Marshall Ramsey

SEALS in Afghanistan. Souce: US Navy

“Do you know Jesus?”

“Talked to him every day in Afghanistan and Iraq.”

“You have an active prayer life?”

“I prayed for my wife to be happy once. She left me the next day. So I’m afraid to ask God for anything else.”

The clean-cut young man looked curiously at the 40-year-old bearded man in the doorway.  A three-legged, one-eyed dog hopped past them and tried to hike his leg. He fell over.

“That’s Cy. As in Cyclops. Was going to call him Lucky, but that joke has been taken.”

The clean-cut young man said, “Um, would you like to hear more about how to have a relationship with God?”

“No thank you. If I didn’t have a relationship with God, I wouldn’t still be here.”

Cy hopped back into the house, barked twice, spun once and fell over.  He prepared for a nap.

“Have a good day and God bless you my bike-riding friend.”  Sean O’Reilly gently closed the door in the missionary’s face. The missionary gave up and left.

“How ’bout that, Cy. He wanted to save my soul.  Don’t think he’s up for that job, though. Even the Pope would struggle fixing mine.”

Cy barked at his master. Truth was, he had already saved O’Reilly’s soul.  A good dog will do that.

O’Reilly sat down on the tattered green couch and felt his prosthetic. He had been riding in the lead Humvee when his SEAL team was hit by an IED. “Dam’ Taliban. Dam’ Iranians. I sure miss my leg.” Cy panted in agreement.  He missed his leg, too.   Cy had been hit by a car and abandoned on the side of the road. O’Reilly found him and did first aid on the small terrier.  He saved the little dog’s life. Now the little dog was trying to return the favor.

Coming home from war  and adjusting to civilian life had been more of a struggle than war itself. For 20 years, he had been a Navy SEAL. BUD/S training made him tough.  Combat made him tougher.  Marriage made him the toughest.  His high-school sweetheart Vicki had been the love of his life.  But he hadn’t really been there for their whole marriage. And when he was there, well, it was too much for her to handle.  Cy hopped over to the couch and begged to be picked up.

Cy had filled a big hole in O’Reilly’s heart.  A good dog will do that, too.

O’Reilly felt a storm coming on — the dark times when the post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) were the worst. He had stuck his pistol in his mouth a couple of times. But SEALS don’t quit.  And who would feed Cy?  So he gave up the booze, put his pistol away and sought help at the VA.  If paper work and red tape only cured PTSD, he would be happier than an astronaut in a Tang factory.  O’Reilly couldn’t be too mad at the folks at the VA. They had a hard job with lots of customers.

O’Reilly felt like he was fighting this one alone. People just did not care.

Because most Americans had no idea how many veterans were suffering.  And most Americans were oblivious there was even a war in Afghanistan. O’Reilly had the same nightmare every night — a small boy shooting at him with an AK-47 assault rifle. O’Reilly picked up his M-4 and began to squeeze the trigger. But before he could shoot, the little boy vaporized into a red mist from the cannon from an orbiting gunship above.

War was Hell and O’Reilly was on an extended tour of duty.  He wore his scars on the inside and out . And as tough as he was — and he was tough — this had been the hardest battle he had ever fought.

So he decided to surrender.

“God, it’s me again. Yes, you remember — the one who wanted his wife to be happy?  Yeah, you kind of owe me on that one. Look, I kind of have this nightmare-thing going on. I really need it taken care of.  And thanks for Cy. I know angels come in four-legs now.  Or as in this case, three.”

O’Reilly looked at the picture of his old man. His dad had been in Vietnam — and never said a word about that war. But O’Reilly had heard him crying late at night.  His father never had the resources he had. His father’s life had been cut short because of it.

O’Reilly was the one who had found his body in the closet.  That was a hell of a thing to do to a 16-year-old.  He never could forgive his dad. Now he completely understood.

“I’m a warrior. But please allow me to have a little peace.”

And with that, O’Reilly and Cy drifted off to sleep. The little boy visited him again, but this time did not have a gun. Instead, he held a bouquet of flowers.

This story is inspired by the heroism and sacrifice of so many Americans since 9/11.  

National Center for PTSD — Veterans Administration

woundedwear.org Provides free clothing and modifications to wounded warriors and raise national awareness of their sacrifice.

redcirclefoundation.org — helps families of fallen special operators.

I have a confession. I’ve been having an affair.

Her name is Debbie and I’ve had a crush on her since childhood. But an innocent crush turned into something wrong —  a torrid affair.

I’m a cheater and I’m ashamed.

I have no excuse other than the fact I was weak. I guess it was because I craved how she made me feel. Her sweetness made me feel warm. I can still taste her on on my lips. It was wrong. I know it.

I was weak. I lacked self control.  I thought I could just see her occasionally.  But no. I’d find myself sneaking around to be with her. I knew being with her was bad for my heart. But I couldn’t stop.

But it’s over now. I’m walking away.  I will cheat no more.

Little Debbie, I loved you and your snack cakes. Star Crunches. Zebra Cakes. Swiss Rolls. Oatmeal Creme Pies. I loved them all.  But I can’t cheat on my diet with you anymore.

Goodbye Debbie.  I wish you well.

I don’t normally drink before 8 a.m. —  but it has been that kind of morning.

Getting the family out of the door for school was like the fall of Saigon. There was gnashing of teeth, screams, copious tears and the rushing to get the heck out of dodge. And that was just from my wife.  We fought to get everyone fed, lunches made, clothes put on, teeth kind of brushed and showers taken. And in the right order.

I pray my youngest son’s underwear isn’t on outside of his pants.

I, being the hero of this story and a man who generally tries to avoid pissing off his lovely wife, chipped in and tried to do what I could to help get them out the door.  Three minutes past the moment they were supposed to leave, the garage door finally closed.  Peace blanketed the house. Pip looked at me as if to say, “Um, what was that?!?”

I shrugged my shoulders and let her out one last time. I poured a tall glass of tea and joined her outside on the patio.

It was the calm after the storm.

The Robin-egg’s blue sky reflected in the puddles from last night’s thunderstorm.  Pip ran out to do her morning squirrel patrol.  We recently reloaded the bird feeders with seed, so the fuzzy-tailed rats have come back in force. Pip’s hunting skills are still a little raw, although she generally follows the same routine Banjo used to follow.  I pulled up a chair on my patio and watched the Dog vs. Squirrel show’s opening act.

First of all, the squirrel has a distinct advantage.  He can climb trees. Pip’s advantage, a hypersonic bark, really doesn’t help her much.  The squirrel would go from oak to oak, leaving Pip constantly barking up the wrong tree.  She’ll figure it out eventually.   But not today.

As she ran in circles, I thought of Banjo’s squirrel hunts.  He used to be quite fearsome — but old age caught up with him and the squirrels started mocking him. It was really sad to watch. Apparently squirrels are much like many Americans — they refuse to respect their elders.

There was this one squirrel, I’ll call him “A-hole” for short, who used to mock Banjo.  And A-hole really would tick Banjo off.  You could see ‘Jo’s little Border Terrier face contort with disgust every time the squirrel would make him look like a fool.  When I would let Banjo out, he would charge A-hole. And A-hole would leave poor Banjo befuddled.  Until one fateful June morning.

I let Banjo out the the door. He ran up the hill.  But instead of running around barking at the squirrels, he promptly asked back in. (Banjo barked at the door. Pip scratches.)

I wondered, “What’s the heck is going on?” So I opened the door, looked down and there was A-hole. And A-hole was dead as a doorknob with two bite marks on his broken neck.  Banjo had a big grin on his face.  Every dog does have his day.

I learned a couple of  important lessons that day:

1. Never underestimate your elders.

2. And every A-hole will get what’s coming to him.