I Don't Shower Anymore.

Calcetines and (unnamed muddled pup) pout for Skylar.

Macarena had six five puppies last month. They lived in the old goat pens until they were big enough to enter the real world. Now they run sideways across campus, usually trailing Mom for milk or Dad for attention: neither of whom want to be hands-on parents. They are now big enough to leave little puddles of puppy poo outside our house.

The runt is named Penny (after the smallest currency in America, also because she is a girl.) She is sleeping in my lap to avoid the rain. Usually the dogs aren’t allowed inside, but this one was both shunned by her mom but also pushed out of the nursing circle so often that one of her brothers is literally three times her size. The other puppies sleep in a big hairy pile by the kitchen, to avoid the rain and to not avoid the food.

It is the rainy season. Every day between the hours of one and four (or from midnight to midnight, really) it can be expected to rain so heavily, it sounds like you are standing under a waterfall, your ears filled with rushing water. This can make teaching a bit difficult, and watching movies, and walking around without stepping in squelching mud, and crossing rivers, and getting your laundry to dry. But what it lacks in practical dry charm it makes up for with the most wonderful lullabye to sleep to. The mountain smells good and bursts with green.

Penny on my pants.

I don’t have very much clean clothing, but I can’t complain: no one here stays clean very long anyway, especially now that the water never warms up. Showering is a luxury and not a necessity; I’m quite content wash-clothing and shaving my legs on the porch and dunking my hair in a bucket.

The puppies don’t mind my unwashed nurturing.