The Zen of Wiener

“Dig deep, don’t give up, overcome the obstacles with undying enthusiasm                  for whatever goal you have determined to be worthy of your talents, and Get All Wienery on That Shit.”

When things start to get overwhelming in my small life, I look to my wiener for inspiration. The therapeutic and holistic benefits of wiener-stroking have been scientifically proven, and since my particular wiener is usually lying snuggled against my belly, I have easy access to the peace and serenity afforded by wiener-stroking. It is The Zen Of Wiener. Some people turn to mediation, others to drugs, still others to obscure sexual pursuits which are better off not discussed in polite company… Wiener Stroking is both politically correct and socially acceptable.

This is my wiener. I know… you want to stoke him too. He is thick, and long, and furry. He keeps me warm on cold winter nights. He is my muse. He is a symbol of determination and faith.

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Jeep has decided that all the baby chickens MUST DIE. When I say baby chickens, I mean song birds. Chickadees, virioles, nuthatches, sparrows… all are baby chickens and all MUST DIE. I’ve been tormenting my poor wee wiener all winter because I feed the songbirds and they flock by the hundreds onto our deck like an unattainable smorgasbord buffet of voluptuous plenty.

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“I vill kill zee beebee chickenz! Zey vill fill mine belly vith deliciousness!”

This is his mantra, as he lurks, quivering, at the patio door, taunted and mocked by a plethora of fluttering delicacies mere inches from his reach. (I once had a flock of real chickens. Egg laying, cluck-clucking, peck-pecking hens. Jeep killed them all. Every. Single. One. One by one, with sleuth-like serial killer precision, all the chickens met their wienerly death in his slathering jaws. I have yet to recover from the trauma.)

My wiener is dedicated to his task. Jeep does not allow his shortcomings to thwart his intentions. His legs are two inches long. He cannot fly. His breath melts eyeballs at fifty paces. Yet he waits, in raptures of bloodlust, Every Single Day at the patio door, just waiting for the opportunity to leap wildly, yapping and scrabbling for traction, in an endless quest to reach his goal.

If only we could all be so motivated.

I get bogged down in “I suck”, and “it’s too hard” and “I’ll never make it anyway”. Whether it’s a writing goal, or a maché project, or a dream to travel the world as a motivational speaker to save the lives of young people who struggle… too, too often I succumb to the inner voice that tells me that whatever it is I think I can reach is unattainable, and I’d be much better off eating another plate of nachos, watching Netflix and going to bed early.

The wiener never settles.

The wiener endures.

So what if his goal is… horrendously violent? He is an inspiration.

His other obsession is lying on my Lover’s face. It’s a wiener thing. It will never happen… re: breath that melts eyeballs at fifty paces… but every time my Lover sits back on the sofa, Jeep is there, poised, ready to leap full-body-stretched-to-his-impressive-twelve-inches to cover the mouth and nose of his target.

He is thwarted. Every time. But he does not surrender.

I think there is a lesson here.

Dig deep, don’t give up, overcome the obstacles with undying enthusiasm for whatever goal you have determined to be worthy of your talents, and Get All Wienery on That Shit.

One of my daughters recently asked me if I will get another wiener on the unhappy day when my current wiener curls up and succumbs to age and dysfunction. What will I do, when my wiener can no longer jump into my lap, unaided? He is getting a bit grizzled around the chops. He’s not as stalwart as he was in his youth. But it grieves me to think of future wieners, knowing that none can replace the triumphant enthusiasm of the wiener I have loved for the past eight years.

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I think, I will not think about it. I will just embrace the Zen of Wiener which states that No Goal is Too Lofty, and No Desire is Too Elusive no matter how long your legs, or how bad your breath, or how thick the glass is on the patio door between you and the baby chickens.

Dream big, friends. Dig deep. Baby chickens await.

PicMonkey Collage

 

 

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