"The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES."
So claimed T.S. Eliot in -- well, what else? -- "The Naming of Cats."
And his couplets very well may true. I know little of naming cats. Or keeping cats. I am a dog man by nature.
But naming a dog is the essence of dog ownership. Get it wrong and the dog is marked for life with a name that will cause titters rather than catching his dog spirit.
Well, I faced that problem this week. To be honest, I had chosen a name for my new dog before I had ever seen the dog -- a very dangerous prospect.
I wanted a name that had Hispanic roots, but one that bespoke dogginess, was descriptive, and had a bit of wit at its root. One of the dangers of naming in two languages is that the name can have an inadvertent double meaning. And mine suffers from that problem. In a very small way.
Yesterday was my delivery date. But I did not get out of the dental chair until late in the evening. Two friends persuaded me to wait until this morning to pick him up -- when I could spend the full day with him before the dreaded first night away from the litter.
It has been a great day. I have introduced him to some friends, took him swimming, and let him play with children.
For those of you who have asked for photographs, you may need to wait for a bit. The puppy has been running around the courtyard so fast I cannot get a very good shot. There will be plenty of time for that.
But we were talking about names. I was originally looking at the puppy called green. However, when I heard the red puppy was very vocal, I knew the name had found the dog.
So, dear readers, let me introduce you to the latest regular in this situation comedy called Mexpatriate: Barco Rubio.
I have a puppy.
Well, I am ready to receive a puppy.
Yesterday I spent a couple of hours in Manzanillo searching for supplies to receive my new acquisition. Walmart came through, as usual, with a crate (big enough for one golden retriever during puppyhood), a dog bed, and water and food bowls.
Now, all I need is the dog.
I just returned from the current owners' house. Pesos were exchanged. But not the puppy. Not yet. A major hurdle showed up on my calendar rather suddenly on Monday.
I will be spending a good part of the day in Manzanillo (again) having an x-ray of my mouth, and, if all goes well, I will be sitting in a dentist chair for a couple of hours getting a bone graft on my upper left jaw. And, possibly, one or two dental implants to replace the molar that was extracted about a year ago. Same dentist.
When I drive back from Manzanillo, I will pick up my bundle of golden fur. And my life will once again change.
You will be the first to know when he arrives. I don't know what could be a better incentive to focus myself during this surgery. There will be a dog at the end of the tunnel.
"Donald Trump would make a great president."
"I like chili dogs."
One of those things is true in the house with no name. But, Interestingly, it is the thing that is true that seems to stir up more blog controversy than coiffure-confused political figures.
I give you as an example Sunday's essay on food budgets in Mexico (moving to mexico -- food budget). I thought I was writing about what I could stuff in my pocket rather than what I stuff in my mouth.
But I have learned that discussing what we eat can create far more swarming than most other topics. Just look at the number of comments on the food budget piece. 73. And they are still coming in.
Now, the magnitude of my shock at the reaction is a 10 on the Captain Renault sincerity scale. I knew very well what was going to happen when I wrote the piece. It happens every time I mention food.
I am not certain when it began, but the consumption of food has turned into a religion amongst those who no longer need to worry about the source of their next meal. I saw it before I moved to Mexico.
My house in Salem was a prime stop on the dinner party circuit. That is, until about 2007. I was putting together a dinner party for eight friends and acquaintances. The first call elicited concern about what I might be cooking. The wife had developed an aversion to anything in the onion family. Not a sensitivity. Not an allergy. Just an aversion.
The second couple wanted to make certain the lamb I was serving was raised within 50 miles of Salem. "Think globally. Buy locally." I said it was. After all, there must be a Salem somewhere in New Zealand.
The third call was to a single woman who wanted to know if she could bring her own macrobiotic food. I told her not to bother. There was not going to be a dinner party. It would have helped if my guests had all signed up to exercise the same sect of food faith.
And it is a faith. That is clear just by looking at the diet books on offer at Amazon. All claim to be based on scientific studies. The problem is that the faiths are contradictory.
Eat a diet of legumes; eat no beans. Eat lots of red meat; eat no animals. Eat fruits; do not touch fruits. Avoid salt; salt is a necessary component of life. Eat no bread; eat nothing but bread (not really, but I am still looking).
And that may be one reason why Americans keep on eating what they have eaten habitually. They tend to be agnostic about promises that stop just short of promising eternal life. When told that what they are eating will kill them, they reply: "Yup. It probably will. And you are going to die, as well." Because we all are. No matter what faith we adopt as foodies.
Maybe it is my libertarian nature, or my underlying belief that most food studies eventually turn out to be junk science, but I would never dream of telling someone else what they should eat -- or what they should wear, for that matter. I have enough trouble keeping my own life in order.
That may be the reason I am getting a puppy. Out of chaos, I may find the order my life lacks. Or I may just enjoy having the ultimate chaos in my life.
More on that later.
"You must save a lot living in Mexico."
It is an assertion I hear repeatedly when I am up in the northern colonies. The most recent was a guy sitting at the next table in our favorite eggs benedict restaurant in Bend.
The moment I said I lived in Mexico, he assumed I lived there to cut my costs. At least, it was a far more positive response than the far-too-frequent: "Is it safe?"
I suppose Mexico is one of those places where people can live if they want to save money. There are lots of northerners who live here primarily because they see Mexico as the Walmart of retirement havens.
I am not one of them. There is no doubt I have saved a lot of money here. My home purchase is a perfect example.
If I needed to, I could save a lot of money on my food purchases. And I do on most items. Even though food prices have increased markedly since I have lived here, my staples cost far less than they do in Oregon. Vegetables and fruits still look like bargains to me.
But a lot of my purchases are imports. And, for that, I pay a premium -- just as Mexicans do in the United States for prepared food items imported north.
Look at the photograph at the top of this essay. Everything came from my favorite grocer in San Patricio -- Hawaii. Alex, the owner, has a sixth sense for marketing to middle class Mexicans, as well as northern tourists and expatriates.
All of that marketing comes at a cost. Most of the imports come from the United States. With a strong dollar, the prices have increased. That is the price we pay for wanting some tastes of home.
The groceries came home in two shopping bags. At a cost of $797.50 (Mx). About $46 (US) at today's exchange rate. (About 17.4 pesos per dollar.)
That total is inflated by the imported items. For instance, a small can of Hormel chili without beans costs $98 (Mx) -- $5.63 (US). That is high. But I had a hankering for a chili dog. And it was well worth the cost.
So, here's the bottom line. If you want to save money on food (and most other costs), Mexico offers the opportunity.
When I first visited Mexico in the 1970s, the local grocery stores offered very little variety. Things greatly changed when I moved to Mexico in 2009. And they are still changing. That photograph is evidence of just how things have changed.
And that is Mexico's beauty. It offers something for everyone.
Brother Darrel is winging back to Oregon tonight.
Time has an odd way of passing when you are enjoying each moment. It was just over a month ago that I picked up Darrel at the Manzanillo airport. It seems like yesterday -- and a year ago.
In between 7 November and today, a lot has happened. His arrival saved me from one of my obsessive moods that was pulling me into gullies where I had no business treading. For that alone, I thank him. Pulling me away from here for a few weeks was just what the doctor would have ordered if she had heard about my delinquencies of the mind.
But we did far more. We spent days and evenings reminiscing about the scars (some of them physical) that we inflicted on each other over the years. Each one is a treasure.
And, of course, there was the Sebring 500 run for the border on our quick round-trip to Oregon. It was great to free up my mother's garage and guest room from most of my belongings. But the rummage sale boxes we retrieved were hardly justified by the trip. What made it worthwhile was having time to monopolize my brother -- and, of course, the burrito at Dorris.
Our colds ratcheted down our usual verbal ripostes. But it was still a memorable visit.
The best thing about seeing Darrel off was knowing that he will soon be back -- along with Christy. And we can start it all up again. I may even be tempted to fly up to Oregon for Christmas. Even though that prospect is quickly fading.
When I opened the garage gate tonight, I realized this is the first time since mid-July I will be living in the house by myself. I do not mind that. After all, that has been the story of my adult life. It is just an odd change to return to my normal life cycle.
It will give me an opportunity to work through the "no dog; one dog; two dog" decision I intend to make by tomorrow. The fact that I have leaned in each of those directions over the past two days means that any answer is a good answer. The fact that I may go to Guatemala in February and to Colombia in March is going to play a big part in my decision.
But, for now, I am wishing Darrel godspeed on his way to Bend.
Today was puppy day.
At least, it was puppy shopping day.
Darrel and I spent the first part of the week accomplishing what must be done to get a house back in operating order -- even after a short absence. Because most of those tasks were completed, I decided today was a day of pleasure.
My neighbors' golden retreiver gifted them with nine puppies. Several have been sold. While I was up north, the owners told me at least one of the male pups would still be available when I returned. It turns out two are.
During the birth process, the owners placed different colored yarns around the neck of each pup to keep track which pup was which. I already wrote about the "green" pup (going to the dogs).
In a comment, Tancho (I think it was) wisely reminded me that we never choose dogs; they choose us. I put that adage to the test on our visit. When the owner released the pups and the mother into the yard, I sat down to see which pup would come to me.
They all did. As did the mother. Of course, it was a stacked test. These are golden retrievers. They see everyone as a friend and ally.
But the "green" pup paid more attention than the others. I was also pleased to hear that he has a very laid-back disposition. We have lots of loud noises around here (including firecrackers and fireworks). I find fearful dogs to be a bit tiresome.
The "red" pup is the bad boy of the litter. He is very alpha and vocal. And a bit disdainful of the antics of his litter mates. I like that in a dog. Professor Jiggs had a lot of that attitude.
I promised the owners I would contact them by Saturday. Darrel flies back to Oregon tomorrow. I will not be flying with him -- even though I may join the family for Christmas in Bend later in the month. Or I may not.
A dog I will get. (How could I avoid that conclusion after being surrounded for an hour by puppy flesh?) The question is whether I should buy two brothers. They would keep each other company. But raising one puppy will be hard enough. Two would be exponentially more than twice as difficult.
So, I have some thinking to do. And I know you will all give me a hand -- whether I ask or not.
Remember -- anyone who says I should get one dog (or both) is a potential dog sitter.
Today was task day.
I know. I said that about our trip to Manzanillo yesterday. But this was a multiple task day.
Whenever I am away from the house for long periods (even though this absence was less than three weeks), small tasks seem to accrete. I was going to say like patina. But mold may be more apt.
I started with a list of about a dozen items; it quickly grew to 18 before the day was done. Amazingly, Darrel and I accomplished all but two of them.
One task stood out from the others. While I was on the road returning to Barra de Navidad from Oregon, I received an email from my realtor that was one of the best pieces of news I had received in a long time -- finally, the recorded copy of my deed was ready to pick up.
You may recall that the closing on the house with no name took place in October of 2014. On the 15th, to be exact. Since then, I have been waiting for word that the deed had been recorded.
It was a bit like living in sin. I had all of the privileges and responsibilities of being a homeowner. But I had no legal proof the place was mine.
What you see at the top of this essay is the unassuming façade of one of the most important documents I have ever held. And it is unlike any other deed I have owned.
One of the results of the Mexican revolution was to restrict foreign ownership of Mexican real property. Article 27 of the 1917 Constitution provides that foreigners may not own property located less than 100 kilometers from the border or
50 kilometers from the coast.
As a result of NAFTA, the Mexican government reinterpreted that provision to mean that a foreigner can acquire an ownership interest in
property within the restricted zone through a fideicomiso -- a bank trust.
The fideicomiso is a clever legal fiction to give the impression that foreigners do not actually acquire an ownership in restricted zone property, when they really do. Through the trust, the bank acquires title to the property. By the terms of the trust, the bank must allow
the "owner" to use the property as he legally sees fit. That includes the right to sell the property -- and to designate a beneficiary.
The current Mexican government attempted to amend the constitution to remove the requirement for the legal fiction of the fideicomiso. But the legislation died in the legislative branch. According to my sources, there is little chance it will be revived before the president's term expires.
As Joe McCarthy might say: I now hold in my hand the name of a registered homeowner in Mexico. Me.
Now, all I need is the document that proves that the original owner has settled out the assessment owed to Mexico's social security on behalf of the workers who built this beautiful house. The night before we drove north, she told me everything was settled. We will see how long it takes for me to receive the document that bears out that fact.
But that will be a task for another day.
For those of you who are waiting for puppy news, I am afraid I will have nothing to tell you until later in the week. Tomorrow I am taking the Escape to Manzanillo for some tardy periodic maintenance.
There is always another day in Mexpatriate's world.
