Ashley's Dog Hershey Finally Declared Useful

“Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Budget, and I’m looking for a new home. I used to live on a boat, and that was okay, but I didn’t have enough room to run and play…” 

It continued in grievously adorable fashion. The picture was one of those atrocious animal shots taken from above showing only a very dark blob that I presumed was the dog in question. But it didn’t matter that I couldn’t make out his features. I was already in love.

It was Monday morning, and I had spotted the Humane Society ad in the Daily News less than 24 hours after deciding to adopt a dog. The impetus being to provide a companion for my then boyfriend’s endearing but massive and overzealous Weimaraner who desperately needed a playmate. I found it difficult to write in the evenings with a 90 pound dog constantly climbing onto my lap.  

Budget stayed on my mind all week. I couldn’t get to the Humane Society to meet him because they closed before my shift ended at the coffee shop. I called several times to make sure he was still there. I hoped to meet him over the weekend. But when I called on Friday afternoon, they told me Budget had left for a family visit. I could try back the next day in case he and the family dog didn't get along.

Now, I’m not the follow-up type.  I have to be extraordinarily moved to make that 2^nd phone call. Well, I was thusly moved that Saturday, and my instincts proved accurate. Budget and the other dog didn’t play well. He was back at the kennel. They'd be open for an hour if I wanted to pick him up for a visit. 

Budget was eager to be free. He ran toward us as if his life depended on it. And I suppose it did. The instant we took him outside he lifted his leg and peed on Mr. T’s ankle. 

Nevertheless, I refused to let Budget sit in the truck bed on the way home. He sat in the cab with us, practically on my lap, but since he was half the size of Harley, he felt like a lap dog. It took about thirty seconds of riding together to realize this was a SWEET dog. He leaned into me, emanating love. 

I swiftly decided that he was a keeper. However, I was not-so-swiftly discovering that Mr. T. & I were not keepers—at least as far as the other was concerned. So, I made sure to pay for Budget and to put my name on his adoption papers. My little black bundle of love and I were going to be partners until one of us left this earth. Dammit.

We’ve been together for over two years now. Today he’s known as Hershey…with an aka of “Budget”. He needed a new loving name for a new loving life, but I decided to keep Budget as a street name. After all, what’s a Thomian street dog without a Thomian street name?

I’ve known that Hershey is special since the day we met. His little doggie body just feels good! When he leans against my leg to let me know he’s there, I feel loving energy flow into me. Other people have pointed this out too. One recent guest—a delightful acupuncturist from NYC—wrote in the guestbook that, “Hershey speaks a special language…the language of touch.” Thank you, Denise, for using those words to describe his essence.

I’ve always felt that Hershey and I were brought together to take care of one another. But it occurred to me during a Reiki session with another recent guest that perhaps Hershey entered my life to teach me a few things too.

We were using my bedroom for the healing session. Before beginning, she asked my spirit guides and angels to enter the room with us for protection and guidance. At that very moment, Hershey quietly walked into the room, gently sniffed my guest’s leg, and curled up in the corner where he stayed for the entire hour. 

Hmmm…I thought…maybe Hershey is an older and wiser soul than I’ve given him credit for. 

In the few months since that day, it’s become clear that Hershey does, indeed, have valuable lessons to offer. If, that is, I can suspend my ego mind long enough to entertain the notion that a dog is one of my teachers.  Here are ten lessons I’ve learned from him so far.

Greet strangers as friends. If they become friends, great! If not, oh well. Move on.

Hershey loves everybody. And assumes everybody loves him. Most people do grow fond of him. Some love him instantly as I did. And those who don’t like Hershey…well that has far more to do with what’s going on inside them than it has to do with any of Hershey’s qualities. He doesn’t take it personally. He just moves on to the next experience, and lets it go. 

If you are injured, tired, or sick…let yourself rest.  

Hershey doesn’t push or strive. He instinctively paces himself.  If we’re on a walk and he’s tired, he’ll lie down. Won’t move. Not til he’s ready to go again. No ego voice tells him that he doesn’t have time to rest or that he should be stronger and more resilient than he is. Or that he’s lazy. Nope. If he has a sore paw or if he exhausted himself playing at the beach…he rests and recovers appropriately. Without guilt. He knows innately when rest is required. 

Nap during the hottest time of day. 

Everything else you undertake will be miserable anyway. And the siesta will make you more alert and productive during the cool, comfortable evening hours.

Don’t take every scolding or criticism to heart. 

Hershey’s stock response to discipline is to yawn and look the other way. If I keep going, he will usually play the cute submissive card, and offer up his belly for a rub.  

*Yawn.*   “I really can’t be bothered with your yammering about the tipped over trash. What did you expect? I’m a dog. You left me alone, and there were leftovers in the garbage can. Why don’t you just come over here and rub my belly? It’ll make us both feel better.” 

Never has this response on his part resulted in more severe punishment on my part. (Damn little Hershey Squirt.) But feeling resentment, guilt and lack of self-worth for hours or days would not improve his situation. Nor does it ever improve ours. 

Ask for what you want. 

Hershey doesn't fear letting me know that he expects a treat after his walk. And when he’s done with that treat, he asks for another. Which he usually gets. And after that one, he asks for another still. Which he will sometimes get. And after that one, he will ask for another one still. Which he will not get. The disappointment of which he will pretty much get over immediately. But after his next walk, he’ll ask again for a treat. Which he’ll get. And then he’ll ask again….you get the picture. Asking for what he wants doesn’t embarrass him or produce anxiety like it often does me. Like everything else in his doggie world, he keeps it simple.

Openly accept the love that is offered to you. 

Hershey rejects no one. In fact, he prefers to have little love transactions with everyone he meets. You give my ears a scratch, I give you some of my naturally radiating warm fuzzies, and we both go on our way a little better for having exchanged a bit of love today. Love is offered to us every day in a million ways if we open our hearts and choose to accept it. Can you imagine what our daily experiences would be like if everyone adopted this attitude?

Confidently use your strengths to harness your desires. 

Hershey’s main strength around people is that he’s really damn cute. (Unfortunately you can’t tell so much in photos.) In addition to the cute factor, he emits happy love vibes. And he knows how to use these tools to get his favorite thing: attention.  

If I’m standing around talking to guests or vendors in Hershey’s presence, and he feels he’s not being properly acknowledged… he’ll quietly roll on his back, all four legs relaxed into dead weight, making no mistake to communicate that he’s offering up his belly for a rub. Often this move alone does the trick.

But if we’re really engaged in conversation—paying no mind to the dog—he’ll perform the Doodle Bug Dance. Remaining in the supine position, he wiggles back and forth as if to scratch his back. I have no doubt that back-scratching is not Hershey’s aim in this instance. No. Rather, he is using his cuteness to get what he wants: your love and affection. And let me tell you, the Doodle Bug Dance works every time.

Even wise old souls need time and space in which to play. 

The aforementioned delightful NYC acupuncturist also might have told me that I’m… “a little wound up,”… “bossy,” and… “a little serious.” Ha! She said these things with love. I needed to hear them, and am thus grateful. I certainly do forget to play.

Hershey is a mellow dog. He’s usually happy just being in the same room as the people. But when he feels like playing, he goes for it, man. He lets his freak flag FLY. When people meet him in this mode, they ask if he’s a puppy and are surprised to learn he’s five or six. 

Our lives aren’t meant to consist of drudgery and struggle. We’re supposed to have fun! Let our puppy energy out when we feel the urge! Hershey reminds me to honor that urge.    

Know when to be patient and when to assert yourself. 

Hershey’s patience can break my heart. Especially when I catch myself being impatient with him during our walks… when he dawdles along stopping to sniff every 15 seconds, and I have what I think are very important things to do. Yet, he’s eternally patient with me when waiting to walk.

But when it’s urgent or if I’ve put him off too long or when he just can’t take for one minute longer the knowledge that people are on the pool deck having fun without him, he lets me know. He talks and whines. He flaps his ears. He sits in front of me, looking expectantly in my eyes, and wagging his tail as if the energy he puts out in doing so will actually force me to move.  

And since he’s usually patient and well-behaved, I know that when Hershey makes a fuss, I’d better listen. I think it works the same way with people.

Exploring is fun, but there's no place like home.

Hershey wanders. As a result of this, he ended up back at the Humane Society twice in our first four months together. This is not something that he has necessarily grown past either. Yet, I can’t begrudge his urge to explore without being tethered to his mom. Good God, how can I suppress that independence and curiosity in a living creature?

Unfortunately though, for his safety, and for our continued peace with the neighbors, he doesn’t get to adventure much by himself anymore. Unless he pulls his signature stealth move and sneaks away when I’m distracted. Which, in all honesty isn't that infrequent of an occurrence...

But now Hershey never stays away for longer than twenty or thirty minutes. He always comes home. When he reaches the door, his enthusiasm is truly awesome. Bursting forth from the excitement he had on his adventures, he’s simultaneously elated to see me and be home again.

For reasons not worth delving into at the moment, I’ve developed a fluid relationship with the idea of home. For me, home is far more related to being in the presence of those with whom I share unconditional love and support than in visiting a particular community or house. 

So really, although Hershey was the one in more obvious need of a home…his adoption was a homecoming for us both.

Resting in a freshly dug hole after a good romp at Nelteberg.

Is the Corolla a Klutz? Or is it Me?

Since moving here just over a year ago, I've had nine flat tires. Yes, that's right. Nine a 'dem. I was even fortunate enough to enjoy three in one week—all separate tires!

The first of the bunch occurred pretty much a year ago exactly. And of course, both Mom and Mr. T. happened to be off island. So, alone and very St. Thomas fresh, my non-mechanical ass had to figure out how to get the tire repaired without anyone holding my hand.

Which isn't to say that no one helped me. R. at the Island Latté inflated my tire with his compressor brought by J. from home. He also recommended a repair place in town, across from the old cemetery with the aboveground graves. I drove by the shop twice without noticing it. I don't know what I expected; something looking more like a legitimate business and less like a lean-to with an empty office attached, I guess. Next door sat a mini-mart with what seemed like two separate loitering stations in the parking lot. One for dominos...and one for, well...sitting.

During this initial visit to the repair shop, I made two ahfta-noon friends. Julian, an older gentleman with a cane, bought me a Presidente’ and offered conversation while I waited. He talked of growing up on the island, getting shot in Vietnam, and working locally as a chef. When I told him I wanted to write a book about St. Thomas, he expressed immediate concern that I would focus soley on the negative aspects of his home. I assured him (and made a commitment to myself) that this was, in no way, my intent. I am interested in the whole spirit of the Virgin Islands, most of which really doesn't suck. How and why people get drawn in...why some never leave and others flee. Julian was one of the first locals that I conversed with. Unfortunately, I haven’t seen him at the shop again, but I did meet his brother there once.

The other ahfta-noon friend was a street rasta who I'm sure said something about my beauty (it's really nothing special about me, I assure you) and then presented me with this charming flower creation:

Cool, huh? Tourists have to pay for them.

Last summer, while getting two tires replaced at the same establishment, I noticed an abandoned stroller in the group of rag tag chairs at the sitting station. The stroller was positioned in a way that suggested it sometimes functioned as an extra piece of furniture. Feeling brave, I thought it fun to plop down in the child carrier and join the men for a little Sunday morning communion. Admittedly, they seemed a bit wary of a stateside girl with a pit bull mix entering their territory. But they were amused when I asked if this gathering was their version of church.



Yes, that's moi in the stroller. Guard dog to my right.


On another radiant Sunday morning last month, I discovered my 8th flat tire outside the Meerkat's house.

Ain't she a beaut?

He was away on business, so once again, I had no man to help solve my problem. With most of the day stretched before me until my evening shift at the pub, I decided it was time for me to change a tire. This being my 8th in a year and all. (Yes, if you’re keeping track, I have had a flat since…) I watched a how-to on You Tube, found readable instructions as well, and set about the task.

Cranking the jack took an inordinate amount of time and copious sweating, grunting, and swearing.

I really don't think it's supposed to be so taxing a process. 

Hershey offers his assistance.

The most difficult part turned out to be removing the lug nuts. Oh my. Luckily, I was parked next to a railing that I leaned on while jumping up and down on the wrench. Never, ever ever have I ever felt so light and airy. And...I was successful at removing but one lug nut with my weight alone. Fortunately, a frantic search for WD-40 proved successful, and dousing the lugs with lube got those babies a-movin’. Let me tell you, I have an entirely new respect for this basic household product.

The rest of the process was pretty easy. My hands got dirty, but it was a satisfying kind of dirty.

Photographic Evidence

As silly as it sounds (and yes, you all have license to tease me), changing this tire was an empowering new victory for me. A small step toward realizing my true strength and potential.

And of course by the time I finally got out to the pool, it clouded over and soon started to rain.

Don't let him fool you. He's scared to swim.

Pillow Talk of the Sexiest Variety

Me: “Hey, remember when we were in St. John, and I told you about a dream where you were helping me along with some word I was trying to use? But I couldn't remember what word it was?"

Meerkat: “Yeah. I remember.”

Me: “The word just came to me out of nowhere.”

Meerkat: “Okay. And what was it?"

Me: “InexORable.”

Meerkat: “...Um, I think it’s pronounced inEXorable.”

Me: “Shit.”


A notable exchange for three reasons:

A. This marks my second premonitory dream in five years.

B. Usually I am the one correcting other people’s language skills. 

C. Finding his superior vocabulary overwhelmingly aphrodisiacal makes me an official nerd. Which isn't to say that this wasn't already clear.

Excuses, Excuses. More Ramblings. Part Two.

July 1- 16. A vehicle to despise. After moving into the studio, I started focusing on preparing to sell the Jimmy my mom left when fleeing for stateside medical care upon the discovery of breast cancer.

(Side note: I only moved in with Mr. T in the first place because Mom had to leave. I couldn’t afford our rent and wasn’t yet comfortable enough on the island to get my own place. Mr. T generously opened his home to me— a half-built, bachelor-pad dream house. Anyway, had to get that out because I don’t take living with someone lightly.)

The annoying thing about the Jimmy (whose name is Laverne) is that she's a stick shift, and I can’t drive a stick. Or at least it’s been quite some time since I learned. And the island probably isn’t the best place for me to brush up on my manual driving skills, what with its steep switchbacks and narrow thoroughfares. So, the “helper”, whom I will henceforth refer to as Señor Espina, was going to help me sell it, and in doing so, he would drive it for his personal use, which per our verbal agreement was responsible and not excessive. This worked out well for me because he could go deal with the mechanics and report back. I just had to make decisions and shell out cash (of which I had more than usual due to working my little white ass off) for the repairs. I kept him in cigs, beer, and food (in order of importance) in return for his assistance. I don’t know who was using who, but it was a mutually beneficial arrangement during the short time it lasted.

July 17. Stupid, Stupid, Stupid. The partnership was, indeed, a brief one. Three weeks, tops. Long enough for me to realize that my affinity for a café con leché skin tone has ended badly for me on more than one occasion. And that I should never trust a drunk who’s not in recovery. And that I need to learn to drive a stick shift as well as a vibrator. Fuck being dependent on others for something so simple.

So anyway, I’ll try to spare you the excessively dramatic details of what happened to Laverne. I actually think it’s worthy of reality TV drama. Not quite Jerry Springer, but dangerously close.

Señor Espina crashed her before noon on a Sunday, on the opposite end of the island from where he lives. Did he call to let me know what had happened? Of course not. Instead, he called his crack-smoking ex-girlfriend who doesn’t even have a car (or a job) to aid him. She did this by hitching a ride with a couple of crack-smoking, jobless friends of hers who somehow manage to possess a vehicle. This proved to me once and for all that Sr. Espina is a “living and breathing fuck-up” (thank you to The Wrestler for this fitting term) incapable of making a good decision.

In a strange instance of luck, this turn of events so excited the girlfriend that she couldn’t help but to maniacally leave four voicemails to inform me that Señor Espina had crashed my car and that I’m a “stupid little girl” for trusting him in the first place. All the while I’m in a volunteer organizational meeting for 7-7. While I'm exceedingly annoyed that Ms. Crazy was called in the first place, if she hadn't been involved, Laverne may well have landed in the impound lot. Then I would have ended up paying the nice tow truck driver a lot more than $375 because the near incoherent Señor didn't think it necessary to involve me, the acting owner of the vehicle. 

Dey say she total.

So now I have a wrecked vehicle that I can’t myself drive to a body shop, and I get to figure out how to get rid of her. In the meantime, Sr. Espina promised to pay me back, and we discussed the possibility of working out a deal for him to buy Laverne. We arranged for him to give me the money he owes for the tow truck when he got paid on the 1st of August.

August 3. You’re kidding, right? He didn’t show. I called. Turns out, he lost his wallet the previous evening. How did Señor lose his wallet, you ask? Why, he fell down the stairs, of course. Oh yes, this makes sense. So many people lose their wallets filled with hundreds of dollars of cash owed to someone else when they fall down the stairs. Only if you’re drunk from a case of Presidente on a St. Thomas Sunday, I guess. How are you enjoying your downward spiral, Señor?

August 4-Present.  To sue or not to sue. I’m still deciding whether to take him to small claims court. Mom just wants me to sell Laverne as is to get rid of her. She's unwilling to put more money towards the problem and doesn’t think we’ll recover any money from Señor anyway since he seems to have a drunk and broke past. Now, I’m not litigious, aggressive, or vindictive, but I do feel I was taken for a ride. (After making my own, perhaps, bad decisions. At the time I thought I was getting things done to the best of my ability. Really I did.) I would rather put my spare time and energy toward creative endeavors than the people’s court. But once in awhile I get really pissed at the hard-earned money Mom and I have lost, as well as the fucking pain in the ass I have to deal with now. Opinions on what I should do, anyone?

Also, in the midst of all previously mentioned items (in list form for brevity's sake):

My year-old laptop died (for the 2nd time) and mysteriously started working again, albeit with a daily warning message about my disk being corrupted and the blue screen of death making a visit once a week or so. This shall be my last PC.

My iphone died twice (dropped it) and was fixed both times by local technicians, for which I am very grateful because, as previously hinted, I am addicted.

A nasty rash spread over my whole body, inducing a doctor’s visit. He diagnosed it as an allergic rash and gave me medication that got rid of it, but we couldn’t figure out what I might be allergic to. Luckily, it hasn’t returned. My boss says I'm allergic to island drama. Perhaps.

I have been working with 7-7 to help put on a black and white photography exhibit at the end of the month, and to launch a new and improved website, among other endeavors.

Hershey recovered from tick fever only to develop intestinal tapeworms that I was fortunate enough to discover in his poo. Another trip to the vet.

My landlord is referred to as “Slumlord Dave” by a drunk Chris-Farley-type customer at the Toad and Tart. And I am also asked if I know how many times he had sex on my bed when living in my apartment 14 years ago. No, sorry, I don’t. But it must have been frequent if you feel the need to inform me.

So, folks, this is why I haven’t had time to write. But after getting all this garbage out of my head, I think I’m ready to roll again.

Momentum achieved!

Thanks for listening.