A Prayer for Captain Tony

They put Captain Tony down today. This bear of a dog, this absolutely wonderful best friend to Jim, is gone. So very, very sad. Our hearts go out to Jim, Ivy, and Marley, but, in the end, this was Jim’s dog and I believe his hurt will be felt the most. To people who do not own pets, or who do not fancy themselves as dog lovers, Captain’s passing will not seem particularly newsworthy; but it is.

We first met Captain Tony, a burly, lightly hued golden retriever, when he did time at the animal shelter in Alexandria. From the get go, he displayed his lifelong habit of nudging his head under your hand for some attention, some special handling. If, moments later, you would pull your hand away, his head would dive right back in there. He simply craved a little attention and affection. And, it was humans he was drawn to, not the companionship of other dogs. He came into our lives when Jim and Ivy had yet to find a place to live that would accept pets, but Jim knew he had to claim this wonderful beast because dogs like Captain Tony don’t hang around animal shelters very long. Until they could find a pet-friendly home, Lily and I agreed to give Captain a home although he would have to share it with our eternally juvenile chocolate lab, Hoover.

Captain Tony was deaf, or mostly so. This did not make him seem disabled or damaged to me; rather, that quirk seemed to make him even more special. We fairly quickly learned that if you wanted to communicate with this guy, you had to face him head on. You needed eye contact. And, once that was established, we did fine. He did scare the bejesus out of us the day he suffered his first seizure in our home, and the terror we felt still resonates with us. His contorted body and wild flailings froze us in place. We didn’t know if he was dying or if he would throw himself through a window. And, afterwards, when he was so disoriented that for minutes he did not know where he was or who we were, were moments that were as heartbreaking for us as they were troubling to him. But, through medication, this issue, too, was safely negotiated.

When Jim claimed him from our house, an era of almost magical camaraderie was born between these two. The fact that they were of two different species was so besides the point. They bonded as few animals and people do. Their hikes, their trips to lakes and streams and to the beach were so special because for each of them, that was what they most loved to do. And, to share that with another being who feels exactly as the other makes for an extraordinary relationship.

As the years wore on, and Captain Tony slowed his pace, he took on a dignity that, yet again, was special. He had a huge head and when he sat on the beach and barked at some unseen goblin, he had the demeanor of a lion. A very agreeable lion. Of late, he developed bone cancer and the dreaded countdown began. A few days ago, when I discussed Captain’s fate with Jim, he told me he had done some research online looking for answers as to when it is, exactly, that marks the time that one should put down an animal. What he came away with was the notion that when a dog can no longer do what he loves to do, then maybe it’s time. It resonated with Jim, but that didn’t make the decision any easier.

At mid-day today, I knew the moment was at hand and both Lily and I felt a great surge of sadness. Having lost Hoover a few years ago, also to bone cancer, we knew the extreme despair of knowing the time has come, but also realizing that your great friend, who trusts you completely, does not share that realization. And there is no way to tell him. It is one of the heartaches of being in receipt of unconditional love that makes this so difficult.

I told Jim I would wait a couple of days to speak to him. It’s just too fresh today. But, our thoughts and love are with that family.

Adjusting (Or Not)

You’ve been there, right? You walk into someone’s house who has a couple of kids -- and enough years have rolled by so this is not a recent experience for you -- and toys are strewn everywhere. So many, in fact, that as you ease your way into a family room you are more frequently stepping on things that squeak and honk than on a flat surface. Some things may even be sharp or large enough to cause a random meeting between your nose and one of those family room walls as you stumble your way to a chair. In a perverse way, this is what Lily and I are feeling these days as our community morphs from its winter ghost town identity to thriving metropolis. Spring has come to Charleston, and so have the tourists. They are everywhere, and they are there all the time. I went to the beach yesterday -- which for months has been more secluded than the Fortress of Solitude -- only to find actual people roaming the beach, making sand castles, burying each other, or just sunbathing. It is so odd that in an expanse that is so wide and deep and with such an infinite horizon that even the most claustrophobic feel at ease, I sensed a claustrophobic-like moment welling up in me. Who are these people and why are they upsetting my personal universe?

At night, when in previous months you would be much more likely to see deer roaming the streets than people, you now see hordes (well, what seems like hordes) of folks walking about like it’s noon. Voices come from everywhere. And the trash! Beer cans, wet towels, pails, and partially buried toy tractors and trucks are all too visible on the beach. When driving, what had once been an environment where the local stop signs were as needed as they would be on the lunar surface, they now must be rigidly obeyed. During the day, behind the wheel, you feel like you’re in an amusement park arcade as you anticipate the constant darting out into the streets by small urchins untethered from their parents. Not that the parents don’t enjoy their jaywalking too. And the traffic! Now, you actually have to plan ahead to wander out to the Piggly Wiggly lest you get caught up in a line of cars so long and serpentine you feel you’re in an ant colony’s conga line.

I was sharing these observations the other day with the nice lady who sells us Mojo’s dog food, and she nodded knowingly, as only a long time resident could. She told me that when she and her husband moved here from Ohio 12 years ago they, too, soon enough came to love the off-season and were quick to take up the spiritual banner against this dreaded species they call tourists. She also told me to lighten up.

So, now I have to deal with the fact that I am on the fast track to curmudgeonhood.

The Race

It was an impulse really. I did it without thinking. The good folks at the Wild Dunes resort here decided to sponsor a 5k run, on the beach. They called it the “Tortoise and the Hare Beach Run.” We had just returned from Colorado where we skied for the first time in 13 years, and, frankly, my legs felt like lead. And, to be honest, in my more than 30 years of running, I had only participated in two previous races and they were more than 20 years ago. I think maybe deep down I thought that among the likely crowd for this one, I could do pretty well since I had been running almost daily for weeks. So, I signed up.

I showed up at the appointed time and sneaked glances at my competition. I was not encouraged. While there were a few souls appearing to be above the age of 40, most were in their early 20s. Jackrabbits, all of them. I was easily the oldest entrant. Certainly, no one else was sporting a white beard. Still, I thought I might do respectably. Lest anyone but the most oblivious think this was an event on a par with the New York Marathon, I could detect several distinguishing features. First, there were about 35 of us, not 35,000. Second, there were no crowds lining the course, although I can tell you there were many mosquitoes and sand fleas. Third, I don’t think you’re apt to see a human-sized tortoise and hare in full costume at the New York event. And, lastly, while we would not be touching down in all five NYC boroughs, we would be asked to run up the beach to a marker near the 18th hole and return to the start.

When the call of “Go!” came forth, I realized that one of the jackrabbits was already a hundred yards down the course before I had even turned on my ipod. Very humbling. But, I gathered myself to get into the fray and found myself, if not near the front of the pack, at least within hailing distance of it. Well, sort of. I realized my pace was a good bit faster than I would normally indulge in, but, after all, this was a race, not a jog. I got into my rhythm and tuned almost everything out except my music and the stares, some admiring, some quizzical, of the folks who had come down to the beach for an early morning stroll.

As I turned it on for the sprint to the finish line, I realized there was no one around me. Most of the jackrabbits had already finished and the rest of the field had slowed under the obviously torrid pace I had set for the them. At the finish line, there was one guy -- the one in the hare outfit -- who was there to give me a high five as I crossed the line. No cheering crowds, no bands playing. No champagne. Silence. I’m thinking to myself, why did I do this? I could have slept in and gone for a run later (indeed, without paying for the privilege).

I grabbed a couple of glasses of water and my race t-shirt and headed home. As I was leaving the area, I heard someone call out my name. I turned around. It was the hare. In his hand, he had an envelope which he handed to me. Apparently, the youthful winner had no sooner crossed the finish line than he had raced himself right off the beach and into a waiting car that would carry him and his family away from the resort and to, presumably, home. The race organizers decided that the award for the first place finisher -- a free massage at the spa -- should go to me! I didn’t ask why. But, it was hard to stop laughing. And, sure enough, when I opened the gift certificate, it said “to the top male runner.” I decided to aggressively delude myself into thinking how that might be the case.

Please tell me they didn’t give it to me out of pity.

The Prodigal Son Returns

I stared at the computer screen transfixed. I was watching a flight tracking site as it ever so slowly recorded the progress of Alex’s return flight to the U.S. from Qatar. It was just a blip on a world map, but that blip contained a son who had been gone for almost 15 months. That’s a long time. The flight tracker gave me more information than I could possibly use: altitude, speed, heading, anticipated arrival time, etc. Everything but what they were serving for lunch. The blip inched its way into U.S. airspace and I experienced an odd sense of relief. As the altitude lowered in the plane’s approach into Dulles, I actually got excited. But, it’s not like we were there to greet him. No, that would come later once Alex had a couple of days to re-acquaint with friends who were just a tiny picture on Facebook or a faceless email account for so many months. I found it very amusing that literally an hour before his plane landed we got a postcard from Alex that he had sent from Nepal six weeks earlier, and, in his last line, he wondered whether it would arrive before he did. Just barely.

We had seen Alex twice in his travels, once in South Africa and again in Indonesia. Each was a sensational treat to have a reunion in such ridiculously exotic surroundings. But, having him home would be a treat second to none. After a whirlwind week of dinners galore with our friends in the D.C. area and then late nights with his friends, it was all pretty exhausting. We did return home to the Isle of Palms where Alex saw a far different house than the one he left in the closing days of 2008. And, he met Mojo for the first time who --doing his best Labrador routine -- was quite excited to see this tall, lanky stranger.

The effects of this trip will be with him for a long time, for sure. How could it not be? The other day, when we were driving through local streets, he spotted an animal and stared at it intently until he realized it was not a goat, but merely a dog. Maybe not what you’re apt to see in India, Nepal or Java, but really quite ordinary here, right? Really, his whole persona needs a re-boot to get into the flow of this strange new land, the U.S. Some friends have asked us whether we thought Alex would have any re-adjustment issues having been away so long (and in such wildly different environments). I think the jury is out on that one. It may depend in some measure on how successful he is in pursuing his dream of working in sports media. It is a venture that has focused his energies, and not just here but also abroad where he spent considerable time tracking down job possibilities and mapping a plan to guide him when he hit the ground.

Alex will be fine. Now, if he could only learn to pick up his stuff that has spread eerily like a lava flow around the house.

The Bushido Challenge

Everybody loves a challenge. It focuses the mind. Gets the juices flowing, they say. “Don’t tell me I can’t beat that guy, “ or “don’t tell me I can’t beat that record.” Where would "machismo" be without a challenge, right? In the food world, the notion of challenge can take several, less than elegant, forms: competitive speed eating comes to mind. Or, perhaps, Man vs. Food which routinely endeavors to shock the world with ungodly volumes of consumption.

And, so it is here in Charleston where the beauty, elegance and grace of sushi creation are savagely re-directed to the more primeval elements of “the challenge.” In this case, the venue is Bushido, a sushi restaurant in the West Ashley section of Charleston, where a steady stream of combatants come to test their will against the almighty spicy tuna roll. Some call it the Bushido Challenge, some call it the spicy tuna roll challenge, but the game is the same: to earn the title of “Legend of the Roll” one must consume in one sitting 10 spicy tuna rolls -- all hand-rolled -- in which each succeeding roll is increasingly spicy. The first few are deceptively easy, but the last few are laced with ever larger infusions of habanero peppers and thai chilies until the last couple fairly spontaneously combust if left unattended for more than a few moments. It is told that more than four hundred hearty, if delusional, souls have attempted this, and only a handful have succeeded.

I love spicy food and had looked forward to experiencing this diabolical, if ridiculous, challenge. Thirty years ago, when Lily and I were in Chiang Mai, Thailand I humbly met my match with a dish that caused my tears to flow as no other event in my life had up to that point (save perhaps the heartbreaking loss by the Yankees in game 7 of the 1960 World Series). I remember telling the restaurant proprietor that I was up to taking his best shot and I was taken down. Hard. I failed that day and now saw Bushido as a much delayed chance at redemption.

When we placed our order with our waitress, she sternly said to me, “You don’t want a number 10. Believe me.” Sadly, I folded, taking her at what had to be her very experienced word. Frankly, I think I may have been intimidated. I went with a number 6 which she said was the spiciest she had ever handled. (I had no intention of eating all ten and going for the Legend accolades. It wasn’t just a matter of the cumulative spiciness that loomed, but the sheer volume of all that food.) I was on red alert as she placed the fiery red conical torpedo in front of me. Waiting for the alarm bells to explode as I chewed, I was somewhat surprised that while this roll was most definitely spicy, even fiery, it was not a killer. That silver bullet lay somewhat higher up the food chain, as it were.

What was so entertaining, though, was to look around and see others there who were unmistakably there for the challenge. They were the ones who could easily be mistaken for being seasick as they sat rubbing their heads -- in disbelief possibly -- with a vaguely green pallor, a vacant stare, and beads of sweat popping up all too obviously on their foreheads. They were up to their eyeballs in tuna, peppers and chilies and their bodies were in active revolt. One poor soul, who had just eaten numbers 9 and 10 had bolted outside with a carton of milk in his hands. Too little too late, I was thinking. Another guy, at the same table, looked as catatonic as one might be and still be considered a paying customer. The girlfriend of the guy with the milk told us there was no way her boyfriend was going to sleep in her bed that night. It was the couch for him. No sirree, no unnecessary risks for her. A third guy came with a large group all the way from Macon, Georgia for the sole purpose of doing the challenge. He told me there was no way he could return home without victory -- here celebrated by the issuance of a headband with the Bushido name on it, a $25 dollar gift certificate, and the promise of lifetime bows by the sushi chefs whenever you enter the restaurant. He was sitting there with numbers 9 and 10 on the plate in front of him daring him to complete the challenge and possibly a call to 911. His vacant stares told me he would be a while and so we left not knowing his fate.

As for me, I am going back. Next time it will be a number 7 and perhaps a number 8. Redemption is out there, I know it.

Steppin' Out

There comes a point when you say to yourself, “okay, the ball’s in your court. It’s time to get out there and meet people.” After a year in Charleston, we have been swept up in a wave of extrovertism (if that’s a word). While I have been out and about for the past year making an easy fit of my new retirement fatigues, the same could not be said of Lily. Whereas I have been doing a steady meet and greet every morning in my jaunts to the beach with Mojo, Lily has been encased, as it were, working in her cave, which we alternately refer to as the office or guestroom numero dos. I have been flapping my gums for months meeting a wide array of dog owners, getting to like some, making my own contribution toward our assimilation into the South Carolinian life style. But now, Lily is retired. And, in anticipation of the event (which officially occurred last Friday), we have been looking for avenues to pursue to glad hand and embrace the entire Wild Dunes Community.

Our first shot in the dark came with the local bridge club. I know, I know it sounds so terribly stolid -- so old school -- but, hey, it’s a start. Lily and I do enjoy the game although we find it so much more enjoyable when it is accompanied by major servings of wine and opportunities to chat amiably with our opponents. As it turns out, the group we joined could not have been nicer: convivial, welcoming, knowledgeable. What the small print disclosed, however, was that the median age of the group was somewhere around 112, maybe a bit less. I mean these folks don’t just remember the Great Depression; some were walk-ons for the movie version of the Grapes of Wrath, I‘m quite certain. That’s old in case you’re missing my point. But, we have gone several times now even including their early bird dinners which begin about 5:30. My God, it's still light then, and it's winter for crying out loud. Stay tuned on this one.

Beyond this, we have enrolled (drum roll, please) in the Wild Dunes Yacht Club! Please, please try to refrain from laughter at this point. Really, wait just a second. First of all, you don’t have to be a boat owner to join. This is a good thing since, first, we don’t own a boat, and second, we are as comfortable in small boats as many people are in straight jackets. Second, it appears that the primary unifying force of the club is to get people together to drink and eat. Not necessarily a bad thing. And, maybe best of all, a number of the members don’t clearly remember a world without the internet. No Civil War veterans here. Lily and I went to one meeting a couple of weeks ago and were delighted at the wine selection, and the care free camaraderie of the attendees. We look forward to the next event.

I’m even thinking of trying to find the perfect ascot for these events. Maybe one with little anchors in it.

And on Reflection

(Dec. 28) On another 14 hour flight. This one’s from Hong Kong to Chicago. At the moment, however, it’s hard to think about anything but a very young, and very unhappy, passenger whose screams may break some windows before he’s done. My hope is that the steady drone of the engines will soothe both his and my jangled nerves. The flight plan for United 896 appears to take us over Russian air space. I presume the Russkies are expecting us.

Our vacation is over. Months and months of planning and coordination and, in a flash, it’s done. Isn’t it always the case? But, the memories of this one will last a long, long time. For Lily and me, traveling with Jesse and Alex once again (and Laura now too) reminds me how wonderful it is to do that, although no reminders are needed. Jesse is fast becoming a very accomplished guy: a 3.95 g.p.a. in grad school, an internship upcoming with the State Department in Mexico City, a graduate degree in June, and nuptials in September. A crowded agenda. He is so grounded and well-prepared for whatever lies ahead. His days as troublemaker par excellence are rapidly vanishing in his rear view mirror. He is master of his fate, and I love that about him. When he mimics someone’s voice, when telling one of his wonderful stories, he sounds like a stereotypical Russian, no matter what the nationality of the person he’s depicting. I find it hilarious. He and I are ruthless hearts players, and it is not uncommon for newcomers to our games to indicate that maybe they aren’t quite ready for this experience. But, we enjoy ourselves immensely.

And Alex? Here’s a guy who’s been traveling for a year. From Tierra del Fuego to Swaziland to Vientiane to Perth. And soon, Kathmandu and Mumbai. Mountain trekking, skydiving, shark cages, bungee jumping, safaris, and scuba. He has not been short changed in this adventure. What was once a kid with learning challenges and self-esteem concerns is now an emerging man of the world. When once reading was a painful exercise for him, he now devours books during his frequent solo journeys to the middle of nowhere. I know I am biased, but Alex may be the funniest person I know. Many people make me smile; Alex makes me laugh. Out loud. What could be better? Together, Jesse and Alex take great pleasure in pointing out my foibles, both physical and behavioral. It is one of the constant drumbeats of our time together. Lily is spared this; she’s their mom, after all. I, however, am fair game, and that’s fine by me. They kid because they love, right?

For the days we spent together in Indonesia in our shared scuba experience, I found myself watching not just the amazing marine life, but Jesse and Alex too. They would probably be embarrassed to learn this, but experiencing these fabulous underwater jaunts with them and Lily, together as a family, was at least as amazing to me. It provided one of those quintessential “pinch me” moments.

So, this adventure is now history. In this family, though, it is always about the next trip. On to Provence, I say!