A Razor and a Can of Barbasol

Every spring of my undergraduate education, the Dean of the Chapel invited a Zen abbess to campus. She taught meditation in the mornings, guest lectured in all kinds of classes, and took a group of Buddhist wannabes on a weekend retreat. She was of Asian descent but spoke English without an accent; she wore floor-length ochre robes with sandals. My small, expensive alma mater was almost completely homogeneous at the time [diversity did not yet factor in admissions], so this woman stood out among all the 18 to 21-year-old preppy white kids. My senior year, she arrived bald. The Abbess was a warm, open, unintimidating person, so someone asked, "Why did you shave your head?"

The Abbess explained that she saw her reflection in a mirror one day and thought to herself how much she liked her hair. She then realized that she harbored an attachment to the coif, and since the whole point of Buddhism is lack of attachment, she immediately removed the locks with a razor. Her explanation has stuck in my mind all of these years. I admire that level of discipline.

I have tremendous respect for people, especially women, willing to do as the Abbess did. Two recent hair removal experiences occurred on The Amazing Race. During Race 5, Brandon and Nicole, the models, chose a Fast Forward in India which required they both shave their heads. The race is a game, right? Contestants should do whatever they have to do to win, right? These two Christians, however, couldn't imagine life without their precious tresses and chose to return to the Roadblock and complete it instead, landing them in last place. Poor Jesus, he used to have people willing to risk getting thrown to the lions; now he gets dimwits incapable of facing a head scraping with a straight-edge razor. Oh, I cried when Phil Keoghan, the host, explained that it was a non-elimination leg of the race, for I loathed Brandon and Nicole. During the last episode, I will never forget Brandon trying to inspire Nicole to hike her ass up Lookout Mountain in Calgary by exclaiming that she should imagine Christ the Savior, his arms outstretched, waiting for her at the top. Yeah, I'm sure Jesus cared whether those two assholes won a million dollars.

Joyce, one of the two winners of Race 7 [Uchenna, her husband, already had a shiny pate], impressed me for setting aside her "attachments" and, for the sake of her team's success, allowing the loss of her long, beautiful hair. She obviously understood how change is necessary for advancement—whether that advancement is winning the next leg of a reality TV show race or gaining a better understanding of the human condition. Even if she and Uchenna hadn't won, the strength and wisdom gained from the shaving experience would have followed her through the rest of her life.

Melissa Etheridge is another example. Her bald Grammy appearance last year indicated a willingness to embrace the life changes that had occurred from breast cancer.

I too have faced the disposable Daisy and a can of Barbasol. When I learned that my cancer treatment would include chemo, I got my shoulder-length hair cut pixie short. Still, it seemed too long for the inevitable shedding, so I let Elizabeth use her horse clippers to buzz it to half an inch. Even that short length caused a mess in the shower once the hair loss began, so I finally foamed up what was left and shaved myself bald. I believed that taking some control during treatment when I had little say helped me avoid getting really depressed. One of my doctors, if I ever resisted his many instructions or balked at the time of an inconvenient appointment, would ask, "What? You're too busy to let me save your life?"

How many times have I sat waiting for a haircut, listening to the inane complaints around me? "Do you see this?" a woman once asked the receptionist, holding a handful of ends. "Do you see how they stick out?" Get over it, lady! One stylist wanted to know the name of the idiot who had cut my hair so unevenly. It was uneven? Gosh, with strands four inches long, I hadn't even noticed that one side was a sixteenth of an inch off. I can sit in a salon chair now and say to the stylist—even if he/she is a complete stranger—"Whatever you want to do." It's just hair. It grows out; it grows back. The perfect symbol for life, hair is constantly changing and only a very foolish person would obsess over good vs. bad hair days.

The hairstyle doesn't make someone look old; age does. The hairstyle doesn't make someone look fat, thin, tall, or short; weight and height do. Attempting to affix an ex-moment of life with a combover, a glaze of hairspray, or a dye job seems incredibly silly to me and terrible preparation for a future that has a good chance of holding inevitable hair loss.

Java Update, no. 1

On Saturday evening I received an email from the coordinator of the basenji I am fostering. She was updating his profile and needed a few pieces of information. A wave of possessiveness overtook me, so I immediately phoned to ask if I could be the one to adopt him. We were all sitting in the living room with the dogs happily chewing on smelly hooves. I wasn't on the phone more than 2 minutes before Yo-Yo and Bug exploded. When basenjis disagree, they rear up on their hind legs, "boxing" their opponent, all the while snarling like horror movie monsters. I had just explained to the coordinator that everyone was getting along so well when basenji apocalypse erupted beside me, loud enough for the mouthpiece to convey.

I hastily explained to the coordinator that my dogs had caused the brouhaha she had just heard, that Java was doing well and fitting in nicely with the pack. I'm not sure if the disagreement concerned a hoof or if Elizabeth's "translation" is more accurate:

Bug: Oh, be a sport, and let her ask the coordinator if we can adopt Java. I kinda like him.

Yo-Yo: The hell that puppy is staying in this house.

The coordinator said that of course I could adopt my charge, but that she didn't want me to think that no one out there could provide a good home. She was carefully evaluating applicants and wouldn't give him to someone who would irresponsibly open the door so that he could escape. She assured me that I would be involved in the process, that if I changed my mind and couldn't part with him—even at the last minute—I could still be the one to adopt him.

After I hung up, I felt better about the whole process. I got a great dog because of the rescue group, and I don't want to hog a wonderful puppy and keep someone else from having the same experience I have had with Bug.

But the truth is, I want Java, even if it means having to walk three dogs three times a day.

As you will see, Yo-Yo must have tuned in on my feelings. I took her for the first walk after this phone call. Yo-Yo likes to sniff the street outside the house, confirming with her nose all of the activity she has observed from the front window. I didn't rush and let her decide when she wanted to return to the house. Then I walked Bug. When he and I got home, we discovered that Yo-Yo had defecated all over the living room carpet and was sitting on the couch with a I'm-not-the-one-who's-done-anything-wrong look on her face. Basenjis use poop as punctuation to make their wishes clear, and Yo-Yo wanted no new member of the pack. Message received!

By Sunday night, however, Yo-Yo was letting Java sleep with his chin on her thigh. There's no telling how this experience is going to end.

Lake Pamela

Lake Pamela sits about 400 yards from a six-lane highway that dumps tourists into Theme Park Mecca. An ill-mown, weedy field creates a buffer between a steady stream of traffic and the water's edge.

The land belongs to the college, and we had heard that administrators downtown wanted to sell it to developers. In my pre-camera days, I would have applauded that move, hoping for fast food restaurants within walking distance from campus. I could have said, "Seeya, sucky cafeteria—for good!" But after photographing at the lake, I've gained appreciation for this tiny wild area. Twenty years ago, Lake Pamela was surrounded by wetland where bald eagles nested [alas, not even the nation's endangered symbol could protect acreage so close to Theme Park Mecca]. But now asphalt, apartment complexes, and strip malls box in this thin slice of wild.

I culled the pictures below from over 200 shots during four visits. I had planned another visit, but during my last trip to the lake, a pit bull mix charged me. I don't know if a dumbass dumped the dog on the highway or if she had accompanied someone fishing farther down the path, but I decided that until I bought a can of pepper spray, I was going to work in more civilized locations.

Each photo has a unique story. For example, I discovered the snowy egret on my first trip out. The day was overcast, and I had no idea what I would find. I rounded a corner and there he stood among the lily pads. My plan was to shoot birds during our really cold months when insects would be hard to find and when lots of avian visitors arrive from states with blizzards. But how could I pass up such a magnificent bird? So I took some shots while Whitey complained about my crashing his party. When I dumped the day's haul into the computer, I loved the colors of the lake in contrast to the white feathers. I know it's just a bird in the water lilies, a shot taken by thousands of photographers thousands of times, but this one is mine.

Lake Pamela must be this snowy egret's territory, for he was there for each of my visits. The flight picture, taken on a bright sunny day [hence the blue rather than gray water], is, I realize, another hackneyed shot, but catching a bird in flight clearly is no easy task. This is a "Look, Ma! See what I can do!" picture. I also like the magic of digital photography. I managed to crop the ugly back lot of Walmart to enhance the bird's soaring freedom.



When I took this photo of the Carolina saddlebags dragonfly, I thought insect life had ended for the year. All of the plants were beginning to dry at the lake, and after walking two thirds around that day, I hadn't spotted anything to photograph. Then this little guy landed on a twig. It was breezy, and he was doing all sorts of contortions as the wind tugged at his wings. At times like this, I get convinced that as long as I make the effort, God will send me one of his creatures to photograph.

Another reason I like this photo is that I am learning names. I bought The National Audubon Society Field Guide to Florida, so now I know the difference between a Carolina saddlebags and a blue dasher dragonfly.

I took the bumble bee and long tailed skipper photos one day after a hard rain. The Spanish needle [a Florida wildflower that everyone calls a weed if it pops up in a lawn] was lush and full of flowers. I like the bee photo because the fuzzy-bearness of the insect is evident. She is so different from the sports car smooth bees we see in cartoons and commercials. Seeing a bee proboscis at work is another difficult thing to capture with a camera.

The skipper was a delightful companion that day, taking the same route around the lake as I. Usually skippers are elusive. They have camouflaging colors which means birds find them tasty. They rush like over-scheduled yuppies and seem to have little enjoyment in their lives. But this one—for whatever reason—let me get quite close as he acrobatically catapulted from one flower head to the next.

My favorite photo in the Lake Pamela series is the eastern tiger swallowtail. On my first trip to the lake, the rose of sharon were in full bloom. During all my other excursions, I found dried brown seed balls in place of the lovely pink flowers. As I was heading back to campus, I saw a flutter out of the corner of my eye, and when I turned to look, there was this magnificent butterfly. Its perfect wings and ravenous hunger make me wonder if it had just emerged from a cocoon. I was honored to be there in that spot at that moment.



Taking the last photo in the series, the blue dasher dragonfly, was another magical moment for me. The dragonfly was resting on a Mountain Dew bottle. I took a few shots of him there [beautiful insect meets urban decay]; then I politely requested that he move. And he did! He flew to the drying primrose willow and let me get close enough to photograph even the hairs on his legs. I've since noticed that when I ask politely and express my gratitude afterwards, many insects will happily pose in a more aesthetically pleasing way. I love that his eyes glow with the reddening leaves.

Although I would love a Taco Bell or Subway within walking distance of campus, I prefer the birds and insects and this tiny wild oasis a few steps from my office.

I Accepted the "Call"

One reason for my inexcusably long absence blogging here is that I am caring for a foster basenji, a one-year-old bundle of raw energy who requires constant supervision. Java plays so hard and so rough that I often have to be the bad guy and break up the "fun" so that one of the dogs during the frenzy doesn't break a neck or crush a skull after a collision with a hard piece of furniture. If Java gets hurt on my watch, the news is sure to be broadcasted on the organization's email list, and I'll become another "inexperienced" foster parent who killed the shelter rescue the organization was trying to save. When Java finally falls asleep, he insists on draping himself over me, making even laptop work difficult.

This experience began a week ago Tuesday when I discovered an URGENT email asking for foster help, preferably in Florida [Java's first foster dad had died unexpectedly]. Although I am an official member of the rescue group, I do not share the animal welfare passion that some of the vocal members espouse. So normally I ignore such requests because I don't want to get involved with someone I worry will be a nutcase. Emails from the list are sometimes lunatic:

"Honey, if your husband insists that you get rid of the dog, get rid of the husband!"

"If you continue striking your dog as punishment, you should be taken out in the street and shot!"

"I heard that police and the National Guard are ordered to shoot all loose dogs on sight in New Orleans! Oh my god! What should we do?!"

Often I don't have the patience to read the nonsense, so I just mass delete all of the email from the group. Last Tuesday, however, I felt that "call to adventure" that I've been writing so much about and decided that I really shouldn't ignore it. The coordinator for this dog did not know me [I never post to the email list], so I was sure I would get rejected as a foster parent, but I decided to attempt to start the adventure at least. In my reply email, I name-dropped the coordinator I had worked with when I adopted Bug, included the web address of my basenji site so that she could see my own dogs, and steeled myself for a "Sorry, we've found someone else." The coordinator agreed to let me help, however, because I was close to Java's current location.

When I got home the next day, I picked up the house and debated whether to vacuum or not. Dog hair on furniture and floors indicates to rescue people that animals are allowed inside and share their lives with their owners [a good sign]. The picture I had formed in my head of the coordinator, however, was someone wealthy and snobbish, so I vacuumed. I also spent a good deal of time kicking myself: "Hey, Sparky, when was the last time you washed the baseboards? Why haven't you finished painting the dining room? What poor foster dog would want to live here?"

I relaxed a little when an ancient Toyota pulled into my driveway [I had expected a Cadillac Escalade with the dog crated in the back]. The coordinator turned out to be a very nice woman with a gentle but firm dog-training voice. We walked Java into the backyard, and I went to get Yo-Yo for her introduction to the puppy. I had explained to the coordinator that Yo-Yo loved everyone and would cause no problems. So of course when I let her loose, she immediately tried to kill Java. The coordinator said that this kind of thing happened all the time, that maybe Bug would surprise me. I took Yo-Yo back inside [where, during my absence, she peed on the sofa] and brought out Bug, usually the aggressive one, especially with other males. To my surprise, Bug immediately began playing with Java, racing happily around the yard so that Java could chase him. We tried all three of them together, and with plenty of supervision, Yo-Yo eventually decided Java could live [although she's still not happy about his presence in our lives].

The problem now is that I have become attached to the little guy. No, I don't want to adopt him [Two of the breed, believe me, are enough], but I do want assurance that he gets a home that understands his needs. He is the most high-energy dog I have ever met. He never walks; when it's not a full-out race to get where he's going, he bounces, twirls, or leaps. He's also an incorrigible door-darter. I've been using the back door exclusively so that the fenced yard acts as a safety net, but I'm concerned that the folks in his "forever home" might not be willing to make that sacrifice, leading to his escape and getting hit by a car. The coordinator seems very picky about potential adopters, so I trust her judgment, but ... I can't help thinking that I alone would provide the ideal home.

I knew that I would feel this way. I decided to volunteer this time because I like the idea of an occasional needy dog who could benefit from my care, but I need to know that I can give the animal up without too much emotional distress. I know that I can't adopt every foster without turning into that strange old lady with the weird breed of dogs. I guess I'll see. It took two weeks before I signed the papers for Bug, and he was already in my care. I imagine Java will be around for at least that long, maybe longer.

Java and Bug enjoying the sun

Java and Bug inspecting the yard for squirrel intrusion