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Seems like a pretty good day here at St. John’s Infirmary. For one thing, I didn’t have to go to morgue and see my old lady laid out all cold like at St. James.

For another thing, I went to the doctors’ office today and came home with a wildly happy report. “Remarkable” and “Very Fortunate” were some of the words they used. Seems like the little walks I’m taking are better than anyone expected of a skinny old man like me.

All my tests are coming back clear including the chest x-rays and my scars are all healing nicely.

In fact, the surgeons released me and I won’t have to go back and see them. They refused to express an opinion on chemotherapy except to say it depends on what I work out with oncology and the amount of risk I’m prepared to take that the cancer will show up again somewhere else.

The “morgue” reference isn’t totally off the wall. My mighty hunter and self-appointed security guard raided a bird’s nest yesterday and it was my sad duty to interr a couple of featherless fledglings, to the howling displeasure of Sinatra. To say he’s “pissed” (not in the British sense of the slang word, but the American one) is a distinct understatement. My own sense of trying to coexist peacefully with our feathered friends has taken a blow, but I was out of the house too early today to catch the mockingbird. I hope the fledglings weren’t mockingbirds, because I would hate to think of feline sin.

So, I’m just trying to enjoy the purple Rose of Sharon (gosh, I hope for Woody Allen’s sake they’re not from Cairo since that was one of his worst films) presently blossoming in my back yard.

Hope everybody blows something up real good for the holiday and happy birthday Tuesday for me. I’m giving up on trying to do anything for the next four days since everyone I called this morning was already on their way to their four day holiday weekends, presumably at the lake.

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