Arnold and Theo

 

At the corner of Roosevelt and 30^th street, I see her bending over to gather up plastic bags of something inside the backseat of her car. When she backs out, she smiles at me. I wave, “Como esta Theo?”

            I’ve talked to her before and know that Spanish is her native language.

            She doesn’t answer me in Spanish, however. “Theo he is very big!”

            She’s inside her front yard now, dumping the plastic bags on the black tarp covering what must have been, at one point, a lawn or dirt. Wiping her brow, her grin expands. Theo is the golden lab puppy that I’ve been seeing for the last few months. Bouncing and floppy, but now, he’s big!

            He’s nowhere in sight. But this doesn’t stop her from enthusiastic description.

            I nod now, hanging over her front fence that it about chest level on me. “I bet he’s grown a lot!”

            “Yes, grown a lot!”

            “And, I bet he has a lot of energy!”

            “Yes! A lot of energy.” I notice how she repeats my sentences. To improve her English? Or give herself time to think and then speak in English? I wish that she would speak Spanish to me. I’m curious how much I’d be able to communicate. But this doesn’t occur to me till after our exchange.

            She continues, kicking a worn soccer ball that wobbles on the black tarp briefly, rolling to a stop. “He likes to play with this.” She laughs, joyous. “And when we are home, we let him out here in the front. But when we are not here, he is in the yard. I do not want him to….” She pauses, searching.

            “….to jump over the fence?” I offer.

            “Yes! I do not want him to jump over the fence.” She pauses again, then shakes her head.  Sad all of a sudden. “You remember Arnold?”

            “Of course,” I say. Arnold was a big lion of a dog. He would lie around on the black tarp in the warm sun, then rouse himself to wander around the block. The first time I saw him, he was out on the sidewalk, lumbering slowly up and down Roosevelt. He was huge! Some sort of Shepard/Wolf mix?

            I was leery of walking near him and so crossed the street. He paid no attention to me, but wandered back into his yard, and plopped down on the tarp. I found out his name from his young master who informed me one day while skateboarding aimlessly on the sidewalk that the dog’s name was Arnold.

            Such a funny name for a dog. But is suited him somehow.

            Today, when the woman mentions Arnold, I can see that she misses him. “He got the cancer. In his mouth. He lose his….” Again, she searches for the word, “…teeth…. And so, we give him the soft food. Then we take him to the doctor and he says the cancer it is aggressive.”

            I shake my head, remembering my old white cat who lost all his teeth and couldn’t eat. It hadn’t been cancer that caused the tooth loss. At least as far as I could recall. But the fact that he couldn’t eat, soft food included, meant that I had to put him to sleep.

            It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

            So today, when this woman pauses, thinking of Arnold and his aggressive cancer, I know she is thinking of the sadness of losing him.

            “How old was Arnold?” I ask now.

            “He was 13.”

            “That’s a long time! Especially for a big dog.”

            “Yes, it is a long time,” she agrees.

            She stares at me for a moment, then smiles slowly. I wave, “Well, now you have Theo!”

            “Yes!” She laughs.

            “Have a good day,” I call out, starting to walk down Roosevelt.

            “Yes, have a good day,” she repeats.

            I hear a dog barking as I head up the block. Was it Theo? Happy to have mom home?
            Or was it Arnold, a bark from the great beyond, sending me on my way home for another busy Friday.

A Christian in the 21st Century

 

The Creation of Adam, Michelangelo, (1475-1564 CEI)

“I had me a good sermon this last Sunday down at St. Luke’s…” Dave has spied me walking past his house and has fallen into step beside me. He has a lot to say about God, evidently. “…for next time, Sunday, June 2^nd, my sermon’s gonna be about what it means to be a Christian in the 21^st century.”

            I nod, keeping my answer to myself: “I could write a sermon about what it means to be an Atheist in the 21^st century.” Dave might or might not get the humor in this.

            I quicken my pace, not really wanting to get into a Christians v. Atheists debate with him. Though I do wonder what it means to be a Christian in the 21^st century. First, to be a Christian, very generally, I suppose, is someone who believes in the one almighty God: White male, all powerful, kind when He feels like it; cruel when He doesn’t. Of course, there are those who embrace various sects of this religion: Catholic, Protestant, Episcopalian. I’m not sure which branch St. Luke’s is in. And, of course, God created everything! The trees, the flowers, the animals, the sky, the oceans, the people. He is the Great Creator. And the only One!

            Then there’s the behavior of Christians, right? They are ‘do gooders’ correct? Taking care of their family, neighbors, friends without any payment but a ticket into heaven for their good works.

            Okay, I’m being a little snide here, I know. This is why I didn’t want to get into a discussion with Dave. I’m sure he’d have a very different definition. And the fact that he’s narrowed his sermon to the 21^st century, I’m sure, will give his sermon a present-day utility about it.

            Yet, what is it about the 21^st century is he gonna focus on? How Christians view technology? What do they think about AI? Has AI taken over the role of their God? Maybe they need to get rid of AI. But then wouldn’t that require, at the very least, nefarious technological weaponry? Would this be ‘Christian’?

            And to be an Atheist? Well, for me this is straightforward. I don’t believe in this one powerful male deity or a ‘heaven’ after our time here on Earth. I think that we’ll all just end up in the same unknown void that we were in before we were born. And who knows what that was or what it will be. I have no memory of it nor do I have a crystal ball to see it in the future.

            Unless, AI can find a way to delve into the future. Robots will tell us what happens after we die! Yes! Of course! They can be ‘killed’ and then brought back to life and then they can tell us what it was like. Though since they’re robots and not humans, they may not go to the same place that we would.

            Oh, it’s all too much to think about at 10 in the morning walking up 32^nd street with Dave at my side trying to gain my ear.

            “…I haven’t put together my sermon yet, but I’ve got some great ideas and…” I’m marching down the middle of the street at this point, trying to shake him. He’s not getting the idea, but continues keeping pace with me. However, I know he has stage 4 lung cancer and I can probably outpace him.

            Of course, this isn’t a very Christian thought, is it? ? But since God creates everything, he created Lung Cancer too, right?

            Or did Dave have just a little to do with this given his dumbass smoker history? Did God create dumbasses?

            Grinning to myself, I wave goodbye, “See you later, Dave.”

            He’s slowing down, getting the hint? Or just cancer tired?

            I don’t care as I turn the corner at McBryde, leaving Dave in the middle of the street to ponder some more about what it means to be a Christian in the 21^st century.

           

           

Dumbass Smoker

Tromping up the final block of 32^nd Street before McBryde, I spy the trio up ahead hogging the sidewalk. It’s the lady with the should be dead dog and her husband. I’ve spoken to them over the years of walking by their house, but have never seen the 3 of them all together before.

             I turn off the sidewalk, veering toward the street, thinking it’d be a good idea to give them wide berth, esp. with the poor limping dog.

            “Hey!” the man hollers at me, not unfriendly, “you don’t have to go into the street.”

            I slow my pace. Keep on the sidewalk. This morning I’m not averse to a little neighborly conversation.

            “You sure?” I grin.

            “Yeah!” he chuckles. “Plenty of room for all of us.”

            The woman stops and points at the dog. “She just turned 18. Gonna be 19!” Proud and toothy, she smiles at me, her round wrinkled white face and bright blue eyes staring at me.

            “Wow,” I say, “that’s amazing!”

            I glance down at the dog. She’s skin and bones, hunched up on 3 legs, a sad doggy expression of ‘why can’t I just keep going’ on her mug.

            “You know,” the man continues, “we don’t even know your name after seein’ you walk by our house for all these years. I’m Dave, this is Cici,  and that is Chelsea, the dog.”

            “Ah,” I nod, “I’m Carol.”

            “She was ‘Bone in the USA,’ Cici says to me, pointing at the dog’s sweater with images of dog bones patterned on the top. I laugh.

            “Where you live?” Dave continues.

            “Just down the street. This is 32^nd, right?”

            “That it is.”

            “I’m just down between Barrett and Roosevelt.”

            “That’s a good distance you cover. I was a Dumbass Smoker for 40 years. Got stage 3 lung cancer. I can make it down to Garvin now, but before, boy I tell you, it was a miracle if I made it to the end of the block. Going on 3 years now since my diagnosis.”

            “Wow!” I exclaim. “That’s pretty great.”

            “Yeah, beats being dead or in a wheelchair.”

            And I have to agree. He seems pretty sturdy. Tall and gnarled white guy in his 70s? 60s? Who can tell? I hear about people surviving lung cancer more often than in the past. My Spanish teacher, Mabel, has stage 4 lung cancer. She was getting ‘infusions’ 3 times a week when we were taking Spanish from her last fall. I’d asked my friend, Wendy, who had found Mabel, if she’d been a smoker. Wendy thought probably, but didn’t know for sure.

            Why would anyone smoke? I’ve always wondered this. It’s been known for decades to cause cancer. Yet I still hear about smokers or see smokers around. Fat guys driving by in trucks, cigarettes hanging out the window. Middle aged men, squatting on their stoops, puffing away. It baffles me.

            Who wants to risk lung cancer?

            At least Dave knows he was a ‘Dumbass’. But what good does that do him now? He’s got cancer and he’s compromised because of it, walking 2 blocks is a good day.

            Of course, I was a Dumbass Sunbather when I was younger. Then melanoma appeared. I was lucky. The doctors found it in time. If it had gotten to stage 3, I wouldn’t be here today. Scary thought.

         

   I suppose that we all think we’re immortal when we’re younger. We can smoke. We can sunbathe. We can jump off mighty cliffs into the sea.

            Yet, at this point in my life, I know there’s an end in sight. Who knows when? I’m just grateful that being a dumbass didn’t cost me my life.

            Well, at least not yet.

            “It’s nice to meet you,” I say now, starting to head up the block.

            “Likewise,” Dave grins.

            “I like your hat,” Cici comments.

            I nod, wave goodbye. An old mangy cat is doing rollovers on the warm sidewalk up ahead of me. When I get to her, I stoop down to give her some pets. “Meoorrrowww!” she purrs.

            “Hello, Ol’ girl,” I coo, wondering what kind of cancer she might have. Or maybe she’s just old.

            Hard to tell. With cats. With dogs. Or with people.

            A mockingbird trills. A crow swoops down and lands on a lawn. Smiling, I turn the corner and head down McBryde into the bright morning sunshine, Mt Tam in the distance, a whole day head of me.

       

Where’s the Leash!?

 

 

Mid-morning in May. Blue skies. Wisp of a wind. Mockingbird trills.

Crossing Clinton Ave. on 30^th street, I spot ahead of me a tall lanky man and his matching black lanky dog. Leashless. The dog is about half a block ahead of the man. The man, of course, is plugged in with earbuds and phone in hand.

            I slow down, wary.

            This dog was way ahead of his owner, and when the man finally looked up from his phone and saw me, the dog had trotted closer. “Kali! Come here, girl!” he called.

            Pausing, but only for a moment, Kali turned and continued toward me. I wasn’t scared, more just annoyed, thinking how stupid it was for this guy to let his dog walk way ahead of him without a leash.

            “Is she friendly?” I called out, stopping. I mean, I hoped so, right? as the dog continued to approach me. She was the wary one now, dark nose sniffing the air. She was a good-sized dog, but I could tell a young dog. Slender but tall with black and brown accents of a German Shephard fur coat.

            “Oh, yeah!” the owner hollered back to me.

            “Okay,” I continued standing as the dog approached me, sniffing. I held out my hand for a greeting and she let out a low growl.

            Damn! That’s not a ‘friendly’ dog. Did the stupid owner hear that snarl? He made no mention of it. Nothing like, “Oh, don’t worry. She’s all growl and no bite” or some such idiotic assurance. I remember another little dog, Tiny, (of course) whose owner told me she was friendly and liked people and then when I squatted down to show her my hand, she snarled at me. “Oh, I guess she doesn’t like all people,” the owner had laughed.

            Really? It’s funny?

            Part of me is hurt that the dog snarled at me, but another part was just pissed off. Yet this little dog was TINY and it was on a leash.

            Today’s dog was large and there was NO leash in sight.

            I backed away to let them pass. But the owner now took his earbuds out, chatty. He had some sort of accent, Australian? English? All of a sudden, I was in a BBC drama talking to the local shepherd. “She’s just a puppy. People think she’s scary cuz she’s big, but she’s just a lover.”

            “Yeah, I can see she’s a puppy.” Now that the owner was right there with us, I felt safer, but still, the dog was no ‘lover’! At least not with me. She circled away from me. Skittish.

            “What kind of dog is she?” I asked. “Shepard?”

            “Yeah, German Shepard, Greyhound, maybe some Doberman.”

            DOBERMAN!!!! Okay, well that explains it. What the hell was this guy thinking letting his Doberman Shepard mix wander around off leash in the neighborhood?

            He wasn’t thinking. People like him never do. Today, I didn’t even bother to ask him why the dog wasn’t on a leash. That didn’t he realize there were leash laws in Richmond.

            What was the point?

            He would just either be all confrontational with me: “Hey, chill out lady. The dog is just a puppy. She won’t hurt you.” Or, sappy faux apologetic. “Oh, yeah. I know. But she’s a good girl and she deserves to run free.”

            Hey, I’m all for dogs running free. At Point Isabel’s. In their yards. But walking down 30^th street where there were other walkers, dogs, babies, squirrels, birds…. Well, NO. They should be on a leash. It’s the law. And it’s dangerous!

            Esp. if they growl at people.

            So, today, I just walked on, knowing that saying anything wouldn’t have done any good. And it wasn’t my responsibility either. I didn’t know where this guy lived. I’d never seen him before. It’s not like I could report him to the police for breaking leash laws.

            Like the Richmond Police don’t have better things to do.

            I’m not going to change people’s bad behavior with their unleashed dogs.

            No one will. Unless something really bad happens. An attack, a scare, an injury or worse.

            I hope this doesn’t happen to this dog. Even though she growled at me, she was just being a dog.

It wasn’t her fault she has an idiot for an owner.