I remember the first day, when I came to the hill. The sun was on my back, intense, unforgiving. The rock was scorching; it made my paws anxious, alive and itchy. They cried out to do their birthright but I could not allow them that pleasure, it wasn’t yet time. I could not allow them that pleasure even in spite of the terrible hunger that was eating me from the inside out. I could not allow them that pleasure in spite of that acidic nothingness that was dissolving me, leaving me hollow and weak. It seemed to work in harmony with the sun to deteriorate my strength and good nature.

There was a light breeze that day, sweeping up the hillside from the valley below. It did little to comfort me. It did little at all, other than to dry out my tongue, cause my eyes to water and toss uncaring locks of my hair about, which propagated elsewhere the itchiness my paws already enjoyed. Wet eyes and dry tongue, so far from what should have been, I thought.

And then, for a precious, fleeting moment I thought I could smell it, ever so faintly, delicately mixed within the mire of odors which the wind so cleverly orchestrated. I suddenly and momentarily came to appreciate the breeze, or perhaps my imagination, for the smell was delightful indeed. It was delightful in that inspired hope that the end of the waiting was near. I stopped panting and closed my mouth. I set my nose high and let it dart about in the wind sniffing, hoping for more. That beautiful scent, however, was gone just as quickly as it had come, first replaced with something similar, then something completely different, until there was nothing at all. I resumed the panting, realizing the droplets of saliva which then dripped from my haphazardly dangling tongue. They fell to meet the rock and were gone almost as quickly as they had arrived, evaporating to pay the midday sun’s toll.

In the valley below the sheep grazed confidently on the green grass that painted the basin floor. Completely unaware of my presence as well as the presence of my heightened awareness of them, they grazed, stuffing their white coats which refused the sun and shielded them from it. How lucky they were, I thought, to be so confident and so shielded. I looked upon them with a burning in my eyes to rival that in my belly. I tried not to think about the possibilities, it only made things worse. I was salivating so heavy now that the wind did little to dry my mouth and the sun was no better adversary. A constant string of it flowed from my under my tongue, down to and across the face of the rock. I looked upon them with a burning in my eyes detached from that in my belly, for food was not my only desire.

I counted the sheep without numbers. I counted them by means of exclusion. In each I identified a difference which set it apart from the others and gave it individuality. I set in my mind records of the count to remember, to make things easier in the coming hours. It was a daunting task; there were so many to count and daylight was nearly gone when I finished, but I finished just the same. Satisfied that I had counted them thoroughly and knew each one, I stopped counting. I had counted the sheep without numbers and still I found one missing, not because I knew their number but because the one I sought was not there.

Daylight eventually relinquished its hold on the world and gave way to the darkness. The sun retreated behind me and the moon came to take watch over the valley. I gazed longingly into her, the moon that is. She was beautiful and she enjoyed my beholding of her as much, I think, as I enjoyed the beholding. She was not like the sun who would punish me should I set my eyes to gaze upon it. She was vain and had every right to be. She lit the valley below with a beautiful, blue illumination which now transformed all color into varying shades of her blue countenance. In the distance I could hear my brothers and sisters calling out, paying homage to her magnificence, reminding one another that we were not alone and that we truly were the kings and queens of the nighttime world. I dearly wanted to answer with a howl of my own but thought better of it. There was the sheep to consider. With a stifled whimper of resistance I rested my weary bones upon the rock and placed a leg over my eyes to shield them from that lovely vision above, to shield my throat from temptation.

The second day began much as the first. I awoke early with the sunlight insistent upon levering open my eyelids in order to blind me once again. I fought against the sun’s will by staring down at the rock while my pupils gradually adjusted. I thought about the rock while I waited. I wondered what unseen magical force held all the tiny particles of it together, making it a rock, making it so strong and hard. I wondered what unseen force had split it, divided it from its brothers and sisters. I wondered what it would take to break it again. I dug my claws at it and knew it would not be me.

As soon as my eyes could tolerate it, I turned my face to the valley floor below and was pleased to see the sheep again. The fight was much harder the second morning. The acidic nothingness in my belly was excruciating and had become vocal as if to say…something. It reminded me of the sound that brothers will make when coming in close proximity of each other while feeding, and that is exactly what it was doing, eating me from inside to out. The count was made harder as well because of it. I fought to pay no mind to the thick shanks, the imaginary layers of succulent meat that lay just below the ivory coats that shielded them from the sun. I envied them for their ivory masks; my own hair was dark, black, absorbing the sun, radiating heat throughout my every fiber. The count was made harder still, with envy, but I counted just the same and found their number to be equal, one short.

I rested prone again on the rock, determined to endure, determined to wait and watch. The sun seemed hotter the second day as it hovered high above me. It hovered high, but closer I thought. It had to be closer; the heat was much greater than on the first day. I was sure of it. No saliva would come on the second day; I was surely dried out. I was thirsty for a drink and began to think of the sheep once again. Blood is thick and hardly good for drinking, but any moisture then would have been welcome. I resisted the thought of it. I was determined to wait, determined to endure. Soon enough I would get to feed. Soon enough I would get to drink; I would make a feast of both.

There was no comforting breeze the first part of the second day. No enticing odors came to tease my snout. The breeze, I thought, must have sensed my frustration the first day. Perhaps it was offended I thought. On the second half of the second day, however, a breeze began to stir and a strong wind developed from it behind me, pushing the hairs of my neck up around my face to frame it like a mane. I grew anxious and sprang up on all fours, panting hard. I feared the wind would give me away, would carry my scent like a calling card down into the valley below. I counted again and again. The sheep were none the wiser for I counted and their number remained equal, minus one. I was thankful their senses were less keen than my own.

There was a definite chill on the wind that blew the second half of the second day. It was a chill that surpassed the mere cooling effect of a breeze dissipating the heat rising from skin and rock and I had felt this chill before. It was no surprise when the thunder began to rumble in the distance. A storm began to brew that afternoon. Those with wisdom and without cause would surely be seeking shelter, I knew. Those with wisdom and without cause would run and hide. Wisdom was with me on the second day, but cause was as well. I would know no such luxury as shelter the second day or any day after, not as long as the count was equal, minus one.

The night of the second day found me curled on the rock, my paws as shields over my eyes against the raging storm. The sky was angry that night. Even the moon, in all her vanity, hid herself from the face of the earth behind a curtain of clouds. This ominous curtain would not allow her to grace me or my brothers and sisters with her countenance the second night, but it offered blue streaks of its fury instead. The clouds were jealous of her, jealous of the way we coveted her. They cut in half and set fire to the lovely blue portrait she meticulously painted the night before with their lightening. The thunder shook the hill; it shook my bones and, for a moment, even the acidic nothingness was forgotten as it too cowered in silent respect. I thought about the rock again. I wondered if it would hold together should the clouds do as I did earlier that day and set their electric, blue claws against it.

After some time, the wrath of the clouds seemed satiated, or perhaps they merely grew tired of expressing their displeasure. The lightening came less frequently and grew more distant and the thunder became a grumbling afterthought rather than an egregious outspoken threat. For all the clouds work to steal my attention and fill me with fear the second night, I found some good in them. The rain which emptied over the hill and ran off into the valley that night provided satiation for my thirst. I eagerly lapped at the concave impressions in the rock, greedily stealing every puddled drop before the sun could come and claim them on the third day. I did that until there was no more and that was my last memory of the second day for sleep found me once again.

The third day came and, after waking, I found that the clouds’ jealously was not limited to the moon for they still lingered in the sky, blocking the face of the sun as well. They did not hold the world in darkness but they did refuse the sun to look directly upon it. I was pleased with that but a thick fog also sat heavy in the valley, as an extra layer of wool, shielding the sheep from sight. I was dismayed and anxious once again for I could not tally the total of them. I paced around the rock in circles, watching the valley below for a sign they were still there but finding no window to please me. Finally I decided to lie back down and wait. I knew that soon enough I would get to count. I knew that soon enough I would need all the energy I could gather, so I reserved to rest once again, licking the morning dew from the top of my paws, legs and all the other places I could reach.

My thoughts returned once again, as they sometimes did, to a bitch that was once among my pack. Why my thoughts ever returned to her, I could not reason. I found a curious combination of both happiness and pain when I thought about her and that was an even greater mystery still. We made more than one good litter together, and the pups turned out strong and worthy each time, but it was not our paternal success that caused my thoughts to return to her I don’t believe. It was something else. It was something I could not completely understand. I felt somehow different when I was in her presence, stronger and wilder. I was sure she was my favorite, even though I was just as confused about having a favorite as I was about the recurring thoughts of her. But it didn’t matter. She was gone. The acidic nothingness was obviously winning at that point for soon I drifted to sleep again thinking of her. I was growing very tired, very weak.

I’m not sure how much of the third day I missed to sleep but there was still good light when I awoke. I sprang to my feet sensing something out of place. I was happy to feel the sun on my haunches. I knew, at least, I would not have the agony of its gift to endure again that day. I stepped to the edge of the rock and again was confronted with the feeling that something was out of place. No, it wasn’t a feeling, it was a smell. It was back and this time it was strong. The breeze was not teasing me on the third day; it was making an announcement. I was happy to feel the sun on my haunches but happier still to see the mask of the fog had lifted from the valley below, leaving the sheep exposed. Once again I began the count. I counted the sheep on the third day and found their number to be unequal. There was an extra one among them.

Suddenly, nothing else mattered but that one moment in time. All the searching, all the waiting, everything culminated to that one moment in time, that one point at the top of the hill on the rock, that one sheep at the back of the heard and the straight line that extended from one to the other. My heart beat hard inside my empty carcass at first until I achieved an acute sense of it, beating in my ears, pulsing, blood coursing through every part of me. Then, it seemed to slow down, as did everything else. The wind seemed to quit blowing, satisfied that its work was done. No leaf tossed about in response to it. The clouds, seeming to sense what was next, froze and held their place in the sky as if to bear witness. My ears were erect and determined but there was no sound to be heard, not of birds singing or crickets chirping. There was nothing but that straight line between us and my desire to quicken its end. This was the way of things at the end of the third day for I had counted and found the number of the sheep unequal, an extra one being among them.

The clicking of my nails against the rock was the first sound to break the silence that had settled on the end of the third day. This was followed by the thud of first my front, then my hind paws pounding down on the soft dirt of the hillside. I stretched my limbs and body to their extents, groping for as much distance as I could gain with every stride. My ears were laid back, streamlined then; they were no longer needed. My eyes were narrow, fiery and fixed, dedicated to the target. My mouth was open, snout pointing straight ahead, razor sharp teeth gnashed in anticipation. I was certain that the meat would be bitter on my tongue, but sweet on my belly just the same. I did not know it, but I felt it to be true. My mouth was open, razor sharp teeth gnashing for that was the extent of my being at that moment, only a killing machine driven by hunger and…something else.

The stiffness that had come to be in my bones and muscles from resting three days on the rock pained me greatly as I dug at the ground for speed. At first I was sure that I would rip in half from my effort but the pain quickly turned into a fire, a fire that burned me throughout, liquefying my muscles and I poured through the foliage like lava from a volcano. I had never chased after prey this hard before; I had never wanted to taste the blood so bad.

The line that separated us was half gone when I reached the first of the sheep. I would have pitied them if that had been my way. I could see the horror in their eyes as they faced the fury in mine. Visions of sinking my teeth into the lot of them kept plaguing my mind, taunting me, distracting me. I would have so enjoyed a light snack, as well as a feast, right then but there was that other thing, for my desire was not merely to feed. They ran this way and that to escape the imaginary end that was not coming but of which they were none the wiser. They really made a mess of things in their bustle to elude me; I snarled and growled to help them along. There were two near the back that froze, unable to move, uncertain which way to go it seemed. One was larger and I ducked below him and went under. The second was smaller and I leaped over him, using his back to spring forward with greater thrust.

Finally, standing alone, in the back and separate from the rest of the herd I saw the end of the imaginary line. Waiting solitaire, facing me was the object of my desire. This one sheep was also frozen it seemed, but not from fear. He stood there waiting for me to bridge the gap that separated us, as if to welcome me. He stood there waiting for me and I fully intended to oblige him. Again time seemed to slow down as I became acutely aware of things. From one fall of the paws to the next seemed like an eternity. My heart beat slow, deliberate and hard. Only three strides separated us then.

First one, then two strides behind me and I fired my hind paws into the soft ground with all the strength I had and lunged forward. A growl escaped me as I flew through the air towards my victim with mouth open wide, razor sharp teeth glimmering in the dying sunlight, hungry for the flesh, thirsty for the blood. I knew all along that my desire was not merely to feast but had questioned it no further. In that last moment before I closed my teeth around his throat, however, the duality of my purpose became a true revelation. In the last moment I could finally, clearly see the face of my victim. Just as I had gazed into my own eyes when drinking from the still waters of a puddle, once again I found myself gazing into them.

A great man once told me of his return home from the war in Viet Nam, where he had faithfully performed his duty as a Marine. He was saddened to find, upon returning, that he and his fellow soldiers were greeted by hordes of protesters, chanting anti-war rhetoric, spitting and throwing trash. The saddest part of this story was the fact that his plane came to rest on a runway far away from Washing, DC.

It is one thing to say “I love you so much I would die for you,” and an entirely different thing to actually do it. Yet, millions of our brothers and sisters accept the yoke of this daunting burden every day. They embrace the responsibility of defending this great nation, at all cost, to uphold our freedom and way of life, accepting the possibility that they may perish, sacrificing their own ability to enjoy it.

I’m sure that we all know someone that has given or at least risked his or her life in preservation of our democracy. Let us take this day to honor and remember those that have made the ultimate sacrifice for it, comfort and support those that have bled for it and pray for and salute those who, even now, march onward to keep it.

Okay, what most of you know is that I used to go by the nickname “Uncle Dirty” on here, and even in life to some. What many of you did not know is how that name came to be. I’m about to explain that and why I have decided to let “Uncle Dirty” rest in piece for ever more.

Long ago, a good friend of mine, for some reason of his own, decided to start calling me “Dirty.” My brothers picked up on this new tag during the monthly poker games and adopted use of the title as well. It wasn’t long at all before all of my close friends and family were calling me “Dirty.” The oldest of my younger brothers has a son named William, whom I used to call “Wild Bill.” That was, until he told me that liked “Dollar Bill” better. One day, when asked who I was, he referred to me as “Uncle Dirty.” The “uncle” got affixed due to the fact that I was his uncle, of course. Well, everybody got a kick out of that and my nickname soon mutated from “Dirty” to “Uncle Dirty.” I must admit, I thought it was funny too and I am the guiltiest of doing and saying things without much thought of how they will be perceived by others. Therefore, there was never any hesitation or afterthought when I decided to make “Uncle Dirty” my nickname on myspace.com, until now…

Lately I have been trying to branch out and make some new friends and catch up with some old ones. Well, a few days ago, I had a semi-epiphany that came more in the form of a subtle doubt or question rather than a stark realization. I began to think about the people that do not know me and wondered how that nickname would be perceived as part of a first impression. So, I put it to the test and asked one of my new, very special friends. Just as I suspected, and should have realized much sooner, it was being received in a less than positive way. Therefore, I am now officially retiring the nickname “Uncle Dirty.” To my nephew, Dollar Bill, I am and always will be, forever your Uncle Dirty. To all my myspace.com friends, I will now be your friend Rob.