Real Love And Small Things

As is my sorta weekly habit, I was writing on my laptop at the local sports bar and watching whatever Saturday noontime game piqued my interest. It was the end of a bad week, and the e-mails I received heaped despair on misery. So I packed up the laptop, downed the beer, and went home earlier than usual. Before turning off the cell phone, I called my oldest son with instructions that his young man weekend was mine, and he would take care of things. Then I called Her.

"Can you come home?"

"Okay. I'll be there in a few minutes." I had interrupted her sorta weekly habit, but she knew I was upset by recent events. Goddess bless her. She walked into the bedroom about ten minutes later.

"You've got five minutes," I said. "Pack what you need. Me, I've got what's on my back and in my pockets. That's all." To my amazement, she threw a change of underwear in her bag and said "Let's go."

We hit the road.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said. "We could be in Laughlin or Kingman pretty quick. You choose." A moment's silence, and she said:

"Laughlin. But the river run is there this weekend."

We arrived an hour and a half later, thousands of Harleys BAROOOOOM-ing along the main drag of the small town overlooking the Colorado River. At my inquiry, she pointed at the Edgewater Hotel and Casino. With the serendipity of a trip unplanned, we found a parking space, acquired the last room they had, and within twenty minutes were strolling along the river with a Corona in our hands.

Neither one of us is much of a Harley fan. But we saw 20,547.3 million motorcycles. We saw a woman bare her tits and ass from the bow of a speedboat on the river, while everyone on shore hooted, hollered, and cracked up. I dropped a bottle of beer that sprayed and made me smell like a brewery becuase I didn't bring a change of clothes. We threw food pellets to carp the size of Volkswagens. We ate at a crappy buffet. We ambled among the tents of vendors catering to the motorcycle crowd. I bought, and reveled in smoking, a big aromatic cigar. She laughed at the bikini babe contest. She bought her father a motorcycle babe calendar. We saw a vendor attracting customers with bikini-clad pole dancers. She lost $60 on slot machines. We sat and watched the bikers strut their hogs along the main drag. We drove and toured the (original, no kidding) London Bridge at Lake Havasu. We had lunch in the sun with the slowest waitress this side of Jupiter. We watched ducks dive and cliff swallows flitting about their nests. We got drunk and screwed.

The time was ours. The memory is ours. The experience was another brick in the house we continually build together, adding, changing, demolishing, creating.

I will never tire of you laughing.

I will never tire of your hugs.

I will never tire of the marvel of watching you put on your bra.

I will never tire of buying you flowers for no reason.

I will never tire of our good-natured jokes and banter.

I will never tire of your warm woman wife smell.

Happy Anniversay, Sweets, the most golden and perfect heart I will ever know.

I love you.

Good Ol' George

This is George. Good Ol' George.

We know he was born to be a racer; the ear notches and the chest scars of kennel fights are proof. We also know because the registration tattoo inside his ear tells us so. The other inside-ear tattoo tells us he was the first pup of his litter, born sometime in January, 1994. We adopted him in 1998, so he had been in training or actual racing from his puppyhood until about four years old. At four years, he was too old, and put up for adoption.

His first adopter chained him in the sun to a doghouse too small for him. As with most dogs, he turned and turned and turned before settling down to sleep, but the doghouse was so small it rubbed the fur off his hips, shoulders, and forehead. He was left with no companionship, possibly for the first time in his life, in the heat of the desert. The greyhound rescue organization took him back. The rescuer knew us from a prior adoption (his “sister” Blaze), and gave him to us.

Poor George was washed up, unloved, skinny, and beautiful.

All greyhounds have two names: their racing name, which is similar to fancy racehorse names, and a simple kennel name used so the dog knows when s/he is being called or disciplined. In this case, his fancy name was "AY's Carry On." His kennel name was simply "George." There was no doubt when we adopted him that he was a George. Just a George. He looked at us with big soft, happy, pleading brown eyes that said: "Um. Hello. Um. Please love me. My name is George." So George it remained.

The few adoption awareness events we took him to were always fun. George never met a human he couldn't charm. If you didn't acknowledge him, he would just stand in your way until you patted his head, and he anointed you with doggy breath. He was his breed's best ambassador. A common phrase around our family and friends was "Everybody loves George!" It was true. And George loved Everybody back.

He tucked his head under your arm, the greyhound equivalent of a hug, then withdrew with a drippy nose to SSMIIIILE at you, the biggest thank you the world has ever seen. He wolfed down his dinner (because that’s what you do if you don’t want your race mates to steal it), then barf it up and eat it again at his leisure. He tolerated cats walking over him as he dozed. He loved going bye-bye in the car. He loved his vet. He ran like the wind itself, pointed in the direction of his flight, shoulders leaping before his forepaws, haunches gleaming like gold, his long nose an arrow, speed made flesh, the poetry and awe of Celtic Kings, the delight of Pharaohs, the equal of Goddess Diana.

He knew he was the fastest and most beautiful sprinter of all Olympians, legendary, rare, precious. As befitted his stature, he usurped the couch. Or the bed. Or the easy chair. Or the pillows. Or the beach towel. Or the carpet remnant. Or any soft thing he might want to lie on. Because he had worked, dammit. Because he was king among canines. Because his history was the royalty of ancient Egypt. Because he was beautiful and humble. Because he deserved it.

He deserved it because he was Good Ol’ George.

Good Ol’ Sweet Big Hearted George.

George died today.

My wife and I were with him at the end. The last thing he saw. Him, with his deep brown eyes of goodness. Us, eyes blurred with tears before the doctor George loved administered the compassionate dose of calming sleep.

The beginning of his end might have been a stroke, kidney failure, cancer, or any of a number of things. It doesn't matter.

I think Ol’ George’s giant heart just gave out, because it had given so much to so many, and it had nothing left to give.

Run, George.

And thanks for letting us know that the race isn’t how you finish, but the time you spend laughing in it.

* * * Please Help George’s Friends! * * *

Each year, hundreds, if not thousands, of greyhounds are abandoned, abused, or killed when their racing days are over. In an infamous case, dozens of greyhound carcasses were found in a shallow pit in the Arizona desert, their ears cut off so the tattoo marks couldn't be traced back to the owner(s).

Greyhounds make wonderful companions. If you want a dog that will do tricks, or guard your house, or make points with snobs, a greyhound is not for you. If you want a dog with an ancient, rich, and diverse history, a quirky personality that makes you scratch your head and chuckle, or a really good bed warmer on cold winter nights, consider a greyhound. They do have some special, but not burdensome, needs. Stairs? Never seen 'em. Glass doors? Never seen 'em. Extreme heat or cold? They have no insulating body fat, so aren't the most durable of animals. A little research and questioning your adoption consultant will make all the difference. What you invest will be repaid a millionfold.

For more information on how you can make a difference, PLEASE visit any of the links below, or simply do a Google search for "greyhound adoption." Your local humane society or animal shelter can also provide information on smaller greyhound adoption agencies specializing in placement in your area.

For a minor fraction of the price of any pure-bred dog, you can have a beautiful sweet-natured companion, complete with pedigree, shots, veterinary check-up, spay/neuter, leash training, house-breaking, and a heart as big as Ol’ George's.

Waiting to be YOUR best friend.

The Greyhound Project

Greyhound Pets of America

The Greyhound Gang

Deep Donkey

You may have read about my mother and her gentle-lady farm. And on this farm she had an ass, E-I-E-I-O. Actually we referred to him as a donkey (sometimes a burro), and his name was Jose.

I loved Jose, and I think he loved me. When I visited the fence, he always trotted up. When I scratched his leathery ears, his lower lip quivered and went limp. When I joined him in his pen, we played the Push Game: shoulder to shoulder, lean in with all your strength, see who moves first. Jose always won. We played the Ignore Game: look away and pretend the other isn't there, see who gives in first and nudges the other. Jose always won that, too. When the day was particularly lovely, he would nose my spine, or I would slap his coarse mane, and we would meander the field that was Jose's domain, me stooping to peek at meadow flowers, Jose bending his head to sniff and/or eat them. I was the only person who could ride Jose. It lasted for twelve seconds before he shrugged his massive shoulders, flicked his Evinrude ears, and half-bucked to get rid of me, but it was enough to acknowledge our respect for each other.

Yes, I truly believe it was a mutual brotherly love. Kindred spirits are not always the same species.

But perhaps the most impressive of Jose’s talents was his prodigious output of crap.

It was a heap, a mound, a great sweetly stinking hill. Sparrows would visit it for the undigested seeds of various plants. Flies vacationed in the resorts of its peaks and valleys. Dogs acres away sniffed and fervently wished for a roll in its fragrant goodness. Oaks bent their branches lovingly, quietly whispering “Yes, my little acorns, soon this will all be yours.” It was the stuff of myth and legend.

Except for my mother and her husband. She didn’t know what to do with the stuff, and he had to shovel it. (We always thought he was good at shoveling it, but that’s a story for another time.) They came up with the only possible solution: fence off a piece of the property, pile Jose’s exhaust in it, and grow a garden.

And what a garden it was.

* * * * *

My daughter was at the age where she could rip off her clothes, run around naked, and all the adults would watch because it was cute. Little butt flashing in the morning sun, brown hair streaming behind her, arms outstretched, a smile as wide as the Milky Way, innocence and wonder bursting forth. With a jealous laugh, we went into the kitchen to refill our coffee mugs. When we went back outside, Daughter was nowhere to be found. But Son I said he had last seen her going into the garden. The family issued a collective gasp.

We mounted the search, supplied with canteens of water and walkie-talkies. I started by the zucchini, walking under the leafy green parasols of the rough plants, avoiding the knee-high ants who were creating apartment houses in the huge vegetables. After a mile or so, the walkie-talkie quiirped.

“Dad,” said Son I, “can we stop now?”

“Where are you?”

“By the sunflowers.” In the background I heard Son II yell “And the monkeys are throwing poo at us from way up there!”

“Any sign of your sister?”

“No. But it’s hard to see behind every sunflower tree.”

“Alright. Find your way back to the gate and check the sweet peas and string beans. Did you use the bread crumbs?

“Yes.” Son I shut off. I continued my hunt. The squash gave way to nasturtiums. Their large platform leaves were the site of numerous eagles’ nests. The pond was near by, so they had a steady supply of fish, the remains of which sustained the flowers in conjunction with Jose’s droppings. I hiked down the throat of each open orange blossom, but Daughter was not to be found. I started at a jog to get away from the nasturtiums, and into the area dominated by great windmills of cosmos.

!quiirp! “Kingfisher, you there?” It was Mom’s Husband. “No sign of Daughter in the corn. Good thing, too, ‘cause it’s crawling with rhinos.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yup. A close call with an anaconda that dropped from the corn silk about forty feet up, but otherwise nothing much. I’m heading over to the poppies now. Should be there in about a half hour.” !unquiirp!

The place where I now walked was brighter, cosmos stems being thinner than the other plants and allowing more sunshine, not much bigger in diameter than a sugar pine. The ground was tinted pink and red by the petals overhead, where great bumblebee blimps droned among the clouds. I hefted the walkie-talkie again.

“Wife, can you hear me? Any sign?”

“Nothing yet, Kingfisher. Took about twenty minutes to walk around the first pumpkin. The rest are smaller. Should be done before sundown.”

“Any problems?”

“Just an earthworm stampede. Climbed up a vine and threw rocks. Oh, that and a couple of grizzly bears. I can see the cosmos over the horizon.”

“I’m there now. I’ll try to hook up with you in about two hours.”

We were interrupted by a loud clanging echo. Gentle-Lady Farmer had rung the old school bell located by the house, a sign we all knew to heed. After some preliminary walkie-talkie conversations, we met at the garden gate. To everyone’s surprise, Son I was holding a large goose.

“Where did you get that?” I asked.

“You told us to look by the string beans, Dad,” said Son I, “so we climbed up and I found this goose."

"And I found these!” Son II held up two golden eggs.

“FE-FI-FO-FUM!” The heavens ripped apart, and a giant of a man tumbled through the sky, splashed into the pond with a mighty tsunami, and disappeared beneath the frothing waves.

“Cool! We get to keep her!” Sons I and II danced a jig and patted the goose.

“I found Daughter,” said Gentle-Lady Farmer Mother. “She was lying with the dog in a patch of sun on the patio. She’s fine.”

And that ended our family adventure. Mother closed the garden gate, Sons put the goose in with the chickens, Wife put Daughter’s clothes back on, Mother’s Husband put the golden eggs in a basket for sale at the end of the driveway, and I cracked a beer open, ruminating on the day’s events.

* * * * *

Which brings me back to El Rey Jose, who, with his Majestic Manure Mountain of Magic Meadow Manna, reinforced my life philosophy:

“When Life Gives You Shit, Live Bigger”

Lifeline

I spent part of my weekend in the hospital. No need to elaborate other than that it involved blood, pain, and that demon spawn abomination of human invention, needles.

The universe works in strange and wonderful ways to teach those with eyes to see. My most recent lesson came in two parts.

Part The First

Wating in the doctor's office, a movement caught my eye. Across the waiting room was a little boy of three or four. He had on chaps, cowboy boots, a holster, vest and a kerchief. In the chair next to his mother were the tools of his trade: a six-shooter, a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, and a picture book. He took a long draw of milk from his water bottle (every cowpoke west o' the Pecos knows how dry the desert is) just before the nurse called his mother's name. Like a good cowboy, he holstered his six-gun, pulled his hat rakishly over his eyes, cradled his picture book with two hands, and sauntered after his mother with all the confidence of a well-seasoned ranch hand.

Which, of course, as anyone should plainly see, he was.

Part The Second

"This is worrisome," the doctor said. "I'll call the emergency room. Go now." Within twenty minutes, I was in the gown, lying on a gurney with too few blankets, plugged into an IV drip. Beyond the curtain separating me from the next patient, I heard words like Alzheimers and incontinence and kidney failure. I tried to empty my mind of the sounds and smells of the hospital and concentrate on my book. It didn't work. I asked directions to the bathroom. On the way back I saw that the curtains of my sick neighbor were drawn back. On her gurney lay an elderly woman, thin hair slicked back with sweat. Even under several blankets it was plain how thin and frail she was. What haunted me were her eyes. They were wide and sunken. In them could be seen anger, fatigue, bewilderment.

And fear.

Denouement

Two ends of the thread of life curved, met, and made the circle while I observed.

One person was at the beginning of his life, looking forward with courage and curiosity.

One person was nearing the end of her life, looking inward with questions and surrender.

And I, reckoning that a few years less than my grandfather's lifespan is a pretty good run, realized that I was exactly in the middle.

Caged Curiosity

"What are they doing, Momma?"

"They're touching faces, son."

"Why?"

"You know how Rosie and Pete touch noses sometimes?"

"Yeah, like Uncle Bruce and Stevie?"

"Um, well sort of. We'll talk about your uncle when you're older. But remember after all the nose touching, Rosie had your cub-cousin Rolly?"

"Yes."

"The dumbthings face-touching is like that."

"Are they going to have a cub-cousin? Can I watch?"

"Yes. No. I mean, you can't watch, and they already have one. See that rolling thing with the screaming pink thing in it?"

"Yes, Momma."

"That's the cub."

"THAT? It looks stupid."

"Yes it does. It wouldn't last a day on the ice."

"Tell me about the ice again, Momma."

"It's cold and it feels good. Not like here. And there are good things to find and eat."

"Things to eat like the pink cub?"

"No, things that are quiet and smell good. That taste like fat and blood."

"I'm hungry, Momma."

"I know. So am I. Let's go leave our markings, and hope they bring a walrus."

"What's a 'walrus'?"

"Never mind, son."

Addwaita

One of the world's oldest creatures, Addwaita, an Aldabran giant toroise, died this week at the estimated age of 250 years. There is some debate about the revered Grandpa's real age. Some may place it at little more than 150+/- years, but I choose to believe he was TWO-HUNDRED-FIFTY. Why? Just because.

Year 0, 1756 - Addwaita hatches. Mozart tours Europe as a six-year-old prodigy

Year 9, 1765 - James Watt invents the steam engine

Year 20, 1776 - America declares independence

Year 33, 1789 - French revolution

Year 43, 1799 - Rosetta stone discovered in Egypt

Year 63, 1819 - Bolivar liberates northern South America from Spain

Year 86, 1842 - Ether used as first anesthetic

Year 103, 1859 - Publication of Darwin's Origin of Species

Year 105, 1861 - U.S. civil war begins

Year 109, 1866 - Alfred Nobel invents dynamite

Year 123, 1879 - Thomas Edison invents the electric light

Year 139, 1895 - X-rays discovered, motion pictures debut in Paris

Year 147, 1903 - Wright brothers fly first aircraft, Ford Motor Co established, first World Series

Year 158, 1914 - World War I begins

Year 173, 1929 - Stock market crash begins the Great Depression

Year 177, 1933 - Hitler becomes German chancellor, international tensions lead to WWII

Year 189, 1945 - First atomic explosion over Hiroshima

Year 192, 1948 - Ghandi assassinated

Year 207, 1963 - Kennedy assassinted

Year 213, 1969 - Humans land on the Moon

Year 230, 1986 - U.S. Challenger shuttle explosion

Year 235, 1991 - South Africa repeals apartheid, Yelstin first elected Russian president

Year 245, 2001 - Terrorists crash planes into New York's World Trade Center

Year 250, 2006 - Addwaita dies. Kingfisher calculates a bristlecone pine in the American Southwest was 4,600 years old when Addwaita was hatched, or 46 centuries old, or approximately 19 Addwaita lifetimes.

There Are Worlds Out There

Image from the

NASA/JPL

Cassini/Huygens

Mission to Saturn

This is Enceladus, a tiny, icy pearl of a moon orbiting one of the gas giants beyond Mars. Behind it is the looming bulk of Saturn, clothed in the browns we would see could we be there. Beneath it are some of the famous thin rings, an indication of the dwarf moon's small insignificance. The shadow of the rings on the planet's surface can be seen at top left. Breathtaking, spectacular, unbelievable; the picture clutches me and refuses to let go.

Recently, scientists discovered what they believe to be geysers spewing water on Enceladus. Of course, in the frigid outback of our solar system, the water instantly freezes and creates ice calderas. However, if there is an underground supply of liquid water, it greatly increases the chance of life existing somewhere else in this little backwater of the galaxy. That by itself is fascinating, the stuff that daydreams and wishful what-ifs are made of. I have spent most of my life in love with the idea of otherworldly flora and fauna, pondering the endless beauties and possibilities of that most important of questions: What else is out there?

But that's not what drew me to this photograph.

Enceladus is one of many related gems; its siblings have similarly exotic names: Titan, Tethys, Phoebe, Mimas, Dione. They were set in and around the glorious rings of their master, Saturn. From the beginning they revolved in a slow, silent, sedate dance against the backdrop of an infinite frozen night. Like jewels, they glittered in in the Saturnian sky, brightened by a Sun far away. For millennia upon millennia, it was unchanged.

And Enceladus danced.

Elsewhere, a molten rock cooled, bathed in vapors that condensed into wide seas, weaving a blue mantle across the planet's face. It was a volatile, changing world, thrusting up mountains in its raging growth, then tearing them down in wrathful cataclysms. It coughed and shuddered under the battering of debris from the immediate environs, incorporating the flotsam into its primordial skin, churning the Sun's energy to its own uses.

And Enceladus danced.

The blue world gave birth to living things, first little more than microscopic bubbles, eventually moving, eating, growing, swimming, breathing, walking, building. Over the eons, a vast and remarkable procession of creatures called this place home, each pushing and fighting and reproducing in an unstoppable attempt to fill and claim the young planet.

And Enceladus danced.

Eventually, the first thinking beings emerged to stare up at the sky and ask the first questions, among them What else is out there? These sapient primates learned, adapted, and progressed in ever more complex societies at an alarming rate. Leaders waged wars, prophets preached and foretold, great works were begun and finished or destroyed, science was invented, children were born and died, civilizations rose, flourished, and fell.

And Enceladus danced.

The thinking beings scratched at the heavens, succeeding in sending mechanical probes to the outer neighborhood in attempts to find answers their questions. They were able to send members of their own family in puny, pathetic vessels into that great blackness that was home to all else. And they sent a visitor, a visitor which greeted the children of Saturn, and which took their portrait.

And Enceladus danced.

As it must come to all things, extinction came quick, quiet, and unexpected. In the blink of the universe's unseeing and uncaring eye, the blue world's thinking beings disappeared. All their works, their arts, their very thoughts were obliterated, hidden among the infinite multitudes of stars, covered over by the dust and forgetfulness of years numbering many, many millions.

And Enceladus danced.

Goodbye, Mr. Limpet

He wasn’t a blockbuster star, but Don Knotts is arguably one of the most recognizable figures to baby boomers. He was on TV almost every day thanks to “The Andy Griffith Show” syndication, and Saturday afternoon screenings of such classics as “The Reluctant Astronaut“ and “The Ghost and Mr. Chicken.” Even young teens know him from re-runs of “Three’s Company.”

His career spanned over fifty years. During that time, as entertainment grew ever more risqué, daring, and brash, Don kept a sense of kind innocence. His harmless yet hilarious goofball persona was, and still is, a favorite of kids and adults alike. He was the last of a kind: the Jimmy Stewart type of gentleness, self-deprecation, and aw-shucks goodness that has long since departed Hollywood. He was the sad-eyed runt-of-the-litter puppy no one could resist.

For me, however, Don will always be “The Incredible Mr. Limpet.” It’s a boyhood favorite that’s delightful to revisit once in a while. I have wistful memories of the metal-cornered fish tanks, the daydreaming misunderstood man’s wish to be a fish, his friendship with a curmudgeonly tin can-toting hermit crab, and the ridiculous “HAROOM”-ing at Nazi torpedoes. I think I can point to that movie as starting my life-long obsession with aquaria, catch and release fishing, and all things under the ocean. It is a hobby and an interest that has occupied much of my life, even in my dreams.

Goodbye, Mr. Limpet, and thank you. May the great beyond show you safe seas.

I Am Man, Hear Me Roar

For a short while, my mother tried the gentle-lady farmer routine. It was great to visit in the spring: flowers and vegetables sprouting, Jose the donkey racing down the long driveway anticipating the carrots in your pocket, the rooster making sure all his hens were in the right place, bluebirds making nests in the birdhouses I and her husband made, alligator lizards snoozing under the hose bib, geese hornking on the pond......

And Billy, the satanic asshole goat. He was eight feet tall at the shoulder, peed in his mouth before rubbing his harem with his prodigious phallus, shot lasers from his eyes, and could smell your testosterone from half a mile. I went in once to pet the baby goats, and Billy reared up, a stormy tower of badassness topped by wicked curved horns, hepped up on clover, my puny pale humanity in his crosshairs. I cowered behind a post, hoping for safety, peering up in terror at the thousand-foot devil that was Billy. His glowing ember eyes stared from the clouds as lightning swirled about his evil crown, the ground trembled beneath his might, bats and snakes and demons pranced across his shaggy coat, his stink caused trees to fall over and vultures to drop from the sky. I whimpered what I thought was my last futile wussiness.

"Billy!"

My senior mother, five inches shorter, in a long skirt, muscles half my size, strode into the field, grabbed Billy by one skull-weapon, and twisted him to the ground with one blue-veined wrist. "Stop that." She then proceeded to gather the baby goats in the fold of her skirt while simultaneously grabbing some afalfa and somehow banishing the now chastised Billy to the fence. The mating season was in full bawdy, growing things were crazed with the fullness of life, the afternoon spring sun suffused the world with warmth and contentment. In the center of it all, my mother held court.

Later, as I fed Jose a carrot and watched a bluebird flit about with string in its beak, I realized that Nature really is a Mother.