No beer and no caffeine make Monica something something

Homer Simpson: All right, brain, you don't like me and I don't like you, but let's get me through this, and I can get back to slowly killing you with beer."
Homer's Brain: It's a deal!

Replace the word "brain" with "body," and that could be my internal monologue of the past 20-some years.

My passive-aggressive abuse of my body has not been limited to beer. When I think about all the suntans, late nights drinking Vodka Red Bulls, brutally long work weeks, cigarettes, fad diets, car rides without seat belts... it seems like a wonder that I've survived this long.

Homer Simpson: Shut up, brain, or I'll stab you with a Q-Tip!"

An open letter

Dear Little Thing,

I don't know who or what you are, but it's time you learned about me.

I came to live with Sam and Monica during the summer of 1999. I'm not proud to say this, but I was living in a cardboard box at a trailer park in Winnemucca, Nevada when they found me. Thankfully, they recognized me as royalty (it must have been my blue eyes), and rescued me.

I can't say the adjustment was easy. Having never been inside of a house (or, more accurately, a questionable duplex), I wasn't sure what dangers might lurk around the corner. However, I knew that Sam and Monica were on my side. I avoided the center of rooms, refused to touch my paws to linoleum, and only ate when Sam would hold me in his protective hand. Somehow, we got through this traumatic time, the three of us.

Montana Reflections

Sam's family, thanks to his great-grandfather's handiness, are the proud owners of a lake cabin in southern Montana. It's shared among a smattering of extended family, so it runs like a timeshare without the swindling or free dinner coupons.

The cabin itself is rather small and rustic. Here it is, posing with my sister-in-law Emily.