It has not yet hit the medical journals, but I personally have been ravished by several seizures of this new-to-me disease.
It strikes without notice and is usually apparent post-noon snooze time on warm, sunny days when the azure blue sky is afloat with white fluffy clouds buffed by gentle southerly breezes.
It doesn’t seem to infect the very young, though teenagers, mid-age, and those recently retired, on occasion, seem to lack its immunity. It is most apparent in the aged, the old and the elderly and, more politically correct, in those in their so-called golden years. Though lacking identity in the dictionary compiled by Webster, I think it will likely go down in the annals of medical history as none other than “lazyitis.”
I feel quite sure that this animal disease is hereditary to the feline family, but is no doubt contagious to humans who associate with cats. This became apparent to me, just this past week, as I lounged comfortably in one of the long row of strong, comfortable Mennonite-built, Adirondack style chairs lined, in numbers greater than a dozen, beneath the well-extended overhang that fronts the length of our west-facing barn.
This gives an unencumbered view of the sunsets, our campfire pit, the huskies’ kennels, the horseshoe pits, as well as both the comings and goings of entrance and exit of lengthy farm lanes.
I often sit there to contemplate, sort out my thoughts, make some oddball decisions and, rightly or wrongly, write the odd paragraph mentally in my head. It is also well within hearing distance of the verbal comments, scuffles and complaints of the animals housed comfortably within.
I know I caught this malignant addiction from our lazy red tabby barn cat “Stephen” who, even though I bought him a warm, fur-lined hooded basket to sleep in, which cost me $49 at Christmas, sprawls, faking sleep, most days in the chair next to where I oft times slumber. He chooses this chair mainly because its child accommodation is slung six inches lower than the ones more comfortable for adults. That is definite proof of his affliction – his intelligent feline thinking why climb higher when the need to do so does not exist?
Growing up on the farm, tagging the Second World War and the Great Depression, prior to electricity and gas engine availability, my father had a theory that I feel would work well in the curing of lazyitis. His thoughts dwelt heavily on the fact that man was created with a built-in kick starter. Perhaps he was right, as I often had my enthusiasm and energy return immediately by a well-placed kick in the area where the butt crack joined the body.
Perhaps his far-reaching foresight may save billions of hard-earned tax dollars in the government’s search for a cure of lazyitis. What are your thoughts?
Take care, ‘cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105.