I've been nominated for the Best Disappearing Act in a blog. sigh. I suppose that's deserved. And I am disappearing again. This time to India. I'll be back with a full report before Martin Luther King Day. Or thereabouts.

Happy New Year!


JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

Cathedral of Volterra, Italy New Year's 2007

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

Bob Barker, The Venerated Elder of The Chow Nation, is going to go live with Santa. While I am deeply sad about the separation, I know he will have a good life with Santa as his life here has detriorated to joyless interims of wakeful unrest. He can't see, he can't hear, his rear legs don't work anymore and he is rail thin, probably with very brittle bones. Bob has welcomed me home for over 20 years, barking when my car hit the bottom of the driveway saying, Hey! I missed you! You're back! He was there when I came through the door from my mother's funeral and from the hospital where my dad died in my arms. He was there for the pool parties, birthdays, graduations, Thanksgivings, Christmases, Easters and Halloweens. As The Chows played, he would stand by at a close distance and bark, calling the play by play. No matter who came and who left, Bob stayed with me and is the one thing that has remained constant in my life. So he goes now to a better life, a life that he fully and richly deserves. If I live simply and with a pure heart, someday maybe I'll get to go live with Santa, too, but until that time comes, I will cherish our memories together and the good life we had raising those kids of ours. Eugene O'Neill opened my heart and helped me live fully in the pain and joy of saying goodbye with this tribute to his own dog:

The Last Will and Testament of An Extremely Distinguished Dog

I, Silverdene Emblem O'Neill (familiarly known to my family,

friends and acquaintances as Blemie), because the

burden of my years is heavy upon me, and I realize the end of my

life is near, do hereby bury my last will and

testament in the mind of my Master. He will not know it is there

until I am dead. Then, remembering me in his

loneliness, he will suddenly know of this testament, and I ask

him then to inscribe it as a memorial to me.

I have little in the way of material things to leave. Dogs are

wiser than men. They do not set great store upon

things. They do not waste their time hoarding property. They do

not ruin their sleep worrying about objects they

have, and to obtain the objects they have not. There is nothing

of value I have to bequeath except my love and

my faith. These I leave to those who have loved me, to my Master

and Mistress, who I know will mourn me most,

to Freeman who has been so good to me, to Cyn and Roy and Willie

and Naomi and - but if I should list all those

who have loved me it would force my Master to write a book.

Perhaps it is in vain of me to boast when I am so

near death, which returns all beasts and vanities to dust, but I

have always been an extremely lovable dog.

I ask my Master and Mistress to remember me always, but not to

grieve for me too long. In my life I have tried to

be a comfort to them in time of sorrow, and a reason for added

joy in their happiness. It is painful for me to think

that even in death I should cause them pain. Let them remember

that while no dog has ever had a happier life (and

this I owe to their love and care for me), now that I have grown

blind and deaf and lame, and even my sense of

smell fails me so that a rabbit could be right under my nose and

I might not know, my pride has sunk to a sick,

bewildered humiliation. I feel life is taunting me with having

over lingered my welcome. It is time I said good-by,

before I become too sick a burden on myself and on those who love

me.

It will be sorrow to leave them, but not a

sorrow to die. Dogs do not fear death as men do. We accept it as

part of life, not as something alien and terrible

which destroys life. What may come after death, who knows? I

would like to believe with those of my fellow

Dalmatians who are devout Mohammedans, that there is a Paradise

where one is always young and

full-bladdered; here all the day one dillies and dallies with an

amorous multitude of houris, beautifully spotted;

where jack-rabbits that run fast but not too fast (like the

houris) are as the sands of the desert; where each blissful

hour is mealtime; where in long evenings there are a million

fireplaces with logs forever burning and one curls

oneself up and blinks into the flames and nods and dreams,

remembering the old brave days on earth, and the

love of one's Master and Mistress.

I am afraid this is too much for even such a dog as I am to

expect. But peace, at least, is certain. Peace and long

rest for weary old heart and head and limbs, and eternal sleeps

in the earth I have loved so well. Perhaps, after all,this is best.

One last request I earnestly make. I have heard my Mistress say,

'When Blemie dies we must never have another

dog. I love him so much I could never love another one.' Now I

would ask her, for love of me, to have another. It

would be a poor tribute to my memory never to have a dog again.

What I would like to feel is that, having once

had me in the family, now she cannot live without a dog! I have

never had a narrow jealous spirit. I have always

held that most dogs are good (and one cat, the black one I have

permitted to share the living-room rug during the

evenings, whose affection I have tolerated in a kindly spirit,

and in rare sentimental moods, even reciprocated a

trifle). Some dogs, of course, are better than others.

Dalmatians, naturally, as everyone knows, are best.

So I suggest a Dalmatian as my successor. He can hardly be as

well bred, or as well mannered or as distinguished

and handsome as I was in my prime. My Master and Mistress must

not ask the impossible. But he will do his

best, I am sure, and even his inevitable defects will help by

comparison to keep my memory green. To him I

bequeath my collar and leash and my overcoat and raincoat, made

to order in 1929 at Hermes in Paris. He can

never wear them with the distinction I did, walking around the

Place Vendome, or later along Park Avenue, all

eyes fixed on me in admiration; but again I am sure he will do

his utmost not to appear a mere gauche provincial

dog. Here on the ranch, he may prove himself quite worthy of

comparison, in some respects. He will, I presume,

come closer to jackrabbits than I have been able to in recent

years. And, for all his faults, I hereby wish him the

happiness I know will be his in my old home.

One last word of farewell, Dear Master and Mistress. Whenever you

visit my grave, say to yourselves with regret

but also with happiness in your hearts at the remembrance of my

long happy life with you: 'here lies one who

loved us and whom we loved.' No matter how deep my sleep I shall

hear you, and not all the power of death can

keep my spirit from wagging a grateful

tail.

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

The No Duong Left Behind Tour

Vietnam 2007

Prologue

When I sign on to ride my bike from Ho Chi Minh City to Hanoi, I am downtown sitting behind my desk looking out the window at snow-laden trees in the park. It is January 2007. Hard to say exactly what motivates me. I can't hear the word 'Viet nam' without thinking about my classmate Tim, who came back from from Viet nam as a decorated Navy Seal, but never came back the same. I think about Joe Montana's cousin, Butch, one of the best guys you'll ever know, who suffers still from Delayed Stress Syndrome as a result of his two tours of duty there. And of course, I think about the 60,000 people on the wall, most of whom I never knew. Viet nam has been on my mind a lot in the last five years, because it was the heartache of my generation, a mistake of mammoth proportion for which we grieve still. And now our new heartache is that we find ourselves in much the same position as we were in the days of our budding adulthood; only this time, we know much, much better and yet, it has happened to us again. Read that 'Iraq'.

But I can't say for sure if this tragic irony is what leads me to email my credit card number to a New Zealand travel company on a snowy January day; I don't know why I sign up in a flash. But I do. And so on the day after Thanksgiving 2007 in Seattle, Washington, I climb on a plane to Ho Chi Minh City for the adventure of a lifetime. I have no idea what to expect; what lays ahead.

Just as well. Just as well...


JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA