I have a new companion.
A cane.
Or, as known in High Society, A Walking Stick.
He's supposed to go everywhere with me.
The pairing was ordered up by one of those gentlemen in the white lab coats who come around once in a while to peer under my hood and see how goes my scrum with Alzheimer's.
I've decided to call my cane Slim, in honor of his profile being that of a foreboding stiletto. He's not much for conversation, but I figure he will make a good sparring partner for Al, my Alzheimer's nemesis, that runty little rat bastard who's afraid to come out and fight. Good. Now Al has someone to pester him.
I tried striking a few poses, certain they lent me a debonair, man-about-town look. My wife failed miserably at stifling a smirk and mentioned something about a praying mantis. Or was it Ichabod Crane?
The doctor advised me to employ a cane whenever I'm upright so as to avoid kissing ol' Mother Earth. Yes, there are times when I struggle with balance, my gait slightly unsteady, like a sailor's first few steps after shore leave.
So a cane is rather like having a second leg, serving as a counterbalance. And from afar the whole operation looks deceptively simple. Visualize a bird having lunch.
You peck along.
One step.
Now peck.
Repeat.
One step.
Now peck ...
Except I overcompensated at the start and wound up in a tangle with a weary voice intoning: "Clean up in Aisle 3."
Slim looked embarrassed. Al chortled. I vowed redemption.
