One of the great joys of my life is my honorary niece, Seana Christine, her sister, her brother, and her parents. Those three children, in my never-to-be-humble opinion, represent the gold standard for kidsters (though now that they’re college-age, I might have to start calling them something different. SC just celebrated another birthday, and as well as finishing up her first year at veterinary school, I’m proud to say she’s using a stethoscope Uncle Kent got for her). To appreciate the story that follows, I need to mention SC’s dad is a retired USMC sergeant. I decided more than a quarter-century ago that I would not arm wrestle the man on a bet. Furthermore, the last time I visited I shook hands with Brian Edward, who apparently has closed the 2-meter mark, and must get his mail at the weight room. This kid pumps iron! After the handshake, I decided I would not thumb wrestle that kid on a bet. His plans are uncertain, but officer candidacy school may be in his future.
Last month I was in domestic court getting a woman a civil protection order against her boyfriend, a thoroughly unpleasant thug named Mr. Pigot. She told me he’d roughed her up in front of witnesses, and I figured we had a good case. I called Mr. Pigot to explain his choices: he could represent himself or engage council, he could have a contested hearing or agree to a consent agreement in which he would not be able to approach my client within a 500-foot radius. He taunted me that my client would never show up in court and called me everything but a precious child of God. It occurred to me that perhaps his name was appropriate. Pig-OT—overtime pig. Is it that he works extra hours to become the pig he is, or was it that after a tie at the Franklin County Pig Contest, he pushed through in overtime to win the award of biggest pig in this part of Ohio? I suspect both are true.
The day of court, my client showed up with her witnesses: her father and brother. When Mr. Overtime Swine showed up, he saw that his ex-girlfriend/ex-punching bag had finally stood up to him. He again demonstrated his comprehensive knowledge of every profanity in the English language—I don’t think his vocabulary includes words with more than four letters. I resisted the impulse to ask him to meet me in the parking lot so we could do the man-dance. I didn’t care if he was 70 years younger than me—I wanted a piece of that guy.
My client was victorious, and elated, and I am enjoying the thought that the state of Ohio will be sending me a check for my efforts. When I got the final judgment form, I saw something that made my jaw hang slack. By remarkable coincidence, my client had a birth date exactly one day before my honorary niece SC. It occurred to me exactly what would have happened if Mr. OT Swine had either laid hands on SC in the presence of her father or younger brother. Most likely, he’d be wearing a tag on his toe. I hope my readers won’t think I’m a bad person when I say I wasn’t angry any longer, but I did have a good laugh.
Thank you Seana, thank you Mark, thank you Brian. Barbara and Aaron, thank you too.
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