Snakes on St. Croix and the Nightmare in Paradise

I had a nightmare last night.

The actual retaining wall, minus the snakes.

In my dream, I was peering into the darkness, trying to see what was there lying in wait for me on the retaining wall in our backyard. It is very much what I write about in my blog post, "The Monster in My Garden" and here it is confronting me. I lean closer to the rocky wall, and just as I had suspected, there is a snake looking back at me. It is a brown patterned snake with large unassuming eyes. It looks back at me, but is not afraid or menacing. I back out of it's space, not wanting to confront it or make it angry when I notice the taut torso of a large silver snake hanging over me. I brushed past it when I leaned closer to the brown snake. I thought it was a tree limb. Now, it hung before me, it's face eye-level, suspended, muscles rolling ready to...

But before it could do anything, I backed away. I literally pushed myself back in my bed, my body recoiled as far as I could go before banging into Peter who was sleeping beside me and Dorothy pinning the blankets down by my feet, I didn't get far, couldn't get away. 

I was hyperventilating, even as I lie awake. I could still see the two snakes looking at me. I was awake but the feeling of danger kept coming back to me, making me breath short shallow breaths. I had to fight to keep from screaming. 

Peter and I have a history with snakes.
He actually bought the kids a snake
for Christmas and I freaked out because
I couldn't believe he never knew I did
not like them?!? In all of the years we
were together, he never noticed that
I would bypass them at zoo exhibits?!?

During the course of the remaining hours before dawn, I saw the images of the two snakes again and again and each time, I hyperventilated. It wouldn't be until I had gotten dressed and taken Dorothy outside, as I sat in front of the very retaining wall, was I able to recall the image of the snakes and not panic with fear. 

Why? What was I afraid of? 

I think the one snake, the brown snake, is my fear of abandonment. It is there, I know it's there, I recognize it, I see it. 

The silver snake, though, is a mystery. The thing about that snake in my dream is that it startled me. I didn't know it was there. I ducked under it. I brushed up against it. I was so frightened by it, could it be because I didn't know that I was in eminent danger? I just didn't know. I didn't know how close danger was and that's what scared me. 

Also, I think I hyperventilated because I tried to get away, but Peter was holding me back. He was in my way. He kept me from fleeing. And Dorothy, she pinned me down, she was weighing heavily on me, keeping me from moving. 

Did they prevent me from getting away or were they there to tell me I don't need to flee. I don't need to want to run from my problems, they have my back?

This is the rescue we had gotten for Macallan. Macallan
called her Otse (Ooh-T-see) for a small town in Botswana.
She was covered in fleas and the BSPCA didn't know if she
would make it. Born a stray, she had no idea what love was, at
first, she wouldn't let us near her, but then when she realized
we were only trying to love her, she was the best dog ever!

Or was the dream my genuine fear of living in St. Croix? I have this normal fear and then I have this very large menacing fear that I have to duck and brush past if I want to remain here. It scares me but I can't get away, get out, get going, leave because of Peter and Dorothy. What if I am not facing my intuition to leave because that would mean I can't face leaving Peter and Dorothy behind? 

Now, the emotional fear, while it's pervasive and sometimes detrimental to my mental and emotional state, it is something I can deal with. What scares me is that there's a very real danger that I know about, like the feeling I got in Africa when we left for a fundraising event we were managing and we returned home to find our neighbor had shot our dogs. I knew we shouldn't have left them. I knew we were being instructed by the universe to leave Botswana, but I didn't listen, and our dogs died as a result. Is this another one of those times when I am not heeding the call of the "gods" and then something catastrophic will happen? Is it? Well? Is it? (I ask you - the reader, or my dad and brother who have passed on or the universe in general.) 

I just don't know. 

The Monster in my Garden

My actual garden at our home in St. Croix.

Do you believe in monsters? Because lately, I've had this nagging feeling that there's something bad out there. Just out of reach. Watching. Lurking. Ready to pounce. 

I don't think it's really there...But it could be. It's like the monsters you believe are under the bed, in your closet, or in my case, an evil being standing behind me that I get a glimpse of in the bathroom mirror just as I'm stooping over to wash my face.

I am quite intuitive. I'm an empath and believe me, I know your pain. I get sympathy cramps, headaches and nausea. I can't watch particularly violent movies because I can feel each blow from the hammer or the bullet tearing through flesh and bone. I also retain sadness or confusion and pain from people I know and love.

And with that said, you should also know that I have a record of  "feeling" when something is a good idea or bad. If I'm particularly hysterical, you better listen. My feelings are never wrong. I have insisted on cancelling plans or giving my wholehearted "OK!" to random invitations based on them. My kids (and husband) think I know the future, or can predict it, but that's not really how this works.

What I get are signs that I can read efficiently. Or sometimes I get a warm feeling of love or cold feeling of evil that I respond to appropriately and adamantly. On occasion, I've had words enter my mind that give me a complete thought, lets me KNOW something without me garnering any facts. I say that words come to me because the sentence is not vocalized. I don't hear a voice, I kind of "see" the sentence. Some call it intuition, but I think it's something more tenable. I think it's being in-tune with the universe.

While living in St. Croix, I've learned to identify when a hummingbird will come by our porch. I hear the whir of its wings at a distance and as it gets louder, the sound arriving before the actual bird appears, the buzz is the "tell," like in poker.

Well, I am getting that "tell" right now. For me, it is a darkness, a hollow inside me that says to me there is something to fear. It's particularly strong lately and so I look for it to manifest in physical things.

During the day, after my husband leaves for work, I have about seven hours to myself. I can do whatever I want. Sure, sometimes I want to change the sheets, do laundry, sweep, but most days, I am free to read, write, journal, post on FB, take pictures of our garden, walk, pet and feed our dog, Dorothy, whatever.

Dorothy is our Foster Fail. We were only going to care for her for a few days but when I identified so strongly with this shy, wary, scared dog who had been abandoned twice, I couldn't let her go.

Dorothy is skittish, afraid of most men, jumps at loud noises, is tentative and ever vigilant. We don't know what she had to endure during the hurricanes of 2017, but she retains her cautiousness, insecurity, fear.

In our garden, where Dorothy and I wander during the day, I notice that she also looks for "evil". The other day, she stuck her small short snout under some plants and quickly backed away snarling, frightened. I brace myself, expecting to find a snake, one of the few hundred pets illegally brought to the island and even worse, released into the wild. But no, it was just a hermit crab. Just a cute crustacean oblivious to either Dorothy or me.

Another day, she explored a portion of the garden I couldn't reach because of the overgrown brush. I started to walk over toward her to make sure she was OK, when she came tearing up the driveway with her tail between her legs. Turned out she had gotten stung by a wasp, there were so many, it's a wonder neither of us had been stung more often. She spent the afternoon licking the spot, I of course, sympathized and could almost feel her pain.

Like Dorothy, I confront these things that could cause me harm. I peer into the dark crevices and cracks of the retaining wall that surrounds our property. I search the branches of the mango, Ginger Thomas and date palm trees in our yard. I focus on the vines wrapping their way up and around hibiscus branches. What I'm looking for, I don't know. But I expect to find an iguana, the size of King Kong, just waiting to lunge at me; a python dangling from above, ready to drop on me; a monster, never before seen or named, ready to bite, claw, and eat me whole.

But instead, I witness rainbows arching overhead. I see flowers like little paper lanterns dangling flirtatiously. I find lizards so tiny they don't make a sound or bow the leaf they have just clambered over. And lately, there are the hummingbirds, spunky speed demons that hover inches from my face questioning my existence. Some buzz past me, so close my hair flies up from the wind their whirling wings have generated.

My conscious self knows my fear is not out there, but within. I think I'm afraid of committing to this life in St. Croix. I'm afraid that this new found belief that I'll have a forever home with Peter is scary because I'm afraid I'll do something to lose it. I'm afraid I will give myself over to my writing and be disappointed with what I find. That I'll think I'll get my book published. That I'll want that and it won't happen.

But why? Why be afraid of any or all of those things? I'm enjoying the life here, the life with Peter has never been better, the writing and the idea of being read is exciting. Maybe it's time to realize the "thing that is bad" isn't really there and put the fear where it belongs, categorized as mythical, illusionary, ephemeral, unlike these hummingbirds and rainbows that I keep finding.

But then, I've lived with this monster, this evil, this fear since I was little, since I was four. And while that abandoned girl has been brought out of the crevices. She's been identified and named. She has not been banished from our garden. She lies dormant, lurking, waiting to pounce. Like the whir of the hummingbirds' wings, I must learn to see her coming before she actually appears.

At The Croix Roads

If you've read my previous blogs, you know that last January, Peter left for a job in St. Croix. It paid him well, he got to use his expertise to help in a crisis situation, he would be in new territory, but also under new supervision. He was excited about that.
     He didn't know what the living conditions would be in St. Croix. After all, he was being brought there to help with hurricane recovery after two Category 5 hurricanes hit the island in a matter of weeks.
But as it turned out, he wound up living in vacation homes that were not destroyed or damaged and lived pretty well.
    Unfortunately, many of the recovery team left loved-ones behind. We all had to adjust to newly defined lives. For Peter and I, it was a trying first few months.
     I talked about divorce - AGAIN! I felt he was abandoning me, which he literally was. After all, he would be living 30 days on-island only to return "home" for a week or so. But, he would say, "If the living conditions are good enough, you could come down to visit." What kind of marriage is that? Not one I wanted, that's for sure.
     He was to leave in January, leaving me with the house, the animals (of which we had 2 dogs, a coatimundi, a Patagonian cavy, a turtle, a lizard, some cockroaches, fish and stick bugs!), our two kids, my mom and a seemingly infinite amount of stress and responsibilities that overwhelmed me just thinking about it.
     It was daunting. There would be eight snow storms. Of course the guy he hired to plow the driveway showed up only after being called multiple times and then did only a part of the driveway saying his truck broke—not my problem! And he wanted full payment regardless!
     I had a frozen shoulder that required physical therapy and chiropractic adjustments three times a week, acupuncture once a week and a massage every other week to try to relieve the pain and gain mobility. I could not shovel that driveway. I was flabbergasted!
     As always, there were issues in the house, but nothing would be as bad as dealing with our dogs. They wouldn't stop fighting or marking their territory. They wouldn't stop peeing and pooping in our house, not even stopping after I got them fixed! And none of that was as bad as trying to get them to stop barking! Why did no one tell me that the adorable coonhound would bay, bark and howl all day every day!?!
     I was unhappy. I was lonely. I was overwhelmed. While Peter's paycheck was a plus, I, of course, thought it was just an excuse to leave me. I was sure of it.

     At my lowest, I wanted to disappear. I didn't think I could face another day. That feeling of sorrow was all consuming. No thought of what would happen to the kids, the animals, the household. There were a few nights, I really lost my mind, my heart, myself.

     And then I went to visit. The blues of the sea, the tropical breezes, the sunshine, the warmth, the beauty of the beaches. But I wasn't there to be on vacation. I was there to reconnect with my husband.
     I'm too tired and still too vulnerable to go into detail. Suffice it to say, we had intense discussions.

     Month after month would go by where he came back to NY and I went to St. Croix. Each month building a foundation for a new life together. That first visit to St. Croix, he assured me he hadn't taken the job to get away from me. "It's for us. This sucks for me too. I don't want to be without you." But I didn't totally believe him.
     As time went by and he and his job became more stable, he brought up my staying in St. Croix. How would that work? At first, I thought I could sell our house in New York, maybe find a smaller place for our grown kids to live. But there was too much to be done. Our 32 years together was stored in that house.
     I wound up in St. Croix for two weeks at a time, and then he would come up North for a week, only leaving us apart for a week each month. Then, I came down for three weeks and we flew "home" together.
     By now, I understood that he hadn't abandoned me/us. I felt he was lonely too. I believed him, for once. In our over 30 years together, I finally believed he loved me and wanted to live the rest of his life with me.
     My therapist (whom I haven't seen for 10 or 15 years now) would ask me why I thought he stayed with me. If I was so convinced he would leave me, why are we still together? My answers ranged from 'Because it's the right thing to do.' 'He hasn't found anyone else...yet.' 'He doesn't know where to go.' and on occasion, 'I just don't know.' Her point was not to confirm my fears; her point was to show me that my fears were unwarranted.
     Well, Nancy. I finally see that. I finally believe that he loves me and wants to be with me.
Finally.

     So, this St Croix life that we are living now, this "Croix" Roads where we've found ourselves, took over 30 years! Now that I believe we're truly going to stay together, I look back at the 30+ years and can't believe all the hurt we put each other through. If only, all along, we took our I love you's and I do's and were totally committed to them. Think how much happier I could have been if I lived without the fear of abandonment and instead lived with abandon.

Abandoned: The Beginning

Chapter One

     When I was three-years-old, my parents left my older brother, my younger sister and me. I have spent the greater part of my life coming to terms with that abandonment. For a year, we lived in the Philippines while our parents made a life without us in the USA. 

     We were cared for by my mother’s parents; stern, cold, grandparents who rarely showed affection. They, along with our mother’s youngest sister cared for my brother (4-years-old), me, (3-years-old) and my sister (just 1-year-old). 

     During that time, my sister would say her first word, calling our aunt, “Momma”; take her first steps, and cry, cry, cry for our parents to return. 

     My brother, a precocious oldest grandchild, often did things like play on a chair near the edge of brick steps. He was standing on the chair when he tried to get a toy car that had fallen. He ended up tumbling from the chair and cutting his cheek open on the jagged brick steps. The bandage that covered the stitches took up half of his face. How did our mother feel when she saw pictures of her son with an injury and she was halfway across the globe? 

     Even after we were reunited, that year apart scarred not only my brother’s face, but our sense of security. Therapy never quite cured my sister or I of the sense of abandonment because, you see, no one ever explained the situation to us. Our parents never tried to explain their absence.

* * *

It wouldn’t be until I was in my 30’s that my siblings and I would find out the truth. Our parents wanted us with them during that first year in the States. The pictures of them holding other children, playing in the snow, at parties with their new friends were not joyful times as the photos portrayed, but frustrating, anxious and regrettable weeks that became months and then a year with our mom begging her father to bring us to America, as agreed upon.

     When we did finally board a plane for the two-day journey from the Philippines to Japan, Japan to the USA, our grandfather, Lolo in tagalog, and our mother's youngest sister, Tita Chet, accompanied us. It was 1968, our first time to travel on an airplane. Back then, airplane travel was a big deal for everyone, not just three young Filipino kids who were going to emigrate to the United States. People dressed up to fly in planes. Think Mad Men International, that's the timing for this leg of my journey.

     On the plane, the three of us, aged 5, 4, and 2 were fussy. The food was unfamiliar. There was a big slab of meat called a ‘steak’ on our tray, something we'd never seen before, and the milk in these containers tasted funny. We cried and were irritable on the long transatlantic flight. When we disembarked in Japan, I remember a finely dressed women with a handkerchief tied around her perfectly quaffed hair having to help me up when I fell down the aluminum stairs onto the tarmack. I was groggy when the plane landed in Japan and don't remember much more than this.

     I remember spending the night in a hotel. There was a time difference or we slept on the flight and weren't sleepy so we jumped on the beds and created a ruckus. Lolo was quite annoyed and kept telling us to go to sleep. We must have but I have no recollection.   

     As I said, it was a two-day flight and when we finally landed in the States, I'm sure my grandfather and parents were relieved. Was the flight supposed to take two days? Were we supposed to stay the night in Japan? If it was an unexpected layover, would our parents have known or were they waiting at the airport only to finally give up and go home alone? Back then, remember, flights were rare and communications entailed switchboards, expensive long distance rates, unreliable service and ungodly lag-times...thinking about the whole ordeal, it must have been a nightmare, really... 

     But we would eventually land. We were going through customs at JFK when our grandfather instructed us. "When I tell you, run to your parents,” he said. As we made our way, we wound up in a long corridor where way far away people stood looking for their overseas guests. We stopped to collect ourselves. Our Lolo peered down the hallway trying to find our parents' faces. When he spotted them, he told my brother and me to "Go. Go now," our grandfather nudged us and in typical Filipino fashion, pointed with his lips and nodded his head. "Run." So my brother and I looked at each other, shrugged and ran. But, I wanted to know, "Which of those people were our parents?" We had forgotten what they looked like. But we ran, I guess, hoping someone would step forward to claim us.

     At some point, my brother stopped running. He told me years later that he had to pull up the zipper on his pants. In any case, I got out ahead. Searching the faces of the people who were standing still as I whizzed by, I was caught by a man kneeling down with his arms outstretched. I could only hope it was the right guy, because to me, he was as much a stranger as the next one. 

     He hugged me and picked me up and kissed me on the cheek. My brother made it and he was embraced by our mom. And after a few seconds, they traded us off. 

    When our aunt arrived carrying our sister, Carolina wouldn't go to our mom. She clung to our aunt, refusing to let go. These people were strangers, after all. She had been away from them for as long as she had been with them. She began to cry. Our mother began to cry. At the time I didn’t know why.

* * *

In 2003, in Cold Spring, NY,my mom was helping me with the kids, with the packing, trying to spend as much time with us before we left. My father had died several years before. She was alone, but doing well on her own. I was very proud of her.

     I didn’t think for a moment, how our move would affect her. I didn’t see how.

     Teary-eyed, she helped me seal a box that would come with us on the plane. “Why would you move your kids to a third world country,” she began tentatively, “when your father and I sacrificed so much to get you out?” I honestly never thought of it that way. I wanted to say, ‘It’s because you gave us so much, that now we can afford to give back.’ But I didn’t say anything. I glanced at her and we moved on.

Happily Ever After

In 1986, Peter and I spent our three week honeymoon traveling by rail through four countries in Europe. I was 22 and he was 24. I was just a year out of college and he was a year out of the Peace Corps.

I had never been to Europe. Peter was charged with planning our honeymoon since I planned our extravagant wedding of 400 guests, consisting mostly of my parents' friends.

We landed in England. After a few days in London, we traveled to York and stayed in a Bed and Breakfast. It would be the first B&B, I'd have stayed in and something about staying in someone else's home made me feel funny, like I was intruding. After leaving our bags, we immediately left to look around the walled ancient city. We found out there was a ghost walk and made it a point to get in line. As was the case most of the time we'd been in England, there was a heavy rain but nowhere to keep dry, except for the pub. How convenient! So we left the cue to get warm and grab a pint before the tour began.

Standing at the bar, a gentleman started talking to us. "Where are you from?" He asked. "We're from New York." I told him. "Oh! So how do you like Olde Yorke?" he asked. We had not thought of it that way. We enjoyed his company, but I didn't want to miss the ghost walk.

"Why do you keep looking outside?" He finally asked. "Oh, we are here for the walk." I said. "Well, you won't miss it. I'll be sure to tell you when it's time to go out there." he said with a twinkle in his eye. "You see, I'm the guide." And with that, we laughed some more and raised our pints to him.

I remember that night so clearly. I can tell you just about every ghost and haunting he pointed out; the house boarded shut to keep the family infected with the Black Plague inside, only to find a small child who was not infected banging on the attic window, crying to be let out. There's the castle, that was the hunting lodge of one of the Kings. Every day, a cleaning woman saw the ghost of the King walk down the stairs, and as he brushed by her, she felt the cold chill of the dead. He said, he believed this cleaning woman, because after all, everyone should believe their own mother. But the story that still sends chills up my spine is the one where a maintenance worker fixing the boiler of what today is the Mint. As he worked in the basement, all of a sudden, he heard the shuffle of feet, the whinny of horses and when he looked up, he saw a troop of soldiers clad in armor, walking in front of him. He noticed a few things that made his rendition believable. He could not see below their shins; as it turned out, the basement of the Mint was poured concrete which was why he couldn't see their feet. He also noticed the shape of their shields and how they carried them. Because he was not an educated man, he would not have known that a lost Roman Legion, one that carried the shield in their right hand had been buried in York hundreds of years before. 

As the ghost walk ended, we headed back to our B&B.

I had trouble sleeping, but no sooner had I finally dozed off, when I had a dream. I dreamt that I was standing in the kitchen of a home, my home? When soldiers, hurt, tired, dragging their armor, shield and swords, appeared in the fields. I pumped some water into a wooden bucket and grabbed a ladle. I walked up to a soldier with a horse and offered him a drink. As he took my hand, bringing the ladle to his lips, he tilted his head and I saw he was Peter.

I woke up just then and was so scared that I pushed myself away from Peter as he tried to comfort me. He questioned what was wrong. "Are you OK?" As he moved closer, I became even more frightened. I finally let him hold me and I sobbed as I told him about my dream. He stroked my hair and let me rest my head on his shoulder until I fell back to sleep.
It would only be in the morning, as we ate our breakfast that he told me he had the same dream. We had the same dream, at the same time.

At first, we chalked it up to a weird coincidence, but after 32 years of marriage and nearly 35 years together, I have to say, we know better.

That was the first of many times we would confirm that we've been together for lifetimes. He has a very old soul and I have lived multiple lives, that's for certain.

After the attachment we both felt for the San Bushman, there is no denying we must have been together way back then. After all, it resonated with us both, the San way of life and our own nomadic lifestyle.
There are undeniable traits that we possess that harken back to Bushman ways. The hunter/gatherer in us as a pair, the matriarchal system where my family has taken him in, and the fact that we follow the food source, which in this day-and-age are his jobs, most recently relocating us to St. Croix.

My theory is that people return to this world to work out some issues. A little Buddism, a little Christianity, and a whole lot of English Lit. that helps me to flesh out the meanings behind coincidences. In other words, my theorized theology goes like this...we have to accomplish something while on this planet. It's more a mission, than a purpose, although I think some people's purpose is the mission. But in my case and for most people I know, we are here to work through an issue, that when acknowledged, will help us to move on. Move to better and better lives.
I was told by a reiki master that this could quite possibly be my last incarnation. That I will reach my "goal" so to speak. Peter, who has had many more lives than me, was told and believes he's here for a long time coming. That, as an astrological ox, he's pulling that plow, unable to lessen his burden.

I don't know.

We are coming up on our 32 wedding anniversary. I insisted on a trip to Scotland. It just kept ringing true to me, that we needed to go there and it had to be this year. So, in a few days, we'll go off to Scotland. Like our honeymoon, he's mapped out our journey, made reservations, and any arrangements. This time, we'll be driving all around the country/countryside. And as before, I'm really just going along for the ride.
That's how I've seen the past 32 years we've had together. He dictates what we are doing, where we are living, how we will live. Sure, there are things I've insisted on, having children, for instance; and places we've lived, Hoboken, Manhattan, Garrison to name a few; and things we've done, gotten married, moved to Ghanzi, a remote village in Botswana, and opened a store. But for the most part, we've followed the food source/his jobs, where I set up our homestead, gather our community, and am ready to pick up and move again if we are all to thrive/survive.
And that's the question I face yet again. Just like my birthday, Peter says, I question our marriage every year around our anniversary. In my mind, I have to. Do I want another year of this? We fight about the same things, year after year. Sure, recently, we fight less, he seems to have gotten over one very crucial trait that drove me crazy. But he still needs ultimate control - if I start making plans or settling in, he rears up and puts his fist down about dumb things, nothing, unsettling everything. He still pulls away when things are too good, causing me to mistrust him, this, us. And then there are the spans of nothing, of coasting, of isolation.

Why?

We're working on that. We've come to see that the bushman wants to provide for his family, willing to relocate and driven to follow the meat/the water source. Then, there's the Roman soldier who was always embattled. When I met him in that dream, he was so tired of fighting, but all he knew was to fight. I think of our disagreements, no matter how small, they would turn into a full out war. I would see that soldier, swinging blindly, trying to stay alive, trying to make the attacks stop. Only, I wasn't the enemy. I was on his side all along. He and I are trying to grasp that for both of our sanity, for both of our piece of mind. I don't think he fully accepted what I had to offer in that dream. I was from the "other side" yet I offered him water, I gave him aid. I allowed him to finally put his sword down, let his guard down. I gave him peace.

As another year goes by, do I follow my hunter to St. Croix and set up our home there, which is what I've done for many of our lives together? And do I give him peace, a place to rest? Is my bucket half-empty or half-full? I don't think he knows. I know I do not.

The Empty Nest Syndrome: A Moving Story

With our daughter, a post-college conservation biologist, gearing up to accomplish her career goals at 23, and our son, returning home to attend community college after a fun (a little too fun) freshman year away, we hardly have an empty house. There are still animals, furniture, 30+ years of momentos, not to mention the accumulated things my mother just couldn't get rid of after downscaling from her monstrous home.

But as of this month, Peter and I aren't there, in New York. I mean, we still own it, our driver's licenses use that address, and we'll have absentee ballots come November using that address, but we spend most of our time in St. Croix.

He's been working here as a consultant since January. He's come back to NY each month for only 7-10 days and as of this month, St. Croix is where I am, with him.

It was a grueling nine months, as many of you know after reading this blog. And after much deliberation, we've decided this is the right place for us, at this time.

It's a hell of an opportunity, really, for us both. His skills as an engineer have been put to the test and he's excited and enlivened by this career change. It feels good to accomplish something and be appreciated for your efforts.

For me, I have the luxury of not having to deal with the clutter of our lives, the demands of our pets, the constant worry of things like, if the kids are fed, dogs have gone out, cars are in working order. I have a beautiful house to stay in and the mellowest dog; who doesn't bark, isn't solicitous, is house broken, and is happy to lie at my feet while I write.

But in fairness, I created the havoc that enslaved me to that house and those dogs. I was stressed and unhappy even while in that house by myself.

So, while I technically don't have an empty nest, Peter and I live as if we do. Because for now, this house in St. Croix has freed me to finally leave our accumulated nest behind.          

Cole, the Stray from St. Croix

This little girl needs your help.

If you haven't been following her story, let me start from the beginning.

My husband, Peter started working in the US Virgin Islands on hurricane recovery back in the beginning of January. Working 55 and more hours per week, he has his work cut out for him.

One day, while inspecting a park along the Christiansted harbor, a dog comes up to him. She has engorged nipples and is begging for food. Peter didn't have any on him. He wonders what to do. Capturing her would be disastrous for the pups she must have hidden somewhere. Finally, she wanders off and he goes back to work. 

I arrive on the island a few days later. He has told me about the dog. He takes me to the spot where she had found him/he had found her, same difference. We don't see her. But as we drive along, there is a small black dog on the side of the road. The dog looks up at us expectantly. This is our first encounter with her. But it wouldn't be our last. 

Upon returning to the park, it is evident it is inhabited by abandoned cats and dogs. Joggers, fishermen, picnicking families, people on their lunch break, some homeless also use the park. But it is the animals that dominate. And upon careful inspection, we see the bowls, dishes, paper plates and take out containers left here and there by caring folks. The park is surrounded by salt water, so thoughtful residents leave cups and tubs of fresh water. 

One day while we were there, we encountered a man standing in the thick brush surrounded by cats. Peter hops out of our truck to ask if he's seen the black puppy. By now, we've seen other dogs besides her. Dogs that look freshly bathed, happy, healthy, unlike the black pup. He says, he's seen her, but not that day. Sometimes, she naps on that side of the park. He's found her sheltered under bushes surrounded by a broken down fence. He's tried to capture her, he tells Peter. He almost had her in a trap but someone honked their horn and she was gone. She won't go near him now, he says. She's a smart dog. 

We borrowed a cage from the St.Croix Animal Welfare Center. When I called to let them know about her, they said they were aware of her. Could we capture her, they are so short staffed? After Hurricane Maria decimated their kennels, knocked down their gate, vandals stole and destroyed what was left of their facility. They were just starting to get back on their feet, finding an old Veterinary office as their temporary in-take clinic and soon were going to open a new adoption storefront.

With residents still out of power, thousands of homes still in disrepair, residents have had to abandon their pets. Over 1,000 school children and their families have had to relocate to the mainland since the two hurricanes hit in August. Evacuated residents were not able to bring all of their family members, which meant there has been an influx of strays. 

We set up the cage and lured the pup to us. Many times, we could have caught cats, no problem, even one of the other dogs. But the black dog evaded us. While she was not afraid of us, she didn't come to us to be petted, either. Not wanting to stress her out even more by just grabbing her, not to mention, the possibility of her biting, we took it slowly and tried to gain her trust.

After spending several weeks observing her, we determined that she most likely spent the past month at least, living on her own out here. We estimated her age based on her size and coordination to be around 3 months, maybe a little more. She had probably spent half of her young life living by her wits.  As the guy said, she’s a smart dog.

One thing we realized is that there were lots of people feeding the animals. This would make it harder for us to capture her. She wasn’t that hungry. This says a lot about the people here. In the two weeks I went with Peter to get this dog to Animal Welfare, we met four people who had tried to catch her. With her mange, everyone knew she needed help. Four people and countless others who cared for the abandoned pets, giving them water and food. A mother daughter out for their evening walk told us they’d seen several people trying to get her. They had noticed her for the first time about a week before I landed in St. Croix. Were we going to keep her, they asked. No. We were going to turn her over to Animal Welfare. They knew the shelter was destroyed but they didn’t know they were accepting animals again. Good to know, they said. Good to know.

One day, we actually had the pup in the cage. But when Peter went to close the door, she scooted out. She was a little less trusting after that, but still, she’d come to us. She’d eat the hot dogs. She’d look us in the eye and when she was full, she would leave.

A cat was standing near the water dish one day and the pup was thirsty. She didn’t charge the cat, but the cat hissed and arched her back. The black pup slowed her approach and the cat left reluctantly. But no scratches, no bites. Another time, there was this adorable Corgi/German Shepherd mix, a puppy too, who spotted us with our hot dogs and came prancing over. The two dogs exchanged sniffs and she gave him a wide berth, sitting a few feet away. I would catch her looking over at us, but she let the other dog have his fill. Then, when he as done, she returned. She understood the rules of the park, rules of engagement. She is a smart, smart dog.

Peter had plans for us for Valentine’s Day. We were going to go for lunch and head over to see the Whim museum, and then spend the rest of the day in Fredricksted where we had dinner reservations. Ok, Ok, he agreed. We’ll go check on the puppy. Afterall, we had not caught her and I was to leave in two days. We can only spend a few minutes, he said. An hour later, I was covered in mosquito bites, she had evaded us yet again, and disappeared into the thick bush only to appear so far down a mud path we couldn’t get near her.

After I left, Peter’s work doubled, so he couldn’t go to the park as often as he’d like. He’d tried several times, starting to rethink the idea of a cage over a trap. There were several days when he didn’t see her. Some days he didn’t make it at all. But one day, he half-heartedly swung into the area he’d seen her last and there she was. She hopped up and came right up to him. He put out the cage, threw in a few hot dog pieces and she went right in. Easy. The easiest day so far. He closed the door and loaded her onto the back of his truck and away they went. Finally, she would be seen by a Vet. Finally, they could treat her mange. Finally, she would be fed, bathed, and cared for. Only, she didn’t understand. She was scared, shivering and sad. She yipped for the first time. And she sneered and growled. She threw up all of the food she’d had that day. She peed herself. She didn’t know what was happening. She didn’t know it would be for her own good. Or was it?

Two days at the Center and they hadn’t really been able to go near her. They even kept saying she was a he. Her tail tucked so close under her body made it impossible to see. She was a bite risk. The Vet and staff and volunteers were so overworked, a mangy stray dog was the least of their concerns.

But not ours.

At the risk of making a pest of myself, I kept emailing the Center. I kept sending Peter in. He volunteered to help them get FEMA to pay attention to their needs. We wanted to make sure this puppy was not forgotten. Was not put down.

One day, three days after he’d brought her in, he went to see her. He had to sign a waiver and as such, became an official St. Croix Animal Welfare Center volunteer. He asked to walk her. “Sure.” She’d been out earlier, but they were sure she’d want to go out again. He was confused. Wasn’t she a bite risk? Guess not. He brought her outside, she peed right away and walked nicely on the leash. She still wouldn’t go near enough to him to let him pet her, but she wasn’t pulling to get away either. He feared he stressed her out, afterall, he had been the reason she was now trapped. But after a few more visits, she relaxed a little. Enough so that he could check out her underside, and with her tail now up in the air instead of being tucked under, he confirmed that she was indeed a girl.

In the last few days, it’s still been hard for him to get much info about her. But she has been spayed, seems to be housebroken, has less scabs and more black glossy hair covering up her bald scaly patches. She is smart, he can tell, although he’s not sure why he thinks that.

Mid-March, he gets to take a week off and return to our home in NY. He hopes he can bring “Cole” the name I’ve given her for now. With so many unwanted dogs in St. Croix, the Center encourages travelers to transport them to the mainland for other shelters to find them forever homes. At first, Cole was considered a very poor candidate for adoption. Did we want to adopt her, the Center asked? Of course! But we have two big spoiled poorly behaved male dogs at home. And Peter lives with other disaster relief workers in a home rented by his company, he can’t keep her there. And so, what to do?

We (well, really Peter) captured her so that she could have a better life. We certainly didn’t rescue her only for her to be put down. So…if Cole and the story of her capture has captured your heart, please let me know. If you can provide her a loving home, a life where she is safe, cared for and loved, please contact me. There is no expense to you. The Center will make sure she is updated on vaccinations and treated for mange, and as I said, she has already been spayed. We will pay for her transport to New York from St. Croix. All you have to do is love her.

I can be reached at Cecilia at womensworkbw dot com. This very special girl who stole our hearts, I’m sure will capture yours. Please help me find her the home she deserves.