The death days of August have gone again, taking with them the legendary Merv Griffin and the legendarily evil Leona Helmsley, who left the bulk of her empire to her dog, and philanthropist and socialite Brooke Astor, the last great lady of a great era. Every year August adds to its rich harvest those who are lost to us. Every year I get through day after day of the worst month of the year, plagued by memories, mourning, and the voices of those who are silenced except in my heart.
When I was in Cleveland, a waitress told me Colonel Sanders used to go drinking with Bob Evans, the sausage king, and that the Colonel was a mean drunk. Now every time I see a KFC bucket or the Colonel’s smiling face, I think Colonel Sanders was a mean drunk.
When the vet took them out of the carrier, she actually oohed and aahed over their beauty. She was even more impressed by how calm and relaxed they were. Neither shot nor temperature taking nor de-worming pill ruffled their unflappable cool.