The Fecal Fogs of Amarillo

Though a cat person, I really enjoy these dog-sits. In Tucson last month, I chaperoned Abigail the occasionally anxious dachshund whilst her momma was tromping around England.

And now in Armarillo, trying to match wits with a wily schnauzer named Dobby (pronounced: /dAHbi/). Ten days dogsitting, in this pretty little neighborhood, with neat brick homes, trim lawns, and a little park nearby.

Dobby is to be walked twice a day. We take the alleys, so that she can antagonize as many of the doggies stuck in their back yards as she can.

Oh the sniffing, the barking, the bodily functions. Such happy times for a dog. The routine: entice other dogs to fence. Sniff, growl, bark. Repeat as necessary. Then urinate on something as you turn away. That's something I want to get good at: urinating in disdain...

We take these neighborhood tours early in the morning and quite late at night, cuz it's 100 degrees outside. On occasion Phil takes me to visit various friends or do errands. Amarillo seems like a nice place. It kinda drives me crazy that they water their lawns like they're in a contest, despite a long and nasty drought, but hey, we're in Texas, which is spelled "d-e-n-i-a-l", so what do you expect?

The other biggie that Amarillians are in denial about: airborne fecal matter. When the wind is blowing the right way, it's pretty fucking nasty.

Where's that coming from, you ask? About 50 miles from Amarillo is the bustling town of Hereford, Texas, with a million residents: 15,000 humans and 985,000 head of cattle.

Cattle farts, times one million. With all this methane, people here don't need matches to light their cigarette.

I am told that back in the day, the wind-borne smell was only "occasional," and so the distant tinge of natural fertilizer was tolerable, or at least to Texans. But nowadays, the operation has been beefed up and a million cattle stand where there were but a few thousand. What's worse, the antibiotics and hormones that go into plumping up the beef get "processed" and released into the air by those million head of cattle. (Well, you know, not the head...)

These additives make a tart super-toxin out of the floating cattle-farts. (Add it to diesel exhaust and you've got a super-efficient carcinogen delivery system.)

So when the wind is blowing just the right way, your eyes smart, your nose burns, you keep your mouth shut and you get your ass back indoors.

Fortunately, the Shit Winds of Hereford only blow in Amarillo's direction about 25% of the time, and it's a pleasant place otherwise. I mean that. I'm not saying that because of the looming trip back to Nara Visa...

Not to be outdone, Phil takes his cat Smokey for a walk, too.

The Road to Disenchantment

I'm a New Mexican now, at least for the time being.

It was not easy getting here. My mentor, Phil, has two vehicles - well, I think he's got five or six vehicles, at least a majority of parts thereto, but for our purposes he has the 1991 Chevy van, and the 1977 Honda Civic. My motorcycle was partially dismantled and loaded onto the van and strapped down; the Civic was fitted with an overhead carrier and hooked to a trailer. Poor little thing. Phil's cat Smoky rode with him in the van, I followed behind in the Civic. It was tough getting it up the slightest incline. I couldn't get it going more than 20-25 miles per hour uphill, and with semis bearing down on my ass at more than double my speed, it was pretty thrilling.

Phil and I switched cars after about an hour of sheer harrowing hell.

Unfortunately, the van was worse. The steering wheel was nothing more than a suggestion. Wide swings of the wheel right then wide swings left kept the vehicle going in a relatively straight line. Too wide, however, and the van would begin to sway, too narrow and the van would move left or right according to some inner voice.

We were going "the Safford way" in order to enjoy the rugged scenic beauty of Eastern Arizona. Narrow roads alongside cliffs and gullys. White knuckles on the wheel; trying to remember if I told Sungmi that I loved her the last time we talked...

Then the rubber stripped itself off the left rear tire. The van careened out of control, which wasn't dissimilar to what I had been doing for the last hour, the steering's so bad. This all happened on a flat patch of road, else there would be no more blogs.

Phil had a badly balding spare at the ready, and we limped on it to Safford, the next town. Luckily there was a tire store with used 16.5 tires - a rare size - and the stripped 1969 tire was removed from the 1991 van. I think we upgraded to the 90's.

We'd been on the road for about two hours at that point. Some 600 more miles to go, and I'm scared out of my wits. Phil, he's calm as a morphine addict with a fix. "These are great old cars. Go forever."

We had lunch in Safford.

East Arizona is pretty, rugged, and at times quite beautiful. We wound around and up the Mogollon mountain range and into its shadows. Pretty, but all I can thing about is the one new used tire between the two vehicles. I was getting used to the boat-like steering of the van, but the roads were getting narrower and narrower, the margin on each side slimmer and slimmer.

Irony 101: I just finished a 4000 mile trip through Mexico on an undersized motorcycle, and I was scared out of my wits driving a four-wheeled vehicle.

It took two days to get to Nara Visa, New Mexico, less than ten miles from the Texas border. Surprisingly, both vehicles made it, the cat made it, we made it.

Unfortunately, "it" was a 1980-style mobile home baking in the sun. Easily 110 degrees inside at 6 pm. No insulation, no air conditioning, inconsistent flooring, and mouse droppings everywhere.

Surprise, surprise. Welcome home.

Phil was unapologetic. He had a few fans, some of the windows opened (especially the broken ones) and it would cool off at night at some point. Mice won't kill you. What was I, a pussy?

Yes, I'm a pussy. And an idiot for being here.

Fortunately, we only had to spend one night in this shithole. A schnauzer named Dobby was waiting for us in Amarillo, Texas. Save us, Dobby!