Be in the Now

The screen door didn't stand a chance…

Jaeger had already clawed and chewed his way through a solid pine door in his quest to hook up with the neighbor's Lab. Her scent had possessed him, a Siren's Song that left him with no other option. The stream of traffic that separated them was of no consequence, nor was the six-foot fence that he scrambled over. That bitch was his, and nothing was going to stop him.

A few weeks later, eight little pups were born. Justin had distinguished himself from the black mob by being a little bigger, and having a few white hairs at the end of his tail and a small white star on his chest. Four weeks after that, his mother's owner told us to come and get him, he couldn't handle the yapping anymore. For the first couple of weeks with us, we let him suck on a sock moistened with milk and fed him gruel made of dissolved kibble that he managed to choke down; his little body wasn't ready for solid food yet. I tucked him into my armpit at night - he was part of our pack now.

Puppies use "cute" as a survival trait, and Justin was no different. Those crescent-moon eyes granted him amnesty for every offense. He couldn't resist the flavor of remote controls, and the occasional shoe fell victim to his needle teeth. He became a Momma's Boy, and he decided to be an indoor dog – preferring to share the comfort of our heated waterbed to the loneliness of the back yard. He learned the social rules that allowed him to stay indoors, and took his place as part of the family. When we ate, he would wait out-of-sight in the kitchen until called to clean the plates. He un-learned that trick when he discovered that we were so stupid as to forget him if he waited too silently. So when the silverware stopped clanking, he'd make a cow-eyed appearance to remind us that he had an obligation to fulfill, and if we'd be so kind as to stop dawdling, he'd be glad to get to his duties.

He invented a game with the cats. He allowed them free reign of the house as long as they didn't set foot on the floor. They could jump from chair to chair unmolested – even a phone book that kept them three inches above the floor kept them "safe" – but if they put one paw on the carpet, they were made fair game for a chase. It was a riot to watch them observe the rules, with Justin in a crouch, the cat's taunting him by hovering a paw just above the floor in a signal that they were about ready to run for their lives.

With us, he preferred fetch. Balls, sticks, Frisbees – it didn't matter. If you threw it he would return it and bark at you until you threw it again. Every spring he would re-learn the art of swimming – at first he would forget that his butt would float, comically walking on hind legs until the lake bottom became too deep then reverting to a violent vertical dog-paddle until he remembered to relax and let his tail come to the surface. Then he would swim like a crocodile after a stick tossed for his benefit – sometimes returning with a bigger one than the one that was thrown. After all, we'd surely appreciate that seven-foot log over the puny one-foot twig that we started with, wouldn't we?

Snow, wonderful Snow! What more of a sign that the universe was created for Labradors than Snow! He loved the cold, white powder. He'd roll in it, plow through it, and just stick his head in a pile of it to cool off. Days after it fell and was mostly evaporated away, he'd seek out the remnants in the shade and revel in the cold wetness. What more could any being want than Snow?

Sixteen years is a long time for a dog. Watching your son turn into a senior citizen is difficult. He's pretty much deaf and his eyes are dim. Because his little legs are faltering, he accepts the occasional boost up with dignity. He lives with pain in his joints, but never complains.

Last night he looked up at me with those trusting eyes, those eyes that have spoken silent volumes for so long, and he is letting me Know. It is time…

Love unconditionally. Forgive. Accept what you are and where you are and revel in it. Don't take yourself too seriously. Play fair, and play at every opportunity. Create laughter and joy. Be in the Now.

This is what Justin tried to teach us – will we learn it?

Crazy Tractor Man

You can hear him coming, two switchbacks below. He's well hidden by the trees but the powerful churning monotone of his tractor's motor gives him away. Within minutes of following his zig-zag trail with my ears as he climbs towards me, he finally appears. A beautifully restored machine of a half-century ago emerges with an American flag clinging behind. He glances up at me and waves, parade style, as his aged and wet eyes hint at his modest pride.

Crazy Tractor Man, how did you earn that kind and gentle smile? Just what is the secret that you carry, as you look me in the eye, and seem to know my thoughts?

That day you stopped and introduced yourself to me seven months ago is as if it was yesterday. "Kenneth", you offered, as you reached out your knarled hand. In five minutes time you shared with me photographs of your youth, of grandkids on your knee, and your tractors. Your beloved tractors.

As if you fully understood how precious every second was you glided through a synopsis of your life and seemlessy prodded into mine. While you talked wistfully of your tractors, one hand tucked the photos away and the other emerged with biscuits for my dog. Did you know that this was Justin's last walk? Did the benevolant Angel that resides in you know how to ease my pain - did it know that I had committed to euthanize him that very morning? You didn't let on that you sensed the tears that were just behind my eyes. The tears that men have learned to hold back, but flow freely when no one can witness.

Every day as I drive by his house, he is perched out front - waving his 'parade' wave and seeing into the souls of those who return his gaze. Every day I laugh out loud, alone in my car, as I wave back and pass him by - and remember - seven months ago now, when Crazy Tractor Man let me see his divinity.

Mexican Vacation for One

I was flying out of DIA at 2:10 a.m. At that hour the airport is quiet - silence broken periodically by the bustle of mysterious passengers arriving from exotic places. Finally, a voice echoed through the concourse. It was my turn to board.

After a long layover in Houston I landed in Cancun before lunch. With just shorts, sunscreen, sandals, and snorkeling gear, I was through customs in minutes, and shot across the street to pick up a rental car. The attendant was nice enough, and guided me to a Mexican Ford. It resembled a Geo without all the luxury. No way they would've let this piece of shit on an American freeway. Let the Adventure begin.

I first drove north into Cancun to get groceries and on the way learned the basic rules of driving in Mexico. If the road is wide enough for one car, it's two lanes. Wide enough for two cars? Three lanes. Intersections are places where you communicate visually to the other drivers that you are crazier than they are and that you have no fear of death. Construction zones are marked with a single orange cone covered with T-shirts. The cone usually marks an open trench or similar death trap. Now I see why plastic dashboard Jesus is so popular.

I found a store where whole pig heads were stacked up next to the produce and picked up a week's provisions for $24.95 - and that included a case of Modelo.

I got turned around when I headed back and ended up on a Highway to Nowhere. After thirty minutes of not seeing any signs, I went against my genetic male predisposition to forge ahead no matter what and decided to drive across 100 feet of twisted undergrowth and headed back. It's amazing what capabilities a sub-compact has if you don't give a rat's ass about causing severe mechanical damage.

After a couple of miracles and lucky turns, I was headed on the road towards the condo that my friends had lent me. The Grand Mayan was an opulent marble-clad refuge from reality. Golf course, lagoons, 1,000 feet of meandering swimming pools, waterfalls and swim-up bars. It's patrons were bubble-necked executives with their Stepford wives and maladjusted kids running amok in a prepubescent stupor. Happy, shiny people holding hands...

I was alone.

This fact seemed to put a Scarlet Letter on my forehead. The concierge inquired, "By yourself, Señor? " After a long conversation in broken Spanish, I finally convinced him that I was who I said I was. The the 1600 square foot, two master suite, two Jacuzzi, three TV's, wet bar, soaking pool on an eight-by-thirty foot balcony overlooking the lagoon was for me and JUST me. He kept on looking over my shoulder to see if a band of gypsy musicians was lurking around the corner to secretly join me. It was very bitter-sweet.

Finally I was shown to my room. I had the strong urge to leave at once - to not deal with this nagging sensation that I was the undeserving pillager of someone else's kingdom. I stocked the fridge, grabbed my gear, and headed for the beach. Everything was postcard perfect with the exception of one main building that was a pile of rubble and broken glass that lay in silent testimony to the fury of the storm that ripped through this paradise four months previously.

I headed down the beach, away from the basking Stepford wives and their cubs.

New muscles awakened in my shins and calves as my toes coped with the sugar sand. After hiking about four miles in silent awe, I came across a resort that was inhabited by hairy-backed, Speed-O wearing men and leather skinned, too-tan topless women. Italians. They had a laissez-faire attitude that was so much more in tune with my head than the Ugly American resort I had left behind. These were not "Beautiful People" - but they were beautiful people. Language wasn't a barrier, just a friendly smile and a nod was all I needed to have a cold daiquiri shoved into my hand and a plate of paella served to me from a BBQ on the beach.

Sunset found me walking back to my resort, and when night fell so did I, into a deep dreamless sleep.

Day two found me up before the sun, and driving down the highway to catch the ferry in Playa del Carmen. The schedule had changed, so I missed my rendezvous with the dive boat. But I spotted a small craft loaded with seven Japanese twenty-something girls who spoke neither English nor Spanish. A worried-looking Divemaster whose help had failed to show up for work asked me for my help in watching over these naïve debutants. It was fun to have charge over the fate and safety of the Anime-in-the-flesh, and it didn't take long before I discovered that I do indeed harbor a rubber fetish as I helped them into (and later out of) their wetsuits. Oh God, I've got a sick bastard suppressed in the recesses of my psyche.

The dive itself was fantastic. Warm water filled with bouquets of multi-colored fishes. An eight-foot long green eel that enjoyed being pet like a puppy. An eagle ray that beat it's ten-foot wingspan gracefully through the current. An hour had passed in ten minutes time, my gauges telling me that my dive was over. Back on the boat, I bided my time and mulled over my Hentai fantasies as the twenty-somethings indulged in exhibitionist sunbathing displays designed to tease my tortured soul.

After another dive, it was a wild boat ride back to town, a leisurely lunch at a favorite café in San Miguel's town square, and a ferry ride back to Playa, where I sucked back a couple of Coronas on the beach. Another pastel sunset gave even more warmth to the tones of the passing skin parade. Paradise found.

Days three and four were versions of the day two scenario with their own little twists (none involving Hentai). Day five had me headed back home, my feet swelled up like boiled sausages.

It all seems so distant now - it might as well have been a lifetime ago. I'm already planning the next time - but I'll never do it alone again. My pleasure is derived from sharing the experience, not the experience itself. Solitude forces me to meet a man I may not want to know - a fellow that looks a lot like me.