Birthday Presence: Time is a Gift

I'm funny about my birthday. My mom would create these extravagant get-togethers where she cooked for days and invited absolutely EVERYBODY they knew. Only, it wasn't so happy. She would fly into a rage if we didn't help her straighten up the house or the cooking wasn't going as planned or someone did something to irk her. We were all on pins and needles during these Birthday Celebrations. 

And what's funny, I did the same thing to my family. One year, Macallan said, "Can we not have a theme and make a big deal?" So, I stopped. She didn't need or want that show, that shit show...so I stopped. 

One year, for my birthday, Peter got us a room at the Ritz and I cried. Why? Because I wanted to take a writing class. He said I could still take the writing class, but all I felt was that he hadn't heard me or cared about what I really wanted on my birthday. 

Seemed, every year he would make me cry. Even last year when he asked where in the world I wanted to go, and I told him the Galapagos. So, he booked us a trip. And as I looked at the itinerary, I asked, "What am I supposed to do while you guys go snorkeling?"

I wound up snorkeling and loving it. The best trip, let alone, the best birthday I could ever ask for! I cried, not because the day was a disappointment, but because it was a spectacular day in a precious location with people I loved...and I felt blessed. 

That was last year, my 60th birthday, and I will never forget it. What's most poignant is that Ecuador is in civil unrest, violence plagues the country. This would have been a terrible year to go. Good thing we went last year. And that goes to show me...

Shouldn't every year be a blessing? Why does it have to be a huge gesture? Shouldn't you be thankful to see another year, to age, to be with those you love? When will we realize that Time is a gift. Right now is a celebration. 

So, that's the takeaway. This year, this birthday, this moment in time...that's what today is about. Sure, 61 years ago today, I was born...but why only throw a party, expect presents, be toasted only on this one day? Why look for acknowledgment of your existence only today? 

I have this thing where I am so hurt because Peter doesn't take my picture. "I don't exist." I tell him. "I made this happen (whatever it may be...lunch with friends, vacation with family, a trip to the Galapagos) but there are no pictures of me holding the puppies, opening presents, toasting our anniversary." It's like I'm not there. 

That's my abandonment rearing its ugly head. I don't matter, it tells me. I'm not wanted it, it screams. No one loves me, I wail. 

Surrounded by dogs that show me love every moment of every day, how can I question that I'm lovable? By questioning whether Peter loves me or not as he picks up puppy poop for the 20th time before noon, is ridiculous. Of course he loves me!

But unable to sit and quiet my brain lately, I asked him to show me. "Show me you love me." I said. "I'll be really bummed on my birthday if it's just another day." 

And what did he do? He made the coffee (something I do every day) and brought me a banana muffin with a candle to start the day. And you know what? He took a picture of me blowing out the candle! 

Then, he let the dogs out. He brought them back in. He picked up the puppy poop. He mopped up the puppy pee. 

Does he do this other days? Sure. But today, he wanted me to know that he heard me when I said I want to feel special. So, he is going above and beyond to show me he cares. 

Maybe I won't need that reassurance next year, or maybe I'll need it even more...but this year, today, he heard me and so far, I've had an extra special day. 

Thanks, Peter. This presence is the best present I could ever ask for. 

Lessons in Bravery from a Scaredy Kat

I woke up to a sunny day. It's been raining on and off for three days, which I love, but quite honestly, I've missed the sun. No, can't look at it that way because in reality, this is perfect. This way the plants are sufficiently watered and now the sun can give them the energy to grow. 

I jumped out of bed to let Katness, our foster dog who is not housebroken, outside. If I can get her out as soon as she starts to stir, she will most likely pee and possibly poop outside instead of in. I beat her to the front door even though I notice she's pronging like a pronghorn, springing up as she propels herself forward towards the door. I had not seen her do that before. What a lovely sight! The sunshine must be intoxicating for the dogs who have been cooped up and now can freely run. 

The other four dogs make their way outside as well. There's the usual cluster as they cram their way through the door. It's all friendly bumping and growling. They always make me laugh, their personalities coming through as each of them slides past me to the patio and beyond. 

Then, there's Dorothy, the Queen, taking her own sweet time, I rush her only because the mosquitoes make their way into the house the longer I keep the door ajar. 'OK, OK,' she tells me as she picks up her pace. She gives me a look like, 'You know, I just woke up!' and 'You know, I have short legs.' With a side-eye she says, 'I'm going. I'm going!'

With all six dogs outside, I go into the kitchen to make coffee. Peter is still in bed. I tidy the kitchen, putting away dishes I've left on the drying rack, and wait for the coffee maker to finish brewing. As it does, I prepare our coffee, scooping the mixture of coconut, cane and white sugar into the mugs. We like our coffee medium-light and sweet. I take the tin cup out of the freezer and fill it 1/4 of the way up with half and half. I pour the fair trade dark roast into the mugs, stir, and start to froth the cream. I top each mug with a healthy dollop of fluffy white milky goodness and even before giving Peter his cup, I put some in each of the dogs' dishes. They like frothed milk too. (Don't you judge me, they've had hard lives, I give them little things like this to bring them joy.)

Peter is awake and scrolling through his phone. He thanks me and gives me a kiss. I let the dogs in and they race to their dishes knowing I've given them their morning "Joe" too. We have various dogs greet us with morning kisses before Peter and I start our day. . . the dogs start to lick our faces telling me they're hungry for breakfast so either Peter or I will dole-out their morning meal. 

This is typically how my day goes. I will most likely go check out our yard, taking pics of new growth or flowers. I post them if there has been rain. I create content for my many FB and IG accounts. I like sharing my day. From the comments, my Social Media "Friends" seem to enjoy seeing what I post. I don't post to get likes, although it's nice to see my views, interests, ideas validated. I don't post to make anyone jealous, I'm 60. I think those "influencers" who do crazy things and brag about it are much younger than my children, even! I post to keep connected with friends, to share my current state of affairs, to help support an org., a business, to help someone find a missing dog, to help show someone how to get involved, and sometimes, no, many times, I post to right a wrong. 

Because, you know what? Sometimes life is not all about orchids blooming, well-behaved dogs, our beautiful children, or helping your aging parents. Sometimes people fail you, folks misunderstand, and you shamefully overreact when your 88-year-old mom keeps repeating herself, not because she's elderly, but because she's stubborn. Sometimes you post the positive reaction you should have expressed to a crappy situation not because you are deceiving your followers but because that's how you would have "liked" for it to go down. Posting about it in retrospect gives you another chance to see the problem and learn from it. Maybe, you even get some closure and can move on. 

I guess what I'm saying is that I need to write. What I need to write about is my life, my world. Like my social media posts, I want to share my thoughts, what goes on in my life and my views on what's happening. But mostly, I'm going to be writing from a perspective that brings positivity to my life and the world. I'm not sugar-coating, bragging, or aggrandizing anything. What I want to do is express how I feel and try to bring an uplifting message that will inspire someone to do something, see something in a more hopeful light, spread happiness and joy. 

There's so much hurt all around us. I hurt. I have hurt others. I want to stop hurting. I want to heal. 

I have these dogs who Peter and I are helping to heal. They were traumatized by hurricanes, have been left to fend for themselves in the bush, were tied up, given little food, kept for breeding, dumped because they are unwanted, beat, and one most likely because she has such a sweet disposition, she was used as bait for dog fighting. Over the years living on St. Croix, we've fostered and adopted at least 100 dogs. Some we've spent years providing love and affection to in order to give them enough security to live whole-lives. 

Most recently, our foster dog, Katniss Everdeen has exhibited a profound change. She has come out of her shell. She has shown us that she trusts us, that she feels secure enough to risk being rejected by us, being attacked by our other dogs, and just today, she zoomed three times in a row because she could actually go outside and not fear the wind; the sound of a leaf being blown across the driveway; me as I raised my hand, not to hit her, but simply to brush back a stray lock of hair. Today, this usually terrified dog brushed by me as I picked up a mop to clean up her pee! And she had no fear. 

This girl has learned trust, security, affection and love. If Kat, our scardy-cat, can do it, why can't we? 

Every Day with Peter

 

It's our 36th anniversary this year. And we didn't go anywhere. We usually mark it with a trip somewhere we've never been, a special gift, something to commemorate another year together. 

This year, we have 10 dogs we're caring for. It's kind of hard to impose their care on someone. Two are puppies, they're pretty easy but messy since they're not house broken (yet). Two are adult feral siblings who won't let us touch them (yet) even though we've been feeding them for over six months and they've been living with us for two. Then there are "our" dogs - Dorothy, Pearl, long-term foster Bitchy (hahaha, Itsy) and Oh!. Plus, we've recently re-acquired our dogs from NY, Westley and Maverick. 

This is all a very long-winded way of saying, Peter and my life is not our life alone. We have many depending on us and so, here we are, on St. Croix spending our anniversary in a pretty mundane fashion because basically, we have dogs. 

And this is what I want to say about this life Peter and I find ourselves living. 

We never thought, dreamed, wished, desired to live on this 

Caribbean island. As matter-of-fact, we had visited St. John some 10 years ago with the kids. A vacation during Spring Break, on an island we'd never been before. I nearly died there. I was snorkeling and wound up far from Peter and the kids and very far from shore. I am not a strong swimmer and though I had snorkel gear, I struggled to get back to the beach. I pictured myself dying, drowning and the only reason I made it to shore was I didn't want to spoil my kids' vacation (Imagine! How did you spend your spring break, Macallan? Oh, my mom ruined a perfectly good trip by going ahead and drowning. [major eye roll]). Nope. I wasn't going to do that!

I often say, "Oh! I could live here!" but not here. Not once the entire time we were on St. John. 

But here we are, in the Caribbean. 

Generally, I get up around 5:45am to let the dogs out. There are so many of them, and thankfully, our NY dogs and island dogs get along well enough, but we have had to separate Itsy since she preys, stalks, terrorizes our 12-year-old blind, deaf, English Setter whose legs give out from under him. So, Itsy stays in the laundry room and is let out on her own. Then, we put all of those dogs in various locations and feed them breakfast. No easy task, let me tell you. The puppies try to eat the big dogs' food, Oh! tries to eat the big dogs' food and the big dogs never want to eat from their designated dishes which causes a half-hearted fight to ensue over who gets what, where. So, we separate them. Fun, fun!

Then while the upstairs dogs are sequestered, the downstairs dogs come out. I like to walk the yard with them. I even let the puppies out since the group sort of know each other since they come from the same abandoned property. Actually, we think one of the pups HAS to be Hyatt's baby, they are so much alike. 

Hyatt and Radisson make their way to the porch where I get them to come closer and closer to me as I give them treats. Lately, I've been able to stroke Hyatt's paws and he hasn't pulled away. One day, I'll have them crawling onto my lap as I rub their ears and scratch their heads. I say by Thanksgiving. By then, maybe we'll even get them to walk on a leash. Oh, OK. That's more like Christmas!

After I've been sufficiently eaten alive by no-seeums and mosquitoes, they follow me downstair to have their breakfast. Each time, Radisson does flips and spins, always so happy to be fed. Hyatt sometimes whines when I take too long. Sorry, Hyatt. I have to dole-out the canned food so it's evenly distributed in their dish so they won't just eat the wet but also all of the dry. Otherwise, the rats, cockeroaches or ants get it. Gross!

Then, I putter around with my many plants. I have never had so many in my life. But because it's so easy to grow anything, I've delved into orchids, ferns, bromeliads, cactus and succulents, to name a few...I have covered our inside and outside with plants in ceramic pots, that I'm proud to say, most I've made! 

Peter not only encourages my pup, plant and pottery obsessions, he contributes to them. There's no way I would have been able to trap the dogs we've captured. Many of whom, he wound up cleaning up after, because as he says, "I know you don't like to." He has never complained of the medical bills we incurr not only for the dogs we call family, but dogs we foster, and some dogs we have never even met but were told need medical attention. We have had some heated discussions about dogs we wound up keeping (our foster fails), not because he didn't love them but he fought to give them better homes than we could provide. 

Suffice it to say, this life we are living here on this Caribbean island, isn't the life either of us thought we'd have. He rarely fishes, although he could. I rarely write, although I should. 

We have a handful of places to buy take-out or go out to eat, whereas in NY, we often drove an hour to get a good cocktail or try a new restaurant. Here, we know what we like and we go there. But mostly, we love being home. 

He spends the day in the office, working. But between tasks, he can help me get our barking coonhound inside. He can run out to grab us lunch that we eat at our tiny dining room table, often sharing one lunch plate between us. He knows I love the batter-dipped cauliflower, and not the lentil cakes, so he eats those and leaves the cauliflower to me. He's there to run to the post office and if there's time, drop food off for the stray dogs we feed. But mostly, he's not far from me and before each meeting (and it's surprising how many he has!) he is close enough to give me a kiss before the meeting starts. Every time. All day long. And it's something he established and I love that he does. 

Then because our vegan lunch or Puerto Rican platter was so good and so

filling, we forage for dinner. He puts together a cheese board, I make popcorn. We stream something on TV as the dogs surround us on the couch. 

Sometimes we find a series we both like. Sometimes I don't really care and he watches some violent show with very little plot and I avert my eyes as I post on FB or shop online as I sit two dogs away. 

Sometimes, we find a show that is really good with excellent dialogue, even if it's not English, and I shush him because even after 38 years together, he forgets I don't like when he talks when they talk. "Why do you get to talk?" he has been known to say. "Because I know when it's an important dialogue and when it's a car scene and we don't need to hear the tires squealing." "Oh." he says. And nowadays, that's that. 

We go to bed by 11, but first, the perfunctory ceremony of Letting the Dogs Out...which undoubtedly ends up with the puppies being wired and rambunctious, not wanting to sleep; and Maverick, the 12-year-old, whining to sleep in our bedroom even though he's not supposed to. Some nights Peter persists. "No. Go to bed, Maverick." he scolds. Other nights. like last night, I prevail, "Oh for godssake, Peter. He's scared and lonely! Just let him in our room!" and he does. 

Some nights, we all sleep peacefully. Other nights, it's every hour on the hour, we have to quiet a dog howling, search what door is squeaking, or mop up around the over flowing basin because our roof leaks when rain beat down on us.

Except for the excitement of a snake sighting, a potential hurricane making landfall, a dog, usually Pearl, making her way out of our $12,000 fenced in yard only to wind up standing at our front gate, we lead a very boring, predictable, easy-going life. 

We never thought we'd live here on St. Croix. We never thought we'd like it. We never thought we'd have a bunch of dogs. We never thought we'd love having them. We never thought we'd live in a tropical climate and not in a place with four seasons. We never thought the highlight of the day would be a perfectly ripe avocado spread smoothly or evenly on homemade bread. We never thought we'd have orchids growing on our palm trees and celebrate each time they bloomed. We never thought we'd have a life where we were free of distractions and could give ourselves to our unrealized delights. We honestly never thought we'd be able to trust each other enough to enjoy each other's company so unabashedly. 

We have been together for 38 years and instead of growing bored, we've actually grown more excited by the dull little puppy-ful, plant-filled, pottery-aplenty life we're living. 

How did this happen? How did we get here? I'd ask where we're going, but I know that answer. 

For now, we're going to stick to this routine. It's working. 

No fancy getaway. No elaborate gesture. Just the every day. Everyday. Just like today, with Peter, my pups, my plants and my pottery. What more could I ask for? 

Peter Pan at 61

When I met Peter, he had just graduated from Villanova and was waiting for his Peace Corps assignment. It was taking a long time, so he booked a flight to Alaska with the plans to become a fishing guide. 

I never met anyone like him. An outdoorsman, a humanitarian (or so I thought), and an adventurer. Growing up in Poughkeepsie, NY, with conservative IBMers, I knew little about the world. In case you didn't know, IBM created suburbs where their families were insulated from just about everyone BUT "beamers". 

But my dad was a doctor and we were Asian, so we never really did belong. When I met Peter, who was a loner forging his life on his own terms, I was intrigued. 

We had the best relationship I could have ever hoped for because from the beginning, whether he went off to Alaska or Africa, as he'd hoped, he was never going to stay. I didn't have to fear I'd do something to push him away, because staying just wasn't an option. 

Even though he did wind up canceling his trip to Alaska, opting to stay with me in New Jersey until the Peace Corps finally did come through. But when it did, he did leave, as promised. 

As he said good bye to his mother, instead of saying he'd return safe and sound he said, "I’m going to hunt lion." which caused her to cry all the more. Who does that? Peter does. That's the kind of guy he was and at times still is. 

Twenty years later, he moved me and our two young children back to Botswana to run a game reserve. It didn't just fall in his lap. No. He searched www.findajobinafrica.com for years, never once told me, then one day asks me to sit down so he could drop the bomb on me. Who does that? Peter does. 

While we were there at the game reserve, he got a call from our babysitter. Ofentse said, "Mr. Peter, there's a cobra in the rabbit hutch and Macallan won't stay away. She wants to save the babies." He got off the phone, turned to me and calmly said, "I'll be right back." Off he went. 

I would find out later how the maintenance and housekeeping crews were all there watching the cobra swallowing the baby bunnies as Macallan looked on. Peter found a forked stick and as he stood in front of the cobra, it began to regurgitate the babies. One, Two, Three...there Peter stood frozen. Four, Five, Six...Peter stared on. After the Eighth one, the last one, the Cobra was empty. Instead of Peter trapping it with the stick, he still stood staring in awe at the "primordial" sight (his words) he had just beheld! Staring in awe, that is, until the cobra rose up, flared out, and was ready to strike. "Oh shit!" Peter finally said as he proceeded to go into action. Man, if it were me, I would have run screaming from that cobra as soon as I saw it. I would be of no help whatsoever. 

As a matter of fact, there was a Boomslang in our yard another time. Peter went to get it but it slithered through a fence and was making its way to our home. Peter said, "Keep an eye on it." as he ran around the fence. But no sooner was he gone when that damned snake also disappeared. "Where is it?" he asked when he finally got around the enclosure. "I don't know. It was right there one minute and gone the next." I said. He did eventually find it. Again, the maintenance crew stood vigil. "Are you afraid, Mr. Peter?" someone shouted to him from a healthy distance. "Fuck yeah." he responded, but that never stops him.

I have a book-full of Crocodile Dundee/Steve Irwin-type stories with crazy stuff Peter has done...enough to fill a my memoir and more, I assure you, and that's just with things I laid witness to; trapping an escaped crocodile on Father's Day; being charged by an elephant matriarch protecting her herd; hunting with the Bushmen.

Oh, the things I've experienced with him...Driving to a Lion Research facility in the middle of the middle of nowhere, where we drove through a huge puddle that engulfed our Land Rover. The water came over the engine and into through the vents, mud everywhere. We looked at each other and crossed our fingers, hoping the motor didn't seize because who knew when someone would find us. Coasting for miles along a deserted roadway, hoping we make it to a gas station...at one point, Peter mutters under his breath, something like, ‘You know, if we do make it to the gas station, I sure hope it's still open.’ Ugh! And one time, as he lead a three-day salt pans endurance trek, all of the support vehicles got stuck in mud but we needed to be 50 kilometers away and have the camp set up before the 65 trekkers arrived! Wasn’t happening. 

Adventuresome was an understatement. His jobs pretty much say it all. He flew falcons at JFK airport to rid the runways of geese. He (we) ran a game reserve in the capitol of Botswana. He volunteered with his engineering firm to inspect the structural integrity of the roads after 911. He helped with Hurricane Sandy Recovery. And most recently, mitigates for the US Virgin Islands territory after the two Category 5 Hurricanes in 2017. Who does that? Peter. Peter does that. 

. . .

On his 61st birthday, he seems to have matured a lot. Just yesterday, he took me the scenic way home. A rough and ready road that has gotten overgrown in the year since we last traversed it. He did say, “I'm not sure this is the road I wanted to go on, but it's pretty, right? Let's keep going.” And then he stopped. Not because I said, "Can you stop?" so that I could videotape butterflies flitting about; or take a pic of a flower blooming on a vine; or some plant I planned to google once we had internet again. He stopped and said, "Hmmmm..." and then he got out. "What are you doing?" I asked. "I just want to see..." his voice trailed off as he slowly walked away from the truck. 

There was pink tape strung up to our left. As I craned my neck to I looked over the hood of the Tacoma, I saw that the grass fell away, exposing deep dips that we would most likely bottom out trying to go over, nevermind the rock face to the right and the washed-out path to the left. The "road" was not wide enough for us unless we tried to go forward at a 90 degree angle. No thanks. 

He got back in. "What’s going on?" I asked. "It's probably do-able." he said as my eyes bugged out and I got ready to object. "But it's not worth the risk." he responded as he put the truck in reverse. 

And that's the difference between the guy I met who never thought he'd see 30, and this guy I've been married to for over 35 years. 

During one tense/intense "adventure", Peter turned to me to say, "I'm here to protect you. Nothing bad can happen to you. Not on my watch." he said. But, as I once again stood clinging for my life, I said to myself, "But who will protect me from you?" 

. . .

Nowadays, I need not fear that. 

Decisions he'd made where I thought he was careless has lessened over the years. But, thankfully, the boy who wanted to go to Africa, isn't afraid to reach under rocks or go 65 mph down a snowy slope is still there. He makes my life more exciting, and for that, I'm grateful. 

They say, Peter Pan never grows up. I don't know. Maybe he does, and because he does, he gets to do all those fun things for many more years and shares them with his wife and kids, enhancing not only his life but theirs as well. 

. . .

Happy Birthday, Pete! Our world has certainly been more exciting with you in it! To many, many, more! 

Unwanted Redefined

It's so quiet in the house these days. The last of our foster puppies, Half-Pint left on an escorted flight to LaGuardia to meet his adoptive family five days ago. Five days. Seems like he has been gone much longer, a month, six? We fostered him and his brother, we named Growler. Growler was neutered and remained at the rescue until they both flew off-island. It was time, I guess. After all they'd lived with us for nearly 2 months. 

. . .

We have had an influx of rescued dogs and puppies over the past 3 years. At first, it was an adult dog, the first one we fostered, and she was a foster fail. Dorothy and her sad, scared-self stole our hearts. After that, there were fosters here and there. Now, we've had at least 60 dogs go through our home, most onto forever families, a few died from malnutrition, one ran away and got hit by a cab, another had to be euthanized, and one of the latest puppies died of Parvo, he was too weak to fight the infection. 

     One of the first foster puppies we had was an adorable short-legged tiny pup that I renamed Jackson. He's dad was a Jack Russel so the name fit. He was so sweet that he would whine and ask to be picked up. As soon as I did, he'd fall fast asleep. As he grew, I had to use both hands and then my lap so that he would nap. It just warmed my heart. 

     Some of the dogs, like JoJo Rabbit, a spunky, sweet, independent husky mix we will always miss. But he was promised to a Veterinarian and we could never adopt him. He's in a good home. No need to mourn him. 

     Another dog was shaped like an avocado. She was the runt of a litter of three. Her Big Brother was tall and handsome, smart and confident. Her Big Sister was beautiful and mischievous, a bit sneaky, stealing food when your back was turned. But the smallest one, the one we called Sierra, was shy, sickly, misshapened, and a thief! Unlike her sister who stole food, she stole my heart. While her siblings ran and jumped and played, she would quietly find me, pick a spot close to my feet and lay there, sleeping, snoring, and sometimes wheezing. She would look up at me with her cliche puppy-dog eyes and I would pick her up. Oh the joy she got from being held! It was palpable. I returned her and her pack to the animal shelter when their time was due, but I didn't want to. We found out that they all were adopted quickly. I believe she is still on-island, so one day, I might just see her again. I hope to, anyway. 

. . . 

Half-Pint and Growler (Not their shelter names) came to us after the shelter coordinator asked that we foster until the shelter could open up again. They had a bout of Parvo, that killed one of the dogs we brought to them after rescuing their mom and siblings. Still stinging from tiny Bunny's death, we said yes. 

     The two boys were  about two weeks old. They were small, even for their age and I think they'll stay small. They were part of a litter of six who were found under someone's house and surrendered to the shelter. Because they were with their mother previously, they were pretty healthy, confident and friendly. We liked them both right from the start. Each had their own personality, and both extremely sweet. Of all of the dogs we've fostered, these two never got into any mischief, actually stopped doing whatever they were told to stop doing and learned quickly not to do it again. That's pretty remarkable! 

     They knew instinctively to go to the bathroom away from where they slept, so their kennel was always dry. They had no food aggression. And genuinely loved each other, would sleep on top of each other, and share their food and toys amiably. 

     Growler, the bigger (only slightly) of the two, had longer legs and would throw himself into the thick of things. When our big dogs would run, play, battle each other, Growler was right there. But, the sign of a truly intelligent dog is that while he was near the big dogs, when things got too rough, too loud, too fast, he would duck down and let the commotion pass over him before he got hurt. He knew to hide also and somehow, knew when the coast was clear. Such a smart boy. 

     Half-Pint wasn't as daring. He hung back, often running to find me if the other dogs got to be too rough. He also often asked to be picked up, getting tired running on the beach or wanting a pillow instead of the tile floor to take a nap. Oh yes, I spoiled him early on. I would lift him up onto our bed, he would climb to the top of the highest pillow and there he would sleep, for hours sometimes. One day, the big dogs ran off the Four-Poster bed and asked to go outdoors. I let them out, did a few things in the kitchen and I laughed outloud when I saw Half-Pint spread out in the center of our king-size bed as if he were king of the castle. He was all of 4 lbs, mind you, and only the size of my fist. Adorable. 

     So, when someone I knew asked to adopt him, I was so happy. That's the difference between Half-Pint and the other dogs we have known. Because I knew he would be loved, cared for, have a great life, I didn't get as weepy, sad, or wish I could keep him. I knew there would be nothing to worry about with him. He won't disappoint his new family. They won't have any reason to hit him, scold him, be mad at him or fear him. None. He will be totally adored, as it should be for both humans and pups alike. 

     Same for Growler, when Growler is finally adopted. He will be easy to care for and love. 

. . .

And that's a huge turning-point for me, living with abandonment issues. These were the two puppies I needed right now, after Bunny died. I needed to be able to hand off two rescues who were easy to love. A child of abandonment finally seeing that good things can happen and that there is good in the world. Eh… that's so hokey. 

     What I'm trying to say is that unlike with me, who has this indelible hurt that defines my self-worth as unlovable, I went from feeling how unfair life could be for me and for Bunny, to realizing that life isn’t  always unkind. There are dogs like Half-Pint and Growler who may have been born in unfortunate circumstances, but that doesn't define them. They are happy, healthy, and loving dogs who ANYONE/EVERYONE would love. 

There is that in the world...there is kindness and patience and understanding and love. At least this time, life was fair and love abounds.

. 

Whales, Windows, and the Wish of an abandoned girl fulfilled

     It's whale season, if there is such a season, here on St. Croix. Not so many are seen from the shore, although scuba divers have heard them from far away. But after moving to this house, I have had it in my head that I want to see one, specifically, one breeching as I stand in my home overlooking the sea.  

. . .

     When we found this house, I looked out over the porch that looks out over the Caribbean and I said, "One day, I'm going to see a whale breech right there." I have subsequently said this to visitors. Those whom have lived here for longer than we have, have said, "Whale sightings are fairly rare, you know." And folks just visiting the island have said, "Oh, do you see many whales here?" 

My answer to both is, "I'm going to look out this window and see a whale breeching right there." 

. . .

     We've lived in this house since September 2018 and I have yet to see a whale out our living room window or from any vantage point for that matter, but that doesn't mean for a second I'm going to give up looking.

. . . 

     Two years ago, someone I knew on FB posted that as they sunbathed on Ham's Bluff beach they saw a whale! Without hesitation, I got in my car and drove towards the sighting. Mind you, I can count how many times I've driven here on STX. I have a million excuses why I don't/won't drive, but whales!?! I'm going for it.

I took off down the street, pulled over where I could and stared into the deep blue sea. No, I didn't see a whale, but I had a lovely drive and I vowed I'd do it more often.

. . . 

     Last year, our daughter started dating a guy who has grown up here. He has shown her the island, his island. His home. They live together now and this is the best relationship our daughter's ever had. We approve. 

It so happens his family owns a company that installs windows and doors. On an island that has had several hurricanes destroy it, that's a good business. They were recommended by friends who think very highly of the business and the people who run it. So, once we bought this house, we bought new windows to be installed. 

     The cottage where we live was built in the '80's. It has a great deal of charm but needs a lot of updates. First of all, new windows. The house withstood the two category five hurricanes, Irma and Maria (IrMaria) in 2017, which is why we're here to begin with (Peter mitigates for the territory to FEMA). 

This cottage, tucked in a mountainside was so well-protected, it barely shows any damage from the storms. While there are some spots that leak when it rains, the roof is solid. That said, rain, bugs, lizards and warm winds can and did easily come through the windows because most of them no longer shut. Peter even had to tape some down because the louvers would not lay down and they were stuck in an open position. So, one of the first things we decided to do after our closing was splurge on good windows. 

Many of the older homes, even multi-million dollar vacation homes, don't have air-conditioning. We had units installed in each upstairs room, sharing the cost with the original owners. Because I am so allergic to mosquito and no seeum bites, we kept the windows closed and the a/c on. This is quite extravagant since the electricity here on STX is some of the highest in the country. But, no matter. I got bitten up in the house, many times more than when I'd been outdoors. It's pretty bad if you need to spray DEET on your body just to go to bed. 

Then, there's the Sahara dust! Even when that isn't the problem, our house still would have a thick coating of dust on every square inch of surface, even with our windows "shut"! 

And, let me tell you about the lizards who find their way in but not out. Poor things. So many wound up dying. We'd find their carcasses here and there, because more often than not, we weren't able to catch them and set them free. 

Anyway, I didn't know how long it would take to replace the old with the new windows. Our daughter's boyfriend was the foreman, we trusted him, but I still didn't know what to expect. 

So, after over a year of waiting, when our windows were finally on St. Croix, it was time for us to schedule the work. I wanted to rent a place so that I wouldn't have to be here. The dogs would be barking incessantly. We'd have to walk them on leashes because they may bite a workman. We'd have to get out of the way while they stripped my home of protection, and of course, the openings would allow the mosquitos and no seeums in after I spent the past few years trying to keep them out. 

Let me tell you...the stars literally aligned. 

For days before, during and now after Castle Glassworks started working on our home, the weather was cool and breezy. And while we've had unseasonable rains nearly every day, there have been very few mosquitos. So, even though there were no windows in an opening, there have not been any mosquitos in our house! The breeze is so pleasant, that we haven't needed the A/C on, leaving the windows ajar all day long and throughout the evening. And even with the windows opened, the amount of dust seems to be less than when the old windows were shut and the A/C was running!

Our house looks different. Instead of the traditional paned windows, there is one sheet of unobstructed glass, further enhancing our wonderful views. 

Why am I telling you all of this about a decidedly unsexy bit of construction/renovation?

 
Because like that whale sighting that I know I'm going to experience, that rare, obscure, magical sight that most people wouldn't think to wish for, ask for, believe they'll see?!? I do. I made that wish. And this house, our home, I wished for that as well. 

. . . 

     Out of all of the places Peter and I have visited throughout the world, 98% of the time, I have been known to say, "I could live here." But when our family visited St. John in 2012, 10 years ago, I said to Peter, "I don't ever need to come back." Boy, does the universe fuck with you or what?

I never wanted to visit the USVI again after that trip. I certainly didn't think we'd be living here 10 years later, nor buying a home and looking to stay indefinitely. 

. . .

     Two years ago, we were visiting our family in NY when the pandemic hit. We cut our trip short, flew back to St. Croix, through empty airports, looking out over desolate highways, with a 747 nearly all to ourselves. And we were grateful to be here, where the numbers of positive cases were low and the governor was able to control who came onto the island. Plus, we got the COVID vaccine the first day it was available to the country and traveled only 15 minutes to get it. 

. . .

     For a place I'd never been to, in a region I had no desire to return to, I sure love it here. I have embraced the laidback attitudes, appreciated the beauty of the beaches and the accessibility of the sea. I'm addicted to the flavors of the local produce and the ease with which everything grows. My life here with Peter is simple and yet so complex. And it's due to our home that makes living here so damned extraordinary. How it all came about was serendipity; we found a realtor by accident, she met us and said, "I have just the home for you." And, she was right! This was it. There is no other place but this little yellow and green British Colonial style cottage tucked in the bosom of a mountain, on the edge of the rainforest, high above a bird sanctuary, where my many, too many plantings are now taking over our mature landscaped gardens. 

And because there is only one house here that we would/could call home, I know that when I look out those new windows, and peer at the Caribbean Sea, one day, I'll see the spray of a whale alerting me to pay attention. And just as she is framed between the mahogany tree on the left and Ham's Bluff roadway to the right, she will breech out of the water in a miraculous display. 

That whale breeching will have fulfilled my wish. She will have confirmed my belief that this is home, that I'm meant to be here, that I have been blessed...and I will be grateful. 

Acacia Abandoned

Gotta love a guy who says, "Want to pull into the dump to see if we can find Momma Dog?" 

So, we pull in and there were people, mostly women, scavenging for usable things. As I left our car and walked towards the bush, there was a rustling in the bushes. The women started shouting. "Watch out! Watch out! She's going to bite you!" They screamed and scattered. 

I have a slow reaction time. It will bite me in the ass one day, but not today. 

Acacia came at me.

A dog came rushing at me. I was holding a tray of freshly cooked bacon, after all. That was the plan, to attract the momma dog we met several weeks before. We were able to capture two of her puppies and I worried about her and the rest of the litter. The ideal situation would be to catch momma, get her fixed, taken care of and adopted so she didn't have to live wild. We thought, she's friendly, even eating out of my hand, she'll just come with us, but she didn't trust us. She wasn't ready. 

As I stood on the edge of the bush, a dog came at me. Maybe she wanted to startle me into dropping the bacon. Or maybe she was so hungry she wanted to beat the other stray dogs to the food. Or, she was excited that someone was there who could save her. I wonder how she could have assessed me so quickly. 'She's a chicken and will drop the food if I scare her, ' this dog said to herself. Or, 'Food! I want food. I know that smell, Bacon!' From her vigorously wagging tail, 'Hi, hi, hi! I'm here! I'm ready for you to take me home! I don't want to be here a minute longer!' Or most likely, 'Please help me! I've got puppies and I'm really hungry!'

Collected 5 puppies from under
an Acacia tree

Whatever her reasons, I gave her the bacon and that was that. Unlike the other momma dog who freaked out and bolted as soon as Peter put the leash around her neck, this mommy she sat down right in front of us. Peter took a collar, clipped it on her neck, then fastened a leash. He led her...no, truly...she led him to the open crate where she climbed in and sat down ready to go. 

She watched as we took her five puppies from under the thorny Acacia tree she made into a den, thus her name. 

This is January 26th. January 14th is when we got Quin and Panda, the puppies of the momma dog who got away. And on January 24, we trapped an abandoned female dog who showed up near our home. We only had her overnight and brought her to the shelter. Now, here we are with a momma and her five week-old babies. 

Peter said, "You know, we can't introduce her to Dorothy." I said 

"I know." But in the back of my mind, I knew they'd get along.

When we got to our house, Peter's fears were confirmed. As we walked Momma downstairs, as we passed the glass front door where Dorothy stood guard, she was true-to-form. She threw her 60 lb body onto the door, snarled viciously, bared her teeth, managing to frighten momma dog as we walked by. Peter said, "It'll be tricky keeping them apart." I said I know. 

We settled everyone downstairs. I couldn't wait to give those flea infested, motor oil-stained puppies a bath.

We didn't even need momma's permission. She let us take each pup, one-by-one, and even stood still while we bathed her. What a dream she was as a guest in our home. She was even housebroken!
 

Just as she had done in the bush, she found a quiet protected corner of the bathroom, under the cabinet and propped herself there. Her puppies, eyes just opening, bumped and crawled their way to her, latching onto her nipples. She lay there patiently as they fed. 

We brought down food for her and a water dish. We refilled both three and four times per meal those first few days. We couldn't believe how much she needed to eat. But then again, she had five growing puppies to feed. 

To my surprise, because I'd never had a mommy dog with puppies before, I didn't know she ate their poop! I was squatting down to pick some up when she bowled me over to get to it! It was gross, don't get me wrong, but she was such a good mom, such a good momma dog! 

As the pups grew, we would take one at a time outside, upstairs, just play with them one at a time to get to know them and to have them get accustomed to people. Acacia didn't mind, but after we returned each one, she would lick them top to bottom, probably not liking our scent on her offspring. I remember that when I had kids. I asked their babysitters not to wear perfume because I didn't want to smell someone else on them. It must be primal. 

Much of the things I admired about Acacia was in relation to me as a mother. I know, I'm personifying her actions. But I think there's got to be something to it because it defined her as a dog, framed her as a companion. 

Acacia was smart. Hell, she knew to come with us when we first met her. Knew in her bones that she needed to cooperate in order to save their lives. Instinct, sure, she's got plenty of that, but smart is knowing which person to go to and not be trapped by someone who could exploit her and her young. Smart is knowing she needed to watch us for cues, and react to our actions so as not to be kicked out again. Because she was most definitely someone's pet, by the way she makes eye-contact; her ease in being on a leash, stepping over it when she became entangled; knowing to sit so we could clip it on. 

I'd say two weeks after being in the apartment, I couldn't find her under the bathroom cabinet, splayed out in the cool tiled shower, or under the bed. She needed breaks from the demanding puppies, so she often sat on the couch to get away. I hadn't thought to look there, but like a queen, she sat on that throne surrounded by every last chew toy I gave to her and her puppies. She had them all and chewed on them to her hearts content. She was domesticated once...she never wanted to be dumped outdoors again. So, she did as we wanted, and showed us her gratitude. 

Even as hungry as she seemed to be, sometimes, she would realized I was there and you could see the recognition in her eyes. She'd hop from the dish and with her tail wagging a mile a minute, make her way toward me just to lick my hand, bow her head to be petted, or look me in the eyes. I'd never seen gratitude in a dog, but here it was, in all it's splendor. 

She knew how to be a good mom, confident in her actions when it came to the puppies, but awkward in many ways that had to do with people. 

She loved being petted but didn't know how to lean into my hand, or sit next to me without moving, or lick me without slobbering. She was always so excitable, jumping up on me, constantly moving, panting, wiggling her tail. She stepped on my feet, scratched my legs up, once ripped my dress when she wanted to play. It was hard to feed all of the puppies and her as time went by because the puppies, all five of them, would do as she did. Jump up, scratch, bite and paw at me as I tried to balance six bowls of food down the stairs and place them without spilling them in front of the half dozen excitable dogs. Often the puppies weren't able to contain themselves and would jump on the rim of the bowls upending their full dish of food. While momma was domestic once, she had been in the wild so long, she was just a semblance of someone's pet right now. But how do we calm her down enough to be a pet once again? 

And this idea of being an acceptable pet, it irks me. But that's what's required to be adoptable, right? It's hard enough to find a home for rescued dogs, the competition is steep. Somehow it's as much her looks, her perceived abilities, personality, the characteristics of her "breed", her height, her shedding capacity, her activity level, her bark frequency, energy-level, and not just her restlessness but also her body at rest. If you can get her "right" qualities in front of that "ready" human who at that moment might want to share their life with someone with these specific qualities, well then, you've hit pay-dirt, struck gold, found that forever home. It's the stars aligning basically. Much like finding the right spouse.

As the puppies all found their forever homes, one-by-one they left, until it was only momma downstairs. So, one day, against the advice of my husband, I introduced Acacia to our 8-month-old rescue, Pearl. She was actually the reason I sort of wished for Acacia and her pups. It was because of Tamarind, Pearl's mom, whom I had fed before she gave birth to Pearl's litter, that I felt I needed redemption. I needed to be able to care for puppies AND their mother and see them safely to their forever homes. Sweet, shy Pearl, I knew would pose no threat to Acacia. 

Dorothy and Acacia looking out
the front door together

At first, their hackles went up, they sniffed each other, and played near each other. Good. They were good.  

After several playdates, they were OK with each other, not great friends, but they didn't hate each other either. So, being brave and feeling good about my decision, because I really really didn't want momma downstairs by herself, I took momma and Pearl outside. A few minutes later, I took Dorothy out on a leash. Pearl came running to say hello and momma did too. 

Dorothy started to growl. I held on to her tightly, prepared to hold her back, but momma lowered her eyes, lowered her head, and while she stood her ground, she also placated Dorothy. Dorothy liked that. They were fine. 

Oh sure, Dorothy would from time to time snarl and Momma would say, 'We're cool. I'll back off. No need to get mad.' and we'd all be fine once again. 

One day, we noticed these wings!

I was actively trying to find Acacia an adopter, a foster, a rescue...heartworm positive made it tricky. Her being over 20 lbs made her transport to the mainland impossible. I tried to have her adopted on St. Croix, I thought that was our only option. And then suddenly, there was an air transport. Hmm...and then there was a donation from one of her puppies' adopters. 'Hope this gives momma a chance at a good life.' Miraculously, her transport fees were covered. But where was she going and to whom? 

Peter, giving her
sage advice.

We still don't know where she'll end up. She got on a private flight for rescue dogs, landed in Puerto Rico, then Miami, then boarded a van to travel by land to New York. She gets car sick. So I worry. She hasn't eaten all day, so I worry. She is going to a rescue, not her forever home, so I worry...but mostly, I worry that the trust she placed in me was broken. Did she think she'd stay with us forever? 'Look kind lady with the bacon, I made nice with your vicious, short-legged, queen dog. Why don't I get to stay?' 

She looked at me from behind the crate's grated door and my heart melted. Earlier that day, she already knew there was something up. 'First that car-ride to the Shelter where I nearly threw up like a bazillion times,' she said. 'You held the leash so tight. You didn't let me run away.' as she backed away from the front door. 'And while the lady was good at petting me, she did stab me with a stick.' she thought of the Vet who gave her a rabies vaccination. 'I never want to get in a car again. And now, I'm stuck in this grey box and you're too far for me to reach even with my paw.' 'Wait, where are you going? Don't leave me here. I won't go on a walkabout. I won't try to kill the iguanas. I won't bark at strangers. I will do whatever you want me to, just take me home. I want to go home with you. I love you.' 

As a child of abandonment, having lived my life afraid the people I love would leave, I put myself in a vulnerable position with each dog we foster, each pet we rescue. As an abandoned adult, I took my role as a parent seriously, making sure my children never felt unwanted, unloved, unloved-able. I saw that when Acacia came to me at the dump. 'Please take us and give us shelter, food, and the security we need to survive, to thrive.' she said to me. With time, I could see, her dedication to her puppies equaled that of mine for my children. 

I wish I could keep every dog that needs a home. But I can't. I hope that I impart in those I release into the world a healthy, happy, "whole" dog with the capacity to love. I pour my heart into each one, and I lose a part of me with each good-bye. The stories of comfort, caring and compassion adopters share with me makes the tears I shed, the heartbreak I feel, and the worry that consumes me, disappear. 

Go well, sweet momma. You did such a good job caring for your puppies, now it's your turn to be cared for the way you deserve. May your forever humans find you swiftly and your second chance for a good life begin soon. 

She so much wants to find a home.