the day i lost lucky forever. a photo essay

Being a vegetarian is hard on animals.

I’ve been trying not to eat them lately. This led to June putting on a pot of beans before leaving for school. What could go wrong?

Rick and I went for our morning walk and then plopped into the living room, which began to fill with smoke. I assumed this was some special effect to go along with the music we were listening to, but I peeked in the kitchen just in case. As it turns out, the beans were on fire.

I am not much of a cook, so I called Mo, who assured me this was not a good thing. I turned the burner off. And then things got worse.

The smoke alarm goes off. It’s not one of those soothing 2001 space odyssey hal what are you doing sounds. It’s a high screeching shriek, like the one made by a smoke alarm.

The dogs go insane. The kitchen is filled with smoke and the stench of burned beans. Rick jams his fingers in his ears. I open the doors to let the smoke out. I set the pot on the porch. I track down the smoke alarm and having no access to a sledge hammer, I take it outside. Crisis averted.

And then things get worse.

As the smog lifts, I do a head count of doggos and people. Belle’s here. Edie’s here. Rick has unplugged his ears. I think I’m here although I can’t see myself.

But Lucky is missing.

Lucky is a dog who Kate and June became attached to when they saw him neglected and chained to a fence. They gave the owner a hundred bucks and a burrito, and he’s been a beloved family member since. He’s very skittish though, I suppose the fallout of being neglected so long. The smoke alarm had sent him into a panic, with only a poorly closed screen door to stop his escape.

I look through the house. I check the yard. i quiz the other two dogs, who are bound to a doggo code of silence. I look again and again, peering down the street. Nothing. I make the dreaded phone call.

Hi, June. How are you? Fine, thanks. Oh, and I lost Lucky.

Minutes later, she is home. She tries the “shake the dog treats bag” trick. Nothing. She and Rick go out on foot. I drive block by block by block, annoying the pickups unimpressed with my 10 mph pace. (sub 2 marathon!)

June calls and says to come home. He knows he has a good thing, she says. He’ll come home.

But I can’t shake the vision of little Kate’s 6-year-old eyes (i’m not sure exactly how old she is now) when I have to tell her I set her dog on fire.

I drive for weeks, or maybe hours, or at least till June returns with takeout from Rosa’s. It’s crazy. He’s nowhere in the neighborhood. Vanished.

And then it gets better.

June calls. She found Lucky hiding in her bedroom closet. Which is an amazing coincidence, because that is where I had planned to hide when Kate found out.

I pull up and there he is, looking out the gate like nothing happened.

I eat my tostada and share a little, because. Success is survival, the prophet Michael Murphy said. Indeed.

The moral: Just order takeout. Being a vegetarian is hard on animals.

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brothers, part 22

we go to sonic for milkshakes. i ask if he wants vanilla or chocolate. he isn’t sure, so i order one of each.

we stop at the park and sit on our bench. ducks are staging a parade for our benefit. there’s a pause in the rain, but i manage to sit in the last of the puddles.

i hand him the vanilla shake and ask him to try it first. with one extended inhalation, he downs two thirds of it and shrugs.

so i hand him the chocolate one and he repeats the process, downing almost all of it in one long gulp.

he pauses. this one, he says, and then finishes off what’s left.

i stare down into the bottom of the vanilla cup and suck up the dregs.

upside: he left me the cherry.

downside: i hate cherries.

once a big brother, always a big brother.

best shakes ever.

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brothers, part 21

He’s pacing around nervously. I don’t know what to do. So we go for a walk.

But the magic is gone. He stays six paces behind me, wary of the stranger leading him to an uncertain future.

We make the usual left turn and head for the lily ponds. But when we’re a block away, he stops.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he says softly. I have no idea what he’s thinking. “I know it’s stupid, but …” he says, and his voice trails off as he fixes his stare on the asphalt.

I assure him it’s no problem. We walk home, and his pace quickens as he sees the white and red refuge.

We sit on the porch and overfeed the cat, who serves as a buffer between us. He studies me occasionally, unsure. I give my autopilot speech. I’m your favorite brother Gary. I’ve known you since you were 2 years old. We’re friends. You’re safe.

But he’s not buying it. He wanders through the house, keeping a safe distance from the weird guy. We listen to john prine. “hello, in there. hello,” he sings. The chorus echoes in my head.

You learn a lot from running. You have good runs and bad runs. When the wheels fall off, you suck it up and wait for the next day. Pull on the trusty hokas, turn the cap backwards and try again.

This race isn’t over.

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brothers, part 20

We’re listening to Lisa Bastoni on a chilly October morning. The dogs, in the next room, may or may not be creating mischief. We’re on the honor system here, and there is no honor among doggos.

I’m flopped on the couch reading a book written by a runner whose daughter has Asperger’s. How does one fit in when things are different?

Funny. I don’t think Rick and I ever fit in. He, an introverted poet. I, a crazy homeless guy held back from his true potential by having a home.

It’s not so bad, the author Sophie Walker learns of life with her daughter. It’s just different. There’s a time to let it go, Bastoni sings.

There is still joy, June told me. I didn’t understand then, but maybe I do now. A quiet contentment on a dreary day.

We eat pie. We watch the rain. We agree our feet are cold. I know what it must have been like for the old guys at the Vancourt store, sitting by the store and drinking Dr Pepper with peanuts, watching the world.

Life isn’t fair. Nobody said it would be. Still, it’s our life. It’s all right to cry when you need to cry, Bastoni says. But I don’t think I need to.

So much to say that he’ll never hear. That’s OK. We’re here.

Saying I love you isn’t even close to what I feel, Lisa sings.

We go out for a walk and get caught in a downpour. A few puddles later, we’re kids again.

We make it back home, and Lisa Bastoni is singing about the doggos of New Orleans. Rick goes in the other room. He may or not be creating mischief. We’re on the honor system, and there is no honor among desperados.

The album plays on. Eventually, it will end end. I love listening to it while I can.

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i wonder if they stole their mickey mouse ears

Once, I had a license plate. Those were simpler times.

It was just another run at the softball fields. A little one-third mile loop all to myself. There’s something peaceful about an empty parking lot and a lonely course to do loops on till you get dizzy. Time to think. Time to breathe. I loved that loop.

Time to be.The miles flew by. I came home. All was well.

And then, a call from mo. “Your license plate has been stolen.” She noticed it while walking to her car to go to work.

i couldn’t believe it. I was never more than four minutes away from the car. I had seen someone stopping at one point in a car that looked like mine, but people stop. It’s a parking lot. It must have been them.

I called the police, filed a report, went on with my life. I edit stories for a living. Tonight I read about fatal shootings, a family carjacked on the way back from Disney World, a 16-year-old who killed himself after he was outed. I reminded myself I was lucky. It could have been so much worse.

But still. I won’t go back to that course. Bad karma is bad karma. I’ll be more careful. I’ll be more vigilant. I’ll be more scared. The bad guys always win. Life is not a hallmark movie.

I’ll miss that license plate. Those were simpler times.

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hi, how are you

“When I was a kid, I always thought that I’d be a comic book artist,” Daniel Johnston once said. “It took a long time to start thinking that I could be a musician.”

I had no idea those were the two options in life. I wish I had known. I would have made better choices.

I never understood him. I’m not sure he ever understood himself.

But I’ll miss him.

photo swiped from todd v. wolfson. sorry.
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all’s weil that ends weil

Some things you can give up. And some things you can’t.

Mo and I have decided to become vetegarians. Actually we became vegetarians, but it’s quite early and I haven’t had my coffee, and vetegarians does seem to have a mysterious ring to it.

I was reading Jurek’s book in which he traces the path from animal-killing Minnesota boy to Clif bar enthusiast. I drifted back to the days of my misspent youth in which I was a hardcore veggie for many years. It’s easy to be an enthusiastic veggie in Austin, although I still have bay leaf nightmares.

I’ve been haunted by a TED talk by someone who studied how animals grieve, and the complex emotions they have. And we eat them?

At the same time, Mo has been increasingly guilted by the Goats of Anarchy, who point out constantly that they’re rehabbing the little fellows even as we eat them.

I don’t think it will be hard. A little more planning, a bit more cooking, a dash of restraint. Season as necessary. I can even get past the part where he says he doesn’t like margarine.

But then.

The Jurek book pointed me to a tome by Andrew Weil, alternative medicine guru and Santa wanna be. It’s an eight-week program to improving your health. I started into it cautiously. A bit too mumbo jumbo for my tastes, but he has a lot of the same principles. Making small changes in the diet, exercise, breathing, cleaning things up. He wants me to ignore the news one day a week, which is hard when you’re a journalist but increasingly easy when your president is staging Dr. Strangelove the live show. So maybe.

But then.

Give up coffee, he says.


I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that, the prophet Jim Steinman wrote. I believe this explains what he was talking about in the song.

I suppose it’s theoretically possible to exist without coffee, but why? That first cup in the morning, the shot of adrenaline before the morning run, the one cup per edition throughout the evening editing process. The joy of the West Texas truck stops at 3 a.m. The ritualistic family gathering at 8 a.m. The memories of an all-night Denny’s with bottomless cups and the realization you would never, ever get to sleep. The sheer coffeeness of it all.

I’m thinking about all this as I stare at the coffee pot this morning. Can I do it? And then I notice Mo has left poison next to the pot. Did she notice that I had eaten one of her Klondike bars last night? Did she give up on trying to kill me with cadmium in the meat loaf and opt instead for pouring stain remover into the Seattle’s Best? Is it weird that Meat Loaf sang “I would do anything for that?”

Finally, a good reason to give up coffee.

But of course, I don’t. I inhale the first cup. And now the second. And I still seem to be alive. And if I have to die, let it be with a coffee mug in my hand.

Sorry, Dr. Weil. I can give up meat and junk food and maybe even the NYT for a day. But you have to draw the line somewhere.

Without ice cream, there would be darkness and chaos, the prophet Kardong wrote. I would humbly add coffee to the list.

I would do anything for love. But I won’t do that.


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