“If you are so inclined to breakfast this morning, I will be making Leanna a sausage deal,” says Paul as we stand in the kitchen and he does plyometric squats. Chloe, the neurotic dog, who has been afflicted by the bad spirits of the recently evicted housekeeper, whines on the recliner next to the wood stove. Dalyah, the good cat, inspects the box of firewood he just brought in for mice. I relate, “Despite my antipathy for cats, that is quite the good cat there.”

“Yes, sir, she is a hard working cat.” He then points to the scrawny, tailless, gray cat creeping across the kitchen counter and kicks at her. As she bounds off he says, “That cat, not so much. She has every one of the seven deadly sins in her.”

Kenny, the great blond Newfoundland, lies on the floor waiting for one of the human serving staff to massage his shoulders and haunches before he goes out on Coyote patrol. He has us all trained, including the rooster he lives with on the stone walled porch. That creature crows on a look from Kenny, to signal that it is time he be let back inside. The temperatures are in the single digits.

Yesterday, as Paul and I entered the home stretch of the third of our three ten-minute boxing rounds in the kitchen, it got a bit heated. I was defending in the doorway to the living room, running low on cracker energy, devolving into crumbdom. As I counter attacked, Kenny rushed into the kitchen, breaking up the fray. I chose to interpret this as white solidarity, what with my restive, colored chattel gaining the upper hand, and the Confederate beard loosing a few whiskers to boot…

I informed Paul that he had already made the morning travel article. Hearing that he was done in the bathtub and out in the kitchen, I emerged to share some coffee. Immediately seeing a naked Injun loading wood into the stove like an image from an Andrew Wyeth painting, I decided to use the bathroom with an about face and a, “Good morning, Paul.” “Good morning, Sir,” came the response, punctuated by split wood slamming into the steel oven…

I suppose the lady of the house is pleased with such scenes, particularly since Paul is now down to Middle Weight frame.

Last night, after boxing, drilling, knife sparring and bat and knife sparring in the 9 by 9 kitchen, under the eye of a very understanding wife, Paul and I sat for some boxing videos. We began by watching Sean’s most recent training video and finished with Usiak dethroning the Gypsy King. By that time my eye was in full fright, sizzling, pounding. Paul was concerned that our work had caused this. I predicted a change in weather, took the melatonin and blue methlyne prescribed by Montius last week, with a triptan pill and retired. It got worse and I took another triptan. I then slept 12 hours.

Waking this morning, I looked outside for the verdict. It was not the training. Though that activity, and my talking/coaching surely exasperated it, the four additional inches of snow on the ground and the continued ringing in the ears and the long sizzle of the three pronged nerve, told the tale. I am in a weather indicated cycle. A quiet day is necessary. No sparring videos or drills today. I will try and do these elsewhere and have them posted for Paul. His boxing and weapons are progressing nicely.

Looking at the snow, he explains, “T—B salted his drive way to ease our arrival tomorrow. I see he is from California, despite his redneck appearance. That accounts for the snow anxiety. He says its a steep driveway. We will see. I told Mister Barrett you were indisposed last night. So, providing you are up to it, we may record that podcast today. He had an encounter that he would like your advice on. I will check with T—B concerning their conditions for our trip tomorrow. If need, be, we can make it on Tuesday. But I think we can keep your schedule, as planned.

I had planned on taking you down in the Holler, only three miles that away, to see bear cave. It is a famous cave and is owned by a friend of mine. She has plans on a racket where she performs marriages in it. The cave used to be home to many snakes, but they are gone. There is graffiti in the cave—it has been visited by many, including Spaniards in the 1500s. But, the snow is a bit too deep for that—another time, God willing.”

Paul does not permit my help with anything out of doors other than sparring. The day before yesterday, as the cold front swept in, after he had laid the hay bails around the piping, he did bring in 10 5-gallon buckets for me to fill in the tub and store in the side room.

He journeys to town daily for fresh groceries and dotes upon his wife, who is recovering from a stroke. She works hard on her therapy. Out of his earnings shoeing horses, he finds her care, hires transport and therapy help, and does the massage himself. They are a strong team. Leanna does all of his billing and scheduling, as well as knits blankets for his regular clients. The recent loss of motor function in her left hand, has been augmented by a lap loom which permits her to knit blankets one-handed.

Paul bought cards and dominoes for Leanna and I to game this weekend. As the evicted housekeeper packed off the box with the rattan sparring sticks in it, Paul and I purchased 24 inch aluminum, children’s T-ball bats. These make perfect training tools for batons and machete, and are short enough for use inside, besides being an excellent war club. For training knives we bought a $3.29 pack of wooden salad and mixing spoons. Duct taped together, these five spoons made two excellent training knives with one spare. As an active boxer, Paul learns the stick and knife better with one in each hand. So we make that our main training set.

Training outside two evenings ago, bothered my tattered lungs. So, with single digit temps, we forgo sparring in the stables down the road where Paul took me after dark on Thursday night. Paul shared some thoughts on therapy for drug addicts, of whom he and Leanna have helped many.

“As indicated by all of the positive wordage on the guest bedroom walls, this modern therapy deal appeals to the narcisist in us. It is all very focused on me, me, me. I have used a sports therapist for my boxing, have benefited. But, in my opinion, seeing that therapy almost never works for these drug addicts, it appears to be a new religion of sorts, with the individual as its troubled god. I suppose, it naturally developed that way as a method for permitting troubled people to function in a world full of psychopaths—it makes of them something of a therapeutic psychopath. As for the support animals, particularly the dog, look at this poor whining creature. The support dog is simply a being into which the afflicted person places their neurosis. It is cruel. I see it with horse women all of the time. They are insane, almost to the last individual. The dog does not support them—it is their victim, their fellow addict, addicted to self-pity, and eventually abandoned to a pitiless world that does not care. Men of old would not have cottoned to such an abuse of working animals.”