Event Zero: The Etiology of Etiolation

There was once, 5,122 years ago, a peaceful paradise in a part of the world dotted by volcanoes, and which from time to time shuddered when Mother Earth rolled over in her bed. The gifts she bestowed upon the people who lived there were too precious and abundant to reject and run from, however. These people took their chances living there instead of somewhere without the constant threat of a natural catastrophe.

Fruits and vegetables grew large and long there, there were precious stones and rocks with which they could both adorn themselves and make tools. Fish and game were everywhere, and the hillsides were covered with the herbs they so valued for their medicines.

The people lived tied happily to the ground beneath their feet and were thankful for the manna Nature granted them. They prayed to their thunder god and made offerings to him gladly.

When they weren’t busy farming the land.

It was sometimes so hard to say no to all that Nature offered them…

They lived high in the mountains where the air was pure, and next to a lake pure and clean under the shadow of high mountain peaks. The valley was surrounded by these peaks and teemed with every kind of flora and fauna one could imagine.

Then one day one of the volcanoes awoke with a pain in its gut. It groaned and shook and sputtered smoke into the sky. Red fire seeped out of its crater, and the people grew fearful. What have we done to incur the volcano’s wrath? they asked themselves.

Their neighbors could have told them what they had done, but they were not talking to their neighbors anymore.

To their horror, they watched as fire serpents from the volcano stopped up the runoffs the mountain streams had followed to two immense rivers to the South. The lake began to rise in the bowl they called home, and soon their settlements were engulfed.

Explosions began to tear at the fabric of the sky. Fire rained down on them, and many perished. The animals they had kept were also destroyed.

As the eruption reached a cataclysmic peak, they saw the image that would haunt all of them forever:

A figure rose from the crater.

The people were terrified. It was plainly visible even from great distances, and it was clear that the figure must be truly gargantuan.

Still it rose. Out of the crater and into the sky.

At night the stony cracks in its side revealed the same red fire coursing through its body. It lit the creature in crimsons and yellows and oranges, and steam rose from its snout, pointed ever heavenwards. It was made of stone, living stone, stone alive with fire.

Nothing could stop the forces of the exploding volcano, and this creature was its lord and master.

Over a short period of time, the Tower rose to a stupendous height. Its image dominated the horizon, and none could take their eyes from it.

What does it portend? they asked themselves. Are we doomed?

One by one people were smitten by the rage of this fierce volcano god. The survivors ran for their lives but distance meant nothing. Time meant nothing. Their prayers meant nothing. Their supposed innocence and superiority meant nothing.

They asked what good their thunder god was, if even he had turned tail and was hiding.

The Tower had already reached the thunder god’s foyer. He was challenging the highest one directly! He threatened the thunder god’s wife! All of the gods seemed to be in hiding; none dared to challenge this menace from below.

Then the battle turned. The Beast was injured on a lower extremity, and threatened to crumble. Inspired, the thunder god rallied and hurled one lightning bolt after another at the dreaded creature. Finally, the Tower collapsed under its own weight, hurling a last hellacious death cry across the heavens. The thunder god buried it quickly under the mountainside and the people were again safe.

But were they?

Some doubted everything they had ever learned. Where had our god gone when we needed him most? they asked. Why had he let so many of our brothers and sisters perish? Why had he allowed our livelihoods to be destroyed? Did he really deserve to be top dog?

Maybe it was time to cast their lots with a different higher power? One from below and not from above…

They went back to tilling the fields, but much of the land was either scarred forever or under water. Plants barely grew because clouds from the eruption blacked out the sun for years afterwards.

They built new homes with thick walls to make them feel safe. Inside these walls, though, something was happening to these people. They began to feel as though they were privy to secret knowledge, and were therefore special. They spent hours upon hours, day and night, sleeplessly tossing and turning in their beds, racked by pangs of conscience and delusions of grandeur, endlessly asking themselves what they had done to deserve their fate and if they did not deserve better.

They could not put the Event behind them and wallowed in grief within the thick walls of their homes, out of the light of the sun. At some point the grief turned to rage, and these people lost. They lost their pasts, they lost most of their relatives, they lost their connection to a higher power, and, well,

It’s a simple, well-known and understood procedure in horticulture:

Because the eruption forever destroyed the lifestyle they had enjoyed for so long and forced them to move South down the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, they lost touch with their roots.

Because of the lack of light both up in the sky and within the walls of their comfy homes, and because they no longer had to divert energy to their roots, thoughts exploded in their minds like the branches of an unhealthy tree; they had too many and they went beyond the borders of their own consciousness. They became tangled and knotted and they wasted so much energy trying to untie them they were always tired.

Some turned out to be productive: when they pondered how they could increase yields they came upon irrigation and drainage. When they pondered how they could convince their neighbors to donate lands to grow these increased yields upon, they were visited by Prometheus, who taught them first to smelt metals, and then all about the miracles of tin-bronze. The weapons they made from this metal transformed them into invincible hordes. When they needed proof of their own supposed excellence, they invented precession and mathematics, as well as astronomy. They built great pyramids that touched the sky like their Great Hero.

Some of these thoughts were less productive. Many of their women began to have some serious, paralyzing, terrible and fearful thoughts. Without solid ground beneath their feet where there roots could take hold and grow, and now with ample space within their own minds to stretch the branches of their imaginations, these women invented mental illness. Of course, their husbands were not immune either.

They would go on to believe that they were the most important beings on Earth, and never wasted a moment before trying to prove it.

They asked themselves:

How cool would it be if someone or something could really defeat the One Most High? The Tower had been so close…

And finally, because of the lack of light and their lack of desire to let themselves be seen (and healed!) by the sun, their leaves paled. They lost the color of their skin.

Nigerians call them Oyinbo-the people with the peeled-off skin. Natives in California called them “half-human, half something else.”

They raised a dream from the Earth below their feet, one that shone as brightly (in their minds) as the sun. And one that, strangely, caused cancer almost as though it were a real, radioactive sun.

They built the first civilization this world has ever known, and we call these people “Caucasians.”

Don’t Know Any Dad Jokes, But…

One gray and sad Christmas our family had gathered for the traditional Slatherfest, where our family would wet its beaks with the most delicious turkey, stuffing, and the junky vegetables the adults would eat. My Dad and Mom were there, my brother and I, and my mother’s parents were also welcomed, as always, to the table-blanketing meal.

Cooking had not gone too well. My mother, out of desperation, perhaps, forgot the number one rule in our family: never let Dad anywhere near the kitchen to “help.”

Did I mention that he had been making sure his beak was already wet?

At any rate, it was time to “test” the bird, and my father tentatively guided it out of the oven to utter the words “it’s perfect” without piercing its skin – maybe he had X-ray vision? My mom told him he would have to cut into the side to see what the meat looked like, but Dad unfortunately discovered that both of his hands were holding the pan with the turkey in it, and had no room for a knife.

He carefully slid the turkey back into the oven and almost put it onto the rack successfully. The pan collapsed like the worth of the dollar and turkey juice splashed everywhere inside the oven and onto my father’s forearms, which hurt.

“Tis the season to be bullshi-,” my Dad sang through gritted teeth.

After shooing my father out of the kitchen where he belonged, my mother did her best to save the turkey and finish the rest of the dinner by herself.

Dinnertime!! Everyone stormed the table. The bird was plopped onto its cutting board, which presented a problem for my father. What to do with the rest of the slop still in the pan?

My father opted for the truly American solution of dumping the waste into the woods where no one can see it. He upended the pan at the back of our yard, and the juice instantly melted away a circle of snow.

Finally we all sat down to the meal. Jokes and stories were told, everyone laughed and enjoyed each other’s company.

Weee-ooo, weee-ooo. The noise sounded from farther off.

It was getting closer.

It was coming down our street!

The fire trucks were stopping in front of our house!

We watched through the front window in horror, feeling like vermin, as a gang of firefighters stormed around to the back of the house. That was when we finally looked out the back window to see a plume of smoke billowing skywards to paint the world a new hue of gray. It came from the place, duh, where my father had dumped the turkey goop.

At least we all had something to laugh about, looking back.

Wo Am I

all of my parents are dead

and all of my frienships are lost

my brother stubbed his toe

my sister was crushed by a meteor

I was abused by a woodchuck

and lost my last friend’s hammer

my house was foreclosed

under the meteor and

my engine knocks and pings

I cannot afford Valvoline

the walls of my home are crumbling

since I’ve been using the bricks

to hammer in the nails

to hang up my pictures

if only I could find that hammer

PS-I am currently in France, so the $5 prize for winning this poetry contest must be forwarded per bank transfer. I’ll give you the details as soon as you declare me the winner and don’t forget-I don’t like to wait.

Harriet Tubman-Five Times Before Breakfast

First there was the Night. Under cover of darkness, Harriet Tubman herded scores of slaves northwards towards freedom, hidden under its black blanket. Dozens of times she returned, always by night, until she knew the way without having to open her eyes, always for the good of others. It was the night, after all, their great black friend, that gave them their only hope of ever becoming more than 3/5 of a person, and of being treated as human beings were meant to be treated. Perhaps it was the bottomless night that gave her her bottomless strength.

Harriet Tubman was born into slavery between 1815 and 1825, depending on which source you find. It was a large family, and her mother Rit struggled to keep it together. Their slave master Brodess sold three of her daughters early on, separating them from the family forever. 

When a trader from Georgia approached Brodess about buying Rit’s youngest son, Moses, she hid him for a month. At one point she confronted her owner about the sale. Finally, Brodess and the buyer came to seize the child, where Rit told them, “You are after my son; but the first man that comes into my house, I will split his head open.” Brodess backed away and abandoned the sale. It was thought that this event convinced Tubman that it was possible to resist.

At five or six she was hired by a woman named “Miss Susan” to rock her baby’s cradle when it slept, and was whipped when it didn’t. She later said she was once whipped five times before breakfast. Some of her scars never healed.

Only three things helped her avoid these whippings: running away (sometimes for five days), wearing more layers of clothing to dull the whip’s blows, or fighting back.

Later, she was hired to check muskrat traps in the nearby marshes, or perform field and forest work, all of which enabled her to gather important geographical knowledge that she would use later on.

At one point around this time she happened to be standing too close to an escaping slave. An overseer threw a metal weight that hit Harriet in the head which, she said (no doctor was ever called to care for her), fractured her skull. She was left on the seat of a loom, bleeding and unconscious, for two days. For the rest of her life she often suffered painful headaches, seizures, and would fall unconscious.

In addition, she also had strange dreams and visions, which she interpreted as revelations from God. From that point on she became a religious person, but rejected the New Testament and its urgings of obedience. She preferred Old Testament tales of deliverance.

Around 1844, she married a free black man, John Tubman.

In 1849 her owner died, which increased the chances that her family would be split apart. She was not going to wait and see. Against her husbands wishes, she decided to flee. Later, she said “There was one of two things I had a right to, liberty or death; if I could not have one, I would have the other.”

In order to not raise suspicion, she sent a message in code to her mother. A friend was to sing a good morning song to her: “I’ll meet you in the morning. I’m going to the Promised Land.”

The Underground Railroad was alive and well at that time. It was not a train line, it was made up of good people, Abolitionists or others who just wanted to help. They fed the escaped slaves, hid them in secret parts of their houses, got them jobs and places where they could be safe.

Harriet used this “Railroad” and her knowledge of Maryland’s backcountry to wander up into Delaware. She traveled by night, using the North Star as a guide, and hid during the day to avoid greedy fugitive slave hunters. At one of the stops on her “line,” a “conductor” of the Railroad told her to sweep out in front of the house to make it look like she worked there. Finally, she crossed the border into Pennsylvania-freedom. She said:

“When I found I had crossed that line, I looked at my hands to see if I was the same person. There was such a glory over everything; the sun came like gold through the trees, and over the fields, and I felt like I was in Heaven.”

Nearly every year she would return to Maryland to lead slaves to freedom, which earned her the nickname “Moses.” She had many to chose from, as it was once estimated that Africa had lost over 12 million of their sons and daughters in the slave trade.

They used their feet, were buried in carriages, or sat on log canoes for up to 100 kilometres to reach their freedom. And Harriet was always there to help them, she and the Night. Her name became a legend, and the famous black Abolitionist and ex-slave Frederick Douglass once said:

The difference between us is very marked. Most that I have done and suffered in the service of our cause has been in public, and I have received much encouragement at every step of the way. You, on the other hand, have laboured in a private way. I have wrought in the day – you in the night… The midnight sky and the silent stars have been the witnesses of your devotion to freedom and of your heroism. Excepting John Brown– of sacred memory – I know of no one who has willingly encountered more perils and hardships to serve our enslaved people than you have.”

Tubman rescued some 70 slaves in about 13 expeditions, including her other brothers, Henry, Ben, and Robert, their wives and some of their children. She also provided specific instructions to 50 to 60 other slaves who escaped to the north. One of her last missions into Maryland was to retrieve her ageing parents. She brought both parents north to Canada, where a community of former slaves (including Tubman’s brothers, other relatives, and many friends) had gathered.

She usually came in winter, when the nights were long and dark. It was cold, but freedom was a greater prize than comfort. They would leave on Saturdays, because news of the slaves’ escape would not be printed until Monday, giving them a head start. She would dress in costumes. Once she wore a bonnet and carried two chickens, and spotted a former master. She tugged at the strings holding the chicken’s legs, and their commotion helped her avoid eye contact. 

She would sing “Go Down Moses” and changed the words to tell slaves if it was safe to go on or not.

For all of her achievements leading slaves to freedom in the North, her deeds during the American Civil War (1861-1865) were perhaps more remarkable. Wishing to do everything in her power to aid the North and to free slaves everywhere, she began as a nurse in Port Royal, South Carolina, tending to wounded troops, even calling out President Lincoln because he was at the time not willing to end slavery.

But Harriet was made to do even greater things than being a nurse. In 1863, she began leading scouting parties into the swamps of South Carolina, similar to those in Maryland, and her knowledge of traveling secretly, as well as her charisma, enabled her to lead men deep into enemy territory. They mapped unfamiliar terrain and scouted the people living in the area.

On June 2nd of that year, Tubman became the first woman to lead an armed assault in the Civil War. They destroyed three plantations, captured thousands of dollars worth of supplies, and rescued about 750 slaves.

For the rest of the war she continued tending to freed slaves, nursing wounded soldiers, and scouting enemy territory.

Despite all of these accomplishments, which put her higher than most people ever dared to dream of being, she found at home in New York that African-Americans still had a very long way to go. While on a train in 1869, the conductor told her to move from a half-price section into the baggage car. She refused, showing government papers that allowed her to ride there. He cursed and grabbed her, but she fought, and he called two other passengers for help. While clutching the railing, they muscled her away and  broke her arm. As this happened, other white passengers cursed Tubman and shouted for the conductor to kick her off the train. This was 86 years before Rosa Parks.

In addition, it would be another thirty years before the government recognised Tubman’s services during the War and granted her a monthly pension, but did not recognise her as a spy and a scout, only a nurse.

Her headaches and seizures worsened with age, and she finally decided to be operated on in the 1890’s. Afterwards her pain lessened, but during the operation, she was not given anaesthesia. She chose to bite a bullet as she had seen Civil War soldiers do when their legs were amputated instead.

She died in poverty in 1913, but was surrounded by friends and family members.

Her last words were “I go to prepare a place for you.” Somewhere, deep in the depths of the nighttime sky, maybe in costume, she is waiting to lead the many downtrodden and enslaved masses to their own visions of heaven.


it is in the space between breaths

it is between each and every step

it’s in the moment before the tornado touches down

and it dances and prances the moment

you shut off the light

at bedtime every night

it is the pause before the next attacking wave

or the tremble of a leaf before it decides to fall

it is there before you step on the gas and go

while it whispers its stories unkind

when you shut off the light

at bedtime every night

it is the minutes before the rising of the sun

and the second you realize he is gone

it is the moment of silence at the grave

between salvos of a 3-gun salute

and your insomnia at night

in the absence of light

it is New Tear’s morning, new year’s mourning,

the first Christmas after the kids have gone away

an empty house once filled with children

a closetful of clothes with no one to show them to

that make noises at night

in your room without light

it is an early morning coffe shop

and empty, idle conversation

or the one place without distractions

in a world pathetically

shining a lonely light

through omnipotent night

it is make up and a shining smile

or the warbly voice of a pop star

or the assumption you deserve that prize

and the knowledge you’ll never win

it’s there when you shut off the light

no matter how you polish it white

it’s deep inside the cracks sprouting in your mind

and ticking and tocking the minutes away

it’s a world of empty hands and hearts

and a proud collection of lies

to light you up right

at bedtime every night

The First Taste

My brother and I must have been about eleven and ten, respectively, when we were allowed to try our first sip of beer. It was summer vacation, and it was time for our yearly trip to Cape Cod. Usually we stayed at a little cottage in Chatham at the end of the street, but this one year it was occupied, and we stayed the first night or two at Hotel El Dumpo out on the highway a little.

The cottage was a story in itself. It was just a teeny thing, as the word ‘cottage’ implies, and it didn’t even have walls that went up to the ceiling, which meant that I spent a lot of my time proving I could climb over the top into the next bedroom.

Hardly broke anything.

There was a collection of authentic record albums there–so ancient was the place–and that is where I discovered ‘The First Family’. Comedians imitating presidents is as old as the hills, but it offered me a hilarious, behind the scenes glimpse into Camelot–the Kennedy administration. Check it out on Spotify.

I loved that place; I’m guessing we all did. My brother and I had room to mess around outside, and our parents could relax inside in the twelve minutes per day when we weren’t bothering them. The beach was only a short bike ride away, and we made the most of every summer there. I don’t even want to guess how many fiddler crabs I tortured, or remember my first horrible sunburn, which I also got there.

All of that is nice, except for, um, all of it, but the real story of the cottage predates our first visits there. It goes way, way back in time, before Kennedy, even, to a time when most people had no idea what the Cape was, except for the lucky ones who lived there.

My grandfather used to go down there every now and thenI picture him being kind of a trailblazer since most of the Cape wasn’t developed yet. He knew his way around eastern Massachusetts and played golf on most of the courses there. One of the things he didn’t know his way around, however, was a business opportunity.

It all seems so simple now. All he had to do was scrounge up a few thousand dollars, buy some land, and wait. He would’ve easily been a millionaire. In reality, there was no money to scrounge. First the Depression happened, then the war, then came the house in Brockton, which he had to pay for on one income.

Looking back though, it’s hard not to wonder if he hadn’t, in fact, let the “big one” slip away. It was hard, growing up in our house, inside a cauldron of negativity, not to believe that our family was always doomed to let the big one slip away.

So there we were in Hotel El Dumpo, playing hearts (a great game the aforementioned grandfather taught us at an early age) and waiting for the night to pass, so we could move into the cottage. My Dad was pounding back his usual allotment of beer, my Mom was working through…whatever it was she was drinking, and I suddenly piped up and asked if we could try some.

My Dad said yes.

Talk about a can of worms.

We were only allowed to fill half a Dixie cup full of the stuff, but it didn’t matter-there’s no way either of us were getting it down. But we were excited. We couldn’t stop giggling. I had to go into the bathroom and try and drink it there, since my Dad was making us both laugh in the main part of the room. After about 83 tries, a million nervous snickers, and 250 attempts at chiding myself into being more of a serious man, I finally gave up and gave the now-very-warm cup to my father, who downed it quickly.

My brother had also failed miserably, and that was the end of our alcohol consumption.

Ha ha.

What happened between that day and the next twenty years or so? At which point did alcohol become more than some taboo adult pick-me-up and more of an issue? How did it manage to play such a prominent role in our lives and health?

It’s ridiculous of me to say that things would’ve been different if Dad had said no that day. If it wasn’t then it would’ve been a different occasion. But somehow a part of me is forced to wonder what if? Would our futures have turned out differently? Would we have been healthier and happier? Would my father still be around? Would this specter not continue to haunt our subconsciousness day in and day out?

Would we have been able to finally nail the big one?

A Charmed Life

The dogs at the Rescue Center were lucky anyway. Almost all of them were not treated well at some point in their lives, most had been abused, and some had been tortured, but Mama Sara from Sicily had built an impressive little compound a few inches from the long empty beaches on Sri Lanka‘s southeastern coast, where all of the canines there can live like kings. There’s always plenty to eat, only Sara (the dog) has to have her meals…er… managed, because let’s just say she overestimates „the Worth of Girth“.

Mama Sara is generous in that regard, as well as with her love. In fact, on some days the only problems that might arise are the occasional fits of jealousy that overtakes some of the dogs, who jockey for the best napping positions as close to Mama Sara as possible.

The Sri Lankans employed there as cook and caretaker are competent and efficient. The woman whose name I’ll never be able to understand or pronounce takes care of all of the dogs‘ nutritional needs without tiring seven days a week, while someone called “Unkele“ – Uncle in Italian? – has a job not so clearly defined, but one he completes just as effectively. One minute he might be oiling door hinges, then he might put a new roof over some of the stalls, and every day around three he shepherds a gang of about fifteen of the forty-six dogs out to the beach to run and play for an hour or two.

The place is a veritable doggie heaven, so much so the question must be asked: What’s the catch? There has to be a bad side, right? I mean, other than the terrible pasts most of the dogs have endured. Well, I can’t think of one, that’s how well Mama Sara’s best-laid plans have worked out. But … there is a cloud hanging over the place, a topic I didn’t want to broach, one I couldn’t help wondering about.

Last Saturday Mama Sara coincidentally spilled the beans on just this subject, and I thought her story wasn’t only amazing, it deserved retelling.

2004. December 26th. The Tsunami. The worst catastrophe in the history of mankind. Over 300,000 dead. And here’s The Doggie Center not 200 meters away from the waterline, with dozens of dogs, some of whom in stalls, just waiting to be swept away.

What happened? This is the story of how three of Sara’s dogs died. They did not perish as you might have already pictured them to, though. There’s a world of difference.

On December 25th, Mama Sara was in her native Sicily, as her father had taken sick. His condition had improved enough, however, for her to make the return trip, and she spent the day getting ready to get to the airport, which would have put her right back in the Danger Zone on the 26th, Boxing Day.

The phone rang. It was Sara’s mother. Her father’s condition had worsened, could she stay a little longer? Sara agreed. She had seen to it that her dog center was in good hands, and even left money so that nothing would lack. There was still the possibility of wiring more money should something go wrong, and Mama Sara trusted the people taking care of the house, so she felt comfortable with staying for a few more days.

Naturally, the next morning she was horrified to hear the news about the Tsunami. Anyone who remembers that day, or knows a little geography, or researches it, will know that the southeastern coast of Sri Lanka was nearly annihilated by the wave. Which also meant that the phone lines were down. It was days before she heard anything, and when she did the news was not good. Her house was gone, as if it were a sand castle. She hung up wondering about her dogs and the murky future.

A few days later, the next bit of news arrived from a more informed source. The house was fine. Not a single stone was missing. And, will wonders never cease, all of the dogs except two were accounted for. They had all been washed inland, and when the waters receded they were deposited on the same land they had been on before the great wave hit. When Mama Sara finally returned to her oceanfront abode, the circle closed: she got to hear the story of the remaining two dogs. The wave had washed these dogs not inland, but out to sea. Maybe it was just coincidence. Maybe it was an unimaginable feat of will power on the part of the dogs. Maybe a kindly fisherman recognized them and taxied them back to shore before disappearing and never telling anyone, but after hearing stories about how some of these fishermen set dogs on fire, or tie their legs together with wires and throw them in the ocean, I seriously doubt it.

Anyway, as the seas settled, regaining it’s usual rhythm and surge, one wave after the other pushed the landwrecked canines back to shore. They returned not fifty miles up the coast, or even onto either of the properties to the left and right of the center. They dragged themselves up out of the ocean and onto the same property they had been forcefully evicted from. I see them shaking themselves off, and then maybe going to scrounge for food. As always. Much like Sara (the dog) is doing now.

Now you want to talk about “A Charmed Life?” You want to talk about luck? Mama Sara and her dogs were rolling in it. I’d like to believe these strange and wonderful coincidences occurred simply because Sara’s heart (Sara the human) is open and warm and lets these things happen.

But, unfortunately, it would still be days before the lady of the house would return. The people taking care of the house in Sara’s absence had completed their few chores responsibly for a few days at least. But Sri Lankans are poor, and some poor persons have a difficult time dealing responsibly with a sudden influx of cash. The temptation got the better of them and they decided to throw a party or two. Why not? They had money (for once), and a beach house, why not make the most of it? They did. The partying continued until sooner or later, probably about the time the tsunami hit, it came down to a choice between spending money on dog food or party supplies. Guess which was chosen? By the time Sara was finally able to return, three of the dogs had starved, including an Indian wolf.

An Indian wolf, beautiful and regal. It was gone. This world could be such a great place, if we would only appreciate it a little. We’re not living in harmony with it, which is bad enough, but when you actively contribute to living at odds with it, it’s criminal. This world is an incredible, magical place, it’s us who are anything but. I’ll be impressed with all the accomplishments of business, science, politics, entertainment, etcetera, when you prove to me that another wolf like that is not going to die in a similar situation in the future.

In addition to the three starved dogs, Sara was forced to deal with the one and half bodies she found in her garden. But I still hope this report can and will be taken as a powerful argument for there being plenty of good in the world, and evidence that, once you’ve found your own special little path, this universe can work wonders in your favor, no matter who, or what, is swarming around you.

P.S. Anyone looking to support Sara and her efforts will be pleased to know that the good woman does NOT approve of monetary donations, despite my constant arguments in favor of them. Gifts of rice and the like are always welcome, as the dogs always seem to be hungry. Contact me here if you are interested in supporting a Bow-Wow or two!

My daughter, Mama Sara, my wife Kay, and some awesome dude

Ko Phan-gan: The “Dark Side”

This wonderful little island off the Eastern Coast of Thailand is famous for its Lunar Night Parties, and a general festive attitude, but we’re going to leave that all for the kiddies still wet behind their ears and look at the lesser known attractions on this isle of pleasure, hence the “Dark Side” in the title. See what I did there?

To get to the island, assuming you’re on a budget, like us, you fly into Bangkok, find your way to the right bus station–good luck!–ride a twelve-hour but very comfortable bus down South to Surat Thani, get on a smaller bus that takes you to the ferry, then hop on the ferry that takes you to the island in a mere two and a half hours. If you’ve got a lot of baggage, like us, this is all stressful and exhausting, so pack wisely!

Did I mention that you’re not, technically, “there” yet? You’re on the pier in Thong Sala, most likely nowhere near your accomadations. Which means, just bear with this here, these are professionals and they know what they’re doing, you’re going to be herded to the left where a parking lot where pickups with (cattle?) cages on the back and loading “space” on the roof await. You and the hundreds of others you came over with are about to be prodded, divided up, and allotted places in any of these rickety modes of transport, inside these cages, which will most definitely be overloaded and the luggage on the roof, not tied down in any way, might arrive at your resort with you but if not hey! they or it are or is still definitely on the island so hang loose!

Getting there is half the fun!

Let’s suppose you’ve got all of that behind you; you’re next step, if you’re not really interested in getting effed up, is to get to the ocean, drink a delicious fruit beverage or shake, catch your breath, make your plan. We’re up here on the Northern side of the island, which is a little quieter, and has two very special hiking trails out the front door just waiting to be navigated.

Let’s hit it!

Before you go on either one of these hikes make sure you’ve got plenty of water and a sturdy pair of shoes. Good sneakers will do, just remember the going can get a little rough on some of the trails. And don’t forget your mosquito spray, your umbrella, your face-net, a good pair of UV resistant sunglasses, compression socks, eye black, wrist bands, breathable outerwear, sexy underwear, a butterfly net, a flare gun, a harpoon, shark repellant, and a satellite dish. But half of that crap will do, too.

Bottle Beach

From us, which is like East of that town that starts with “C” –GOOGLE BREAK: Chaloklum–we head East and follow the lone road around the Northern side of the island until the road ends in a dirt parking lot with usually fifty-two motor bikes that tell you that you should have came earlier. There’s a handsomely carved stump there if you like that sort of thing–it really is impressively carved, and you want to follow the path behind it. The path bends immediately to the right, you’ll know it because you’ll ask yourself “How am I supposed to get up there?”

After that the path will head up over the mountain, down the other side and to a beautiful, remote beach that was well worth the trip. The way there will be lined by dense undergrowth, beautiful tropical trees, the wonderful songs of dozens of tropical songbirds performing at an ear-splitting level (11 on your dial), very motivated crickets who refuse to be drowned out, if you’re lucky a few monkeys who won’t be impressed by much, and hopefully no poisonous snakes.

See, technically I didn’t take the path I should have tooken, er, taked, and wound up clambering rocks seaside until I realized I was getting nowhere and decided to head back. But I did find the correct path, and I know this is so because it was lined with beautifully crafted, handsomely adorned, environmentally friendly plastic bottles every 8 – 21 feet, hence the name: Bottle Beach. The path is also crossed in several places by clear mountain streams, the sound of each being so relaxing you won’t want to leave.

It is a truly majestic coastline with the Gulf of Thailand on one side and the mountains on the other, with everything in between draped in luxurious jungle green. Gonna try and make this trip once more and finally make it to that hidden beach. Wish me luck..

Khao Ra

This hiking trip was special. Or maybe I’m just saying that because I found my way there and back. From Chaloklum you head back down South on the main road, first you’ll see a sign for the Paradise Waterfall, then, after an incline, you’ll see a map on the right of the entire island. The road heads downhill to the South for a kilometer or two, then arrives at an intersection, where you’ll head to the left.

Before this intersection you might have noticed two dogs resting at the entrance to a road on your left, these are important later. After taking your left follow the road for I don’t think too much longer, where you’ll promptly see a sign for the Khao Ra Bungalows, and you’re practically there. Follow this dirt road all the way to the bungalows, but if you’ve come across those two dogs again you’ve gone about two or three hundred meters too far, so if you do see the dogs go down that street cuz it’s shorter. But only before.

Once you reach the bungalows, you’re not really at the bungalows, because you’ve got to follow this other dirt road up to the finally correct bungalows, where you park your camel or motorbike or whatever and pay your twenty Baht entrance fee, if someone happens to be there; there was no one there for us six, so we missed out on our complimentary bottles of water.

Follow this “adventuresome” path up the hill to the water basin, where you’ll cross the bridge and head uphill on the main path. Shortly after you’ll see your first sign for “Khao Ra” that tells you you’re going the right way, and you can relax…

…your mind. Because around here that path gets challenging. The forest grows in on you and the roots and rocks provide for some uneven footing. After you get to the sign that says “1,5 Km”, things will get really interesting, the footing is treacherous and you’ll have to use the roots to help navigate your way up, and the trees to help pull you up, like some crazy Jedi Obstacle Course, so use the force. I find it helps if you keep your eyes closed. But only if you don’t move.

The joy you’ll feel at seeing the sign for one more Kilometer will only be topped by the joy you’ll feel when you get to the 500 meter sign. It is a true accomplishment to make it up to the top – it is a mountain after all. And once you’re there it will all be worth it, because the view is incredible, unless it’s cloudy, like when I was there. But I was there to train and run up and down the mountain, and not look at stuff, so…

Khao Ra is the largest mountain on the island, over six hundred meters high, and it commands a beautiful view to the North and to the West. There are also apes in the trees but you’ll be too tuckered out to raise your head to look at them so just listen to them screech. There is also a path somewhere that leads South to the very famous Phaeng Waterfall, which is definitely worth a trip, but if I’d have gone looking for it I’d still be looking and I might not be on the right island.

The way down is best taken very carefully, but if you’re feeling courageous you can try to bounce down like a mountain goat. I must warn you, however, I’m very super-fit and I stumbled two or three times. Maybe you’ll have better luck with your normal human-sized feet, my size twelve and halfs got stuck on all kinds of roots.

Once down I recommend you find somewhere to get some coconut water–in a real coconut!–and maybe some mangoes to replenish those electrolytes. FAST! The climate tends to be really humid so you really need to think responsibly when it comes to exerting yourself, you just won’t be able to breathe as well as you’re used to, and it’s definitely advisable to always have enough to drink nearby. No, not that kind of drink, that comes later..

Wonderdogs, Part I: Spain

                                                                               Nov. 30th

Charlie and Peppa are the two superdogs we’re stuck taking care of here while the woman of the house is away on vacation.  Charlie is four, Peppa two, and both come from hunting stock (Peppa even more so – Charlie is more of a mongrel), and I would not give you this information if it did not play a role later in this story.

We’re supposed to take the dogs for a walk twice a day, as they are young and full of energy.  Once we’ll walk them on the leash just to stretch their legs and let them do their “duty“, and once we’ll let them run free, Charlie for the first half of the walk and Peppa for the latter, and hopefully they’ll be tuckered out enough then to lie around and leave us alone for a few hours.  I like cats.

Before I continue with the misadventures of “Chuck“ and “Peppermint“, let me draw a quick picture to show you what we’re up against:

The other day Charlie barked at the back door, wanting to be let in, but before I could reach the door, he heard something somewhere he needed to yowl at.  Moving out to the back porch, I watched Charlie and Peppa storm down the steps,  race across the back yard, bark at nothing I could see, and then begin to playfully maul each other.  I observed this nonsense for a little, then, as they tackled and bit each other, I whistled at them to come back.

They stormed back across the back yard, raced up the steps – each almost knocking the other back down in the process – and when when they got to me I yelled “Good dogs!!“ loudly and proudly, to which they jumped up and down excitedly.

On a whim, I yelled “Go get ‚em!!“ in my command voice, and wouldn’t you know it?  They stormed down the steps, raced across the back yard, barked at nothing, and then resumed gouging each other again.  There is no doubt in my mind I could have kept this up all day, but I had things to do.  I decided they were “mentally challenged“ and went back inside.

During our long walks, when we drive to the hills with them, the routine breaks down like this:  on the way there Peppa girlie-whines the entire time, we arrive and we let the dogs out, Charlie free from his leash at first and Peppa not.  If they’re both allowed to run free they won’t come back until 2035.  Charlie takes off – but only to pee his Three Drops – that’s his nickname:  every twelve meters three drops.  Charlie is a typical boy with no imagination of his own so he needs to play “fetch“ or he will short-circuit, maybe, and his peabrain will melt.  After anywhere from two to five kilometers, in which Charlie has fetched the stick at least one hundred and fifty seven times, and peed three drops another one hundred and six times, it’s time to switch.  The switch only goes smoothly if Charlie can be tempted to come back and enjoy a biscuit, while Peppa whines because she, too, wants to run free, because she wants a sixth biscuit, because she wants those scary afternoon clouds to go away, oh, she’s got millions of reasons to whine.  So they both get their biscuit, Charlie is leashed up, Peppa is released, and after one ear-piercing yelp, is gone.

One of the first times we took them for a walk we let Charlie “run free”, or: “run back and forth” free, and tried to grow ourselves accustomed to Peppa’s whining. “When do I get to run free?” she seemed to whine. And, “what if he never comes back?” Or, “Why does Thursday end in a ‘Y’?” Maybe. At any rate, on this day Charlie was gone a little longer than usual, which meant that Peppa whined ever more fervently, until finally O my God can it be yes it is! my friend has finally returned!!! And Peppa half-whined, half-cried, half-jumped up and down excitedly, which is a lot of halfs, and runned to greet her best friend heroically returning. Unfortunately, as I’ve implied, Charlie always has a fetched stick in his trap, and promptly drilled Peppa in the face with it. It could have been a real Kodak moment.

Peppa is a typical girl and has an imagination and knows what to do when she is not leashed up and doesn’t have to chase a stick, and does.

Back at the car later we wait anywhere from ten minurtes to an hour until the little lady notices she’s completely alone in the woods and makes her way back.  Did I mention I prefer cats?  See, Peppa likes to hunt, and as soon as she sees a blade of grass bent suspiciously, she’ll start yelping and “chasing the scent“.  Which can continue for a while. Once she disappeared into the bushes “chasing the scent“ and came back an hour later without her collar, which actually had been tight enough around her neck.  Wish I had a video of how she got that off!

The short walks are kind of amusing because Charlie has to sniff everything Peppa does, pee where Peppa has peed (three drops), and, when Peppa puts her front paws up onto a wall that marks property lines, he does to.  He could miss something.  They have also obviously never seen “Ghostbusters“, and aren’t aware of the dangers of crossing the streams, because they crisscross paths every eight minutes and get their leashes tangled.

The other day we came back from our long walk and about two hundred meters from the car my wife and a friend of ours got the dogs leashed up unusually early.  Peppa had come back and it had just worked out that way.  I had been hanging back with my daughter, and my wife and our friend were waiting for us, primarily because I had the car key.  When I finally caught up to them some two-odd minutes later both dogs went nuts, jumping up and down, Charlie putting his front paws up on my abdomen, then both of them cuddling excitedly around my legs, because even though I had been with them every step of the way for the last five kilometers or so, they had blinked, maybe, and apparently were somehow convinced they would never ever see me again but O Joy!!  there I was.

I like cats!

The all time low was near the end of our stay when my daughter and I took Peppa and Charlie, respectively, for their short walk. We made it along the path across the street for almost three kilometers before turning around and heading back, and, almost immediately, my daughter noticed others walking towards us. Upon seeing that they also had a small dog, I tightened my grip on Charlie’s leash. I had just enough time in that half-second to fall completely in love with what must have been the most beautiful puppy in the history of the, like, Earth, before Charlie decided to go for the kill. He tried to run – no dice. My grip was too tight on his leash. He really tried to run – no go! I had pulled the leash back so his front paws were no longer on the ground. Then he went completely apeshoot and started twisting and writhing – I felt as though I was trying to reel in a swordfish – and it was then that I felt his collar slipping. Gulp.

I couldn’t see anymore what the people were doing, or my daughter, and did the only thing I could think of, right as he tore himself away from his collar:

I sat on him.

Well, at least we had something to laugh about later. And the puppy was not harmed in any way , thank God!

The reason I’m going into such detail about the dogs is because I don’t really want to do my hill runs today and I want to procrastinate, and because even when their  A.Q. (Annoyance Quotient) is at its absolute zenith, I remember what it was like to be young.  Charlie, especially, is talented in this regard-he’ll pull and tug and grind his way forward when he’s excited, no matter the odds, no matter how steep the hill is, with a power my wife and daughter have trouble handling, and this reminds me of the power I have inside me to push and grind my way up over the odds and obstacles I face no matter how difficult they appear to be, if I only release it.  I just have to remain true to my roots, the way Charlie (and Peppa) are true to their hunting roots and are always ready to “give chase“.

But physically, as well, I’m tied to that youth, that power, and I’m forced to perform at the level of a .. what’s dogs?  times seven?  twenty-eight year old.   They’re both keeping me young and plucky despite how my wife’s training plan tries to age me.

So yeah, I’m grateful to these goofy Wonderdogs for helping me to achieve my goals and stay on course.

Did I mention that we caught Peppa the other day licking another dog’s feces?

I like cats.

Wonderdogs Part 2: Australian Remix

Teary-eyed, we left Charlie and Peppa behind us in Spain. Before we left, I sat them down and made a speech about how they will always stay in my heart, and how I would always honor their great unchained spirits, and how, when I dream of the things that fill every corner of my essence with joy, love, compassion, devotion, and tireless commitment – notice I’m leaving out “intelligence”? – that my mind would be painted with pictures of each of them, blah blah etc. Charlie was bored, and might have drooled. Peppa tried to slink away mid-speech; maybe she got into the peanut butter again. And felt guilty. Don’t ask.

We boarded a plane for Dubai. Just to say we were there. Then we boarded again for the long flight to Australia. Four weeks in Toowoomba! Who else can make that claim? Well, you know what they say: You leave two silly canines behind you in Spain, two more are waiting in Toowoomba. They all say that.

This was not to be a cakewalk. First, weighing in around forty kilos, looking like Charlie only with a little more pudge, a little less hunting pedigree, and an innocent “you can trust me” used-car salesman demeanor, there was Chopper. He was about nine and still active and alert, but not in a very good environment, emotionally speaking, because of his fellow canine-in-arms. Dog Number two, who happens to be very brown -just sayin’- was 1 and weighed, get this : sixty kilos. Max was a Rhodesian Ridgeback who was bred to, get this : hunt lions. At this point my wife decided “Get this : you’ll be walking Max”.

Poor Chopper! Anytime he wanted a pat or a cuddle or a treat there was Max, butting his big ol’ bull’s head in where it didn’t belong. Being a puppy, and having the power of an elephant and the violent athleticism of a charging rhino, and having beautiful dark-brown lachrymose eyes you can’t be mad at, Max garnered most of the attention, most of the tidbits, most of everything.

A great and typical Max story: one time I was in the bathroom shaving when Max came in wondering what I was doing in there. Unfortunately the first part of the bathroom is a little narrow for anyone not named Max. Or elephants. Max wandered in and noticed almost immediately that he would not be able to turn around, so he did what anyone would have done in a similar situation: he backed out.

Oh, Max, we miss you.

My favorite activity with Max would be eating on the porch, upon a table which is exactly the right size for every creature on Earth except Max. We would be eating, and Max would stroll over, looking for scraps, and Bonk! he’d ram his head on the table. Never fill the glasses too full when eating outside! Or else it’s Bonk! Splash! We always ate lunch outside- come dinnertime there were too many mosquitoes – and at every meal there Max would Bonk! his head at least twice. Since it was hot, he would sometimes seek the shade under the table, and oh! what fun that was when he discovered something interesting farther away there, and he would make the attempt to crawl under the crossbeams (?) of the table, or once, a chair! This would all end very badly, as if Max was trying on furniture as a kind of cape; I wonder if he even noticed the mayhem he was causing.

Sometimes we made the mistake of taking him for his walk too close to the midday heat, and he would come back to the house plum tuckered out, and when he plopped down his head would hit the floorboards so hard you could hear it anywhere, even down the street.

Max loved to play, and it was always a screaming laugh riot to play one of his two favorite games with him: 1), eating your hand. Most of the time none of us wanted to play “Hand-chomper Max”, so he would play anyway, and you’d have to wait until your hand was coated in enough of his stomach juices for him to get bored and quit. Game Nr. 2) was “Jump the human”, which has been played by dogs all over this planet for thousands of years but probably never with so much pain. Especially when Max jumps your back, and you feel layers of epidermises being exposed to our atmosphere like the innards of an onion while peeling. Fun!

Max also loved food, so when you weren’t looking you could bet he was pilfering goodies from the cat’s Automatic Cat Food Dispenser, from ACME, maybe, and more than once we found it empty. When he was bored he got his circus games mixed up and loped over to the cat to insert its’ head into his esophagus. He thought that was a swell game; the cat, not so much. But I don’t want to tell you about a cat-gargling dog. I wanted to talk about taking the dogs for a walk.

Taking Chopper for a walk was a chore in itself; he wasn’t afraid of anyone and had never been taught to heel or behave or not eat the chickens, etc., so if there was another dog or cat or bird somewhere he felt like he had to play the tough guy. My thirteen-year-old daughter was challenged more than once as Chopper got a head of steam real fast and went for something else in his line of sight; I was proud of her for handling him admirably. But Max was another story. You had to keep him on a very short leash, because if he were to get rolling then someone was going to get hurt. Usually me.

This lack of discipline was the reason you could never let either of them run around anywhere without a leash. I’m convinced there has been no drop-off in my ability to do pull-ups because of the effort and energy I was forced to expend trying to hold that Mack Truck of a dog back. I’m writing this about three weeks after we came out of a park and an aggressive dog behind a chicken-wire fence starting barking unexpectedly right up close, baring and gnashing his drool-coated teeth. Chopper and Max went right for him, and even though I was mostly ready for it Max yanked at his leash so hard I can still move my right middle finger only with pain.

Him being brown and clumsy, I liked to call him Marmadufus. Marmadufus and I went on a short (5K) run once that turned out to be my revenge tour with him. You wanna yank me around the neighborhood like King Kong dragging Fay Wray? Fine, let’s go Dawg!!! I kept it nice and slow; even though it was early it was already warm, and Max was not used to a steady pace over longer stretches. It was glorious! He stayed with me the whole time, hardly tugged at all, and the best part was that he LOVED IT! That’s the kind of exercise he signed up for.

Then we got back home.

I opened the gate. He dragged his heavy paws onto the property while I closed the gate. And that is where he collapsed, exhausted. I could barely get the leash off because he couldn’t raise his thick skull.

No más …

A touching moment with Max: We were relaxing in the living room, sipping on smoothies and watching our standard afternoon documentary when Max came in, ignored the room my wife had made for him at her end of the couch and plopped himself somewhat next to, but mostly on, because there was really no room, me. There he cuddled for the entire documentary, providing me with several numbed limbs and a deficit of oxygen that had me seeing stars.

A housewife’s nightmare: Much of the land is a rich, reddish kind of clay maybe that’s very dusty when it’s dry and very messy when it’s wet. Imagine what the living room looked like the day that began with a hard rainfall and continued with Max wandering through that wet clay before making his way inside to find a comfy place on the couch!

I like cats.

Our time with Max and Chopper was spent trying to get through these walks and dousing them with a Lavender Essential oil: for Max as a calming agent and for Chopper because of his B.O. Near the end of our time together, my daughter and I washed him on the patio, which he enjoyed so much he shook himself furiously when we were done, then went straight to the grass and clay to roll the stink back onto himself.

Yes, it was extremely challenging taking those two goons for their walks, especially cleaning up after one of Max’s “bombing missions”, but I wouldn’t want it any other way. Youth is also a force of nature that must be, first and foremost, enjoyed, then dealt with and protected when a lack of discipline could prove dangerous. They both kept us on our guard and it was great to know they were getting the exercise they not only wanted but needed.

The time had come, however, to say goodbye and to move on to what would be, in many ways, our greatest challenge : taking care of two poodles. Yes, we’re cat people but we’re open to dogs, too, mostly. The more they bark, or bite, or don’t listen, or fuc_everything up the less so, but I believe I can speak for all of the members of our family when I say that poodles are the absolute dregs, not only of the canine world but also the entire animal kingdom.

But more of that in Part 3…