Osprey
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Location: Baja Ca. Sur
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No politics, just a little soft fiction at Easter
Enano
There’s little crime in this tiny Mexican fishing village so I leave my small fishing boat right on the beach. Couple of months ago I grabbed a cold
beer, jumped in my old jeep, went down to see how much sand had blown in, to see if I should bother to clean it out or maybe wait until the wind
abated. The sudden and powerful calamity caused by the arrival of the unmufflered smoke-belching jeep blasted a great flock of vultures into the air.
Most of the big birds flew just a short distance, landed, faced the challenger, looked as though they had a very good reason to stay close by, stick
around a while. My heart stopped when I realized I had interrupted their feast -- a small puppy had been abandoned on the beach. It had tried to
hide, to crawl under my boat. It was still alive, bleeding, crying out in pain and fear. As I picked it up I could see the big birds had pecked at
one eye, another wound was apparent at the soft, almost silken tissue just inside the right rear leg.
There are no knackeries or slaughterhouses here; no Animal Control Division people, dog pounds or little green and white trucks, no roadkill pickup
crews. Whatever creature falls to the earth will be eaten by birds or other animals - a little hide, a few bones the only remnants of the thing’s
existence. I couldn’t bear to leave this poor, starving little thing to the vultures. The little guy was more sores than puppy. He looked as though
he had mange but later, at the vet’s office in San Jose, we learned it was fungus. The fungus was probably the reason some Mexican family left him on
the beach.
Some shots, good food and medicine for the wound, the fungus, did the trick and the puppy began to take on a healthy look. The little fella was about
six pounds then, no more sores, nice shiny coat. Our local vet told me he was part Chihuahua, that he’d be a small dog. Enano fooled us all – we named
him Enano, in Spanish, Dwarf and he’s already grown out of that moniker by almost 30 pounds and another foot or more.
My place is on a bluff so I have a good view of the ocean. I enjoy just lounging under the palm shade on my patio, watching the sun set, drink in
hand, listening to classical music. The dog keeps me company, crawls awkwardly over my ample belly to bite and lick my beard, my gray-white
moustache, hoping to find there a vagrant drop of my sweet Mexican brandy. The puppy’s eyes hold me; they look old, wise, human. At times he sits,
stares out over the water as though pondering a complex problem or perhaps searching the horizon for the return of some errant canine navigator known
only to him.
The skin of my arms and hands was weathered but evenly tanned, all of one texture before he came onboard. Now I seem to have inherited his sores -
not sores really, I am riddled with puncture wounds from his needle-sharp teeth. My blood is very thin from medicine I take and from spending so many
years in the tropics. The dog’s eyes sparkle, grow darker when he occasionally draws blood. Perhaps he gets a hint of bile; I have not shared the
secret of my chronic liver condition with my family - it’s just a matter of a few more months. I tied up all the loose ends, signed all the estate
papers before I left Seattle so my family will have all the security we planned for.
This summer the final prognosis from the doctors, some other things, came into my life that I didn’t cope with very well. The little dog is like a
balm. I cannot hold him above the waves, run with him along the shore and stoke the embers of my discontent, my regrets at the same moment. It is my
joy to watch him sleep. His dreams evoke spasms, puling. How could he build nightmares from a life of no more than sixty days, most of it spent
sleeping or at his mother’s teats? The brief but almost fatal attack on the beach was over in seconds. No, the dreams must be archetypical, loaned to
him by all his blood ancestors. A rare and terrible torment, being chased by monsters never before seen or encountered. Starving, killing animals
for food, being killed by others for food, mating rights or territory; more horrific, being killed for none of those reasons.
New goals, new challenges at this late date. While I still have a little time I intend to replace the puppy’s nightmares. My wife Marlis, I hope,
will someday see the dog full grown, asleep in the comfort of my favorite chair. His new dreams will recall the rich, smokey flavor of bits of steak
from my plate, the magic sweetness of a dollop of my shared ice cream dessert. He’ll snore contentedly rather than whine with fear as his puppy
dreamwork reruns our roughhousing, beach combing and horizon searching.
While Marlis and my son Kelly are still back in the states I just want to stay active as long as I can. I’ll take the little boat out tomorrow, try
to catch some fish, share a few beers with my neighbor Carl.
Went to the beach this morning to see if my launch area is clear of driftwood, checked the boat. The launch area was clear, the boat was filthy -
all along the gunnels and seats were big smelly globs of white vulture droppings. It took me an hour to rid the boat of the disgusting goo deposited
by the big ugly birds. Funny......they've never done that before.
[Edited on 4-5-2015 by Osprey]
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mulegemichael
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as usual; classy work.
dyslexia is never having to say you\'re yrros.
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Udo
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Mood: TEQUILA!
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Great short story, Jorge!
Perhaps Enano will replace one of your aging companions one day.
Udo
Youth is wasted on the young!
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elbeau
Nomad
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Location: Austin, TX
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Nice Writing!
Thanks!
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Skipjack Joe
Elite Nomad
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Location: Bahia Asuncion
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Hopefully this is not too biographical.
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AKgringo
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I read this post yesterday when it first appeared on this forum, and was captivated by your ability to create and replace images in my mind with such
an economy of words!
I wanted to reply, but I don't know you, and was not sure if you were indeed writing fiction, or describing your reality. I gather from other
respondents that this is not your first story, so I say , good job!
In the seventh grade I discovered Poe, and was captivated by his short stories and character development. This was such a read, but without the
teacher telling me to put down that book and go outside for recess.
If you are not living on the edge, you are taking up too much space!
"Could do better if he tried!" Report card comments from most of my grade school teachers. Sadly, still true!
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Osprey
Ultra Nomad
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Registered: 5-23-2004
Location: Baja Ca. Sur
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AKgringo, thanks so much for that. If and when you can, find a copy of Poe's "The Adventures of Hans Pfall". You won't be sorry.
I'm proud to say that now I have to tell the potential readers if the piece is an essay or fiction. I try hard to stay out of my fiction, be the very
heart of my essays. I'm retired too so I have the time to research both -- more research ends in the tale or position being more credible (especially
period pieces which rarely appear here).
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AKgringo
Elite Nomad
Posts: 6004
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Location: Anchorage, AK (no mas!)
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Osprey, I look forward to reading more. Short stories and essays suit my eye strain and attention span better than novels these days. I would bet
that you even proof read to prevent using the same word (captivate) in consecutive paragraphs like I did. For the new year, I even resolved to use
'preview post' to prevent things like that.
Keep the lead in your pencil, you know, the one you write with!
If you are not living on the edge, you are taking up too much space!
"Could do better if he tried!" Report card comments from most of my grade school teachers. Sadly, still true!
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watizname
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Registered: 8-7-2009
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Bravo y gracias Jorge. Mas porfavor. 
I yam what I yam and that\'s all what I yam.
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Kgryfon
Senior Nomad
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Location: East Bay, CA
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Always a delight to read your works, Osprey. Thank you!
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