Ramblings

Plan Ahead for Your Pet’s Sake

By Christina Bennett

We all think we will outlive our pets—and hope-

fully we will. Unfortunately, none of us can predict the future and even healthy young people can die suddenly.

What will happen to your pets if you cross that rainbow bridge ahead of them? Estate and financial planning can be daunting for us all. However, including your pets in those plans is essential for them and for your own peace of mind. That includes designating funds for their care.

Every month, The Ranch gets at least one request from a deceased person’s relatives or friends, wanting to drop off the person’s dogs. As you may know, The Ranch is usually full (with a waiting list!) and this is not always possible. Additionally, many of these pets are elderly themselves, coping with illnesses and used to being pampered. A shelter is a very hard environment for animals like that. The Ranch takes pride in housing homeless dogs in the most comfortable manner possible, but house dogs may have problems adapting. Furthermore, finding adopters for older dogs with chronic problems is not easy either.

Take time NOW to prevent heartbreak for your pets. Here are some ideas for you:

Speak to a trusted local friend and get their agreement to manage the rehoming of your pet. Be sure they have a key to your house.

Boarding your animals, buying their medicines, donating to a shelter for their care, or flying them to a foreign adopter is expensive. Most boarding facilities charge about 400 pesos a day. Shelters, like The Ranch, spend at least $30 U.S. a month on basic care. Flying a dog “up North” is roughly $500 U.S. (vaccines, import paperwork, crate, dog’s airfare). Hide the money in a safe place for your friend or make sure someone has access to your bank account. A few thousand US dollars would be a good amount to set aside.

Have your animals’ health records available—vaccinations, medication schedule, list of chronic conditions.

Your friend should be prepared to help find an adopter. Local rescue groups can help. Finding an adopter is easier with clear health records for the dog and funds to send the dog to its new home.

If you have an “up North” executor or inheritor, make sure that person knows the importance of caring for your animals and that financial help will be needed.

Your pet will be grieving for you when you pass away. Help make their transition easier by making a plan for their future. These animals can have a happy ending, as evidenced by a recent case where a deceased person’s friend was able to work with The Ranch to facilitate and fund a foreign adoption. That doggie is now safe and happy with his new family!

For more information or to learn about volunteering, adopting or donating please go to theranchchapala. com or email us at adoptaranchdog@ outlook.com

Lives on in Patzcuaro, Mexico

By Carol L. Bowman

The pristine sky glistened with starry constellations, while the half moon’s

glow showed the way. Mist rose from Lake Patzcuaro and a chilly midnight breeze whipped around our necks. Captain Fidel moored his launch, the Carmela, through the darkness from Patzcuaro pier toward our anticipated destination. We passed by Janitzio Island where boat after boat deposited hundreds of visitors coming to see the November 2nd, ‘Night of the Dead’ celebration on Lake Patzcuaro, Michoacán, Mexico. The noisy crowds and hawking vendors on shore resembled a spectator event. We had hoped for a more solemn experience and we sighed with relief as Fidel veered our boat away from the confusion. Our eyes searched across the black water, until an empty dock emerged from the lake’s edge. The eerie quiet beckoned us and Fidel moored the boat alongside the pier, securing the line on a flimsy pole.

After disembarking, we lumbered up steep stone steps to a high plateau, where we spotted village children ringing the church bells. The reverberating sound shattered the silence, calling departed souls to return. Elderly P’urhepecha women, wrapped in traditional black and neon blue rebozos, pushed wheelbarrows piled with grave offerings over the rutty path toward the cemetery entrance. We entered through the illuminated adobe arch as quiet intruders, but hoped to be accepted as witnesses of this solemn vigil of the Mexican tribute to death. The ritual of “El Dia del los Muertos”, the Day of the Dead, actually starts at midnight, the Night of the Dead.

The funerary wakes practiced by the P’urhepechas, (known as Tarascans in pre-Hispanic times) interwoven with Catholic ceremonies honoring the dead on Nov. 1, All Saints Day and Nov. 2, All Souls Day, resulted in a blended religious event for the indigenous communities in Mexico. Celebrations begin October 31st when families gather flowers, candles, food and other offerings to prepare home and gravesite altars. November 1st represents the day of the “Little Angels” vigil for deceased children, followed by a midnight to dawn gravesite wake for departed adults on November 2nd. The celebration of mass and feast of offerings at the cathedral on the Day of the Dead, November 2nd concludes the commemoration.

The sanctity of the cemetery on that late night gave an aura of solemn homage. Handmade, three foot candles, which lined gravesites covered with marigold petals, provided a lighted path for the departed soul’s journey back to their loved ones. Simple, wooden altars, wrapped tight with flowers, acted as headstones. Favorite foods, candies, sugared skulls and even articles of clothing worn by the deceased decorated the altars. Bottles of Tequila stood ready on the graves for souls, thirsty from their long journey.

The vivid orange marigolds or cempoalxoachitl, representing the sun’s glow, bounced off the candlelight and brightened the 2 AM sky.

The smoky smell of copal wood fires lingered and families huddled on the frosty ground, faces showing grief, pride, even joy. The sensual and emotional bombardments proved staggering.

To reduce the impact of our ‘tourist invasion,’ we brought gifts of flowers and tall candles which we had purchased earlier on the street corners of Patzcuaro. Instead of being gawkers with cameras, we hoped to modify our role to “participant” by presenting our offerings to mourners.

I searched the faces of gravesite family members for a prospective recipient of our gifts. Economic means showed, even here. Families with sufficient funds adorned altars with elaborate offerings, while others managed only a few flickers of light, no altar and a sparse bunch of posies. Grief can never be measured by excess.

A lone P’urhepecha woman, her traditional shawl drawn tightly to ward off the night’s chill and the loneliness, sat beside a newly-dug grave. She stared into the darkness, motionless. A recent wound, no doubt, a fresh loss. Other graves sites overflowed with relatives who rejoiced at the prospect of their loved one’s soul returning to greet them for a night.

I spotted an elderly man, adorning a grave with three candles while his wife, murmured out loud in P’urhepecha language, perhaps trying to communicate with the spirit of the deceased. At least twenty candles lined the gravesite next to them, with twelve relatives waiting to greet a lost soul. The visual comparison cemented which family would receive my offering. I approached the old gentleman, and offered the long, waxed stick and flowers we brought. “Quisiera darle a su familia un regalo.” (I would like to give your family this gift.) He smiled with gentle understanding, dug the soft earth to receive the candle and motioned for me to sit with the family. His wife, in halting Spanish, said they visit the grave of her husband’s father every year. This dedication to departed family members for generations awed me. I wondered how many people from my culture would sit by a grave from midnight to dawn on the frigid ground at 6000 feet above sea level to await the return a family member’s soul. I knew the answer - none.

One other scene imprinted an indelible mark; the gravesite of a child. Favorite toys intertwined the marigold decked altar. The mother tended to every detail with deliberate precision, as she sang a soft lullaby to her young son, gone from her arms. Thankfully, I seemed invisible in her grief.

We walked among the dead, but I have never experienced a cemetery so full of life. The positive energy expended to maintain contact with deceased loved ones, reveals the extraordinary nature of the Mexican people. I shall not soon forget the images of that night; that grieved stare, the offer to a gringa to sit awhile, the frosty boat ride across Lake Patzcuaro. Experiencing the Night of the Dead has changed my

view of death. Carol L. Bowman

The Legend of Heartbeat Mountain: The Blue-Eyed Witch.

By Sergio Casas

Curious children scramble up the side of Heartbeat

Mountain. They were told, over many years, that if they placed an ear to the rocks, and listened very carefully, they could hear a heartbeat.

Nobody knows why it is called Heartbeat Mountain.

Nobody knows the real story, my story.

Now, I am going to tell you.

Every night she comes to my dreams. I can see her beautiful face. I can feel her delicate hand on my cheek. Her kisses make me feel like I am in heaven. She stays with me until the first rays of sunlight.

One night, I said, “I love you. Even though this is a dream, I love you.”

She said, “Don’t worry, the spell I cast on you will soon disappear.”

I smiled and said, “Angels don’t cast spells.”

Then, she stopped coming to my dreams.

After a few nights, my dreams showed me a walking path, up a mountain. I was compelled to find that path and follow it, wherever it may take me. Giving in to my instincts, I scrambled up a wooded incline, not sure of where I was until I saw the familiar trail.

As my heart guided me, and then quickened, I felt I was close to the place where my heart needs to be. My breathing became shallow as the mist lifted.

Now I had in front of me a cave where I could feel her presence. I took a deep breath and went inside. The smell of sulfur and coal made my breathing difficult. As I walked through the dark, I could hear murmuring. The dim light of a fire illuminated the rest of the passage. The passage opened to a large cavern and there stood a woman, ragged with her head bowed, stirring some enchanted concoction in a huge cauldron. Everything in my soul knew it was her, my love, my dream. I approached slowly and she stopped mixing for a few seconds and without looking at me asked:

“What are you doing here? The spell I cast should have worn off by now.”

When I looked in her face and heard her voice, even though both were ragged and craggy, I knew it was her.

“I come here of my own free will and I have come to take you with me.”

“Who do you think you are? This is my place,” she responded with an irritated voice. “You are trapped here, you are not really a witch, you are an angel who dared to get too close to the devil and now you are paying for that.”

As I spoke, she plucked worms, cockroaches, spiders, and scorpions from the floor and wall of the cavern and placed them in a hole in her chest, a dark hole where her heart should be.

Behind her I could make out a huge shadow. A demon with eyes of fire and the tongue of a snake. He silently raised his hand and showed me a bleeding heart, her heart.

With anguish I told her, “I cannot fight this battle. You must fight to get your heart back so you can get out of here with m ...”

“Shut up! she shouted. “You don’t know anything. I’ve been in places where you haven’t, I’ve experienced things that you haven’t, so don’t talk to me about what’s best for me “ and she went back to collecting bugs.

“You are right, but I am not blind, and I can clearly see your suffering under that mask of indifference and self-control but let me try.”

In a low, but strong voice, she said: “I have been in your dreams because I felt your heart full of love but you denied it to yourself. That is how I found you. Your heart called me. I was only supposed to be a dream for you.”

The shadow behind her emitted a gutteral sound. She hesitated.

“Even though you told me you loved me, even if I have the same feeling for you, I can’t fight, I’m weak. I need my heart to fight.” She dropped to her knees. The fire illuminated her face and I could see blood tears run down her cheek.

Hearing her words, I sat down on a rock and with my right hand hit my chest with enough force to rip out my heart and so, bleeding and with my hand outstretched, I told her: “now you have one, remove all that loneliness and hatred from your chest, put my heart in the hole and snatch your own heart from the devil, so we can both get out of this cave; I’ll take care of you.”

She slowly shook her head, her eyes met mine, telling me: “Do you really want to do this?”

“Yes. I believe in the power of love and my heart is full, take it.” I insisted.

“I understand,” she said in a languid voice, “but I don’t know if I can do it, it might take me time, maybe a lot. Will you be sitting there waiting?”

“Because I can still see an angel in your blue eyes, I’ll be here waiting until you take my heart, or until it stops beating,” I replied with my arm outstretched and my bleeding heart, beating, in the palm of my hand.

Now, if you don’t believe me, I dare you to come to Heartbeat Mountain, scramble up through the brush. Nature has long ago overgrown the path and closed the entrance to her cave. But place your ear on the rocks. You will hear my heart, still beating…

Sergio Casas