When my uncle fell from his hunting blind onto the deer, the surprise was over! The poor deer didn’t know what hit him. It ran off while my uncle suffered with broken ribs and a bruised pride. That deer likely had a great conversation when he rejoined his herd—“Some camouflaged flying man covered in deer urine came from nowhere—didn’t see it coming.”

Imagine the rest of your life having hunting buddies making jokes. “Hey, grab your saddle and let’s go hunting.” Or, “We riding in my truck or did you rent an ambulance?” “I see your rifle, got your parachute?”

That routine hunting trip became legendary. He was drawing back his bow when, according to him, the largest buck he had seen in years stopped directly beneath him. As he maneuvered for the most unpredictable shot, one you never plan for, he was suddenly airborne.

Sometimes the smallest decisions on a routine day change so very much. Some off-the-cuff comment. A split decision. An email. Isiah Thomas’ “B____” comment, Dan Quayle’s “potatoe,” Rodney King’s “Can’t we all just get along?” and a host of others had a comment change their lives. The same with Kelly Pickler’s “calamari” comment on American Idol. Doug Flute’s last college pass. Woody Haye’s punching of IU’s no. 58 on the Ohio State sideline.

I suppose those moments are a lot like hunting—the unexpected even when you plan. The suddenness. The rush. And usually your reaction, whether you shoot the deer or miss, is part of the challenge. And we all have stories from such things. But then there’s that day when two unexpected happens. A deer stops directly under you, and you step off the blind platform—or however the analogy plays out in your life.

Have you had a sudden decision make a huge decision? Or do you know of one?

I coughed and gagged as I tried to down a cup of Turkish coffee in the tiny Arabic café in Jerusalem. The cup looked like it was from a Suzy Homemaker set. How was I to know you’re not supposed to stir? The “mud” on the bottom surfaced and I lined my larynx with a paste that felt like a soggy White Castle slider with velcrow—the harder I gagged the more I needed to. All the while the older Muslim men laughed themselves silly. The kind of laugh that makes the eyes glassy and the imported white tube socks show all the way up to the double red stripes.

It was late Friday night, the Jewish Sabbath, and choices were slim. There, in the “lobby” of a cab rental shop with their old diesel Mercedes rattling outside, I just about met the God of Abraham.

That was the worst coffee experience I had until my longtime non-caffeine friends handed me a cup. I was ready to settle in for a morning read on their California patio over some warm brew—though the smell should have warned me. Suddenly my friends seemed like Juan Valdez imposters. Once again, I had a mouth full of something of foreign taste—but this time it wasn’t foreign. Far from Columbian beans and more closely linked to Jimmy Carter’s farm was a five-year old can of Choc full o’ nuts (Jerry's can, they bought for my last visit!). Might as well say Can full o’ yuk. It was more annoying than a Barack Obama answer to a Wolf Blitzer “Yes or No” question. This 30-brand blend, once considered premier, gave a jolt about as painful as Rosanne Barr’s national anthem.

This week at Indiana Wesleyan University, Sarah Lacey gave an engaging public presentation on the Fair Trade movement. As a fan for the underdog, the disenfranchised, the little guy, she began her research in hopes of accenting the mountain of support for the small Columbian farmers living in poverty while simultaneously producing mounds of the world’s best coffee berries (the split beans are inside). Poverty? This stuff costs nearly $5.00 a 16 ounce-cup at Starbucks. And considering that a pound can yield 55-60, 6-ounce cups, how can anyone in the business be poor? It’s counter-intuitive but true. In short, she found that in spite of all the noble efforts, the Fair Trade regulations were costing most of the small farmers as much or more as the middlemen were that they had replaced.

While some companies boast of being Fair Trade supportive, they often have only token involvement. For example, Starbucks has the Fair Trade Estima label—but it only accounts for 3% of all their sales. Many want-to-be Fair Trade farms simply cannot pay the certification fees. However, some of the American owners visit their supply farms. When asked about her personal choices, Sarah noted her resolve to buy the best-tasting coffee at the lowest prices. Given the overall “free trade” dynamics, she believes she’ll end up supporting the small farmers anyway. She contends that the best solution is helping the foreign agrarian society via economic education. The millions of stockpiled bags of Brazilian market will not disappear any time soon. Other cash crops, or at least rotation, seem to make a lot of sense.

Testing her theory, tonight I interviewed Jim Howard, owner of one of my favorite caffeine filling stations, Noble Coffee and Tea Company. It’s off the classy town square in Noblesville, Indiana, just across from the must-stop sandwich shop, Eddy’s. If you ask Jim one question about coffee, set your calendar to time it—he’s got Type-Kona blood. Slight in frame with a deep intense voice, he’s a talker. Looking over his half-glasses from his window perch, and under his “Holland Coffee” cap, he revealed more about the industry than the collective open-source Wikipedia postings. He’s got a rye humor—somewhere between Pat Paulsen and Dennis Miller with a short-haired Willie Nelson countenance.

His coffee shop is no slacker, selling up to14,000 drinks monthly. I inventoried the roasted beans on sale, and two of the 65 brands are stamped Fair Trade—I suppose a bit better than Starbucks on this score. I was impressed to learn that Jim actually visits his main Fair Trade shop in Rwanda. After many checks, the young boys wheeling the berries to the scales were consistently paid premium wages. He’s convinced that his Fair Trade supplier is the real deal.

However, there’s a downside that isn’t discussed as often—the quality. Jim is a member of the 5 million-mile club and knows his coffee. Yes, his work has taken him to most of the continents on several occasions, and to all the coffee culture zones. He’s been to hundreds of cupping tables since the mid-1970s. During that time he could only find one consistent supplier in Indiana of those prized beans—O’Malia’s at 56th & Emerson in downtown Indy. Now the internet and wide-open markets have given nearly unlimited access. But he’s discovered at the cupping tables that the Fair Trade coffees are never the premium tastes. If you’re guaranteed that Fair Trade will buy a quota of your beans, why sacrifice your best beans when the buyers at the cupping tables only select the best. And for the record, Jim’s Fair Trade beans are the average price of his other 64 “specialty-select brands”--$11.50 per pound. Specialty Select simply means they’ve been triple-sorted for quality and consistency, usually involving hand sorting. However, if you’re looking for the real bargain at Jim’s shop, the Jamaica Blue Roast is only $38.50 a pound! That’s a steal, when it’s $45.00 many other places, and around $75 in Japan, and if you’re buying all your coffee out, it’s about a fourth the price. And, here once again Jim’s commentary matches the integrity of his shop’s name—informing me that shops can’t guarantee that it’s grown in Jamaica, only that it came from there. “It’s likely Dominican, which tastes about the same.” I suppose it’s like trying to find real Grouper in the Tampa area—all those cheaper impostor fishes being served (by the way, DNA tests proved it’s real at Hurricane’s Restaurant).

Well, I’ll need to pass on the Jamaican brand before my wife gives me a one-way ticket there for Christmas, and redefines Free Trade. Speaking of the holiday season, the Christmas carolers are on the square tonight here in Noblesville, and if you’re reading this over the weekend stop in and for $1.29 you can get a great cup-and I think the country flavor of the month is Indonesian (or Italy, or Sicily, or a greenhouse in Iowa, wherever the beans are actually grown). And if you’re wondering where Jim enjoys his coffee– Charleston’s Restaurant. I had to chuckle. Guess where they buy their coffee? Yep, Noble Coffee and Tea Company.

“Sir, would you like us to read him his Miranda rights?” The only problem, a host of LAPD officers had flashlights on a prowler that sure looked like a giant raccoon. Their tight-lipped grins held back gushing laughter. Yeah, we had called 911 certain of a midnight robber. Frantic. Articulating the loud thud. It was all on tape, and likely still playing at parties. I was supposed to be the Alpha male, the great protector for four young sons and my trusting wife. But standing there shirtless in PJ bottoms and a Little Tykes' plastic bat next to fully armed muscle-stuffed uniforms—I looked like the plump-bellied poster dad ad for home security companies.

Yes, creatures can sure find their way into our lives in the most unique ways, making for some rather colorful stories.

Recently my wife found a huge blackbird in our toilet with the lid down—and nobody had been home! Was it like those snakes that swim up a pipe? No way! Was it something from a Godfather reenactment? Nah, wrong animal. It was a few weeks later when another bird entered our house through the furnace chimney when we solved the mystery—his colleague had likely done the same, and in a scamper to get water hit the toilet lid. Of all the pot luck.

Our son’s friend Loren had another fowl visitor. When he called officials for help he heard a “click . . . dial tone.” He informed them, “We have a deranged peacock in our yard, can you come get it?” When they asked for an address, he realized his quandary, “We live on Quail Drive, just around the corner from Partridge Street and Ptarmigan Lane.” He didn't dare tell them that the bird sounded like a woman in distress moaning "HeelllllpppMeee!"

Yeah, you can hear some distant animal rights office now – “Another jokester. I suppose the guy also lives in "Bird Haven!"

Well, Loren actually lives in Quail Hallow.

What is it about animals that makes us love them even when frustrated? Why do people give millions to save them when at other times they’re destructive and intrusive? Perhaps it’s because they’re just being animals. Like children, there’s a type of innocence when they act on their natural impulses—whether it’s a raccoon playing on a roof, a peacock sounding a mating call or a thirsty blackbird trapped in a bathroom.

Yes, our lives intersect animals in many ways, and we’ve elevated punishment for treating them unfairly—inhumanely would be oxymoronish. But in a sense there's a common value statement that their lives deserve respect. Whether people fight them in the back yard of a superstar or starve them in a remote trailer park, they're liable for cruel treatment—and rightly so. Perhaps it’s that any person committing such acts cannot be trusted with human life. Perhaps it’s that any violation of innocence is considered felonious immoral. My hope is that with this heightened sensitivity to animals’ well being that it influences our view of human life—those with reasoned morals, souls, and a life created with a purpose.

Yes, humans have the right to remain silent, because we're higher beings with the ability to talk. While favorite shows like Animal Planet reveal the majesty and wonder of animal life, it's their animalness not humanness that captures both our attention and compassion. It's their innocence. And I'm glad we still haven't extended Miranda rights to animals and confused their innocence with humanness.

The Tatiana incident in San Francisco zoo brought this issue to the surface this week. When a tiger, no matter how rare, jumps a cage and mauls a man, there is little criticism of the decision to shoot the beast. Like the fictional death of King Kong, we might grow sad for the beast but consider capital punishment imperative. The ramifications of the Tatiana incident are many. When one man fatally shoots another, however innocent the victim, we tend to be divided on his punishment.