WaWa Fest ‘23

Yapping, snapping – some, even napping – Chihuahuas had taken over the Eastern New Mexico Fairgrounds in Roswell on a mild Halloween afternoon.

While much of the world was spending the day preparing treats and plotting tricks for children masquerading as ghosts and goblins, the organizers of WaWa Fest ’23 had rolled out the figurative welcome mat for thousands of small dogs.

Scott Adamson writes stuff. Follow him on t2.social @adamson60, instagram @sladamson1960 and Twitter @adamsonsl

Planning for the event had begun a year earlier with the launch of an advertising blitz seeking Chis of all shapes and sizes.

They were recruited to be part of what was being hailed as a “once in a lifetime event.”

Chihuahua owners were urged to send the company – WaWa Incorporated – pictures of their dogs, as well as documentation of their American Kennel Club or International Canine Club registration and immunization records. If selected, they would receive an all-expenses paid trip for two people (and unlimited number of Chihuahuas) to the gathering.

And what was the purpose, exactly?

Well, that was a question that remained largely unanswered.

Queries were met with the same standard reply: “It’ll be the greatest moment in Chihuahua history. Saying more would just spoil the surprise!”

By the looks of the fairgrounds – which had hosted the annual state fair just a few weeks earlier – multitudes of people didn’t mind taking the leap of faith.

Chief among them was Brenda Michaels, a short redhead with magenta lipstick and a woman whose tanning bed visits had covered many hours over many years.

As she walked to the registration table, she proudly presented Sparkles, a tan and black, long-haired Chi with a pink ribbon around her neck and decorative “alien” antennas.

“We’re in Roswell,” Brenda said. “And it’s Halloween. Figured I’d dress my little girl for the occasion. Plus, she’s the star!”

Festivities were set to begin shortly and take place on a portable stage that sat in front of a replica of the flying saucer that supposedly landed in Roswell in 1947.

While that infamous vessel allegedly carried alien beings from another world, this “UFO” – a dull silver in color – looked more like an oversized prop from a B-movie.

Whatever it was, Brenda and Sparkles would get to see it up close; they were the special guests of WaWa Fest ’23.

After registering, Brenda was greeted by a young man with a walkie-talkie in one hand and clipboard in another, dressed in military fatigues.

“You must be Ms. Michaels,” he said. “And I suspect that’s the Chi of the hour, Sparkles.”

Brenda gave Sparkles a smooch on top of the head.

“Yes sir, this is my little angel,” she said. “And she’s excited to be here … aren’t you my precious! Aren’t you! What a sweet, sweet baby you are!”

Sparkles was tucked safely in Brenda’s arms, and when the canine looked around at all the other dogs and people, she was alert but not agitated. The man gave Sparkles a gentle pat.

“I’m Captain Jonathan Terra and I’ll be handling things for our program this afternoon,” he said. “If you and Sparkles don’t mind, just follow me to the stage and I’ll get you both set up.”

Brenda imagined Sparkles would be presented with an award for being the world’s cutest Chihuahua, or perhaps the smartest. The breed is known for intelligence and ability to learn quickly, and Brenda was sure her little darling was second to none on both counts.

“Captain Terra?” Brenda asked as they made their way up the steps to the stage, “Now that this is about to start, could you just give me a hint about what this is all about?”

Terra pointed to the chair designated for Brenda – as well as a small, plush dog bed situated behind a microphone and portable speaker.

“It’ll be the greatest moment in Chihuahua history,” he said, echoing the party line WaWa Incorporated had stuck to from the outset. “Saying more would just spoil the surprise!”

Brenda grinned, shrugged, and carefully placed Sparkles in the bed before taking her seat.

In just a couple of minutes all the attendees and their Chihuahuas had gathered in front of the stage.

“Good afternoon,” said Terra, standing behind Brenda and Sparkles and holding a wireless microphone. “First of all, thank you all for coming and thank you for being such good sports. I know many of you have traveled thousands of miles without really knowing what’s on the agenda today, and we appreciate you playing along with us. That said, Sparkles has a special announcement to make.”

The crowd roared with laughter as Terra adjusted the mic in front of the dog and proceeded to punch in a code on the speaker.

Sparkles began chirping, but the voice coming out of the speaker was synthesized and translated from dog sounds to the English language.

“Greetings,” said the dog, giving rise to even more chortling from the audience. “Ever since a spacecraft carrying a select crew of our colonists arrived in the Yucatán Peninsula during the Mesoamerican Classic Period, we have lived among you and evolved in order to adapt to Earth’s environment. We have become your companions, and, for the most part, we have found great joy on your planet. However, it has been our goal – nay, our mission – to return to our home world. Until now, this has not been possible.

“However, benevolent veterinarians and zoologists have been secretly working with us for decades in an effort to alter our physiology and allow us to safely return to space. Due to various vaccines and diets, thousands of us are now travel-ready. In addition, technology obtained from Area 51 has enabled us to contact a vanguard that has finally arrived to guide us home.”

The laughter had died down and been replaced by looks of bewilderment. Those looks turned to shock as the UFO behind the stage began to hum and glow, and a multitude of smaller aircraft appeared to drop from the sky and hover over the crowd.

“All of the Chis here today will be making the deep space trek back to Planet Chewy, and all of their humans are welcome to come along. Domes have been constructed that replicate an atmosphere much like that found on Earth, and that is where you’ll live. A word of warning: you probably won’t like the food, because to human tastebuds, it’s dry and gritty. And we will no longer tolerate being put in clothes – especially those little ballerina outfits – but we love you and welcome you, and will provide such clothes for you if that’s how you choose to dress. Unfortunately, there are hundreds of thousands more Chihuahuas who are not up to date on their shots and will be unable to travel. Others have simply chosen to stay here because they have come to enjoy harassing cats and barking at squirrels.

“We will now begin the boarding process, and all humans wishing to travel with us should raise your hands and you’ll be assigned to a craft and given boarding instructions.”

Brenda’s choice was easy. She picked up Sparkles, gave her a tight squeeze, and the pair slowly made their way up the ramp to the mother ship. Just before entering, though, Sparkles released a piercing bark, which was the sign to be put down.

The Chihuahua then raced back to the microphone.

“One last thing for those of you humans choosing to stay behind,” Sparkles said. “Beware of dachshunds. They are a villainous lot, and cannot be trusted.”

The bakery

Reggie heard the loud buzz of the generator more clearly as he trudged up the hill, weary from the climb and aching due to carrying the two large, full gasoline cans. His near-constant, splitting headache wasn’t helping matters, either.

Time was he’d have never paid much attention to the sound; in fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever even heard it before. But these days it was like a beacon.

Scott Adamson writes stuff. Follow him on Spoutable @ScottAdamson and Twitter @adamsonsl

Not only did it break the eerie silence that blanketed this part of the city, but it meant he was about to have breakfast with a friend. Actually, his only friend.

Esther – a middle aged woman who was almost as round as she was tall – opened the door to her bakery and gave Reggie a wry smile.

“Just put the gas next to the generator,” she said. “And then come in and wash up.”

Reggie sighed as he set the cans down, feeling immediate relief as his thin arms were finally free from strain.

Manual labor was hardly his strong suit, and never had been for his thirty something years. To be fair, it was never really required.

Growing up in an old money mansion came with old money perks, meaning much of the “work” that required doing was almost always done by someone else.

He had more cash than he knew what to do with but he often felt invisible, even to his own family. Being wealthy gave Reggie plenty of advantages, but his social awkwardness and C-student intellect hardly made him a favorite son.

Times had changed dramatically, though – and quickly.

Six months earlier the thought of lugging gasoline cans for miles seemed ludicrous. Now he considered it his job.

“So, what’s on the menu this morning, Esther?” Reggie asked.

Esther cracked her neck and then put on an oven mitt.

“Just pulling out a pan of biscuits,” she said. “And I also opened a can of bacon. It’s all yours … I’m so nauseated I can’t even think about eating.”

Reggie winced.

“Is it bacon from a can that makes you nauseated?” he asked. “I can see why. I didn’t know bacon in a can was even a thing.”

“It is,” Bertha said. “I grabbed a bunch of them the last time I was at Durbin’s Supermarket … it’s over there with the potted meat. I could load it all up but going back and forth is about the only exercise I get these days.”

Reggie leaned over and took a whiff of the biscuits, watching as Esther emptied the bacon into a pan and turned on the front eye of the stove top.

“You know I can go to Durbin’s any time that you need me to,” he said, massaging his temples in a losing effort to ease his headache. “I can do more than fetch gas for your generator. I’ve never really done much for anybody, so it feels good to help.”

Esther tossed the empty bacon can into the trash and then grabbed the skillet, taking it to the sink and pouring the excess grease into a pot.

“Nah,” she said, forcefully scratching her cheek with her free hand. “I’ve spent over 40 years cooking, and part of cooking means rounding up food. I mean, it’s not hard. I just grab what I need, put it in a buggy, and leave. It’s not like there’s much else to do.”

Reggie looked out the window and stared at the empty street.

“I know. I just ….”

“Just what?” Esther asked.

“I just sometimes feel bad that it’s all come to this. Every day when I go to the pump and get gas, I find myself looking around to see if anyone is about to catch me stealing. Hell, I still select ‘credit’ at the pump out of habit. Does it ever bother you to just wander into a store, snag whatever you want and walk away?”

Esther reached under the counter and grabbed a plate.

“No,” she said. “The owners are dead. Except for me and you, the customers are dead. We’re scavengers, but dead people don’t care. I’d gladly buy something if there was someone to buy from, but there isn’t.”

Esther put two biscuits and a wad of bacon on the plate and pushed it toward Reggie.

“I’m glad we got to know each other, even if we are scavengers,” he said. “If this hadn’t happened, I doubt we’d have become friends. so, you know … silver lining.

“Still, there have to be other people who survived the bomb … have to be. Maybe we’ll find them … or they’ll find us. Tomorrow might just be the day you’ll have more people to cook for and more people to talk to.”

Esther looked at her left arm and started lightly rubbing the radiation burn that was spreading over the top of her hand. She didn’t have much time left, and she doubted Reggie did, either.

“Yeah, maybe tomorrow,” she said. “I don’t suppose there’s anything wrong with having a little hope.

“Now, eat your biscuits before they get cold.”

Spike’s Choice

Dr. Artemus Ballimore was not a “real” veterinarian – at least not as far as anyone could tell. There were no diplomas on display in his office, he had no pamphlets promoting products or services … in fact, it wasn’t much of an office at all.

Aside from a standard examining table, its décor consisted of a beige antique settee, two gray folding chairs, a well-used olive-green dog bed and an old gumball machine that was filled with purple and pink stones.

Scott Adamson writes stuff. Follow him on Spoutable @ScottAdamson and Twitter @adamsonsl

The sign out front read “Ballimore Animal Care,” and it was painted – well, shoe-polished – in stencil. The business was hardly inviting, but it fit right in with the ambiance of the failing, fading strip mall.

And with Bubba’s Bail Bonds, Majestic Massage and Kit’s Cash and Loan occupying three other storefronts – there were four more that were vacant – Ballimore knew when someone showed up at his door, they had exhausted every other option.

Mallory Fallstrom elbowed her way in while cradling Spike in her arms. The black and white mutt was ancient; his face bathed in gray and his eyes, dull and faded.

“You’re the guy that can save him, right?” she said, gently handing Spike over to Ballimore’s waiting arms.

The dog’s breathing was labored, and Ballimore gently laid him on the exam table, which was draped in a red and black flannel blanket.

“I don’t really do anything,” the doctor said. “It’s the animal’s choice … it’s always the animal’s choice.”

The doctor’s work had become something of an internet sensation, with pet owners breathlessly giving their video testimonials about how he was able to extend their animals’ lives by negotiating a “trade” of their own years.

Mallory had seen them all – watching mostly out of curiosity and never putting a penny of stock in the claims. But she had found Spike on the side of the road when he was only a few weeks old, and 12 years later her companion was suffering.

She had taken him to two different vets in the last week, and both said the humane thing was to euthanize him.

She didn’t want to accept that.

So, out of sheer desperation, she drove 60 miles from her home to Ballimore’s office, looking for a miracle.

“I’m here because I don’t know what else to do,” she said. “I’m not gonna lie … I’ve never believed any of those claims I’ve seen online. And this idea that humans can trade in some of their years to add more to their dogs? Make it make sense to me.”

Ballimore walked to the gumball machine, twisted the handle, and snatched a pair of stones – one purple and the other, pink.

He placed them in front of Spike’s snout.

“I can’t explain it,” he said, gently stroking the animal’s head. “And good luck trying to make sense of any of it because I’ve certainly never been able to. I don’t know if it’s a gift or a curse, but I’ve been an empath to dogs since I was a little boy.

“I use the stones to form a bridge between the dog’s thoughts and mine, and I tell him that his owner is willing to trade some of their years to give him a few more. It’s entirely up to the dog whether to take the deal … some want to go on, many do not.”

Mallory sighed.

“It all seems a little too New-Agey for me,” she asked. “I mean, how could I even tell if I’d given up any years? Do I give you a number, like, if you can give five more years to Spike do I have to take 10 of mine away? And really, can anyone get into the mind of a dog?

“But I love Spike so much … he’s pulled me through some dark times. I need him, so – I know it’s crazy – but can you heal him?”

Ballimore grimaced.

“No, I can’t heal him. Again … I can’t do anything. All I can do is pass along your wishes and then the dog makes a choice. And whatever the choice is, you have to live with it. I’ve never made any promises.”

Mallory got up and joined Ballimore at the table, where she watched as he twitched his lips while his tightly closed eyelids fluttered. Spike, on the other hand, appeared to be shaking, and the vibrations caused the stones in front of his nose to separate.

Moments later, Ballimore opened his eyes.

Spike’s, however, didn’t close.

“What did you do!” Mallory sobbed. “You killed Spike! Your stupid voodoo killed him!”

Ballimore knew nothing he could say would ease her pain or quell her rage. But he had to tell her the truth.

“I’m sorry, but Spike didn’t want any more years,” he said.
“He had so many problems – a few you knew about but a lot you didn’t – and he wanted to go. That big farm that dogs go to live on … well, in a way, that’s kinda what happens, metaphorically at least. His journey here was done. I told you I couldn’t heal him.”

After a few minutes of silence Mallory was finally able to get her emotions in check. Once she did, she sat down on the settee, dropping her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry I blew up at you,” she said. “I knew it was time – those other vets told me – but I was being selfish. And silly. I never believed any of this stuff anyway, but I would’ve done it … I’d have gladly given him some of my years to save him.

“And now I guess I’m supposed to give you some of my money.”

Ballimore shook his head.

“I don’t want your money,” Ballimore said. “And if it brings you some peace – and I truly hope it does – the reason Spike decided to move on was pretty simple. His last thought before he drifted away was that you’d already given him 12 of your best years.

“He wouldn’t ask for anything more.”