Saved by the Surfer

Something very scary happened on Saturday.

We had gone up to the family’s place on Hondo Creek near Tarpley for the day with Mary’s older son and his family, including a brother-in-law up from from Peru. Now there’s a little sinkhole on the creek below the house that's fun to dip in. Only on this day, due to torrential rains, it was an angry maelstrom. Several members of the family were sitting around the edge, daring only to dip their feet in the water when I decided to join them.

But first I had to jump across the little waterfall that feeds into the sinkhole, a leap that I often make. Well, this time I didn’t make it. Suddenly I was in the sinkhole, bobbing up and down and paddling for my life. Instantly Mary jumped in to save me and got sucked into the swirling water. Then her daughter-in-law jumped in to save her. Same scenario. Who saved the day was Luis, who used to be a surfer in Peru. Instead of joining the endangered trio, he stayed on the side, stretched his arm and was just able to grab us, one by one.

The good news was we survived. The bad news was the ladies lost their prescription eyeglasses. But we learned several truths. I learned that Mary would risk her life for me. Mary learned the Mariana would do the same for her. And we all gained greater respect for the power of water. Believe you me, I will never come near that sinkhole again. Read my lips. Oh—I forgot—dogs don’t have lips, do they?

Itchin' for More Agaritas

They say what goes around comes around. Well that certainly came true this week. Dog's honor.

The story begins in Tarpley, where my master and mistress went on Saturday to harvest more agarita berries. This time they employed the upside down umbrella technique, and branches laden with ripe berries yielded close to 15 pounds. Lewis and Mary were elated.

For two days, that is.

Now for some time Lewis has been complaining about my scratching at night, claiming it keeps him awake. Well duh—dogs itch. But on Tuesday, the tables turned: while beating the bushes they both got bitten all over by chiggers. (For a number of years there have been no chiggers at Tarpley because invading fire ants ate their larvae, but since the fire ants left due to the recent drought, the little red devils have apparently returned.)

For the past couple of nights, my master and mistress have been up and down all night, scratching and doctoring themselves with Afterbite. Now who’s keeping whom awake? (I just hope my master catches the irony.)

As to today’s walk, four ladies moved in a moderate pace about Olmos Park, passing the house of their member, Madame Mayor. She had to be at one of many city meetings but had taken time to decorate the pug statues in front of her house. This time, they are sporting graduation gowns and hats.

Three of the other WWTs had compelling reasons for not attending: one was on her way to Brazil; the others were in Germany and New York. My travel destinations may be more mundane—Austin and Tarpley—but they’re just as fun. That is unless the chiggers are biting.

Poison Ivy: Not my Thing

On Wednesday, four WWTs met next to the campus of the University of the Incarnate Word to visit a new nature preserve. Dr. Bonnie McCormick, chairman of the University’s biology department, and Helen Ballew, director of the Headwaters Sanctuary, led us on a tour of the 53 acre site set aside by the Sisters of Charity of the Incarnate Word.

Riparian was not in my vocabulary until a couple of weeks ago, when Mary went to a riparian conference in Tarpley, along with other landowners along Hondo and other nearby creeks. I sat in during part of the presentation and learned that riparian refers to a zone near a creek (people underestimate what dogs can learn—a pity).

Undeveloped but not pristine, the riparian Headwaters Sanctuary along Olmos Creek--which feeds into the San Antonio River--is plagued with non-native plants and trash delivered via flood waters. Yet, a pair of Mexican Eagles nests in the secluded space and small mammals like foxes are seen there, along with a lengthy list of bird and native plant species.

Speaking of native plants, a noxious one lurks along the brushy trails: poison ivy. When I inadvertently walked through some, Mary started carrying me. Both of us had to take baths when we got home, just to be safe.

After the balance of the land is restored, I’d like to go back to this evocative place. Hopefully they’ll consider poison ivy removal, even if it is a native. Until then I’d prefer not have to endure another scrubbing like the one I got.

Agarita Jelly: More than a Notion

Mary and Lewis took me to Austin on Saturday to visit Maverick’s dog, Chiugurh. I also got to check in with the chickens, though they hardly give me the time of day. You’d think they would be afraid of someone of the canine persuasion. But not these girls. Chiugurh and I roamed freely among them as they hunted and pecked about the back yard.

On Sunday morning, Mary completed a project that had begun a week before in Tarpley. While in the country, she and Maverick took a notion to harvest agarita berries. And as Mary’s mother used to say, it’s more than a notion deal with the agarita bush. That’s because its leaves are spiny like holly and the berries are not much larger than B-Bs.

Now there’s some clueless dude on the Internet that talks about picking the berries one by one. But the time-honored method, passed down by Mary’s grandmother Maverick, entails spreading an old bed sheet on the ground and beating the branches. (Several years ago, a guest introduced her upside down umbrella method, but it didn’t take.)

Despite the difficulty of maneuvering the sheet (or in this case a throwaway plastic tablecloth) under the low-lying branches, the harvest went fairly smoothly. But that was just the beginning. The toughest, most time consuming part of the procedure entails separating the berries from the twigs, leaves and sundry insects that have also fallen onto the sheet.

Mary took it in stages, floating the berries in a pan of water, removing detritus and draining. After repeating the process several times, she brought it home and did it again. And again. Once the berries were more or less all that was left, she boiled them and strained out the juice.

The easy part came yesterday in Austin: matching the juice cup-for-cup with sugar, adding pectin and a dash of lemon juice, and boiling briefly. The yield was only two and a half small jars and I was never offered any. But I’m guessing that agarita jelly must be heavenly since they’re already talking about going through the hellish process again.

Which is fine with me because while they wrestle with sheets, sticks and pans of water, I can run leash-free in the country with my buddy Chigurh. Life doesn’t get much better than that.

Not Getting no Respect

This week nearly all the WWTs had a conflict and my mistress was sick, so there was no walk. Which leaves me space to get something off my chest.

Being a small dog, I never feel I get the proper respect, even now that I’m bona fide aristocracy. People simper over me, using baby talk mostly. Really, it’s so demeaning.

Now comes a magazine article with the headline, “In the Canine World, Sometimes Less is More.” It goes on to explain that Chihuahuas are descended from long-haired dogs called Techichi in ancient Mexico. Royally prized by the Aztecs and Toltecs, they were carried in sleeves of their ceremonial robes.

At some point these aristocratic long-haired dogs mixed with hairless dogs from Asia that had crossed the Bering Strait and, as the article pointed out, “eventually ended up in Paris Hilton’s purse.”

Now I won’t argue whether it’s a step up or down to go from the sleeves of ancient Mexican royalty to the purse of an American pop celebrity. What I will say is that I don’t think Chihuahuas generally get the respect they deserve because, let’s face it, we are really cute. And cute doesn’t gain respect like say, the jaws of a pit bull.

Well, as Mary’s friend’s shrink is fond of saying, “It is what it is.” So I guess maybe I’d better just enjoy being clucked over and forget about R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

Walking, Talking and now Cooking

Things have quieted down quite a bit at my household, and that’s not all bad. No longer does Mary rouse me at the crack of dawn, wrap me in my royal robe and schlep me over to a TV or radio station. Instead, I can laze around all day and still have a fine outing when she and my master take their walk.

On Wednesday four WWTs walked a part of Alamo Heights they hadn't done before. They moved briskly except for a stop at the Episcopal Diocesan Center on Torcido Dr. to see the springs at the headwaters of the San Antonio River. Because of recent rains they were flowing rapidly, so I had to be careful not to sink into the marsh.

Two days earlier, Mary had a covered dish supper for the Wednesday Walkie Talkies and their husbands. The pretext was for everyone to see our new screened porch. Of course, they all made over me, since I’m the de facto mascot for the WWTs.

The food was outstanding and every now and again someone would slip me a little something. I really liked the chicken spaghetti casserole that Mary Ann Franzke brought. Since I like all kinds of pasta, I also liked my mistress’s artichoke heart pesto pasta dish. But the hit of the evening was the homemade fresh peach ice cream bought by Ann McMullan. Since no one figured I’d like that, no one offered me any. A pity.

Luckily, the most peripatetic WWT was able to make the party, just back from a traditional Japanese wedding near Kyoto. Marta Siv’s husband, Sichan, described the Shinto ceremony in detail. He is the author of a book, “Golden Bones,” about his life in Cambodia before and during the Killing Fields era, as well as his life after his escape. After he came to the United States, he got a job picking apples and within a few years had ascended to a U.S. ambassadorship to the United Nations. Even a princess like me has to be in awe of someone like that.

Whenever they are in town, Martha walks with the ladies, who love hearing of her trips to places ranging from Paris to Phnom Penh. Conversation never lags when she’s with the group. But then it never does with this group. The last word in their name says it all.