On Saturday, I got back from the beach to a bunch of tweets from my friend Jenny, who was in distress after her dog died, which resulted in her running around her yard with a machete trying to murder vultures. (Long story here.) I called her to see if she was okay, and she clearly wasn’t, so I told her I was walking out to door, to drive to her place, to dig up her dead dog. (Other long story here.) It was not how I’d expected the day to go, but sometimes, that’s just how things roll out.
On the way to Jenny’s house, I was crossing the Devil’s Backbone (that’s really what it’s called) and I thought, A.) If I have to go over the Devil’s Backbone to get to Jenny’s new place, that must mean that one of us resides near the Devil’s Brain and one near the Devil’s Asshole. (I don’t want to think about which lives where.) and B.) I’ve never dug up a dead body before, but surely I can do this. This is what my grandmother would have done. Without blinking. In fact, this is just the kind of thing that randomly occurs in Central Texas. Get used to it.
Oh how my life has changed.
So I went. And it wasn’t all that bad. (Well, it was kind-of bad. But mainly, it was just great to help.) Most importantly, we did it. We took care of it. In 10 minutes time, we were able to lift a major weight that had troubled a friend for days. Not by thinking (obviously) or analyzing, or proselytizing. But by doing.