Braden in in Iraq, out of my reach. I keep tabs on him by reading Jack and Sherry's e-mails. Mostly Jack's. It is in reading those e-mails that I learned that Braden is Jack's son through a previous marriage. I did not know any of this. Braden is closer to Jack, but close to Sherry. I need to find out what happened to Braden's other, or where she is. A dog needs to know these things.
Braden is in 2/C/1 of the 2nd Brigade of the 4th ID (2nd Platoon, Charlie Company, 1st Battalion). He is a grunt, infantry, ground pounder, canon fodder, choose your favorite. I have been infantry in several wars in the past century and a half. There is no better way to taste the bitter barbarity of war.
Braden says he has been through 3 IEDs, with no injuries. Right. I am a dog, but I can read. 1 out of 5 troops coming back from Iraq have PTSD or TBIs, or both, due to having their brains rattled like castanets from the blast of an IED. (Note: PTSD = Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; TBI = Traumatic Brain Injury) I read his messages carefully for signs of either. All I see so far are sign of need for beer and girls. Braden is a big fan and consumer of both. Not too much of either in Iraq, according to Braden, at least on his FOB (base).
He says things are actually better. He says the talk is that it is better now to be in Iraq than in Stan. He says there are fewer prayers prior to patrols and raids. And fewer raids. A newby in his squad complained the other day, asked when he was going to see some action. No one laughed. Everyone just stared at him. Braden told him, "Just wait, kid."
Sven and Rick are both playing hard core football. They are only 7th grade. But they are big, and like to hit. They play on different teams which just happen to have an intense rivalry. They play each other in 2 weeks. The boys have bought into the rivalry at home. Jack has run each one to the ER in the past 3 weeks for stitches. It is always an "accident." But, some accidents are destined.
Both are now fully into adolescence. I can hear them night pounding away at their puds, and smell it the next morning. They take long showers for the same reasons. If I was not a dog, and fond of licking my own "privates" (but only in dog form, I swear) I might be embarrassed. But, I am not. It is natural and healthy. I am curious to see when they move beyond just texting girls and actually talking to them, tete a tete.
Jack and Sherry are in a bad place. I worry. Sherry has taken to going out with wild friends. I followed three of them one night to a local "meat market." I don't mean the good kind. I mean the bad. I watched Sherry flirt with several swarmy looking characters. Their voices were like engines needing oil, and they smelled like roadkill that doesn't know to lie down. It took effort to keep my lips from curling. One guy in particular was pissing me off. He kept putting his hand on Sherry's shoulder, and looking down her shirt. There was a target designator, from somewhere, "lighting up" his throat and feeding data back to my teeth. But, to my relief, they all left before too late.
Jack and I have become regulars at Trolley's. We even have our regular stools. This is a sample of recent conversation:
"I don't want a fair-weather love. I want a woman who will stand by me, who I can stand by, through thick and thin, through the good days and bad.
"I don't think she is a nice person. And I don't know that she is a happy person."
"You can't just give up."
"Why?"
"The boys."
"I know. That's the hell of it." He looked at his watch. "Damn. I got to go home and let the dog out. He's been in all day."
"No, you don't."
"Say what? Why?"
"Oh, uh, trust me. He's fine."
Getting home before him s the trick. I try to take off hen I see he is ready to leave. And since I don't take a car to Trolley's, I am on paw. But, we weredogs are fast. In a race home, I would win. But, I don't stop for lights.
CW
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