I was on a date with a woman twenty years ago and there came a
moment when she asked me a question and I replied, “I don’t know. That’s a
subject I know nothing about.”
“Really?” she said, frowning at me. “Aren’t you going to at least pretend you know the answer?”
“No,” I said, laughing. “My father would do that, but not me.”
“Not just your father,” she said, with a touch of bitterness in
her voice. “Most men would make up an
answer so they wouldn’t look stupid, even though it would be obvious they were
making something up, which really makes
them look stupid, but they don’t care because they have to pretend they know.”
“I wonder why that is?”
“Because men think not
knowing something is a sign of weakness, and they can’t allow themselves to
appear weak, especially when they’re relating to a woman.”
My father was an extreme example of a man who pretended he knew everything, and this was especially true when he was in the presence of women. This trait did not endear him to my mother or to me or to my siblings or to anyone, but he didn’t care, because as my long-ago date succinctly put it, he had to pretend he knew.
I only know a small part of why my father was this way, but here is a true story about when his need to pretend he knew more about something than the woman he was with beats anything of the kind I have ever heard.
My father was a psychiatrist. One of his colleagues was a woman psychiatrist
who was married to Meyer Fortes, a very famous anthropologist. I majored in
Anthropology during my two years of college and was an avid reader of
ethnographies after leaving college. I had read and admired several works by Meyer
Fortes about the Tallensi and Ashanti of Ghana. He was a particular hero of
mine.
I was also an admirer of Jane Goodall, the world’s foremost authority
on chimpanzees. I had read many articles by her and about her, as well as her
books My Friends the Wild Chimpanzees and In the Shadow of Man.
So you can imagine my excitement circa 1973 when my mother called
me at the commune in Santa Cruz where I was living to tell me that she and my
father were hosting an intimate dinner party, the guests to be Meyer Fortes and
his wife, and Jane Goodall and her husband.
“I wanted to have you to join us for dinner,” said my mother, “but
your father thinks… well, he said if you wanted to come after supper during dessert and meet everyone, you could do that
and then spend the night.”
“Yes!” I said. “I’ll be there.”
This was such a big deal for me that I borrowed a car rather than
risk unlucky hitchhiking from Santa Cruz to Atherton, and on the appointed evening
I arrived at my parents’ house, quietly entered the kitchen through the garage,
and looked into the dining room that was separated from the kitchen by a
counter.
I will never forget that scene. Jane and her husband were sitting on one side of the dining table facing me. Meyer Fortes and his wife were opposite them with their backs to me. My father was at one end of the table, my mother at the other. My father, as I had feared, was very drunk and slurring his words and pontificating inanely as he always did when he was drunk. He was the only one speaking.
Jane and her husband both sat unmoving, their faces showing
distress at being trapped at a table with someone like my father. Meyer Fortes
and his wife were also unmoving, and my mother, poor dear, was bowing her head
and praying, I imagined, for my father to drop dead.
When my father paused briefly in his babbling, Meyer Fortes turned around in his chair to look at me and I said hello, introduced myself, spoke of my admiration for his and Jane’s work, told them I had come from Santa Cruz to meet them, and for a brief time Jane and her husband became animated and chatted with me, and Meyer and his wife were animated and friendly, too.
And then came the crowning moment. My father, having had enough of
my interrupting him, finished his wine, refilled his glass, and said loudly,
“Now what you have to understand
about chimpanzees is…”
I heard no more because I fled the house and drove home to Santa
Cruz, my heart aching for days after.
Obidiah the Cummings Lane raven
mystic was perched on the edge of his new roost high in a giant gnarly old
redwood named Tree. Obidiah had just eaten two delicious morsels of perfectly
cooked chicken given to him by a human named Isadora.
There were twelve more chicken
morsels left in the bag, and Obidiah was about to eat them when he saw a sight
that took his breath away. Gliding through the forest fifty feet below him was
the beautiful Jack Peters Creek raven gal Magdalena, she of the four snowy
white tail feathers.
“Wow, talk about wishes coming
true,” said Obidiah, who had just moments before wished he could share the
chicken morsels with Magdalena.
Obidiah had only met Magdalena once
before and very briefly, but that meeting was a life-changing event for both of
them because neither had ever met another full-blown mystic, which they both
were, and neither had ever been so
profoundly attracted to a raven of the opposite sex.
“If you’d like to talk about wishes
coming true,” said Tree, with whom Obidiah frequently conversed, “I’d be happy
to.”
“Hold that thought,” said Obidiah, flying
off in pursuit of Magdalena.
“Wishes coming true,” mused Tree. “Do
thousand-year-old trees make wishes? I don’t recall ever wishing for anything. But
if I did wish for something, what
might it be? Perhaps I’d wish for rain to end a long drought, though I never have wished for that because I know
droughts always eventually end whether I wish they would or not. So… I don’t
know.”
While Tree pondered the concept of wishes,
Obidiah caught up to Magdalena and cawed, “Well if it isn’t Magdalena. Fancy
meeting you here.”
Magdalena alighted on the first
convenient branch and Obidiah landed on a branch not far from her.
“Hi,” she said shyly. “You made a
wish involving me and I’ve been wanting to see you again, so here I am.”
“You heard my wish?” he replied,
overjoyed. “All the way from Jack Peters Creek?”
Magdalena nodded. “Is your roost
nearby?”
“Yeah, its…”
“Don’t tell me,” she said,
interrupting. “I only asked because though you’re not technically in Jack Peters Creek raven territory, you are still
very much in danger of being attacked by Jack Peters Creek ravens. As I
mentioned to you when we first met, they are all brutal dunces and not to be
reasoned with.”
“You don’t want to see my roost?” he
asked, disappointed.
“I do and I don’t,” she said,
sighing in frustration. “I do want to
see your roost because I’m super curious, of course, and I don’t want to see your roost because if I love your roost, which I
probably will, then…”
“Then what?” he asked, holding his
breath.
“Then it will be even harder for me
to stop thinking about you,” she said matter-of-factly. “Ever since we met and
conversed clairvoyantly and… by the way, do you read minds? Of other ravens and
birds and mammals?”
“I do,” he said, nodding. “But your
mind is closed to me.”
“That is so weird,” she said, squinting at him. “Because I can read minds,
too, but not yours. How about future glimpsing?”
“Yes,” he said, frowning. “Only not my
own future or yours.”
“Ditto,” she said, enraptured by
him. “I’ve never met another raven like me. Have you ever met another raven
like you?”
“Still haven’t,” he said, jauntily bobbing
his head. “You’re a gal raven and I’m male.”
“I meant the other stuff,” she said,
blushing.
“Speaking of other stuff,” he said,
making a clucking sound. “You hungry? One of my human clients just paid me in
scrumptious chicken morsels, and my wish, the one you heard from an impressive
three miles away, was to have you join me in feasting on said scrumptious
chicken morsels.”
“You have human clients?” she asked, amazed.
“Well… one,” he said, shrugging.
“Hungry?”
“Actually I am,” she said, torn
between staying and going. “But the thing is… by the way, what’s your name?”
“Obidiah,” he said, smitten beyond
smitten.
“Nice name,” she said quietly. “The
thing is, Obidiah, I’m three-years old and soon to be four, and I long ago
resigned myself to never marrying because all the raven males I’ve ever met are
brutal dunces.”
“I’m not,” he said simply.
“No, I can sense that,” she said,
her voice full of tenderness. “But you’re an outsider and the brutal dunces
will kill you if you ever come to our territory again.”
“I never will come to their territory again,” he said, shaking his head. “We
would live here and socialize with my raven and non-raven friends in Cummings
Lane raven territory and at Big River Beach.”
“Your friends would accept me?” she asked incredulously.
“Absolutely,” he assured her. “I’m
held in high esteem by the Cummings Lane ravens because of the many useful
repercussions of my mystical proclivities, and you would be held in high esteem,
too, because you would be my wife.”
“Seriously?” she said,
flabbergasted. “Most Jack Peters Creek ravens think I’m a total nut case, though
that doesn’t stop the males from trying to impregnate me against my will.”
“I would never do that,” he said
gently. “I would always wait until you invited me.”
“Gosh,” she said, her heart melting,
“this puts things in a whole new light, a lovely new light, though I still
think our roost… your roost is
vulnerable to attacks from Jack Peters Creek ravens.”
“Speaking of vulnerable,” he said,
turning in the direction of Tree, “I don’t think we should leave those
scrumptious morsels unattended much longer.”
“No we shouldn’t,” she said,
surrendering to his charms. “Lead me to your roost.”
*
Had either Obidiah or Magdalena been able to see the future they might have been spared a few terrifying weeks of trying to make the hollow in Tree a lasting home for themselves and their future progeny.
But they could not see their
futures, and despite their valiant efforts they could not withstand the
constant harassment and predations by gangs of Jack Peters Creek ravens who
were furious that a Cummings Lane raven had successfully wooed and wed a
beautiful Jack Peters Creek raven gal.
Nor could Obidiah and Magdalena have
known that even marginal land for roosting in Cummings Lane raven territory
would be in such short supply, and that after giving up their roost in Tree
they would spend a long wet winter in a temporary nest in a small redwood on
Obidiah’s parents’ land, which was fine with Obidiah’s father Tarkanda but did
not sit well with Obidiah’s mother Doris who felt intimidated by Magdalena’s
formidable mystical proclivities and her beautiful white tail feathers.
*
Then one Thursday morning, as winter
was giving way to spring, Obidiah went to meet the human Isadora at the big
driftwood log on Big River Beach. With food scarce, Obidiah and Magdalena had
come to depend on the weekly bag of succulent morsels Isadora brought Obidiah in
thanks for his counseling.
Obidiah alighted on the big
driftwood log a few feet from Isadora and sent “You look lovelier than ever. Those
pearl earrings are to die for. How are things going with you and Thomas?”
“Things are going wonderfully well
for us,” sent Isadora, gazing fondly at Obidiah. “How are things going for you?
You sound sad, Obidiah. Are you?”
Now in all the many Thursday
mornings that Obidiah met Isadora on the big driftwood log, Isadora had never
once inquired about Obidiah’s life, nor had Obidiah ever shared anything about
his life with her. But when she asked how things were going for him, and especially
when she said he sounded sad, he told her everything that had happened to him
since he helped her end her terrible marriage to Jeff and find true love with
Thomas.
When he finished telling his tale, Obidiah
looked at Isadora and saw she was crying.
“I’m sorry,” he sent. “I shouldn’t
have burdened you with my…”
“No, Obidiah,” she sent
passionately. “I should have asked how you were doing long ago when I first
sensed your sorrow.”
“But our relationship has always
been about me helping you,” sent Obidiah, tearfully. “And in
thanks for my help you’ve given me food glorious food. So…”
“I can do more than give you food,”
said Isadora, gesturing magnanimously to the sparkling sea. “I own ten acres a
mile south of here and I’m certain no ravens are currently living on my land.
Come live there with your wife. You would be most welcome.”
*
And that is how Obidiah and
Magdalena, the raven mystics, came to live on Isadora’s land.
They built a big comfy nest in a
gnarly old giant redwood named Cassiopeia and raised many children on Isadora’s
fruitful acres. Their female progeny were all witty and wise and gifted with
snowy white tail feathers, and their male progeny were all strong and adventurous
and fond of double entendre. And many of their offspring were full-blown
mystics, too.
*
Obidiah and Magdalena are quite old
now and spend most of their time hanging around Isadora and Thomas’s house
enjoying the marvelous smells emanating from the kitchen and listening to Isadora
and Thomas make music together.
And, as you might expect, Obidiah
and Magdalena are totally addicted to the scrumptious morsels Isadora gives
them every day.
On a drizzly morning in late
October, Obidiah the raven mystic and his seagull pal Marcus and ten of
Marcus’s gull buddies flew north from Big River to a little rocky beach at the
mouth of Jack Peters Creek. The tide was way out when they reached the beach where
the creek was little more than a trickle for lack of rain.
They landed in a group at the south
end of the beach and one of Marcus’s cronies opined, “Why was it again we left
the easy living and soft sands of Big River Beach to come all the way to this
sad excuse for a beach?”
“You lack imagination, Stefan,” retorted
Marcus, turning over a baseball-sized stone and exposing a scrumptious little
crab. “Not only do crustaceans abound here, but yonder is a shallow pool
wherein are trapped several dozen delectable smelt who neither went far enough
out with the tide nor far enough up the creek while the going was good. Hence
they are sitting ducks, so to speak, for gulls such as we.”
Inspired by Marcus’s preface, the gulls flew en masse to the little pool to dine on the many fish trapped therein. Obidiah followed the gulls, and being less aquatic than they, did not take part in the fishing.
Standing apart from the feasting gulls, Obidiah heard the unmistakable creaking of fast-flapping raven wings and looked upstream as a trio of glossy black Jack Peters Creek raven gals emerged from the forest and landed a short distance from Obidiah.
“You’re no Jack Peters Creek raven,”
said the largest of the three. “You migrating? Well you better migrate yourself
down the coast pronto before our big boys get here and kick your butt.”
Obidiah read the mind of this
largest of the three as well as the mind of the next largest, and was
disappointed to find both raven gals were profoundly afraid of him, emotionally
unreceptive, and not the brightest of passerines. But when he tried to read the
mind of the third, a comely gal with four snowy white tail feathers, he found
her mind closed to him.
“I’m Obidah,” he said, mesmerized by
the raven gal with the white tail feathers. “Who are you?”
“Watch out, Magdalena,” cackled the
largest gal raven. “He’s got the hots for you.”
“Better tell him to shove off before
he gets hurt,” said the mid-sized gal. “The big boys will show him no mercy.”
But Magdalena spoke not a word as she
gazed steadfastly at Obidiah.
“Say,” said the second largest of
the gal ravens, squinting suspiciously at Obidiah. “You wouldn’t happen to be a
Cummings Lane raven, would you? Because if you are, our big boys will do more
than kick your butt, they’ll tear your eyes out.”
Obidiah was about to say he was hoping
for a more peaceful outcome to his visit, when Magdalena spoke to him
clairvoyantly, her voice sweet music to his psyche.
“Why have you come here?” she asked,
her tone suggesting concern for his safety. “My sisters speak the truth about
what the big boys will try to do to you. They are all brutal dunces and cannot
be reasoned with.”
“I came here,” said Obidiah,
replying clairvoyantly, “because I’m in search of a mate. I’m claiming some land
between Cummings Lane raven territory and Jack Peters Creek raven territory and
hoping to meet a gal raven who will love the roost I’ve found and love me, too,
once she gets to know me and finds out what a thoughtful, capable, loyal
partner I’ll be.”
“But why did you come here?” sent Magdalena, glancing
furtively up the creek. “Why not seek a mate among your own kind?”
“Because the gal ravens where I come
from are ruled by fear,” sent Obidiah, taking a few steps toward her. “And I’m
hoping to meet someone ruled by love.”
Before Magdalena could reply, four
large male Jack Peters Creek ravens flew swiftly out of the forest and attacked
Obidiah.
Obidiah took wing, flying for his
life, and just as those four brutal dunces were about to overtake Obidiah,
Marcus and his ten pals rose into the air, a cloud of gulls, and battered those
four ravens with their powerful wings until the brutal dunces fled back into
the forest and Obidiah was able to escape unharmed.
*
Back on Big River Beach, Marcus and
his buddies regaled the large gathering of gulls with wildly exaggerated reports
of their triumph over the Jack Peters Creek ravens, while Obidiah sat on a
nearby driftwood log recovering from his close call and reviewing his
clairvoyant conversation with the enchanting Magdalena, she of the four white
tail feathers.
Seeing Obidiah in the throes of emotional
turmoil, Marcus excused himself from the hubbub on the sand bar and joined
Obidiah on the driftwood log.
“Thinking about that beautiful Jack
Peters Creek raven gal, aren’t you?” said Marcus, winking at his non-gull
buddy.
“You thought she was beautiful,
too?” said Obidiah, smiling dreamily at Marcus. “I didn’t know gulls found
individuals of other species anything other than individuals of other species.”
“On rare occasions,” said Marcus,
thinking back over his life, “individuals of other species have struck me as
beautiful or ugly or strange or funny or cute. Certain puppy dogs, for
instance, are undeniably cute. And that raven gal with the snow-white tail
feathers reminiscent of snow-white gull feathers was an amalgam of beautiful
and cute and mysterious, too. Ergo, I can see why you’re in a tizzy.”
“And she can communicate
clairvoyantly,” said Obidiah, excitedly. “She’s the only raven I’ve ever met
who can. Other than yours truly.”
“I could only guess her thoughts,”
said Marcus, bouncing his eyes, “but the way she was looking at you… ay
caramba.”
“But how will I ever get to see her
again?” asked Obidiah, mournfully. “Those Jack Peters Creek big boys will kill
me if I ever venture into their territory.”
“You want my advice?” asked Marcus,
still high from battering those Jack Peters Creek ravens and saving his friend.
“Go secure the far flung roost you love. Take the road less travelled. Cut the seemingly
irresolvable knot of doubt. Gather a trove of sticks for a nest you’ll build
one day with your sweetheart and trust in the power of love.”
“You’re a romantic,” said Obidiah,
chuckling. “Who knew?”
“I’m a sea gull living at the mouth
of a bountiful river in paradise,” said Marcus, admiring the eternal collision
of river and ocean. “Of course I’m a romantic.”
*
So Obidiah began spending a few
hours every day in his new roost in the giant gnarly old redwood named Tree,
exploring his new domain, and gathering excellent sticks for making a big comfy
nest.
*
Then it was Thursday again. Had it
only been a week since Obidiah communed clairvoyantly with Isadora the
red-haired human at Big River Beach and saw into her future and helped her escape
her terrible marriage? Yes. Only a week.
So Obidiah began his Thursday by
flying down to Big River Beach and meeting Isadora and her dog Groucho at the usual
big driftwood log. And while Groucho wandered about, sniffing and pissing,
Obidiah alighted on the log a few feet from Isadora and sent, “You’re looking
radiant today. Love the purple coat. What news?”
“Oh Obidiah, I am so glad Jeff is gone,” she sent, smiling
at him. “So glad. And you were right. He took almost everything in the house and the garage. So now I’m slowly
replacing the things I need. Kitchen table, bed, bedding, things to cook with,
plates, silverware, mugs. He never cooked, but he took everything in the
kitchen. He even took the food from the refrigerator and emptied the wine
cellar. But he couldn’t get my guitar and violin and a few other precious
things I moved to my friend’s house before he came.”
“Excellent,” sent Obidiah, proud of
Isadora. “Now tell me, who is Thomas?”
Isadora blushed. “A dear old friend.
We played music together before I married Jeff and before Thomas married Andrea.
Why do you ask?”
“Thomas will cut down a tree for you,” said Obidiah, seeing Isadora’s future as if he was watching a well-made movie. “The big pine that’s threatening to fall on your house. After the tree is down and you learn Thomas is no longer married, you will invite him for supper.”
“Really?” sent Isadora, gaping at Obidiah. “And then what happens?”
“That’s as far into your future as I
can see today,” said Obidiah, though he could actually see a little further.
“Now remember, that pine tree might fall any day now, so call Thomas soon.
Today would be a fine day to call him.”
“I will,” she sent, beaming at
Obidiah. “I brought you more chicken morsels cooked just the way you like
them.”
“Wonderful,” sent Obidiah, his eyes
growing wide as Isadora took a bulging plastic bag out of her pocket. “Would
you mind leaving them in the bag so I can more easily transport them to my new
digs?”
“Certainly,” sent Isadora, placing
the bag on the log between them. “I’m so grateful to you.”
“As I am grateful to you,” sent
Obidiah, nodding graciously.
“Next week?” sent Isadora, getting
up from the log. “Same time, same log?”
“Yes,” sent Obidiah, grasping the
bulging bag with his talons and flying away into the wild blue yonder.
*
His heart pounding from the exertion
of flying all those miles with the heavy bag of delicious chicken morsels,
Obidiah landed in the hollow high up in the trunk of Tree, opened the bag, and
ate one of Isadora’s morsels.
“Oh yum,” said Obidiah, relishing
the perfectly cooked chicken and thinking I
wish I could share this feast with Magdalena.
At which moment, a few miles away in
a roost on the banks of Jack Peters Creek, Magdalena heard Obidiah’s wish and
set out to find him.
On the day after Madge the beautiful
Cummings Lane gal raven turned down his marriage proposal, Obidiah the raven
mystic decided to seek out his two non-raven bird friends, a gull named Marcus
and a Red-tailed hawk named Harold, to get their opinions about how he might
proceed with his life. In Obidiah’s experience, other species’ viewpoints were
often helpful in resolving seemingly intractable raven dilemmas.
*
Harold the hawk oversaw a couple
square miles of fields and orchards and wooded land between Cummings Lane and
the coast. Harold and his mate Rose had a big nest at the top of a half-dead
bull pine on the edge of a wooded ravine carved by a seasonal creek.
Obidiah and Harold became friends
two years ago when Harold and Rose were establishing their territory and the
local ravens would daily mob the hawks and chase them all over hell and gone.
The ravens did this because the hawk couple who previously presided over Harold
and Rose’s territory were notorious raven nest raiders, which Harold and Rose
were not.
One day Obidiah happened to join a
group of ravens mobbing Harold, and because Obidiah spoke fluent Hawk, he
understood Harold when Harold cried plaintively, “Leave us alone. Please. We
are not raven nest raiders. We are gopher,
squirrel, snake, rabbit, vole hunters. We really
don’t want to have to resort to killing some of you, but we will if you persist
in mobbing us.”
So Obidiah brokered a peace between
Harold and Rose and the Cummings Lane ravens, and thereafter Harold and Obidiah
were friends.
Obidiah found Harold perched on a
power line overlooking Harold and Rose’s Rodent Field 7, a level acre of land that
the human owners left fallow, though this acre would have made an ideal apple
orchard or vegetable farm.
Harold greeted Obidiah with his
perpetual steely gaze, which Obidiah knew not to misconstrue.
“Obidiah,” said Harold, his voice
fantastically high. “What brings you… excuse me.”
Harold then plummeted to the ground and snagged with his talons a big fat gopher he promptly tore to pieces with his beak.
“No matter how many times I see you
do that,” said Obidiah, admiringly, “I’m amazed. Will you be taking that meat
back to your nest?”
“No,” said Harold, devouring the
shredded gopher flesh. “George and Naomi left the nest a couple months ago, and
Rose is working Rodent Field 4 this morning. This is all mine. Want some?”
“Sure,” said Obidiah, alighting near
Harold and waiting politely for the raptor to fling him a few bloody pieces.
When the gopher was no more, Harold
and Obidiah flapped across the field and perched on another power line from
where Harold could scan the field.
“As I started to ask,” said Harold,
blinking at Obidiah, “before that delicious gopher emerged from his hole
unawares… what brings you here
today?”
“I’m seeking guidance,” said
Obidiah, humbly. “I’ve found a marvelous roost in some fine unclaimed territory
several miles north of here, but I don’t yet have a mate and I despair of any
Cumming Lane raven gal wanting to settle so far afield. I’m not getting any
younger and… well, I’m at a loss how to proceed.”
“Hawks, you know,” said Harold, his
eyes fixed on the field, “do not live communally or even semi-communally, and
we’re fortunate if we live half as long as your average raven. I got booted out
of the nest and driven out of my parents’ territory when I was five-months-old
and had to migrate to the far fringes of hawk civilization before I could stake
my first claim on extremely marginal hunting grounds. For some months I survived
on scrawny lizards and throat-tickling caterpillars and the occasional snake, but
I persevered, met Rose, and together we claimed this paradise after the previous pair of hawks were electrocuted by
a power surge. Then we had to fight off several other hawks who wanted this
land, and then we had to survive months of mobbing by ravens until you came to
the rescue. Since then things have been relatively marvelous. Which is all to
say, if you were a hawk, you’d claim that territory you’re enamored of, get to
know the lay of your land, and hope for good things to follow.”
“Even if one of the things to follow
was a raven gal from another society?” asked Obidiah, his fear of Jack Peters
Creek ravens inherited from hundreds of previous generations of Cummings Lane
ravens.
“Heck yeah,” said Harold, seeming to
glare at Obidiah, though he was merely being a hawk. “Love doesn’t care where
we come from. Love only cares who we are and if we have that ineffable je ne
sais quoi.”
*
Inspired by Harold’s thought-provoking
ideas about love, Obidiah flew down to Big River Beach and found his gull pal
Marcus standing on the outskirts of a sizeable congregation of other gulls gathered
at the edge of a sand bar pecking in the wet sand for sand dabs.
A large gull, his feathers extra
white from a recent bath in the river, Marcus was one of the few local gulls
who enjoyed the company of ravens. Gulls and ravens compete for similar edibles
and are frequently at odds, but Marcus was a most successful food getter and
felt no threat from ravens. He was also a deep thinker and enjoyed discussing
philosophical matters with Obidiah.
Marcus and Obidiah became acquainted
when they were both young and learning how to forage for themselves. They kept
bumping into each other while scoping out human picnickers at the beach, and on
one such occasion Obidiah read the minds of the picnickers and learned they
were going to leave their half-finished banquet unattended while they went for
a walk. Being a generous sort, Obidiah shared this information with young
Marcus, and when Obidiah and Marcus got away with an entire ham and cheese
sandwich and a large bag of potato chips, which they shared, they became fast
friends.
After a bit of chitchat about the weather
and the fortuitous abundance of sand dabs, Obidiah described his marital
territorial dilemma to Marcus.
“Regarding the far flung nesting option,” opined Marcus, “we would not be wrong in conflating that remote roost with the parable of the road less travelled. Ipso facto, this is a classic example of the artist’s dilemma.”
“Why do you say artist’s dilemma?” asked Obidiah, who didn’t consider himself an
artist.
“By artist I mean an original thinker,” said Marcus, gazing at the
horizon. “One who conceives of things and perceives reality in a wholly
original way. A bird who finds little satisfaction in recapitulating the
redundant patterns of the status quo. One who, and this is the key point, goes
his or her own way in most matters. You may fail, Obidiah, but at least you
will have tried and won’t regret not
trying, if you will pardon my use of a double negative.”
“And what’s your take on marrying an
outsider?” asked Obidiah, who enjoyed Marcus’s verbosity.
“Gulls are not ravens,” said Marcus,
looking around at his numerous cohorts. “If you will excuse my stating the
obvious. Every year we roam up and down the coast for hundreds of miles in
either direction, gathering with our kind in great numbers hither and yon. Thus
marrying outsiders is as common among gulls as not marrying outsiders. Keeps
the gene pool jumping. Breaks the monotony of sameness.” He smiles. “I met my
first wife Deb in Coos Bay. Talk about a tough gull. She relished barnacles and
found icy weather tropical. When she choked on an enormous chicken bone and
died, I mourned her for hours before marrying Conchita from La Paz. Ay caramba!”
“Okay then,” said Obidiah, feeling
emboldened by the sum total of Harold and Marcus’s input. “One last question.
The little beach where Jack Peters Creek meets the sea? Ever seen any ravens
there?”
“Are humans omnivorous?” said
Marcus, cackling. “The mouth of Jack Peters Creek is raven central. Especially
at low tide.”
“Would you do me the honor of
accompanying me to that little beach some upcoming low tide?” asked Obidiah,
nodding hopefully. “I’d make it worth your while.”
“I’m sure you would,” said Marcus,
grinning. “As it happens there’s a grandiloquent low tide on the morrow in the
morning. I’ll talk some pals into coming with us so we can give you a little
gull cover while you check out the Jack Peters Creek raven gals.”
“Thank you, Marcus,” said Obidiah,
raising his wings to signify his gratitude. “I’ll meet you here tomorrow
morning.”
“No problema mi amigo,” said Marcus,
raising his wings in reply. “Tu mundo es mi mundo.”
A few days after Obidiah the raven used
his mystical proclivities to help Isadora the human move on from her unhappy
marriage, and having impressed a gal raven named Madge with some succulent
chicken morsels given to him by Isadora, Obidiah and Madge went to check out
some territory Obidiah hoped would convince Madge to become his mate for life.
Madge was four, a year younger than
Obidiah, and one of the most attractive unmarried gal ravens on that stretch of
the northern California coast. She had been on the verge of committing to
Halunga, the biggest raven for many miles around, when Isadora’s chicken
morsels swayed her to give Obidiah a chance to make his marital case.
*
The sun was shining brightly on that
cold October morning as Obidiah and Madge flew north from the end of Cummings
Lane where Obidiah’s parents Doris and Tarkanda lived high in a giant redwood
and Obidiah nested on a branch far below them. For this outing with Madge, Obidiah
brought a picnic of an apple and the hindquarters of a car-struck squirrel to further
enhance his credibility as a breadwinner. He also brought along a gold ring
originally meant to reside on a human finger. He found the ring on the beach
and wanted to have the beautiful bauble handy should Madge say Yes.
Having left the last road and house
far behind, Obidiah and Madge alighted on a lower branch in a huge gnarly old
redwood and Madge said, “It’s nice here, Obidiah, but we are so far from the nearest road or garbage
can or house or familiar raven. In fact, we’re so far north we’re almost to…”
She lowered her voice. “Jack Peters Creek and those psycho Jack Peters Creek ravens.”
“Wait until you see the place I
found to make a nest,” said Obidiah, gazing at Madge and imagining the fun they
would have procreating. “Fifty feet higher in this very tree.”
“I don’t know, Obidiah,” said Madge,
trembling with trepidation. “We’re practically on another planet. Hard enough
being a raven, let alone a wilderness pioneer raven.”
“Come see where we can build the
most comfortable nest in the world,” said Obidiah, gently coaxing her. “Then
we’ll dine on squirrel and if you’re still not convinced, I’ll fly with you back
to Cummings Lane.”
So up they went, hopping from branch
to branch until they came to a large hollow in the trunk of the old redwood,
with spectacular views of the forest to the south and east, and a glimpse of
the ocean to the west.
They devoured the squirrel, pecked
at the juicy apple, and then Madge shook her head and said, “I’m sorry, Obidiah,
but I can’t do this. Much as I like you and your delicious vittles, and much as
I like this nesting spot, we’re too far from the creature comforts I’ve come to
depend on. Halunga has promised me a pine tree penthouse on downtown Cummings
Lane and nobody messes with him when he shows up at a road kill or a garbage spill,
so…”
“I hear you,” said Obidiah, nodding.
“Halunga will be a fine husband for you. I’ll fly you home now.”
“No need,” said Madge, eager to wing
her way to Halunga and be done once and for all with courtship. “I’ll see you
around the hood.”
And with that, she flew away.
*
Watching Madge grow small in the
distance, Obidiah felt sad, but also relieved.
“She wasn’t really my type,” he
sighed. “Not in a comprehensive way.”
“You can say that again,” said the
spirit of the gnarly old giant redwood. “That gal operates entirely from a
fear-based notion of reality, which is not your way at all.”
“Oh hey,” said Obidiah, happy to
have his feelings confirmed by such a wise elder. “Nice to meet you. I’m
Obidiah.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” said the
tree. “I’m Tree. So when are you moving in? I’d love to have a mystic living in
my trunk.”
“Well, first I have to win a mate,”
said Obidiah, nodding to affirm this. “And if she likes this location, then
we…”
“Says who?” asked Tree.
“That’s raven law,” said Obidiah, surprised
Tree didn’t know that. “First the gal, then the roost, and then we build the
nest together.”
“Seems counter-intuitive,” said
Tree. “I mean… suit yourself, but if you love it here and you make this your
home, you’ll attract gals who love this place, too.”
“Except no gal raven may love it here,” said Obidiah, anxiously. “And I certainly
don’t want to isolate myself out of the running for a mate.”
“Maybe no gal ravens where you come from would want to live here,”
said Tree. “But I know several Jack Peters Creek raven gals who would dig this
pad and dig you, too. Totally.”
“What a concept,” said Obidiah,
never having imagined marrying an outsider. “The mind boggles.”
“You can see into the future,
right?” asked Tree.
“Not my own,” said Obidiah, shaking
his head. “Only the futures of others.”
“Ah,” said Tree. “Of course.”
“How would I even go about meeting a
Jack Peters Creek raven gal?” asked Obidiah, bewildered. “Wouldn’t I get
attacked if I ventured into their territory?”
“Possibly,” said Tree. “But where
you are now is nobody’s territory. Cummings Lane ravens venture here sometimes,
as you did, and Jack Peters Creek ravens sometimes make scavenging trips to this
neck of the woods. But no ravens live here. Not yet. And remember, you’re all
the same species. Same sub-species, too. You have a few different customs and
you speak different dialects of the same language. Cummings Lane ravens are
symbiotic with humans, whereas Jack Peters Creek ravens rarely even see people. But I’m here to tell you,
Obidiah, in the grand sweep of evolution, your differences are less than
miniscule.”
“I appreciate your input,” said
Obidiah, preparing for takeoff. “I shall ponder what you’ve told me.”
*
When he got back to familiar
territory, Obidiah swung by his older brother Polyganda’s nest and found
Polyganda’s wife Jan and her fledglings Sue and Romanulo eating mussels Jan
brought home from the tide pools.
“Uncle Obidiah!” croaked Sue. “Did
you bring us some food?”
“Don’t be rude, Sue,” said Jan,
scolding her daughter. “Hi Obidiah. Your brother went to check out a fresh road
kill. He should be back any minute. I’d offer you something to eat, but with
these two growing so fast, well, you know.”
“Here comes Papa now,” said
Romanulo, flapping his wings and accidentally whacking his sister in the face.
“With gooey things in his talons. Whoopee!”
A moment later, Polyganda dropped
the liver and heart of a small deer into the nest, and while Jan and the kids
fed on the organs, Polyganda and Obidiah retired to a higher branch in the
tree.
“Long time no see, my brother,” said
Polyganda, who’d had his fill of deer meat before bringing home the innards.
“What news? Other than Madge choosing Halunga over you. Or so the gossips say.”
“No news,” said Obidiah, who appreciated
his brother’s penchant for cutting to the chase. “Just a question or two.”
“You
asking me questions?” said Polyganda,
chuckling. “You’re the mystic, not me.”
“These are not questions of a
mystical nature,” said Obidiah, smiling at his brother. “At least not overtly.”
“I see,” said Polyganda, knowing of
Obidiah’s tendency to converse at length. “Would it be okay if we scavenge while
we talk? I’d like to snag a bit more of that yearling deer before the vultures
find the carcass. It’s a very fresh kill.”
“Fine with me,” said Obidiah, who
was feeling a bit peckish. “Let’s go.”
So they flew swiftly to the east and
ere long came to a dead deer lying by the roadside. Five ravens were feeding on
the carcass, while drifting in the sky above them were two vultures awaiting
the arrival of a few more vultures to help them drive away the ravens.
Polyganda grabbed a foot-long chunk
of deer intestine, Obidiah ate a few bites of kidney, and they headed back to
Polyganda’s nest.
“So,” said Obidiah, flying along
beside his brother, “what would you think if I staked out my territory before I found a mate, and… what if I
married a raven from outside our community?”
Polyganda alighted on the first
convenient branch and set down the intestine. “If you weren’t a mystic,
Obidiah, I’d say you were crazy. But you are
a mystic and you’re a big help to the folks and your sibs and the community, so
if you do things a little differently than the rest of us, I have no problem
with that.”
“Good to know,” said Obidiah,
cheered by his brother’s response. “And lastly, have you ever in your
wanderings ventured into Jack Peters Creek territory?”
“Once,” said Polyganda, nodding
solemnly. “Only once. And I’m lucky to be alive to tell the tale.”
“What happened?” asked Obidiah,
gazing raptly at his brother.
“Read my mind,” said Polyganda,
picking up the intestine and resuming the homeward journey.
Flying close together, Obidiah
accessed his brother’s memory archives and saw Polyganda four years ago at the
age of three following a gorgeous Jack Peters Creek raven gal through the
forest and alighting with her on a rocky beach beside burbling Jack Peters
Creek. Obidiah could see how greatly Polyganda loved the gal raven and how
greatly the gal raven loved Polyganda. And as the gal raven and Polyganda began
to nuzzle and chortle in the way of lovers, a gang of seven Jack Peters Creek
ravens came swarming down upon them and Polyganda barely escaped with his life.
“You never told me,” said Obidiah as
they came in sight of Polyganda’s nest. “Thank the spirits you survived.”
Polyganda delivered the intestine to
Jan and the kids, and then he and Obidiah retired once more to a higher branch.
“Yes,” said Polyganda, quietly. “Thank
the spirits I survived. But just between you and me, I left my heart on that
rocky Jack Peters Creek beach. And I tell you, my brother, rarely a night goes
by that I don’t dream of the life I might have had with Esmeralda.”
There once was a raven named
Obidiah. He was five-years-old and belonged to a small community of ravens who
roosted in the redwoods around Cummings Lane, a mile inland from the Pacific
Ocean near the town of Melody.
Obidiah’s mother was Doris and his
father was most likely Tarkanda. We say most
likely because Doris was occasionally promiscuous and Tarkanda was often away
from the marital nest, so…
In any case, Obidiah was of an age
when he was expected to find his mate for life, secure a good roost and
surrounding acreage, and settle into full-fledged adulthood. He was not averse
to this, but had yet to convince a female raven to commit to nesting with him
for the next ten to twenty years, the average lifespan of a Cummings Lane raven
being around twenty years.
*
One cold October morning, Doris and Tarkanda were breakfasting on apples in their big nest of sticks tucked into a fortuitous indentation in the trunk of a giant redwood about seventy-feet above the forest floor.
“I’m concerned about Obidiah,” said
Doris, giving Tarkanda a worried look. “He’s five, still hanging out with
juveniles, and roosting way too close
to us for a raven his age. He’s an excellent scavenger, does superb imitations
and sound effects, and he’s great with fledglings. But for some reason the gals
aren’t interested in him for the long haul. Would you talk to him? Encourage
him? See if you can find out what the problem is?”
Tarkanda mused for a moment and
said, “I know what the problem is.”
“You do?” said Doris, taken aback. “And
you didn’t tell me? What is it?”
“He’s a mystic,” said Tarkanda,
sighing heavily. “I didn’t tell you because I thought it would upset you, but
since you asked.”
“You mean mystical?” said Doris, squinting at her husband. “All ravens are a
little bit mystical, don’t you
think?”
“Of course,” said Tarkanda, gazing
out over his domain and reminding himself to gather the last of the huckleberries
before the foxes and bears got to them. “But Obidiah is more than a little bit
mystical. He’s a full-blown clairvoyant future-glimpsing spirit-channeling
mystic.”
“How do you know?” asked Doris,
blushing as she recalls her hanky-panky with Zalamagundi the medicine raven
around the time she conceived the batch of eggs that produced Obidiah.
“I know he’s a mystic,” said
Tarkanda, smiling at his wife, “because I’ve availed myself of his services on
numerous occasions. For instance, these delectable apples came to us courtesy
of Obidiah because he read the minds of the humans who protect these particular
apple trees and then alerted me that those humans would be away for the day the
apples attained optimal ripeness. Thus we were able to harvest several dozen of
these delectable orbs unmolested.”
“He can read the minds of humans?” said Doris, aghast.
Tarkanda nodded. “Human minds, dog
minds, cat minds, hawk minds, and raven minds, too. If it has a mind, Obidiah
can read it.”
“Heavens,” said Doris, recalling the
many times Obidiah gave her the very things and information she wanted before
she asked for them. “Our son is a polymath.”
“Yet he seems to be largely unaware
of his powers,” said Tarkanda, thinking ahead to meeting up with his pal Jolanga
for a few hours of scavenging. “Gal ravens pick up on that sort of thing even
if they aren’t exactly sure what they’re picking up on. You know what I mean?
An ineffable otherness in his vibe.”
“I do know what you mean,” said Doris, nodding. “He seems not entirely
of this world.”
“Because he’s not,” said Tarkanda, pecking
his apple. “So I figure if he lives nearby as a bachelor for the rest of his
life, so be it. He’s a fount of useful information, entirely self-sustaining,
and he’s a good beak to have on our side in a fight.”
*
Obidiah, mystical talents
notwithstanding, was a large good-natured raven who very much wanted to find a wonderful
lifemate and secure some territory and build a commodious nest in which he and
his wife would produce several generations of fledglings to protect and feed
and educate.
And contrary to what Tarkanda
surmised, Obidiah was well aware of his ability to communicate clairvoyantly
and see into the future. As for spirit channeling, Obidiah didn’t channel
anything. Nature spirits talked to him and he talked to them, just as he would converse
with other ravens. In other words, Obidiah was multi-dimensionally
multi-lingual.
As for reading the minds of humans,
Obidiah could do much more than that. He had the uncanny ability to discern
what was troubling a person and see solutions for their troubles. The problem
was, and this was hugely frustrating to Obidiah, most humans neither spoke the
language of ravens, nor were they able to communicate clairvoyantly. Thus
Obidiah was unable to help many people for whom he had solutions to what vexed
them.
*
On that same fall morning when Doris
learned Obidiah was, in the words of Tarkanda, a full-blown mystic, Obidiah
glided away from the little single-raven nest he’d constructed on a lower
branch in his parents’ redwood tree, and made his way through a stiff breeze to
the beach parking lot where every morning humans and dogs came to walk on the
beach at the mouth of Big River.
Obidiah visited this beach several times a week in search of food and shiny gewgaws, and he always went there on Thursday mornings because on Thursday mornings a particular human always went there, too, a woman with whom Obidiah could converse clairvoyantly. Her name was Isadora. She had a large brown dog named Groucho, an ironic name given that Groucho was quite good-natured. Sometimes Obidiah would converse with Groucho, too, but he was most interested in Isadora who was forty-seven, wore her reddish brown hair in a pony tail, had jade green eyes, and Obidiah thought she was beautiful and moved with unusual grace for a human.
Isadora and Groucho would walk from
the beach parking lot to the north end of the beach, a distance of a mile, and on
their way back Isadora would sit on the same big driftwood log and gaze out to
sea. Groucho would wander around nearby, sniffing and pissing, and Obidiah
would alight on the log a few feet from Isadora.
*
On this particular Thursday morning,
just as the sun was breaking through the coastal fog, Obidiah arrived at the
beach parking lot and perched atop a scraggly pine tree overlooking the parade
of humans and dogs coming and going from the beach, their emotional conundrums
as obvious to Obidiah as the need for food and water.
He sent messages to the humans as
they went by, messages such as, “Stop doubting yourself, Arnold. Give Beth a
call. You know she likes you,” and “You’ve been drinking way too much coffee lately, Sara. That’s the source of at least half
your anxiety,” and “Procrastination is your biggest enemy, Larry. Clean your
desk. At the bottom of the clutter you will find a story you started writing months
ago. When you realize how good this story is, your writer’s block will vanish.”
Alas, no one paid any attention to
Obidiah, so he flew off to meet Isadora and Groucho.
*
When Obidiah came in sight of the
big driftwood log, Isadora was already sitting in her customary place and
Groucho was nearby sniffing the news at a popular pissing spot.
Obidiah alighted on the log a few
feet from Isadora and sent, “Love those silver earrings. My kind of gewgaws. So…
did you get up the nerve to confront Jeff?”
Isadora beamed at Obidiah and said,
“I did. I finally did. And everything you said would happen happened. I’m still
kind of in shock.”
Then Obidiah accessed Isadora’s
memory archives and watched her say to her husband of seventeen years, “If you
ever treat me cruelly again or lie to me or demean me or expect me to keep
cleaning up your messes, this marriage is over.”
“Bravo,” sent Obidiah.
“And as you predicted,” said
Isadora, gazing into Obidiah’s eyes, “he tried to appease me with the same old
promises. But he was obviously lying, so I told him to get out and he collapsed
on the sofa and blubbered, ‘But where will I go?’ And also as you predicted, I knew he expected me to relent and
comfort him, and I could feel how much I wanted to because it’s my lifelong
pattern to accommodate my abusers when they cry and act helpless. But I stayed
strong and said, ‘I don’t care where you go. Just get out. Now.’ And then he
turned nasty and said he wasn’t going anywhere. I reminded him the house was
mine, that I owned the place before we got married, and he snarled at me and
got a beer out of the refrigerator and sprawled on the sofa and turned on the
television. So I did what you told me to do. I called the sheriff. And when
Jeff heard me talking to the dispatcher, he turned off the television and said,
‘Okay, I’m going.’ Then he packed some things, took our new car, and left. That
was five days ago. And every day I don’t see him, the better I feel.”
“Fantastic,” sent Obidiah, lifting
his wings in a gesture of praise. “Now listen carefully. When you get home from
the beach today, remove everything you value from your house and give those
things into the care of a trusted friend. Jeff will return to your house
tomorrow morning with a big truck and two accomplices. He will not forewarn
you. It is imperative, Isadora, that you not
be there when he comes, nor should you do anything to prevent him from taking
what he wants. He will take many things, but don’t worry. Anything he takes is
of no real value to you. Return to your home tomorrow afternoon. He will never come
back again.”
Isadora opened her eyes and said,
“Thank you.”
Then she reached into her jacket
pocket and brought forth a small plastic bag containing seven juicy nuggets of
chicken, which she arrayed on the log between them.
“Oh you shouldn’t have,” sent
Obidiah, the smell of the succulent meat causing him to do a little jig of
gratitude.
“It’s the least I could do,” said
Isadora, rising to go. “I’ll see you next week. Same time, same log.”
“Yes you will,” sent Obidiah,
gulping down one of the morsels. “Oh I love what you’ve done here. Freshly
slaughtered fowl lightly sautéed in coconut oil with a hint of salt and a
whisper of red wine. Divine.”
“I’ll bring more next week,” said
Isadora, waving to him as she walked away.
*
Well-fed, and overjoyed he was able to help Isadora get rid of Jeff, Obidiah decided to take the last two succulent morsels of chicken to his current crush Madge, who might not have been the brainiest of ravens, but what a silhouette!
An hour before dawn, a sharp chill
in the air telling of the nearness of winter, Huleekalabulee and Toshiro ate the
last of Cassius’s kibble and walked through the gravestones to a big iron gate
at the downhill edge of the graveyard. They crawled under the gate and found
themselves in a neighborhood of two and three-story apartment buildings, some
old and stately, some more recently built and resembling stacked boxes, the
wide streets framed with sidewalks.
“The land of no trees,” said
Huleekalabulee, sorrowfully. “Maybe I don’t want to live at the beach. I dearly
love trees. The more the merrier.
“I, too, love trees and open country,”
said Toshiro, wary of this treeless place. “I wouldn’t mind living where Cassius
lives. But first we will walk on the beach and then we’ll see what the fates have in store for us.”
The streets of apartment buildings
gave way to a commercial district of two-story buildings with shops on the
ground floors, apartments on the second floors. Huleekalabulee and Toshiro saw
a young woman unlocking the front door of a bakery. She turned to watch the two
handsome hounds go by and she called out to them, her voice full of music and
kindness, and both Huleekalabulee and Toshiro felt sure she would not call
Animal Control.
“I like her voice,” said
Huleekalabulee, looking back at the woman. “Maybe she would like to be my person.”
“Go to her and see,” said Toshiro,
resolutely. “But I’m going to the beach, with or without you.”
“No,” said Huleekalabulee, nudging
Toshiro. “I’m with you.”
Beyond the streets of shops,
Huleekalabulee and Toshiro found themselves in a neighborhood of all sorts of
houses on wide streets without sidewalks, the ocean roaring faintly in the
distance. Some of these houses were large, some small, some old, some new. Some
of the houses had yards with trees and gardens, and some of the houses were so
large they filled their lots entirely.
“Fascinating mix of abodes,” said
Toshiro, looking every which way. “Speaks of all kinds of different kinds of
people living around here. And the air is rich with the scents of myriad dogs
and cats. Thus we may deduce that animal people abound here.”
They stopped in front of an old
two-story house with red trim around the windows and a turquoise front door, a
big cypress tree in the backyard, the large grassy lot surrounded by a low
fence.
“Now wouldn’t this be a nice place
to settle down,” said Huleekalabulee, imagining living there.
“Fat chance,” said a medium-sized black
and tan mutt with pointy ears. “I got this turf covered. Move along now or I’ll
start yapping.”
“Yap not, brother,” said Toshiro,
speaking quietly to quell the dog’s impulse to bark. “We were merely admiring
your good fortune.”
“If you like cats,” said the dog,
grimly. “Mimi, that’s my person, has seven of those slinky felines. Can you
imagine? Seven. Large. I’m seriously outnumbered and always the last one fed,
the last one petted. You hounds going to the beach? Better hurry. Once the sun
comes up, Animal Control starts cruising the coast road looking for dogs
without people.”
“Might we hide in your yard after
we’ve seen the sea?” asked Huleekalabulee, hopefully. “We’d be as still as
stones and quiet as mice.”
“Sorry,” said the mutt, shaking his
head. “Mimi hates stray dogs. Years ago she lost a favorite kitty to a vagabond
hound. Only reason she keeps me is
she inherited me from her daughter Katrina when Katrina went off to college.
I’d give you the long version but you better get going. Sun will be up in an
hour.”
So Huleekalabulee and Toshiro
hurried away, their progress punctuated by barks and growls from sequestered
dogs responding to the scents of strangers.
*
At last they came to the beach, a
wide expanse of sand stretching far to the south and even farther to the north.
Huleekalabulee recognized the glorious vistas and oceanic odors from his visits
here with Mom and Jurgen and Venus, and he raised his snout to the lingering
half-moon and moaned in memory of those halcyon days.
For Toshiro’s part, when he felt the
sand beneath his paws, he burst into song.
I’ve
dreamt of you most every night
Through
thick and thin and countless plights
But
nothing that I ever dreamed
Could
match the real you
Then Huleekalabulee and Toshiro ran
together to the edge of the sea and gamboled in the welcoming waves before they
trotted north for a mile or so, chasing gulls, racing each other, running for
the pure joy of running.
Happily winded, they reversed
direction and walked south for a while, finally sitting down side-by-side to watch
in wonder as the sun brought color to the world and the ocean changed from gray
to blue.
“This takes the cake of all cakes,”
said Huleekalabulee, gazing at the endless waves spending themselves on the
shore. “No wonder I want to live here.”
“I am fulfilled,” said Toshiro,
sighing profoundly. “It matters not what happens now, for my dreams have become
reality.”
Toshiro then walked a few paces
toward the water, turned to face Huleekalabulee, and performed a ceremonial dance
full of graceful turns.
When his dance was done, Toshiro
said, “You, dear Huleekalabulee, judging me worthy of your friendship, guided
me here, for which I will be forever thankful.”
Moved by Toshiro’s words and dance, Huleekalabulee
walked a few paces away from Toshiro, turned to face him, rose up on his hind
legs, spun around in a circle, and then bowed low to his valiant friend.
And as the hounds performed these
rituals of thanksgiving, a man was watching them with binoculars from the deck
of his house overlooking the beach.
“Honey,” said the man, calling through
the open door to his wife who was in the kitchen making coffee. “You must come
see these two remarkable dogs.”
His wife came out to him and
together they watched Huleekalabulee bow to Toshiro, and Toshiro bow to
Huleekalabulee.
“If they don’t have tags,” said the
man, his eyes full of tears, “I want them.”
“Me, too,” said his wife. “You call
them while I find some enticing comestibles.”
*
And that is how Huleekalabulee and
Toshiro came to live with Edward and Fiona in the wooden house overlooking the
beach. Those two dogs, let me tell you, were as happy as two dogs could ever be
and had so many adventures together it would take a very fat book to recount
them all, for both Huleekalabulee and Toshiro lived to ripe old ages.
Not that Edward and Fiona didn’t
have other animals. They certainly did. Their old dachshund Desdemona slept
under their bed, their enormous black cat Juneau was queen of the living room
sofa, their tortoise Warp 5 spent his daytime hours patrolling the backyard
dune grass, and their sassy red and green parrot Buckminster Fuller lived in a
gigantic cage in the sunniest corner of the kitchen.
But in the grand scheme of things, Huleekalabulee
and Toshiro were definitely the apples, so to speak, of Edward and Fiona’s
eyes.
Their tummies and saddlebags full of
Cassius’s kibble, Huleekalabulee and Toshiro bade the gracious old hound adieu
and skedaddled from the stables before the horse people arrived for the day.
Encountering no traffic, they raced along
the road to the pullover and made their way down a slender trail through
brittle brush to a narrow creek bed, the creek barely a trickle as Cassius had
foretold.
“I’m always enormously relieved to
get off a road, aren’t you?” said Toshiro, stopping to have a drink from a pool
of water.
“Roads are death to dogs and cats
and all living things,” said Huleekalabulee, quoting his mother. “Not to
mention being hard on the paws.”
“Roads are somebody else’s idea of
how to go,” said Toshiro, listening to the leaves of the maple trees clatter in
a sudden breeze. “I prefer finding my own way.”
“I appreciate the suggestion of a trail,” said Huleekalabulee, watching sunlight touch the tops of the trees. “Rather than something set in stone.”
“So tell me, friend,” said Toshiro,
as they made their way downstream. “Why are you going to the beach?”
“Well,” said Huleekalabulee, taking
a deep breath. “I just turned one and my mom booted me out of her place, so now
I’m seeking a home and the requisite person to provide me with that home. From
Mom’s house I went to the top of Bullwinkle Butte and looked out over the town and
the mountains to the north and south and east of the town, and then I looked to
the west and thought if I could live anywhere I’d like to live at the beach.
Why? Because Mom’s people used to take my mom and my brother Jurgen and my
sister Venus and me to the beach, and we always had a fantastic time chasing
balls into the surf and swimming, so… why are you going to the beach?”
“Where to begin?” said Toshiro,
looking up at the brightening sky. “I am two. When I was one, the people who
got me when I was a wee pup took me way out into the mountains of Colorado and
left me there. At first I thought they’d forgotten me and would soon come back,
but they didn’t come back, and thus began my wandering.”
“How terrible,” said Huleekalabulee,
his heart going out to Toshiro.
“No worse than what happened to
you,” said Toshiro, shaking his head. “Abandoned by your own mother. I tell
you, my friend, the world is full of abandoned dogs, abandoned cats, even
abandoned people. But what can we do? We must try to live.”
“True,” said Huleekalabulee, nodding.
“But why the beach?”
“To be continued,” said Toshiro,
stopping abruptly. “I think we have come to where Cassius said we would find
hiding places galore. And since the sun is now shining brightly, I suggest we
find our hiding place for the day.”
Indeed, they had come to where the
creek bed widened dramatically and there were willow trees and thickets of
shrubs and brambles. After a quick search, they found a commodious space
beneath a tangle of blackberry vines, and there they hunkered down for the
remaining daylight hours.
*
“So,” said Huleekalabulee when he
and Toshiro were sprawled comfortably in their lair. “You were about to tell me
why you want to go to the beach.”
“Yes,” said Toshiro, collecting his
thoughts. “Unlike you, I have never been to the beach. In fact, I have never even
seen the ocean except…” He paused portentously. “In my dreams.”
“You’ve never been to the beach or
seen the ocean?’ said Huleekalabulee, dumfounded. “You’ve been wandering for a
year and never been to a beach?”
“I have been traveling west since
the day I was abandoned,” said Toshiro, nodding gravely. “I have traversed mighty
mountain ranges, swam across countless rivers, crossed vast plains and prairies
and deserts, my journey guided by my dreams.”
“Wow,” said Huleekalabulee, shaking
his head in wonder. “What you’ve done makes my quest seem like a miniscule
insignificant itsy bitsy barely anything.”
“Every day is a lifetime,” said
Toshiro, solemnly. “Every moment holds a universe of possibilities. Your quest
is as grand as mine. You’re just nearer the beginning of yours.”
“But why do you want to go to the
ocean?” asked Huleekalabulee, in awe of Toshiro.
“I want to go to the ocean,” said
Toshiro, smiling, “to fulfill the imperative of my dreams. Beyond getting to
the beach and walking on the sand, I have no plans.”
“You’re not seeking a person?” asked
Huleekalabulee, perplexed. “A home? A bed? Food? Affection?”
“First I will walk on the sand and
listen to the roaring waves,” said Toshiro, closing his eyes and imagining strolling
on the beach. “Then I’ll consider my options.”
“I shall attempt to emulate you,”
said Huleekalabulee, pondering Toshiro’s words. “First the beach, then the
person.”
*
As dusk descends, Huleekalabulee and
Toshiro emerge from the blackberry tangle and continue their journey down the
creek bed for another hour until they encounter a tall wall of stone blocking
their way, the wall pierced by a large ceramic drain pipe clogged with
branches.
“Here we must ascend,” said Toshiro,
giving Huleekalabulee a questioning look. “Do we go up the right embankment or the
left embankment?”
“Right,” said Huleekalabulee, remembering
the wall of stone he and Rex encountered two days ago.
“Why right?” asked Toshiro, squinting
curiously at Huleekalabulee.
“Because I hear traffic sounds to
the left,” said Huleekalabulee, “and my instinct is to avoid traffic whenever
possible.”
“A dog after my own heart,” said
Toshiro, leading the way up the embankment. “Right it is.”
And their choice proved propitious
for they found themselves inside the graveyard Rex told Huleekalabulee to seek.
“Ah,” said Toshiro, surveying the
vast sloping field dotted with crosses and gravestones. “A burial ground. I
wonder why Rex told you to come here.”
“He said this was the last place on
our way to the beach where he was certain we could find a safe place to sleep
until the hour before dawn. From here, he said, we must try to reach the beach
before sunrise.”
“Ooh I love the idea of being on the
beach at sunrise,” said Toshiro, excitedly. “Let’s find a good place to while
away the hours swapping stories.”
They found a nice spot in a grove of
Japanese maples overlooking the town below, lights going on in myriad houses as
the sun went down.
“So,” said Toshiro, lying on his
back as the first stars of the evening came into the sky, “what’s the most
exciting thing that ever happened to you, Huleekalabulee?”
“Until a couple days ago,” said
Huleekalabulee, thinking back over his life, “I would have said going to the
beach with my mom and sibs was by far the most exciting thing that ever
happened to me. But now I’d say it was when I practiced animal husbandry with a
beautiful hound named Mona.”
“Ooo la la,” said Toshiro, bouncing
his eyebrows. “You lucky hound, you.”
“How about you?” asked
Huleekalabulee, sighing at memories of Mona. “What’s the most exciting thing
that ever happened to you?”
“Oh heavens,” said Toshiro,
pondering the question. “So many exciting moments to choose from. But I suppose
nothing can quite compare to the time I slid down a snow-covered mountainside,
landed in a raging river and was swept downstream for several miles to a rocky
beach where I was pursued by a huge brown bear. I outran the raging beast to
the top of a ridge, raced down a dirt road and came to a cabin where a man
chopping wood stopped chopping and picked up his rifle to shoot at me, the
bullets missing me by inches.”
“It’s a miracle you’re alive,” said
Huleekalabulee, gazing in wonder at Toshiro.
“It’s a miracle any of us are alive,” said Toshiro, nodding sagely. “Every day a
gift, every moment a universe of possibilities.”
“Hey maybe we’ll find a person who
wants both of us,” said Huleekalabulee, smiling at the thought of sharing the
rest of his life with Toshiro.
“Maybe so,” said Toshiro, yawning.
“But also maybe not. Only time will tell.”
Huleekalabulee woke to roseate fingers of dawn tickling the eastern sky. His stomach growled and he thought of Rex saying, “Actually food is everything. Food and a dry place to sleep.”
“I see his point,” said Huleekalabulee,
donning his now empty saddlebags and emerging from his cozy den. “I don’t
entirely agree, but I see his point.”
After knocking over a garbage can
and dining on two perfectly good pieces of pepperoni pizza, Huleekalabulee
trotted north on the narrow two-lane road that followed the contours of the
lake until he came to the four-way intersection Rex called The Place Where You
Must Make A Momentous Decision.
“If I go straight,” said
Huleekalabulee, recalling Rex’s description, “I will enter a vast wilderness,
the next town many miles to the north. If I turn right, I will be on a road
that climbs for a few miles to the top of a mountain and goes no further, the
mountain also a wild place where no dog can survive for long. If I turn left I will
descend into town and be heading due west toward the beach. And if I choose the
town way, I will first enter a neighborhood of old houses surrounded by
orchards and pastures, then I must traverse a neighborhood of apartment
buildings and stores, and should I survive all that, I will finally arrive in a
neighborhood of many kinds of houses beyond which lies the beach and the deep
blue sea.”
Huleekalabulee looked back the way
he came and was tempted to retrace his steps and hang out near Rex and Myron
and hope for the best. And he might have done so had not a large brown and
white and black dog come loping up from the lake to engage in conversation with
Huleekalabulee.
“I say,” said the large brown and white and black dog, his accent distinctly British, his size approximately Huleekalabulee’s, “would you happen to know the best way to get to the beach from here? Best as in least likely to be attacked by wild animals, vicious dogs, and irrational human beings?”
“Left,” said Huleekalabulee,
nodding. “You would turn left here and descend into town. Or so I’ve been told.
That’s what I’m about to do. Go left. Though in truth, I’m lost. You?”
“I used to feel lost,” said the dog,
nodding sympathetically. “When I first set out on my journey many moons ago I
felt utterly lost, helplessly lost, miserably lost, irredeemably lost. Now I
don’t feel so much lost as in search of,
if you get the distinction.”
“I do,” said Huleekalabulee, cautiously approaching the dog. “You seem like a decent sort. I love your accent and how your use of words verges on the poetic. No. Spills over into the poetic. Should you have an equally positive impression of me, maybe we could go in search of together.”
“Love to,” said the dog, sensing in
Huleekalabulee a noble soul. “Safety in numbers. Joy in companionship. I’m
Toshiro. My mother was an Anglo-Scottish border collie with a touch of English
Deer Hound, my father a purebred Bazenji. What’s your name?”
“Huleekalabulee,” said
Huleekalabulee. “My mother is a Golden Retriever, my father a big brown mutt of
unknown antecedents.”
“Say your name again, please,” said
Toshiro, the look on his face suggesting both amusement and curiosity.
“Huleekalabulee.”
“Sounds distinctly mystical to my
ears,” said Toshiro, nodding thoughtfully. “An incantation. A beckoning of the
spirits.”
“Which spirits are those?” asked
Huleekalabulee, greatly relieved to have found a likeable companion.
“Friendly spirits,” said Toshiro, heading
west with Huleekalabulee. “I’ve had enough unfriendliness to last a lifetime.”
*
As Rex foretold, their road
descended from the lake into a region of old houses surrounded by orchards and
pastures and fields.
“Soon the people will be getting out
of their beds,” said Toshiro, scanning the area for likely places to hide. “My
instinct is to rustle up something to eat before the sun arises and either lay
low until dusk or find a less-travelled path.”
“Agreed,” said Huleekalabulee,
liking the way Toshiro’s mind worked. “The hound who told me about this way to
the beach said there is a place near here where people come to ride horses. He
said he’s often had good luck with the garbage cans thereabouts.”
“Excellent info, my friend, coinciding
with a whiff of horse poo,” said Toshiro, wrinkling his nose. “Ergo, horses
must be coming up soon. Might be guard dogs. Often are when horses are
involved, but certainly worth a look-see.”
Another hundred yards of fast
trotting brought them to a wide gravel drive transecting fenced pastures before
ending in a large parking area at a big outdoor riding ring and stables, no
people in evidence. There was, however, a large elderly hound on guard, his
once black coat now speckled with gray.
“Halt. Who goes there?” said the old
hound, his voice deep and gruff.
“Couple of friendly young chaps looking
for breakfast,” said Toshiro, stopping several yards from the old fellow. “I’m
Toshiro. This is none other than Huleekalabulee. We heard tell of a
cornucopious garbage can hereabouts.”
“Aye,” said the old hound, showing no signs of aggression. “Right over there. Full of yesterday’s after-school snacks. Moms bring their daughters to ride horses. The girlies throw most of the food away except for the candy bars. Won’t be much good in there, but you’re welcome to what you can find. Or you can have my leftovers from yesterday. The stable people always fill my bowls with kibble before they close up for the night and I never eat more than half a bowl by morning, not since I lost most of my teeth.”
“What a good job you have,” said Huleekalabulee, smiling at the old hound. “You ever have any trouble?”
“Back in the day,” said the old
hound, clearing his throat, “I’d chase away the occasional mountain lion. And one
night a horse thief tried to get by me and I caused such a ruckus he fled, but
for the last few years things have been pretty quiet. My name is Cassius
Andronicus Magnanimous, by the way, but everybody calls me Cassius.”
After a quick peek into the garbage
can, Toshiro bowed to Cassius and said, “We would love to nibble your kibble,
kind sir.”
“This way,” said Cassius, leading
them to his little house attached to the stables. “The horse people will be
here as soon as the sun takes to the sky above the hills. You don’t want those people
seeing you or they’ll call Animal Control faster than you can say Jack Robinson.”
“Can you recommend a hiding place?”
asked Toshiro, gladdened by the sight of two brimming bowls of kibble.
“Aye,” said Cassius, squinting at
the brightening sky. “Half-mile down the road here you’ll come to a pullover on
your right. From there you can follow a deer trail down the steep embankment to
the creek that’s but a trickle this time of year. Follow the trickle downstream
a few hundred yards and you’ll find hiding places galore.”
“Can we follow the creek all the way
to the ocean?” asked Huleekalabulee, pausing in his kibble devouring to look at
the Cassius.
“As for the ocean,” said Cassius,
shaking his head, “I cannot say if the creek bed goes that far. I’ve never gone
beyond the graveyard because the trees and fields end at the graveyard and
thereafter all is concrete and terrible roads. I’m no coward, but such a place
terrifies me.”
“Ah the graveyard,” said
Huleekalabulee, his eyes lighting up. “That’s where Rex said we should spend
the night.”
“Rex?” said Cassius, blinking at
Huleekalabulee. “Did you say Rex? Big chocolate ridgeback?”
“You know Rex?” said Huleekalabulee,
excitedly. “He’s… he’s my grandfather.”
“Well I’ll be a blue-nosed gopher,”
said Cassius, grinning at Huleekalabulee. “Rex and I go way back. When did you
last see him?”
“Just yesterday,” said
Huleekalabulee, overcome by a wave of nostalgia for the good old day. “He’s
still going strong at twelve.”
“Good to know,” said Cassius,
smiling at memories of Rex. “Good to know. Rex and I met many a time and oft in
our salad days whilst courting the same dames. Came to snarling and snapping at
each other a few times, but we never had a serious fight. Terrific hound, Rex.
Say hello for me if you ever see him again.”
“I will,” said Huleekalabulee, the
serendipitous unfolding of the day filling him with hope. “I most certainly will.”
Later that morning, Rex and Huleekalabulee reached the park beyond Mona’s park, a forest of oaks and pines surrounding a man-made lake where people came to picnic and camp and ply the waters in canoes and kayaks and small sailboats. Hiding places were less abundant than in Mona’s park, but Rex led Huleekalabulee to a huge old oak tree with a hollow trunk quite removed from the nearest camp or trail.
“Here’s where we part ways,” said
Rex, giving Huleekalabulee a friendly nudge. “A pleasure knowing you.”
“Likewise,” said Huleekalabulee,
returning the nudge. “When I get settled with my person or people, I shall
endeavor to come visit you, if you wouldn’t mind a visit from me now and then.”
“You’re always welcome to drop by if
you’re in the hood,” said Rex, gazing fondly at Huleekalabulee. “Don’t make a
special trip just for me.”
“But you are special to me,” said Huleekalabulee, with a tear in his eye.
“You’re the closest thing to a father I ever had.”
“Bit of advice,” said Rex, winking
at Huleekalabulee. “Sentimentality won’t fill an empty stomach. Kapish?”
“I know,” said Huleekalabulee,
shrugging. “But food isn’t everything.”
“Actually it is,” said Rex, turning
to go. “Food and a dry place to sleep. See ya.”
And Rex was gone.
*
Huleekalabulee ate a few hunks of
turkey jerky, ruminated about life, and realized he was not actually longing for
a person. In fact, he didn’t particularly like most of the people he’d met so
far in his life.
“I like dogs,” he said, looking out
of his tree-trunk den, the day sunny and warm. “I like Rex and Myron, and I
even like Drago and Killer. And I really really really like Mona.”
“Do tell,” said a husky female
voice.
“Mona!” said Huleekalabulee,
bounding out of his den. “What are you doing here?”
“Need a little more good loving,
Honey Boy,” she said, kissing him. “You up for that?”
“Do dogs bark?” said Huleekalabulee,
spinning around in a circle. “You bet I’m up for it. And then we’ll go back to
your ranch and live happily ever after. Okay?”
“You are such a romantic,” she said, kissing him again. “But no. Not a
chance. The last thing Diana wants is another dog.”
“But what if you have puppies as a
result of our loving?” asked Huleekalabulee, nuzzling Mona.
“No if about it, Sweet Stuff,” said Mona, dizzy with lust. “Ten weeks
from now… puppy time.”
“Okay when you have puppies. Then Diana will have several more dogs. So why not me, too? Please? You’ll love living
with me. I’ll help with the pups, keep you warm on cold winter nights, and any
time you want to…”
“No more talk, Lover Boy,” said
Mona, leading him into the hollow trunk. “Right now we’re all about animal
husbandry. You the husband, I the animal.”
*
Their tryst at end, Mona sighed
contentedly and said, “Huleekalabulee, you’ve done well. I am indubitably
enceinte. Many thanks for your copious contributions to the procreative
process. Now I’m gonna trot home, eat a hearty meal, take a long nap, and get
ready for the coming of the pups.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to introduce
me to Diana?” said Huleekalabulee, longing to go with Mona. “If you like me, she probably will, too.
Don’t you think?”
“Please don’t take this wrong,” said
Mona, looking into Huleekalabulee’s eyes, “but the truth is… I don’t like
males. Dogs or people. Diana feels the same way. You were a superb mate, but
this will be my one and only litter, so… sayonara Daddy-O.”
“Wait,” said Huleekalabulee,
following her out of the den into the bright light of day. “You don’t like me? You sure seemed to like me? You even gave me a slew of new nicknames
reflecting how much you seemed to like me. Honey Boy. Sweet Stuff. Lover Boy.
And lastly Daddy-O. Those are terms of endearment. Right?”
“I desired you,” said Mona,
matter-of-factly. “Craved your vital ingredients. But I don’t need you anymore.
I love Diana and she loves me. I want no one else, person or dog. And when you
find your person you’ll understand where I’m coming from.”
“But I don’t particularly like people,” protested Huleekalabulee.
“I like dogs.”
“I hear you,” said Mona, trotting
away. “You’re a dog dog. I’m a person dog. A one-female-person dog. Some dogs
are people dogs. Some dogs are even cat dogs. As you move through life you will
discover there are all kinds of different kinds of dogs. Nature or nurture? Who
can say?”
“May I at least come visit the
pups?” asked Huleekalabulee, calling after her. “I’d love to see the combos resulting
from the mingling of our potentialities.”
“Please don’t,” said Mona, glancing
back at him one last time. “You won’t be welcome.”
*
“Gosh,” said Huleekalabulee,
hunkering down in the hollow trunk of the ancient oak and consoling himself
with his last few pieces of turkey jerky. “So far my quest isn’t turning out
like any of the inspirational dog
stories I used to listen to with Mom.”
Then he drifted off to sleep and
dreamt he lived on a beautiful farm with Myron and Rex and Zazu and Mona.
When he woke a few hours later, he
was thirsty and hungry and sad. But rather than mope around feeling sorry for
himself, he went in search of water and vittles.
Water was easy. The lake was nearby,
the water tasty, and his oak tree den was in the least visited part of the
park, so there were few people around. He waded into the lake up to his knees, had
a good long drink, and then followed his nose through the woods to a clearing
where four people were sitting at a large wooden picnic table eating hamburgers
and French fries.
One of the four people was a woman,
the other three her children. Huleekalabulee watched the foursome from behind a
tree at the edge of the clearing, and he could tell at a glance the woman would
chase him away if he approached. However, he felt fairly certain that one or
more of the children might be inclined to feed him. In his one year of life,
Huleekalabulee had learned that the younger the person, the more likely he or
she would be to give him food or be easy to take food from.
After several minutes of patiently watching and waiting, Huleekalabulee was pleased to see the woman get up from the table and go away with the oldest of the three children. This left the two youngest children at the table: a four-year-old girl and a six-year-old boy.
When the woman did not immediately
return, Huleekalabulee trotted across the clearing to within ten feet of the
picnic table and performed a few of the many tricks Mom’s people, Alex and
Monica Kronkite, had taught him. He spun around in a circle three times, went
up on his hind legs, and then lay down and covered his eyes with his paws.
“He’s so cute,” said the little
girl. “Can I feed him, Larry?”
“Mom said we’re not supposed to,”
said Larry, looking to see if their mother was returning, which she was not.
“I don’t even want the rest of my hamburger,” said the little girl, pouting. “Or my French fries. Please, Larry. Can
I?”
“Okay,” said Larry, who not so
secretly wanted to feed the dog, too. “He seems nice.”
So the little girl flung her
half-finished burger and bun at Huleekalabulee and he caught the mess mid-air
and swallowed the entirety in a single gulp.
Excited by the dog’s remarkable dexterity,
Larry threw a succession of French fries in Huleekalabulee’s direction and the
agile hound caught them before they hit the ground.
“Do more tricks,” said Lena,
clapping her hands.
No
problem thought
Huleekalabulee, sitting on his haunches and pawing at the air, his theatrical
begging inspiring Larry to fling an entire burger, sans bun, to the hungry
hound.
As he deftly caught the burger with
his incisors, Huleekalabulee saw the children’s mother returning, and so ran
away to dine on the burger in the privacy of his lair.
“That was lucky,” he said, licking
his nose to garner the last remnants of burger grease. “And now I will wait
until tomorrow when, at the crack of dawn, I will make my way to the next place
Rex told me about where I hope to safely sequester as I make my way to the
beach.”
