By Anne Sullivan
“Sylvia, please come out of your doghouse and eat some breakfast,” I called to her the other morning.
“No, thank you,” she said without moving. “I’m not hungry.”
“You didn’t eat a thing yesterday,” I scolded. “You must be hungry.”
“No, not at all. I’ve lost my taste for life.”
“Nonsense, you can’t sulk in your doghouse forever.” I tried gentle persuasion. “Don’t you want to go up-canyon to hunt for the Lost Adams Diggings gold? I’ll go with you. We can have picnic.”
“No, there’s probably no gold anyway. No gold for me anywhere. I’m nothing. I’m a nobody,” she insisted.
“You’re Sylvia. Sylvia The Author.”
“No more. I have no column anymore. I’m no one.” The mumblings from the doghouse became less and less distinct.”
“I know you’re bummed out about the paper closing down, but you’ve got to get a hold of yourself. Everyone in Catron County and Socorro is upset about it. I’m none too happy myself.”
“You have no idea how I fee,” she cried with more emotion than she’d shown for days. “Once I was someone. Now it’s all been taken away. I’m just another dog.”
“You’re not just another dog.” I said, patting her head. “You’re my dog.”
“That won’t even get me unemployment insurance. No unemployment for dogs, that’s what they said when I tried to apply. No job, no unemployment, no dog food, no pigs’ ears.”
“Lots of people are facing unemployment these days. You’ve just got to pull yourself together and show what you’re made of.”
“Some other time,” she said, turning around in her house so that her generous rear was the only part showing.
Just then the phone rang. I raced inside to answer it. A minute later, I returned to the porch, phone in hand.
“It’s for you,” I said.
“Me?” Sylvia questioned. “Me? Nobody cares about me. Who is it?”
“He says his name is Gary Jaramillo,” I said, handing her the phone.
“This is Sylvia,” I heard her say as she squeezed her way to the back of her house so I could hear no more. After what seemed like an eternity she burst out of the doghouse shouting, “Guess what?”
“What?”
Sylvia took a long breath after which the words same somersaulting out of her mouth. “Gary Jaramillo and his family just bought the paper – the Mountain Mail – and it’s going to start publishing again this week and he said, and I quote, ‘The rumors of the demise of the Mountain Mail have been greatly exaggerated,’ and they want me – me, Sylvia – to write for it and they have lots of ideas which sound good to me – and – and … ”
“What are some of their ideas?” I interrupted to ask.
“They want to make it even more of a community paper and they want to know how people felt about it closing down and about it starting up again,” Sylvia still spoke in doubletime. “That’s easy. People in Catron and Socorro counties felt terrible about the paper closing. I can’t tell you how many people spoke to me about it and they were all said. So I know that people will be absolutely delighted that the Mountain Mail rides again and that their subscriptions will be honored. And did I tell you that Mr. Jaramillo and his family want a paper with more stories about people – old people and young people and people in the middle and I hope maybe even about dogs – about what they’re doing that’s good and beneficial for others and the rest of the world. He says there’ll be more about families and the things that are important to us and the paper’s going to be longer with a Spanish section muy pronto,” Sylvia said the last in the most atrocious Spanish accent ever heard in the Rio Grande Valley. “Plus it’s going to have color pictures with all this good news.”
“That’s good news right there,” I said the second I could get a word in edgewise.
“My new friend Gary Jaramillo said, and I quote gain, ‘We’re hoping that we have a long and happy history with the people in Socorro and Catron County.”
“All right,” I said with a sigh of great joy.
“All right, indeed,” Sylvia agreed. “Now what about a picnic? I’m famished. I’ve got to keep my strength up so I can write.”
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