Izzy and I have this routine. Since there’s no doggie door in our condo in Houston, indeed no yard even though we are on the first floor, we have an agreement: four walks per day with the last one being a good long one up Old Spanish Trail and across Greenbriar past the light rail station where the trains run frequently even at night.
One night we were returning from this long walk. It was dark, and it had been raining, so we had to watch for deep water and mud. And as we walked, I was doing my throat exercises — the regimen suggested by M.D. Anderson to try to keep my throat muscles limber and thereby forestall the pain and difficulty swallowing that often accompanies radiation therapy.
I had finished most of the exercises and was on the last one, a singing exercise in which I am to start out low and gradually sing higher until I’m singing as high as I can at which point I am supposed to hold it for five seconds. It is difficult, this exercise, as my sliding voice is an embarrassment: it already shows signs of the radiation therapy (or is it just my old age?). But I enjoy it, because with each ascent, I am able to reach progressively higher notes. I sing a single octave at first, holding the high note. And then I do another but extend one step beyond the octave. And then two. And then three, and so forth until I can climb no further.
So there I am, walking Izzy in the dark, singing octaves when I’m sure no one is nearby. I’m singing my last ascent, and I’m holding my last note with my chin raised and my mouth wide open and my eyes peering up into black canopy of the Live Oaks that line that sidewalk.
And then a car drives by.
It comes speeding by close to the curb and drives thru a deep puddle in the street that happens to be right there at that very moment just as I am reaching my crescendo. And then swooosh — the car plows thru the puddle, and a sheet of water rises up from the curb and drenches me from neck to foot.
From neck to foot, I say, because although I was now covered in putrid smelling puddle water, I was grateful that I at least didn’t take a mouthful.