The nod and smile let me know that the heart transplant was successful and the patient was resting and breathing comfortably on his own.

My mother, a reasonably healthy, spry, and very Scottish 90 year old, was relieved at the good news that her best friend and constant companion was going to be fine. As she breathed a sigh of relief, she positioned herself into her new multi-function recliner chair and closed her eyes and I could immediately see the relief on her face.

There was nothing else for my wife and I to do at this point, so we whispered our goodbyes, let ourselves out of her one bedroom apartment in the retirement home and drove to our own home forty minutes away……

We barely made it in the door when we received a text message from my mother saying that she had signaled the nurse’s station in the retirement home for help by pressing a red button on a communication panel on the wall. There were no additional details as to why she needed help. Was there a problem with the heart transplant, or was the problem with my mother herself? 

My first thought was there must have been a problem with the transplant patient being the most likely of possibilities, but then again, my mother is 90 years old after all, so the issue could just as easily have been with her.

Just as we were about to head into the car and drive the forty minutes back to the retirement home, a second much longer text came in. 

In my rush for answers, my eyes focused on two words contained in the updated message –  “her heart”. This did not sound good…

Whenever dramatic news is conveyed via text message, there is a tendency for mis-communication in the rush and panic when the sender of the text is not as skilled in the construction of the message as one might hope, specifically in the details -  you know, the critical details.

My mother was resting in her recliner chair and all of a sudden she could hear her heartbeat, something that was disturbing, very strange, and new to her, so a bit of panic set in and she rightfully contacted the nursing staff.

Now you must understand that my mother doesn’t normally just write simple text messages short and sweet. No, she feels she has to use up the entire maximum limit allowed of 160 characters per text, as if she’s paying a flat rate per text regardless of the number of characters. Did I mention that she’s 90 and very Scottish?

So, in my haste to understand what was going on, I happened to skip over the most important details of what she was trying to let us know.

As she sat in her chair, she said she could hear the sound of her heartbeat and that was very concerning to her, so much so, she reckoned that summoning medical assistance was the right thing to do.

As I write this story, I now realize I forgot to include one detail that might make this story a little easier to understand.

I may have inadvertently given you the impression that the heart transplant patient I talked about at the beginning of this story, was a human companion to my aging mother. In fact, the patient is indeed her companion, but not of the human kind. The patient is, as she calls it, her “wee puppy” who lays beside her chair sleeping in a wicker basket under an equally wee Scottish tartan blanket.

During our visit to see Mom the previous day, we noticed that her wee pal was not breathing so action had to be taken on our part and quickly. So off we went to find something to revive Mom’s pal.

Oh, did I also forget to mention that Mom’s wee pal is not a real puppy, even though Mom will argue that he is very real?

Her “wee puppy” is a very realistic looking golden retriever puppy toy with soft fur and a chest that moves up and down that makes it look like he is breathing.

With instruments in hand we performed the delicate heart transplant by opening a flap on the little fellow’s belly and removed his dead battery and replaced it with a fresh new one thereby reviving her best pal. Instant heart resuscitation!

So, back to Mom’s medical issue…

A few minutes after requesting medical assistance with the push of a single red button, she realized that what she was hearing was not her own heartbeat, but rather the battery powered heartbeat of her “wee pal” sitting beside her! Panic stations were cancelled all is well at the retirement home - well at least for now.

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This story is 100% true - well except for the parts 

I just made up!

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Copyright Kenneth Lane Smith 2025

All Rights Reserved

On A Wing and a Prayer

A number of years ago I had just purchased a new 2 door Buick and decided to take my wife and daughter out to a lake up north for the day on a weekend adventure. The day was fine and the weather even better. We had all enjoyed our time at the lake swimming, carrying on playing games, generally relaxing away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Afterwards I fired up some charcoal in one of those small metal BBQs you sometimes find atop a steel post in public picnicking areas and grilled up some hotdogs and burgers.

A few hours later, it was time to pack the crew into the car and retrace my route back to the highway and head home. All was good in the world that day. Tuckered out, my daughter fell asleep in the back seat as my wife and I enjoyed the scenery as we cruised down the road at 55 miles an hour, listening to the radio as the miles vanished behind us.

About twenty minutes into the drive a small bird who maybe had troubles on his mind, or suffering from a hangover, and for no other reason that I could fathom, decided to commit suicide by flying directly across my path, slamming into the front of my new car, which for the record, I had just finished washing and waxing before setting out that morning. I know he hit the front of my car by the fact that he didn’t fly up and over the windshield, so I figured it must have hit the front bumper or grill. As soon as he hit, I looked into my side and rear view mirrors and saw no sign of a cloud of feathers or a bird somersaulting down the road behind me. I almost expected to see the bird giving me the bird as if this was my fault!

Now I have no problem admitting that I find certain birds, sea creatures and select parts of four legged animals quite tasty when prepared over a hot flame or even deep fried, however I don’t have the heart to kill any of them myself. If I had to hunt and kill for my dinner to survive, I would be one skinny vegetarian. A very hungry vegetarian I’ll concede, but one with a clear conscience. Yes I know, that’s a wee bit hypocritical.

I immediately felt bad, really, really bad at what had just happened and instinctively glanced into the back seat and was relieved that my daughter was still sound asleep and had not witnessed the carnage that took place ten feet in front of her. Well at least I wouldn’t have to live the shame of being thought of as “Dad the Bird Murderer” for the rest of my life.

After a suitable period of mourning, I calmed myself down and said a little silent bird prayer to whatever deity was listening and in charge of all wounded winged warriors.

About an hour later the gas gauge was telling me it was time to stop and refuel for the rest of the drive home. After exiting the highway, I pulled into an old timey gas station and up to the gas pumps. As soon as I drove over the ding-ding rubber hose (I told you it was an old timey gas station) a young gas jockey hopped out of the office and approached my window from the rear of the car where the gas filler-upper door was located. I glanced at him and simply said, “fill ‘er up with regular” and he immediately set about the task.

After inserting the nozzle and starting the pump, he stepped back towards my window with a squeegee in his hand and started to clean the windshield when he stopped and turned back towards me and quietly said, “Sir, can you come out here for a moment. There’s something I need you to see”.

Now I have to acknowledge that my grieving period for the bird that slammed into my car had long since passed and was completely forgotten, however the fact that the young man needed to show me something of interest, brought it all racing back and I immediately thought, “Oh great, I must have bird bits and pieces splattered all over the front of my new car”!

We both stood there looking at the front of the car, and there it was, like an avian crucifixion scene firmly affixed to my grill.

 My unwitting feathered passenger was facing straight forward with both its wings fully splayed out to his sides, his back seemingly glued to the front of the car like a dashboard Jesus nailed to the cross.

As the two of us stared at the scene of carnage in front of us, the young lad, aware that my daughter was now awake in the back seat and watching the two of us talking and pointing at the car, he quietly asked me if I would like him to remove the bird and dispose of it without causing any alarm to curious eyes?

Before I could answer, and proof that my prayers to the God of all birds big and small had been answered, the bird simply gave his little head a couple of shakes, kicked himself off the grill, flapped his wings and flew up into the air as we looked like two proverbial deer caught in the headlights standing there mouths open and gawking upwards to the sky!

This was one tough bird! He had somehow managed to survive over an hour stuck to the front grill of my new coupe while I travelled at least fifty miles at close to 60 miles an hour and he just up and flew the coop right before our eyes, and that’s the whole truth and nothing but the truth!

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(Every word of this story is 100% true. Well except the parts that I simply made up!)

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