UNITES STATES—Every August now I go to New Orleans. The pressure before getting the ride to the airport was leaving the house in such a way that the dogs, Baby DeVille (the Chihuahua terrier) and Lupe the pit bull Labrador (wow, I didn’t know that you capitalize labrador: well, there you go, learn something new every day). And what I learned was those two dogs won’t get into a tangle would be alone for a grand total of six hours, between my departure, and when another jet-setting family member would be in the house.
That’s kind of a funny story, too, about a child born in the early 21st century and going on a trip to Paris, really adept at texting and digital savoire faire, always guilting me about my clumsiness in cyberia. Nay, it’s nearly been a torment, that is to say a gift, laid upon me by the digital gods. Even today, when reminded that it is the day of the week to come up with 800 words, two hours of the morning were swallowed up by the matter of resetting a password on a blocked account. Passwords are my bête noire. Down that rabbit hole again. Darn, why doesn’t spell check KNOW the right way to typeset bête noire. I must be turning into an android, expecting the computer to do the work for me.
What was I saying? Well, it came time for Alexia to get the flight back to Los Angeles from Paris. And then much to her burning chagrin, not only burning but everlasting, besmirching the digital savvy of a whole generation, she realized that she had booked the return flight, NOT for July 30, but for August 30. A mere slip of the splayed finger. So, I’m not the only splay-fingered fool in the world.
And that’s what gets me; after so many times of entering what I know to be the right password: it turns out I had enlisted some incorrect number or symbol. And in the meantime, I begin to doubt the truth of my conviction that I’m using the right password. This is all gateway to a fine delirium. Anyway, back to Lupe: the pit bull lab mix would be left alone for six hours with the Chihuahua terrier. I left a bucket of water. Two heaping bowls of dogfood.
The fear, stoked by those knowledgeable in doggie ways, was that Lupe could have reverted her nature as she was bred to be, and crush the cranium of Baby DeVille between her jaws. That breed with the oh-so-tender human as was bred by the British to crush its opponent’s skull.
New Orleans was a blast, as it always is. One of the wonderful places that stands out St. Roch Tavern on St. Roch Street. And it turns out that St. Roch is the patron saint of dogs and the sick. It’s a bleeding miracle.
And still in the back of my mind played out; what happened to the dogs in those six hours. I made it to the Louis Armstrong Airport. Waited, walked around for two hours, after getting X-rayed and then was able to find a seat with a nice place with a view of the tarmac and eat an exquisite leftover of English muffin, poached egg, bacon and hollandaise sauce in the too air-conditioned airport. The border collie of a friend in New Orleans got most of the bacon. I got the rest.
The trip home was a lot sadder than that anticipatory one, on which I let the wife of the older couple from LA out to a reunion in Louisiana, I let her keep the window seat. Assigned to me. That was reward enough. They also treated me to a beer. Good medicine for the sultry days that lie ahead for an overheated world.
The final plight was to arrive at LAX and wait for Alexia to come in her car. Gosh, I think I waited over an hour, eyes peeled for that blue-black Prius. Darn, I called her. I lacked faith. Just five more minutes she was there. And I knew that the dogs were alright. Alive and well. One of them had vomited in a corner, and I have yet to discern which corner. It’s probably all dried up by now.
To be continued…
