Sad news to share, wrestling fans, we had to put BamBam down the last week of July. He was our family pooch for the last 8 years. That’s right, now Bam is probably barking his head off at the Great Spirit in the sky. Better watch your step around Bam, God, because he’s got unresolved issues. His motto has been, bite first, ask questions later.
​
Bam nipped a lot of hands in the 8 years we knew him, especially those that affectionately tried reaching down to pet him. Sometimes it resulted in broken skin by his little Chihuahua teeth, or he simply scared the bejesus out of clueless personal space trespassers. Those who became entranced by his haute charms and cute puppy face, would toss all the precautions aside and still attempt to pet him. Often at their own peril.

Without any warning his little body would rear up on his hind legs, short fur sticking out like a Norwegian Ridgeback, baring his little teeth to snarl and finally snap. Then he began to bark out the bloody murder. That was the Chihuahua in him; his majestic black and white coat and brown face he got from the fox terrier side of his family. 

But we forgave him his sins, though on one occasion he snapped at a young girl in front of Matthews Elementary who was able to pull her hand back just in nick of time. That incident frightened her terribly, and Bam became the talk of the school. The school banned all dogs from coming on campus after that. It was known to us as the Bam Rule.

He was at his orneriest around dogs bigger than himself . Rottweilers, Dobermans, pit bulls, and Great Danes  (even the gentle Golden Retriever), he had it in for them all. But Bam had good reason, though.

   Victor M. Martinez, Sr., patriarch, husband, devoted father and WWII Air Force veteran, passed away from natural causes at age 98 on February 13, 2021. He was a lifelong El Pasoan and a 1941 top 10 graduate of Bowie High School where he received five athletic letters and was all-district in football and team captain in 1940. That same year, he became the first to break the standing 5 minute time in the mile run.

​  My pet pooch, BamBam, is Chihuahua in size and Fox Terrier in nature. He carries the terrier's black, brown and white markings. I think those two breeds complement each other well. 
  Occasionally, he will bite if someone tries being a little too friendly. We warn people, especially if they have a dog. There's always some who don’t believe us, at first.
​ He’s got a cute, unique dog face with protruding, black, bullfrog eyes. His muscular little body has soft fur that everybody wants to pet or sniff. Fourteen years in and he’s still got a spring in his step.
     Even people who think they know him are liable to get snapped at. He growls his warning, but rarely breaks skin, though. Most Chihuahuas come with a Napoleon Complex.

​Keeping a Routine
     Bam’s been with us since January when Kim and the family added three other dogs, and asked if we might take him in. He has been a Godsend. Just what we need during these times: purpose. 
    I think all dogs (and people) like to have a routine, something they can count on daily, and one they can learn quickly. I’ve always found dogs eager for activity, as well as good at reminding us when to do it. 
    Bam has a built-in timepiece that alerts him to his obligations. It didn’t take long for him to anticipate the daily walk schedule. Now, he’s ready and waiting at the first signs of walkies. The only thing he doesn’t do is bring the leash.
    Bam can pee on demand, so we assumed he needs to go often. Chris walks him first thing in the morning and in late afternoon around five. My 20 minute shifts are around noon and nine at night.
    Of course, with my hemiplegia, I can’t keep up with Bam’s regular, rapid pace, so I am a drag on his speed. But he has adjusted to my slow, hop-along gait and looks back at me as if to say, “There’s no rush, but please hurry up!"  
    He’s not a certified therapy dog, just my pet who keeps me on task. When Chris walks him, he appreciates her brisk and energetic style. I’m sure he wishes she could walk him all the time. He becomes a therapy dog when he recognizes it’s me on the leash.

Human in Tow
    When he sees me attaching my gear, the AFO and WalkAide, that’s his cue we’re really going walking. Then, I grab his Flexi-leash, sit down and attach it to his collar. He warms-up with a classic downward dog, a nervous habit of his. I try to remember a plastic baggie to pick up after him. When my cane is finally in hand, he gives a joyful little spin, whining slightly.
    Once out the door and into the breezeway he waits for me to close it and get my bearings. Then Bam stretches out his retractable leash around the corner and past the stairwell. He lowers his nose and strains his muscular little body, determined to  pull me towards the first rose bush. I’m a human in tow.
    Sometimes, I pretend I’m reeling in a fish; it’s easy using the retractable leash. When Bam finds himself wrapped around a garden stake or signpost, I have to guide him back using small amounts of pressure to coax him out, like a brown trout. I can let him stretch the line out or keep him close, always careful and not to let other dogs get in fighting distance. ​​

   Much anticipation for July 31. It’s been hard, there is no denying it. Depending on who you talk to, time is going either faster or slower.
For me, August is an even slower month to wade through, with 31 days as well. I can hardly wait for September, where like June, it has only 30 days.

 What A Difference A Day Makes, 24 little hours…so the song goes.
   
     Months like these, in the middle of summer, give me ansias. Along with the heat, it can be brutal. Now, with this quarantine, the longevity of a month becomes more significant.
    I mean you can only take so much air conditioning! It goes from hot to cold, then  back again. Luckily, I have Bam Bam, who causes me to get out at least twice a day and feel what the weather is really like.
   Turns out Bam's half fox terrier. And the more I get to know him he is less Chihuahua and more fox terrier. Before, I thought the other way around because of his stature.

   Painting is the ultimate handy sport. For me, anyway. I find myself with so much more to say, and not as much time.
  Funny how you can sense your biological clock ticking and find the need for more prisa, hurry.
  A picture is worth a thousand words, so they say. Painting is worth the effort for that reason alone.

    My resourceful sister, Terry, follows lots of common sense "experts" and is full of practical advice herself. I thought it would be a good idea to start my survey with her. I asked what home remedies she was using to combat Covid 19.     
    “Thieves Oil,” she replied, without hesitation.

                       --x--

​   The history of Thieves Oil, if you haven't heard the tale already, bears repeating.
   Legend  has it that during the Bubonic Plague, perfume and spice merchants who resorted to robbing the sick and dying. The men had not been able to ply their trade due to a quarantine and seaport closure.

    I am a prime candidate for contracting the virus: Stroke survivor with vascular dementia and hemiplegia. Partial paralysis and weakness on my right side. My friends in Taos warn me against hunting bear because I'm so slow and would be easy prey.       
​    Every morning when I wake, I listen to my body. I hear and feel the air fill my lungs and try to detect any breakdowns. I've never had pneumonia, though some seasons I get a tinge of bronchitis.  Even during  allergy seasons my lungs remain relatively healthy.  Most days, I practice the kundalini breath of fire for 11 minutes​.    
   Yesterday, my shoulders ached something fierce. And I began to wonder, "If I were la cabrona, this would be a good place to start, in the shoulders then work down into the lungs." 
    During these fearful times, I think there's a lot of healthy paranoia going around. 

Death and Dying   
   Because I heard some place that aches and pains are a sign that you have something. Can you imagine telling that to a nearly 65 year old man in my condition? No wonder I'm a little paranoid. Ya know, there's always something to be concerned about.
   By this blog's post time, 5pm on April 7, the U.S. had 392,285 confirmed cases, 12,627 deaths, and 21,368 recovered.  Global infection cases tallied 1,413,415;  81,200 deaths and 298,389 recovered. My heart goes out to all the families of the deceased.
    It's not so much death I am trying to avoid. Dying from Coronavirus, from what I see on TV, is a lonely, chaotic and traumatic process. That part I would prefer to side-step.
    People are dying with only virtual mourners, and no one to even relay their last words. Eleanor Rigby comes to mind.
​    I plan on  sticking it out at home as long as I can, if it comes to that.
   All Medical activity defers to the virus. It's the reigning queen of pandemics.  These cataclysmic events, like the 1918 Spanish Flu, come along every 100 years or so.

A Texas Legacy     
​    I live in a medium sized apartment complex next to Boggy Creek. From my back porch I can see the water flowing from all the rain lately.
   In these precarious times, Chris and I like riding our bikes more than ever for the exercise and fresh air. At least once a week, we go to Govalle Park and hop on the concrete hike-and-bike trail which follows Walnut Creek. 
   The wildflowers along the trail are starting to burst: bluebonnets, Indian paintbrush, daisies of every sort, Blue Sage, wisteria, Mexican hat and verbena, to name but a few.
    Beautifully stunning Wildflowers are a Texas Legacy that will endure as long as there's rain, wind, soil and sun, and human beings to bask in their glory and wonder.

   Austin is a ghost town. 6th Street is empty on this Saturday mid-morning. Only a few homeless men are slumbering on the street corner at Trinity.
   I saw a man, woman, and their son strolling the north side of the street. Probably tourists.    

  The minute Chris and I got there, an alarm began sounding off. Must have been one of the cars in the parking garage on San Antonio Street. The reverberating, uneven noise of muted sirens pulsed throughout Republic Square Park and eerily reminded me of the sirens from The Diary of Anne Frank.
    Neither the usual folk music, nor Texas Coffee Traders coffee was available. Luckily, our pastry vendor Cake and Spoon had a walnut/date scone for us.  After getting a fat bag of spinach from our regular guy,  we left for home, sufficiently creeped out.