Something everyone takes for granted, breathing, until you can’t. Then it gets pretty important. On the prairie you can breathe, so much space, so much clean fresh air. The only time it’s not perfect is when I’m following the dust of cows or when the wind carries the smoke from forrest fires in BC to us, here.It’s something I never take for granted, breathing, that is.
When I was 7 I had whooping cough. I spent 2 months in bed often not being able to breathe. I had an old collie dog who laid by my bed day and night (can’t now imagine how a collie could stand to do that) in the back bedroom where they put me for the quiet there. I would get a coughing fit and panic because I couldn’t get any air. He would run into the other room and get someone to come help me. The only thing that worked was to hit me on my back quite hard and it seemed to jar something loose so I could breathe again. I remember twice coughing so hard I filled a basin full of blood form the nosebleed it caused, before they could get it to quit.
Butch, my collie, . . . what can I say. To a little 7 year old girl, it felt like he saved my life, everyday, many times a day. That’s him and a much healthier me a few years later in the picture in the side bar. Oh, to pat his old head again. . . my fingers remember exactly how it will feel.