The Dog Says How (10 page)

prayer

When I was a kid,
I prayed to get things. I remember there was a squirrel monkey for sale in the back of
Spider-Man
comics for $9.99. I wanted that squirrel monkey. And not sea monkeys. Sea monkeys are a rip-off. Squirrel monkey. So I prayed to God to ask Jesus to tell Santa about that squirrel monkey, hoping with all my heart that one of the three would take my case.

Later in life, my prayers shifted. I’m on the Mediterranean Sea, on a boat between Athens, Greece, and the island of Ios, hanging on to a ladder for dear life. I stowed away. I stowed away because while on Ios, I discovered I only had $25 and I still wanted to see Italy and Ireland. So I bought a fake ticket for a dollar and got on board.

Once out to sea, I sat down next to a French guy, and I told him, “Hey, man, I stowed away.”

He said, “You are in big trouble. They haven’t even collected the tickets yet. When they find you, they are going to take you below.” He said, “This happened to a friend of mine. They beat him with a bar of soap and a sock because it didn’t show the bruises.”

I gave the typical reply: “No they won’t. I’m an American.”

He said, “They’re going to love you.” And sure enough, an hour later, ticket-takers came, and I knew I was busted. So I hid behind these barrel-like, depth-charged things. But a steward saw my shoes and blew a whistle. It was cat-and-mouse around the ship. Then I see the ladder hanging over the side. I climb down the side and I’m hanging on over the water looking for any land I can swim to, and I prayed for the first time—for the first time in years I said, “God, please get me out of this. Get me out of this and I’ll never do anything this stupid again as long as I live.”

And I’m wild Russian boar hunting in Texas. Wild Russian boar were introduced to Texas for big-game hunting. They weigh five-, six-hundred pounds with six-inch tusks, and they eat meat in the middle of the night, which is you. So when they come to eat you in the night, you shoot them.

I’m what’s called the light man. I hold a flashlight and search for a boar. I asked the guide Mario, “Mario, aren’t they going to come for the guy with the light?” He says, “Yeah.” So I decided right then and there if I see a boar, I’m going to shine the light on Mario. “Hoo—there’s a big one.”

Mario decides it’s a good time to drink really a lot of Jack Daniels right out of the bottle. And then he decides to play this game called “Scare the Yankee.” Mario has a license plate on his truck that reads, “My wife yes, my dog maybe, my gun . . . never.” He takes out his Bowie knife and starts sliding it up my leg, showing me how it’s going to feel when a boar gores me. All of a sudden, we look up and there’s a cow standing there, a cow. Mario says: “My property, my cow.” He takes out his six-shooter and blam, blam, blam, blam, blam, blam.

The cow looks at Mario, turns, and walks away. Oh, great. I’m the light man. Mario finishes the bottle and topples over, laying there out cold, on top of his gun. I’m standing there in the dark, waiting for a boar, and I pray to God, “God, please get me out of this. Get me out of this and I’ll never do anything stupid again as long as I live.” And I’m in Mardi Gras. Alright, you get the idea.

Five years ago, I’m in a motorcycle accident and my prayers changed yet again. I remember walking down the hall from rehab. I’ve been through many surgeries. And I’m in the hospital, a little over six weeks. And each day, I would ride the elevator to the ground floor and try to take a walk. I could go maybe half a block, but it felt really good to be in the sun. 9/11 had happened the week before. And as our country was entering trauma, I was living one. I already knew that you can’t cure trauma. But hopefully, in time, you can heal from it. But it does take time.

I was on the elevator when I saw this guy who’d been in the trauma ward when I was. I couldn’t believe he was there and walking. When he arrived, he was barely alive—internal injuries, all four limbs in traction. And now, there he was, making his way into the sunshine. I wondered how he found the strength, so I asked, “How did you do it? You were even worse than I was.” And he said, “Because they don’t let you smoke in a hospital.” And true to his word, when we got outside, he pounded a heater.

After my walk, my girlfriend Mary and I went into the gift shop, and she asked if I wanted an apple. She said they looked really good. Now, I hadn’t tasted food in over a month and I had no taste. I lost a lot of weight because food had no appeal. So I said “No,” but she persisted. “Come on. Try it.” So finally, I said, “Alright.” And I took a bite. And for some reason, that was the day flavor returned, and that powerful sweetness rushed from that apple. Oh, it was incredible.

I started to cry, cry for the first time in years. The tears flowed and as the anesthesia and antibiotics flushed through my tears, it burned my eyes. And between the sweetness of that apple and the burning of my tears, it felt so good to be alive. I blurted out, “thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you for this life.” And that’s when my prayers shifted, again, to giving thanks. And I don’t know whether good things happen more because I was saying thank you, or I was just noticing them more.

But blessings started to emerge from the curses. For one thing, I get to see people at their best every day. Sometimes I need help. And people are incredible, literally right there to lend a hand. And nobody looks better than when they’re helping someone. And now when I pray, I take a moment to remind God to ask Jesus to tell Santa, if there’s one thing I want, it’s to say thank you, thank you, thank you—or a squirrel monkey.

the gift

In “A Child’s Christmas in Wales,”
Dylan Thomas said that he can’t remember whether he was six and it snowed for twelve days or he was twelve and it snowed for six. I know the feeling. Often when I ask memory to serve me, it doesn’t always bring what I ordered. But luckily I’m from Minnesota so I figure it’s probably what I really wanted anyway.

One December a few years back I was flying home to Minnesota from a whirlwind European romp. After dancing in the all-night discos of Barcelona, a sudden discovery of my recessive Latin genes, I badly needed some rest from my vacation. The plane circles St. Paul and a familiar sight welcomes me; a white blanket of snow covers the earth. I’m home.

Next to me on the plane are two Spanish women who are looking out the window at the frozen landscape and talking in very concerned tones. This is not home for them. I assure them there is nothing to worry about, it’s just weather. The plane lands and as we wait to file out, the rear door opens and in steps a large human form, covered from head to foot in a snowmobile suit, scarves, and mittens. He’s there to collect the garbage. There is a white frost-circle where he has been breathing through his mouth and the only exposed flesh is the end of his nose, and it is too-white and frostbitten and raw. His presence has taken the European women aback. One woman asks, “Is it cold?”

“Well,” says the form, “I’d wear a coat.”

I’m home.

I get in a cab. Instead of going directly home I tell the cabbie to take me to the Uptown Bar, to see what the lads are up to. As we drive I mention it’s great to see snow. He sarcastically tells me to feast my eyes. His cab driver identification badge says his name is Said—he’s Egyptian—so I ask if he ever gets homesick. “Oh,” he says, “very much.” I ask him what he misses most and he says his language. He says, “Our language is like music.” I ask him to speak for me and he’s right, it is music and Said is a wonderful performer. I tell him our language is like music, too, not English per se, but the Minnesotan dialect to me is music. I can see in his eyes a clear look of disbelief. So I decide to help him out, teach him to speak like a Minnesotan. It’s a technique based on the method devised by Henry Higgins to help Eliza Doolittle learn proper British in
My Fair Lady
. Dr. Higgins has Eliza repeat, “The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.”

In this case the dialect is Minnesotan and the sentence is derived from a conversation overheard in a convenience store. It goes like this: “I ain’t gonna pay no dollar for a corn muffin that’s half dough.” Say that five times and you’re on your way to speaking with the nuanced, rounded Os of a true northlander.

We arrive at the Uptown. I sit at the bar. Next to me is Larry. He turns to me and says, “I’ve got fourteen personalities”—and he did, easily—“I got fourteen personalities and each one is in love with her.” He points to a waitress. She smiles and it’s obvious she’s in love with all fourteen of him. I decide to fade into the woodwork and leave the two lovebirds alone.

I sit at another table and take out my Christmas list and run down the names. I want to get my brother-in-law something good because every year whatever I get him, he says, “Well, that’s different.” “Different” is Minnesotan for “what are you thinking?” This year I decide to get him something that actually is “different” so when he says it I won’t feel so bad. For instance, I saw this bird feeder in a magazine that is shaped like Prometheus. You put him on a rock and the bird food goes on his liver and every day the birds come and peck it out. Or there is a bumper sticker with a picture of the Pillsbury Doughboy and an inscription in Gothic letters, “He is Risen.” I feel guilty I’ve put this off ’til the last but “guilt is the gift that keeps on giving.”

My favorite gift-giving story is from my friend John Van Orman, who is an ethnomusicologist. It involves a group of aboriginal people in Borneo. John told me of an anthropologist who lived among this group in the wilds of Borneo. They gave dances as gifts—dances to each other, to other villages, to their wives or husbands and children—to show their love. This anthropologist lived there for two years and when it came time to leave they performed a dance especially for him. It was incredible, unlike anything he’d ever seen, and he was very moved. He decided to return the favor. It happened he was quite a virtuoso on the violin and he’d brought his instrument along, so he took it out and played the most difficult piece he knew. When he was done the people were ecstatic, they loved it, but they wondered if he “could do it again only this time without making that hideous noise?” I guess that’s their version of “well, that’s different.”

I look around the bar and spot an elderly woman sitting by herself in a Naugahyde booth. She must be in her eighties or nineties and very dressed to the nines: pink and black Jackie O. suit and a matching pillbox hat and drinking tea. Tea. Very out of place in the Uptown Bar. Our eyes meet but instead of looking away, like I usually do (and perhaps due to the recessive Latin gene), I walk up to her. When she looks up at me, her eyebrows disappear under her wig. She feels this and gently and very delicately pulls the wig back. I ask if I can join her and she says, “Of course,” like she has been expecting me. As I take a seat across from her she tells me her name is Rose. We pass the next two hours talking about everything under the sun. I tell her about my trip to Spain, she tells me about her travels and how her husband invented the Frisbee—but back in the 1930s it was called a saucer-tosser—and she has the prototype hanging in her bathroom. I tell her one time on a train I met the guy who invented the fragrance for Halston perfume and Rit Dye number three. “Well,” she says, “don’t we have interesting lives.” I agree, “Yes, Rose, we do.” At one point I noticed Rose has a brooch on her lapel, shaped like a lamb. The fleece is rows of pearls. In the middle of the lamb one of the pearls is missing. I ask Rose about her brooch. “Oh,” she says, “this is my lucky pin.”

She says, “Whenever something terrible happens to me I take out a pearl.”

I say, “Rose, there’s a pearl missing.”

She smiles and says, “Yes, but look how many I have left.”

When her tea is finished, she tells me she must be getting home. I help her to the door while Larry bursts into “Blue Christmas.”

One of his fourteen personalities is Elvis. Rose says, “He’s very good,” and he is. I walk Rose to the bus stop and we wait together in silence. When her bus comes I help her aboard. Suddenly she turns and says, “I live in a residence home and I go out maybe twice a year. Once a year during Hanukkah, I make a deal with myself. I won’t go home until I have made a new friend.” She smiles and says, “And now I can go home.” I watch her as her bus pulls away then walk home, where I’ll pull out my tuba and practice my gift for my brother-in-law.

racing toward solace

I believe each of us
is drawn to a geography whether it’s mountains, the desert, or an ocean. There lives in a particular nature that which provides us solace but also awakens our muse.

For me it’s the forests and lakes in northern Minnesota.

I was recently up north in the Boundary Waters of Canada and the U.S. on a dog sledding trip. Now, this was my first time dog sledding. We have two wiener dogs, and the thought of a dog doing what I told it to do thrills me to no end.

I’m touring with an outfitter called Wilderness Inquiry. As we drive north past Lake Superior, then inland toward the border, we see a bald eagle, whitetail deer, and a very rare sighting—a timber wolf following the tracks of the deer we just saw.

One in our group, named Sindibad, talks about the spirits of things. For all of us, there is an outside spirit and an inside spirit. The outside is what the world sees and the inside is what we ourselves see. Sindibad sings an Ojibwe song that translates to:

Here comes the spirit of the wolf

Here comes the
spirit
of the wolf

Here comes the spirit of the
wolf

Here
is
the spirit of the wolf.

I know from years of coming up here as a kid this land is unforgiving—one mistake can cost a limb or a life. The Boundary Waters Canoe Area is over a million acres of wilderness, its rocky terrain and thousands of miles of lakes formed by receding glaciers. There are no motorized vehicles allowed and visitors are strictly regulated, making it one of the most beautiful, wild places on the planet. This is also winter, where subzero temperatures are common and skin is often referred to as “exposed flesh.”

Living in the moment is essential.

About half of our group is from Australia. There are eleven of them from Adelaide, in South Australia. Most of them have never seen snow. They’re laughing, completely oblivious to the world that awaits them. I feel like Hunter S. Thompson in the opening of
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
. When he notices his Samoan lawyer hasn’t seen the savage winged lizards dive-bombing their car, Thompson says, “Poor bastard will see them soon enough.”

Australians are a lot like Americans. I’ve heard that people who are risk-takers have what’s called a “long gene,” a genetic predisposition that’s housed in the rebellious types who settled our two countries. Unlike Americans I find the Australians have a lack of cynicism that’s very refreshing. At first it’s hard to get used to—like, “what’s their angle?”—but it turns out there is no angle. They are simply more open, there is more sky on their faces. They remind me of how we Americans think we are, like maybe we were when there was more elbow room.

There is a wonderful story. It’s a Nazrudin story, the wise fool from Sufi lore. Nazrudin is working in his field and a traveler passes and asks, “What is the next town like?”

Nazrudin asks the traveler, “What is the town like where you are from?”

“Oh,” said the man. “One must be very careful. Its full of thieves and cutthroats.”

Nazrudin says, “It’s the same with this town.”

“Thank you,” says the traveler. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

NOT LONG AFTER
that another traveler approaches Nazrudin. He too asks, “What is the next town like?”

Nazrudin asks the traveler, “What is the town like where you are from?”

“Oh, its beautiful. The people are the friendliest, most loving souls you’ll ever meet.”

“It’s the same in this town,” says Nazrudin.

WHEN WE ARRIVE
at the end of the road the Aussies jump right out—somehow they adapt quickly to the frozen north. I guess they’re used to living in extremes, only where they’re from it’s the heat that’ll get you. At first the Australians have a tendency to fall down—they keep looking skyward like an answer lives up there—but the cold isn’t getting to them.

We are told we must trek across a frozen lake in the dark to the lodge. They aren’t too keen about walking across a lake; they maintain walking on water is saved for their deities. I tell them the secret to walking on ice—“have somebody else go first.” That’s how I got to lead the expedition.

They can’t believe how much water we have—their largest lake can expect water every ten years or so. Still they’re marked on the map as lakes. I remember a buddy of mine who bought some land in Minnesota only to discover he’d bought a lake . . . full of water. We walk to the lodge, the stars so low I’m hunting with Orion and cartwheeling with Cassiopeia.

The next day I awake and prepare for the outdoors: no cotton—use wool or synthetic fibers, they breathe—and many layers, the last one to block wind. I can’t find my boots. For some reason boots are up for grabs with this group. Every day I will have a different pair of boots.

That morning we meet the dogs. Some of them are veterans of the Iditarod, the 1,200-mile race in Alaska. One dog has finished in second place twice. I feel like I’m meeting the canine Michael Jordan. The dogs howl in anticipation.

The Ogalala people say those centuries ago a chasm formed between humans and animals. As it widened at the last minute the Dog left his cousin Wolf and jumped across to be with the humans. The Ogalala feel the mournful cry of the wolf is the longing that the chasm will someday be closed. We hook up the dogs and get ready to go.

WILDERNESS INQUIRY
specializes in wilderness trips for people with and without disabilities. In our group and the group from Australia, there are people with a wide variety of disabilities: some of our members are blind, others have Down Syndrome, there are those with brain injury . . . the list is varied, each person unique with his or her own blessings and curses. Nearly everyone in our group sports a challenge but the counselors are unfazed. Everyone has one thing in common: we all want to know “how far can I go?”

I’ve secretly wanted to drive a sled but wasn’t going to complain if I rode in the basket. I have a paralyzed arm and a congenital condition with the left, so hanging on could be an issue. But it’s not an issue; I am not only allowed but expected to drive a sled. My enthusiasm is soon overridden by concern.

Often I buy into what the outside world thinks of me . . . mostly based on limitations. They see what I can’t do instead of what I can. Like Sindibad said every living creature has a form we see and one we don’t. It’s true, how we perceive ourselves is rarely as others perceive us and we are all the hero of our own stories. I hope.

When I learned I was to drive at first I was excited but then reality sets in. Will I be able? We are given instructions on how to start, how to go left, how to go right. There is a “brake,” a piece of cyclone fencing you step on with your foot, and an emergency brake that’s a treble hook on a rope that may or may not catch onto something. Honestly, the brake system is more suggestion than science.

It’s been years since I’ve been this nervous; people, including myself, keep protecting me but now it’s time to “see what I’m made of.” I step on the runners, lift the brake, and . . . “Let’s go!”

The dogs are magnificent. Once running they stop barking and settle into work mode. We are a team, from the powerful wheel dogs in the rear to the lead dogs in front. Their athleticism is now evident, there is obvious joy as they run. This is why they were barking with anticipation. And we are going fast. Not since my days on a motorbike have I experienced such a thrill. That flow of body and nature, where my inside self and my outside self are one. The master and the student at the same time as the samurai say, in one body. . . in control
and
at the mercy of the next moment. More a matter of dancing than hanging on or steering. And it’s silent, only the slight
swoosh
as the runners slide over snow.

Here comes the spirit of the wolf

Here comes the spirit of the wolf

Here is the spirit of the wolf.

THAT NIGHT IN THE LODGE
we have a talent show. The group I’m with is called Interact, a company specializing in performers with disabilities, and the Australians are from a similar company called Tutti. The talent show rocks. Amy, from Australia, and Sam, from Minnesota, sing a duet a la
West Side Story
. Joel plays the didgeridoo. The didgeridoo, or
yidaki
, is an Australian musical instrument developed in the north of Australia. It’s a hollow tube formed as termites eat the tree from the center. It’s then cut off at lengths of a couple feet to over six feet, depending upon the desired pitch. To play it you buzz your lips into one end. It’s a haunting beautiful drone probably not heard very often in the far north.

Steve, who is indigenous Australian, tells a story of how his people saved the world using
indiginuety
. Even the counselors get in on it. Mark talks of the voyageurs, the French explorers who three hundred years ago traded up here, worked like mad, sang, smoked pipes on the hour, carried ninety-pound packs, and were actually into fashion.

The talent show breaks out into improv sets, using actors from both sides of the world. I’m reminded of King Lear’s fool, or the
heyokas
of the Dakota and Lakota, or the contraries for the Ojibwe, thought of as healers and visionaries. In cultures around the world the wise fools were used as counsel because they had a foot in two worlds, a heightened existence. Maybe that’s why this group takes to this adventure. A heightened state is a comfortable one.

As I watch the performers work through and beyond their physical limitations I’m struck by the truth and joy, the living in the moment that is at the heart of all great performance.

We tell more stories and then go outside and make snow angels, teaching the Aussies how to drop on your back in a snowbank and wave your arms up and down. You’ve never seen more unique snow angels than from this group. Then one of the counselors cuts a hole in the lake with a chain saw. Everyone piles into the sauna and then when the heat becomes unbearable, one by one people rush into the freezing lake. I am amazed that of the eleven Australians ten jump in, the only abstainer stopping at the last second, claiming, “My mom would not like this.”

The evening moves back into the lodge, with fires and more stories as the snow falls outside and softens reality. I feel at home among fellow fools. In these days where the news has become entertainment and entertainment, news, we get the truth where we can find it. A story, or a place of solace.

BACK IN THE DAYS
when pots and pans could talk—which indeed they still do—there lived a man. In order to have water every day he had to walk down the hill and fill two pots and walk them home. One day it was discovered one of the pots had a crack and as time went on the crack widened. Finally the pot turned to the man and said, “Every day you take me to the river. By the time you get home half of the water has leaked out. Please replace me with a better pot.”

The man said, “You don’t understand—as you spill you water the wild flowers by the side of the path.” Sure enough on the side of the path where the cracked pot was carried beautiful flowers grew, while the other side was barren.

“I think I’ll keep you,” said the man.

WE LEAVE THE NEXT MORNING.
Lo and behold, the remaining boots are my own.

Riding in the van I hear the Australians telling their stories. It seems in every new rendition the cold is mentioned and the temperature drops another ten degrees. As we drive through the forest there is a new energy in the van. We’re not the same people we were three days ago.

We ride past Lake Superior in silence.

Here comes the spirit of the wolf. . . .