Light My Fire

A short-haired dog the color of pale fire trotted up to me as I ambled home from the ocean this morning. Tawny gold from head to toes, she wagged her tail and gazed up at me in a friendly, expectant manner. Do you have something for me?

And actually, I did. I stopped and pulled the bag o’dog treats from my parka pocket and gave her one. Continued on my way. Heard clicking behind me. Her toenails on the concrete walk. Following. She was healthy and happy instead of snarling and barky, so I stopped again and gave her another (with omega-3, ooh-la). Perfectly polite, she was, though snarfed the meat sticks quickly. We kept company for another block or two, and a warm feeling bloomed in my solar plexus, lasting all the way back to the boatyard.

The north wind is chilly, so I light the oven. It’s only taken me two years to figure it out. Why? Coupla reasons: warm in México until recently, and I was afraid the old stove would explode. I am a cautious swimmer, sailor, surfer, stove-lighter. It took a cold snap to motivate me, but now I’m cozy.

My new friend reminds me of Spike, a neighborhood dog from my childhood. We used to say he was so ugly he was cute, and it’s true. He, too, was friendly and amenable with all our carousing and flight attempts off Carrie’s garden wall. (We were inspired by The Flying Nun. If she could do it…oh, the wind must be wrong. How’s your ankle?)

My neighbors gave me a bottle of cava seca to celebrate the publication of my book, Dance First …ask questions later. We drank it on Habibi’s deck during sunset, the sky all pink and orange with flecks of gold. I point toward my new swim spot to the south, out of sight on the other side of Whale Hill. It’s rocky and less peopled, with bigger fish and occasional waves. The shrimp boats chug farther out, heading for Bird Island.

Twelve years ago I had just checked into the Seaside Motel after living in my car several months. Today I tell Past Me that every little thing, gonna be all right. The fire does not go out.

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