The date was approaching.
“Rod, you know if you’re receiving an award that you’re expected to give a speech.”
“I’ll just say whatever comes into my head.”
“I think people are going to expect a little more than that at 100 dollars a plate.”
A few days later:
“Honey, they want me to speak for two and a half to three minutes. Can you help me?”
Of course I agreed and began to pester him every day. “Shouldn’t we work on your speech tonight?”
“I don’t want to. How about this weekend?”
So I waited, and pestered, and finally nailed him down. He gave me some anecdotal information and I wove it into this:
Thank you. Thank you very much. I’m so honored.
When they told me that I was going to receive this recognition, I was enormously flattered. When they told me that they wanted me to speak for two or three minutes, I was terrified. One friend suggested that I cry for two minutes and then step down.
Although I seriously contemplated this advice, I hate to cry in public. So instead I decided to tell a little about what brought me here, what lead me to be a veterinarian.
My mother would tell you that it happened in the womb. See, my mother was, and still is, deathly afraid of roosters. When she was pregnant with me, she had to cross a patio where a rooster lived in order to do the laundry. My father got sick of her nearly daily terror and finally went out and killed the rooster.
Instead of being relieved, my mother felt horrible about the fate of the poor rooster. And thus the seed was planted in her womb where I was currently residing.
Years after, it became more and more apparent. I was always bringing animals home; dogs, cats, chickens, and one time, a lamb. My father didn’t kill them, but it became his chore to find homes or ranches where my strays could live. Whether he liked it or not, he became one of the first animal protection service volunteers. (Payback for the rooster I guess.)
But it was really a hamster, a hamster named Nachito, that did it.
My older brother got Nachito as a gift when I was nine years old. He didn’t really take care of him well so I finally told him that if he wasn’t going to take care of him, I would. Nachito became mine.
One day Nachito got sick and I took him to our local veterinarian. The vet told me that he didn’t know anything about hamsters. A few days later, Nachito died.
It was then that I decided to become a veterinarian.
I went to veterinary school in Leon. In vet school one doesn’t get to specialize until the end. So my training included mammals, whether they were pets, exotic or farm animals.
But after being chased out of a pool by a jealous dolphin, inseminating a cow (nothing like having your entire arm inside an animal), being chased up a tree by a horse who was unhappy with a dental procedure, and finding out that I was allergic to pigs, domestic pets became my focus.
After graduating from veterinary school, I continued on to pursue a homeopathic specialty, which was born out of a desire to treat not only the symptoms, but the causes of illnesses.
I’d just like to thank all of you for coming here to support this wonderful cause. Nachito thanks you. The rooster, whatever his name, thanks you. I am truly overwhelmed. (But . . . I’ll try not to cry.)
Thank you.
I made him practice in front of me and coached him on pronunciation in a couple of places.
Having procrastinated long enough, we rushed to get our tuxedos altered. Apparently my neck size over the years, has gone from a 15 ½ to a whopping 16 ½. (I have other places where that inch would be better appreciated.) Either buy a new shirt or choke to death all night with little pinches of skin appearing over the collar. No tuxedo shirts in San Miguel so off we go to Liverpool (imagine a cross between Macy’s and J.C. Penny’s) in Queretaro, an hour away. Fastest round-trip to Queretaro ever.
Ok. We’re set.
Meanwhile, I’ve been asking Rod questions like, “Are there going to be 10 people at this party or 100?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did any Spanish invitations go out? Will there be any Mexican’s there”
“I don’t know.”
“Besides the girls, will there be anyone else there that we know?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Tim and Tom.”
The afternoon of the event I receive a call on my cell phone (to protect these co-conspirators’ identities, I won’t mention their names. Henceforth they shall simply be referred to as “the evil lesbians”).
The evil lesbians explain that they don’t want Rodrigo to spend the better part of the evening nervous about his speech. They want him to deliver it immediately upon arrival so he can get it over with and enjoy the rest of the evening. “How thoughtful,” I think, and agree to meet them in the hotel lobby downstairs before entering the event.
Dressed in our recently acquired finest, we arrive at Casa Linda, a beautiful upscale bed and breakfast in centro. True to their word, the evil lesbians are waiting for us. They even pre-ordered our drinks. They are dressed to the nines, bringing the word “lipstick” to new heights. As we sip our cocktails, I feel like I’m looking at the cover of Vogue.
“You both look so handsome,” says one of the girls, “We should warn you, upstairs is just a bunch of old codgers. I’m afraid there is no eye candy.”
They rush us through our drinks and then lead us to the stairway to the Sunset Bar. At the top of the stairs the evil lesbians introduce me to an elegant blond woman dressed all in black. She is Linda, the owner of the hotel and apparently the head of the new PAAWWS organization. (I’ve never met the woman before; I’m buying all of this.) She explains that Rodrigo will be speaking near the entrance and that we’re to stand just inside the door until he finishes. Rodrigo is gracious, and strangely calm.
We enter to loud applause. I’m worried. The room is dark and I’m concerned that Rod won’t be able to read his speech. Linda presents him with a plaque and the applause rises as I’m yelling for more light. Camera flashes are going off everywhere, particularly when I try to turn and face the audience.
Rod begins his speech and I’m taking pictures like a proud partner. He’s nearly finished and I turn to set the camera down on a table behind me so that I can clap. I notice our friends Nancy and Owen at the table. “How sweet that they came to support Rod,” I think.
A heckler chimes in before Rod finishes his speech. It is Cynthia. “Strange,” I think, “She didn’t mention that she was coming to this.”
Rod is down to the last line and I hear him begin to deviate from what I’ve written. “Well actually,” he says, (while I’m thinking, “No! Don’t go off script!”) “this doesn’t matter because we’re all really here for your surprise 50th birthday party.” He turns and looks me in the eye.
It takes me a minute to regain any sense of mental balance. I stare at Rodrigo blankly and when I turn around, I see 30 faces looking back at me. And I know them all.
Rod’s cousins are in the event planning business and surrounding the room is a casino. Black jack tables, roulette, complete with dealers. Everyone is dressed up. Rod hands me a plaque that reads, “To the best husband and friend on his birthday.”
I really had three birthday celebrations; the first in surprise in California, the second an intimate dinner and overnight stay at Casa Quetzal (thank you Cynthia) and the third “James Bond” gambling night surprise.
I am now willing to turn 50 every year.
The only lingering concern that I have, is how many of my friends, old and new, know how to lie so well.(In all fairness, the “evil lesbians” are not really evil. They are probably two of the sweetest people that you’d ever meet. They just happen to be remarkably skilled in the art of deception. To them, Miss Christine and of course my handsome, loving partner Rodrigo, thank you so much.)
