Yesterday's big adventure.

7:00 a.m. - Twenty-four hours ago, my neighbor handed me the keys to his house as his wife gave me last minute watering instructions then went back inside. They'd be back sometime after Labor Day he said.

This is the same neighbor who watched over our house last month while we were on our 4,038 mile roadtrip to Oregon. The same one who called early on a Tuesday morning to reveal our hot water heater was leaking. Who then called the following day to say the old one had been removed and a new one installed. We look out for each other while away. It's a good arrangement.

A couple of minutes later, his wife reemerged from the house and handed me two cans of dogfood. "Here," she said, "for the turtles." An hour later and I noticed they and their 29' trailer were gone. Headed to their grandson's graduation from Marine bootcamp in San Diego the end of this week. Since a young kid, he's wanted to be a policeman or a soldier. A member of some Civil War reenactment group, he's died in Union--Confederate battles all over New Mexico. To shoot someone, I surmise, would be the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. He should make an excellent marine.

About three hours later our phone rang. It was the neighbors. "Everything's okay," they assured us. They were calling from Lordsburg, the last stop in New Mexico before entering Arizona. Or it could be the first stop in New Mexico after leaving Arizona. It's all a case of one's perspective and direction in life, I suppose.

I'd never really understood why Lordsburg exists. Oh, it's at the junction of two roads and I have noticed a tendency for a stagecoach stop or gas station to spring up at points like that. There's a railroad too. Maybe Lordsburg was once a watering hole for thirsty steam engines at one time.

I'm sure it has some reason for being there, but ever since I've been traveling that road the past 40 years, it's been a town from brighter days hanging on hopes of a better tomorrow. Much of it in decay, Lordsburg is dying a slow "Last Picture Show" kind of death.

But as I learned in July, the tourist information center there is a great place to change one's shorts after discovering the ink pen in your pocket has sprung a leak.

"We forgot to turn our air conditioner off," said my neighbor from Lorsdburg. No problem, I'd take care of it.

A little while later the wife and I walked over to the neighbor's and shut off the AC. We decided to do a walk around the house outside to see if we might spy the "turtle." Our neighbor, who has a few years on us, was a child in France or Germany during World War II. That colored the entire rest of her life. She has seen bad times. She knows scarcity. I'm sure that explains the lushness of her jungled backyard where wild and tame gardens exist in a tenuous truce under her watchful tutelage. Finding anything back there is a challenge, a "turtle" especially.

But as we turned to leave, what did I see down the walk coming towards us but the desert tortoise. "Look who's hungry!" I said to my wife, pointing to the other end of the path. I knelt down and spoke calmly as it approached.

Since the loss of our last greyhound in May, we have become even keener in our awareness of other sentient lifeforms, suggesting "Pony's" leaving left a huge gap in our lives. As a result, other people's dogs, our yard's birds and the geckos climbing the walls of our house at night have taken on a new importance to us.

As I watched tortoise's determined assault towards me slowly continue, my wife volunteered to go over to the house and get a can of dogfood the neighbor had left.

During her absence, the tortoise fearlessly came within reach. Extending my hand, I gently patted him on the head. I guess that's where most reptiles are different from greyhounds and other dogs. Maybe it's their colder blood, but the toroise, obviously repulsed by my gesture of "welcome," recoiled into his shell.

But that was only a momentary pause in his mission. Reemerging, he extended his head and turned it, looking me square in the eye. I sensed he was evaluating me and warning me at the same time. "Don't be trying to pet me!" he seemed to scoff. I took the strong hint.

I watched as he paraded underneath my bent left leg, to the edge of my flip-flop. Appraising my toes, he settled on the longest--the one next to the big one and what my new little buddy did next startled and tickled me--simultaneously. He started nibbling on my toe. Fortunately, my wife reappeared with the dogfood, saving my foot.

The tortoise appeared famished as I dished it out some meat. We watched. He was making a mess. Dogfood all over his chops. The chunks were too big. I decided I'd help. I'd slice 'em into small bites. The tortoise waited as I chopped. Wife and I both sensed his growing impatience at my diligence, so I finally stopped. He dove back in. Pausing for a moment, his right front foot suddenly thrust forward to wipe the dogfood from his mouth, much to our delight.

While a cold blooded reptile, he's still our cousin. Tortoise may not use napkins, but he still wipes his mouth. I guess that's what keeps me getting out of bed every morning. I never know what I'll learn today. And it's not everyday a tortoise nibbles your toe!