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 One of the joys of living in Nowhere, New Mexico, is the number of UFO sightings that take place here. Apparently abductions abound, also.
Nice! One can dream, right?
A whole new universe to explore. Traveling around on a spaceship that probably doesn’t burn fossil fuel. Time off from work. Little ‘green’ men who presumably already know about tofu, water conservation and wind power. Sounds good, no?
So for a few nights running, I’ve sat under the stars, in the old hemp lawn chair, offering myself with great abandon. Now, when offering oneself to an alien life form, does one strike a come-hither pose? (Hard to do in a blue bathrobe, covered in dog hair, with frazzled, unstylish hair.) Or better to mimic a pork chop on a plate? Will the aliens take me for sheer irony if I wear a tinfoil hat? A retro-cool ET t-shirt?
“Take me! Take me! You’ve got a two-acre landing pad right here in my yard, I don’t even care if you burn the corn and singe the sweet peas,” I’ve been mentally telepathizing to any would-be alien human snatchers. (I don’t want to yell and upset the husband and neighbors.)
Telepathizing further: “Of course, you’ll have to take all my dogs. Yes, all of them. ‘No dog left behind’ is my motto.”
Last night, as I sat and waited and waited, and waited, I further outlined my needs as a happy, spunky abductee volunteer. Telepathically, of course. Loud telepathy this time—since they have not been listening to my soft, reasonably spoken telepathy. Which irritates me.
“Aliens! Hello! You should get here soon if you want me, because it’s late, I’m sleepy and I’m much more attractive as a person when I’m not drooling and snoring and grinding my teeth. I’m sorry to spring the dog-rescue thing on you. I do want to live in space, and do lots of orbiting and floating through walls and wear a cool silver suit, but I come as one of a pack. That’s non negotiable!”
The stars twinkle down. I look up beseechingly. Cripes. No movement on the UFO-abduction front.
“Silver people! Greys! Green little men! Hi! Now, they’re all good dogs. But we’ll have to teleport into a holistic vet's office every few weeks to replenish their meds. And Salty tends to throw up whenever he hears a doorbell. While Damien tends to snap at imaginary flies when stressed. And Buddy, whether stressed or unstressed, humps anything that moves—or is stationary. And none of them can eat too many grains, so we’ll have to stock up on premium grain-free food before we lift off for your planet. Kind of expensive for you, but worth it—unless your planet has foods for canines that don’t include allergens. And did I mention that Foghat gets diarrhea if he hears Norteño music? So can we please not listen to Latin stations whilst traveling through space and time?”
So far, so bad. No response. No spaceship has even come to make an offer! I’m guessing that the ‘no Norteño music’ is a deal breaker.
But I’m not going to give up. I’ll be in the old hemp lawn chair again tonight. Staring up at the spray of stars. Tele-thinking loudly. And softly imagining how great Farrah would look in a tiny silver Chihuahua space suit.
Updated 8/21/10; originally posted 7/14/09.
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Joy Nicholson lives in New Mexico with her husband where they have a special-needs dog rescue. She has published two novels, The Tribes of Palos Verdes: A Novel and The Road to Esmeralda: A Novel, but is mainly interested in non-fiction animal-welfare issues now.
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