I was already sticking it to the copper mine near Santa Rosalia for meetings like the one I was headed for, and doubted they would spring for airfare and hotel every two weeks. Even if they did, what would I do with Po Thang?
Puerto Escondido, where I had a someday reservation, required that Mediterranean-tie situation. Not great when a hurricane roars up the Sea of Cortez.
La Paz? Great marinas, if pricey, and they took a big hurricane hit several years ago. What were the odds on that happening again? And to boot, there was that long trip up the Baja for meetings twice a month.
Every cruiser in the Sea of Cortez faces the yearly dilemma of what to do with their boat during hurricane season, but most of them leave the country to escape the heat, and I doubted any had to fret over being snagged as a murder suspect.
I was climbing the Hill of Hell, and as I passed by the desolate strip of dirt perched on the side of a cliff where I'd rescued Po Thang a few months before, I realized I'd been driving one of the most treacherous stretches of road in Mexico on autopilot. If I kept this up I wouldn't have to worry about another summer any where.
Seeing Po Thang's former slice of Hell did make one decision for me; I was going to call my friend Craig, a veterinarian in Arizona, and arrange to get that pooch chipped with one of his Doc Washington GPS trackers.
The meeting was a no-brainer, a good thing since indecision kept mine ricocheting around like a bullet in a rain barrel, or going as dead as a, well, beheaded Japanese.
On the way back to Puerto Escondido I made the mandatory, for me, pit stop at Saul Davis's grocery store in Mulege to see what Gringo goodies lurked on his shelves and in his cooler. Score! Velveeta cheese, Polska kielbasa, a case of Alpo, a case of caffeine free Diet Coke for a mere twenty-two dollars, and best of all, beautiful thin asparagus. It's the little things that count.
Back on my blessedly Lillian-free boat just before dark, I broke out a kilo of carnitas I bought in Santa Rosalia for me and Po Thang. He even let me have three tacos worth.
Washing it down with an ice-cold Tecate—my first in almost a week—I wiped pig grease from both our snouts, fired up the generator again, and Skyped Craigosaurus, a.k.a. Doctor Craig Washington, DVM.
Craig and I were friends back in the Bay Area, when he was a hundred pounds heavier. We both love dogs, struggle with our weight, and have a lousy history with men, so our friendship went deep.
Craig, highly successful monetarily, as well as tall, black and gay, should have been in high cotton in the San Francisco Bay Area, but his weight and kind nature made him a target for pretty boys looking to break his heart and bank account. His nickname back then, Craigosaurus, no longer pertains.
After being pushed too far by one of those crappy opportunists, he hired my former personal trainer who, through no fault of her own had failed miserably with me. He then moved to Arizona, met the cowboy of his dreams, and they live on a vast cattle ranch outside of Bisbee. Their popular big animal clinic services both sides of the border and not that either of them need it, they make scads of money implanting GPS tracking chips into livestock. Four-wheeling cowpokes can cut their roundup time, and hired hands, in half. Rumor has it quarter horses and cowpunchers are lawyering-up.
His partner, Roger, is a fourth generation Arizona rancher, and neither man is anxious, even in the first town in Arizona to condone same-sex marriage, to out their relationship to their elderly, very conservative, parents. They still do not live together, but instead have two separate houses on the same bajillion acres. To see them together, few would ever guess they were anything other than good old boys—albeit one of them being a black good old boy—sharing a business partnership and, on occasion, a beer or two at the local golf club.
Jan and I are now Arizona residents, using Craig's
Puerto Escondido, where I had a someday reservation, required that Mediterranean-tie situation. Not great when a hurricane roars up the Sea of Cortez.
La Paz? Great marinas, if pricey, and they took a big hurricane hit several years ago. What were the odds on that happening again? And to boot, there was that long trip up the Baja for meetings twice a month.
Every cruiser in the Sea of Cortez faces the yearly dilemma of what to do with their boat during hurricane season, but most of them leave the country to escape the heat, and I doubted any had to fret over being snagged as a murder suspect.
I was climbing the Hill of Hell, and as I passed by the desolate strip of dirt perched on the side of a cliff where I'd rescued Po Thang a few months before, I realized I'd been driving one of the most treacherous stretches of road in Mexico on autopilot. If I kept this up I wouldn't have to worry about another summer any where.
Seeing Po Thang's former slice of Hell did make one decision for me; I was going to call my friend Craig, a veterinarian in Arizona, and arrange to get that pooch chipped with one of his Doc Washington GPS trackers.
The meeting was a no-brainer, a good thing since indecision kept mine ricocheting around like a bullet in a rain barrel, or going as dead as a, well, beheaded Japanese.
On the way back to Puerto Escondido I made the mandatory, for me, pit stop at Saul Davis's grocery store in Mulege to see what Gringo goodies lurked on his shelves and in his cooler. Score! Velveeta cheese, Polska kielbasa, a case of Alpo, a case of caffeine free Diet Coke for a mere twenty-two dollars, and best of all, beautiful thin asparagus. It's the little things that count.
Back on my blessedly Lillian-free boat just before dark, I broke out a kilo of carnitas I bought in Santa Rosalia for me and Po Thang. He even let me have three tacos worth.
Washing it down with an ice-cold Tecate—my first in almost a week—I wiped pig grease from both our snouts, fired up the generator again, and Skyped Craigosaurus, a.k.a. Doctor Craig Washington, DVM.
Craig and I were friends back in the Bay Area, when he was a hundred pounds heavier. We both love dogs, struggle with our weight, and have a lousy history with men, so our friendship went deep.
Craig, highly successful monetarily, as well as tall, black and gay, should have been in high cotton in the San Francisco Bay Area, but his weight and kind nature made him a target for pretty boys looking to break his heart and bank account. His nickname back then, Craigosaurus, no longer pertains.
After being pushed too far by one of those crappy opportunists, he hired my former personal trainer who, through no fault of her own had failed miserably with me. He then moved to Arizona, met the cowboy of his dreams, and they live on a vast cattle ranch outside of Bisbee. Their popular big animal clinic services both sides of the border and not that either of them need it, they make scads of money implanting GPS tracking chips into livestock. Four-wheeling cowpokes can cut their roundup time, and hired hands, in half. Rumor has it quarter horses and cowpunchers are lawyering-up.
His partner, Roger, is a fourth generation Arizona rancher, and neither man is anxious, even in the first town in Arizona to condone same-sex marriage, to out their relationship to their elderly, very conservative, parents. They still do not live together, but instead have two separate houses on the same bajillion acres. To see them together, few would ever guess they were anything other than good old boys—albeit one of them being a black good old boy—sharing a business partnership and, on occasion, a beer or two at the local golf club.
Jan and I are now Arizona residents, using Craig's
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