This was to be a day unlike any other. To be perfectly honest, I spent most days lying on the couch, thinking about my personal take on the “equation of everything” and getting very close to some conclusions. I just didn’t have the necessary tools to express these ideas. I had all these wonderful concepts, but no way to express them.

     I tried many ways to get people’s attention. I hollered late into the night the day I realized that I had made a perfect model of physical existence. I called it, “The quantum state of being”. In other words, there is not a continuity of physical existence; its either there or it is not there. Just like my food bowl. It either has food for my hungry stomach, or it simply does not.

     I really tried to explain this, but every person I knew thought I was just hungry and gave me more food. Which I was more than happy to accept, but I didn’t see how this was going to get me any closer to a Nobel Prize. Then there was the day that I discovered the unique technique used by my nemesis, the cat.

     She also has a theory for the equation of everything, but she and I do not collaborate for reasons I will not go into detail here. She is always flirting with people to get their attention, and though this was repulsive to me (I think flirting is too syrupy) I tried it one day. I began stroking my head against one of my favorite people, and tried to imitate the purring noise that my rival had made the previous day. Unfortunately, this came out as a kind of growl, which did not produce desirable results. People simply got scared and left.

     I have a new plan. I will instead put on a public demonstration for my thesis in such a way as that a human being could understand. I will procure two bowls, one saved from the breakfast meal and hidden under the couch, and the other from my dinner. I will refuse to eat my dinner, and I will drag out the old bowl and place it at a close proximity to the aforementioned bowl. By not eating it, the human will certainly see that there is food in one bowl and no food in the other. Since I know one of them has taken physics, he will see my theory instantly and express it in words eloquently enough to get a Nobel Prize. The fact that I will not be at the ceremony does not concern me. I only seek to further the realms of science.

     The day of my public demonstration came. I had hidden the bowl from the morning under the couch, and was eagerly waiting for the night to come. Oh the hours! I imagined how it would be. The call from Stockholm, newspaper reporters, the fame, the impact on science! All the physics books would have to be rewritten, with my theory as the conclusion to every chapter. And what’s more, I would have another reason to say that dogs are inherently smarter than cats. That would be wonderful.

     As I was thinking on these glorious thoughts, I heard James, the physics student, rinsing out my second best bowl. I heard the delicious clatter of food dropping into the stainless steel dish, making the empty full. As I heard him slowly walk down the hall, my stomach rumbled. I ignored it the first time. And the second. And the third. As he put down the bowl, my tummy growled a tremendous growl. I felt myself overcome with the canine instinct to eat food that is put out. Every minute of not eating that delicious kibbles and bits was agony. I was sure that it must be worth it for the prize, but every minute the pang in my doggy inside was getting worse. I peered from above my bowl and looked at the quizzical look on James’ face. He said, “Why is your bowl out…I didn’t see it before…” He paused for a long moment. “It kind of reminds of something I learned in school…”

     The pause was quickly turning the pain in my puppy inside from agony to severe agony. I couldn’t stand it any more. Something inside me said eat, eat! I couldn’t withstand the temptation, and stuffed my puppy face. Just I was was nibbling the last kibble, the cat slinked around the corner and smiled the smile that only cats can smile. Oh, the irony!

     The day my aunt Cachi (Cah-chee) ran over our dog Phoebe, I was sitting on the front porch of our house, trying to spend some time alone, a thing the family unanimously chastised me for. It had, of course, been an accident. Cachi was a profound lover of animals and one needed only to see our home as proof. We had three dogs, a Viennese pig named Sigmund, and I cannot tell you exactly how many cats. During the day, Cachi worked as a social worker at City Hall and in the evenings she would fulfill her true calling in life, sitting on the ground in our backyard, her long brown legs spread open on the grass, de-fleaing or clipping the nails, or doing something equally as unnerving to some poor victim and Phoebe, Phoebe was her love. Before my mother had left my father, Cachi had come to Hawaii to pay us a visit. I think it was at this point in time that my mother must have known she would be leaving our dad because with little explanation she packed up our much-beloved dog and sent her off with her sister to California.

     Phoebe was highly companionable, her large brown eyes stared up at you whenever you spoke and if you sat near her, she would plop her head on your lap. She welcomed having her head petted and her ears squeezed a little hard, just like my father used to do to her, to which she would growl ever so slightly. She still attacked our feet from under the blankets even though we had to help her onto the bed to do so. And after her baths, she still did a little trot around the kitchen and acting like a lady coming from the beauty parlor.

     By the time we moved to California, two years later, Phoebe had given birth to pups and Cachi, out of a desire to not have to see her separated from her “children,” kept two of the males Spanky and Blitzy who ran like wild horses whenever someone was at the door. (Yes, she humanized Phoebe a great deal but if one really thinks about it, it is quite hard to love an animal without humanizing them to some extent.) In any case, by the time she ran over her own dog, Phoebe was showing signs of age. Half sheepdog, half poodle her eyes had become slightly clouded with age and her formerly lustrous white fur had dulled and yellowed at bit. She didn’t lie on her mat, but flopped, and spent much of the day there resting. She drank for long spells making the most annoying lapping sound and had some condition of the skin which only got worse, much worse, with age and twice a week Cachi would lift her into the tub and give her some kind of eucalyptus bath and treat all the affected areas.

     At this point, it’s true, some people would be saying to “put her to sleep” as they like to say. Maybe her sores made her smell less than pretty but why should that be reason enough? I think one can always tell when something or someone is ready to die, though I cannot say I have ever seen it myself. The death of a pet always leaves me disconcerted. Why is it so different than the death of a person? I had a cat in particular who seemed prescient of the fact that he was sick and I swear he tried to tell me, not by peeing on the carpet or anything like that, he simply looked at me one day and the thought flashed through my head, “You will not be here long” and I expunged it, I remember, thinking myself a little nuts while standing at my back door and smoking and looking at the grass. It had been my cynicism, my arrogance that kept me from understanding, whether a suitable explanation could be had or not.

     At the time of my story, I was still a young teenager, really into doing my own thing which meant dressing like a punk-rock star and insisting on being left alone as much as possible. This was a hard enough feat in-and-of itself because I seemed to be the only one in my large, garrulous family who had any appetite at all for solitude. There were 8 of us, humans, that is. Our house had two bedrooms and one bathroom and thankfully a large backyard. Privacy was hard to come by. I think that desire for space, and to some extent, escape, must have been why I started writing. Sitting on the bench our front porch was where I would daydream about the John McWilliams, a boy at school, paint my fingernails black, and do my studies (always quite meticulously I must say) and when I had exhausted these activities, I began filling pages of my college-ruled loose-leaf with words. There on paper, there was space not only to be had, but to be created. There, I thought there was an infinite amount of space to fill, that everything was possible. There was what seemed an infinite amount of potential in the imagination and it could come to me, sometimes, if I set pen to paper. But to create something is not only to choose what it is, but what it is not. Once the words begin to take shape, the process is almost instantly saddening and everything that was previously there has extracted, subtracted itself and been humbled into simply being what is. Two years later, I would start writing feverish, bad incomprehensible poetry and reading philosophy, four years later I would leave home, shave my head and think myself a self-proclaimed rebel with hopefully important ideas, reading philosophy, hanging out at the coffeehouse and dabbling with drugs and other hungry, self-important people. Ten years later, I would begin to see my own childishness and laugh at myself until it hurt. Five years later, I would find complacency.

     But unlike me and the person I was trying to become, Cachi seemed to live for others. She did not do this with the noble grace of a saint but in the fashion of someone with energy and a fair-dose of ADHD. Cachi was always doing twenty things at once. She would wash the dishes and have a pot boiling on the stove, then decide to vacuum in the living-room, then start to fluff the pillows and that would remind her of our bedroom and she would be in there, straightening things out. The pot would boil over and the water would be running. Time would run out. If someone were coming to visit, the house would be in complete cleaning-disarray and we would all grin and scramble to make things suitable. Trips out were very much this way too. There were always numerous items to be brought to and fro in a collection of plastic shopping bags. This embarrassed me more than anything, my aunt picking me from a friend’s house, my friend walking me to the car and seeing inside of it, the plethora of plastic bags, rarely filled with the contents for which they were intended-groceries. Instead there would be Grandma’s medications, the dogs’ medications, bulging sweaters, clothes to be taken to the dry-cleaners, sewing projects, art projects, books, toothpaste and deodorant, bills to pay. As I said, on this day in particular, I was on the porch and watching as Cachi rushed to finish packing the car. My sister Myra and cousin Mia were already in their seats, off to the mall or something for which I was glad for, and the neighbor Tina, a chubby prepubescent whose mother was a tough auto mechanic, was going too. Phoebe had needed a shot for something or the other, perhaps for the skin-problem. The girls were laughing and carrying on about something. Cachi was carting bag after bag and preparing to put Phoebe in the back of the Toyota hatchback and had secured her by her leash to the back of the car. I don’t know why I looked up precisely when I did, because I’m sure I wasn’t starring at them the whole time but trying to ignore them, each and everyone of them and wish myself a better more esteemed existence, but when I did, I saw Cachi reverse and Phoebe laying just in back of the rear right tire, went completely under it. Thump. I yelled. Cachi looked at me as if to say, “What?” and put the car in drive. It lurched forward. Thump.

     I didn’t come to help. Instead I witnessed as my frantic aunt yelled at the girls who were crying and yelling at her and told them to get out. She picked Phoebe up on her side and laid her carefully in the back seat and secured the seatbelts as best as she could. She got back in the driver’s seat and started to pull away. Her purse fell from the roof of the car. She hit the brakes and retrieved her purse and gathered the contents that had spilled out onto the street, including her contraceptive diaphragm, and then she left.

     Mom and I peered through the window when we heard Cachi park a couple of hours later. Her face was beet-red and she had Phoebe wrapped in a blanket. Mom said we would have to have my uncles bury her in the backyard but she was wrong. Phoebe was fine.

     Cachi relayed the story. There had been no internal bleeding. She was old, but she was okay. It was then that I really felt sorry for my aunt, thinking about how frantic she must have been. I’m sure she swamped the vet with questions while feeling ashamed as she explained exactly how it was that she could do something so seemingly stupid as to run over her own dog, not once, but twice. Or maybe she had lied. I hoped, for her sake, that she had.

     From then on, until she died nearly two years later, Phoebe was crooked. She was not in pain in fact; the crookedness seemed to give her some small amount of fascination, if indeed dogs can be fascinated. She compensated for her crookedness at doorways veering slightly to the left to make sure her right side, the direction her body was bent to, cleared the space. Before plopping down on her mat, she did not circle once, but no, twice as if her crookedness meant she had to calculate a little more than before, before she huffed and plopped herself down. In some way, Phoebe may have been happier after the accident. She had her food brought to her now and Cachi moved her into her bedroom at night, laying her mat next to her in bed saying she did this to make sure she could cover her in the event that she kicked off her blankets. She said she didn’t want Phoebe’s bones to get cold at night.

     It is only now that I think of Phoebe and my aunt and take anything away from it. It is now that I see my life not as trapped but as always perpetually moving away—for there is never anything I have had to get away from. There is love though in trying and still retrying some scratch upon things only to be made humble. For all the time on the porch and all the years that followed, there was always “something next” and as long as it was illusive, unquantifiable, I could continue to be so. But what is all of that if there is not leniency, compassion, and negotiation? There is always the lesson of life, of being fallible, of blunders when your intentions were nothing but noble (inter-spliced yes, with a myriad of feelings of being inconvenienced, of selfish-wants and loathing thoughts). Added to this, there is a quiet acceptance of one’s fallibility and hopefully time do something a little better than before.

     Sylvie swallowed the last too-sweet drop of her tea and set the mug down on the dining table. She stared out the window that was surrounded by bright yellow, cottage cheese-textured walls. Across the driveway, she could see Edith and Joe Kettleman scooping snow off their walk. It would have been nice, to have married. To have someone to shovel snow with when she retired. Not some old guy she could meet now, but someone she knew since college. Someone who she’d fought with and had children with. Like the Kettlemans. Maybe like Nick. What was he up to now? Married with a family no doubt. Happy…he always was. She smiled and wondered if he ever thought of her.

     Sylvie took her cup to the kitchen. If she’d married, there might be dishes in the sink. Someone else’s dishes. Maybe the spices wouldn’t be perfectly arranged in alphabetical order in the cupboards above the counter. Maybe the pickles would be on the top shelf where she had to climb her footstool to get them. Maybe she would wish she could just stay home and eat a scrambled egg for dinner and drink tea and read her book and have no obligations to anyone. She turned off the tap and carefully dried the mug and put it back into the cupboard. First shelf, right-hand side.

     ”Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel, I made it out of clay, dreidel dreidel dreidel, I made it out of…” someone was singing outside, loud. But there were lots of transients in these parts and she was used to hearing oddities.

     Sylvie hummed along as she pulled the trash out from under the sink and tied the top of the white plastic bag in a slip knot. She had a book home from the library about knot-tying and it amused her to practice while efficiently performing another task.

     She slipped on her trenchcoat, buttoning it up all the way to the neck, then stepped into her rubber boots. Outside, the sun was sinking and turning the snow on the ground a delicious pink. Peppermint, she thought, and wondered how pink was first associated with the herb. She unlocked the trash gate and threw the heavy bag in. “Dreidel Dreidel Dreidel sang the man on the bench. Without thinking, Sylvie began to harmonize with the silly tune. The man turned to look at her. He had a long dirty beard and was wearing what appeared to be a very tattered Santa suit. He stopped singing mid-word, as did she. Behind the grey facial forest, his eyes looked kind. No. Familiar. She gave a tight smile and nod to the man and the Italian greyhound at his feet and headed back to the front door.

     ”Drei…” the man started again and Sylvie was, for a moment, 19. She was in Nick’s mother’s living room They were moving furniture here and there to make the Christmas tree fit. Someone had sent a greeting card and every time it was opened, it sang “dreidel, dreidel, dreidel….” That might have been the first time she’d heard the song. Nick was dancing around the room to the tune like a River Dancer on speed. Sylvie was surprised to feel a faint jab of pain still with her, as she remembered watching and thinking, I’ll never be that fun. I’ll never let go. I’ll always be stuck inside this cell, surrounded by walls of self-consciousness.

     Suddenly Santa stood up, he started to jump and fling his feet around around as he sang the dreidel song. His dog began to bark. And then she knew. Now or never. With hot tears flowing down her frozen cheeks, she straightened her arms at her side, and awkwardly began to jump and flail along with the man in the Santa suit. She sang loud and off key. 3, 4 rounds of the song and she was winded. The man stopped. He looked at her with those kind, no, familiar, eyes and Sylvie, in her perfectly ironed trenchcoat, leaned her clean forehead up against the dirty chest of the tattered, matted red Santa suit.

     When I was about five years old, my mother took us back to my
grandmother’s old house by the beach in San Felipe.  Her plan was to
stay for some time, do maintenance on the house that had long remained
in a state of deterioration.  In those times, my mother had separated
from my father for over a year, at least unofficially; we sold beach
products for the American tourists: colorful inner-tubes, flip-flops,
plastic shovels and pails for their plump, American children.  My
mother was a good saleswoman, on top of that, she wasn’t tough on the
eyes, and having two cute, green-eyed children to help her didn’t hurt
either.  That was the summer my brother and I and dozens of other
children brought old plastic paint pails — the ones in which you
could bathe a small child — and filled them with little fish that
come out on the only full moon in September to spawn in the surf.
They would twirl around each other, form spirals in the sand, laying
hundreds of little eggs in the circular craters they left behind.  We
were joined by a small group of pinnipeds, who kept a safe distance
from us children, who wanted a part in the catch of that bright,
full-moon night.

     My grandmother’s house was, like many things in my grandmother’s life, largely unfinished.  It was my mother’s intention to eventually
make the house habitable enough for a future tenant, in order to help
my grandmother have a steadier source of income.  Half the house had
no ceiling, and before we arrived, that half served as a sort of
way-house for vagrants or the occasional drunk who could not make to
their home in time.  When we arrived, we set straight to work, first
cleaning thoroughly, throwing down walls, painting others, changing
doors or locks, things one does to make a house look and feel better than it once was.
 The nights that summer were warm, and the days long and bright.
Thinking back on them is the rosy bittersweetness of childhood and
nostalgia.  Except this particular summer has a thin dark lining around
its memory.  It was the night after the three of us — my mother, my
brother, and I — had just finished replacing the large window in the
living room that faced out into the old, unpaved street.

     We had sprawled out our bedspread on the floor and the three of us tucked
in for a good night’s rest after the herculean task of carrying a
large, glass window, and setting it on its sill.  We had  worked late
into the night, so by now the whole town was dark save for a few
porch lights.  San Felipe, before it became a bigger town, and like
many smaller Mexican towns, shut off power to many of its public
facilities, including streetlights that lined the few paved roads it
had at the time.  After what felt like less than an hour, we heard it.
 At first, quietly, in the distance, their faint cries in cacophonous
desperation only became more noticeable as the cries came closer and
closer.  It was the loud and frantic barking of a hoard of dogs kept
in chains, or behind gates and fences, or simply strays that hid in
the shadows of that warm September night.  This night, the dogs of San
Felipe were restless, afraid, of something that approached with a
quiet and patient stride along the unpaved streets, searching.

     My mother heard the incoming wave of loud barks, focused on a single, traveling subject.  She quietly told us to remain wrapped in the
sheets, and she held us tightly.  I could feel in her breast next to
my ear the irregular beating of her murmuring heart, caused by a congenital hole
in its ventricles; it roared loudly into my memories, and even today,
when I am afraid in such a way, I can feel it permeate the silence.
She simply gazed upward while she whispered an Our Father; I stared at
the wall opposite the newly-placed window, as the rolling thunder of
dog barks filled the warm and humid atmosphere directly outside my
grandmother’s old house.  Slowly, faintly, a cool, blue light, like
one I had never seen before (and still have rarely seen since) began
to brush itself unto the wall at which I stared intently.  Now, it
wasn’t like some passing car (and in those times, a car’s light was
warm and sharply bright), or any other soft-beam light one may carry
around.  Anyway, a car would make some noise along the sandy road as
its heavy wheels rolled by.  Instead, it was an unearthly kind of
light, similar to a very still, soft, and bluish candle’s light,
perhaps reflected by a nearby mirror.  The light continued to brush itself unto the wall, menacing and tender, while the barking surrounded the whole house, the dogs frantically pulling on the metal chains around their necks,
desperately clanging on the chain-link-fence prisons that held them
back from the terrible, haunting light.  Finally, the last glint
became darkness, as the barks followed the source treading silently on
the street, minute by minute, the thunderous noise of the viciously
fearful beasts subsided into the distance.  And then, deathly silence.

     The quiet darkness gave way to the shushed lull of timid crickets’ chirps.  A few neighbors emerged from their homes after another hour,
when only the sporadic bark of a distant dog remained, and they
whispered things to one another.  The next morning, everyone was
talking about it.  Some said it was the Devil — El Diablo — seeking
the souls of drunkards in the street; some said it was La Llorona,
searching for her lost children.  A week later in October, the bodies
of a few people missing since that night turned up: two young American
brothers, out for a late-night swim, washed up near the dock, their
bloated bodies blue-green, half-eaten by crustaceans; the body of an
old man, half-eaten by wild dogs, perhaps coyotes, his bleached-white
bones baking in the heat of the dying summer sun.

     During their drive to the tide pools, Pearl noted that all city skylines looked the same. She joked that a person could be satisfied by that fact or want to end it right there.

     Of course, she would still go to the tide pools. It was the only thing to do. Jim would make it memorable somehow. He was good at wanting to do things like climbing trees and fences. There would be San Diegans in very bright shorts with matching sandals and cameras. Brightly colored animals, soft and sponge-sized with sponge temperaments would wait to be grabbed up or nudged in their tidy homes. Down drove their station wagon and into view came the sea. If they had swam over they wouldn’t have had to pay to park. The couples and families milled on the dirty-blonde sand, bent over here and there to “woooohhh” at a crusty thing in its pool, perhaps not all as bright but still loud. There was summer’s carefree ease gathered into their smiles and summer in the faces glowing deeper skin tones. A family that looked familiar was flicking a picnic blanket against the wind that wouldn‘t let it relax. The boy and girl squealed under the cloth as though they wished and dreaded they too would be whisked around like sails. The father-type grinned and held the cloth’s corners as though they were reigns on an untamable stallion or like a conqueror struggling to claim his land . Under the upward waving flag, to Pearl’s surprise, a dog’s miniature legs could be caught pawing around in the sand. The shag of the little thing was impressively untamed. She always thought of tide pools as having to do with scientists or else seventh grade science class and those whose marine biology knowledge didn’t leave that level. What could be here for you little one, she asked herself?

     But she was here too and Jim with a disposable camera for a microscope. They sat on the safe edge of a minor cliff taking in their own awe of nature. It was pretty-she could write a children’s book about it. The sea was long and the cliffs were high. Pearl remembered her camera half-smile as Jim stood in front of her ready to click. She positioned her arms and back in order to look as sunny as the setting and wondered maybe her knowledge wasn’t the only appeal she had to offer Jim who was adamant about getting the aesthetic all right. The photo would show the girl, with toes dancing in the breeze above the violence of waves thrusting into pointed rocks. There was more to the picture, Pearl could see and hear. The sound of the dog ‘s barking, if a bark can be a plea or negotiation as well as a warning, lead her eyes to spot him far in front of them tampering with a giant stick or a shrunken log nestled in the sand. The wood bore the size of a prosthetic leg and lay just as dead as the dog tried to possess it. If canine teeth can gum, his teeth gummed with tremendous powerlessness. His wiggly passions dug some only to watch sand pour down again, then barked ones that actually sounded like “ruff”s. While switching between these two actions, the lively pillow of dog, however slight, would occasionally drag the log a few slides in the sand. Pearl, looked up to see what kind of laugh was breaking onto Jim’s face at the sight but he wasn’t there. Where could he be? Dropped in the ocean?

     Suddenly, she was cold and scared and she hated California. He had taken the picture and knew better than to sit around and let that snap be the only memory. He had the kick of adventure. Not even the echo of his voice remained. Pearl, feeling that she shouldn’t cry out to Jim, peered over onto the lean and jagged slope of the cliff and found him climbing down. “Are you nuts?,” exploded Pearl. “There’s a cave down there I want to check out,” Jim chimed. Well, what could she do but go. He led Pearl down, one foot after the next, he like a cat and she a warm helpless puppy. When she had magically convinced some sand-stone corners to let her lower herself with Jim’s guidance, Pearl saw she was trapped. She glued her feet to the rock she stood upon because it was the last rock, though the cave was still some stony steps below. They were all too round, too skinny, too slippery, and the whole situation was too dramatic living on the edge. This is how stories always go, everyone’s happy and next thing you know someone ends it sorry they left the house. What soundtrack would be playing at the finale of her film of life? Jim would survive, he was that character. But she was weak, always the bookish type with the bad immune system. Oh could they just kiss passionately, her biting his lips out of nervousness, before she fell to her seaweedy grave?

     The water kept coming and ebbing underneath but she stayed fixed, caught between the sky that was too high and the forever downward sea. In between, she was just an earthy instant. She remembered her thought about the children’s book and wondered how many stories tall was the cliff, and how many stories long was the sea and if she could live with her own story. Her mouth tasted dry and the sounds of the dog barking above on the flat land reminded her how hurt her feet were with too much standing responsibility. Her soles needed something new. She could hear the barking had moved since she first watched the dog. It now sounded very far from the family’s original picnic. She could imagine them, the father thinking of shaking his head at the dog and the girl and boy scampering to bring his energy back toward them. But his arms still dug in large loops, scooping against the continuing grains, looking, from far away, singular with the oversized stick. His shagginess that probably smelled of soggy dirt grew out and mixed in curls the way the oh so glorious ocean did. Pearl took the hand of indented cliff and began to think out her steps, as she would still go. Into the cave, she pictured the small dog’s paws as his trail left in the sand snaked behind him.

When you go to certain towns, you walk down the street and see many many things. There are restaurants where lovers sit at tables, whispering sweet nothings. There are street performers who sing, and dance, and make twisted balloons of all shapes and colors. There are, also, the homeless and the beggars who remind you of your responsibility to your fellow man — as you go about your shopping.

And, such a place is the Promenade on Third Street in Santa Monica, California.

One day, just past the Apple Store as you walked toward the Barnes & Noble — Mrs. K. Tarkington, and her dog, Adams were walking down the street. Mrs. K. Tarkington was headed to one of those high end stores where they sell those things which people buy who have need of such things. Mrs. K. Tarkington (Mrs. K., to her friends) looked in the window of a dress shop where they sell fancy dresses and saw something which “quite caught her eye” (as she might have said it), and she stopped short. Adams, her Pembroke Welsh Corgi, not expecting to stop, kept on walking. And instead of Adams’ leash choking him back, his leash broke off. And Adams began to run.

Now, Mrs. K. Tarkington was quite surprised and uncertain what to do. To her loved ones and self she knew that dog loved her. She’d paid a handsome some to the breeder. A quite handsome sum. That dog loved her, she’d say as fussed and cooed over him. He was hers and he loved her. And, by darn it, she loved him too. So it quite stunned her when Adams began to run.

Reaching her hand forward, the leash still in it, she cried: “Stop.”

But run Adams ran. Adams ran and he ran. His four tiny Corgi legs pumping as fast as they could. He hopped, like a rabbit, as a Corgi is wont to do. And hip hop hop Adams went.

And he went.

And he went.

And he went.

And Mrs. K. Tarkington ran, and she ran, and she ran.

And then Adams stopped. And a moment later Mrs. K stopped.

Adams had stopped in front of one of those homeless and poor beggars. And Adams had jumped in his arms.

“That’s my dog, you know,” said Mrs. K.

“Is it,” said the man.

“That’s my dog, I said,” she said.

And the man handed Adams back over to Mrs. K.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. K. “Bad dog,” she said to Adams, as she opened her purse to give the homeless beggar some money.

“Here,” said Mrs. K., her hand full of change.

“Thank you,” said the man, putting the money in his pocket. “They’re good dogs. The queen’s got a dozen.”

“You know Corgis?” said Mrs. K.

“I used to train them, before I was on the street. You see I used to have a lot of money and a lot of things which I kept in the place where I lived. Then it was all stolen from me by bad men who shot my daughter and my daughter. I had been very successful with money, but could not rebuild what I’d had. I was much too sad. All I thought about was the death of my daughter and dog, my wife having died years before. I’ve been living by my wits ever since.”

Mrs. K. thought not even a moment before she reached her hands out, and her frown turned smile. “Take him,” she said.

“I can’t, Mame.”

“Take him. And take the money. And here’s some more. And have a Merry Christmas.”

And so it happened, as it happens, when these things happen. The woman thought more and more and more about the needs and concerns of others. The man thought more and more and more about the needs and concerns of the self.

And they both lived better.

Though they never saw each other again.

–for Suzanne and Angus

     Once upon a time in the land of Nausea there lived three brothers named Snitchle, Snotchle, and Snootchle, and they had a small pinscher dog named Sniffles. The three brothers’ father had just passed away, and their mother had been gone for a long time. So, Snitchle took it upon himself to parent his two younger brothers.

     Now, Snotchle and Snootchle did not like this at all; they thought the house should be run in a “democratic” fashion. But alas, their plan did not succeed, and Snitchle took command as head of the household. And, as the head, Snitchle would wake them up early, ordered them to brush their teeth and all sorts of horrid things. So, Snotchle and Snootchle decided to make it hard for Snitchle, hoping that he would give up of course. Every evening Snotchle would complain of stomach pain in order to not help with dinner, and Snootchle always had a runny nose when it came time to take out the trash to the incinerator. And dear little Sniffles did not help either. He refused to pick up the paper or guard the house from unwanted squirrels, because he did not like that Snitchle was buying “Top Dog” for his food instead of his favorite “Posh Pet Provisions”

     After six months of anarchy, Snitchle couldn’t take it anymore, and so he decided to leave and make his own fortune. Snotchle, and Snootchle did not mean to drive their brother Snitchle away. So, Snotchle, Snootchle, and little Sniffles too, figured out a way to keep an eye on their oldest brother.

     The night before the departure of Snitchle to become a cobbler’s apprentice in the town of Nauseous, Snotchle and Snootchle told Sniffles their plan. Now, Sniffles did not talk, because after-all he is a dog, but he did understand, as we shall see, for he followed Snotchle and Snootchle’s plan to the letter. The plan was to tie a long piece of red yarn to Snitchle’s ankle, and to tie the other end to Sniffle’s collar. Sniffles would follow Snitchle to look after him, but at a distance so Snitchle would not find out. And every night Sniffles was supposed to bark three sharp howls to let Snotchle and Snootchle know that all was well with their brother.

     “Farewell Snotchle and Snootchle, and goodbye little Sniff. I cannot handle it here anymore. You will all have to fend for yourselves. Farewell!” And as Snitchle said this last farewell, Snotchle slipped the yarn over his right ankle.

     Now, you are probably thinking wouldn’t Snitchle notice this brightly colored yarn around his ankle? But, he did not, as he was very busy learning his new trade. Unfortunately, for Snitchle, every time Sniffles would sniff a tree, or scratch behind his ear, the yarn lost slack, and Snitchle would fall flat on his face. This happened several times a day, and after two days of this exercise Snitchle developed quite a red nose, and just the sight of him made people snort with laughter. Snitchle did not wish to be laughed at; in order to counter becoming a fool Snitchle began to tell jokes to his shoe customers. His jokes combined with the appearance of his face and the fact that he fell down at unexpected moments caused Snitchle to be considered a humorous young man.

     One time, however, Sniffle’s antics nearly got Snitchle fired. One night Sniffles was snuffling near the roots of gigantic oak when he discovered the den of a fox family. Little Sniffles was cold, and the hole did look rather interesting, so he walked inside. The foxes were surprised and ran helter skelter out of the hole, and all around the glen.

     Consequently, the red yarn became quite a tangle, and Snitchle found himself being pulled all over his bedroom, and all over the cobbler’s workshop. He made such a mess! The basket of scraps was turned over, and the notions, spools of thread and leather twine were scattered all over the place! I can tell you that Snitchle’s boss was none too pleased at the mess he saw in the morning, that is until he caught a glimpse at Snitchle’s face. A small giggle become a guffaw, and the cobbler just slapped Snitchle on the back (Snitchle nearly fell over. The cobbler was a big man.) In his deep and grating voice he said: “I was going to fire you, but then I would have lost being able to see you, and I always can use a good laugh.”

     Back in Nausea, Snotchle and Snootchle lived in sty-le. No brushing their teeth. No vitamins before bed. No bed-making. No bathing! But after just three nights of freedom Snotchle started to have a real pain in his stomach. It was the pain of remorse. And Snitchle really did have a runny nose from crying. Snotchle and Snootchle decided they wanted Snitchle back with all his strictness –and besides they began to feel extremely dirty! They were glad that they had tied the yarn to Snitchle. And every night Snotchle and Snootchle listened towards the west for the sound of Sniffle’s howl, and he did howl. Snotchle and Snootchle were very happy to know that their brother was fine. They each hoped that one day soon they would all be back together.

     It happened two weeks after Snitchle’s arrival in the town of Nauseous that a decree was sent throughout the lands by King Hachoo. It was commanded that all the villages send their funniest citizen to be entered in his new jester contest, titled: “Send in a Funny Man and Get a Free Hankie.” You see, the prize for the winning village was to be a lifetime supply of pocket handkerchiefs for every inhabitant. As you can imagine, all the villages jumped at the chance to be the winner of such a grand prize, and Nauseous was no different. Everyone in Nauseous knew who would be their village’s contestant. It was common knowledge who was laughable: Snitchle.

     Hundreds of men and women came to the castle to try out for the jester, but none had the appearance of Snitchle. Snitchle’s looks, as well as his jokes, made the king roar with laughter. Snitchle was chosen to be the jester of king Hachoo, and as the jester he got to live in the castle. And all the inhabitants of Nauseous received pocket handkerchiefs for life, and because of this they wrote hundreds of fan mail to “Jester Snitch,” Snitchle’s new name as jester. But do not think we have forgotten about Snitchle’s younger brothers Snotchle and Snootchle, they too learned of their famous brother and traveled to see him in his new occupation, picking up Sniffles in the woods. Sniffles had been playing with the foxes. (They had become fast friends after their little nighttime skirmish.) When they all arrived at the castle Snotchle and Snootchle entered Snitchle’s chambers slowly with drawn faces.

     Snotchle was the first to speak: “Snitchle, we are very sorry that we did not make it easy for you to parent us.”

     “Arf” barked Sniffles as if to say: “‘Top Dog’ really is not so bad.”

     And Snootchle added, “Brushing your teeth can be a good thing…”

     “I know,” said Snitchle, gravely. “Would you both like to start again?”

     “Yes!” Gasped Snotchle and Snootchle. And little Sniffles leapt into Snitchle’s arms and began to lick his face.

     Little did Snitchle know the origin of his good fortune, and how a few fleas (and a skirmish with a fox family) caused him a little pain and a lot of good.

     Snitchle, Snotchle, Snootchle and Sniffles all lived happily together in the castle. And Sniffles did not need to hold the yarn anymore, for they painted Snitchle’s nose red instead. And that. my dear, is why to this day jesters wear red noses in the land of Nausea.

     It was a terrible rushed morning at the dolls’ house when the sun did not peek into the windows for the clouds and Molly and Rita did not stir in their beds until it was almost too late. Molly was in danger of being tardy to a very important date downtown.

     Molly was a model, and a fairly famous one at that. She had gotten her big break because of a nightgown advertisement. Then, she had worn a nighttime ensemble that was fashioned from silky pink fabric and a plethora of pink ostrich feathers, and despite the showiness of the number, people took note of Molly’s placid expression and the lush false eyelashes that had been applied to her upper lids. The eyelashes became Molly’s trademark.

     “You’re not forgetting anything?” Rita called, but it was too late. Molly was already gone, the door shut behind her.

     The house that Molly and Rita shared was not what you would regularly call a dollhouse, but it was small enough to be called a bungalow. At first the realty man was skeptical that such a slight figure as Molly could possibly buy such a property, but Molly proved herself with the proceeds from her first successes.

     From the onset, Molly was the working doll and Rita was the homemaker. Molly’s limbs were fully posable, and Rita was made of softer stuff. While Molly was fine–and even relished–having her face and figure scrutinized by strangers, Rita felt much too small for it all. Rita admired Molly’s ability to earn their daily bread, but she was content to make things comfortable inside the bungalow. Even their little dog George was on his own for his morning, afternoon, and evening walks.

     George had shown-up chez Molly and Rita one cold December night, just as the dolls were sharing a warm cola after a long day of posing for Molly and tidying-up for Rita. In spite of Rita’s miniature size, she was the more opinionated of the two and claimed the little dog for her own and named him. He seemed to come from nowhere, and putting up signs yielded no results. It was just as well, Molly thought. She was glad that Rita would have a companion while Molly was out for extended periods of time. The dog was like a holiday gift.

     The dog’s manners were as remarkable as his sudden appearance. He never barked the way that some dogs do—except, say, to give an excited yip when Molly presented him with his favorite crackers. He never put a paw where it was not wanted—the tulip bed, for instance—or ate food from anyplace but his own bowl. Molly and Rita agreed that George had a wise face, and the little dog nodded knowingly when the dolls confessed their daily worries to him.

     George seemed to know that Rita could not often bring herself to set foot beyond the garden’s boundaries. She watched from the window as George skipped merrily down the suburban sidewalk, his puppy-like ears playing in the breeze. Rita left the back door unlatched so that the little dog could let himself out.

     That morning, there was an unexpected telephone call: “Rita?” The connection was bad. “Rita?” Molly said again, “I’ve forgotten my purse with all of my make-up—I am very sorry–I have no choice but to ask you to come downtown to bring it to me!”

     Under normal circumstances Rita would have been petrified at the request, but she did not allow herself to consider her own feelings. Rita knew that Molly’s career came first, which depended on Molly’s designed insouciance.

     As it happened, the train ride was considerably less uncomfortable than Rita imagined. People did of course stare at her out of curiosity to see such a small character standing and walking on its own. Rita tried to say as few words as possible so that she would not give these onlookers an added reason to be interested in her.

     Molly met Rita at the downtown train depot. Molly was so thankful to Rita, she treated her to lunch after the important job’s end. All was jolly as the dolls took the train back together—but then they got back to their bungalow and opened the front door. There standing on one of Rita’s handmade rugs was George who paused for a moment—as if for courtesy’s sake—before he rushed past them and down the garden path. Rita then knew that she had neglected to remember about George’s unlatched back door.

     Rita insisted that they make it up to George, and Molly proposed that since Rita was now used to out-of-bungalow adventures they take George to the Huntington Library with its lovely gardens.

     The visit had to be made in stealth, because the Huntington had very strict rules. It had just begun to let dolls come to its galleries and grounds. Dogs were strictly prohibited, but Molly and Rita felt that George was better-mannered than most people. They hid him from the Huntington guards in a knapsack.

     The dolls and George came to the Japanese Garden, where Rita was so charmed by the ready tea service inside the paper house, she started to tell Molly that they should let George have some tea. Molly protested, saying that they were not allowed to touch and that a guard was nearby. But, Rita was a true doll, especially when it came to tea…

     In the end, the guard was more lenient than he might have been, only giving the dolls a stern lecture. It really was George’s doing that they did not find themselves detained or fined.

     The little dog had yipped because he had been uncomfortable with the prospect of sitting at the table, alerting the guard. However, it also had distracted Rita from doing any damage to the set-up.

     “It’s lucky that George is such a good dog,” Rita said, “and he doesn’t like eating at the table.”

     “I suppose, “ Molly replied. “I’m just glad that I won’t be in the tabloids tomorrow.”

     This morning I opened my eyes, put on my glasses, and noticed the cat observing me from the bookcase.

     “Hello cat,” I said. It sort of seemed like that wasn’t enough, so I stuck my tongue out through chapped lips and blew a raspberry. Ray ignored the fruit.

     He was probably waiting for a full performance of T.I.’s “Whatever You Like” sung in falsetto accompanied by the morning breeze, and hummingbird chirps. All this, even though he knew that the breeze was hungover from a late night carousing with hurricanes, and the hummingbirds were away on a Disney gig. Clearly, he didn’t care. Cats are like that.

     Anyway, I didn’t really feel like amusing the cat. Heck, if my sleeping was enough to keep him enthralled, the struggle to get up would surely leave him reeling.

     The phone alarm began to quietly holler shaking Ray’s placid exterior. It was nice that he didn’t have the upper hand anymore. Reaching for the phone I thought, mornings are stupid, and threw the by-now shrieking iPhone across the room. It refused to change its tune, which annoyed me.

     “Those things are indestructible…” the cat conveyed telepathically, “…like the proletariat.”

     “I don’t need none of your Marxist bullcrap right now, cat,” I hissed. If Ray had been a dog, he would have sulked off at that point. Unfortunately, Ray is all cat.

     “Oh, so you think the class struggle is some kind of hoax?” He began.

     “Don’t start, Ray…”

     “Don’t start? I’m just trying to help you! You’re the one who has to cast off the warm blankets of social equality for the toil and drudgery of working for the man! Capitalism has you trapped…” His eyes narrowing at the hated word.

     “Don’t you see?” He trailed off gravely. The alarm was now protesting my horizontal orientation at full force, bullhorns, signs and all; even the stilts guy was there, passionately calling for my rise. Also, I had to pee.

     I swung one leg over the other and rolled off the bed onto the floor. Not exactly what I was intending. The sound reminded me of the time we had to haul the mourning dog three blocks to the pet cemetery. The thud of my body on the parquet floor sounded just like Skipper’s body.

     It was a soggy, purple and orange Kentucky morning. My friends and I were setting out for the hunt with Skipper, the family hound. Suddenly Skipper passed the ghost. The ghost was having a “fat” day and didn’t want to be seen. Skipper didn’t actually give up the ghost, but the ghost thought otherwise and became humiliated, floating off to the attic for a pick-me-up. Suddenly, the hound remembered his mother who died from an overdose of incense at the office of a holistic veterinarian. These were not appropriate thoughts before a hunt and Skipper spoke up about it. We weren’t angry, everyone has moments when the past comes back to haunt them. Just the day before Pappy had passed the ghost and remembered how his best friend had kicked the bucket. It was the sound of Jeb’s steel-toe boot against the bucket that got to Pappy; ruining a perfectly good bucket…So we had to delay our hunt. Three days later, Skipper died and we had to carry him three blocks to the pet cemetery and heave him into a hole.

     The cat meowed into my face. Bonkers! I had fallen asleep on the floor. I sat up and scratched myself. The iPhone was quiet. Everything was quiet. I looked at the clock and experienced a sinking feeling. It was ten twenty-two. I was really late for work. The cat was staring at me. I had to pee really bad.

     “Dreaming you were a Horatio Alger character, huh? Who do you think made your bootstraps, huh? I’ll tell you…the workers!”

     “Get a job, cat!

     “I have no marketable skills, stupid.”

     “Well, you’d fit right in with the hippies at those independent bookstores.”

     This was a plain mean because Ray had applied for a job at Dutton’s before they closed but liability issues got in the way; lack of opposable thumbs or marketable skills went unnoticed, however.

     “I hate you,” He declared.

     “I’m late for work,” I retorted, hoping to throw him off.

     “You work at a library!” The cat was getting testy, “Oh no, books won’t get shelved!”

     “Hey! That’s not all I do. If I’m not there, who’s going to tell the homeless people to get off their cell phones?”

     “Good point,” He allowed, “what are you going to tell Hannah when she asks why you’re late?”

     “I don’t know…Traffic?”

     “Did you dream about Skipper again?”

     “Yeah…”

     “He was a good dog…”

     “I know,” I paused, giving the single tear time to roll down my face, “I know.”

     “…For an anarchist.” Ray added.

     When I got to work, I explained what happened and all was forgiven. Ray subsequently got a job writing a humor column for Nuestro Mundo.

     I knew she was coming today. She called yesterday while I was watching the movie with Victor and his girlfriend, Cindy. I couldn’t help it. I was eager for this day to come and I couldn’t contain my excitement.

     We had an odd first meeting. She was Cindy’s friend. Cindy had invited her over to Victor’s and my apartment. I remember exactly what she was wearing that day. She had a bright yellow flower in her long wavy black hair and big black sunglasses to go with her large colorful earrings. She wore a clean white shirt over a short green tiered skirt that she paired with dark brown flip flops that showed off her perfectly painted pink toes. I couldn’t help staring. Cindy kept trying to introduce us but I completely ignored her. God it was embarrassing. I was staring at her toes, somehow transfixed by the pearly pink shine that contrasted with her tan skin and brown shoes. I’m sure she noticed because I remember the nervous smile she gave Cindy and the hesitant laughter after Cindy finally introduced us. And then I acted like a complete idiot. I was mean and rude that afternoon in my attempts to hide my embarrassment and shrug off my failed effort to make a good first impression. Major mistake. Turned off by my behavior, Cindy’s friend stopped trying to get to know me and I overheard her asking Cindy, “is he always like that?”

     I was hoping to get a second chance with Cindy’s nice new friend and was heartbroken to find that she had invited Cindy and Victor to a baseball game but not me. Granted I’m not much of a baseball fan (I’m more of a basketball geek really), however I would’ve gone if it was with her. Determined to make a better impression this second time around, I made sure I would be ready for her. I would finally get the guts to say something funny or smart, anything to impress her! I charged the door when I heard her coming, hoping to welcome her warmly into my apartment. I ended up scaring her instead. God, why can’t I be a man about it and just come up to the door casually and greet her like normal guy would. She showed up at the apartment wearing faded blue jeans, a Dodgers jersey, her big sunglasses, and those same dark brown flip flops. This time her toes were painted a sort of lavender color, but perfectly painted nonetheless. She had an interesting style and Cindy had often commented how her friend loved wearing flip flops and rarely ever wore regular shoes during the summer months. I found myself staring again at those perfectly painted toes. As she left with Victor and Cindy, I heard Victor telling her to ignore me saying that I had a strange thing for toes. Great, I thought. She must think I’m some kind of freak.

     I found myself thinking about her more and more. I normally love having people over and especially meeting new people. But this time was different. I don’t know what it was about her painted toes and dark brown flip flops, but I hoped to see her again soon.

     She came over to have dinner a few weeks after the baseball game. Cindy and Victor welcomed her with a hug. I tried to do the same, but clumsily forgot to wash up after playing basketball and left stains all over her spotless white shirt! What an embarrassment! She must think I have no manners! I wanted to apologize, but I just couldn’t; I caught a glimpse of her toes and was gone. She had them back to her original pink and they looked nice against the black flip flops she was now wearing instead of her usual brown ones. Then I noticed she was trying to avoid me and sit away from me. She had caught me staring. Again.

     I began to think there was no hope for me to ever make a favorable impression on Cindy’s friend. Why would she ever come back to visit if she knew that I had a strange thing for girls in flip flops with nicely painted toes? I felt like a complete loser.

     The phone call last night gave me hope. She would be coming and I would be ready this time. I made sure my dark brown hair was perfectly in place and checked myself out in the mirror before she arrived. This time I remembered to wash up after basketball and I knew I looked good. This would be the day I would finally impress her.

     I heard her voice at the door with Cindy and as she casually sauntered in with the same big sunglasses and same green tiered skirt the first day she walked into my life, she smiled and called my name saying hi in the cheerful way she always does when she greets Cindy and Victor. I felt the blood rush up and then. . . I saw. . . her toes. She had them painted my favorite color with her trademark dark brown flip flops and I was mesmerized. My jaw dropped and I found my tongue hanging out as I was drooling like some kind of maniac! I tried to say something but all that came out was a loud bark and I broke my staring with a mad dash towards those painted toes and began licking crazily. Everyone was laughing uncontrollably as she screamed, “Nooo Poohbah not my feet!! I’m ticklish!!!!”