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.   

Redefining Life in Paradise

We have recently committed to our life here on St. Croix. By committed, I mean we've set up a home, bought cars, had our daughter move down so that she can work as a wildlife conservation biologist.

We live overlooking the Caribbean Sea surrounded by palm trees, welcomed by frangipani, on one side a bird sanctuary, the other a dirt road that leads to only a few other homes.

We are visited by hummingbirds, often see rainbows, and are lucky enough to live on the edge of the rainforest where we get a little rain nearly every day.

We live in "paradise" according to friends, family, the proud Virgin Islanders, the tourist brochures, and cruise ships. Is it though? I don't know.

In some respects yes - the beaches are expansive and many are isolated with no one on them but you. The trees that have returned after IrMaria, the two category-5 hurricanes that barreled through this island two years ago, are astonishingly lush and a testament to the resilience of the tropics. The weather, aside from the threat of hurricanes and occasional earthquakes, is pretty constant at 85 degrees F, sunny, and breezy. If that's your definition of Paradise, then, yes. Yes it is.

My definition of Paradise has more to do with my husband and my relationship than where, or how we live. For me, it's not enough to gloss over turmoil within, just to have the outward appearance of peace.

And that's where we are nowadays. Peter and I are exploring new-found knowledge of lives we've lived together. Among the many lives we've both led, the predominant image is of him as a Roman Solider and me as a handmaid. The first time we dreamed that we had this shared life in 1,000 BC was during our honeymoon. We have since gotten more details. As this warrior, he survived the war but wanted to continue to fight. She was a handmaid asked by the gods to care for him. She accepted.

Over thousands of years, he has been a Warrior and I have been this handmaid, wife, slave, captor, companion, his Eve. While we were living in Botswana, someone told me that my maiden name, was a lot like a word they had in Setswana. The word was Dineo and it meant "gift". And so, more recently, during a past-life regression, I began to cry when I was given the knowledg that I was a gift to him, that I have been a way for the"gods' to heal him, to thank him for his service, to comfort him. All through our lifetimes, I have accepted that role. Until now.

I question my life with Peter. I want more than to be "gifted" to him. I want to be his equal, to play a role in our life together and not just be subjugated.

I could wake up every morning and want to rehash all of the pain he's inflicted on me over the years. I could question his loyalty every day. I could accuse him of humiliating me day-in, day-out. But what kind of life is that? That's hell, if you asked me. It's taking the knowledge that you've gained, all of the wrongs, all of the mistakes, all of the ways he's created to build that coat of armor, to raise that protective shield and cut me to the quick as he wields his mighty sword. That's not love. That's fear. That's realizing that you're naked, vulnerable, that you're scared.

We have a mission. We have a shared destiny. It's all very simple really. I'm to get a man-of-war to remove his armor and to lay down his sword. He is to receive love, accept love, love.

After 35 years together, and many more lifetimes before, I am so close to reaching this goal. It would mean that I would move on. It would mean, I believe, not having to come back to this world, that I would reach a higher plane.

The idea frightens Peter. After one of our fights, he and I realized that he has been deliberately sabotaging me. Because he is afraid of living a life without me, he has kept me as a servant, as a slave, kept me at a distance, and hurt me, humiliated me, demeaned me. Over the years, clear images came to us both where he was hurt, hurtful, bitter, distant, refusing to love me. On this occasion, in our bedroom in St. Croix, he was overwhelmed with the sentiment that he had rejected my love in order to keep me with him. I knew that already. It just saddened me to have it confirmed.

And it was during that fight that I said, "I'm through!" All of these years throughout this life we shared, I had put up with his abuses. Lusting after other women. Flirting with co-workers. Trying to replace me with someone else. He belittled me. He made me quit my job, ruin my career. He moved me from place to place, each time isolating me more and more. He justified his actions, his verbal stabbings, his degradation. He acted like a child, unable to hear the smallest request, criticism, instruction! He would literally repeat himself over and over again inches from my face, threatening and stubborn, how could it not escalate or get physical!?!

I was horrified that the person I was trying so hard to love was such a selfish son-of-a-bitch! I said, "I'm through!" and I meant it. And no sooner had I said that, then I got this message. "I don't blame you," "God" said. "You can go." and an image came into my head. I was standing next to a "Being" a "Form". The message continued, "But in your next life, you'll have to do this, all of this, all over again."

It halted me. It drained me of any other emotion except utter failure. I had no choice, it meant. I had to make this work or it would go on and on, lifetime after lifetime, being subjected to his anger, resentment and pain, because we had just established that he had not accepted my love because he never wanted me to leave.

The girl who spent her life feeling as if the world had turned their back on her, fearing that she was unworthy, feeling everyone would abandon her, this girl had been with this guy for lifetimes. And he was never going to leave her.

The shock of that. The belief that her existence for hundreds of thousands of years was linked to this hateful, emotionally crippled, mean, vindictive man who has kept her from achieving her goal not because she hadn't earned it, but because he was selfish, self-serving, and cruel.

And all at once, I redefined my life as I knew it. I was not the child abandoned by her parents, but a woman trapped, held captive, betrayed and victimized not by her mother and father, but by her partner, her forever soulmate.

The very idea that I was no longer unworthy but instead a slave, made me rethink my entire life.

I thought I was not loved. And I guess, that is how I can look at how "God" treated me. As an object that was given as a reward to this soldier. But instead of thinking that Peter rejects me, does not love me, pushes me away, constantly destroying me, I now know the truth. He doesn't want to leave me, he never wants to be without me.

And maybe there are past lives where I knew that. And maybe, just maybe, we've reached this level of relationship where we can make this happen. After all, we live in Paradise.

The way I see it, now that I know that I'm not abandoned. I know that I am loved. I now have to convince Peter to love me, to allow me to love him. Once he is no longer on the defensive, protecting himself, rejecting others, he'll see he can have love as part of his life, this one with me and all of the other lives yet to come.

Birthday Plans, Puppies, Paintings and Putting them all in Perspective

I woke up to crying puppies. Crying foster puppies.

Since it was my birthday, Peter got up to feed them, then feed them again. But they didn't want food. They wanted attention.

I let Peter go back to sleep while I played with the foster pups.

That's how I started my 50 plus rotation around the sun. Closer to 60 than 50, I remind myself. Not a bad life, bombarded by yipping, yapping whining puppers, I picked them up for cuddles and kisses. What could be better then a flurry of fur so happy to see you, reminding you that your existence mattered?

Earlier in the week, our daughter had blocked off the day saying, "Whatever you want to do, Mommado" and she meant it. I tried to get us nail appointments but the place I picked had just lost their nail tech. I went on FB and asked for recommendations. I got the number of someone who came highly recommended. "I'm sorry, hon, I'm fully booked," she said, "Is there another day?" Her kind voice encouraged me to say, "I'm not sure when else I could come. It's just that tomorrow's my birthday..." I trailed off, trying to think of an alternative. "OK." she blurted out. "Come at 11." She was going to squeeze me in. I texted Macallan, "She is fully booked but she'll make room for me. Should I take it or should we find somewhere else?" "No, you should take it! Then we can see if she's any good." was her selfless response. Turns out, the manicurist gave up her lunch break in order to get me in for my birthday. And, I have to say, she was excellent! We'll be back!

During the day, Macallan and I had lunch at one of our favorite breakfast spots, Toast; shopped a little; laughed a lot. It was noon before I got a text from my son who lives in NY. I was starting to wonder if he had forgotten. Well-worth the wait. His text brought tears to my eyes. "He just woke up." Macallan confirms reading my mind. Smiling I respond, "I know. I know."

I have always had a thing about my birthday. For years, it went without much fanfare. But in recent years, Peter's stepped up his game. This year, I decided, I'm not going to wait to see what Peter plans I'll make my birth matter...I'll make my birthday a happy one. And with that, I decided we'd celebrate starting on Monday, when we went to 40 Strand.

As we put in our order, I asked for a cocktail but the server said,

"We have two drinks we'd like you to try, on the house." The owner had ordered two cocktails that were not on the menu yet and sent them over. Later, I thanked him and told him how good they were, especially good since they launched my week-long birthday celebrations.

But as the universe would have it, I was reminded all day that life never goes as planned. Making it a good day totally depends on how you react to what transpires.

As we headed home after a day that was made up of "whatever" I wanted, the car stalled in the middle of the road. We let it cool. Mac tried it again. Nope, still wouldn't start. We called Peter, but he wasn't picking up. She called her friend, but he was working and far away without a car to help. Luckily, for the only highway on St. Croix, it wasn't a busy time of day, so as cars did come up on us, we waved them around. Surprisingly, there was no time when I felt we were in danger.

After 10-20 long minutes, Macallan went up to some guys on the road crew and asked if they'd push the car to the side of the road. They were packing up to go but stopped to help us instead. When we offered to tip them, they refused. And one guy even came back to check on us before they drove away.

Because of her broken down car, Macallan had to call out of work and so she was around for dinner. Instead of going for another romantic dinner on my actual birthday, we went to the newly opened restaurant in town. We were all in good spirits. We put the car out of our thoughts for the night.

We went to this new place knowing the service would undoubtedly be erratic, after all they had just opened yesterday. So, even though the waitress forgot our drinks not once, but twice; even though they were out of certain dishes;even though they failed to give us napkins and utensils until well after we got our food; and they took nearly an hour to get us our bill, we laughed and had a good time. We enjoyed each other's company, even joking that the waitress probably spit in our drinks. Ha ha! No matter, it didn't ruin the night.

We returned home, Peter confident that his efforts to get me my requested butter cream frosted cake would make up for the restaurant experience. Peter confessed he had to go to

three bakeries to get butter cream frosting, and was so happy when finally he got it.

Unfortunately, the cake was made with an almond extract, causing Macallan, who is allergic to nuts, to have a reaction. Luckily, she only took a small bite before she realized. She gulped down some 1/2 and 1/2 to try to absorb the allergen and drank a lot of water to dilute the toxin. It was a pretty cake, not butter cream at all and it nearly killed my daughter, but even that didn't ruin my day.

Nor did the fact that due to the broken down car, Peter couldn't get me flowers, the earthquakes in Puerto Rico delayed packages meant to be delivered by now and my off-the-cuff comment as we exited the Caribbean Art Museum a few days ago made him second guess his purchase.

In December, after some pretty blatant hinting, he bought a sweet painting by a local artist. But when we were at the museum last, I said, "Oh good, that painting I wanted is still here." and he panicked. Turns out, the artist often paints the same subject - colorful cottages with children playing. Peter had gotten me the one I had asked for but recently, they had replaced it with another one, so similar were the two that I wouldn't have known the difference between one cottage painting and the other.

Which just goes to show you...it's all a matter of perspective. Side-by-side, would I prefer one of these paintings over the other? No.

In comparison, would my birthday have been better if all had gone as planned? Apparently, not. It was a wonderful day.

Last Night with My Brother

Last night, I had a dream where I was with my brother. He died 25 years ago today. I can't recall exactly what he was telling me, but he was giving me advice. He and I had a close and at times very difficult relationship. He was short with me. He didn't have time to finesse his words or actions. It's as if he was trying to get as much in as he could because he knew he didn't have much time. He was killed at 32.

Last night, unlike in real life, he asked me a question, I responded and the clearest picture I have of him was with him sitting across the table from me, speaking softly, his hands emphasizing his points, and unlike most of our time together, not once did he refer to me as "Fat Shit" or any other derogatory term. I can almost hear his voice and it was not the voice he usually used on me.

Don't get me wrong. He was cruel. He did put me down a lot. But he loved me. That I know. As a matter-of-fact, he may have loved me too much.

When we were toddlers, our parents left us in the Philippines with our unmarried aunt and our mother's stern parents. Not only were Ron and I "Irish twins," we were only 11 months apart, after being abandoned our relationship was cemented. As my older brother, he always had my back.

We would spend our lives trying to deal with our parents' choice to leave us behind. I went to therapy, but being male, he didn't explore his anger, his hurt, his pain. He lived it.

To Ron, life wasn't fair. Even though we had a much better life in the US because our father took the offer to finish his residency in America. But that year apart caused such heartbreak for our parents and us. I don't remember the weekend we spent in Niagera Falls as a newly reunited family but there are pictures where Ron and our dad were at odds, where he vies for our mother's affections and rejects our father's. Their relationship our entire lives were antagonistic. Ron always wanting paternal approval while constantly pushing our father away. Trust had been broken; at an early age, we learned that love was caustic.

Our dad, a pathologist, was reminded daily how fragile life truly was. Making good use of his time with us, he grilled us about our day during dinner. My sister and I happily played along, thrilled with the attention, and for the most part, approval. But our brother would have none of it. He wouldn't "perform" for the old man, he said to me. And he resented that I kissed up to him. In Ron's mind, it was me and him against the world. By placating our dad, I was betraying him.

Yup, Ron and I had a special bond. As we grew up, he taught me to drive, intervened with my boyfriends, and basically told me what to do. At times, I spoke up or according to him, talked back. A particular issue he had was my weight. He was right to be critical, I ate to please my parents. As the middle child and a girl fearful of being left behind again, I ended up eating my words, my feelings, keeping myself overweight, making food my crutch. He was mad at me for showing my weakness. An unspoken rule with abandoned children, never give "them" reason to not love you.

As we got older, after I married Peter, things changed. Maybe he didn't feel the need to be responsible for me any longer. Maybe he liked where my life was headed. Maybe he actually liked me, not just the obligatory, loved me. In any case, we vacationed together, hung out, and genuinely and openly loved each other.

Peter and he were good friends, and not just because they had to be. Peter, who does not tolerate most people, really liked Ron, and vice versa. They went skiing together and complimented each other's style. Peter got to hang out with Ron when none of us siblings were around and Peter claims to know a Ron we never did. With Peter, Ron was fun and funny, joking with waitresses, making clever jabs at his friends, and laughing readily. Nope. That's not the Ron I knew. I was glad to hear that guy existed.

Towards the end of his life, he worried a lot. He was very serious; that's the guy I knew. Married, with a toddler son, a new home, he had more and more responsibility and more to care about. He and our dad were still adversaries. They both just knew what buttons to press. Rightfully so, after all, they were the oldest sons of the oldest son, which made them "Gods" in the Philippines. They not only had their wives and children to take care of, but also their siblings and extended family.  As good sons, they took their responsibilities seriously.

That's why my father bought a 7-11 for his brother to run. But when our uncle decided to move to California, the burden of running the business fell on my brother. Our parents had put a lot of money in the franchise, my brother quit his job with an investment company where he had to commute to NYC to stay close to home and run the convenient store.

When I got a call from my aunt, who never calls me, I knew something terrible happened. "Is it dad?" I asked. He had high-blood pressure, did he have a stroke? "Just come home, Cecile," my aunt pleaded. "Your father said to come home. We will tell you when you get here." So, it wasn't dad."Is it Ron? Something happened to Ron?" silence.

And that's when I knew.

On Ron's last night, our parents got a call from the police that there was a fire at the 7-11.

It was a slow night. The roads were bad, so not many people were out. Ron had sent his employees home to be safe. He was alone for a short time.

There was a sign on the window. The police wanted to know if this was his handwriting. They asked if he was depressed. They questioned whether or not he may have taken his own life.

That last night, even though I was eight months pregnant, I was out late with Peter and his brother seeing someone we knew perform at LaMaMa. As my brother struggled, was shot, died, the vault burgled, and the storefront set on fire, I was out at a late night dinner with friends in the East Village. Only after our parents had been notified and the fire put out did anyone call me. They waited until the morning even though they all panicked and were frantically trying to tell the firemen to keep looking, Ron was in the building; he could be hurt; he may need help; but they said no. There was no one there. He was already dead. He was under debris. It would be hours after the fire was put out before they found his body. Hours, while my parents and his wife prayed for the best.

Ron and I have a special bond. Why didn't I know? How could I go about my life, chatting with people, clapping at performances, making dinner conversation, and then going home, falling peacefully asleep until the phone rang at six or seven am? How could I not know that this was my brother's last night?

My first reaction when someone mentioned suicide was, "No! No, Ron would never leave me!" And then because I was married and starting my own family, my mind questioned if he thought I didn't need him anymore, that I had abandoned him. But no, he had the love of his life, he had his young son to live for. No, he was murdered. Logically, I knew he hadn't abandoned me, the reality was, he was taken from us.

Logic has little to do with feelings, though, right? And once again, I had been abandoned. And this time, I was abandoned by the only person in my life that I ever truly trusted. I was all alone in the world. With him gone, how do I go on living?

Macallan came early. My body went into survival mode and was rejecting the pregnancy. My organs began failing. The baby had to come out.

As is Filipino tradition, you give the initials of someone you admire to your children to honor them. With our daughter, we gave her Ron's initials, Ria Macallan Durkin, RMD. Our son was named after him, Ronald Markham Durkin. And even though Ron died 25 years ago, they know him, they love him, they will never forget him.

There was a time after he died when his presence was felt by his wife, his son, our mother, aunt, and me. We all have unexplained instances where Ron came to us. A picture of him on his son's nightstand was filled with water. When the frame was picked up, the water poured out but left the picture unharmed. Our aunt had someone playfully tap her on the shoulder but no one was in the room...to mention a few.

For me, at a meditation group I attended, Ron appeared to everyone there. To this day, I believe the friend who brought me to this mediation was only my friend because her brother needed to show my brother how to cross over. After that day, I rarely felt his presence, but of course, I thought of him and missed him. Still do.

So, last night, when I was sitting at a table across from my brother, I could feel him with me once again. He was wearing a cotton striped shirt that I must have a picture of him wearing somewhere in a photo album. He was good humored and caring, I recall. We had a back and forth interchange, something that didn't happen often when he was still alive. I usually just nodded or said, "Yeah. OK."

Last night, I knew he was dead. As I spoke to him, I knew he had passed away a long time ago. I looked into his eyes. I watched his hands and made note of his hand gestures. I studied his expressions. I knew I'd awake and he wouldn't be with me any longer. I knew once I woke up, I'd again be alone.

I am remembering the "dream" and I am crying. I want to hug him. I want to tell him all of the things I was never able to tell him. How I felt safe knowing he was watching out for me. That I was sorry that he retained the hurt of being abandoned his entire life. If only he knew how proud our father really was of him and that he always loved him. He had always love him.

But as I recall last night, I think he knew that. I believe the calm, gentle, caring brother I saw last night knew these things I only started to put words to as I write this blog. Yes. I think that' s true. I think he now knows.

It has taken me until this year to realize that I wasn't really abandoned. That our parents never rejected us, that we were not unloved nor are we unloveable. After all, isn't my memoir about taking those feelings of abandonment and now living with abandon?

And that is what the guy sitting across from me at the table was saying to me last night. He is at peace. He understands his relationship with our father. He appreciates our time together. And he doesn't feel like a victim. And I think that's what he wanted me to know.

On his 25th death anniversary, now, I do too.

For Thanksgiving, the 10 Things I Learned From My Mom

Thanks to my mom, I learned these important lessons (in no particular order):

1.) On Cooking - When cooking, mom would make sure each and everything she chopped or cut was the same size and shape. She said it was important that it not only taste good but look good too. 

Even at 85, she painstakingly chops carrots into perfect slivers. She does. I don't. Who has time for that? 

2.) On Looks - When I was in Junior High School, I suffered from eczema. I was covered in welts that I would scratch that would leave scars all over my body. "Who will love you?"my mom asked me as she applied cortisone cream. The eczema wasn't the only reason she said this, I was never considered the "pretty one" so I resorted to being useful, agreeable and personable. It works, even today. 

3.) On Bad Behavior - Back in the '70's, not every car had air-conditioning so as we drove to Florida from New Jersey, we had all of the windows rolled down. Mom wore a handkerchief to keep her hair from blowing around too much. My brother made a comment about it and uncharacteristically playful, I grabbed it from her head and he and I proceeded to toss it back and forth. It was all great fun until the handkerchief blew out the window, never to be seen again. The entire car fell silent. Even our dad was dumbfounded. Mom never brought it up again, which made me that much sorrier. I never did that to her or anyone else again. I learned to keep my hands to myself. 

4.) On Shopping - With four kids, our mom would choose one of us at a time to go shopping with her. She didn't drive at the time so we would take the bus into Manhattan or "downtown" Perth Amboy. Whichever one of us she chose that day would feel so privileged, I guess, forgetting the tantrum and the tears from the last shopping excursion since the trips always resulted in one or both. 

     We kids often forgot that mom ruled during our shopping trips. She determined who would go, when we left, where we would shop, what we could buy, where, what and when we would eat and at the end of the day, what we would have to lug home. I remember getting in so much trouble for dragging a bag with a blanket on the ground behind me for blocks. I honestly couldn't lift it since I was so only 6, short and the package so big and bulky, but mom thought I was pouting because she didn't let me get the toy I wanted. Shopping has always been 2/3 excitement and 1/3 regret after each and every purchase. Gee, maybe I should see a therapist about that one!

5.) On Food - Growing up in the Philippines during WWII, she learned that food was scarce and to be thankful. She had to live with relatives in the countryside where they cherished finding an egg, lived through harrowing experiences like hiding from the Japanese, and miss their parents wondering when life would return to normalcy. Mom taught me to not only appreciate the life we had in the USA with a father who was a doctor and could afford us luxuries. Still, I knew her pain and I showed my appreciation by eating everything she gave me...to excess. I inherited her food insecurity and as a result, ate my way fear away. Ah, life of a fat girl burdened with my mom and my abandonment issues.

6.) On Birthdays - For our birthdays, my mom would start preparing and cooking weeks in advance. We had elaborate parties and invited close and distant relatives and friends. I did the same for my children, so much so that my daughter in junior high school finally asked that we not have a theme, "Can I just have a normal birthday party like every body else?"

7.) On Men - When my father was offered a residency in the USA, he took the opportunity, and my mother accompanied him. She left us in the Philippines with our grandparents and aunt. What was supposed to last a few weeks, turned into a year apart. That separation would result in abandonment issues for me and my siblings. I'm sure, it affected my mom as well. She would tell me that no matter where my husband wanted to move, I must go with him. As a result, we moved to Florida, to the suburbs of NYC, to Africa, and now to St. Croix. Men can't be trusted was the implication. The only move I didn't make with Peter was to Turkey and England, but then, I wasn't sure I wanted him. The implication being, if you want to stay with him, you'll follow him no matter where he goes. And so I live in St.Croix.

8.) On Housework - Even as young as seven, I was washing dishes, learning to clean, to cook. I made my bed, did the laundry, you name it, I did it. My mom was not so "lucky". When she got married, she had no idea how to do these basic tasks. She didn't know how to run a household. Because she had maids in the Philippines, she was lost when she got to the United States and had a house full of kids and a Filipino husband to take care of. She didn't want the same fate for me. So, she insisted I learn to be a housewife. My sister, a few years younger, was not so "lucky". Maybe my mom had had enough of the good life my father could now give us as a doctor in the USA and she didn't want to do it anymore. Maybe she thought since my sister was the pretty one, she didn't need skills to land her a man. Maybe she knew something I wouldn't admit to myself until later. I was good at it. I was good at cleaning, at cooking, at managing a house. I would take the lessons she gave me and make them my own. These tasks, attention to detail, care were what made a house a home. I learned that from her. Not at the time. I cursed her with my back talk, I slogged around and moped, but later, much later, I took her example to heart and I did the same for my family. Each carefully prepared meal, each welcomed stranger, every polished silver tray said, I care. I do this too, not to her extent, but I do it in my own way and I know my husband and kids are grateful.


9.) On Love - When my mom was growing up, her parents were not demonstrative. They were strict and cold. When I was growing up, my mom allowed us to kiss her hello, good night, thank you. She didn't really kiss us, though, but she showed she cared in other ways. She made us our favorite meals. She bought us matching dresses. I remember I was home from school because I was sick and she entertained me by encouraging me to write to my grandparents, even though I was too young to know how to write or to read. I would scroll on a piece of paper and show her what I'd "written". She'd read it outloud. Wow, I thought, I'm so good at this. I did it over and over until she shrieked at me to stop! She had so much to do and the letter writing wasn't occupying enough of my time to allow her to do what she needed to do. I slunk away and played on my own after that, but I did learn that moms could be fun until you pushed her too far.
My mom, my kids' Lola (or grandma) or as they call her, Mae, is not so demonstrative toward her grandkids either. But, she wants to show her love by bribing them to come see her, offering to make them their favorite foods. In Filipino culture, food is love. (Again, said the fat girl.)

It's Thanksgiving 2019 and my mom is 85 or is she 86? I am thankful she's still around to celebrate these holidays with us. She's not hosting them anymore. She isn't even cooking a dish to bring, although she does instruct us to buy poor fascimiles of her handmade dishes like puto, lumpia, empanadas or this year, sho pow (sp?).

At Anne's house, she sits quietly, for the most part. If you do talk to her, you will have to repeat yourself several times, not because she can't hear, but because she doesn't know you're talking to her. She may even fall asleep at some point and I watch her to make sure she doesn't fall out of her chair.

I think of my father and how he reaped the benefits of my mother's hostessing skills for the years they were married. How he loved to bring large groups together and took pride in her mastery of traditional Filipino dishes. She could not have known she'd one day build a custom home that spanned more than 5,000 square feet, when she hid under floorboards, silencing her baby sisters, while the Japanese soldiers ravished their uncle's farm. My father and mother could not have known that she'd have to live more than 20 years without him, nor would they have known they would outlive their eldest son.

Thanksgiving for us is always with my sister-in-law and nephew. It's something we make every effort to do well after my brother died nearly 25 years ago. His son established the tradition of hosting Thanksgiving, I'm not sure how many years ago, but it was this year that I realized something. After Calvin lost his father when he was only 3, he insists on celebrating Thanksgiving. He still wants to give thanks.

And that's something else my mom has taught me. After all of these years, all of the hardships, the loss, the pain, the sorrow, she is still here for us. After leaving her toddlers to be with her husband, she remains here with us. He had gone 20 years ago, but she is still here...She has not abandoned us. She never wanted to leave us. She had not abandoned us. I need to say that outloud to truly understand.

And here she is. She's still with us...And for that, I'm so very grateful.