Somebody stole my shovel!

Here we are, in day sixty of sub-freezing temps and constant snow, with no job, plumbers hard at work for the last four hours on a leaky kitchen sink, my 17-year-old cat barely hanging on to her ninth life, and somebody -- some BASTARD! -- has stolen my snow shovel, right from our front yard. I may not be the world's most patient man, but I am generally willing to roll with Life's punches. This, however, is too much. It will not stand!

This was the most lightweight of our three snow shovels, plastic, the one I use to preserve what is left of the disks in my back. I still have the mega-sized metal one, the one that can plow half the walk in one pass if only I had a bulldozer with which to push it. I also have the smaller metal one, the one that scrapes up the cement as well as the snow, also hefty to handle. I suppose it was too much work for the thief to cart off one or both of these instruments, much easier to swipe the one that made my difficult life just a little less difficult.

Well, I hope you are happy, scoundrel. I hope the schadenfreude you've gained from this little escapade lasts you the rest of the winter. But make no mistake, you cad, there will be Hell to pay somewhere down the road!

Probably not, actually. You're probably scot-free. But I'm still holding out hope for Karma to smack you around. Perhaps, if we're lucky, with something a little more substantial than a plastic shovel.

Anyhow, Merry Christmas.