The Squirrel

I called my dad for Father's Day yesterday and we had a nice chat. If anyone has the "right" to complain, I suspect it'd be him. On Friday he was released from the hospital after his third round of chemo treatment and he has been feeling gross ever since. But although he has every right to complain, he doesn't. I find it admirable, yet confusing. So, to make up for his excellent attitude, I indulged in my own pity party:

"Dad, you would not believe how cruddy my week was: you're in the hospital, Grandma just suffered a stroke, my apartment is stinking hot, I'm on my last pair of contacts, I broke a filling in my tooth, I drowned my plant, a guy rolled over my big toe with a heavy cart, I got my student loan bill, my car was hit, I stained my favorite shirt, I had a piece of black pepper in my teeth, I lost an art contest at work ... and you want to know the final straw!?"
I paused for a dramatic effect. Dad listened intently on the other end.
"I killed a squirrel!"
The phone crackled.
"You killed a what?"
"A squirrel! I was driving down the highway and saw a squirrel playing on the side of the road and right as I drove past he darted out in front of me and thud-thudded under my car!" My voice got louder and louder as I continued the anecdote: "I looked in the rear-view mirror to see him spinning on his back!!!"
I thought I heard him chuckle. Then he responded in a serious tone:
"Well, you know what that means, right Lauralee?"
"No,... what?" I choked/sobbed.
"Compared to that squirrel, you don't have any problems!"

And I laughed. A loud, stress-freeing, snorting, signature "Lauralee Laugh". And it was goooood. Thank you, Dad. I continue to admire you.