Football, Choking Puppies, and Perspective

As a football fan who grew up in Western Pennsylvania, I spent most of last week thinking about the Steelers game against the Patriots. Whoever won the game would likely be the AFC's #1 seed, and the road to the Super Bowl would then go through their home stadium. The stakes were high.

History hasn't been kind to the Steelers in this match up: the Patriots have won 10 of the last 13 games, including some truly lopsided AFC Championship Games. Tom Brady & Belichick just have the Steelers' number.

Tonight would be no different, as the Patriots turned up the heat when it mattered, came back from behind in the fourth quarter, and held on through a truly bonkers final minute to win 27-24. 

The Steelers had a chance to win the game in the final seconds or, at least, kick a field goal to send it to overtime. Instead, a strange series of plays ended with a fitting interception to prove once again that Pittsburgh is the weaker brother in this rivalry: not quite up to the task of knocking off the champs.

The game kind of crushed me. I actually felt angry and depressed. I was aware that it doesn't make any sense to get this riled up over a football game played by millionaire athletes, but I genuinely was upset about the outcome. Mostly because I believed they finally were going to beat the Pats, only to be disappointed again.

As I do after every week's game, I was talking to my best friend about it on the phone. (As guys born in 1980, we're just old enough to still use phones to speak to other humans.) Midway through my complaint about how we'll never beat these guys, Mrs. Done by Forty screamed that she needed my help. 

Like actually screamed: "Brian! I need you!"

Cayenne, our golden retriever, was choking. She doesn't chew her food and, despite using a puzzle bowl, must have gotten food stuck in her throat. She wasn't breathing. She was laying down and heaving, tail tucked between her legs, looking to my eyes for help. 

I started freaking out. 

We'd just lost Pepper last summer. I couldn't lose Cayenne, too. 

Mrs. Done by Forty managed to google some instructions as I lifted her legs, started doing some half-assed Heimlich maneuvers. None of that was working, so I threw my shoes on and grabbed my keys, thinking we needed to get her to the animal hospital. 

But we knew there wasn't time for that.

I finally did the thing you're not supposed to do, and just tried fishing my fingers into her throat, and that somehow got her to throw up. After another minute, she threw up the rest of her dinner, a mess of kibble entirely un-chewed and held together by glob of clear, sticky saliva, and she immediately seemed back to normal. 

Cayenne calmly walked over to her dinner bowl and stared at us, ready to be fed a new dinner.

Pumped up on adrenaline, Mrs. Done by Forty and I slumped to the ground, and I started bawling. I was sure I was going to lose her there on the kitchen floor.

But she's fine, thank God. We called the animal hospital and they told us not to even worry about bringing her in: just to keep an eye on her for any signs of odd behavior. 

Still, my brain is a useless clump of worry now. I couldn't finish my house chores, or cook dinner, or write. But I am relieved, and happy.

I'm certainly not upset anymore about some fucking football game.

I get confused a lot the time about what matters. My emotions rarely match the situation, and I find myself getting angry about things that are trivial: like being five minutes late, or the house being messy.

My therapist gave me a little tool to help me keep things in perspective. When I feel angry, I ask myself where it fits on a scale of 1-10 in importance. 

"What number is this?" I ask myself. At least when I remember to.

A football game, even one against the Patriots, is a one. My puppy nearly dying is, I don't know, a nine.

Reaching financial independence by forty? That's a one, friends. 

I don't need to stress about hitting a financial goal, because the things that matter are all good. I'm healthy. My wife is healthy. My adorable dogs are healthy. We have a house with water that magically appears out of faucets whenever we'd like, lights that shine at the flick of a switch, and air that we can turn to whichever temperature we think is comfortable. There's food in the pantry and more in the fridge. I'm gainfully employed and Mrs. Done by Forty is pursuing a freaking PhD for God's sake. 

Things are good. Outside of the occasional choking hazard, I really and truly have nothing to worry about. I should remember that the next time something upsets me.

It's probably a one.