Pests

Each time I return to San Pancho from Connecticut, I feel a wave of affection toward the town as I drive down Avenida Tercer Mundo to our home. I still marvel, even after eight winters, at how lucky we were to find this little piece of heaven on earth, this tropical paradise. Our pink house looks prettier than I remembered, the landscaping more lush.

Then, after a couple of hours of re-entry euphoria, I begin to notice the pests. Microscopic ants scurry along the kitchen counter; a roach runs through the utensil drawer. And damn! That gecko who lives in the bedroom rafters has pooped on the clean bedspread again.

Reality has dawned. I must do something about the ants and the roaches and the gecko poop. The hotel will not send someone up to dispatch the pests, because I am not in a hotel. This is my home.

The distinction between vacationing in the tropics and actually living here has never quite sunk into my consciousness. Parrots that swoop across the patio, copa de oro that spills over my garden wall, picture-perfect sunsets -- all continue to delight me. It’s easy to feel that I’m on a long vacation.

But I can’t ignore the flip side of this tropical paradise. Living in San Pancho also means battling termites, ticks, scorpions, snakes, mosquitos, ants of several types, mold, mildew, fungus on my plants, and iguanas that dislodge the roof tiles. The jungle and its creatures want to claim my house, and I’m not going to let them. I will research them on the Internet, I will spray, I will fumigate, I will swat. I will not flag or fail in my campaign to conquer the pests.

Lola and the Pet Psychic

Lola, my ten-year old golden Lab, has a sweet temperament, freckles on her nose and something akin to eyebrows that she uses to look gleeful or glum, all of which endear her to everyone. Friends and family even seem to feel the need to look out for her welfare. “You’re not leaving Lola behind again when you’re gone for the summer, are you?” they asked in May, as if I left her alone and tied to a stake, instead of with my son Michael in his Vallarta apartment.

But I did wonder if Lola cared. Just to be on the safe side, I decided to check in with the pet psychic visiting from California and staying with friends. “Barbara is amazing,” they had raved. “She can commune with dogs and cats and tell you what’s on their minds.” Money well spent, I thought, and invited her over.

A thirty-something dressed in jeans and sneakers, Barbara impressed me on meeting as warm and self-effacing. “I know a lot of people giggle at my gift,” she admitted, then shrugged, called to Lola, and sat down to get to work. For ten quiet minutes, they stared at each other, Lola lying at the feet of the pet psychic, the surf humming in the background. Good Lord, I thought as I watched them, who knew my dog had so much to say?

“Well,” said Barbara, turning to face me, “it’s mostly great news from Lola. She says she’s happy. She even adds, and I quote, ‘Nobody doesn’t like me.’ She says she’s fine with staying at Michael’s. But not with anyone else. Only ‘ special people’ are acceptable substitutes for you, but she wouldn’t say who qualifies. And she hopes you won’t be away as long as last year.” I felt relieved.

That was the good news. Now came the complaints. “Lola says she doesn’t like to eat alone,” said Barbara. “So please move her bowl out of the pantry and next to you at mealtime.” Fair enough, I thought.

“She also says she misses music. That since your husband died, you haven’t played music or turned on the porch speakers. She’d like to see some photos of the three of you together, too, down low where she can look at them. ” Whoa, I thought, Barbara probably had heard about Marsh’s death, but still. And how demandingly sweet of my good old girl.

There was more. More walks, please. More rides in the car. More belly rubs. No surprises there. But I’ve covered the highlights. So am I a believer, after hearing what I wanted to hear? No, but I’m not a scoffer, either. I received the reassurance I was after, an anecdote that never fails to amuse, plus the return of music to my porch. As for Lola, she now has breakfast in the kitchen, with her bowl close to me while I make morning coffee. And there’s a photo in the study that I took out of an album and framed. It’s of Marsh, Lola, and me in our cactus garden, and it makes me smile. Money well spent, I still say.