#DBlogWeek ’13 – Day 6 – And on that farm he had a…

Today is “Diabetes Art Day”. For me, inspiration comes to me at random times, not when prompted. Since I’ve got nothing art-related to share today, I’m going to exercise my Diabetes Wild Kingdom Wildcard option (ironically, I opted-in to the Creativity/Art category last year). But if you really want to see some of my creative artwork, you can look at my MS-Paint masterpiece from Thursday, my video re-enactment of hypoglycemia from last month, or my very first Wordless Wednesday).

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My very first pets were a pair of goldfish. My dad bought them for me as a young child as a reward (a/k/a bribe) when I stopped wetting my bed. I named them after the then-famous cartoon magpies, Heckle and Jeckle.

When I get my diabetes service-animal, I’m going to honor it by naming it after my very first pet. I’ll name it Heckle. But this Heckle won’t be a bird, nor will it be a fish.

Heckle the Second will be a goat. A goat would make a perfect pet for a person with diabetes. Not only will it happily eat up the specially-prepared sugar-free dessert that Great-Aunt Ida prepared (but nobody dared try), but a goat would clean up all the diabetes-evidence left in a PWD’s wake.

Dropped needle guards and lancet covers would be a snack for him. Infusion set packing and medical adhesive backing would be dessert. Free-range test strips would be the most delectable treat of all (fortunately, they exist in plentiful abundance). A goat would find them and take care of them without a worry in the world. (Note: you should still check your local regulations for proper disposal of medical waste.)

Of course, my goat wouldn’t be just any ordinary goat. It would be a special kind of goat. A scape-goat (obviously!). He’ll go with me everywhere, and if anything should happen to go wrong, Heckle will be there to take the blame.

Lost my meter? Heckle hid it.

Low blood sugar overnight? Heckle ate some of my dinner.

Insulin went bad? Heckle left the refrigerator door open.

Occlusion alarm? Heckle chewed the tubing.

Infusion set ripped out? Heckle turned the doorknob.

Got felt up at the airport? Heckle was… well… heckling the TSA agent.

My point is this: Heckle absolutely CANNOT be trusted … and that is exactly why I need him with me at all times. Because as long as he’s there, he’s guilty – and I’m exonerated from any wrongdoing. I could use the freedom.

Oh, and by the way. A couple of years after Heckle the Fish died, the bed-wetting started up again. And then I was diagnosed with diabetes.

I blame Heckle.