The Beauty in the Beast

Meet Jacqueline

This dog is the 35th dog we've fostered. At a little over two months old, she is ready for her forever home. When we're asked to foster, I don't like to choose, although we do have to have puppies since our first foster was a foster fail who is not friendly towards adult dogs. So, other than their size/age, we don't mind. We'll care for any rescued pup. 

Isla, The most beautiful pup 

I've ever seen

Once, we got a puppy who regurgeted food after every meal. Turned out he had a heart issue and needed open heart surgery at eight weeks old. One pair of siblings needed multiple meds each day; with food, at bedtime, rubbed on bald patches. It was a juggling act to remember who got what, when. 

Recently, a friend wanted a puppy, so we adopted, fostered until we could find a flight, then sent her to him in NYC. We were told she had ringworm. I had never had a dog with that before, although most of them have some sort of tapeworm-thingy. But with ringworm, it was highly contagious, so we were careful to limit her interaction with our dogs, and of course, we had to keep washing our hands. 

Last week, we got this puppy with mange all over her face, up around her ears, down her chest and even on her front paws. And luckily, it's non-contagious mange. Other than that, she's a healthy and happy pup. From the moment we got her, she has been curious, assertive without being aggressive towards our other dogs, and pleasantly self- assured.

But last night, I picked her up and placed her on my lap as I watched TV. I do this with all of the dogs, but it was the first time since we got her on Friday that I did it with her. She sat rigid as a board. She accepted my stroking her fur, my cuddling her, but she never really eased her body onto mine. Never really relaxed. Finally, I put her back down on the floor where she played with Pearl, our four-month-old rescue. 

Today, she hopped up and down in front of me as I sat on the couch. I guess she liked it after all. So, I picked her up, placed her on my lap and she snuggled with me for a few minutes before hopping down to play with the big dogs. 

She's just so beautiful!

What I got to thinking was how different this puppy's experience is compared to the dog we just got for our friend. Isla (who now goes by another name) Has to be the most beautiful dog I've ever encountered. Don't get me wrong, we've fostered 34 dogs before her; 
and I volunteered at the shelter; and I generally notice dogs no matter where we go. Why, I have even spent countless hours perusing dog adoption sites just for fun, and still, I say, Isla is THE most beautiful dog I'd ever seen! Except for the fact that she had ringworm (or so we were told), she would have been snatched up the moment she was available for adoption. The. Very. Moment!

The rash was healing but still...

Jacqueline, on the other hand, I picture people looking at and shying away from. I'm not sure how she wound up at the shelter, but if this is how she looked AFTER being treated with prescription medication, just how rough did she look when she was brought in?

 

Imagine her with her scabs all over her body with craggy, crusty, red blisters on her face, potential adopters turning away, repulsed. Poor Jacqueline, she doesn't see that her puffy, pink, half-closed eyelids make her look as if she is not all there. She doesn't realize her exposed skin, bald from the mites that have eaten away her flesh is the reason people won't touch her for fear of contagion. She can't know that it's her skin condition, and not her that is being rejected. What must she think? What must this do to her confidence, her self-worth, her character at an age when these feelings are absorbed and learned. 

When I was in Junior High School, I started developing eczyma. It started on my neck, a hotspot that was itchy and I couldn't help but scratch, particularly when stressful situations occurred. I was an awkward teen, so, stressful situations was my way of life. The patches of dried skin cropped up all over my body and I'd find each and every spot and scratch until it bled. Not only was Junior High a time of pubscent growth, I had to deal with students from three other schools converging into one. 

And for the first time, I had to undress in a large locker room for gym class; as an overweight teen, this situation was horrifying. I had so many welts that I tried to cover them up with bandages, making them more obvious. A girl I knew only by name called attention to them as I stood at my locker half-undressed and trying to disappear. "Hey, what's wrong with you, girl? You have some kinda disease? Why you got so many Band-Aids? You better not be contagious or nuthin'"

So, that's what I recall when I look into this pup's face. Those horrific moments of rejection and repulsion during a formative year. I see her look up at me wanting approval, affection, love. This poor puppy has no idea why she is being rejected. She didn't do anything wrong, except for being born. And how does that feel when you can't help the situation you find yourself...through no fault of your own...Or is it? 

As my mom slathered lotion on my welts, she would shake her head. "Who's going to love you now?" She once said aloud. This must have been something she was thinking for a long long time. 

I was overweight, unattractive, awkward, shy, introverted, buck-toothed with braces, glasses, and now eczema. I carried those words with me throughout my life. It was what rang true due to my abandonment issues. It was how I saw myself: unlovable, unwanted, undeserving of affection. 

 

But this puppy, she's not going to feel that way, not if I can help it. 

Every one of those puppies we fostered, got a loving home, was made to feel safe and secure, and cared for. From the prettiest puppy to the mangiest mutt...and I say that with affection. As a girl with abandonment issues, I tend to gravitate, no, identify with the underdogs. 

Each foster dog in our care gets a few days, a week, some more than two months of positive attention, abundance of affection and love, so much love! When they're with us, I want to make sure that they know their lives have value, that they are worthy and in each of them, we see their potential, their potential for love.

Jacqueline will fly to the mainland in 10 days. And whether or not she has overcome the mange, adopters will see her beauty in her confidence, in her sweet demeanor, in how fast she learns, and her laidback disposition. She may not be the most beautiful dog I've ever seen, but she most certainly possesses beauty that goes well-beyond skin deep.

Pandemic Pause

Billy and Buster, our latest fosters

I wake up around 6am to puppies nibbling my toes, lapping at my ankles, eager to be fed, but getting in my way so it takes longer to get to the kitchen. It's a joy to wake up to. Makes sequestering more bearable.

When this pandemic first hit, Peter and I really weren't affected by it. He and I work from home. Aside from not being able to go to restaurants, limiting our trips to the grocery store, pharmacy or Home Depot, not much had changed. We were thankful for that. 

Also, come to think of it, being on St. Croix is a huge blessing. We were kind of thrust here due to Peter's job. I debated whether or not to move down, preferring our home in New York State. But look at us now? A beautiful place to sequester, great weather, the beach minutes away, and the fresh food!

Locally grown banana varieties

Just four years ago, I became violently ill when I ate raw food. I couldn't even have a lemon in a glass of water or lettuce on my burger without becoming sick. But when I started coming here, I introduced some raw foods into my diet. Mint leaves in my mojito, a lime in my dark and stormy and pineapple juice in my Crucian Confusion. Then, I discovered fingerling bananas, and of course, mangoes. Whatever probiotic stomach ailment I had disappeared just in time for me to fully enjoy my life here.  

The only socializing Peter and I have done
since the Pandemic was a boat trip with friends
to Buck Island.

Today we had yet another a family "talk" about the Coronavirus, and I was overwhelmed by what we weren't saying, what I couldn't articulate, my real fear. Only after Macallan had left did it hit me. 

This is the problem I see:

• We're all afraid in various degrees of what this virus can do, will do, and how this will change our lives. Because, come on people, this is not anything we could have predicted, have experience in, nor is there a timeline that will keep us safe, keep us sane. 

• Our daughter studied environmental impacts. Young scientists in particular have seen that our planet has been crying out to us for years, for hundreds of years! The problem is not "new" but now, with this virus, it is worldwide. Our planet has been telling us something and we haven't been listening. Icebergs melting. Sealife dying. Ozone layer thinning. Drought. What more does Mother Earth have to do to get our attention? Oh yeah, disease. Better yet, death.

• This virus has us staying put, being alone, reflecting on our past, speculating about our future. But mostly, it's requiring us to be present. Where are you? What are you able to do safely? Who are you able to be with without danger of infection? 

St. Croix, unspoiled and secluded.

These questions: Who, What, Where, are really what we should be asking ourselves, asking of ourselves every day, with or without a deadly virus. 

Which leads me to these insights:

I believe wholeheartedly that the "universe"guides us. I believe each of us has a mission, a purpose, a reason for being. 

And with that belief, I think the world instituted this universal virus not to "punish" the "sinners" but to guide humans into reflection. Who am I? What am I doing here? Where am I and where am I going?    

My children, my husband and I have much to be thankful for; ; puppies, getting over food allergies, safe harboring, beautiful settings. Although we all do still worry about our futures; my family has our basic needs met. We're lucky. We're grateful. This time of pandemic gives us an opportunity to gain understanding about our lives. Four months so far. It may seem like a steep penalty but in reality, it's really the universe forcing us to press that pause button, asking us to stop, and giving us a chance to meditate, reflect, regenerate and recalibrate our lives.

Sure, you can resist, rail, retaliate but really why and to whom? We don't have a choice but to look at how the virus is spreading, try to adjust our lives so that it's less likely to infect us, and take each day not for what we want from it, but how we'll use it to live. To live on. 

The Taste of Mangoes

"Let's go for a drive." he said...Off we went. 

In the rainforest, we passed maybe three others.  

Down an overgrown road we'd never been, we pulled over several times and got out. We inspected plants, took in the scenery, inhaled the fragrance of the moist soil, the trees in bloom and those mangoes ripening on the stem.

We were collecting food for the four tortoises we have. They are picky eaters, liking only red bell peppers, seemingly only red hibiscus but enjoying various greens, ripe bananas, papayas, avocados and of course, mangoes. 

At one stop, as we stood in the sunshine under a tree with plum-sized fruit, we picked a few off the ground. They were warm from the sun, soft but firm, mostly unbruised because they had landed conveniently on the bedding of

dried leaves. 

Peter handed me one plump golden kidney-shaped fruit. He had one for himself and started to peel it with his teeth. I watched him for a minute. So juicy, he had to keep licking his lips. He finished it in moments. But in fairness, it was so small, gone in only three bites. 

I held the one he'd given me. It was so warm in my hand and smaller than my palm. Because it was ready to burst, I cupped it gently. I liked the feel of it's smooth skin. I admired it's color, a deep golden yellow. The leathery skin was nearly unblemished. It was almost too pretty to eat, but eventually, I did. 

I brought it to my lips. My teeth punctured the taut outer-layer. The juices trickled into my mouth, made my lips sticky, it was warm, flavorful, and oh so sweet. I usually only eat mangoes after they've been chilled. And never have I bitten into one before peeling it. Here, outside, under the very tree that nourished it, I had no utensils except my own fingers and my teeth. I peeled back the skin, opening it up, exposing the meat. For a small mango, there was a lot to eat. And the flavor, like no mango I'd had before. 

I am Filipino by origin. I was born in the Philippines, my parents were both born there too, as were their parents. Mangoes are one of the fruits that is quintessentially Filipino to me. My mom will speak of papaya; I don't like their texture or taste. My dad loved coconuts; the young coconut, the dried coconut, the water, the milk, the slimy meat, the fleshy chunks, still moist but crunchy. But for me, I love the mango. 

When we emigrated from the Philippines to the USA in the late 60's, our parents would only speak and insisted we only respond in English. We were going to school soon and they needed us to be fluent. 

Their pride in being American immigrants was so strong, they were willing to forsake their customs, their language, their way of life to assimilate fully. And that's what we did, to our grandfather's horror. He thought Americans were spoiled, uncultured, believed children disrespected their parents. "They will grow up wild!" he told my parents. My Lolo even refused to bring us to America, as promised. He told our parents to go ahead and settle our home then he would bring us a few weeks later. Those weeks extended to months, and finally to nearly a year before my mother threatened to board a plane to retrieve us. 

That year apart caused my older brother (4 years old at the time), my little sister (under one) and me (3 years old), great harm. Our Lolo's actions defined us. We felt abandoned by our parents, traumatized, we grew insecure, fearful, unloved and unloveable. 

And to make things worse, when we were reunited with our parents, they insisted we renounce our life in the Philippines and become Americanized. 

For most of my life, I have rejected my Filipino background. And as a result, I never truly belonged anywhere. But here, on St. Croix, that's beginning to change for me. 

There are so many different cultures on STX and very few identify purely as one and not the other. You can be hispanic, black, rasta, a combination of any and all three. 

The island residents are Crucian, as long as you were born here; Puerto Rican, Black, Cuban, Trinidadian...no matter. There are mainlanders who came for the beaches, who retired to paradise, who are snowbirds, own vacation properties, work here at the refinery, most recently relocated either permanently or temporarily for disaster relief. 

That's us. When Peter first got here January 2017 after IrMaria, the two category 5 Hurricanes that hit in September, he had no idea what the living conditions would be, so I stayed in New York. How long would we be apart, we had no idea? And now, 2-1/2 years later, we're both here. 

With COVID 19, we consider ourselves lucky. On St. Croix there are only a few cases, we have beautiful weather, and outdoor recreation where we can social distance. It's ideal, really. 

And then there are the mangoes. Very few grew after the hurricanes, but now! Swinging from trees that line the main highway; scattered in yards; in the rainforest; along deserted roads. Fruit for tortoises, for residents, free for the taking. The sight of them; red, green, yellow; larger than your hand to those so small several can fit in your palm. They come from around the world. Some are easily recognized, their species identifiable, others...who knows...and who cares? 

Much like the mangoes, life here is sweet, delicious, delightful and diverse...I didn't realize how much my filipino background meant to me until I held that perfectly ripe mango cushioned by the dried leaves from the tree where it grew. 

Something about the forethought of nature taking a seed, protecting it in the warm soil, keeping it moist with the rains, the sun giving it life, energy, encouraging it to grow and grow. Taller and taller, the tree's leaves gaining strength, the flowers spreading, the fruit forming, the water, earth, and sun nursing each mango until it is plump, juicy, flavorful, sweet, growing and glowing from within. 

And one day. This Saturday. Just as we arrived. A gentle breeze blew the fruit on the long wispy stem, and it fell. Cushioned by the fallen leaves, it was not hurt, did not bruise, resting only a moment before Peter picked it up and handed it to me. 

Imagine, we drove up to the tree, ripe with fruit. We took in the beauty of the long green leaves, the bright yellow fruit, the majesty of the tree trunk that stretched 20 or more feet above us. And as we got out to look at the surrounds, several fruit fell, warm, filled with sweet juice, ready to be eaten. Peter casually picked two up. He held them in his hands. He offered one to me and began to eat the other. 

I have to wonder what I'm doing here, how I got here and why. 

A year ago, I would not have known that I would be living on an island, picking ripe mangoes from the ground, and calling this place home...if not for the taste of mangoes...how lost I would still be. 

Ruff Draft: Ode to the Perfectly Imperfect

Sierra was her name. 

We fostered her and her much taller, more developed sister and brother. She was the runt of the litter. 
She had this large head, with ears that flopped down at the tips. Her sleepy eyes were a light hazel, in some light they matched her fur. Well, what fur she had since she had a mange that left paisley patterns around her shoulders and neck. At first, I thought they were spots, and I guess they were, bald spots. 
She had a body the size and shape of a Haas avocado with spindly legs that could barely support her head. 
One day, she was wandering around our house when she spotted me in my office. She got all excited. Was she looking for me and finally found me? Was she just trying to get away from her siblings and found refuge. Was she looking for someplace to take a nap and thought this was the perfect place? I don’t know. 

But she saw me, stopped her forward motion, tilted her gigantic head sideways and propelled her body towards me. What I mean is that, unlike her brother and sister who were agile and competent in their movements, Sierra was not. 
Since she wanted to come to me, she cocked her head to the side but her legs didn’t move forward, two paws at a time, no. They seemed to be going all which ways with her head as a rudder. I half-expected that soundtrack you hear in cartoons, the one that plays when a character’s legs would go a mile a minute but they just stayed in place. 
Anyway, I described it to Peter who wondered aloud if she was all there. I said, "What do you mean?" "You know, maybe she’s not firing on all cylinders." he said. I said, "Don’t be silly, of course she is." But in retrospect, who knew? I certainly didn’t care. She was adorable. 
I didn't record that, but I did record her as she timidly sidled up to Dorothy, unsure if she would be "allowed". She had done that a few times with me too. She decided she wanted to sleep next to Peter and me and gingerly crept up and gently lay down touching us both. She stayed very still as if she was afraid we'd notice her and chase her away. When she determined the coast was clear, she closed her eyes and actually grinned, a very self-satisfied grin.  
To be the recipient of her affection, as scared as she was to give it, was beyond fulfilling. She kissed me once because she was so intent on the feeling, so wanted to give me that kiss, that she couldn’t help herself. Have you ever been kissed like that? The feeling was just unstoppable. I think she surprised herself.

One morning, she was whining along with her brother and sister, asking to be put on our bed. Up went the brother who immediately sniffed the perimeter of the bed. Up went the sister who gave me some kisses and when she saw I wasn’t going to give her any food, proceeded to lick Peter’s face, then Dorothy’s. And up went Sierra, who clambered up over me and settled down between Peter and myself. After a few minutes she wound up on her back, letting her paws droop, with her huge head tilted backward. Then, she began to snore. No, that’s not right. She had a high fever and had trouble breathing. It was more a wheezing than a snore. It endeared her to me all the more. 

I cry thinking about her. 

She was only with us a few days. As tiny as she was, she was already 8 weeks old. Along with her brother and sister, all three went to the Animal Welfare Center to be fixed then off to the Adoption Center for their forever homes. 
I called about her the next day. I was worried about her fever. No, I was told, she was well enough to be operated on and was at the pet center. 
Later that day, the first day at the adoption center, I found out she was adopted. 
See? I wasn’t the only one that could love a hurt, less than perfect, a little bit mangy, a lot underdeveloped puppy. Of course her sister was adopted the same day. She was gorgeous! The brother was adopted a day afterward. Makes me feel good that I contributed to them having a better life. That they got to be in a home where they were cared for and loved. That they understood that humans weren’t all bad. That living in a house with other pets was a good thing. Our family, including our rescued dog, Dorothy helps save a life with each fostering. 
We’ve helped a dozen or so dogs so far, but I tell you, there were more than a few that we considered keeping. There was Piglet, who was only 8 days old and so very needy. There was Forest who was so frigging cool and chill and was rock-star handsome. Then there was Jackson who insisted on sleeping on my chest. I can’t forget Skye, our first feral dog, who by the end was sweet and loving. But to-date, Sierra will be the dog I’ll always wish I kept. Her disadvantage compared to her siblings, her weakness, her awkwardness, and her mange. The first time I reached out to her and she rested her entire head in my hand, that defined love for me. The helplessness of this underdeveloped dog, this underdog, will forever hold my heart. 

Be well, sweet Sierra. Enjoy your new home. Entrust in your new family. And always know, I love you not for what you will be, but all that you are and are not. 

Little Stinkers

Our latest fosters were seven-week-old siblings, Quin and Nini. We never really called them by name. We should have, but we were only fostering them for two weeks and it would only confuse them when they were adopted…and they will be adopted, VERY SOON! 

He was long and lanky with a tail like a whip. He also was much more social, vocal, and agile than his sister. He ran and scampered, trying to engage with all of us, including Dorothy, our five-year-old foster fail. He was a particularly able, attentive, and mature dog, even for only being less than two-months-old. 

She, scruffy, fluffy with large brown eyes, white boots and a stubby tail, was adorable personified...and she knew it. Unlike her brother, with his unabashed affection, she was more aloof. That said, she didn’t hesitate to tell us what she wanted though; food, to be picked up and put on the couch, to be petted, and to be carried back to the house when she was too tired to run any longer. 
She often slept or peered out from under the living room couch or underneath the bed. Recently, she would nap between the closet wall and the laundry basket. I panicked one day when I couldn’t find her anywhere. There she was crammed behind the dirty clothes and the wall, fast asleep. 

From the beginning, they both made an effort to use the wee wee pads. I am always amazed by stray dogs knowing something so basic while our pure breeds had no clue. But while they tried to use the pads, they often missed. 
Of all of the fosters we've had to-date, these two had, by far, the stinkiest poops of all! I can honestly say, their poops would wake the dead. No matter how fast asleep I was, I was awoken by that smell and have to get out of bed to clean it up! 

They came to us with fleas, hook worm and ring worm, of which they were properly treated by the St. Croix Animal Welfare Center. Nonetheless, the meds didn't kick in right away and the first few times they’d pooped, the worms could be seen jumping out of the pile. I know, gross, right? Well, then you’re lucky you didn’t have to clean it up. I’m squeamish, but I did it. I really should have worn gloves...ah, next time. 

The boy, the shelter called, Quin often jumped on our legs until you reached down and picked him up. He then would proceed to lick your lips and work his way to your eyes and forehead. He didn’t just do it when he wanted food, but usually it was because he was hungry. She, on the other hand, didn’t really want to be handled, that is, not until the day before we were to bring her back. All of a sudden, she decided she liked people and wanted not only to be petted, which was a new thing for her, she would lie across my neck and place her mouth on mine where she breathed in my exhales. So sweet. And unlike all of the other fosters, she very patiently would stand next to the food dish. Sometimes, she’d whimper a little, or look up at you longingly, but mostly she trusted that if you notice her next to the dish, you’d feed her. That’s also a trait I'd never seen before, patience.

Going outside was a wonderful treat for us all. The first time I brought them out, Nini got trapped behind the glass door. For the life of her, she didn't know how to walk around it in order to get outside. Panicked, she began to let out the more pathetic barks. Finally, I picked her up and I placed her on the other side of the door, next to her brother. Poor Dorothy, still waiting for the two of them to make their way to the yard, amused, she bounded toward them, buzzed the two and scooted up the steps as if to say, "Come on, follow me!!!" 

We took them out whenever Dorothy went out. They clambered out the door as soon as Peter or I would open it. One time, while we were all at the bottom of the driveway, the dogs next door started barking. That was all Quin needed to drive him back to the house. Off he went, only looking over his shoulder once to see if I was following.

Out of all of the dogs we’ve fostered, only one dog made his way up on our four-poster bed and that was purely by accident. By sheer will, Forest, a tall lanky pup, much taller than Quin, jumped and clawed his way onto our bed. But Quin, once he learned to climb the steps, he was on the bed every night, where he’d kiss my face, then Peter, then find Dorothy and lie down right next to her. So sweet. That’s where he’d be until 6 or 7am when he’d stand up and I’d quickly pick him up and place him on the floor so that he could run to a wee wee pad to pee and poop. So well behaved. 

She, on the other hand, would stand up and make the most ear piercing sounds until I picked her up and put her on the bed. For most of the time they were with us, she’d attack Dorothy, bite her, lick her, step on her back. Nini didn’t really want us to pet her or snuggle with her. But then, just before our time with her was up, she sweetly cooed to be picked up, settled down on my neck, and slept that way for almost a 1/2 hour. She spent the next two days asking for snuggles, sleeping next to my feet, and following me around. What happened that all of a sudden she liked us? Maturity, familiarity, bonding? All of the above, I imagine. 

As with the other fosters, when I knew I’d have to give them up the next day, I spent the remainder of our time saying things like, “This will be the last time I give you a bath” “The last time you’ll sleep on my chest” and “Oh, I’m going to miss your stinky breath." Then I’d tear up. 

Each dog has individual traits. You can’t say a dog will most definitely be this way or that at 2 day, 2 weeks, 2 months old. You can’t look at a dog and think that pudgy, square, button of a nose will stay that way. Piglet had the stubbiest little snout and now her nose is as long and as pointy as her huge caricature ears. Who knew she would look this way? I didn’t. And so you don’t know if this dog will win the hearts of their new loved ones or what about them might be too much. Will the family that adopts Jackson tolerate his chewing on furniture? Will Roary’s owner tell him to shut the hell up? Will Skye's person give up on her if she reverts back to her aloof, scared, feral self? You just don’t know. 

You hope the folks who adopt are patient, kind, gentle and loving. You hope they don’t

give up on them once they are not longer cute little puppies. You wish for each baby to get the attention and dedication needed to make a good dog.

Because while I have them at 8 days to 8 weeks, they are all good dogs. All dogs with the potential to be good companions. No matter how many fleas, bald spots, and slimy worms they may have, for the four days to two months they are with me, they are all lovable, helpless, beings that rely on me to feed them, house them, and love them. 

Each and every puppy had qualities I adored and thought I could not live without. And in my ego-centric momminess, I thought they needed me and only me. But our family has a dog that’s our son’s, a recently adopted dog that’s our daughter’s and Peter and I have a pure bred dog that we’ve raised as a puppy and Dorothy, our latest rescue. A puppy is adoptable. Someone will always want that puppy. Hopefully, it’s someone that can spend more time, devote more energy, and give more love than I can with so many other animals to care for. That’s the theory anyway. I’m not always convinced that I’m not the best person for any pet, every pet...but there are people out there that can love them, too. 

I have come to finding out that all of the puppies I’ve fostered were all adopted within a week of being adoptable. Most were adopted after only a few days. And another one was adopted by some guy who was following her progress on my Instagram Account and ran over to the Center an hour after I dropped her off! I couldn’t be more pleased. 

In any case, Quin and Nini were brought to the Shelter to be fixed yesterday. We returned to a very quiet home. Dorothy watched us come in and stayed looking out the front door the remainder of the day, I’m assuming, waiting for the puppies to come back. Peter walked by our bedroom and was saddened when he realized the brownish fuzzball under the bed wasn’t Quin, but a discarded chew toy his exact color and size. And this morning, I got to sleep past 6am but I missed having Nini as a scarf. 

I have no doubt they will be adopted (As of this edited version, she had been adopted only one day after being at The Pet Place!) I’m not crying because I fear they won’t. I’m crying because I miss them. I loved their beseeching eyes, their rough tongues, their wagging tails. I miss having to feel around before putting full weight on my feet in case one of them had plopped down in front of me as I sat on the couch. I was grossed out by their rancid poo that burned the inside of my nose and lingered for hours afterward. But I’d give anything to clean up after them, to run around with them, to cuddle them close and have them lick my face just one more time, those adorable little stinkers. 

Easter in Quarantine

The Light of God as our son would say.

It's Good Friday and the world is pretty much in lockdown mode.

Peter, our daughter and I are home on St. Croix doing our things. Peter has been working from home for months now and I have been writing from home for years. Macallan is the only one of us who had jobs to go to and being in her 20's probably feels the quarantine restrictions more than any one of us. But, she is staying put, trying to keep herself busy and productive, as are we.

Peter is working full time so he's got meetings, site visits, an exorbitant amount of paperwork, reports, etc... to do.

I am home. When we have foster pups, I care for them. I hang out with Dorothy. I straighten some stuff up. I clean a little. I decorate or redecorate a bit. Dabble in drawing, painting, product design, sew some and of course read, research and write. Mostly, I am on FB or IG for inspiration. When I have phone service, which isn't often, I call my mom.

"Piglet" a foster pup is
inspiration for my blog.

For the most part, the only socializing Peter and I do is get a drink, go out to eat, most often by ourselves, although once a month or so, we might meet some friends. We routinely shop at the Women's Coalition consignment shop or the Animal Shelter store, the Flea Market for used books or some things for our home. We go grocery shopping once a week. A highlight for me has always been the La Reine Farmer's Market. I have made friends with several of the vendors and I love trying new fruit or vegetables we didn't know about until we moved to the Caribbean. I've made a hobby of learning about herbal medicines and have tried my hand at growing some for our personal use.

On the weekends, we tried to get to the beach. We'd sunbath, swim a bit, I'd scour the sand dunes for interesting artifacts, pictures and plants. Peter would bring a fishing rod and half-heartedly fly fish. But mostly, it was a chance for our dog, Dorothy and whichever other dog we may have, to run around. We tried to find beaches with no one else there. Only recently, has our go-to beach had other beach-goers, probably more on that one day two weeks ago than we've seen there the entire two-years we've been going. Still, we all practiced social distancing. It was pretty easy to do considering the shore is a half-mile long and there were all of 8 people there at one time.

I love being home, not going anywhere, not having anywhere to go. I truly do. I prefer it actually. I am happy to see family and friends several times a year; during holidays, planned get togethers, impromptu celebrations. But for the most part, leave me home, without cell service, with only internet to keep me company.

And yet, with the quarantine/stay-at-home order, I'm feeling antsy. The fact that nothing is open too makes me feel frustratingly hemmed in.

Our favorite beach, deserted as usual.

And now that the Governor has said no one can go to the beach, I want to go to the beach even more. Go to the grocery store every day. Need to shop at the pharmacy for my favorite soap, stop at the store in Christiansted for a new piece of Chaney jewelry, can't live without a new dress from Asha.

Alright, alright, I don't NEED to go to any of those places, but what I am craving is a bistec arepa from Toast, a crafted cocktail from BES, a Cesar salad from Un Amore, a flatbread pizza from TapDeck, a grilled steak from Savant, a slice of peanut butter pie from 40 Strand, a seat overlooking the ocean as the sunsets at Sandcastles!

Peter and I don't play golf or tennis, we don't go to the movies or listen to live music. We don't really snorkel or go scuba diving. We go out to eat. We go out to eat at least 3 times a week but most weeks it's more like 5. That is our entertainment, our socializing, our vice.

We might meet friends. We may take our daughter with us. But for the most part, it's just Peter and myself, conversing, sometimes arguing, but mostly enjoying each other's company. Yes, we talk to

My favorite dessert at 40 Strand

each other during the day. We are both home, he's working on his computer in the dining area, I'm usually in our bedroom or in my office. Just about ever hour, he'll break away and give me a kiss, tell me something he's working on or I'll complain about something I've read on the internet. But it's not the same as sitting at a table, sipping a few drinks, waiting for food deliciously prepared to be brought to you. No planning ahead. No chopping up ingredients. No heating the skillet, the grill, the oven. And the most important part, no cleaning up!

We're home. Nothing is open except for some places that have take away...we're going to start ordering more food for take out, but still, there's the necessary clean up. What a drag.

And as I've pointed out, we are used to being home, getting stuff done, enjoying our quarantine as we did our usual, ordinary life.

But if I have to complain, it's that I miss the going out, seeing people, commenting on what's happening around us, watching clouds roll by, having someone who knows how to make a drink make one, swallowing the expertly mixed cocktail, share the salad, sample our main course and order a decadent dessert that would take way too long to make and force me to eat the entire thing over the course of the week so that it didn't go to waste.

It's coming up on Easter. The beaches are closed. No family gatherings for the majority of the island. No church, even. Peter and I aren't religious and our families are on the mainland so we are little affected. We aren't sharing the sadness so many must feel by missing this holiday, truly the holiest of holidays for Christians. The rising of Jesus from the dead - the very definition of Christianity. It's sad.

There is a phrase that's been ringing in my head this week. I actually had to look it up to see if it was biblical. Apparently, John (John, who? I don't know. I'm not religious.) said, "For God so loved the world that he gave up his one and only son so that those who believe will not perish but have eternal life."

We will rise again, people. We'll be able to go out. Whether it's three days, three weeks, three months, we will be able to live again. It may not be exactly the same life, but the quarantine will come to an end and we'll get back out there. For all of the deaths, needless, unforeseen, untimely, deaths, this sacrifice we're making will be worth it as long as we're able to see our way out and see our way clear of this virus.

I guess I'm just ranting here, writing here, trying to make sense of the senseless. But it does seem a bit fitting to be trapped, to feel like we've lost our life, and our life as we know it during Easter.

#St.CroixAnimalShelter #Rescuedogs #fosterdogs #hurricanerecovery #St.Croixusvi #covid19 #covid19quarantine #Easter #Easter2020 #40Strand #Sandcastles #Tapdeck #Craftedcocktails #unamore #Savant

Bitten

 It started with a stray dog who greeted us at the entrance to a park. We named her Cole because like coal, she was dark and dusty. She was a feral puppy, wary but friendly. She took food when offered, walked within arms length of us but wouldn’t let us touch her.

We spent days trying to get her in order to bring her to the St. Croix Animal Welfare Center. We thought by trapping her, we would be helping her by bringing her some safety, security, treatment for her mange, have her fixed so she couldn't reproduce, and of course, to find her a forever home.

After being spayed, treated for her skin condition and given a check up by the SCAWC Vet, Cole got away. Peter had managed to trap her, bring her to the Animal Welfare Center only to have her slip out of the leash while she was being walked. Someone at the shelter said it was unlikely she’d survive. Had she stayed in the park where people fed her, she had a chance. Our intervention was detrimental. We didn't help her, we hurt her. I was heartbroken.

Still living in NY but coming to visit Peter here on St. Croix each month, I volunteered at the shelter for something to do. I had spent a few days there helping to walk the dogs, learning more about what they did, and as it turned out, to adopt. We had two dogs in NY and I wanted a medium-sized dog to compliment them. 

But when I was told that this 12-year-old short-legged, corgi mix would unlikely be adopted since he was old, had heartworm, and had been there over a month already, that’s who Peter chose for us. I agreed. 

Since I would be retuning to our home in New York and bringing him with me, we thought a perfect name would be Hamilton. After all, like this spunky dog, Alexander Hamilton was also sent to NY from St. Croix for a better life.

Then, a few weeks later, on one of my return trips to St. Croix, we volunteered to foster a short-legged pit mix.

We were told she was found wandering around after the hurricanes. She was adopted but then surrendered after the family decided to leave the island and their new pet. Dorothy would be her name because we thought it fitting that she was separated from her home after a huge storm, surrendered, but we wanted to assure her that there was no place like home.  

As it turns out, she was afraid of strangers, more accurately, afraid of men. But with Peter, she just let him scoop her up and place her in the back seat of the car. She took to me right away. I was a little worried that because I was going back and forth, she would be hurt by my absence. But she loved Peter as well and allowed him to fall in love with her.

Because she “looked” like me - short, short-legged, stocky, and "acted" like me - vulnerable, feisty, angry at times, but wanting to trust someone, love someone; I identified with her. I loved that I had thrust her upon Peter and he, never wanting a pitbull, not wanting another dog, busy, oh so busy at work; embraced her; loved her unconditionally. There was hope for him afterall. 

Peter and I call her the "Best Dog Ever," not because she's obedient because she's not; but because she does what we want her to do. Her demeanor, (for the most part), her habits, her learned traits are things we love in a dog; in her! She rarely barks (unlike our two dogs in NY who are a public nuisance). She is protective of us and so she stays close to us at all times. She is pretty mellow when we take her to a beach or for a walk, she doesn't wander away or for the most part, chase cars, people, other dogs. She isn't fixated on food and never begs. She is content lying near us as we watch TV and from the beginning had to be invited to get on the bed or the sofa. Ideal. 

But then last year, we got Tico, or should I say, he claimed us?

We found him wandering our neighborhood for a month or so. Just showed up one day. Must have
been dumped. Not wanting to live outdoors any longer, he would come right up to people, try to get in our cars, followed joggers and befriended other dogs. His markings reminded us of wild dogs in Africa. For that reason, we took a special interest in him. 

Peter borrowed a large dog trap and no sooner  had we set it, then Tico walked right in and laid right down. He was ready. 

Just less than a week, we thought we'd found him a new home. But he didn’t like her. She didn’t know how to deal with him. And so after only a few days, she brought him to a kennel, boarded him there until we returned to St. Croix to collect him. We tried to find him a suitable home, for nearly 9 months. Dorothy, surprisingly accepted him from the second she met him. There was no need for introductions. They were great together. There was no problem.

But there were signs of trouble. Outdoors, Tico was wild and free. Sure, we could walk him on a leash and he did walk along with us. But untethered, he was a wild dog for sure. We learned that when he was off-leash, he would just roam. Sure, he would circle back and check in on us. But trying to get him into the car after being on the beach was a huge pain in the ass. On several occasions we would get into our truck and drive away. That was the only way he'd come to us. And together, he and Dorothy's pack mentality caused much alarm.

There were incidents of him nipping a fisherman, “biting” our neighbor’s leg, him attacking a small dog. Did Dorothy contribute to his attacks, yes. They both attacked poor Hamilton. Tried to tear him apart, when we tried to introduce the two of them to Hammy when Mac and Hamster moved back to St. Croix last September. And then there were times when Peter feared he’d attack children innocently walking down our road.

For a time, we ignored the signs. We didn’t want it to be true. If we just kept him on a leash. If we watched him to learn his cues, we could prevent his aggression. Because in the house with us, he was a tame as any dog we knew. He cuddled with the stuffed animal chew toys he shared with Dorothy. He’d lick our faces in the morning once we started to stir, and retreat under the bed once we turned out the lights. He rarely barked. He was house broken. He showed no signs of food aggression although he would warn the puppies we were fostering that he was not happy having them nip at him or share his meal. When we brought 7 day old puppies home, he made one of them cry out because he had nibbled on her through the cage. That scared me.

One day while Macallan was home, she heard a horrible commotion coming from inside the house. Tico was attacking Dorothy. Sure, we’d get home on occasion and see some scratches, tiny bites on her underbelly, scrapes on her muzzle. We didn't think much of it. After all, several times a day, We had witnessed them "play" fighting where she, not he, really chomped down on him. With his thick black fur, I doubt he even felt it. But Dorothy had finer fur, pink skin, sensitive spots that pitbulls are known to have. To me, she was a delicate flower…I was over-protective, and rightfully so.

So, Macallan heard Tico’s growls, heard Dorothy’s cries. She ran inside and pulled Tico off of Dorothy. Dorothy was bleeding. Bite marks on her side, under her front leg. Not bad enough to warrant stitches, but we were all concerned.

Later that night, Peter said, they both seemed fine together. So, what was this all about? Had it happened before? What would have happened had Macallan not been home?

Peter called me. I was in NY. He was in St. Croix. He had the same tone in his voice I had heard when he called about Clark, our first rescue. Then, it was because Clark had had a severe seizure and was unresponsive. The Vet said Clark would have limited cognitive ability, but then, he was a dog…maybe we wouldn't notice. "What should I do?” Peter asked me since Clark was mostly my dog. I had not been home all day. I was in the ER with my 80+ year old mother. She should have been in surgery to have her appendix removed, but instead, they made us wait for hours and that's where I was when I got the call.


I told Peter to go ahead. Clark was at least 12 years old. We'd had him only a year, but I hoped, it was the best year of his life. Clark was an abused dog, uncared for, skinny, with rotten teeth and several lipomas, who was dumped by his owners in the middle of the woods, left to die. This seizure was just one of the many things we'd brought him to the Vets for. He would have poor quality of life. I said, "Give him a big kiss and huge hug from me," I told Peter.  "and tell him I love him and I'll miss him but it's time for him to rest." 

This time, with Tico, Peter was not asking me. This would be the third time we brought Tico to the shelter. The first time when we trapped him and they warned us that he would most likely be euthanized. The second time was when we had exhausted our efforts to find him another home and knew Westley, our coonhound in NY, would be moving to STX soon. We were hoping the shelter could put him up for adoption. Why not? He was loveable, he was handsome, he was certainly cool. But the shelter called us and said, they were afraid to handle him, that he was a bite risk, so we went and got him. This time, Peter felt after he attacked Dorothy, we had no choice. There was no where we could keep him if he was a threat to her. As it was, we had to keep Hamilton in our daughter's apartment downstairs and coordinate when the dogs would be let out so as not to endanger Hamilton again. And we couldn’t just re-release him to live on his own knowing he’d attacked others; dog and people alike. Peter already had an issue with Tico and a family with young children. It was a godsend Tico was on a leash. The reaction Tico had to the young children walking down our road was chilling. If he were free, he would most certainly have attacked them.

We couldn’t, in good conscience, allow him to do that. Peter hung up and I cried.

An hour or so later, I called Peter back. I had a thought, “But what if…” and Peter said, “There is no 'What if'” “OK, but what if…” And he stopped me right there. It was too late. The deed was done. 

For days, I toyed with one idea after another.

Why?

I know it was too late for Tico, but just the other day, I again broached the subject with Peter. He looked at me as if to say, 'I’ll say this one last time, he’s gone.' 

And that’s what struck me. Why? Why is it we had to make THAT decision. Was there really no alternative?

Why?

And why, Tico? 

Here I am, living with this man for 35 years in this lifetime and many other lifetimes before this. And I keep giving him a chance. Like Tico, he chose me or maybe vice versa. We chose each other. Why do I keep coming back? Why keep giving him chances? Why? 

Because I believe he has it in him to love. He has it in him to love me. We didn’t know that about Tico. Like so many that we include in our lives, we don’t really know what motivates them. What are you comfortable with? What can you handle? 

I guess, I decided long ago that I could handle what Peter has to give me. That in the end, the bites, the threats, the fear he instills is worth it.

He’s worth it.

For me, living with him, loving him, hoping he’ll one day love me, it’s all worth it.