Bruno

 Blowing in like the Chinook he was named after; the first Samoyed found us before I’d entered kindergarten. We called him Sam. The second Samoyed, Bruno, magically appeared as a puppy when I was on the cusp of adulthood. Small, oh-so-soft rumbunctious ball of white fur. Fully grown Samoyeds are snow-white (appearing more yellow when actually in snow) sled-pulling dogs like a Husky. Atop that hard nose was soft, smooth cotton. Fur on the back white and wiry; I delighted in petting the soft fur on his head. In the dream it was that warm softness that permeated everything.

Before my first kiss Bruno and I had shared an edible dog chew. One end in my teeth Bruno would grab the other. Like Jackie Paper and his friend Puff, Bruno and I would set out for adventure in my metal Hornet. I was beginning to realize I was wired for solo explorations down beach canyons and through Hollywood hills. Not lacking for friends there remained a dire need for connection with self and fun loving companion.

If you were once a teenage boy you ought understand. Angst and emptiness warred in my not-quite grown-up soul. Grabbing my sleeping bag, I let my mom know I was sleeping on the back porch alongside Bruno. Wondering now if I needed connection with something or someone faithful. Trying to step outside of the emotions inside. Like Odysseus and Argos there is a special connection between man and dog.

In the dream Bruno was being hugged; full bear-hug. In real life I carried a tranquilized Bruenster into the vets; limp body held tightly. 

Photo by Barcs Tamás on Unsplash

Pheremones and Home Invasions

                           Photo by Michael Milverton on Unsplash

I vacuumed up two more ladybugs this morning. One with dotted bright red-orange that one expects to find on a ladybug. One with a color bordering porcelain and parchment. A scattered few seeking refuge but finding their demise. No colonies setting up camp; thank goodness! An internet search states they’re seeking winter warmth. Funny how nature is wonderful and stunning when outside your house but frustrating, annoying and frightening when she invades it.

Tar-like brown oozed from the air vent and dripped into the bathroom in my old southern California house. A mystery this! Perhaps there were issues caused by the new roofing? Only years later when bees were becoming an issue outside the house that the apiarists addressed the problem. A large beehive had been built in the attic! So they were removed with a catch. Bees, like ladybugs and myriad other pests leave a trail of pheromones. And so they returned. To be removed again.

We’ve all seen the industrious ant in some nature documentary. Fascinating and fearsome in their subterranean tunnels; fierce in flood and forest trees. We had a flood of our own in the form of a burst pipe in our neighbor’s apartment. The water itself would have been trouble enough. Then came the ants. A square outline as they marched around inside our closet. Streaming from the baseboard in bathroom and hallway. Trails of pheromones, ants on conquest. Perhaps, as I write this, the pest control has succeeded in shoring up the walls. I expect a breach at any moment.

There is a wonder in it all. The myriad types of ants; crazy ants, fire ants, carpenter ants. Fortunately, these tiny ones in this invasion aren’t fond of sugar. The kitchen holds out thus far. There is the beauty of the ladybug. The mysterious way in which she finds entry into our place. The ants are militaristic, sending out scouts, scouring wood, enlarging territory. Ladybugs are gentle as though they would ask permission to alight and winter with you if they could. My answer would be no. I am grateful for the diet of the ladybug which protects my rose bush. Happy to have the ants aerate my garden. Ladybugs stain, bees sting and ants bite. There’s a reason for the words ‘inside’ and ‘outside’. Inside home, a haven. Outside, the garden, in all its’ fear and perplexity.

A Tunnel Between Two Gardens

“I remember the days of old; I meditate on all Your accomplishments;
I reflect on the work of Your hands. I spread out my hands to You;
My soul longs for You, like a weary land. Selah.”

Tapping me on the shoulder, Google photo whispers, “Perspective, perspective.” “I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread,” Bilbo says. A good description of the feeling these days. A new prescription is necessary for this short-sightedness. Like a person hiking through a tunnel between two gardens; I forget the beauty behind and the glories ahead.

My wife was exhausted. Caring for her mom 24/7. It was time for our traditional 3- day getaway. With guilt and relief, we left her mom in the care of her brother. Sipping Stone Brewing’s Berliner Weiss we were no longer in So Cal. The air is hot and the cobblestones vibrate as heat radiates upward. Aside from the Rhine the only place that looks cool is beneath the umbrellas. The girl in the dirndl dress brings you a stein. That first sip… Then you realize the tour guide has moved on to the next beer in the flight.

Rioting, looting, a global pandemic, school closures and day-to-day stressors had us ready for a road-trip come summer of 2020. It’s California; the only way to book a hotel is as an ‘essential worker.’ We head to Arizona. There I sit on a wood park bench facing Whiskey Row. Book in hand, I stretch out on that lazy summer evening. Reading, resting and intermittently watching a lightning storm shoot across the sky.

The lightning flashes fade too easily. The brushing breeze, the soul-rest and the wonder are forgotten. A dry space inside the tunnel. A parched place, a weary land. The call is to remember that this moment in it’s weariness (oh, wastefulness) is momentary. We have those snapshots from both sides of the tunnel. The marvels that were and the glories to follow.