I like things just so.

I stand at the kitchen sink, looking down the meadow at three deer grazing. Deer used to be regulars here, feeling safe, but now Henry shoos them with furious barking. It’s hilarious watching Henry spy these big visitors, stiffen, quiver, and erupt in outraged exclamations, insisting to be let outdoors so he can chase them off, maybe snag one for supper (good luck with that!). Henry is no pacifist or liberal: these acres are his by right and he’ll defend them! Peaceful coexistence is hooey, it’s a dog-eat-dog world and in these parts he’s the dog. (He thinks little of Edward Hicks as a painter.) Granted, Henry doesn’t eat grass himself, not much anyway, there’s plenty to share: one could even argue that deer contribute to our ecosystem, while adding grace to the view. Jane and I like our deer and would prefer Henry and they get along. Henry’s hearing none of it. This is his kingdom and he’ll protect us whether we like it or not. The deer look up. Surprised by this clamorous cannonball hurtling toward them, they trot into the woods at an untroubled pace. Doesn’t this noisy nuisance realize they’re three times his size? But who needs hassle?

Henry prances back toward the house, swollen with satisfaction at his mission’s success. If he were a cowboy, he’d be puffing his pistol before returning it to its holster.

I’m still grinning minutes after. This little drama was perfect – swift, concise, humorous, rousing, and laden with lessons, tauter and more memorable than my luckiest missive. Color me envious! My gaze returns to the pot I’m scrubbing, which is scarred and dented, irksome in its imperfection. The five-word, five-syllable sentence above comes to me as an invitation to meditation: I like things just so. But why? This pot is usable, it’s got what art fanciers call provenance, we’ve lived together a long time. Doesn’t our shared history count for anything? Why should I be irked by it? What has it ever done but serve me faithfully? So it’s got scratches and dents – who doesn’t? How can I be so uncharitable and sniffy about my good old pot to want to replace it? But I am: no truck with gooey sentiment, I like things just so.

Might mankind be divided between those who are finicky about fitness and those who aren’t? The phrase “anal retentive” hardly conveys this rage for order; it makes precision sound repugnant. I like things just so and feel grouchy, even threatened, when they’re not. I loathe slovenliness, especially my own. While I crave order, I tolerate more than a few messes because I’m a procrastinator. How many years have I been vowing to replace this pot? They’re always on sale at Kohl’s, shiny new sets, not that expensive, and I pass Kohl’s regularly. Or I could order some online and they’d be here faster than I can say “Amazon.”

Folks who crave order, I theorize, dread disorder. Hamlet’s of our tribe. “The time is out of joint,” he moans,

“Leave well enough alone” and before you know it, chaos engulfs you. I only make sense to myself when I know what rules and values prevail and my role in that context. I like things just so because when they’re not, life’s unbearable. An America amok is a scarily scarred pot. Depression, too, waits to reclaim me if order fails. If only I knew my purpose in life as perfectly as Henry knows his!