Defending Mojo -- A Short Story

Last night, as I always do, I let Mojo out to do his business before we all retire for the night.  It was pitch black dark out there.  As Mojo -- who, as you know, is also pitch black dark -- got to the bottom of the steps he took off like a rocket in pursuit of some moving object.  I suspected a deer.  Although I worry about his dashing out into a dark street and go unseen by passing motorists, I knew he would return  -- at some point.  And, sure enough he did, about ten minutes later.  Seemed innocent enough.  He came in to the house without any indication that anything other than an innocent chase had occurred.  He slept well.

This morning, as we were about to head to the beach, I got to the bottom of the steps from our deck, and there at the bottom was a dead squirrel.  I looked at Mojo who just looked back at me with a clueless, vacant stare.  As if he were suggesting he knew nothing about this incident.  Could he have done this?  Dare I consider the possibility that this loving dog, this tail wagging, lighthearted creature could have committed cold blooded murder?  I tried to banish the thought.  Maybe the squirrel had fallen to the ground from the bird feeder we had attached to our living room window which I knew from first hand observation was a very popular place for the local squirrel population to hang out.  Maybe this one had lost his footing and landed awkwardly killing him instantly.  Maybe, in a fit of piggishness, the squirrel had gorged himself to extreme at the bird feeder buffet and had died from over consumption.  Or, was there another, darker, explanation?

We walked to the beach, Mojo seemingly without a care in the world peeing to his heart's content, pulling me onward knowing where we were going.  But, in my head, I kept going back to the scene we had just left wondering, wondering.  There were no witnesses to this incident.  Evidence was merely circumstantial.  There were other plausible explanations.  No jury could convict him, could it?

I hesitated, but upon our return home, I decided to bag up the squirrel and toss him in the garbage.   But, I agonized.  Was I covering up a crime?  Was I tampering with state's evidence?  Was I now an accessory?!

I decided not to tell Lily.  Some things are left better unsaid.  

But, I am left to wonder.

A Two-Wheeled Dream

Back in the days when I could legitimately say I was young – somewhere this side of the Mesozoic era – my “Leave it to Beaver” neighborhood rejoiced with the sounds of kids. There were many in the streets around me, and the shouts and taunts and laughter emanating from us all provided a steady soundtrack to our lives. Oftentimes, it was street games of various sorts that would raise the ambient decibel levels, but just as frequently it would be the incessant chatter one would hear as groups of kids on bikes would streak through the neighborhood. Kids would be on their way to other kids' houses to play, or perhaps be riding to pick-up baseball or football games, or maybe just a casual sortie down to our local store to pick up a pack of baseball cards or, perhaps, a candy bar. But, my participation in these events was limited. I did not own a bike.

I wanted one, of course. It would have provided me with a level of social acceptance which I dearly would have loved. It would have enabled me to become one of the group and to participate first hand rather than as just a drop-in on those sporadic occasions when I would walk to ball fields or the store and catch up with the others. The reason I did not own a bike was not a mystery to me, but it was no more satisfying knowing the reason. My mother made it known to me that I would never own a bike because of the sadness she still harbored from a point in her life long past. In her youth, her younger brother had been killed in a cycling accident, and, understandably, that loss left an indelible mark on her – one that would give life decades later to an indomitable fear of having a son who would be out on the streets facing, in her mind, constant mortal risks. My mom was upfront about all this. She fully conceded that her fears were irrational and overblown by the power of memory and time. But, the bottom line was no bike for me. End of discussion.

My best friends, Leah and Greg, both had bikes. They knew of my desires and encouraged me to try riding their bikes on the street in front of our houses. But, my efforts were hopeless. Once I was finally able to get rolling, I had no clue how to steer, let alone stop before I faced an inopportune obstacle like a tree, a street curb, or a fire hydrant. I still recall rolling down the gentle slope of Ogden Avenue, gaining speed, and having no idea how my ride might finish. As if in surrender, I would take my feet off the pedals and let the bike go where it wanted. It controlled matters, not me. I felt equal pangs of exhilaration and terror. My screams, I'm sure, could be easily identified with either emotion. Most frequently, my brief rolling adventures would end with me involuntarily grabbing the trunk of a tree I had just unceremoniously crashed into, or would end with me laying prone on a neighbor's front lawn after a curb had insidiously intersected my path and thrown me clear of my ride. My mother knew none of this.

We now flash forward several decades. I have had an absolutely wonderful life but it has been virtually bike-free. I am now Medicare eligible and am ready to take on life's new challenge: to successfully ride a bike. That is to say, to complete a ride without serious injury or worse. Yes, I have had a few misshapen adventures with bikes over the years, none of them ending well. I have a clear memory of the bruises and indignities that have served only to reinforce my logical side that I should consider other pursuits, ones less grounded in the needs for balance and sharp reflexes.

But, I have a specific reason to turn my attention to this decades-old mission of mine. We have a trip planned to Tuscany this summer and our stay will be in Lucca, a fabulously charming old walled city. Atop the walls is a park, complete with greenery, folks strolling with young children, and animated bocce games. Best of all, you can rent bikes and circumnavigate the city from above taking in all the wonderful sights of the park and the city below. But, as I sit here now, I am seriously ill-equipped to even think about doing this aboard a bike lest I have an unscheduled run-in with a bocce participant or, perhaps, a turret.

For this reason, I have acquired a bike. It's a basic beach cruiser – no gears or other paraphernalia that might mistake it for serious hard-charging wheeled pursuits. But, it is a bike and, as is true for all bikes, it must be ridden with balance and without the wobbling and tentative decision-making that is my current signature for this activity. I bought a helmet. Smart. Now that I have learned which end of the helmet faces which part of my skull, I feel oddly protected. Fortunately, our community is relatively deserted this time of year which means I can wobble my way down neighborhood streets without an ever present fear that I might have to dodge oncoming car traffic or innocent civilian pedestrians. With each episode out on the streets, I constantly remind myself of the helpful advice given to me by Lily and others: look up, don't look down at the wheels, and when attempting to turn, lean into the turn with my body, not a turn of the front wheel. Sounds easy, right? In the two days that I have ventured out to ply my new craft, I have only crashed twice. One incident was entirely my fault, but the other was clearly due to a tree that rudely got way too close to me.

On to Tuscany, I say. Just please do me a favor and don't alert my insurance carrier. I'd appreciate it.