Lady Love

 

“Oh, here we go…. He loves the ladies, don’t ya Dixon!”  proclaims one of the middle-aged white guys hanging out in front of the open garage. The tired Australian Cattle dog heaves himself off his lying down position on the driveway.  He slowly rises, his brown eyes eager, but his old doggie body not keeping up. I remember when he was a young, spry mutt. Running around on the lawn, tossing toys up in the air, trotting over to me, tongue out, step spry.

            But now? He’s another animal.

            I’m squatting down at his level, my hand out to greet, and he finally makes it up to me for a nuzzle and a cuddle. He’s so cobby and plush, his fur that grey mottled thickness that distinguishes his breed. When Owen Hill and I were together, he wanted an Australian Cattle dog so bad. We called them ‘Ready-to-Go’ dogs since they were always full of energy and bounce.

We never got this dog. It just wasn’t feasible, living in small north Oakland apartments with no yard. Besides the fact that the two tortoise-shell cats, Gertrude and Alice, would have been livid.

            As I pat Dixon now, I ask his age: “13” one of the men tells me.

            “Ah,” I murmur. Not a young dog anymore.

            But then none of us are young anymore. I find myself mystified by the aging process. Looking in the mirror, I don’t recognize myself. Where did I go? I feel the same inside. Well, mostly. There are certainly moments where I wonder where that inner self went too. At this point, I’ve been so many different selves. The angst-ridden teenager. The confused 20-year-old. The professional 30-year-old. The wild 40-year-old. The now what? 50-year-old. The I better get it done soon 60-year-old.

            Dixon lets me pet him for a few moments, then turns and heads back to his spot in the shady driveway.

            “Yup, he does love the ladies,” one of the men repeats, chuckling.

            “That’s cuz we all appreciate how handsome he is!” I grin.

            Both men laugh, nodding. I glance up at them. They aren’t handsome. They’re old geezers, dressed in dirty overalls, wearing backwards ball caps on their thinning crowns, their faces pale and wrinkled in the late morning light.

            But I know I’m no beauty either. Only Dixon keeps his looks. Old as he is, he’s still a stellar example of a Ready to Go dog.

            I wonder why dogs (and cats) never show their age like people do. It’s because of their fur, of course, we can’t see their skin like we can with people. But also, I think it’s part of their wild animal spirit, too. Even though Dixon is slowing down, he still possesses that Ready to Go persona. I can see it in his eyes, bright and intelligent.

            And, he knows a lady when he sees one, I think, grinning to myself in all my ladyness.

            “You guys have a good day,” I call out to the men, turning to continue my walk up 32^nd street to turn at McBryde.

            “Yeah, you too,” they both call out, the overalled man, waving a wrench in my direction. Always working on his orange 1970s Datsun, tools are attached to his limbs.

            A brisk wind hits me in the face as I turn onto McBryde. Damn, I think, I really hate the wind.     But it’s worth braving the elements to pet Dixon. After all, he loves the ladies. And who could ask for anything better on a breezy Monday morning?

¡Buenos Días!

 

“¡Buenos días!” The morning greeting rang out, floating into the blue sky, fading into the lifting fog.

            Where was I? Mexico? Costa Rica? Spain?

            Nope, just here in my neighborhood, the North and East of Richmond, California, where at least half my neighbors are Spanish speaking.

            This morning, as I head up my street, I can’t quite tell where the greeting is coming from. I stop for a moment on the sidewalk, glance behind me. Nope. No one there. Stare over across the street toward Rosa’s house. Nope, she’s not out. And, then, I hear the musical rapido of Spanish, too quick for me to decipher, especially if I’m not next to the speakers.

            It’s the guy who’s been weed eating my neighbor’s three-foot-high grasses for the last 2 hours, a short, elderly hombre with glasses, a plaid jacket, sagging blue jeans, and a ramshackle red trailer, the sides covered with weatherworn artwork of Chinese horses and their trainers, seascapes with rowboats floating near docks, a wooden flat sculpture of a golfing beaver.

            A woman is chatting with him. Taller than him, clad in a flowery red moo-moo, she’s nodding and smiling as the Spanish rattles on. I’ve never seen her before. Not a neighbor from my block. But Weeder Man’s truck I’ve seen before, parked down Roosevelt and 27^th street in front of a high walled cement house with the flag of Guatemala flying in front.

            I’m tempted to go over and practice my Spanish with them, but my speaking is so muy malo, and I do want to get my walk in before the UV gets too high, so I walk on past them, not even waving.

            The morning is the same as always. Bright blue sky, mocking birds singing, a light breeze blowing, the same dogs barking at me as I march past: “RRRUUUUFFF RUUUUFFFF RUFFFF!”

            “ZOE! STOP IT!” shouts her owner.

            Zoe never does. I’ve gotten used to her barking, and depending on my mood, I’ll either hurry on by, or mutter, “Fuck you, Zoe.”

            Today, as I stride through my usual route, up 31^st street, down McBryde to 33^rd, and then to Barrett, I’m lighter than usual. I’ve got a break from work and it’s delicious. I don’t have to review or respond to any essays for an entire week! So, when I head back home up 30^th street and Whispo, the grey tabby boy, comes bounding out to me, I’ve got some extra time to hang out with him. He obliges. Rolling over on the sidewalk. Rubbing his chin on my shoes. But then when I start to head home, he insists on following me.

            I remember when I was a kid living in Hacienda Heights, my cat, Didi would try to follow me to school. Sometimes, she’d get as far as Colma Ave, a big four lane highway. I’d have to shout at her, stomping my feet, “DIDI! GO HOME!”

            She’d stare at me for a moment, big golden eyes unblinking, before turning and running back down the hill to Lonecrest Drive.

            Today, I try these methods of discouragement with Whispo, but to no avail. I’m in front of his house and hear a shuddering of the gate at the end of his driveway. I’ve never seen any people at his house, so this ruckus is unusual.

            Suddenly, bursting through the gate is a bushy blonde haired wiry man with a rainbow beanie on and two yappy little dogs on leashes. Whispo goes running up to them, completely unafraid.

            “I’m glad to see you,” I say. “Is this your cat?”

            “Yes.”

            “What’s his name?”

            “Acatmeow.”

            “Acatmeow?” I repeat, thinking what kind of name is that?

            “That’s right,” he grins at me, his tan face reminding me of surfers I knew is Santa Cruz with their weathered laid-back vibe.

            “He doesn’t seem afraid of the dogs,” I comment.

            “Nah, they all get along,” he’s trying to keep the dogs from scurrying away from him while Acatmeow stands in front of them, trying to block their progress.

            “That’s so cute,” I say.

            “Hella CUTE!” he proclaims before finally letting the dogs pull him out onto the sidewalk and away from me.

            As I make my final way home, back down 32^nd street, the Spanish speakers are gone, but a woman is walking toward me with a little black dog. She’s about my age, 50s 60s?  A White middle-aged woman with strawberry blonde curls poking out of an olive-green baseball cap. I know she’s my new neighbor that moved in a couple of months ago, but I just haven’t ‘run’ into her yet.

            Today, we stop, smile at each other, “Did you just move in?” I ask.

            “Yes, a few months ago,” she nods, friendly, open.

            “And who is this?” I ask, bending down to the little dog.

            “This is Merlin. He’s a rescue.”

            Why do people always tell you that their dogs are rescued? Is it a source of pride? A citizen doing good for the likes of our four-legged friends? I like that people are rescuing dogs, but do I need to know this? I’m never impressed by it if that is the intention.

            “Hi, Merlin,” I pat him on the head. He’s a little skittish, but not ferocious.

            “I’m Carol,” I say.

            “Oh, I’m Lucinda.”

            “Nice to meet you,” I nod.

            “Do you live here with your partner?” she asks, probably having seen Ian coming and going.

            “No, he comes to visit, but I live alone with my wild orange tabby, Clara. Do you live here with your partner?” I ask.

            Her face falls, almost imperceptibly, before replying, “No, I’m a widow. So, no, I don’t live with her anymore. I live alone….”

            “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I offer, cuz what else can I say? I don’t know her, but her sadness is palpable. And to introduce herself as a widow exaggerates the emotion. I think of my mother, a widow too, and the sadness she must feel every day missing my dad, her husband. I have no idea how widows go on. If I ever lost Ian, even though we’re not ‘married’ I would be destroyed.

            Yet, the widows go on. Walking their dogs. Meeting their neighbors. Smiling at the day.

            I leave her to head out to hers, crossing the street, Murray the Mockingbird trilling a greeting. “¡Buenos días!” he sings out.

            Really? A Spanish singing bird?

photo, Ron Dudley

            Only in my neighborhood. Only in Richmond. Only in my brain.

Miss No Name

 

“Is that your kitty?”

I’d paused for a moment on the sidewalk after watching the driver of a white Toyota painfully try to park in the driveway, grinding the gears, inching forwards and backwards, trying to get as close to the low cement wall as possible. Maybe to make room for another vehicle?

The compact man in a navy hoodie who now emerged from the Toyota grinned at me.  I pointed to a brown tabby cat that had appeared at just the same moment as he had left his car.

Shaking his head, his smile broadened, “No, she’s not mine. She belong across the street. She has two brothers, a black and white one and a black one. I feed them, put the food out,” he pointed toward his porch where several empty cat dishes were scattered.

A nasty cold wind with a smattering of moisture blew at us. Not rain exactly. But cold and wet. We both held on to our hoodies till the gust passed.

“What’s her name?” I asked, as the kitty wound around under the car, rubbing her lips on the tires, the edge of the concrete wall.

“She has no name,” he shrugged. “She’s a cat. She doesn’t need a name.”

“Or she has her own name that we don’t know because she is a cat!” I exclaim.

He laughed. “Yeah…. if she were a dog, she’d have a name.”

I bent down to try to get the tabby to come to me, extending my hand, fingers pointed in her direction for sniff. But she was coy. Coming forward a bit, then retreating as soon as I tried to pet her.

“She’s shy!” I laughed.

“She’s a cat,” he shrugged. “If she were a dog, she’d be….” Suddenly at a loss for words, he bent down slightly, crouching like a dog, sniffing the air, hands waving excitedly. “She’s be all over us!”

“Yes!” I agreed, thinking of the dogs I knew. How they had no qualms about jumping all over complete strangers. Earlier I had run into my piano student and his mom, pushing a blue baby stroller with their little fluffy white dog in it, I had bent down to pet the dog and she was so excited, turning around and around in frantic circles in her baby carriage, jumping at me, licking me. I was her best friend and she’d never met me before.

Whereas Miss No Name wasn’t anyone’s best friend upon first meeting. I was going to have to court her.

Trying again, I squatted on the sidewalk, trying to move toward her without falling over. Another gust of frigid water wind hit me in the face, making my balance even more perilous. “C’mere, Kitty,” I coaxed.

Compact Man just watched, grinning.

After about 30 seconds, she came up to me. Allowed a small pat on the top of her head, before scurrying away.

Laughing, I glanced up at Compact Man before standing, only a little wobbly. “I think she’s hungry. She knows it’s time for dinner now that you’re home.”

He nods, “Yes, I will feed her soon.”

Miss No Name rubbed against his legs. She knew how to get what she wants. Bending down, he scratched her under the chin, “You ready for some dinner?”

She didn’t meow. There was no need to voice her answer. Communication happened without sound between herself and her man.

Rain started to pelt me in cold hard drops. “I better get going!” I said, turning to go.

But the two of them were already gone, up the walkway, onto the porch, Miss No Name leading the way.

Entirely My Fault

 

“If I make a mistake, it’s entirely my fault.”

I’m standing on the corner of Barrett and 30^th street, pausing for a chat during my morning walk. It’s unseasonably warm for the last day of February. I left the house with only a sweatshirt on, but have it tied around my waist at this point, nearing the end of my jaunt.

            Sharon is kneeling on the bottom step of her massive outside entryway. She’s painstakingly applying some sort of gooey grey stuff to the fancy tiles, rubbing it into the crevices with her fingers, pushing and smoothing it down.

            How can she sit there and do this? Doesn’t her back hurt? She must be my age. In her 60s or 50s. I can’t tell. She’s a slim, red haired woman in jeans and long sleeves and no hat, her big eyes framed by gold wire rimmed glasses.

            I’ve spoken to her a few times before. Once when she told me about a police chase that threw a man onto her yard, landing injured and later dying. Then several other times to comment on her steps. How she has to finish by the time it rains. How if she doesn’t, she’ll have to cover the work with huge blue tarps to keep the rain off.

            It’s a big project. And from the looks of it, a never ending one. She’s always out here, crouching on the steps, working to create an entryway that would rival any in Architectural Digest.

            Now, when I mention the warmth and then we both comment on how it’s supposed to rain by Sunday, I ask her if she likes doing this work.

            “I do,” she nods, smiles a little, brushes a wisp of a red lock from her face.

            “That’s cool,” I say, thinking how no one could pay me to do this kind of work.

            Then the line about how if she makes a mistake it’s her fault. I don’t know what to say to this other than to laugh softly, wondering why she would say this. Did she hire someone else to do this job and they messed it up? Then she had to redo it herself? Now, she regrets this decision. But is secure in the knowledge that she’s ultimately responsible. That she has no one to blame but herself for the end result?

            Frankly, I’d want to have someone else to blame for any mistakes. I get so tired of always being responsible for everything I do. If a student complains about how a date is wrong on my syllabus, I can only apologize and fix it myself. No one else to blame. If the plants die cuz I don’t water them, I can only blame myself for hating hoses. If I don’t finish a book cuz I think it’s too much work, I only have myself to blame for not having the attention span to carry on.

            Yeah, it’d be better to have someone else to blame, wouldn’t it?

            Who would I blame?

            Right now, that’s easy. EVERYTHING that is wrong is Donald Trump’s fault. Globally and locally and yes, me too!

            I know he got into my syllabus interface (Or sent Elon Musk there!) and changed the dates so they’re all wrong.

            I know that he purposely kept me from getting out of bed from my afternoon nap and not picking up the hose.

            And, mostly, I know he’s to blame for my anxiety, depression, and stress in my life generally! Who knows what’s going to happen? Will I lose my social security? My job? My house?

            I know if these things happen, I wouldn’t have myself to blame. I didn’t vote for him. He’s not my president.

            All of these musings are nothing new, I know. But when it comes to mistakes, the biggest one that has happened in my life is the election of Donald Trump to the presidency.

            I don’t have myself to blame! And, I don’t know who to blame. And perhaps, blame isn’t helpful. Yet, it’s a human reaction to mistakes and wrongs, isn’t it?

            I wave goodbye to Sharon who’s gone back to mushing grout. “Bye,” she calls softly, engrossed in her task.

            Turning up 30^th Street, I sigh deeply, drinking in the warm spring air as a crow lights on the telephone wire and starts to caw caw caw at no one in particular.

           

Police Chase

 

Tiny fragments of shattered green glass sprinkle the asphalt. I don’t think much of it as I march up Barrett for my morning walk. Then I see the Bike Lane sign, its metal pole completely smashed, lying on the sidewalk. What happened? Looks like a car, or even a truck, mowed it down.

            Coming down the steps of the big white house on the corner here at Barrett and 30^th street, is a slight woman, big straw hat on, bending for a moment to fuss with some gardening bags on the stairs.

            She glances down at me. I see an opening. “Hi, what happened here? Was there an accident?”

            Shaking her head, I can tell that there was. “Yes,” she says, sighing softly as she comes down the steps to stand with me on the sidewalk. “It was a police chase. The city of San Pablo police. Richmond police too.” She nods toward the spot of broken glass.

            “When was this?” I ask.

            “Sunday. They closed Barrett. You probably heard the sirens. Chased the guy until he crashed, throwing him into my yard.”

            “Oh my god! That’s terrible.”

            “Yes, it was. I went out and talked to the Richmond Police to ask what was going on and they told me it was the San Pablo police. That the Richmond police didn’t engage in chases.”

            “Well, that’s good to know,” I say, thinking how I’d read some article recently in the SF Chron about how there was a huge percentage of deaths attributable to police chases. Now here was one in my own neighborhood.

            “Yes,” she stares at the spot in her front yard. “I was going to do some revamping of the garden. Add some new succulents, some other things, but now….”

            Her voice trails off. Then she resumes. “I don’t think I’ll bother.”

            I can tell she’s been traumatized. And who wouldn’t be. I can’t imagine having a body thrown into my front yard from a police chase.

            “They did take him to the hospital,” she continues. “But he didn’t survive….”

            Again, her voice trails off. I think about all the death and destruction going on right now, here in my neighborhood and on a much larger scale with the fires in LA where dozens of people have died and 1000s of structures have burned. I read in the NYT today that the area burned so far is bigger than the city of San Francisco. And these fires are not even close to being contained. Plus, more high winds on their way later this week.

            What will become of our world with climate change, presidential felons, and police chases?

            I glance over at the orange chalked outlines on the asphalt. Where the body landed? Where the cars crashed? I shiver. Not just from the cold Diablo wind blowing, but from the horror of death right under my feet.

            “That sounds just horrible. You must be traumatized by this,” I say.

            “Yes…” She looks at the ground, then at me, her eyes brown and small beneath her straw hat.

            I don’t know what else to say now. It’s time to leave her in peace, if she can find any after such an event. “Well….” I try to smile, “take care…” I offer the cliché, knowing its ineffectiveness.

            “Thank you,” she says, turning to head back up the stairs to finish her task that I interrupted.

            Turning up 30^th street, I breathe deeply. The air is cold and the winds are fierce. I want to be inside my house, away from the violence of the world outside.

            Yet, when the grey tabby comes bouncing out to greet me, I stop and pick him up. “Hello, Whispo! Aren’t you the cutest!”

            He purrs and nuzzles. For a moment I’m in another place that only a cat can provide. After a few minutes, I put him down. He jumps up on my leg, meowing. I turn away and hurry down the street, the little cat following me for a moment before being distracted by a leaf.