thefutureisred

Three Lessons My Dog Taught Me About People

Who would have thought I'd learn so much about humans from living with a puppy?

 

This morning, I spent an hour playing catch with Mani. He's got so much energy and loves running around, but it's not fun playing when he bites me with his sharp puppy teeth. It's taken a while for me to understand how to communicate with him, how to let him know my boundaries, but I think I finally have the hang of it.

That's when it hit me. These doggy guidelines aren't all that different from setting boundaries with humans.

You want to play catch? Bring the squeaky to me.

That which you chase retreats from you!

I'm sure you've met this type of person. I call them the Push-Pull sort. You push, try to engage in a relationship, they pull away. You pull away? They're pushing to be all sorts of parts of your life.

It has never been as clear how to deal with the Push-Pull as when playing catch with Mani. He has a squeaky toy peanut, and he loves to play catch with it. I throw. He brings it back.  But like most puppies, he doesn't actually drop it by my feet for me to throw again. No, he's not ready for the game to end, so he runs away. 

What do I do? I run the other way when I see him coming. He chases full tilt in my direction, tries to get my attention. All I have to do is turn around. When I do, he slips smack into me.

I try to recognize this trait in humans as early as possible and keep a wide berth. Life is to short to cultivate friendships with people who aren't sure they want to be in your life. But like everything else, there will always be exceptions. When it comes to maintaining these relationships -- usually with family or old friends -- I let them decide when they're ready to play and only then meet them half way.

That way, I never find myself running aimlessly around the couch.

Sit. Shake. Good boy!

In human speak, that means be clear and consistent.

Know what you want. Figure out how to say it in as straightforward a way as possible. Say it.

Mani learned to soften his play bite because every time he bit our hands and clothing or jumped on us, we backed away and woudln't play with him. It was frustrating, because for two weeks, nothing changed. He continued to bite my feet every time I walked out of the house. I even began reconsidering this whole dog-owner thing.

Then one day it clicked for him. I bite. They run away. I I don't want them to run away, I won't bite them.

You have to sit if you want your cheese.

If you want respect, hold your ground.

If I tell Mani to sit, he must sit before I give him his treat. I don't plead with him. I don't repeat myself more than once. I just wait. No shouting. No upset. Just wait. And if he doesn't sit. He doesn't get his cheese.

This applies to everyone in your life. If you say you want something, stick with it. Don't change just because you think you'll get the outcome you want by making the change. You won't.

Obviously, there are times when compromise is in order. Like negotiating a salary or deciding bedtime with your child, but those instances must be chosen and exacted carefully. You go in knowing there will be a compromise.

Then you only need to know when you are just plain wrong and figure out how and when to back down. That, though, is a whole other blog post in itself.

Photo by It's Greg and Mccun934.

The Meaning of Dog: Does A Pet Signal the End Of Your Travel Days?

We recently adopted a dog. He's an adorable Labrador puppy named Mani, and he's part of the family now. So what does that mean about travel?

"I'd love to get a dog," so many other travelers say to me. "But I'm not ready to make the commitment to being in one place. I want to keep moving."

I've always been a strong proponent of not allowing circumstances to get in the way of travel, particularly children. People use children as a reason not to travel, but the reality is it's entirely possible to go anywhere and do anything with your kids if that's what you really want to do.

I don't think the same with pets.

A child can adapt to a new circumstance. She can ride a bus. He can climb a mountain. They can learn to pack light, say goodbye and do everything an adult can do.

A pet cannot.

Is it fair to stick them in kennels underneath the airplane? Sure you can find a pet sitter, but ultimately, if you plan on being gone for a year or longer, is that pet still your pet? How do you take a 500 mile bike trek with your dog?  Crossing borders becomes far more complicated depending on vaccine needs. And exactly how will a dog last on one of those 20 hour bus rides from one end of a country to another?

So what does it mean that we have a dog now?

Does this mean we plan on being in one place for the next ten years or whatever Mani's lifespan will be? Does that mean we might travel short periods of time instead of going free with no return in mind? Does it mean we will move the entire family to another spot in the world and set up shop and home somewhere else for a while? Or maybe it means we travel by car, dog in tow, as we go wherever four wheels can manage?

It means as anything else. There are more questions to ask. There are more complications. It's most definitely not as simple as throwing passport, money and pocket knife in a pack and heading out the door. But as with anything else, we'll figure it out when the time comes.

In the meantime, here are a few websites I've found that might make the trip a little easier.

• The American Veterinary Medical Association Traveling With Pets Brochure

Tips for cat, dog and horse owners covering everything from what to consider with vaccinations, crossing borders and tips for traveling by air, car or bus.

• Fly With Your Emotional Support Animal

This article from Matador Change discusses how "support animal" was originally another word for seeing eye dog or other animal used to help people with disabilities, but now is often used by anyone who wants to avoid the pet transportation fee on airlines.

• Centers for Disease Control Animal Importation Information

All you could possibly want to know regarding laws and regulations related to traveling with your pets. Includes an extremely useful FAQ that includes animals such as birds, reptiles and amphibians as well as the standard mammals (including rodents!). Yes, you can travel with your rat.

• Pets Welcome

A United States based website providing information to travel, camp, ski, lie on the beach, romp in a state park and find a hotel for the night with your pet. Includes a smaller international database of resources as well. 

• International Air Transport Association Pet's Corner

All inclusive instructions on shipping your pet nationally or internationally. Provides recommendations for papers, pet preparation and vaccination.

Photo by SeeMidTN.com

Photo of the Day: These Are the Ants that Ate My Thyme!

This summer, I bought herbs and flowers from the Salta Municipal Market on Calle Urquiza, corner of Itzaingo. Rosemary, basil, locuto peppers, thyme and lavender. The ants ate all but the rosemary and lavender.

Marigolds, I've been told, are the plants you plant around the edges of your garden to repel pests like ants. Those damn ants -- at least four different species -- not only ate them, they dismantled the flowers, petal by petal, leaf by leaf leaving nothing but sticks.

I don't want to use poison in our garden for many reasons, not least of which we have a puppy and a 6 year old running around, playing. But also, I use the plants and leaves for cooking and to prepare herbal preparations for everything from headaches to facial washes to rashes.

Internet research suggested trying lemon, hot pepper powder, salt and hot water. I tried each one separately and together. All I got was a bunch of plants that looks more like a roast than an herb garden.

Autumn arrived and the ants went underground. We stopped seeing them in the house, and my rosemary, lavender and mint -- a present from a friend, thrived. With renewed hope, I bought more thyme.

Then today, I watered the plants. Within minutes, a swarm of ants crawled from the thyme pot, all carrying eggs.

I'm not sure if I'm in awe or if I want to wage war against them. War, though, doesn't seem like much of an option. I'm hopelessly outnumbered.

And if anyone has any non-toxic solutions, please, please let me know.

Picturing Flamingos Flying In the Desert

What a crazy week with visitors galore! First Jason and Aracely from Two BackPackers. Then Audrey and Dan from Uncornered Market arrived. It's been wonderful to meet up with other bloggers, particularly those I've known for a while online but never met face-to-face.

Still, I haven't had much time for blogging. What better time to add another photo for Delicious Baby's Photo Friday?

We saw these flamingos at Laguna Chaxa approximately 45 minutes south of San Pedro de Atacama. It is an unbelievably harsh, yet spectacular place with pockets of life somehow living in the midst of dry, hot, salty land.

I suggest renting a car to reach here. The rental companies in San Pedro have only 4x4s and if you share the ride with a few others, you'll spend less than you would on a tour. I'm not sure many tours go to Laguna Chaxa anyway.

Now, if you'll excuse me, we have more visitors. My parents have just arrived from Atlanta bearing a Snow White dress-up dress and a spiky, furred Webkinz cat for Lila. Shhh. Don't tell her. She'll get a hapy surprise on her birthday next Thursday.

All is quiet and extremely beautiful.

What Kind Of Bird Is This Flying Around My Kitchen?

Funny how often we find birds in the house. Not just here in Salta but also in Atlanta and Bocas. Cardinals, horneros, hummingbirds, too. I found this one flitting about the kitchen recently. Yellow bellow. Red pate. A small creature. Anyone know what kind of bird this is?

I took these photos then set about the project of helping the poor thing return outside. At first, it was petrified. 

Anytime I came near, it would panic and dart back and forth, banging it's head into the screen. After a little while, though, it just ignored me.

I have this weird fear of birds. Prior to this bizarre rash of random birds flying into our living space, I've been attacked -- yes, literally attacked -- by many birds over the years. From an old employers parrot grabbing onto my hand with it's amazingly powerful beak to random birds flying out of the sky trying to peck at my head, I've had my share of negative bird experiences.

I always figured, I'll leave them alone if they leave me alone. But that's not an option when there they are inside on your kitchen windowsill.

So, I grabbed a large curtain our landlord left in the house, climbed up on the counter and waited for the bird to come closer.  Meanwhile, the bird squinched down below the window frame making it almost impossible to catch him with fumbling curtain-hands.  Almost. I reached in and could feel his tiny quivering body -- surprisingly frail -- between my fingers. Captured.

I've never before held a bird, let alone a wild one. Never before have I felt a living creature leave my hands and instead of falling to the ground -- as I half expected -- take flight.

It was exhilarating.

Today, though, no more birds. Today, instead, the house is full of butterflies. Black and orange, about an inch and a half in diameter, they sit on the windows and kitchen table. They land on our hands, slowly flap their wings.

Soon they'll be gone, but my short experience in this country house has shown me that something else will soon take its place. We've been through frogs, birds, horses, grasshoppers, butterflies and bright green beetles as large as sucking candies.

What will tomorrow bring?

What Can Happen In A Thousand Days?

As of today, I've been writing this blog for exactly 1000 days. One. Thousand. Days. I know that's not very long if you compare to all the days I've been alive or days of the recorded universe. Still, it measures the distance between here and there. What was and what is.

Yesterday, I found some old forgotten photos from a cell phone I no longer have and sent to an e-mail address I no longer use. They were taken right before we left New York, just before my thousand days of blogging began.

We had just finished the long and tedious process of selling our apartment and divesting of all the things we didn't need. These were the days just before the beginning, when we were mired down with saying goodbye and had no idea what lay ahead of us.

This is my cat Paloma. Lila is giving her a last goodbye kiss at the vet's office.

I found Paloma at the ASPCA on 5th Avenue on the Upper East Side when she was three months old. She lived with me through college, my first apartment in NYC. Marriage. A move to Brooklyn. Pregnancy. Newborn. Paloma patiently bore the wrath of toddlers running rampant through the apartment, grabbing her tail. She was sick once in her life and that once was complete renal failure. The vet suspected all the excitement of packing and an inadvertant change in food were too much for her aging body.

I remember this particular day even more clearly, because 7am the morning this photo was taken, we received a call to say that during the night Noah's grandmother, Grandma Ruth had passed away.  Noah took Lila home right afterward, and I stayed while Paloma was put to sleep.

Then I took a long walk listening to Sufjan Stevens before going home to pack our suitcases and fly to Atlanta for Grandma Ruth's memorial service.

This next photo I took while waiting for the 2/3 train to arrive at Borough Hall in Brooklyn.

I was on my way to my very first Couchsurfing meeting. It was one of the last times I ever took the subway, and I felt that as a landmark as acutely as the nervousness I felt about going to some random bar on the Lower East Side to meet a group of strangers from Couchsurfing.

I met a couple from Iowa, now living and acting in New York City, although they traveled pretty extensively for work as well. I met a 22 year old guy who had just been living in Prague. And a cool woman named Jennifer who had just been to her first Burning Man.

Noah, Lila and I were living in a rented apartment, where I didn't feel comfortable inviting strangers since it wasn't really our place. (Now, I wouldn't care) The owners of that place sent their friends around with regularity to check up on us and make sure we weren't ruining their things or doing things we weren't supposed to do. It was an uncomfortable situation.

This third photo comes from a goodbye brunch we had with all the families we knew from the neighborhood. It was at Pacifico restaurant early one Sunday morning. Too early for all the non-childed folk of the neighborhood to even consider being awake on a weekend. So we had the place to ourselves.

The kids sat lined up at the bar watching cartoons on the TV while the most awesome bartender ever served them drinks and snacks. Apparently, he used to be a nanny, so he was fabulous with the kids. Pacifico, itself, got a bit punchy though. Something about worrying they'd lose their liquor license because of minors seated at the bar (I mean. Really?).

There's something funny about old photos, especially when you haven't seen or thought about them in a long time. They carry with them a shock of emotion, bringing back the past to life for just a brief moment. And like a smell or strain of music, evaporates quickly as you incorporate the past into the now.

But for just a brief time, I again feel the cold February wind as I wandered the streets of Brooklyn between the vet's office and our house. Or that amusement bubbling from the bit of my belly as I saw all our three year olds on bar stools ordering another juice. Or how amazing was that first bite of salmon taco?

What I can't quite grasp is who I was then.

It's only been 1000 days, and yet those days of travel have changed everything.  I am no longer the person I was then. They way I think, the manner in which I relate to other people, all different. Saying hello to strangers or goodbye to old friends have become part of my daily landscape. 

I look at this photo taken by Ali. We celebrated Lila's first four birthdays with famous John's pizza on Bleeker followed by a walk to Magnolia Bakery. Then to the park where we played on the jungle gyms and ate banana pudding with Nilla wafers. 

And while I know just what I was thinking by the look in my eyes, I no longer understand why I was thinking it.

So tell me, where were you 1000 days ago? What were you eating? Or wearing? Who were you then and how has your life moved?

What will the next 1000 days bring?

How To Raise Frogs & Other Tales Of Country Living

Today we fed the tadpoles. I learned how to keep them alive the hard way. At least now I know.

Back in November, when we first moved into the house, we collected tadpole eggs laid in rainwater in the pileta out back. I cut the top of a big plastic water jug and left them in fresh water. I read up on how to feed them and learned they can feed off the algae in the water.

What the internet didn't tell me on my searches is that there's generally not enough algae to feed ten tadpoles in a jug of well water.

So when our tadpoles started floating, I was surprised. Then I facebooked my friend Cory, a frog specialist and our neighbor in Bocas del Toro. She told me what to do.

Preparing Tadpole Food:

Take some greens. Lettuce. Spinach. Watercress, which seems to grow abundantly both in markets and wild here in Salta.

Boil it until the greens are very soft and dark. The water turns green too. Let it cool and drop it in the water.

That's it. So simple.

Hundreds, possibly thousands hatched from a recent batch laid in the the pileta, but we carried most of them to the San Lorenzo river nearby and set them free in the water. I felt bad at first, not knowing if they could live there, but when we found other frogs, I felt better.

About 20 remain. They are tiny, ant-sized and hungry.

Lila tells me she hears them scream out in tiny shrill voices. "We want spinach."

That, among other things, is what I did today.

Photo by Jake Wasdin

Fiction: Welcome To Sapo Land

I haven't written fiction in a while. Then, last week, I worked with Simone Gorrindo on this hometown piece for Matador Life. It inspired me to write the following loosely based on life in our new home in Salta. 

 

The first time we saw the house was near the end of a long dry winter. Rain refused to fall for five long months and the entire field of a backyard crackled with longing. So when we first moved in to find ourselves struggling for enough water from the well to bathe – let alone fill the pool -- we never once had an inkling that we might miss the calm dry season when wet season arrived. 

Within the month, though, the yellow expanse of lawn turned all green with dew. The grass curled in on itself, tiger lilies of gold and carrot burst from beside the front gate. Weeds galore grew from every flower pot, blossoms upon blossoms. Then the frogs moved into the pool, no longer empty, as they splashed in two days worth of mucky rain. Like New York City car alarms they sounded out in the night with their mating calls.

Mating calls, as so often do, lead to eggs. Eggs lead to tadpoles. Thousands of tiny black sperm swam with purpose through another three days of rain. All around us life flourished, grew and expanded to fill any space not already occupied.

A mama bird, to escape the rain, nested in the heating vent outside the kitchen. We saw her there occasionally. She came to settle her eggs for the season. She was small, reddish, sharp beaked and sweet voiced. Meanwhile in the vast expanse behind the house, teros built their nests, digging into moist ground to protect their eggs. 

Thus the scene was set. Thus you learn after a lifetime of city living, the reality of country living, That even if you live civilized in a house of brick and stone, even when protected by a terracotta roof and pale stucco walls, you are not immune.

At first, we loved those teros, bold and noble as they soared through the sky, until you realized they are not there for you. They hate you, come tearing down, beaks first toward your brow. Why? To protect their young. They soon took over the entire yard, leaving us with only the house and a pool of frogs.

Our nights still filled with the scraping whirrs of sapos. Again, the sound of hundreds, no thousands of frogs calling into the night, screaming for a mate. Impossible to believe only four or five small animals made this sound. The rains came. The hail whipped toward the earth, seeping through cracks in our carefully cemented roof and coated the floors. Water threaded through the walls, boiling the wires until our electricity was gone.

Drip. Drip. Drip from the ceiling to floor. All night long, all during the day, from the bathroom and by the door entering the kitchen. Drip drip drip, every day our feet got wet in the simple quest for a sandwich. Enormous moths hatched, flew through the holes in our roof and around the house. “It’s a bird. It’s a bird,” My youngest daughter cried out, but it wasn’t a bird. We got used to them as well. They left us alone; we didn’t bother them and swept them out the door when they landed and died in the corners of empty rooms. One morning, early, I made my coffee and sat by the kitchen. I saw a bird, ignored it as another of our brown spotted moths.

This time, though, it was a bird, the mama bird from the heating vent. She found her way from the other side of the house, through the door and into our kitchen. I’d offer her a coffee and a seat but I know she’d never take it from me.

She flitted back and forth from window to window, desperately needing to escape the house, but the screened windows refused her exit. Back and forth, she got stuck between window and screen and my heart ached for her while she snacked on tiny moths and other flying things trapped there with her.

I couldn’t stand there just watching, so I left and when I returned she was gone. I thought. Except, no, what’s that noise. Cheep-cheeping from the window, she made her way outside? Cheep-cheep again, and scrambling. No, still in the house. I walked toward the window, heard the noise again. Again. Again. That’s when I realized she was caught in the gas box in the kitchen. Easily unscrewed, easy to let her out. I removed the cover and readied a towel to grasp her, cover her with a plan to take her outside to safety. 

But it wasn’t her in the gas box. There was another little bird, a baby. A tiny weeping baby with barely a wingspan, not even enough to fly. Then I saw another, not so alive and a third, far back in the corner hiding, not moving, no noise at all. 

One died. There was nothing we could do. The next, so frail. Even with all the water in our world, this one had found none. Eyes pasted shut. Mouth and legs unable to move from lack of food and thirst. He didn't resist at all as I moved him into a box with soft white toweling. I fed and watered him, held him in my hand as he struggled to drink. He opened his eyes, waggled his legs in an attempt to stand, but it was too late. I left him to rest in the box, and when I returned his eyes half shut, glazed over glassy and was gone.

The third, alive, still with energy, enough to resist my hand when I tried to move him into a box. Visions filled my head of raising a little bird, nourishing him and teaching him to fly by first gently tossing him into the air above our bed. He’d land in comfort. Then eventually would no longer land but fly. He’d sit on my shoulder. These visions solidified as I dripped water into his mouth from a dropper, and he took sodden bread straight from my hand.

He wanted none of it. His mother returned, picking and punting by the window. We left him outside on a table and his mother flew away but stayed close, returned to him with worms and grubs. She went off, came back. We watched from the shadows, not wanting to interfere or frighten her. We watched. And then we stopped watching for just a little while. And he was gone. We saw the footprints. Our oldest child said she’d seen a cat. The cat came back today, will probably visit again tomorrow nursing visions of another helpless snack.

The rain, it keeps falling. I hear it now flowing from the canaletas onto the ground, pouring on the plants below, too much water and the roses die. The pool, once teeming with tadpoles, now serves only a few frogs that lived through the birds who swoop down to catch them for lunch. The cat it hides, licks its paws in the dry space under our house while outside, more water brings more life and her inevitable partner death.

Photos by Entophile, Wagner Machado Carlos Lemes and John Morgan

Writer, Photographer and Traveler Andy Hayes Interviews The Future Is Red

Welcome to those of you finding your way here through Andy Hayes' Sharing Experiences Travel website. While you're here, you can subscribe to my feed or have subscribe to my e-mail list to have new posts e-mailed directly to you.

To all my current readers, I recently met Andy Hayes through Twitter. I believe I posted something about my frustration with the reams -- although I'm not sure such a metaphor applies anymore -- of e-mail in my Outlook. He offered advice.

 As we chatted further, it seems we have more even more in common. Andy is a seasoned traveler, writer, photographer and is just about to launch his full time services as a traveler writer and adviser for websites, blogs and travel companies.

I'm a particular fan of his photography section which includes an aerial view of Herald Square in NYC. How did you take that one, Andy? A helicopter over Manhattan island?

Now there are many people out there who are doing similar things to Andy, but here's why he sticks out to me. First, he's an unbelievably decent guy. Not saying the others aren't, I am, however, saying that his attitude and character, his willingness to help stand out above the rest. I also love that his blog is called Sharing Experiences. Andy's business isn't just about offering services for money, it's about community building. Along with links to his previous customers, you'll find interviews, links and other information for travel blogs and worldwide internet resources. You can also submit your own blogs and articles to his Travel Blog Carnival, an aggregation of the top travel articles on the web.

So when Andy asked if he could interview me for his website, I jumped at the chance. There, we chat about how Noah, Lila and I decided to leave Brooklyn and what destination was most inspirational. Hint: The picture above, courtesy of PictFactory, comes from there.

Want to read the rest? Here you go: Andy Hayes' full interview with The Future Is Red.

True Story: Not Just A Metaphor

Sitting in Miami airport. This section hasn't been remodeled yet and thus it reminds me of 1980 when I traveled back and forth to South Africa with my parents. A big messy sprawl of people with no sense or organization. The television behind me fights with the gate announcements and people talking. And getting here from our arrival gate wound us through a maze of walkways, escalators, doorways and trains that would make the deathstar proud.

But now we're here and our flight is about to board. Lila is exploring the seats, floor and her drawings with he magnifying glass, a present from my parents and a great compact travel activity. I didn't really want to leave. I'm tired of traveling, moving, resettling. For me, staying in one place, doing the same things and knowing my way around is more interesting these days. It made closing the door at our rented place in Atlanta difficult. Moreso than any closed door before.

Right before we left, a cardinal flew into the house. My first thought? "Bye." but of course, we used a towel to capture it as the poor thing fluttered and squawked at windows, getting caught in the blinds. We took it to the door, lifted our hands to the air and opened the towel. It was beautiful watching its red feathers disappear into the orange autumn leaves and blue sky. 

In the Grand Tradition of Spiderpig, Spirited Away and Roald Dahl

This afternoon was just Lila and me. I gave her first choice, anything she wanted to do.

 

“How about we go to the mall for lunch and then go shoe shopping.”

 

I kid you not. This is exactly what my child said to me.

 

But a promise is a promise, so that is exactly what we did.

 

At the Lindt store, where they often give free truffle samples – today they did not – we bought a couple gifts. Dark chocolate with pear for Ali. Dark chocolate with chili for Noah. Shh. Don’t tell. They’re meant to be a surprise.

 

The woman behind the counter asked me a question.  Her strong southern accent totally escaped me, and I found myself deep in a quandary, even deeper when I didn’t understand her the second or third time around. Finally, “What is that?” I said. “I’m new in town.”

 

“The pink pig,” she replied. Or at least that’s what I understood.

 

“What is that?” I asked her and again her words ran off in a jumble of twangy this and long vowel that.

 

“Oh. Where is that?”

 

This time, she thankfully asked the other woman in the store for specifics. Apparently she did say Pink Pig, and this Pink Pig was down by Abercrombie and Fitch. So that’s where we went.

 

And damned it all if it wasn’t exactly that. A Pink Pig. Really. We walked out the mall door into the parking lot where a curly pink tail path lead us into the tent. There were bright lights and people talking and all sorts of stuffed pink parts for sale. Snouts, masks and much more.

 

We continued along a pink path trailing its merry way toward the train. A Pink Pig Train. The front is the head, the back, a curly tail and in between sat us mom’s and our little piggy riders.

 

A little boy cried out loudly from deep inside the ride, but I couldn’t see him. “Is the ride that scary?” I joked with the man who strapped us onto our seats.

 

“Not scary at all,” he straight faced. “He just doesn’t’ want to leave.” And with that, we began the journey on our Pink Pig. We chugged through scenes of pigs baking cookies. Others playing in the snow. More of them opening presents and toasting each other with steaming hot chocolate.

 

All the while, a piggy voice chatted merrily in the background saying, well, I couldn’t quite catch it. It was unclear. Just as I thought I understood a word, I was distracted by the disembodied pig heads twirling around and around and around on large black screens

 

I turned to see another mom with her daughter in the front of the train smiling at her little girl. How adorable with her pink rounded cheeks and upturned nose. She looks just like her mother. Come to think of it she looks just like…. And again, the twirling bodiless pig heads.

 

“Why is this talking mommy? What is she saying?” Lila asked me.

 

I just don’t know. It suddenly struck me, that cheerful pig voice was talking about her mother, I think. Then I heard her say, “My great grandmother was the pink pig, and then my grandmother and my mother and finally….” The voice trailed off as the train ride slowed and finally emerged from the pinky piggy shadows. That’s when I realized.

 

The Pink Pig is all of us. The Pink Pig is me.

 

(ps. We plan to go back for another turn on the ride. This time, Lila’s taking pictures.)

This afternoon was just Lila and me. I gave her first choice, anything she wanted to do.

 

“How about we go to the mall for lunch and then go shoe shopping.”

 

I kid you not. This is exactly what my child said to me.

 

But a promise is a promise, so that is exactly what we did.

 

At the Lindt store, where they often give free truffle samples – today they did not – we bought a couple gifts. Dark chocolate with pear for Ali. Dark chocolate with chili for Noah. Shh. Don’t tell. They’re meant to be a surprise.

 

The woman behind the counter asked me a question.  Her strong southern accent totally escaped me, and I found myself deep in a quandary, even deeper when I didn’t understand her the second or third time around. Finally, “What is that?” I said. “I’m new in town.”

 

“The pink pig,” she replied. Or at least that’s what I understood.

 

“What is that?” I asked her and again her words ran off in a jumble of twangy this and long vowel that.

 

“Oh. Where is that?”

 

This time, she thankfully asked the other woman in the store for specifics. Apparently she did say Pink Pig, and this Pink Pig was down by Abercrombie and Fitch. So that’s where we went.

 

And damned it all if it wasn’t exactly that. A Pink Pig. Really. We walked out the mall door into the parking lot where a curly pink tail path lead us into the tent. There were bright lights and people talking and all sorts of stuffed pink parts for sale. Snouts, masks and much more.

 

We continued along a pink path trailing its merry way toward the train. A Pink Pig Train. The front is the head, the back, a curly tail and in between sat us mom’s and our little piggy riders.

 

A little boy cried out loudly from deep inside the ride, but I couldn’t see him. “Is the ride that scary?” I joked with the man who strapped us onto our seats.

 

“Not scary at all,” he straight faced. “He just doesn’t’ want to leave.” And with that, we began the journey on our Pink Pig. We chugged through scenes of pigs baking cookies. Others playing in the snow. More of them opening presents and toasting each other with steaming hot chocolate.

 

All the while, a piggy voice chatted merrily in the background saying, well, I couldn’t quite catch it. It was unclear. Just as I thought I understood a word, I was distracted by the disembodied pig heads twirling around and around and around on large black screens

 

I turned to see another mom with her daughter in the front of the train smiling at her little girl. How adorable with her pink rounded cheeks and upturned nose. She looks just like her mother. Come to think of it she looks just like…. And again, the twirling bodiless pig heads.

 

“Why is this talking mommy? What is she saying?” Lila asked me.

 

I just don’t know. It suddenly struck me, that cheerful pig voice was talking about her mother, I think. Then I heard her say, “My great grandmother was the pink pig, and then my grandmother and my mother and finally….” The voice trailed off as the train ride slowed and finally emerged from the pinky piggy shadows. That’s when I realized.

 

The Pink Pig is all of us. The Pink Pig is me.

I Am A Dogwalking Sham

We're back in Buffalo at Ken's and will be dogsitting his dog Cosby for a week.

I'm not good with dog etiquette. We'd dogsit for Cosby sometimes in Brooklyn. I hated those moments when you're walking your dog, minding your own business but every time you pass someone with a dog you're required to stop, let them sniff each other while you, the owners, talk all things dog.

"He's so cute. What kind of dog is he?"

"I don't know," I'd say at first, because I didn't. He's not my dog. I got the gas face and the other dog and owner were suddenly off.

Or I'd make the mistake of mentioning that I was just dogsitting. Same gas face. Same walk off.

After some time, I began to learn the rules of this game. You meet, say hi, determine if the dogs are friendly. Cosby most definitely is, but sometimes, he'd get a bit aggressive. And people are very protective of their dogs. Sort of like the moms on the playground. They'd get so upset if your little one pushed too hard with theirs.

People, wanted to shout, they're dogs!  DOGS!

After a while, I began to get nervous when I'd see other dogs approaching because I never knew when there would be a fight. I hated that moment, almost as much as the one that followed.

Once you determined that the dogs were indeed friendly and were also actually interested in getting to know each other better, perhaps to one day become neighborhood friends and invite each other to birthday parties and park dates, they'd sniff each other while we owners enjoyed some chat time discussing how adorable each dog is. How fluffy. What kind is he? Or perhaps we'd tell a little story.

I never got the hang of it. My dog chit chat never lasted longer than a few minutes and always ended up with the tell tale nose in air, walk away. Most of the time, I had no idea what I'd done wrong.

Today, while walking Cosby, I had some similar feeling. We met Baby and her owner, who for all I know has and never has had a name of her own. Baby's a puppy, very cute, lots of energy and jumps on people. Cosby is old, has allergies all over and is currently on medication that gives him bad diarrhea if he eats anything other than rice and edamame.

Sharing this is not winning dog conversation.

Still I persevered. What kind of dog is he? He's part Chow, part Labrador, a chowbrador, if you will." Believe it or not, this merited a smille and a chuckle.

A bit later, a mail main stopped me to ask what happened to his leg. Cosby's back leg is wrapped in a little blue bandage. "Allergies," I told the guy. "He gets them badly and bites until he bleeds." Oddly, the man did not walk away.

Next thing I know, I'm invovled in a conversation about dogs and their allergies and what to do for them. "Because, you know, you really can't do anything for them. They're just miserable."

"You can give them benedryl," he suggested "but then they're just knocked out." That's what happened to his Rottweiller.

I have never given a dog allergy medication, although I do remember my childhood dog Sadie going nuts, breathing heavily and all around going crazy with her fur sticking up like an angry cat. The vet cried allergy, but I have no idea how my parents handled it.

I'm not really even sure if Cosby has them. I just remember Ken saying something about this at some point.

Truth be told, I'm not much of a dog person anymore. They're stinky. Messy. slobbery and have to be walked. Worst part of walking, without a doubt is picking up their poop in little plastic bags. It ruins any walk. Permanently. From the time I'm forced to lean over and grasp whatever little or large nuggets squeeze out from the dog, I simply cannot remove the look of disgust from my face. At least not until I find a place to dispose of the baggie, which is usually when I get back home.

I have this fear of people running out of their houses screaming bloody murder as I trespass on their property to dump, well, dog dump in their garbage cans. I was traumatized by a sign left on the garbage can near our old building in Brooklyn. "If you leave your bags of dogshit in my garbage cans, I will find you and make you eat it."

Lovely. Just lovely.

This is also a reason I don't just leave the poop on the ground. I suspect there are homeowners everywhere with nothing better to do than peer out their windows watching and waiting for me to leave poop surprise on their lawns. They'll then fly down in an unholy rage and punish me, somehow. Cosby, I'd guess, does not have the energy or stamina to protect me in such a case.

It also just seems like something that should never be done in a civilized world.

I'm not proud of my non-dogpersonhood. I used to love them. As a kid, I used to climb into Sadie's doghouse, ramble through the woods with her, even put her ears in fluffy pony tail holders to match mine. She was awesome and very patient.

So I'm not sure how between there and here, I stopped liking dogs. I don't hate them. I just don't have any desire to have one living life indoors with me. Or stop and play with them on the street. Or compliment strangers on their dogs winning personalities.

Does that make me a bad person?

The Politics of Poop

This afternoon I was reading a friend's blog. I swear, this time I was not procrastinating. I wanted to see which of two possible jobs she chose, and I didn't check IMDB once. She was talking about the daycare she just found for her son Ben. The woman running it had lots of questions and suggestions, mostly about poop. Only every other day! That's not good. Not good at all. How often does he poop? What are you doing to get him to poop more often? Are you regular?

When I read this story, I had to smile. It reminded me of Grandma Ruth.

Suddenly, I was whisked back to Pesach 1996. Not the first time I met her, but the first time I visited her home in Florida. Boca del Mar, I think it was. The one with the swimming pool and a longer walk to schul. You had to walk past a little lake on the way there. Noah and I went there often for night walks and such. (AJRBL) We both ended up with bug bites all over from those walks.

Grandma Ruth and Grandpa Charles lived in quite a few houses in their time. Four or five of them in Boca Raton. I knew only the last two of those. The memories of those places run together alot. Where did we ride bikes through the neighborhood. Where did we walk Dylan for three hours when he had diarrhea. Where was that huge fight. The one that started about the pillow, not about the dog. I try to differentiate by remembering which had the pool and which did they remove all the carpet and turn the pantry by the garage into another bathroom.

This one was the house by the pool: We were all sitting at their rounded wood kitchen table. It had big clawed feet with tall spindle-backed wood chairs around it. Overheard hung the Tiffany lampshade that followed them to all their various kitchens. This particular night, Grandma made latkes. Grandpa Charles, as always, prepared. Chopped onions, peeled and grated the potatoes, as Grandma Ruth sat on a wooden stool supervising. "Chop those finer. Rinse those in water. Now add eggs, flour."

Grandpa swears he doesn't know how to cook. He needs her direction.

At the table, Grandma, as always, sat forward on her knees. I think it gave her a better view of things. From there, she saw what and how much everyone ate, commenting if you were a good eater or didn't eat enough. Or she would watch the serving plates as they emptied. From time to time, her always manicured hands would reach out and pick a choice morsel from one of the plates then pop it into her mouth.

As we finished, she pushed back her plate and spoke with the most satisfied sigh. "Ah, latkes. I love them. I remember once time I ate so many I was compacted for a week.Grandpa had to take me to the hospital to get cleaned out."

One thing with Grandma Ruth. No subject was off limits. She asked when you were getting married, when you'd be having kids, when would another one be on the way. "Just promise me you'll have a child before I'm dead," she once pleaded with me. "Grandma," I told her. "You're just going to have to stay alive."

She was alive long enough to meet Lila. By that point, though, Grandma and Grandpa had already moved to Atlanta and were no where near as autonomous as they had been in Florida. There were no more frantic trips to Sawgrass Mills to look for a green wedding dress to walk down the aisle at my friend Gaelle's wedding. "Leigh, you look like a green angel in that dress." No long drives to Miami just to take me to lunch at a particular and very fancy kosher Chinese place. It was wonderful, Grandma and Grandpa.

That was the same also my first visit with them. Noah's flight left the day before mine, and the rest of the family were long gone on their return drive to Maryland. I was horribly nervous to be all alone with the formidble Grandma Ruth. She could really be a hardass when she wanted. But those days alone with the two of them cemented my relationship with them as one that was loving, caring and good.

There was a memorial in Atlanta soon after she passed away. What impressed me so much about it was the pure honesty when talking about her. She was not turned into a saint. Yes, she could be loud, mean, caring, pushy, loving, generous, bigger-than-life, honest, soft, nosy and did I say pushy? No one needed to pretend she was anything but what she was and every word of her came true and unvarnished.  Each story made us laugh and then in turn we cried.

Now, that big table sits in Jason's kitchen in Colorado. I picture him and his wife sitting there with their ten month old baby. The chairs backs are breaking, in spite of Grandpa Charles ingenious fixes over the years, and the stools remain with the rest of our things in storage in Atlanta. I'd like to keep them in the kitchen the very next time we have one.

I truly miss her. I do.

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Download VTS_27_1.wmv
This was taken in Atlanta at Aunt Jane's house-up-on-the-hill. I think Lila was 18 months old.