stand and be recognized

He looked as if he was lost in time.

With that armor and its primary colors, he looked as if he could be a samurai on guard in Kyoto.

But, he wasn't. He was just a lost sojourner.

Twice during the past three days, I have fished (crabbed?) him out of the return basin for my swimming pool. I have no idea what attracts him to certain death by starvation. Once in, though, he has no ability to climb the walls to freedom. That is, unless I act as his deus ex machina.

Earlier yesterday, I discovered him skulking around the pool bathroom. Apparently, the samurai honor George Michael.

Crabs, of course, are not new to Mexpatriate. When I lived on the laguna in Villa Obregón, I felt as if I had been placed under a crabby siege each summer (too crabby in the morning?). Rather than solo cruisers, I would wake to a garden filled with a crowd of crustaceans -- all looking for love. One morning, my screen door was covered with what looked like a Tarantino set.

The only crabs I have seen in Barra de Navidad are on their own. Scuttling through yards. Dashing across streets (sometimes successfully).
Barco is enthralled with them. On the street, he only watches them warily. In his house, they are an endless source of amusement. I suppose it is the swift sideways run that brings out his play instinct.

And with that one large pincer, the element of danger makes the crab a perfect plaything. (He has learned to his cost that the crab knows nothing of the concept of play. Unlike dogs, crabs live in a Hobbesian, not a Lockean, world.)

Speaking of Barco, he is not in a play mood today. Nor has he been for three days. He has some sort of respiratory ailment that has turned him into an invalid.

It started with a small cough. That developed into nausea and an inability to retain his food.

He has had two injections of an ever-increasing amount of medication to knock down a high fever and to stop the coughing. So far, they are not working. Last night, his breathing was so labored, he sounded as if he was suffering from a cross of diphtheria and tuberculosis. Neither one of us got much sleep.

Every pet owner and parent has an innate fear that death lurks in every illness. There is a good reason for that. Often, it does.

I am currently reading a biography of George III. Young death was quite common in the eighteenth century. Even among the aristocracy. One family had 14 children -- none of whom made it out of childhood. The book may not be the best choice for our current travail.

Barco and I will be off to the veterinarian this afternoon. As I write, The Dog is resting, but his breathing is still aryhthmatic.

Not even the crab could perk him up.
I suspect the rhythm of my days will be altered until the illness passes.