When Owen was about 3, he announced that when he grew up, he wanted to be a fire hydrant. "That's great, honey," I said encouragingly, "you'll be a wonderful fireman." He fixed me with his "oh-you-sad-woman" glare, and replied, "I don't want to be a fire man. I want to be a fire hydrant." I blamed Keith's side of the family.
Lately, tho', I've been reconsidering Owen's career ambition, and thinking maybe I dismissed it too hastily. I think I'd like to be a fire hydrant. I look good in red, for one thing. And there's something quite appealing about the idea of a life of squatting on the street corner, stolid, solid, just being, yet at the same time performing an invaluable if little-used function. Of course, there would be the occasional shower of dog pee, but I figure I can handle that. At least when dogs pee on you, they do so with honesty and integrity. No dressing it up with a genial, "Oh, by the way, a quick word, if you don't mind;" no papering it over with labels like "constructive criticism" or "peer review." They just piss, shake, and move on.
I wish I could piss, shake, and move on. But I can't. So I'm aiming for fire hydrant-hood instead.
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