07 November 2009
This was an idyllic Saturday morning. I sat outside in the sun with my coffee listening to Monteverdi's Vespers, not on the iPod but from the new exterior speakers. My pastry was on a paper plate. (Please. Nothing about the environmental impact of paper plates. I wash my paper plates and use them over again until they fray.) After I had eaten the pastry, the paper plate sat on my little table content. There was no wind. Perfectly still. Except of course for the financiers of the world playing tennis.
Late in the morning Frank stopped by to chat. He was walking both dogs, Stephen's dog, Bubba, and Frank and Allyson's dog, whatsisname. Within ten minutes of their arrival, both dogs had puked on my little lawn.
I have already spoken at length about cohabiting with dogs and cats. I will not do so again.
One must take the philosophical view of dogs puking on one's little lawn right outside one's door. These two, after all, came from the United States. They are norteamericano dogs. At some point reasonably soon after arrival in México, every living thing that comes down from the north pukes, including the birds and the Monarch butterflies. Hell, I did myself. I got that out of the way weeks ago.
I have several theories as to why this is. Suffice it to say for now that a Mexican dog can eat a tin can, pass that tin can the next morning, and be none the worse for the wear of it all—ever ready to tear the ass off some home invader.
I need to tidy up now.