Man In A Night Time Mirror

When I met the man he stood about 5'11" but was much younger.

Down a darkened hall he stared back from inside a mirror.

All words written and spoken in Gaelic here. A small, lost town on the edge of a forgotten, pinprick of a place.

No one home.

Whole place to myself. With eggs! And milk! Bread and freshly churned butter!

And as darkness crept in and then turned into oblivion I woke up and walked down an empty-house hall. Floors answered back with every covert and careful step.

Naked.

Except for maybe my pretenses.

There he was, too.

Alone.

Naked.

Except for his pretenses.

Staring back down over eighteen years or so of darkened hallways.

We startled each other. Because no one was supposed to be home. But there we were ... facing off. Stuck in night's glue.

I discovered you down a hallway.

In a mirror over a decade and more ago. Staring me into eternity, or now. Whichever came first.

Now here I am.

Memory as time machine.

God, if I only knew then what I know now (you foolish cliche-whore!).

Stay right there, lad, stay right there.

Frozen in time.

In that night felled, cottage mirror.

Afraid.

But still safe.

Pet Peeve Hypocrite!

OK, so maybe, just maybe... she's one of the greatest dogs ever?

Join the Dogster community

Meet The Mouth

Dog owners are different than cat owners.

Every dog owner will make you painfully aware of that fact.

They say, "Well, we've had 'Cerberus' for 3 years, 6 months, 2 weeks, 10 days, 12 hours, 13 minutes and 53 seconds."

Cat owners will defer, "We think she's about 2 or 3 years old..."

Dogs exude personality.

Cats exude independence.

Dogs know words.

Cats: "No words."

If cats do "know" words... well, then they sure as hell understand the art of feigning ignorance.

Loyalty.

Obedience.

Love.

Expression.

These are words associated with dogs.

Cats?

Loyalty (to no one...).

Obedience (Pfff. Riiiiiight...).

Love (of sunny spots and tongue baths maybe...).

Expression (as long as that expression involves a middle finger...).

There is always a BIG story behind a dog. Usually weeks in the making if not months.

Cats have stories, too. Very detailed ones. But chances are if you asked a dog to recite his or her story he or she would do it in a most excited and immaculate manner. Woofing in gregarious detail all the way!

Cats, on the other hand, would write their story down somewhere, hide it from everyone and wait until 'The Mothership' touches down before revealing their ultimate truth... (you think I'm kidding?)

Let it be clear: I adore cats.

Let it also be clear: I adore dogs.

Can there really be such a strain of humanity??

You usually don't find this happy medium in most people.

You're either one, or the other.

Period.

Dog Owners might say: "Cats = Terrorists, Dogs = Patriots".

Cat Owners might say: "Dogs = Short Bus To English As A 2nd Language Class, Cats = New York Times Sunday Edition Crossword Puzzle".

So, where does that leave us 'lovers of both'?

Dogs = Dogs.

That's great!

Cats = Cats.

Why, that's great, too!

Are we then Patriotic Progressives? Folks that are willing to negotiate with the terrorists after weeks of scholarly review? Or, just undeniably neurotic...?

Whatever. Meet The Mouth.

"Loki" (after hours of naming-rites debate between Heather and myself!).

She's a black lab mix. We're thinking a touch of Chow or Pyrenees thrown in perhaps judging by the kinky hair around her ears and the pudgier than normal snout for a normally pure-bred lab.

Did I mention she's black? Matches 'The Coven'! (ed. - oh, go get yourselves on some meds pronto, you obsessives!)

I found her ... (rather she found me!) ... at the local Austin pet shelter, "Cause For Paws."

I just couldn't say, "No."

Isn't that how the excuse usually goes?

She had me at, "Woof." (complete with jowly head-cocked, mushy brown eyes all a-drooping...!)

(sigh!)

Indeed. Stricken was I.

We are now the proud owners of one very high energy, completely time consuming bundle of canine joy. It's been awhile for me, admittedly. I grew up with dogs and loved their undying companionship. The way they would hop into your arms when you came home at night. The way you could just tell they would die inside every time you left the homestead - even for a second!

No difference here.

Loki is only a puppy, maybe 3 or 4 months at most, and she dies inside every time you have to "crate" her for the night (merely to save the cats mind you) or leave the house for even just a moment.

She hates any activity shy of full-on buddy-buddy companionship. When she finally has your undivided attention... she then promptly pees everywhere (Chorus Of Cats be heard: "Heathen!").

That's how excited she becomes: "Oh, joy of joys, love of loves, be still my beating little puppy heart! My saviors, my companions, my pack! Once again reunited! May I christen you with the fresh bowl of water I just drank about an hour ago now??"

I am not a squeamish person. Albeit, I am no fan of full-on feces coverage either, but I can handle the fairly minor, messy "inconveniences" in life.

Urine?

Ha! What's a little body-processed H20!?

Vomit??

Hell, I used to do that all the time in college!

Poop!

Poop!?

What kind of word is "poop" anyway!? A word for faeries! Faeiries poop!

I can handle a little "poop". Why I can even handle a lot of "POOP!" (read: you should see some of the jobs I've held in my life...)

Loki is a factory full of it all.

Not so much the vomit part, really, but certainly the other exiting doggy doings to be sure.

We're beginning to feel like a maid service, in fact. We've mopped the house so many times in the past week that it's either extremely clean, or we've merely scrubbed all that puppy urine so deeply into the wood floors that the yellow shine is simply an illusion.

And that MOUTH!

Anyone want to suggest how to handle a clacking maw full of fanged, chewing, non-stop gnashing-toothy chomping action?! Please do advise! Heather has nicknamed her "The Alligator". When next we meet the holes in our shoes aren't some fashion statement for warmer climes be assured... furniture, rugs, plants, pecans, metal(!), pillows, molding ... gulp! The Cats!!

"NO, LOKI, NO! DOWN! HOLD! HOOOOOOLD! HOOOOLD!"

"Hold", our special power word for ... for everything she's not suppose to be doing, really - quite effective!

It's like a spiritual mantra all of a sudden. "Hold" will bring peace & calm to our universe on most occasions. When it doesn't work properly "Cookie?" or "Walk?" sometimes will suffice.

Without going into too much more detail (again the whole "people-who-go-on-and-on-about-how-extraordinary-and- wonderful-their-doggies-&-kitties-are-thing" happens to be a personal, ahem, pet-peeve of mine...) Loki is whip-smart, gentle, heart breaking-ly loving & lovable, criminally cute and has a bark that mimics both a feral coyote and a stray minke whale when she's lonely, and one that quickly evolves into a deep, throaty, window-rattling "BAW-ROOF! BAW-ROOF!" when she's acting all tough.

"Ha! Tough, eh? You think you're so tough, is that it? Try scrubbing crap out of a rug at 2:30 in the morning sometime, dawg! I'll show you tough!"

In short, though, we're tremendously proud and truly happy to have our new family member with us, and hoping that she'll be ... hold on a sec.

"NO, LOKI, NO! DON'T YOU TOSS THAT CAT THAT HIGH IN THE AIR! HOLD! HOOLD!! HOOOOOLLLLLD!!!"

Apologies, gotta run.

Must peel cat off ceiling...

Winds Of Change

Outside.

A bluster is going on.

It's late and the bags full of leaves I've stowed for some future pick-up vehicle to arrive are making a racket outside my window.

"Do you smell something burning? There's a fire somewhere." she says, registering concern for this type of event for the first time.

What is it?

What's this smoke in the air.

Thousands of acres burn somewhere.

Thousands.

What changes are coming?

Change Is A Foot

Or, two even.

Sometimes much greater distances.

Simple steps, though, that add up to many feet.

Miles even.

I helped our neighbors, The P.'s, move out of their diminutive-on-the-outside looking abode this week. Its right behind our house. Same color. Same style. Same builder. Different folks inside.

Looks can be deceiving; nothing is diminutive when it comes to moving peoples' lives. Babies, boxes, books, beds, bikes, beer-making kits, barking dog, plus myriad minutiae and a multitude of memories. Lots and lots of memories to carry away. The heaviest things to lift and then to watch move away with a jack-o-lantern colored UHaul in tow.

They're off to the great city of Chicago (imagine if New York City had an affair with Boston and birthed a pleasant land of in-betweens - only with lesser legendary baseball offspring ... may those black socks rest in tattered pieces "Shoeless Joe") to begin new lives.

New lines of work.

New turning points.

Goodbye, Austin, for some.

For others, like ourselves, change is a new neighborhood. A new piece of property in the same city. Ownership and all of its powerful symbolism: "No, we don't rent. We own." Any questions? So, put that in your peace-pipe and smoke it.

There's a certain arrogance you can't deny when you enter the rich kingdom of property ownership. No longer down with the serfs.

Nobility.

The American Dream now one large multi-scoop ice-cream soda with two colorful straws dipped into each end.

Now ... start sucking.

It's not all bad.

It's something called an investment, right? It ensures you have something to turn around and sell to make even more money later on down the road.

Remember when property was for living in, though? Growing up in? Calling it a home? Is this notion really that so far removed from current reality? I rather enjoyed growing up in our modest Indian Village abode. Three bedroom, two bath, Cape-style home. The house never was sold for profit ... until AFTER the divorce.

"The times they are a-changin' ", as a far superior muse once observed.

But we adapt.

Regardless of the missteps and the painful downfalls that may result when an entire nation decides to self-induce-amnesia while speeding along the Capitalist fast-track. Some of us don't survive it, but most go on to change the rules, adapt s'more and redraw the schematics of falling down and getting back up all over again. So we can inevitably repeat the process ad infinitum only perhaps more creatively next time...

(Right now? Witness the many Fallen trying to get back up.)

Not us, though.

No strong ARMs to wrestle, no double-real-estate-agents to drag to criminal court, no sub-titles nor 'left or right' liens to contend with. Everything checks out. Just a house. Plain and simple. Needs paint. Needs minor repairs. Needs warm bodies to adjust its temperament. Once those things are in place we begin the...

We begin the what exactly?

The waiting game? The actual "living" that everybody talks about but never truly knows when they've actually arrived there? The having-it-all aspiration? That American Dream-thing again?

But, the "what" exactly I know not? Admittedly, I'm quite perplexed behind all of the property ownership hullabaloo at times.

Sure, now we can FIX the property up. We can add the additions, grow the gardens, and paint the painterly color schemes without answering to anyone but ourselves, the professionals and the Home Despots of the world.

Ahhh, the sweet smell of ... cash flow!

True this is what we were all inculcated with when we were 'growing up'. We weren't "adults" until these basics were acquired, right? Prince & Princess Charming's entitlement? Glorious regal castles? Two carriage stables? And the impish garbled burblings of many tiny serfs' feet yet to come that eventually may inherit the joint...?

Unless they decide to sell it. And move to tonier castles in bigger kingdoms, of course.

Ah, America. Dog! Fetch me my slippers!

I am not really property ownership averse - although, I once claimed Socialism as my political point of view many awkward and naive twenty-something-ago years past (Billy Bragg have you married and passed the torch-song to a younger squire yet?) - but I do have my issues I suppose.

No doubt I am settling into the notion of ownership in the real (estate) sense. I can't wait to set the cannons up on the parapets, wave the coat-of-arms banner and have the unalienable right to shoot the god-awful snot out of any bastard trespassing on my gulldarn land (sniiiiiiiiiiif! Puh-chaw!).

But, I won't easily forget the walks through Nagog Pond Woods when I was a kid with fellow naifs Steve, Tim and Chris either.

Nor will I forgive certain lack of foresight.

Swimming, unmolested, by any site-lines to civilization's encroaching progress. Forest trees, pine-needle bed footpaths, reservoir clean water, the acrobatics of birds, and the challenge of watching many mysteries unfold.

Feeling far away from the human numbers. Tucked away in the comfortable silence of country woods! Truly free. Or, a reasonable facsimile thereof.

A special spot carved out of sand and smooth, black-lichened rocks.

A rope swing.

A shouting contest, "How many is a duck!" belly-flops and hysterical laughter.

Soaking wet, white trunks and a tender, nubile beauty tanning herself on a flat, sun-baked stone, giggling, "Your underwear! It's blue!"

"I know! I like blue! Do you?"

Bronze skin gives way to roses and cherry-red blush.

Quietly now, like the shushing breeze on that rippled water, "I like blue..."

A swim to the island half way across the lake. The black, slithering serpent that swam right towards us as we crossed, head and tongue bobbing and flickering ferociously as it deviled its way on the waters surface.

Then seeing it, rather suddenly and surreptitiously ... submerge. Six feet away from our splashing swimmers set. Sliding under our bellies. Scaled-skin fanning at our legs and toes. Sparing us the shock-inducing nip as we invaded its secret waters...

"Holy, shit! Did you see that!? Did you see that!?! It's right underneath us! Swim! Faster! SWIM!!!"

Then one summer...

The first Castle appeared.

Too close to our Spot.

Too close to our Rope.

Too close to our Island.

Too close to our serpentine swimming stretch.

Too close!

Just too damned close.

A fence and a sign followed.

A complete stranger's Verboten pushing itself mercilessly into our previously respected boundaries. Telling us that the path we took every summer to get down to the Pond was no longer an option.

MAnifest DestiNy EnSueS.

The Pond was no longer a private swimming hole to young men and women, nor to their fancies and flirtations.

It was instead:

"Gorgeous lake front views at competitive rates!"

...to the elite and uncaring.

A marketing scheme. A dreadfully branded and off-limits picture-window-view estate for four, maybe five, people at most.

Perhaps a yapping rat-terrier, or some spoiled Pomeranian, "appreciated" those trappings, too...

The rest of us ... us peasants?

"Let them eat Lake!"

We watched one of the many things magical and inspiring about being youthful, full of whimsy, and spirited dissolve away in just under the course of a year.

Change was afoot elsewhere, too, in our little home town.

Growing up fast indeed.

Real fast!

More than a foot at a time as those oh-we'll-put-better-zoning-rules- in-place-next-year town hall promises fell into thousands of uncontrolled, unconscionably developed acres.

The Minute Man Historical Trail devolved into "Minute Mansion Heights".

Pacy's Egg Farm & Sweets begat "Pacy's Luxury Condos & Suites".

The Acton Drive-In Movie theatre became ... ugh ... Digital Equipment Corporation (DEC). Job opportunities, you bet, but at what cost ultimately? (ed. - DEC has since declared Chapter 11 and said building has been unoccupied for the last ten years... now a delightful spot for graffiti adverts!)

And, naturally, Nagog Pond followed suit and became what you'd already guessed ... a memory.

~~~~*~~~~

I will raise a glass to our new home here in Austin, Texas.

I will revel in its powerful meaning, its commanding rank, and its elitist, all-important symbolism.

But I will also pray that it never stood to bury the memories of anyone's most important years.