Gomez and Ginger — HERCULANEUM

Gomez and Ginger…Does the name invoke an immediate impression of a Latin Man and Caucasian Woman Dance team? Fred being replaced by a Latin counterpart with maybe not more grace, but more sex appeal? Unless you’re too young to remember Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, hell…I’m almost to young to remember the legendary couple that tore up the floor.

Now what if I said, Gomez and the train? What would be the immediate impression? How a Spanish immigrant crossed the United States on a train back at the turn of the 20th Century in search of a more profitable life, a piece of the American Dream? Or maybe how Gomez came from Mexico and worked on the railroads of a budding country?

Now what if I said, Gomez, Ginger and the train. Now what? A Latin man and a Caucasian woman who had fallen in love but were forbidden to be together because of their families, so they ran away for a life out west? Or maybe this “Dance Team” is actually a Cha-cha-cha-stunt dance team and they’re attempting to perform this much-celebrated dance on the roof of a high-speed train.

Would all of these be more believable than the truth? Probably. Gomez Adams is our dog. And Ginger is someone else’s dog, actually some stupid psycho whore’s dog, but I’m getting ahead of the story. And the train is an extremely large object that was carrying passengers and moving awfully fast, which they can tend to do. The unfortunate part is that we all crossed each other’s path for a moment of about 8 seconds, blindingly reminding me that things always, literally happen in a flash.

It was a beautiful morning, no fog lingering until noon, which can easily happen in Santa Barbara during the summer. It was August, so May-gray and June-gloom were gone for another year. I had taken Gomez, a rescue that we had gotten from a shelter about 11 months before, to the beach for a walk. Gomez had been severely abused by some disgusting fucker before he came our way. I still fantasize about meeting the asshole and wiping their face all over the pavement and repeatedly kicking them in their ass. Gomez had come a long way. He had been doing really well. We were socializing him with friends, taking him to the beach and on hikes every chance we got. We were nearing the end of our morning walk at Santa Claus Beach and he had been running blissfully. We were approaching a man who had a medium size dog that somewhat resembled a chow-mix and a small longhaired Chihuahua. Gomez is about 18lbs, a cross between a dachshund and Chihuahua and probably something else. A relatively small dog, but this chow looking thing had a small buddy, so I thought that the small dog thing would be okay. Also, there’s a leash etiquette that was disregarded that day. When people have a dog on a leash, I immediately put our dogs on leashes, whether they’re friendly or not, that’s not the point. The interaction is not fair to anyone when one dog is on a leash and the other isn’t. Not fair to the dogs, or the people.

Well, we approached the man and the dogs; I recognized them from our condo complex. The rest happened at such speed it was hard to grasp that it was actually happening. Ginger (the chow-looking dog) attacked Gomez. Gomez was trying to get away and ran to me. For some reason, I couldn’t get him…or didn’t, I will always wrestle with whether it was “couldn’t” or “didn’t”. It just happened so fast. Ginger managed to bite Gomez directly on his back and just then the owner tackled Ginger to the sand. I tried to reach for Mez as he bolted, just bolted…running like a bullet, making a 100-yard dash for the rocks, towards our car. What lies in-between the rocks and the road are railroad tracks. I was screaming for Gomez to stop and just then I heard the whistle of an approaching train. A WHISTLE OF AN APPROACHING TRAIN!?!? You have got to be fucking kidding me! My feet couldn’t believe my ears and turned to cement, I began screaming at the top of my lungs for someone to get him, “Please! Please GET HIM!!” A woman that I had encountered up the beach tried to grab him, but he was so fast! He ran through the rocks, out of my sight, and was encountering the tracks just as the train was passing. JUST AS THE TRAIN WAS PASSING!!!

The woman turned around to face me, covering her mouth. I froze, I couldn’t move, fear gripped every muscle, every tissue, and every bone. The last 8 seconds came to be still just for a moment. Still…frozen. The moment passed as quickly as it arrived, the passenger train was only about 4 or 5 cars long, thank god. Had it been longer, a freight train maybe, I think that the outcome would have been differently. After the train passed, I could hear Gomez screaming. And I literally thought that I was going to collapse. The woman turned towards the tracks again, then turned back to me and motioned for me to come. I thought, he’s in half…and now I’m going to go comfort him while he dies. I began to run to him.

He had leaped from the tracks after the train passed and landed in a thicket of bushes where he continued to scream. I ran to the thicket trying to get to him, when he took off running AGAIN! I thought, Jesus Christ! Now he’s going to get hit by a car! I began screaming again for everyone to stop traffic. I ran after him, yelling for him, thinking that he was running on adrenaline and that he would die soon.

He finally stopped by a fence, gasping for air and I caught up with him. He didn’t recognize me for a second, his left-eye was bulging from its socket, and he was holding a bloody paw up in the air. I grabbed him and ran for my car, not looking at all for traffic. There was blood everywhere and I could only say, “fuck”. I didn’t want to be an adult at that moment. I wanted my Mom, my Dad… someone…help me.

Well, someone did…something did. As chance gave the event, chance saved him. I immediately pulled onto the freeway and called the vet clinic from my cell phone. I was still yelling, which poor Gomez thought that I was yelling at him. I had to assure him that I wasn’t yelling at him as I told the vet’s office what had happened and that I was on my way there. The situation was so surreal, the tears and poor Gomez’s blood was not.

I arrived at Dr. Otto’s and he practically had to bitch-slap me to finally spit out exactly what had happened. I was crying like Tammy Faye Baker at a funeral, or a wedding, or a party, or a parade. They took poor little Mez back into the clinic and took care of him. I had to call Will and explain what had happened. It was as unreal to hear, as it was to speak. Our little boy dog had been attacked by another dog, then run over by a train, A TRAIN!

Dr. Otto came outside to talk with me, I couldn’t just sit on the floor in the office bawling like I would’ve liked to, so instead I sat out front in the grass and bawled just like I wanted to. I cursed myself for not grabbing him, I cursed dynamic circumstances for letting this occur. Why couldn’t it have been George W? Dick Cheney or Rumsfeld? Why not them? They’d be more useful as organ donors, although I wouldn’t want to know that I had their organs. But, why this little dog? This innocent little dog? I hated everything at that moment, especially how powerless I was and how insignificant I felt, the cold slap of how we’re really not in control. Well, Dr. Otto came outside to tell me that it didn’t look like he suffered any life-threatening injuries. They gave him some steroids to try to keep the swelling around the eye down. They won’t know about the front left leg for sometime… “How much time Dr. Otto?” Probably at least 2 weeks. His hand was poised, ready to administer another dose of bitch-slap. He was doctor and pharmacy.

Gomez went through 2 surgeries on his paw. They said that if he couldn’t keep his paw, they’d have to take the leg. “What about doggie prosthetics?” I said. I was informed that they don’t work very well for animals, they can’t make the adjustments that humans can make in using a prosthetic. After about 2 ½ weeks, we found out the great news that he gets to keep his paw. He lost 2 digits on it and the vets restructured it beautifully. His eye was fine. Besides being a bit bloodshot for a while, all swelling had gone down and his sight was normal. And now, although I couldn’t make it through telling the story without crying, I was thankful…eternally grateful that not only did he survive, but he gets to keep his paw.

I had paid a visit to the place where Ginger the culprit lived. I asked some children nearby where the dogs lived and they pointed me in their direction. Kids always know where dogs live. I went over there the day it happened. They were home. And when the guy answered the door, I told him who I was. He said that he was worried that I was going to get run over by the train. He said that when he ran over to the tracks, I was gone. Duh. They were actually very nice, especially after I sprayed them in their faces with pepper-spray and kicked them in their crotches.

They asked me if I wanted them to pay for half of the vet-bill. I said that wasn’t why I was there. But I wanted to let them know what had happened and where in the compound we lived. I said that I didn’t blame anyone, all of our dogs were off leash and it was just a freak accident. I did say that I didn’t want to see them back where we lived walking their dogs. The area is big enough that there was no reason for them to walk back there. I just didn’t want to see their dogs, that’s all…no hard feelings basically, but if I see your dogs back there I’ll kill you and your dogs and everyone you know. Ok? I thought that was pretty fair.

Over the next month as Gomez was recovering from his surgeries, hobbling around on 3 legs with a large inverted lamp shade around his head, many neighbors came up to inquire what had happened. During that time, 5 different neighbors told me that they had encounters with Ginger, the terrorist. All said that Ginger had attacked their animals and that the dog was a menace. This pissed me off. This really pissed me off. This dog had a history, and her owners knew it. I didn’t blame the dog, I blamed the owners. The dog should have been on a leash, when others are around, the dog should always be on a leash. I was so angry that I thought I should wait to talk with them about paying for the bill. They had gone down to the vet’s office the day of the accident and put $150 down on our account. That was a nice gesture, given the history of their dog and the magnitude of what had happened, it wasn’t satisfactory. I decided to wait for a few weeks to calm down before I went to talk with them. And then I’d kill them and their families.

She beat me to it. Ginger’s Mom popped a gasket and came over to yell at me. And I couldn’t believe the crazy shit that came out of her mouth. She’s straight from Korea and doesn’t speak terrific English, which certainly added another surreal and obviously humorous twist. There was a knock at the door and when I opened it, there she was…looking like she just shit her pants and everyone knew about it. She said, “Kebun, (that’s Korean for ‘Kevin’) cun I speak which you?” She was huffing and puffing and holding back tears. I said, “Of course, would you like me to come out there or would you like to come in?”
“Werr, can I come in?!” She said.
“Sure, come on in…let me get the pepper-spray. Would you care for some tea? Maybe with some glue? Here, have a seat on these nails and here’s some candy. I know that it looks like a package of firecrackers, but they’re not. Let’s just stuff them in your mouth and let me just light the wick that’s hanging from your lips…there we go. Okay, now I’ll be right back to see what it was you wanted to say.”

Actually, I invited her in where she proceeded to yell at me saying that I was saying all these horrible things about her and her husband. Just because I wanted to stuff firecrackers in their mouths didn’t mean that I thought or said that they were bad people. Just because I thought that it would be a good idea to give them pepper-spray suppositories didn’t mean that I thought they were evil. I did tell her that she needed to calm down so we could talk like adults, instead of yelling like them. I told her that I’d be happy to talk with her in a calm manner, but that she wasn’t going to come into my home and yell at me. After I kicked her in the crotch again, she calmed down.

I got some tissue for her and we sat in the living room until she calmed herself. It turned out that a neighbor had just slammed a door in her face after yelling at her out on the grass. This same neighbor had a corgi that Ginger had attacked down at the same beach. So, she still had some pent-up anger, understandably. The neighbor had said that they should pay for our vet bills and that we had to shell out $2000 for Gomez’s bills.

I told her that I never said that they were bad people, if anything I told people that they had gone down to Dr. Otto’s and put $150 down on our account. I told her that 5 different people came up to me to tell me about incidents that they had had with Ginger. I asked her what she would think if it had happened to her.

Well…her name is similar to “Me-dog-mean”, but she does have an English name, something like Barb, or Judy. I think that it’s so messed up when we take names in another language. A Korean raised woman named Barb is a little disturbing. So, she took a breath and then proceeded to incriminate her own dog without realizing it. She began in her broken English, “Ginga rike evyone! Ginga rike evyone! Cept fo brack peopre, homeress peopre and arcohorics…Ginga rike evyone! Time Ginga attack cat and bite fhrough cat’s spinar corumn, not Ginga’s faurt! Not Ginga’s faurt! It’s a cat?! (Damn that cat for being a cat!) Time Ginga attack German Shepard, no Ginga’s faurt! She no undastand! (What doesn’t she understand? German?) Time Ginga attack train and deraired train and ate arr the peopre on da train, no Ginga’s faurt!” Okay, it was only the last thing with the train that she didn’t say, but she honestly did say the rest of it!

She continued; “Time Ginga no invited to doggie birthday poty, I no care! I no care! They afraid that Ginga eat arr the other dogs! Ginga no eat arr the other dogs! Maybe one dog, but not arr dogs! She probabry just eat yo dog, but not arr dogs!”

And she continued; “Dogs have to wok things out for themserves.” I didn’t know that they cooked.

So I said as I pointed to Gomez, who was limping at the moment with a huge cone on his head, “Did this work itself out?”

She responds with, “Dogs have unfinished business.”

So, basically if ‘Ginga’ has the chance, she’s going to hold Gomez under the train to finish him off? This stupid stupid bitch.

I asked her if they were going to be more cautious in letting their dogs off the leash. She said that they wouldn’t. Again, “Dogs need to wok things out for themserves.” No wonder Ginger attacked Gomez, she’s hungry, and this crazy woman wants her dogs to cook for themselves.

She then proceeded to tell me that our vet (we share the same vet) had told them when Ginger was a puppy that they really had to work at socializing the dog, because it’s a Korean breed that was bred to hunt wild boar. What? Excuse me, what was that? To hunt wild boar? That’s good, because we sure have loads of wild boar in Santa Barbara always dragging tourists up into the foothills to eat them. And then that was it! She left… She came in yelling, told me how Ginger liked everyone except for black people, homeless people and alcoholics, (Gomez is part black and is previously homeless – so there were two strikes against him, and as far as I knew, he didn’t have a drinking problem) told me how Ginger attacked and bit through some cat’s spinal column, attacked a German Shepard, attacked a Corgi, didn’t get invited to some dog’s birthday party, then that the breed was bred to hunt ferocious animals, and left. I should have killed her when I had the chance.

While she was talking, besides wanting to slap her silly, all I could think about was that I needed to remember what she was saying; you can’t pay for stuff like this. The more she spoke, the more I couldn’t believe it. I was kind of in shock. The whole thing was just so surreal. I mean, what are the chances that Gomez would get attacked, run over by a train and live, all by some completely crazy, delusional Korean bitch’s boar hunting dog? It’s just too much.

Eventually, after a few months, we took Gomez back to the beach, not the same one. We took him to where the beach is far down some bluffs, quite a way from the railroad tracks or a road. One of the only safe places to take him, relatively speaking. He loved it, he ran like mad. He was a little out of shape, but was thrilled nonetheless, showing no signs of apprehension. We still see that psycho kamikaze dog and its owner quite often. I’ve tried to run over them twice. No luck. I did see them on Christmas morning as I was walking Gomez up the bluffs from the beach. Gomez was on a leash, their dogs were not. As soon as I saw them I picked up Mez and to the guy’s credit, when he saw us coming he frantically grabbed ‘Ginga’ and held onto her until we passed. Her smell, Gomez did remember. After we were some distance from them walking back through the meadow back to the car, I put Gomez down. He smelled her and walked the rest of the way with his tail between his legs.

I wanted to pick up their little dog and throw her over the cliff, kick them in their crotches…again, and scream; “Christmas is about revenge, assholes!” but I didn’t. I wished them a Merry Christmas, I have no idea whether they’re Christians or not, but that was all I could say. I couldn’t be sensitive enough to say Happy Holidays.

People often wonder why I’m so protective of him when we’re out, and wonder why he isn’t always that friendly. They don’t know that he was abused for a year, let alone what happened at the train tracks. They just think that we’re both mean, both ogres. And it reminded me of the transition that I faced when I was canning my career as a Clinical Research Coordinator in Interventional Cardiology and making my way into bartending. Most of my work up until that point had been in the hospitals or in social work. I could deal with difficult people because I knew what their problem was. I had their chart in front of me. I knew what they were suffering from, or what their family member was suffering from. But when I got away from that and got behind the bar I didn’t have anyone’s chart. I didn’t know what their deal was. Unless of course, they sat for 9 hours telling me, then I knew. But otherwise I had no clue. I had to give them the benefit of the doubt, to think that I didn’t know what happened to them on the way to the bar, or last year, or 10 years ago, but it must not have been too good. It’s called ‘benefit of the doubt’ and I realized that I didn’t give it enough. And that others really don’t give it enough. That we don’t just let others be and to truly realize that their lives really have nothing to do with our’s.

Gomez continues to do well, except he has to hobble over gravel. He’s quite afraid of most other dogs and every time a large one approaches us, I pick him up.

We began wondering if maybe he would like a pal to hang out with. He was so spoiled, so we weren’t sure whether he would like having another dog around. We looked for quite a while at the shelter and one day we saw a real cutie. Another Chihuahua mix. I went to meet her. She was putty in my arms, very cute and very sweet. Will and I talked and decided to have Will and Gomez meet her the next day. The dog trainer said that Gomez would be the one to pick out the dog and that we’ll know right away. So, the next day, we showed up with Mez. The trainer brought her out and she loved Gomez! She thought that he was the most handsome dog she’d ever seen and the best thing since cubed kibble. He didn’t like her. He didn’t want anything to do with her. We knew he was straight, we’ve always kind of known. Oh sure, we were kind of disappointed but we love him anyway. He can’t help it, he was born that way. So, we didn’t know what was going on. He just didn’t like her. Didn’t like her sniffing his crotch, balls long gone, so she couldn’t sniff those. Didn’t like her sniffing where he’d just whizzed. Nothing.

Well, the trainer said that he had another dog that he thought that we should try. Again, he said that we’d know right away, that he’d make the decision. It happened in 2 seconds. He brought her out, they met and the rest is history. We might as well have put a plate of spaghetti in front of them and had them eat off of the same plate. They loved each other immediately.

We spent the afternoon with them, took them to a park to get to know each other better. But then we took them home…and brought her in the place with him. Now he was clear. He really liked her…outside. He was relentless, and extremely jealous. That lasted 2 ½ days and then they loved each other again.

She’s about 2 years old, part Jack Russel – part Chihuahua, but more like part Janice Joplyn – part French-kissing flying monkey. She’s frickin’ hilarious. The shelter had given her the name of Ginger. Ginger, huh? We changed it. As cathartic as it was, we changed it to Wednesday Adams. And the 2 of them together are like Bonnie and Clyde. Wednesday is always walking around looking like "Who can I beat up first?”.

Gomez is a different dog with her around. He seems more confident and certainly plays more. The 2 of them are almost unbearable to watch play…it’s just too cute.

About 3 weeks after bringing her home, she got attacked, by an Akita that was off leash. This time I grabbed as much fur as I could and pulled that damn dog off of Wednesday. She’s fine, but got a nail ripped off that wouldn’t stop bleeding. This time the owners weren’t psycho; they felt terrible and couldn’t have apologized enough. They also paid for the vet bill. So, for a second time, we were lucky. Now when I walk the dogs I’m ready to kick ass. What seems like it should be relatively relaxing and humbling – walking and picking up shit, it has turned into defensive maneuvers on the verge of a pre-emptive strike (now that the precedent is set).

They’re wonderful to have around. I’d probably go insane if we didn’t have them. The voices in my head would eat me alive. So, if you see us walking and we come across as distant, not very friendly, or apprehensive, I hope that you give us the benefit of the doubt. And if you don’t? I don’t really care; I’m too busy being thankful for a miracle.