by Bob Smith
One time, Jack told a story about a hunter hunting a big fat ring seal. The hunter in the story was happy because his grandmother’s favorite food was seal flippers. She would take the seal flippers, wrap them in dried grasses, and bury them for two weeks. They fermented and stunk when she dug them up. Jack asked, “Would anyone like to try some?” His question got a big laugh. I used stinkheads—fermented salmon heads, another Yup’ik food—in my novel. If that sounds disgusting, think about blue cheese. Moldy cheese. We eat that. But Jack also mentioned you have to thank the spirit of the ring seal; it gave its life to help the hunter live. The Yup’ik thank all their food: salmon, caribou, seals. We don’t do that. We eat a burger without thinking of the cow. Each tribe has a different religious tradition but one unifying belief in the vital importance of respecting the land and the plants and animals who live with us.
We live on North America, but Native Americans live with North America. Native Americans didn’t cause the extinction of passenger pigeons and ivory-billed woodpeckers. We did. We almost exterminated the bison because we didn’t want Native American nations to have food. Native American warriors are legendary: Tecumseh, Crazy Horse, Geronimo. The tradition hasn’t ended.
A friend of mine is a modern warrior. Verner Wilson III is a twenty-eight-year-old Native Alaskan. He’s Yup’ik and grew up in the rural village of Dillingham. We met on Facebook. Verner has stayed at our apartment in New York. He’s handsome and has a great sense of humor but also is serious about environmental issues. ( Just like me!) Most importantly, my partner, Michael, really likes him.
Verner fished with his father from Egegik on the Alaska peninsula. I’m guessing I’m his only friend who’s been to Egegik. I understand salmon fishing because I experienced it and I also understand wild salmon is ecologically sustainable. Verner worked diligently to stop the Pebble Mine in Alaska. It’s a gold and copper mine that would destroy the largest sustainable sockeye salmon fishery on the planet. (I told Verner he should say all the gold will be used for gay and lesbian wedding rings. That would make homophobic antienvironmentalists pause in their advocacy.) Verner’s story (as told to me) follows:
“I first heard of the proposed Pebble Mine when I was in high school. I remember people saying that there was a lot of gold in our region, and that we can possibly get rich off of it. This was after the decade of horrible fish prices due to the introduction of farmed salmon to the world fish market, which devastated our region’s economy. Locals needed to find ways to support their families, and the potential mine looked attractive. But the more we looked at the record of mines like Pebble across the world and their impact on lands and waters, the more we became concerned. We started hearing from professional scientists who warned us that Pebble could have a devastating impact on our fishery, and that fired us up to protect our salmon and way of life. After all, fishing is our dear tradition that our ancestors passed on to us, and that we depend on not just to make money off of, but also to feed our families.
“The pain that my mother’s relatives on St. Lawrence Island, Alaska, endured also motivated me to fight the mine. Decades ago, the military dumped their contamination on a base on the island. People who depended on the clean lands, waters, and wildlife to feed their families started dying of cancers and illnesses. They had many times the amount of pollutants in their bodies due to the military’s pollution. This environmental justice issue is dear to my heart and that’s why my aunt Annie Alowa, who proclaimed she would ‘fight until I melt,’ will forever be my greatest role model.
“When I was a freshman at Brown University, my high school friends and I organized a call to talk about how we could fight Pebble Mine. They were all over the country going to different schools as well. Later on, Pebble and the pollution my family endured on St. Lawrence Island helped motivate me to get a degree in environmental studies and to write my senior thesis about the laws and policies of mining in Alaska so that I could understand how to take advantage of them for our interests. Immediately after graduating, I moved back home to help protect the fishery not just from mining but also proposed offshore drilling in the region. We saw the heartbreaking impacts from the Exxon Valdez oil spill just a few decades earlier after all.
“One of our elders though had labeled our efforts to stop the mine as futile. ‘It’s going to get developed anyway’ so we might as well try to get as many economic benefits as possible. This was unacceptable to me and many others. After reading the book King of Fish by David Montgomery that detailed how salmon fisheries around the world had drastically declined or were extinct, I vowed to keep fighting just like Annie Alowa. When I started to work for a coalition of tribes from Bristol Bay who organized to fight the mine, I remember getting harassed by mine supporters. One of them threatened to beat me up; another threatened that they’d end my career. ‘You used to have so much potential,’ the pro-Pebble support said. Cynthia Carroll, then the CEO of Anglo American who was bankrolling the mine at the time, once accused me and my allies of recruiting five-year-olds to sign online petitions to show others that there were many people against the mine. Her underestimation of the opposition fired us up even more.
“When the EPA decided to step in to study the potential impacts of the mine, I proudly wore a sealskin vest that my grandma had made to each of the hearings that they conducted to improve their scientific assessments. Bristol Bay and western Alaska is not just rich in wild fisheries but is also home to numerous wildlife species. Millions of birds, bears, whales, seals, moose, caribou, etcetera, helped our people survive in the harsh cold for millennia. My sealskin vest was a way to show off the talent of my grandma and the resilience of our people.
“Today I have my master’s of environmental management degree from Yale University’s School of Forestry and Environmental Studies. While I was pursuing it, I was proud to say that the hard work of my friends and neighbors in the region and beyond had begun to pay off. The EPA is attempting to finalize their protections for the region, not allowing mining that could potentially have a huge impact on salmon streams like Pebble would. Alaskan voters approved an initiative that requires legislative approval of a large mine in Bristol Bay, but only after scientific evidence proves it can’t harm a fishery. President Obama permanently protected Bristol Bay from offshore drilling, calling the region a ‘national treasure’ when doing so. It is an honor to have helped work on the campaign, but it’s not over yet. People need to understand that as long as there is a lot of gold and copper in the region, they will always be trying to extract it. That’s why I have dedicated my life to ensuring our beautiful region is protected in my lifetime, and that environmental justice prevails for all my friends, neighbors, and relatives from Bristol Bay to the Bering Strait. It is to people like Bob Smith who are enhancing our voice as well, and I thank him for that.”
Verner is a heroic man who understands sustainability because his people have understood this concept for thousands of years. We have to stop living like trophy-hunting tourists on safari in North America and learn to live like Native Americans: with the continent and not on it.
Walking My Dog through the Valley of the Shadow of Death Is a Nice Way to Start the Day
Dogs are the only New Yorkers who aren’t in a hurry. Schnauzers schlep, poodles prance, even manic breeds like Jack Russell terriers traipse through Manhattan. Instead of rushing everywhere and trying to piddle on four trees at once, dogs subscribe to the canine philosophy of life: take time to stop and sniff the asses. I’m always aware that Michael and I are shirking our claims to be busy New Yorkers every time we take our dog Boswell for a walk along the Hudson.
As Michael gently leads our dog across MacDougal Street, we’re both happy to give up a few hours for Bozzie. We New Yorkers have no problem wasting our own time—posting status updates about our first exhibition at a diner of our naked clown photographs, inviting friends to our Monday night cabaret show built around the Minnie Riperton songbook, struggling for years to raise money for our indie film
about a guy struggling for years to raise money for an indie film—but we bitterly resent other people wasting our time.
Though he’s a beagle-basset mix, Bozzie’s not super-long and low-slung like most bassets, and he’s not yappy or pointy-faced like some beagles. He’s barrel-chested and floppy-eared with the double sweetness of both breeds. Spending time with Bozzie is always a pleasure. He never tells stories that are dull, long, or too self-involved. He’s never invited us to come see his untalented boyfriend play Fleance in Macbeth, and, to his credit, Bozzie has never expressed any artistic ambitions, so he’s never going to put us on the spot and ask what we think of his work.
When Bozzie does become annoying, all I have to do is give him a treat. God, I wish that strategy worked at cocktail parties. The next time some writer specializing in gay Neolithic romance novels begins droning on about the hot Stonehenge sex scene in his latest self-published book, I’d promptly drop a rawhide chew stick at his feet.
Boz is a rescue dog. He was found wandering in Sullivan County and had worms, fleas, and a host of other problems, both mental and physical. The green number tattooed in his right ear made us suspect he might have been a lab dog. His not barking at all for the first two years we owned him confirmed it. (Lab dogs are tormented if they bark.) Boz also hates all loud noise but is particularly spooked by the sound of metal banging or scraping, which causes him to jump or shake, almost as if it brings back memories of cage doors. Bozzie has made me aware that New York’s a clanging city. People are always opening or closing security gates on storefronts, stepping on the metal cellar doors on sidewalks, or throwing bottles or cans in trash bins. Even church bells terrify him.
Since Boz is prone to debilitating bouts of fear that cause him to plop down on the sidewalk shivering in terror, Michael and I always take the same route to the river, hoping that, guided by the familiar sidewalks, he’ll keep his nose to the ground, tracking the comforting smells of pigeon poop, rat piss, and shit-faced NYU student vomit.
We approach an elderly woman walking a brindle-coated dachshund. A dachshund in motion always appears comical, as if the tail is wagging the dog. We stop and share forced smiles as our two dogs intimately nose each other. We’re like parents on a playdate pretending not to notice their children playing doctor in front of them.
“How old is your dog?” she asks. Michael admits we don’t know his exact age, but he thinks Bozzie’s nine or ten. I suspect he might be a few years older. Though he’s perfectly healthy and active, Bozzie’s muzzle has grown whiter in the four years we’ve known him and gray is starting to show up in the black hair on his back. I try not to dwell on his mortality because it only makes me dwell on my own mortality. I’m afraid if I focus on my plight, I’ll end up “pulling a Bozzie” and have a meltdown on the pavement in an intersection.
On Carmine Street, Our Lady of Pompeii Roman Catholic Church reminds me of a conversation I recently had with my mother in Buffalo. “I’ve been praying for you. If God doesn’t do this for me, I’m through with Him!” You gotta love a mom who’s not afraid to write off the creator of the universe if He messes with her kid. I can’t say my diagnosis has made me more spiritual. I’ve always had a supernatural sense of being alive, but when I contemplate any religion it only reinforces my doubts. First of all, I can’t believe in any God who’s meaner than I am— which rules out 99 percent of all faiths. I believe God should treat people as well as people treat their pets. When any religion says God has his reasons to make people suffer, I immediately think of Bozzie suffering: Would that ever be acceptable? No. Never. And it isn’t acceptable with people, either. Who can ignore a dog yelping in pain? Well, God has ignored people yelping for millions of years.
The other dubious argument for God’s mysterious disinterest in human pain is that He will reveal His reasons to us in the afterlife. As a writer, I can’t buy that. It turns God into a hack who tags on a happy ending to every sad story. As a New Yorker, I refuse to believe in a God who’s less talented than I am.
On the other hand, Bozzie has also undermined my doubts about the nonexistence of God. Often on our walks, children see Bozzie and their parents ask us if it’s okay to pet him. We reassure them that Bozzie doesn’t bite. He has never growled or snapped at anyone in the entire time we’ve known him, making him, clearly, the most pleasant New Yorker in history. Bozzie and Michael are my proof that love exists. Just as science can’t prove that love exists, I have to accept that there might be other unverifiable forces out there as well.
Happily, Bozzie’s bouts of terror only occur outdoors now. When Michael first brought him home to our tiny apartment—the size of a one-bedroom doghouse—Boz would retreat to the bed in fear whenever I walked through the door. Now when someone rings our buzzer, Boz runs to the door, whimpers, and then barks to be let out in the hall so he can run down the steps and greet our visitor.
His transformation from scaredy-cat to tail-wagger is primarily due to Michael’s relentless nutjob-bananas love for Bozzie. Michael is not a morning person, and it’s my job to take Bozzie out first thing every day. I honestly don’t think of taking Bozzie out before coffee as a chore. It’s a preventive measure to keep Michael from becoming a grouch. But, even when Michael wakes up grumpy, he always greets Bozzie with an ecstatic, “Hello, Delicious!” Michael’s joy is contagious, and every time I hear him say it, I always feel the same elation Boz feels when I toss him a biscuit. Michael can be unreasonably hard on himself in a way he never is with Bozzie or me. I wish he could treat himself like he treats Bozzie. I’d like him to look in the mirror every morning and say, “Hello, Delicious!”
When we go out on our walk, at the bottom of the stairs Boz stops to look out the inner glass door. I open it, but he’s too scared to move. I lean down and pet him and he gingerly steps into the entryway. I open the outer glass door, and Boz leans his head out over the threshold to look around. If someone walks by on the sidewalk, he’ll duck back in. If a truck rumbles, he’ll try to hide behind my legs. I usually gently scoot him with my leg onto the stoop and step around him. Once I’m outside, he musters up the courage to step down to the sidewalk. Only recently did I grasp that helping Bozzie face his day gives me the courage to face mine. I’m terrified I’ll lose my ability to walk, talk, and breathe. But every morning walking Bozzie down our two flights of stairs proves that I’m okay for the day. Every time Boz lifts his leg on his favorite tinkle tree, we both feel relieved.
Bozzie treats me like an elementary school student treats a substitute teacher. He can be bad and act out because he knows I lack Michael’s authority. On the days when Michael’s out and I stay home and write in our apartment, Bozzie feels free to poop in the kitchen in the morning. As I pick up the poop and spray the floor, I yell at him, “Bozzie, bad boy!” and I mean it. Boz will bow his head and retreat to the bedroom, looking dejected—his jowls drooping like sad sacks filled with tears— and sit and wait until I cave in and come and rub his belly.
Later in the afternoon, he barks in the living room for a dog biscuit. He never barks for biscuits with Michael. I know I sound like every crazy dog owner handing out a Mensa membership to his Fido, but I truly believe Bozzie understands that I turn into a biscuit soft touch if he makes me laugh. He definitely puts on a performance. I’ll be typing on my laptop on the couch, and Boz will come stand near me and go into the downward-facing dog yoga position, emitting a low grumble. I try to pretend not to notice how adorable he is, but then he’ll whimper, and my heart overrides my head, and I instinctively turn to address his distress. Once eye contact is established, he’ll stare for a moment and then bark. Since barking is a newly reacquired skill for Bozzie, we were thrilled when he resumed doing it, which means my “No!” makes me laugh. Once I laugh—and he always makes me laugh—I get up and Bozzie races me to the kitchen.
Michael and I are usually attempting to do fifteen things at once, so on our walks we follow Bozzie’s lead and try to find seven years of pleasure in each New York minute. M
ichael’s a screenwriter and a playwright who’s currently working on a musical scheduled to open Off Broadway. He’s written and sold two screenplays in the past year, and he also teaches screenwriting at NYU. I’m always working on a new novel, running out to help stand-up pals write jokes for their acts, or helping other friends punch up the acts of big Las Vegas stars. I also teach a comic-essay writing class at NYU. (I had to quit teaching when I lost my voice.) And Michael and I have a play ethic that’s as overdeveloped as our work ethic. We try to see well-reviewed films, plays, and art exhibitions, read important books, and spend time talking about all of them with our friends.
Bozzie likes our friends almost as much as we do. He adores our neighbors Michael and Susan. Susan is Bozzie’s best friend, and any time I open our door he runs to her door and cocks his head and stands motionless, listening. If Boz hears her speaking, he whimpers, barks, and literally tries to dig his way through the door. Next up is our friend Eddie, who once cared for Boz when we were in London. When he sees Eddie on the stairs, Boz goes berserk, and I suspect that Eddie must be an even bigger biscuit pushover than I am. Then there’s Jaffe Cohen, Michael’s screenwriting partner. Jaffe is one of those small-dog-carrying gay men. Jaffe’s also cared for Boz, and since Jaffe is so besotted by his dog, we’ve always felt confident he’ll also spoil our dog. It’s easy to mock a gay man who carries his dog like a purse, but people misunderstand the relationship. Buster isn’t Jaffe’s accessory; it’s the other way around, and Jaffe knows and relishes it.
Turning right on Seventh Avenue, we cut down Leroy Street, a lovely strip of Greenwich Village shaded by large ginkgo trees. There’s a pool, library, and park on one side and a row of brownstones on the other. A commemorative plaque on the library says the poet Marianne Moore wrote there. I’m guessing only a handful of people have read the plaque since its installation. The miniscule, hard-to-read inscription and bronze patina make it indistinguishable from the brickwork. Michael pointed out, as a memorial it seems designed to keep Marianne Moore obscure.