They often say to live every day of your life as if it’s your last. Actually very few people say that. I know I have never said that. I’m more of a “There’s always tomorrow” type of procrastinationarian. Live every day as if you’ll be bored sick tomorrow if you do it today.

But when they do say to live each day as if it’s your last, bear in mind some of the following real-life examples:

You could be my fourteen-month-old son for instance. You herd 47 Mandarin oranges into your mouth at once before attempting a swallow. When you realize you’ve inhaled more than you can chew, your face briefly turns the color of Jupiter, your eyes cross, you gurgle out something, you cough like a dying cat, you offload a mushy orange entanglement the size of a baseball, then you sigh and smile and lean back in your chair, equal parts relief and accomplishment. Then you do it again at lunch and supper.

Or you could be me. You witness that and nearly die of a heart attack three times daily.

Or you could be my grandmother. You are 86 years older than your great-grandson but have had fewer citric bypass issues. As a youth you daily walked 50 miles into town for two handfuls of dirt for the family. Because walking was faster than operating the motorized vehicles your family didn’t own anyway. You awoke at the same hour that your offspring’s offspring would regularly stagger home from a night out two short generations later to start tending to animals and planting your family’s next 20,000 meals. You grew up in the Depression but regrettably, apparently never invested in any of the mass media that would have alerted you that it has since ended. You use the same Ziploc bags as Ozzie and Harriet. You survived the Depression and countless wars against virtually every country in Asia. And you did it all without air conditioning or a microwave. Your self-imposed degree of difficulty is shocking, stupefying actually, if not outright commendable.

So there’s some expectation that you could go out and water your plants without getting attacked by a goat. And you’d be wrong.

Your “neighbors,” for lack of a printable term, have seemingly lost track of their goats – again- and they – the goats- have made their way into your yard, this time meaning business. This would almost be permissible if they at least lived on an apparent farm. But they don’t. The neighbors don’t grow, raise, milk, or slaughter anything, nor are they subsidized to NOT do any of those things, else they should have at least subsequently subsidized their own regulation-sized Hircine Retaining Wall. You’d think. But no.

Two of the three goats just sort of stand there and eat your grass, (not that you needed that grass anyway) but the third goat pins you up against your front door and rams your midsection with its head. This is disorienting to anyone, but especially you, because this hasn’t happened to you in some time. You are scared and cry for help but none is forthcoming. You are saved only by your ability to bore the goats nearly to tears with your impish cries, and so they pack up and head home, realizing they will get none of whatever it was they wanted in the first place. (A cup of sugar? Bread? More grass? Your Singer sewing machine?) Your legs now resemble diseased fruit with the pounding they took, and let’s face it, you’re 87 years old, a lot could have happened. But like the orange-stuffing toddler, you live to fight another day.

Or you could be the goats. By the grace of God, you picked a joyless Tuesday August morning to attack your overmatched, octogenarian neighbor. Had you picked a Sunday or a major US holiday, somebody else representing the family would likely have filled your bloodstream with lead sufficient to topple the Budweiser Clydesdales. So somebody is watching over you as well. Just not your owners I guess.

Today it’s oranges, goats, or guns that could kill you. (Is that Warren Zevon I see smiling from Heaven?) Tomorrow, who knows? Live every day as if tomorrow something else could kill you. That’s what I’ve been saying this whole time.