“It’ll never happen to me. No way.”

It seems like just yesterday – the innocence, the simplicity, the uncluttered joy of living. Those around me fell with astonishing regularity – some expected, others shocking – but I remained unaffected. There were scares along the way, sure, like the quiet Sunday afternoon with my music, my dogs, and my thoughts, interrupted by an uncomfortable twinge.  After a disturbing few minutes, I changed to a ’70s rock channel, poured a drink, and felt better.  As time went by, the odd tingling in my fingers and across my head came more frequently and with an increasing intensity.  The realization that I was close to succumbing was alarming, and I tried every home remedy I could think of to head it off:  Computer games, TV, heavy drinking.  None were effective, and some actually exacerbated it.  The struggle intensified by the day, and my resolve faltered, but I hung on.  Then it happened.  It’s one of those life events that remain etched in your memory forever:  a national tragedy, your team’s first World Series title, the birth of a child, the death of a love.  I got home from a typical Saturday’s activities and decided to see what was happening on Facebook.  A notification from a friend popped up, and there it was, the final blow to my stand against the pandemic, the harsh realization that I was a pretender – an eccentric hold-out who couldn’t prevail:  The invitation to visit his dog’s blog.  His dog.  Has a blog.  His dog – who doesn’t have opposable thumbs and probably can’t spell and never took typing class – fell to it.  I realized I didn’t have a prayer, so here you have it.

Welcome to the world of Whit.  Enjoy, but don’t get too comfortable.