Lucy

You always know it’s coming. But that doesn’t make it any easier. Yes, she’d been slowing down lately, showing her age, but that just meant she’d take short breaks while playing full-bore fetch for hours at a time. After all, she’s Lucy!

She’s the one who welcomed me back to America on sunny afternoons in the yard. She didn’t care that I owned a total of four shirts and had no idea what to do with myself. She was always there, a calm companion, smiles and play. I was just looking for a room where I could pause for a few months, but instead found a home with Manny and his two dogs, Sam and Lucy.

When I first moved in I didn’t know what I was doing and would put the dog gate across my door when I was trying to work. Lucy would come check on me, standing politely outside. I’d been there a month before I changed my mind, waving her in while I stood up to go move the gate. But she’d just been humoring me, and vaulted that fence from a standstill like it was nothing at all, landing gracefully and coming to say hello. Tail wag. Then turning and effortlessly hopping over my silly barricade again.

A couple times I came home to find garbage strewn across the kitchen floor, an impromptu indoor beach of coffee grounds. Sammy, the other hound of the house, would be grinning and wagging his tail but Lucy would be in the corner, ears down, refusing to meet my eye, shame in her every line despite the obvious truth that Sammy’d done all the mayhem (breaking the lock we’d put on the cabinet). Looking back and forth from his grin to her sweethearted penitence I would have the hardest time maintaining a stern facade.

And when I moved out of that house, bringing some floor coverings to my new apartment, I would find tumbleweeds of Lucy hair blowing around an apartment she’d never seen. I was sad when that stopped.

And the day I bought a new coat for a trip to Amsterdam with Lady L, we met Manny and Lucy for brunch and my dignified coat came away well-patterned with shepherd hair. But that’s what happens when you can’t resist getting down to hug the beast. Idly picking them off on Nieuwezijds Burgewaal made me smile as they drifted off among the tram tracks and bicycle tires.

A couple years ago I wrote a post about Lucy's habit of coming in to say goodnight to me. She was still thriving at the time but understandably it sounded to some like an obituary, and I remember thinking “Nope, so glad it’s not that, yet.”

But now it is. It is that. It is time to say not goodnight, but goodbye.

I’m not good with loss. The invincibility of death still overwhelms me with the terror of permanence. It doesn’t seem real that something I care about it just...gone. Over. Not coming back. I feel that now for a dog I knew. A dog I miss.

Goodbye Lucy.

The problem with puppies

The problem with puppies is that they love too much. The small puppy ball, barely a foot tall, cute as can be, eyes teeth paws and all, found us again as we left Cirali. The three of us had met the day before in a dirt street chewed up by its impending evolution to pavement, and brightened each others’ days in the dust with scratches behind ears, tiny teeth grins, and irrepressible laughter. We’d parted as friends, and were reunited as the same.

But there was a problem. Schooled by our first episode on the Lycian Way, apprehensive in our minds and penitent in the soles, we were eager to begin the day’s estimated eight hours of walking, so could offer no more than a quick greeting.

The problem with puppies, is that they love too much. Quick greetings are not in their manuals. We asked him to stay, but he followed us across the bridge. We gestured him back, but he pattered along after us toward the trail. We earnestly entreated him to return, but his oversized paws paced us on the path that took us around the riverbend.

Trekking town to town with Max was one thing. He was a grown canine, clearly competent in the alleyways of the world. Letting a puppy trick itself into the wilderness was a whole different story. We apologized, explained, and made ourselves gruff. Tough love. The end of Harry and the Hendersons made an impression on both our childhoods, and here we were. And remember that time Marty Stouffer had to drive away his cub? That broke my heart in a way that has never been fixed.

All around the world, the language of humans and dogs includes the vocabulary of stooping to pick up a rock. Do that, almost anywhere, and the dog will back away, familiar with thrown stones. Not this time. Thank god this puppy hasn’t learned that lesson. But it sure would have been handy.

My brother thought he'd talked some sense into
the little guy, but no. Here he comes again.

We were at a loss as to how to leave our four legs of friendship...until we got to the ladder. Paws don’t work well on those. I don’t know how Stouffer did it, because a day after meeting this sweet-eyed lad, it was already agony to walk away from where those eyes watched us without comprehension, and hear the mournful whines that carried for a surprisingly long time. Go home, puppy! The problem with puppies, is that they’re lovable too much.

Lycian Way Day One, the part where we almost died

The beach was so beautiful, so open and warm, I had no idea that within a few hours I’d be calculating the risk of death by exposure, freezing to death in the mountains versus self-immolation by cuddling open flames.

(Read the first part of Day One on the Lycian Way, here)

Our impromptu guide dog, Max, had led us across five hours of pine forested mountain slopes to reach this stretch of sand, and the world seemed perfect. Soaked in calm, we found the path off the beach, straight ahead and clearly marked with the red and white waymarkers of the Lycian Way.

A sunbaked moonscape of loose rocks added to the day’s toll on our aching feet with its hard edges and rolling ankles, but it was a soft and satisfied late afternoon without space for complaint. We passed a waymarker or two and continued up the trail. Up, up, and up the trail. Climbing without surcease. We put our heads down and stepped, past purple stone mined for chrome, over washouts and rockslides, steps slowing. Don’t think, because thoughts will contain complaints. Luckily my brother wasn’t quite as committed to this.

(Read the rest on the vagabondurges.com post, here.)

Turkeylurky goodness, and the Lycian Way

Falling behind on my links here, but there are two new Turkey posts on vagabondurges.com, including part one of our beginning of the Lycian Way... Unless you hate dogs. Then nevermind.

Good night, Lucy

Over the past couple months, Lucy and I have worked out a little routine before bed.

When I go in to fill up my water glass, she comes out and meets me in the kitchen. I turn off the water and kneel down, and she comes up to nestle her head into my chest. She’s a big, ferocious-looking German Shepherd, and she loves a good cuddle.

Her fur is dry and clean, and smells like dog in a way that has come to mean Home, these last 10 months. She leans in as I scratch behind her ears, over her shoulders and rub her belly, which slows into a hug. After we’ve both gotten a nice little session of luving in, she turns around and trots back to Manny’s room, tail wagging, and I go to bed smiling.

I don’t know how many times we’ve done this, but I know that we’ll only do it twice more. This Saturday Loopers is going away.

We’re down to our last weekend in this house, as June finishes its run, and Manny’s new place has graciously allowed him to bring Sammy, but there’s no space for Lucyfress. She’s going to Manny’s dad, a good home with a big yard to run around in and another shepherd to play with…

But damn I’m going to miss her.

Good night, Lucyloo

Should I go to Venezuela?

Should I go to Venezuela?

The most volatile nation in South America, it’s on my List of Places Too Dangerous to Travel in Without Appropriate Precaution or Assistance. What, you don’t have your own LPTDTWAPA?

My LPTDTWAPA at the moment: Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan, and Yemen. Mauritania, Nigeria, Libya, and Central African Republic. Sorta North Korea I guess. Honduras, Venezuela, El Salvador, and a couple small parts of Mexico.

Checking El Salvador off that list felt great, like reclaiming part of the world. Now I have the opportunity to go to Venezuela with Witness for Peace Southwest, and Altruvistas, both organizations I feel privileged to have access to. (And who increase the hope of achieving the ultimate goal of tourism: to help the destination...but more about that soon.)

Another reason to go? More chances at getting wee articles published, so it would be good in a professional sense.

Another reason to go? It’s frickin beautiful. Which is enough by itself, but also means it could be a great opportunity in terms of photography.

Another reason to go? As with Cuba, Venezuela represents one of the all-too-few remaining countries that do things in a manner other than ruthless capitalism.

Another reason to go? Meet cool new people (because who but cool people would go on a tour like this?)

Next door in Colombia, I miss the air at that latitude

Another reason to go? The things I can learn, from the people I meet, the places we go, and the other people on the trip.

Another reason to go? It’s actually cheaper than the listed price.

Another reason to go? I want to.

So why wouldn’t I go? The potential danger isn't an obstacle, but what is?

I’ve finally admitted the fact (that was pretty obvious to everyone else) that I was endlessly traveling to escape from certain parts of life. Would I be doing that still?

Answer: It’s only 10 days. Ergo: no.

I've been struggling with this one...

Any other reason? Well...the trip happens to encompass my birthday. That’s convenient and inconvenient. It’s kind of fun for me because it would mean the sixth year in a row having my birthday overseas.

The problem? One of the other realizations I’ve finally admitted to (it’s been a busy year) is that I have...trouble...accepting...love. From other people. (Dogs are good to go.)

This is a longer issue, but as someone told me the other day “Your birthday is a day for other people to express their love for you.”

It made me all...squirmy. And I had to admit that the thought of NOT being here on my birthday was something of a relief, since I would get to avoid the potential let-downs and awkwardness that can come with that day.

Sounds like a challenge. And I am dedicated to not running from challenges anymore. So, suddenly, whether or not to go is a more difficult question than it was before.

So what do you think? Should I go to Venezuela?

(There's a poll on the wordpress version of this post.)

Take the good, take the bad, enjoy the moment

The texture of the thing is smooth, and it has a pleasant earthy stink to it before we light it on fire. It’s also surprisingly light; you’d think something with such a known name (and that conceivably could have cost me $10,000) would weigh more. But in the end, a Cuban cigar is just a little rod of leaves.

I’m not a smoker, never was. Maybe it was those years as a runner, and the preposterous notion of putting corrosive cigarette smoke in lungs that I’d worked so hard to improve. But there’s something about a good cigar, right now, seasoned with the elusive vapor of being Cuban and supposedly illicit, that makes it an essential part of the moment.

And it’s a good moment.

The day’s tasks, some completed and some waiting for tomorrow or next week or never, are set aside and dismissed. I’m here. Today my legs pedaled across miles, my lungs filled with clean air and pollen, car exhaust and song. I ate food both tasty and worthwhile, and reached out to an old friend or two who I’d never meant to lose touch with.

The air is that special summer edition of warm, perfect for shorts and sandals, but no sweat unless you choose it. Seems I’ve lost my girlfriend, and finished losing everything my last one too, but the dog loves me. Sure there are a pair of potentially serious health concerns that won’t be soothed for months yet, but today I feel invincible. Apparently having no verifiable address for five years while you wander the world is a problem when you come back and apply for an apartment, so I may be homeless in three weeks, but right now I’m going to sit on this porch stoop and enjoy the ending of the day.

The beer is cold. My friend and roommate is smoking the second cigar I brought back, semi-forgotten in the depths of my bag as they waved me through customs. Don’t forget to roll it as you smoke. Don’t draw it into the lungs, just hold it in your mouth like a lyric. And what else goes with Cuban cigars better than Cuban music? So put some of that on. Sounds good, good sounds.

The puppy doesn't actually live here, and the worries
won't always be here, either.

Passersby stop to chat. They pet the dogs, who love them for a moment then go back to fetch. This is a neighborhood, a dream we seek. Condensation on the bottles makes my fingertips shine, and the birds seem to sing just for the hell of it.

The worries aren’t solved; it seems that category never really finishes until you die, and right now, in the wrap of sunlight and ease, that’s fine with me. It’ll all work out.

Life is good.

The messenger

Lose your girlfriend? Lose your home? Lose the job you were hoping to start? Lose sight of the how and the who and the where and the what? And the when just seems to stretch forever?

Kinda sucks.

The world I left when I went to Cuba was not the world I came back to find.

And then it’s hard to get out of bed again.

But days just keep marching, stubborn bastards that they are, and forward is the only way you get to go. But it’s not that bad. The universe will remind you that it keeps moving forward in harmony, discordant atonal blaring harmony. So it sends a messenger.

His name is Stanley. He’s...young. He’s...cute. He’s...nonstop.

His world is a big place that seems hostile, but isn’t as bad as it seems, and there’s an awful lot of playful good time in there. Sometimes shit happens that just plain stinks (pleasantly literal for him. What’s in puppy food, anyway?)

Sammy wasn't sure what to make of him

So maybe I can be his apprentice. I don’t know WTF is going on either. Maybe I need some vaccinations, and surely some training, but the world is a chew toy, and in the end, it’s all going to be okay.

See Stanley's lesson via fetch on
the wordpress version of this post

Thank you Stanley.

Sam has issues

“I’m not sure if Sammy did something really bad in a previous life, which is why he is the way he is, or if he did something really good, which is why he has the owner he does.”

So pondered Charly, my friend and the previous occupant of my room, as we walked the dogs around Oakland prior to the tenancy transfer. Her massive donkey of a dog was smiling at the world, Lucy was monitoring the shadows, and Sam? Sam was nervous and happy and adorable and disgusting and oh-so-concerned.

This is Sam.

Sam has issues.

The first thing I noticed about Sam was his grin, then his brown eyes, followed by his enthusiasm, earnestness, and charm. Then I noted the big bleeding patches of oozing flesh on his paws.

Sam has allergies. Specifically, he’s off-the-charts allergic to dust mites. His owner bought a big air-purifier that runs in the hallway 24/7, and we clean the hardwood floors at least once a week, no carpet here, but there is no escaping dust mites.

It probably doesn’t help that Sam’s kind of nuts. He’s an anxious pup and a determined one. Bandages last a few minutes, and that bitter spray that’s supposed to keep animals from chewing? He puts that stuff on his breakfast. And the sores go bleeding on.

So Samwise wears the cone when his spots get bad. As good natured as he is, he seems to actually kind of like it. Sometimes when we take it off, he’ll go over and lay by, or even on it, as if asking to have it back on. The bad news is that after years of doggy yoga, he can get his knee inside the cone, and soon the skin there is raw and dripping. It gives his paws a chance to heal, but just relocates the problem to his knee. And after a while, even with daily removals and frequent washing, he gets a yeast infection on his neck from it. Poor little guy.

The cone doesn’t solve the problem, so Gamgee is also one medicated little pup. He gets allergy medicine twice daily, plus a steroid. These help with the wounds, but allergies and anxiety are as close in dear Sammy as they are in the dictionary, and the pill that makes the biggest difference is his serotonin reuptake inhibitor.

Yes, when his sores get really bad, Samster pops puppy Prozac, and the mellow blossoms.

That stuff ain’t cheap, and we want as naturally happy a Sampler as possible, so his wardrobe includes a Thunder Shirt. Have you seen these things? A compression vest, you put it on, and the constant hug mellows the animal out considerably. When you first put it on him, he’ll stand in the middle of the room, Zen and peaceful. Just kind of stares at the wall, in love with the world, observing the flow of the universe. But one can grow accustomed to all things, and the effect diminishes over time.

So to alternate, Samwise’s current attire is a soft cone, made of fabric instead of the familiar hard white plastic. It’s supposed to restrict less and breathe more than the plastic one, though I’m not sure if the Emperor Palpatine vibe is an asset or not. It also limits his peripheral vision more, giving him a habit of running into people (he knows where the walls are, but your location is anybody’s guess) and pushing doors closed when he tries to squeeze through them.

Walk Sam past a bus stop, and he’ll try to get on the bus. No one knows where he’s trying to go.

Samson loves Animal Planet, watching intently while the show is on, getting bored during commercials, and perking up again when the animals come back. His favorites are dogs (of course), cats, and meerkats.

When you get home he'll bring you a shoe, but that day
he chose a sock, for some reason.

I got home yesterday and Samwise was nowhere to be found. Just as I was starting to freak out, I noticed the bathroom door was closed. I opened it to find a very relieved Sammypants, chilling in the bathtub.

There’s one other advantage to the soft cone over the hard one. Sam’s not one for fetch, but take him outside in the sun, and you will be treated to one of my favorite things on Earth. The Sammysault. This is a ninja dog, who takes a few loping steps, lowers his head, rolls over a shoulder, then breakdances his exultation on his back before jumping up and grinning at you. Repeat.

Good boy, Samwise.

Lucy saves the day

Splinters from the weather-worn planks scrape my knees as they thump to the dock. The thud echoes down to where the fires are still burning from my desperate last stand, homemade molotov cocktails and boobytraps with last summer’s fireworks. But it was all for naught.

The setting sun is warm on my back, casting my shadow forward to the evil drug lord who aims his shotgun Uzi at me. He smirks below a sleazy mustache. “It’s over. Put your hands up. Then I kill you.”

I watch my reflection in his aviator sunglasses as my hands rise, then form the letter O in the air. He scoffs, “What are you doing?” He thinks nothing of it as the shadow of my hands creates a circle on his forehead.

Suddenly! A blur of tawny fur as the sleek German shepherd leaps out of nowhere, sails over my head, and pounces on the evil man. She knocks him to the burning dock, where she digs his brains out where the circle had been.

Ha HA, triumph!

That’s the epic conclusion to my brother’s screenplay. Lucy saves the day through her neurotic obsession with shadows, and digging at circles. The first time I came here, hoping to move in a week later, we stood in the kitchen talking, and I watched Lucy staring at the floor, her head tracing from one side to the other.

I thought she’d given away the presence of rats running around below the floorboards. But no, she was watching our shadows. And if you make anything like a circle? Wham! Full-grown shepherd pounce. Think arctic fox, but bigger. We take care not to cast circular shadows anywhere else in the house, since she’d dig through the hardwood floor like stale crackers.

She takes her job very seriously. (Triangles? No deal. Squares? Quit wasting her time.)

Lulu’s a hardworking sort, and is also an expert reflection-chaser (from wine glasses, phone screens, angled knives, or her favorite, the dishwasher door as it opens). Not sure what she thinks the little white pieces of light are. Insolent insects? Alien invaders? Malevolent faeries? She doesn’t know, but she’ll damn well do the diligence to find out.

Few things are as delightful as taking Lou in the front yard for a match on a sunny afternoon. Chip her big blue ball into the air, and she’s got about an 85% chance of catching it on the way down. We have shoot-outs, where I try to get the ball past her to the fence. Final score is often 10-9, but it can go either way.

Last week we had some thunder and lightning, a rare occurrence in this land whose storms normally come down from too-cold-for-such-friction-tomfoolery Alaska. Lookoovore wasn’t super keen on that racket. I calmed her down and she spent the rest of the day within a few yards of my side. I thought I had consoled her, until I told a friend that Loopers brought me one of her bones. “She was taking care of YOU!” she crowed.

Good dog.

And walking her! I had heard that we walk our dogs wrong. You’re not supposed to let them walk ahead of you, much less pull you, or they are walking you. That’s not just a cute joke among dog-walkers, it’s actually a dominance issue. But how to change it? Try walking my parents’ beagles like that? Fuggedaboudit. But Lupinatrix? She stayed right by my side, occasionally sneaking forward, but falling in next to me at a yank on the leash.

In one of his books, Kurt Vonnegut decried training the personality right out of a dog, but that is not the case with Lucifress. Well behaved, but a lover, she has come in twice during the course of typing this blog, just to say hi and see if I’m up for some luvin.

I am.

Now. The sun is warm outside, no sign of rain. I think it’s time for a pbj sandwich, bag of chips, and game of catch with canus Lucious.

A new chapter, and feeling good about it.

The flight was smooth, the dogs were adorable, and the sunset looked triumphant. I met the new guy, to whom I am the New Guy, and ate tacos. Eight hours of sleep on a sofa saturated with canine, and then today started. And with it, presumably, a new episode of my life.

Had to go back to the old files for an SF pic

Because today I take up residence in a fixed place. That alone surprises me, but that it's in America? Shocking. As of today, I am a resident, more or less, of Oakland, California, just across the cold bay waters and whitecaps from San Francisco.

Oakland has a rough reputation, but I'm in one of the nicer areas (by quite a bit), where paint jobs are perfect, ornate windows reveal custom made furniture, and the yards are filled with organic heirloom tomato plants...in custom made planter boxes with perfect paint jobs.

I assume I'll be blogging about the beasts in the future,
but this is Miles, who lives on our porch, and has a certain
suspicion back at the neighbors.

When I came to look at the house a week ago, I stood in the nearest intersection and could see at least two Prius hybrid cars in every direction. In front of the house right now, four of eight vehicles are that model. This is one of the few renter houses on the block, and apparently the neighbors maintain a certain suspicion about us.

That's kind of awesome.

I don't mean to judge any of this, hybrids are great and lord knows I have nothing against tomatoes, but it's a helluva change from...everywhere else.

That's going to be true in a lot of ways. I'll do laundry whenever I want. My showering schedule will be regular and reliable. I'll get mail here. I can drink the tap water.

I went for a walk last night to explore the area. I wondered if the battered state of my clothes would gain me hipster street cred, but I suspect I still don't speak their language. Perhaps I should grow a handlebar mustache?

When I was ready to turn around I found a burger place, where I bought lemonade from a girl not wearing a bra, then sat to drink it while others came in and ordered “the vegetarian burger, with onions if they're organic and extra tahini” and “a cheeseburger with cheese.”

I passed restaurants where Young Urban Professionals sat their giant wine glasses on spotless white tablecloths, and thought “I will never eat there.” A dozen more steps and I passed in the door of a simple taqueria, spare tables and bright lights, where smiling women with rosy cheeks tended a clean grill.

That's when tacos happened.

I crossed under the BART tracks (think subway) and found the closest grocery store (where I went this morning to buy bread, hummus, cherry tomatoes and an avocado. Still on the list: a real towel, breakfast cereal, and laundry soap that works in machines).

There is no moping when these three
are watching you. And they are.

As my walk was winding down, I noticed I was slipping towards...what was this feeling? My god, it's moping. Gloomy unhappiness. What the hell?

My body remembered innumerable similar walks in my last US hometown, where I would pace the four sad blocks of the downtown drag, gradually growing less and less optimistic that something interesting would happen. But then I remembered, I'm not there anymore.

I'm in a new town. A new house. A new phase of life. And it's looking good. And I feel good.

I bought an ice cream to celebrate. It was delicious.