That durn bird almost pooped on my shirt again yesterday morning as I was walking the dog down the driveway, but he gave his position away. He tweeted, I stopped, he dropped his load way off target, and we both went on our merry way, happy to be alive.
Except for the dog. She had been acting strange for a while. Not as peppy. Not as perky. But a quick trip to the vet soon solved the mystery. Bad teeth. More bad teeth. The vet took four out and I felt so bad for the little mutt. So bad it started me thinking: I can’t remember the last time I’ve been to the dentist. Seven years? Twenty-seven years? Nope, can’t remember. But my teeth seem to be doing just fine – even though I might not have brushed them this morning. Or yesterday morning. Did I brush them at all last week? Surely, I did. I guess I inherited a good set of choppers that take a beating and keep on eating.
We should’ve known something was up with the dog because her breath didn’t smell as sweet as a little dog’s breath should. Hmmmmm. I’ve noticed that people don’t stand too close to me while we’re having a conversation. In fact, they look relieved to end the encounter as soon as humanly possible. And again, hmmmmm.
I always thought it was because I talk too much. Way too much. And mostly about obscure things I just so happen to be thinking about at the time; thoughts that get bottled up inside my mind, and if not released, will make my little pointed head explode like Mount St. Helens – “thought lava” covering anybody who is unlucky enough to be standing near me.
It’s easy to notice when a person can’t stand just one more minute of a conversation that you’ve started and they really have other things to do, but don’t want to be rude, so they take it like a trooper on a secret mission. But you can tell. It’s in their eyes. So gleaming with expectation at first, but the longer you talk, the more their eyes dim, like they haven’t slept in ages and it takes every amount of their being to keep them open. When I notice the dimming of the eyes, I usually have pity on them, release them from their prison, and vow (to myself) never to talk again. To anybody.
People talk too much and don’t really know how to listen. It’s a skill that takes discipline to learn. At the first levels, we think we’re listening, but all we’re really doing is waiting for our turn to talk. When you tell me a fishing story, and I respond with my own fishing story, neither one of us learns anything about the fish.
At the advanced level of listening, not only do I find out what kind of fish you were fishing for, I learn what they were biting on, at what time, and the exact location. And then I go and check out your spot because you shouldn’t be so selfish and keep all the fish for yourself.
Graciously accept a fish from a friend and you’ll eat for the day. Be truly interested in what your friend has to say, and you’ll eat fish for a lifetime, as long as you are sneaky and he never catches you at his favorite fishing spot.