“Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Gus loves the snow, a surprise to me and many others. Most Boston Terriers don’t, I am told, but I live in farm country, and many farmers seem to have tough little Boston Terriers who love the snow. Farmers don’t put sweaters or  blankets on their dogs, I do when it gets into the single digits.

Tomorrow it will be close to 70, and the snow is already mostly gone. Gus had an excellent day today, no spit-ups of any kind for the first time in a long time. My new new, new, new, new, new diet seems to be working.

One person read my piece yesterday on the emotions I felt about Gus’s illness and she said I would just have to “bounce back.” Another suggested I should change my attitude, another told me Gus was not the right dog for Maria and I, and she said we should give him away because he wasn’t always wearing a sweater in the snow.

Another said she knew I didn’t want advice (but) the thought Gus might have a parasite, and that the long string I pulled out of his butt might be a tapeworm.

Life in the fishbowl. If nothing else in my life, I am a bouncer back. I am one bouncing ball. Bouncing back is my passion, my sport, one of the few things in life I am really good at.

Isn’t all of life about bouncing back, every single day? To me, bouncing back stops only at death.

I can’t imagine changing my attitude more than I do or have. When I moved to the first Bedlam Farm it was the first time I ever set foot on a farm in my life.

My friends gave up on me and ran for their lives. I haven’t seen them since.

I will never forget the distinguished  analyst, fresh from a trip to India with his son,  looking at me and shaking his head and telling me he had never met anyone my age undertaking so much change.

I’m just getting started, I said.

A year ago, I never would have gotten a Boston Terrier. Six months ago, I would never have kept a dog with a chronic and messy disease like megaesophagus. Now I am a mixer of exotic food and recipes, poring through Gus’s vomit to see what he ate now.

And I have a snail named Socrates. And a wife named Maria.

How much change can a person have and still be standing?

I am not nearly done with change. I am bristling with attitude. I have been bouncing back like one of those magic putty balls all of my life. I often bounce back when I should remain still.

I prove every day that writing openly about my life does not mean anybody will actually know me. Sometimes, the Internet is just an illusion.

Is it not a great challenge then, for me, to worship the integrity of my own mind? No idea or word in this world can live but a minute without being challenged or rebutted. This makes me sharp as a new blade.

When men show emotion, people freak. Some days I want to throw Gus into the river. But I am up at 6:30 every morning mixing a magic potion like some deranged old mystic. What part of that attitude ought to change?

I know men are a mess these days, and I’m embarrassed for them, but we do have feelings, and we do have emotions, however suppressed. Don’t be afraid of them, we need to show more of them. It doesn’t mean we are going to pieces.

Gus and I are having fun together, we are taking on the conventional wisdom of the world. We are already doing things we are not supposed to do, not doing things we are supposed to do, ignoring what everyone tells us to do, and trying things nobody has done.

Whatever else, I feel quite alive.

At our age, one woman wrote (this awful phrase), with all of our aches and chronic pains, things sometimes look bleak. My age has nothing to do with it, I wrote back somewhat archly, and I am not in chronic pain. Old talk kills, I don’t do it, it’s worse than megaesophagus.

I see every day that people will not ever stop telling me what to do and think.  I surrender. There are millions, even billions of them, and one of me. If I take my finger out of the dike, I’ll be swept away.

I am happy, content, finding my ground. I think I am learning how to turn straw into gold. Donald Trump gave me the gift of learning how to actually do good rather than talk about it at dinner parties.

These messages make me strong and sure.

Am I inarticulate? Or just misunderstood?

Trust your heart, wrote Ralph Waldo Emerson, every heart vibrates to that iron string.

Gus has taught me a lesson in love and commitment, and one can never get enough of those. Through his illness, I am learning resilience, patience, and empathy, and empathy is the highest calling of humanity.

Megaesophagus, like President Trump, is a gift to me. I am beginning to understand what I believe and what I value. I can handle more than I thought. I know more than some might think.

I am so grateful I did not leave the world before I knew those things. I believe I would actually miss both – Trump and megaesophagus –  if they were gone.

Change my attitude? Every day? Bounce back? Five times a day? Give Gus away? Never.