View from the North 40

The Universe will have its balance, if not through blood sacrifice, then through humiliation.

A few weeks ago I wrote a column about how a friend from way back found me through the magic of the Internet — and the miracle of my name and column being out there in cyberspace. I felt a little bit like a celebrity that she could do a Google search and find me.

I mean, really, this is me we’re talking about. Who am I compared to the price of tea in China? Very minor in value and equally irrelevant to your daily existence, I can tell you that much.

But still, in the life of me, this was a little moment to reflect with a smile on what I had accomplished and reap a little reward from it … then I got a fan letter and my little well of self-confidence overflowed with giddiness.

This was a real fan letter, from a stranger — not someone who knew me or someone who knew someone I knew. Not that kind words, either spoken or written, from family and friends (or their family and friends) aren’t awesome. It’s just that I was totally gob-stopped that a complete stranger would take the time out of her day to compose and send a personal note. To me. To say something nice.

I considered having some of the better quotes singing my praises printed on a T-shirt, kind of like what we see for book and movie covers. The only thing holding me back was the Universe.

The Universe would not allow such behavior, which seems perilously close to arrogance, from me, even if I were doing it in jest.

I’m not saying the Universe is mean or has it out for me in particular, per se. I’m simply saying that the Universe and I have an understanding based on our longstanding cohabitation on this planet.

In accordance with that understanding, the Universe will deal with any and all displays by me of arrogance or near-arrogance — or behaviors, thoughts or feelings that can be interpreted as kind of arrogance that most people call self-confidence — with a ruthless determination to beat the snot right out of my ego.

The celebration of my newfound celebrity was kept modest. I thanked those people who needed to be thanked, and made a few light-hearted jokes about my anti-celebritiness.

And I waited.

I waited for the Universe to respond to the fact that I told my friends and family that someone had written nice things about me. Me. No number of humility-based jokes could counter such boastfulness.

The Universe doesn’t take kindly to even little acts like this from me.

Then it came.

The other shoe dropping.

A few weeks ago John and I went to a local ranch supply store and took our dog, Cooper, with us as usual because, well, we can. Plus, he’s a big hit with the employees, especially the crew at the check out counter who pump him full of treats as he begs intensely, performing a handful of his tricks.

That day, a bag with a few bolts we’d purchased was left behind at the front counter, but the clerks set our abandoned purchase aside for us.

Earlier this week as we walked into the store, again, with the dog, we smiled at the usual chorus of “hey, it’s Cooper,” “hi, Coop,” “look at you, cutie,” “I’ll get some treats!” Then we heard: “Oh, hey, you guys forgot something here last time. We saved it for you, with your name and everything.”

I thanked them warmly for doing that and told them we’d be back with our new items to purchase — and our popular four-legged treat receptacle.

As I walked away, I glanced down at the receipt that had our names clearly printed on the page along with a notation someone had handwritten in bold blue and circled for emphasis: “Cooper’s mom and dad.”

So much for my pride.

Pam who? Oh that cute dog's mom.

A few hundred words printed in a weekly column, apparently, cannot compete with a fuzzy-faced dog who has a repertoire of 20-plus tricks and a shameless willingness to showboat for a few milk bones.

(Thanks for the reminder of my place in this world, Universe, at [email protected].)