cracker was a sort of cute and very noisy kitten, I tried to pass him slyly from my house to hers by coaxing Angelina's daughter Ballet Girl into holding the sweet kitten for a moment. Ballet Girl didn't take the bait. She knew better than to sneak a loud, squirmy feline into her house. At that time, Angelina was mopping up after an elderly cat that boldly peed, at will and with great frequency on the dining room carpet, protected by the tender-heartedness of Angelina's Brad.

When Angelina reminds me about her cat policy, I often wonder if she remembers the puppy. I came within one furry whisker length of unloading a puppy on her. Ballet Girl, Birdie and Forgotten Friend stumbled upon a white and black speckled puppy wandering a road in Tennessee. I was the driver, so I played my part. I stopped the car, the puppy "Iris" hopped on the backseat and cozied up with the girls. We drove home, another 450 miles.

Fortunate for Angelina, Forgotten Friend's mom took the puppy for the night. I'm told it took three baths to get all the fleas off Iris. The next day, I called Stray Rescue and soon the pup renamed Chattanooga found a real home.

I understand the depths of Angelina's resistance to the unpotty-trained--she has raised her children and she was way more successful with them than with the cat. So next time a furry creature presents itself, I'm going old school. Living in Springfield, Va., I remember Mom gathering up the kittens. She'd place the furry babies in a basket and Bro, Sis and I would cart the squirming basket around the block, ringing doorbells. We never went further than a block--as we weren't allowed to cross the street, and the basket always came home empty.

Angelina's home has a working doorbell. And I have a basket.