It's a Street Dog's Life
Hi! I'm Sasha; I travel and write short stories that you can find in your inbox on Monday.
Morning. My fingertips brush my eyelids, no question necessary. Their answer: Nope. Today is a bad day. I can open my eyes, so it’s not the worst.
My still-soft hoodie is five steps away, the black one from Costco. I wonder if Jeremiah has his eyes open yet; I’ve stripped some of my layers throughout the night, and I don’t want him to see me. I particularly don’t want to see myself, but I have a mirror lining the back wall of our bedroom, so I turn my head slightly so I don’t have to look at myself before getting to my coveted hoodie. Not too far, since I am not ready for fire pain yet.
It’s my reward. The hoodie. For getting out of bed. It’s the reason I don’t put it closer to my bedside.
This is what the beginning of my day with chronic conditions and pain looks like.
Suffering from chronic pain is strange, especially while writing about my life in public. On one hand, I want to keep it totally secret. Pretend every day is a great day of adventures. But on the other hand, it’s incredibly impactful to my life. Pain uses hours of my day, whether I’m traveling or not, and it affects my writing - consistency, tone, voice -- how angry my writing may read, or how peaceful my writing seems.
A part of me thought traveling would cure me. Fix me. It’s illogical how iron-strong hope is. The reality is that traveling hasn’t fixed me, even with hope.
But staying in place would not have, either.
You’ve heard it before, that life is short. But it is. The years are short, even when I’m in pain and the days and nights are long. My advice? Take the trip. Rent the RV and travel through Canada. Take a road trip to Mexico to buy cheaper medications and when you're there, eat the street tacos. Life doesn't wait for you. It never will.
I know this isn't one of the travel stories you originally signed up for, but I wanted you to know it’s my real life as I travel. While you're here, let me tell you about a time when I went to Mexico, sometime in early 2020.
Here we are, somewhere in Mexico, sometime in February 2020.
A year ago, I downloaded an app to help with my Spanish. For one month, I knew how to order food in Spanish.
What I did not know how to order while in Mexico were bones from a butcher. I mean, how often do you need to order bones? Every never or so.
But in the ten days that I was in a tiny non-tourist town in Baja California, I needed to know it twice. Why? Well, for my friends the street dogs.
After all, what is a trip to Mexico without the interaction of street dogs? A sad trip to Mexico, that’s what.
Goldy and Goldy (I’m very good with naming creatures) lounged outside the grocery store waiting in the warm February sun. Unbeknownst to me, the two similar-looking Mexican street dogs had set their bait and switch before I’d even driven into the parking lot.
I jumped out of the car after we parked, and Universal force pulled me straight to the dogs.
“Do you think he’ll bite?” I asked Jeremiah, half-not caring his response as I bent to pet one of the rascals.
“No, they know people like us will bring him food.”
And with that, the dog turned on his back so I could rub his stomach. The only thing I was getting from Fluffy, er, Goldy, was petting time and, okay, potentially fleas.
I stood up and clapped to release the excess dog fur from my fingers. Without any encouragement from me, the two pups turned onto their hips and raised themselves up onto their tan paws. They followed directly behind me to the front of the store, then sat about 20 feet from the entrance. As I walked into the store, I turned to look over my shoulder and waved.
Mexican grocers are not set up like American grocery stores. Diapers line one side with 3-liter sodas on the other. I shopped through the store, grabbing bright-colored naranjas, finding the half-and-half in the non-cooled section, and toyed between the tens of chorizo choices. Finally, we made our way to the meat section where I clumsily decided on a half-dozen beef knuckle bones, one for each dog, and 4 to give to Raccoon-slayer later on.
When I exited, my new friends were sitting there.
“C’mon,” I said.
Apparently, they knew English, as they walked patiently behind me to our car. Our own dog isn’t trained that well. Jeremiah unloaded our warm tortillas into the cooler, then we unwrapped the bones.
I handed one to the pup who I’d scratched his belly, and they both latched on, understanding sharing better than most toddlers.
Jeremiah put his hand out with a second, and the dogs sighed in gratitude. Just kidding, they just let go of the original bone and had to decide who got which one.
Both satisfied, they trotted off to a further edge of the parking lot.
Several days later, jonesing for some fresh Mexican bread and avocados, we made our way back to the market. The two brother-sister dogs were once again there, and I rinsed and repeated the petting and grocery shopping trip.
However, when we exited the market, the dogs were gone. Trying not to show my disappointment on my face, I shrugged and lifted the bag.
“It’s okay,” Jeremiah said. “Bernadette will love the bones.”
We walked around to the corner where our car was parked.
That’s when we saw it: the Goldies had recruited their buddies.
Six dogs of various street-dog-sized dogs stood, each a few feet away from one another.
I laughed, and if I hadn’t been carrying warm bread, I would have applauded. But you know: bread is important. The petting zoo parted to let us to our Tahoe, where we unloaded our goods, then opened the sinewy meaty bones.
Like clockwork, each time we offered a bone, two dogs attempted to share until we presented another one. We made quick work with two people handing out the bloody bones, and the dogs escaped to different quadrants with their meals.
“I don’t think you belong here,” I said to an all-black pointy-eared pup. He was sporting a fresh blue collar on his neck, “so don’t tell your parents.” I knelt down and offered him the last bone, then watched as he trotted with his full mouth across the gravel road to a yard, through a bent fence, where he lied down to chomp away.
When in Mexico, we pet dogs at every street vendor from pescadarias to street taco trucks, and yes, those Goldies really did recognize us for being stupid gringos. It’s alright. I wouldn’t change a thing from that trip. Well, if I could get a re-do, I might pet a few more furry friends.
Thank you for traveling with me,
Sasha
Down the rabbit hole:
Speaking of dogs, we had a DNA test done on Bernadette, our dog. Turns out she’s 100% that bitch, and 50% Golden Retriever. Yes, our very short-haired black dog is half pittie, and half Golden retriever. Long lost Mexican relatives. We did our test through Wisdom Panel, but there’s a handful of others.