In Memorium: Jacob Elijah Stone (1999 – 2011), a Very Good Dog

"Well, at least we don't need to smuggle him into Hawaii now," I said. Or tried to say, as my voice cracked and a lump wedged itself in my throat.

See, I want to live in Hawaii. As an island, Hawaii does not suffer the scourge of rabies, and they believe their strict import regulations — requiring all incoming dogs be quarantined for a month — help protect them from the virus. A perfectly reasonable precaution, I'm sure. However Jake would never survived a month in isolation. And he'd been consistently inoculated against rabies, and thus wouldn't pose any threat. He simply couldn't be held to such draconian standards, so I'd hatched a plan: Ku and I would sail to the Big Island with Jake, then smuggle him ashore at night. With an aloha bandanna and a hibiscus blossom behind his ear, I'd pass him off as a native dog. Easy.

The first step in the plan was getting Ku certified as a sailor. I argued he couldn't leave the Navy without being able to sail a boat; to shut me up he began sailing lessons, which ended with a freak storm capsizing his rental craft in the Potomac River.

Also I'd need to buy a boat, something at least 40' and able to transverse the voyage from Santa Cruz to Hilo. Next I'd have to get Jake used to being on it, not an easy task given the innate hatred of water he'd inherited from his Basenji ancestors. (Not a dislike, a hatred. He'd never even had a bath, as my first and only attempt had left me literally scarred across the abdomen.)

So there were still challenges ahead, and other than taking sailing lessons Ku was less than helpful. He offered up useless trivia and pointless commentary: "It takes at least 20 days to sail from California to Hawaii, 40' sailboats go for 60 grand, and you get claustrophobic in Economy Class, let alone the hold of a sloop. Plus somebody's going to notice when a brand-new Basenji appears in Hilo. There's no way this can work."

But all my fanciful plans and far-flung dreams came crashing down in early October 2010. Jake had been putting on weight for a while, but in September, when he was getting his nails trimmed for a trip to Mendocino, the vet techs had noticed his abdomen had become pendulous in a way that suggested a number of possible chronic conditions. On that trip his bloating and lethargy were noticeable, as well as his nausea and vomiting. (Something he had in common with Ku, who got stomach flu on that trip. Good times.)

After the Mendocino trip I took him back to the vet for a battery of tests, including an ultrasound. The blood work was maddeningly inconclusive, but the ultrasound showed him to be filled with fluid, and the specter of dark spots on several internal organs — most likely cancer. The vet attempted a procedure to obtain and culture a bit from one of the masses, but there was too much fluid. The attempt left Jake weaker than ever and with a bruise covering a quarter of his body.

Ku's good friend Alice was visiting the second weekend of October, when Jake was scheduled to see a veterinary internist. So all three of us went with him to the specialist. Still bruised, he wasn't doing well, but the internist was upbeat and positive as she said she'd get a handle on the situation. She and her skilled radiology tech would get a sample to culture, and figure out how to drain the fluid. We'd should have a treatment plan soon, she said.

Her outlook was markedly different when she returned. The ultrasound revealed metastatic tumorous masses on his liver, kidneys, spleen, and encircling the vena cava, the major vein that empties into the heart. She said the prolonged bruising from the earlier procedure suggested his liver was already failing so he wouldn't well tolerate another surgery to drain the fluid, and the bloating was pressing on his lungs, making breathing difficult, and his stomach, so he couldn't eat more than a small amount. She prescribed diuretics, though she said they probably wouldn't help him expel the abdominal fluids, which she believed were blood by-products left over from the tumor scavenging nutrients directly from the vena cava.

In short, she said he was at the end stage of cancer and should be euthanized now.

Back home, Jake dozed on the couch as I wept inconsolably about all the things we'd never do. How he'd never be the farm dog on a coffee plantation in Hilo, how he'd never again visit my folks in Iowa, how he'd never again stroll through his beloved Lighthouse Field, marking every other tree. Ku tried gamely to comfort me, and Alice stoically pulled together a meal so we could think about something other than Jake.

I figured I'd wait a few days — until Ku and Alice left — to make any final decisions. In the meantime, I filled the prescriptions on the off chance they'd make a difference.

Though he was born 25 August 1999, Jake came into my life in early 2000. I'd decided to get a dog and had been enamored with Basenjis — a medium-sized African hunting hound, noted for howling and yodeling instead of barking. In addition to contacting local breeders, my brother Todd (who was living with me in Santa Cruz at the time) and I would stop by the local SPCA to see what kinds of dogs were available. My bungalow is too small for a large breed and I didn't want a toy dog, so I wasn't too enthusiastic about all the pit bull and chihuahua mixes that seem to overrun Santa Cruz County.

But one day we happened upon a cage labelled "M, Basenji mix" with nary a dog in sight. While all the other cages had irresistible puppy piles or older dogs at the gate with their best hey-come-spring-me prances, this pup was hidden in the crate, warily eyeing the people passing by. With some coaxing a small black puppy, with white feet and a chest blaze, crept cautiously out, and after a few minutes was playfully grabbing at the hat I'd pushed through the chain-link.

Apparently his first family had named him Pepper, which wouldn't do at all. I rechristened him Jake while filling out the SPCA paperwork; later he was given the full name Jacob Elijah Stone, as everyone needs a middle name so they know when they're in trouble.

Todd and I brought him home and showed him the bungalow and the back yard. He seemed pleased, though he was probably just glad to be out of the shelter cage. We played with him for a bit then I headed out to buy some dog food. Todd and Jake were playing in the living room when I opened the front door and Jake immediately made a break for it. I put out my foot to impede his path; he deftly leapt over it, bounded across the front yard, and was down the sidewalk in seconds flat. We ran after him, which he took to be an exciting new game. Jake ran down to the end of the block, turned left, and headed for downtown. We chased him to Cedar Street where he thankfully turned left again instead of crossing the busy street. We caught up to him in the parking lot of the dry cleaners, scooping him up before the car pulling out had a chance to run him down. He licked my face, as if to say we should play the chasing game some more.

Over time, Jake came to understand he had a home. And that everything in the home was his. Each bed and couch was fair game for napping, every part of the back yard was suitable for marking, and all items that came out of the refrigerator, off the stove, or out of the oven were to be inspected, preferably by sampling. Anyone entering the house with any sort of goods were sniffed in a way that would make the TSA proud.

In exchange for his dominion, Jake guarded the house diligently…unless, of course, he was napping. Naturally knocks at the door or peals of the doorbell were cause for barking and hullabaloo, but ultimately those were people and people were my responsibility.

Jake's full fury was reserved for the truly life-threatening menaces: squirrels, rats, opossums, and raccoons. Clearly these plague-bearing, food-stealing, couch-inhabiting monsters needed to be repelled virulently with the full range of Basenji howls and growls, especially at 03:00. The tree-shrouded fence on the North side of the house was a handy elevated transit line for these creatures on their way to and from downtown dumpster diving. Often Jake would spy them through the living room window, usually when I was on the couch next to the window, watching TV. He'd leap into my lap then up onto the couch arm to bellow at the creature, his head just inches from my right ear and back legs planted firmly in my crotch. Once the offending vermin moved out of view, Jake would leap off the couch, and — paws scrabbling for purchase on the wood floor — fishtail around the couch, dash through the kitchen and dining room, dive through the dog door, sail off the back porch, and bound halfway up the fence.

He was a brave dog. Truth be told, he was 25 pounds of totally-convinced-of-his-superiority…until he was in over his head and yelping for rescue. But 'til that tide turned, Jake was as brave and bold as any dog could be. He treed dozens of raccoons, frightened scores of opossums into motionlessness atop the fence (which always, eventually, fooled him), and chased off hundreds of squirrels. He even had a couple of standoffs in the back yard, which ended with him being carried back into the house with a let-me-at-'em attitude that would make Scrappy Doo proud.

Because of the regularity of these late-night adventures, I'd become habituated to waking when I heard the dog door flap, in much the same way mothers can sleep through a marching band but hear their baby whimpering. One night I heard the odd sound of the door tentatively flap, flap, flapping, which was unusual as Jake normally went out for a while before coming back in. Concerned, I sat up and noticed Jake was still in bed with me. The door flapped again and Jake and I exchanged a look. You could almost see the wheels turning in his mind: "Wait...if I'm here and you're here..." Before I could grab him he was out of the bed and running toward the door with an ominous growl. By the time I reached the back yard with flashlight in hand, there was no sign of the trespasser. But little paw prints on the porch suggested a raccoon kit was unwisely investigating the dog door. The barbarians were repelled because they didn't know how to work the gate.

As he got older, his fervor faded a bit, but his vigilance never dimmed. Back in September, while I was in Philadelphia, Jake was being watched by his favorite sitter, Heather. They were both asleep in the early hours of the morning, when some drunk came onto the porch, looking to duck the remainder of a fight that had left him bruised and bleeding. At the sound of an uninvited interloper, Jake went on full alert, hackles raised, barking and howling as Heather called the police. All the commotion, along with her asserting the authorities were on the way, convinced the stranger to depart quickly. Despite being riddled with as-yet-undiagnosed cancer, Jake guarded his house once again.

And bravely, stoically, Jake faced his cancer, too. I started him on the two prescribed diuretics and a low-dose of painkiller. And against all expectation, he rallied! Within two weeks of the specialist's dire prognosis Jake had lost six pounds of excess fluids, and with the bloating gone he could eat again, and breathe easier. He became more active and we resumed long walks along the river and out to Lighthouse Field. October turned into November, which gave way to December. I tried to fill our time together with walks and couch naps and afternoons on the porch.

But this was indeed borrowed time; the diuretics kept him from bloating back up but weren't impeding the cancer. He started refusing food, pushing me to find more enticing meal options for him. Thus it was that I — vegan for the last 6½ years and vegetarian for 11 years prior to that — discovered there is a whole section at Trader Joe's with prepared meats. I'd never paid attention to that wall before, and Jake was delighted to sample prosciutto.

Jake remained stable enough for me to dash back to Iowa for Christmas and then a family trip to Orlando the first week of January, though Heather noted he was starting to eschew any food with pills in it. As January went on, he became more suspicious of his food. Every ball of brie or nugget of liverwurst was examined for pills, and when he found them he stalked off in disgust. Without the painkiller he was slowing down, and without the diuretics the swelling returned, though not as bad as before. And he was rapidly losing muscle tone, a result of tumor growth.

On February 2nd I noticed he was starting to jaundice, a sign of liver failure, and was clearly in pain. By the 3rd even the whites of his eyes were yellow and he was shaking most of the time. He hadn't eaten in days, his fur reflecting his spine, his ribs, and his hips in drastic detail.

So here's the deal: he's totally there for me, every day, every time. He's totally devoted to me, without question. I am his provider, his master, his world.

And in exchange, I take care of him. I have to do right by him. I have to help him navigate a world he doesn't really understand, keep him safe from dangers he can't quite comprehend, make the calls that are above his pay grade. He shouldn't hunger on my watch, nor thirst. And he damned sure shouldn't suffer. Which means the time comes when I need to make a call that will spare him further pain. I have to work the morbid calculus that balances the plucky fighter with swollen abdomen against the organ failure and seizures that are on the way. And when the thought of euthanizing my faithful companion makes my tearful breaths as ragged and shallow as his, I need to steel myself; he lived his life for me, now I need to repay the debt.

So on Friday, 4 February 2011, at 16:30, the vet came to our house. Jake hadn't moved from the couch the entire day, until he saw that white coat come through the door. He went out back, patrolled the yard one last time, then came back in and put the cares of this world behind him.

I don't know if there's any more to Jake's journey, if there's a special realm where he chases gazelles all day then waits on the porch for me to join him. But I do know I'll keep his memories alive within me until the end of my days. And I ask anyone who knew him to remember him from time to time as well.

Don't Come Around Here No More

Last year the Amgen Tour of California bicycle race ran through Santa Cruz for the first time. As luck would have it, the race route ran right in front of my house. It was so cool!

Well, the route for the finish of Stage III has been announced for this year, and while the racers will still ride through Santa Cruz they will unfortunately skip Downtown — and thus my house — altogether.

Naturally this is quite disappointing. It was quite thrilling having world-famous cyclists like Lance Armstrong zip past my house, even if they went by at speeds so fast I couldn't really tell who was whom. Well, I'm glad I got to experience it even once.

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Don't Come Around Here No More	Song by Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers

Here I stand and I'm waiting.

Today was Jake's tenth birthday! We celebrated by going to dinner at Café Limelight here in Downtown Santa Cruz, as we've done for many of his prior birthdays. For a dog, Jake's eaten at restaurants a lot. I'd reckon he goes out to eat at least five times a year, so he's had at least 50 dining-out experiences.

Yet for all that, he's still not comfortable just waiting to be served. Rather, he knows there's food about so he spends the entire time intently focused on when and how a meal will appear.

Dining out with a dog means eating on patios. I've yet to find an establishment that allows dogs inside; you're always out on the patio or deck, away from other patrons. The best places, like Café Limelight, bring you water in a dog bowl, and have options on the menu just for the pets. Limelight, for instance, has a plate of sliced roast turkey just for dogs. (It helps that the couple who own Limelight are pet guardians themselves.)

Anyone who's dined out knows there's a routine to table service. First there's the seating, greeting, and menu presentation. This is followed by the water service, then the drink order. When the drinks arrive you order the starters or the main courses. Between ordering and food service, there are usually a couple of table visits to refill the water or refresh any complimentary items like bread or chips.

Well, from the moment we sit down at a table, Jake locks onto whomever approaches, convinced they have a bowl or plate full of food for him. At Café Limelight, the tables on the patio face the door, so Jake spends all him time there staring at the main door, waiting for someone, anyone, to bring him food. Every person who comes through that door is, quite literally, a potential meal ticket, and Jake eyes them like they're the last of the good leads in Glengarry Glen Ross. When the long-awaited plate of turkey arrives, it's devoured in under a minute, with more time spent looking for wayward scraps around the plate than was taken eating the actual payload.

Even the check is a source of confusion, with Jake eyeing it as if it were another course. The clearing of the table, though, just like at home signals the end of the meal. As the dishes are removed, Jake finally relaxes a bit, patrolling under the table to find any dropped bits then, at last, coming to rest by his backpack in preparation for the walk home.

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"Here I stand and I'm waiting."	Lyric from the song Waiting by Chris Issac

Thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears!

The morning of the Fourth of July, I attached a steel flagpole bracket to the front porch of my house, so I could fly the American flag proudly on our Day of Independence.

Afterward, I looked up and down my block, but mine was the only flag I could see. I knew that two blocks down in front of Fire Station #1 there was a flag flying, and two block in the other direction there'd be a flag in front of the Louden Nelson Community Center, but mine appeared to be the only American flag on a residence that I could see.

Perhaps my neighbors didn't have flags. After all, it's been eight years since most anyone around here has had any faith, let alone pride, in their government. Or perhaps they couldn't fly a flag, as many of them are renters and don't have the right to attach a flag to their house or apartment.

No matter. My personal admiration for the Obama administration was enough to inspire me to proudly raise the Stars and Stripes, and there could not have been a more beautiful day to do so. The sky was clear and blue and the temperature was mild; a perfect day to sit on the porch with Jake and offer a hearty greeting to the passersby.

Addendum: after reading this post my friend Gregory chided me, saying I should "fly the flag regardless of whether or not you support the particular Commander In Chief currently in place. I think it's particularly important to remain patriotic during the troubling times in America while we work to make it better." And he's right.

In my haste to finish a blog post, I used the Obama administration as a shorthand to represent the social and political awakening taking place in the United States during the past couple of years. It was a lazy characterization, but worse it left the wrong impression. I raised my flag on the Fourth of July not because I support only this specific CINC, but because I am so proud that people across this nation are electing responsible representatives and demanding accountability from officials, and I believe the current administration is encouraging and supporting this resurgence of citizenship.

In the most literal sense, a flag represents a country; a marker used at multinational gatherings. But when you, an individual, raise a flag it's no longer a simple marker, it's a proxy for your own patriotism. It becomes imbued with your beliefs about citizenship, governance, rights, and responsibilities. And if the country doesn't currently match your beliefs, flying the flag is an inspiration to you to work for the greater good. (This is also why many people find it so offensive to see the Confederate flag flown, as they don't want to believe there are people in the US currently striving to divide the Union and enslave parts of the population.)

Therefore, I should have been as eager to raise my flag last year or the year before as I was this year. It should have been as natural as studying position papers, donating to progressive candidates, canvassing loved ones, or any of the other things I've been doing to help America reach her potential.

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"Thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears!"	Lyrics from America the Beautiful — words by Katherine Lee Bates, melody by Samuel Ward, covered by Mannheim Steamroller (and countless others)

Miles and miles left to go, miles from anything we know.

Yeah, mid-afternoon on the first day of a three-day weekend is not a good time to drive to Santa Cruz.

Took a look at the map while eating lunch, and the traffic on southbound 17 is backed up all the way 'till it ends at the 280! And once you plod your way through the mountains, it gets really bad again in Scotts Valley, all the way into Santa Cruz. Yuck.

Glad I'm already here, and won't be moving the car all weekend.

What's interesting is that the traffic doesn't continue southbound on 1 to go deeper into the county. I guess everyone's headed specifically to Santa Cruz, probably to catch The Smithereens at their free concert at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk tonight.

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"Miles and miles left to go, miles from anything we know."	Lyrics from the song Miles from Nowhere by The Smithereens

Ride Captain Ride

Ku and I saw Star Trek tonight; I would have thought we were the last ones in the country to do so, but the packed theater told me otherwise. (On a side note: Santa Cruz moviegoers, please put down the bong and get your butts in gear, so you can get to the theater before the feature starts and not ruin the first ten minutes of the movie by walking in front of me.)

I thought the movie was fantastic. Ku wasn't as impressed. But what surprised me the most was seeing my Alma Mater represented as Starfleet Academy. It's true! The Oviatt Library at California State University, Northridge, perhaps the most distinctive building on the entire campus, was used in the film as the exterior shot of a large auditorium at Starfleet Academy.


As shown in the composite above, the top image is the Oviatt Library as it exists today and the bottom image is the building portrayed in Star Trek, after three more stories were added to the top, a couple of wings on the sides, and it was relocated to San Francisco (apparently to somewhere around the Presidio/Marina district).

The soaring pillars of the Oviatt have always looked majestic, but never before have I thought they would represent the heights of 24th Century architecture. Granted they are so distinctive that back in the early 90s they were the graphic focal point of the university logo, a decision that was controversial at the time.

Anyway, seeing as how I'm a Starfleet Academy graduate, I've been wondering what my rank would be. It's been quite a while since I matriculated, so perhaps I'd have made captain by now. Though most likely not.

But with all respect to someone who's actually had to earn rank, I'd say I'd be proud and honored (and lucky) to be in the company of lieutenants — the backbone and core of the officer ranks. Hooyah!

(Credits to acejr371 via Flickr for the photo of Oviatt Library, to Paramount Studios for the bottom still from the movie, and to Tim Malabuyo for the composition image.)

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Ride Captain Ride	Song by Blues Image

Riders on the Storm

For the first time I can recall, a professional bicycle race came through Santa Cruz. Specifically, Stage Two of the 2009 Amgen Tour of California race ended here in Downtown Santa Cruz, after starting in Sausalito this morning.

Even more exciting, not only did the race come through Downtown, it went right down my street! That's right, I hung out in my front yard today and watched bike racing luminaries such as Lance Armstrong fly by not more than 10 feet in front of me. To chronicle such a momentous event, I took pictures and pulled together a photo page.

Aside from the fun of seeing the racers speed down my street, it was interesting to watch the weather seemingly cooperate with my fair city's debut as a staging ground for the Tour of California. While cycling through the mountains, the racers were reportedly deluged with rain. And even here in Santa Cruz, the rain was steady until about 10:30.

But as can be seen in my pictures, the rain stopped mid-morning and by Noon the streets were dry. A couple of quick showers made things interesting — I had Neighbor Nicole taking refuge on my porch for a few minutes — but they stopped by 13:30.

When the first riders came by at 13:56, not only were the streets dry, but the sun had just broke through the clouds. And Downtown stayed partly cloudy the whole time the racers were streaming through. By 15:00, all the riders had gone by, and the grey was back. By 16:00, dark storm clouds filled the sky. And by 16:30, hail was falling. It was almost like the collective will of Santa Cruz had managed to push back the storm just long enough so the riders could cross the line. After that it came rushing back in with a vengeance.

I only hope the tour organizers remember our meteorological manipulation when they plan next year's route.

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Riders on the Storm	Song by The Doors

A Good Year for the Roses

This was one of those slow Santa Cruz days; the overcast didn't burn off until almost three in the afternoon. For some reason, as long as it's overcast out I'm fine just puttering around the house, picking up stuff and doing laundry. But once the sun comes out I start feeling guilty about staying at home. It's like the marine layer keeps my thoughts trapped at home, but once it evaporates I remember the many things I could be doing out in the world.

But I've much to do around the house so I figured a nice glass of sangria would be a fitting way to celebrate the sun's arrival, tardy as it may be.

So in a pitcher went two sliced oranges, one blood and one Valencia, and two chopped apples, one Fuji and one Granny Smith, along with two cinnamon sticks. Then in went a tablespoon of powdered sugar and three tablespoons each of Grand Marnier and brandy, stirred to coat the fruit. That mixture then sat for an hour to draw out the juices from the fruit.

Finally I added a cup of orange juice and a bottle of red wine. My selection was a 2005 Ruchè di Castagnole Monferrato (imported by Bonny Doon Vineyard). The striking, almost overwhelming, bouquet of roses on this Ruchè blends nicely with the fruit in the sangria.

Once everything blends for a while and is served over ice, the result is a fine, tasty sangria. But be careful, it's quite potent regardless of how easy it is to drink. (Something I always forget until about halfway through the glass.)

The sangria recipe is from Martha Stewart, though she calls for a cup of grapes in hers. I don't think the grapes add much to the overall result so I usually don't bother.

Oh, and speaking of not bothering, the overcast was back by four-twenty. Cozy.

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A Good Year for the Roses	Song covered by Elvis Costello & The Attractions, originally by George Jones

The talking trees are silent in a noisy way.

We got our trees today!

A week ago I noticed that squares had been spray-painted on the sidewalk in front of the parking lot next to my house. Inside the squares was the notation "tree." I was quite excited by the notion we might be getting some new trees on our block; sure enough, this morning three trees arrived on a flat-bed truck, along with a crane to lift them into place.

A crew cut away the concrete sidewalk, dug a hole, and put the young trees in place. They placed three trees along the face of the lot, one at each end and one in the middle. (The trees were placed on the Center Street side of the lot; the Cedar Street side has trees already.)

The foreman says the trees won't grow too tall and hit the power lines, but rather should fill out nicely. They will definitely add some beauty to a dull stretch of block. And give Jake something new to anoint.

It's cool the city had budget for this.

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"The talking trees are silent in a noisy way."	Lyric from the song The Singing Sea by Tulivu-Donna Cumberbatch

Let Our Garden Grow

Potted the remaining California Poppy plant today. I also picked up some cilantro and rosemary that were on sale and potted those, too. I'm hoping they all will be easy to grow, given my indifference to rigorous gardening methods (read: inability to water regularly).

I put the pots up on the back steps so they will get more sun. I'm hoping this placement also makes it difficult for Jake to pee on them.

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Let Our Garden Grow	Song by The Bad Plus

As Far As Thieves Go

I've always admired our state flower, the California Poppy. I like the golden orange color and the way it suddenly appears in Spring, all bright and proud. It's hardy, as a good wildflower should be, and since it's a native it tolerates poor soils and sparse water.

Early Spanish settlers called this plant Dormidera, or the drowsy one, because the petals curl up at night.

When I bought my house it had two stained glass windows that depicted (or so I believe) California Poppies as they greet the day, curled tight and ready to unfurl. During my remodel I salvaged these windows and had them remounted in the dining room, with exterior lights set above for a striking evening illumination.

And to continue the poppy theme in the remodeled house I chose a new front door with leaded glass depicting a trio of poppy flowers. This, too, is eye-catching at night when the porch light shines through.

So clearly I'm predisposed to these flowers, and I've been intending to plant some around the house. On Saturday I went to the local garden center to get some liquid fertilizer and a sprayer; the front lawn's been looking a bit peaked ever since it was mowed a couple of weeks ago and I find spritzing it with some "fortified water" helps it come around. While there I came across the last, lonely California Poppy plant available, a fine, flowering specimen from the good folks at Annie's Annuals. Naturally I bought it.

As I walked home I thought about where to put the poppy, and decided it would do best in a pot on the front porch. That spot gets lots of afternoon sun and the bright flowers will look good against my beige walls. But Saturday was a busy day and I didn't have time to pot the plant. Instead I set it on the porch, its new "home," to be dealt with on Sunday.

I wake this morning, make a big pot of coffee, and head out front to get the Sunday paper. And the plant is gone. Some miserable, selfish, evil person has stolen my California Poppy right off my front porch. Immediately I'm angry. Not because of money lost; the plant was only $5. But because this theft was so unjustified. The plant won't provide anyone food or shelter, this wasn't a theft of necessity. Rather it was one of convenience, an item taken because it was easily reached.

I spend some time moping around, thinking I'll need to put up a front fence before I can even enjoy the sight of some flowers on my porch. Then I get angry again: there's no reason why I can't have a pot of flowers, and I'd be damned if some miscreant is going to keep me from adding a little color to my home. So I decide to get some more poppies and plant them in my largest, heaviest terra cotta pot and put them right on the porch.

Off I go to a different local garden center. I get three poppy plants, big and bushy but unfortunately not in bloom as their abducted cousin was, and some more potting soil. Back home I clean up the two biggest matching pots I have and get to work.

Unfortunately I've misjudged how much potting soil I need for these large pots; I can only fill one and the garden center has closed early for Easter. But no matter. I get one pot filled and placed proudly on the porch. It's my house, my yard, and I will have California Poppies on the porch.

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As Far As Thieves Go	Song by Blind Spot

In Praise of Warm Vans.

Watered the plants this morning. The tomato plants need daily watering; I guess I used too small a pot. I pulled on the pair of worn, black, classic Vans that were sitting on the back step so I could traverse the patch of overgrown grass and dog poop to get to the spigot.

The insteps of the shoes had long ago conformed to my feet, the foam rubber compressed by pressure at ball and heel, the canvas atop the foam scrunched forward by my unique gait. The hard rubber half-moon that holds the shape of the back of the shoe has long since broken down, as happens with old Vans. You learn to turn the shoe upside-down and shake to dislodge the latest bits of rubber that have come loose, as well as any creepy crawlers who've decided my Vans are an available backyard condo.

The shoes were lying in the morning light, the black canvas body absorbing the heat, so when I pulled them on they were the perfect warmth for my bare feet. Supple from the sun, the Vans settled right on me as if they were an extension of my own body, delighted to be back in their proper place. As I tied each one the canvas top embraced my foot, my pinkie toe coming to rest in the crook that forms where the shoe front flexes. (I've never been able to decide if the hole that invariably forms in the canvas at that point is caused by the flexing or the toe.)

At that moment, there was no more perfect feeling than the warm Vans on my feet.

The shoes are at the peak of comfort; as time goes on the instep covers will become too loose and bunch in the arch, the back heels will degrade and spew ever larger chunks of rubber, and the holes at the front will grow so large my pinkie toe will pop out when walking.

But right now those Vans have the perfect level of decay, or experience if you prefer. And they wait patiently on the back step for my half-hearted yard maintenance. As I thought about the delight they brought me this morning, I realized I should hold onto that happiness and carry it as far forward into the day as I can.