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.

The Beauty in the Beast

Meet Jacqueline

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

Isla, The most beautiful pup 

I've ever seen

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

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

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

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

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

She's just so beautiful!

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

The rash was healing but still...

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

Pandemic Pause

Billy and Buster, our latest fosters

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

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

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

Locally grown banana varieties

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

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

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

This is the problem I see:

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

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

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

St. Croix, unspoiled and secluded.

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

Which leads me to these insights:

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

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

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

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

The Taste of Mangoes

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

In the rainforest, we passed maybe three others.  

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

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

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

dried leaves. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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