Wooden Dogs and Mass Death
Yesterday I visited one of my former clients (for want of a better word - what does one call a former house sit person?) We had stayed in touch because she had purchased me the above carving as a gift. Yes, she has two dogs, one of which is a pug-like thing not dissimilar to the carving. We had stayed in touch because we were trying to work out a time and date for collection of said item.
In that time I had managed to send her a pizza one night … one of the pitfalls of having multiple addresses. House Sitters tip #43. Always make sure the Menulog address is the one where you currently reside.
Meanwhile … she had been given a diagnosis of skin cancer and the top of her left ear has been removed. To say that she was not in good health to begin with would be akin to proclaiming that water is indeed wet. She hobbles from a bad back, smokes and drinks. Her skin is a pastiche of many shades, replete with blotchy sores and acne. When I see her I wonder how someone only 15 years my senior (66) could degrade to such a state? Life for her is no picnic - simply getting out of a chair or negotiating steps is a challenge.
She has a husband too … or had. He died suddenly about two weeks ago. The husband was a drinker but not a smoker. I know that he had recently been in hospital for surgery to his shoulder - an injury I suspect caused by a life of manual labour. He would have been roughly her age, perhaps slightly older.
She found him wedged in between the fence and the back shed - his beloved back shed where the alcohol lived in a fridge along side the wide screen TV for those occasions when the footy clashed with whatever the wife was watching. The shed contained other “manly” items like tools and pictures of cars.
She showed me the spot and explained that he was carrying a carton of beer in when he quite suddenly died. He fell between the door to the man-cave and a fence. It all seemed to me like such a pedestrian way to go - in perfect keeping with the order of their domestic routines. So bland was the details of his death that it made almost no impression on me at all. Not that I figure any death should or that death be remarkable in anyway. But standing there in the pleasant sun of a rare winter’s day, looking at the spot where the beer carrying man had fallen, to never drink again, I felt so little.
I didn’t know him other than a few brief interactions when I was first hired for the house sit gig. I DO remember that he asked me if I wanted a beer. He seemed a little desperate for male company - maybe DB could talk footsyball or cars with me? Was he thinking this? I would have disappointed.
It’s hard to get a grasp on the number of elevated deaths from an individual perspective because, and I don’t know what the numbers are, but if say 1 per 1000 people were to die in a year and that number goes up to say 1.3 per 1000 you ain’t going to notice. It only becomes apparent in aggregate.
I never mentioned the vaccine … for a couple of reasons: too close to the death to be casting aspersions, too unfamiliar with these people. I know they would have been jabbed. These people are exactly the demographic that would be and they would have done so unquestioningly.
Relaying some of this to my current house sit, the boyfriend of the daughter told me how his father … just … died - straight up in an armchair. One minute he was talking, the next he was dead. Apparently the optometrist saw something in his eyes earlier that day - dilated blood vessels or perhaps a hooded figure with a scythe and suggested that he go to the hospital. He didn’t. “When did all this occur?” I enquired. About a year and a half ago he said. My eyes did the knowing glance thing which was met by his unknowing one.
“The death of one man is a tragedy, the death of millions is just a statistic.” - Stalin probably but also Marilyn Manson.
And it is millions no doubt. A recent study out of Japan, after carefully examining 25 million health records, has concluded that at least 600,000 people have been killed by the Covid jabs in that country alone. There are so many of these studies now but it doesn’t seem to matter. Normies aren’t going to read medical research journals and no media outlet dare touch the story. It is easily the greatest medical disaster of all time but remains sub rosa.
Some think the embalmers clots might have a better chance of piercing through the narrative. The notorious “Calamari Clots”. They certainly look more impressive and are harder to deny but again … as long as the media close ranks the story will never see the light of day.
But the bigger take away from all this, for me at least, has been how little truth matters. And maybe I should be less surprised because really it is only our immediate surroundings that matter. Dead Beer Man didn’t know the reaper was inbound - he was just stocking the fridge and looking forward to a steak dinner and WHAM dead. Didn’t even see it coming.
We simply don’t prioritise truth even when it is a threat to life. Maybe in times past we thought differently but I would say the order of priorities for the average person is something like:
Whatever is fun
Whatever is easy
Whatever will maximise my comfort
Whatever is absolutely necessary
Truth for truth’s sake alone doesn’t get a look in.
Bidding for the wooden pug starts at 20c.
DB/