y interest in playing M*A*S*H soon faded until I no longer doctored to anybody, including myself.

I learned to let go and experienced great satisfaction in countless newfound intriguing pastimes.

Tossing horsehoes dawn to dusk, observing passerbys through 3-D glasses, washing my hair in the public restrooms—such simple diversions had not seemed readily condoned in days gone by.

Think what you will, but what happened to me was not that odd. If cats can have nine lives, why couldn't it be the same for (some) people?

With time, I came to view the incident as less a case of suicide or body snatching and more a flowering of fuller human potential, a painful extraction from a latent inventory of possible selves, not just a metamorphosis or mere awakening but an expansion of the dormant trapped inside one soul—partly a karmic cycle of birth, misery, death, and rebirth, partly a mitosis resulting in real personal growth, a new and distinct reflection generated off the same multifaceted gem.

Crazy poetic twaddle from a born-again psycho?

Look, all I can say for sure is that the capacity to develop more capacity is a matter of good timing, proper circumstances, an open mind set, and lots of luck.

(Sure, the nine incarnations might help to explain it, but must each of them run in linear sequence or can some of them coexist?)

Bumming, I discovered, had its good points (as did being a plastic surgeon), but eventually even the Gypsy routine came to seem a drag. I found myself devoting less time to personal hygiene, home maintenance (pigeon droppings, red ants, water damage), and interpersonal bum relationships, and more time to playing fetch with my dog.

I came to admire his energetic nature, his unwavering loyalty, and his apparent oblivion to matted hair, open sores, all his fleas and ticks, not to mention the everpresent threat of getting rabies.

We took longs walks together looking for cigarette butts and lost quarters, searched the trash for usable toiletries and paperback mysteries not missing many pages, chased our Frisbee for hours on end, dodged stones and empty beer cans thrown by teenagers, shared whatever little food we scavenged.

I marveled at how my dog always acted contented and ever eager to please, even when he was cold and hungry. I wondered about what thoughts passed through his mind, if he ever worried about practical concerns, whether he dreamed, and what it might be like to experience life from his point of view.

I drew the line only at letting him sleep inside my newest found treasure, a tent with only a few major tears in the fabric.

One day while I was napping, my head pillowed by an old telephone directory, I felt something wet rub against the skin of my healing wounds. I sat up and opened my eyes.

My dog was whimpering, one bloody paw held up as if offered for a handshake, the other half-crushed. I washed them and then fed him some Ritz crackers. Though he could barely walk and seemed to be in pain, he hobbled off and laid down next to his only toy.

That night it rained and rained and rained. Curled up inside the warmth and safety of my tent, I found myself worrying about what the water was doing to my dog when I suddenly noticed the smell of wet fur.

He was standing at the entrance, and I could tell from the longing in his salami brown eyes that he badly wanted to come inside, even though he knew my tent was off-limits. I invited him in briefly to dry him off with one of my tee shirts and then told him to scat.

He refused to move off of my old jute Welcome mat and he was too heavy to push. I started to scold him, but he sat down, tilted his head just so, and focused on me with great intensity.

Suddenly I felt ashamed of myself. I recognized in our interaction not just the humanity of his craving but the dogginess of my territoriality. How had I again allowed myself to grow so self-centered?

And so I opened my heart and let the feeling take deep hold of me, a tender panic I'd experienced only one other time in my life.

When the rapture finally passed, I sensed somatically that my consciousness had evolved to a yet newer and even higher plane.

And, of course, that Man's Best Friend was now firmly entrenched inside of my hearth.

Time has passed and living is again good, although I will concede that in this god eat god world life's direction may indeed sometimes seem strange. That's why I've made it my policy to focus only on the good and to ignore all the rest, to keep my outlook optimistic and the morale of those around me high.

I cherish my scraps of leftovers and stand ready to welcome strays into our fold, regardless of overcrowding.

I find solace in the knowledge that should I ever be accosted and hauled off to a busy ER, at least I should be able to judge whether I am, in fact, receiving first-class free medical care.

The Hibachi has been lit, the smells in the air are luscious, and I can sense the drool building.

In the distance, I notice a frisky gray squirrel busy collecting acorns. I study his diligence and then catch myself wondering how it might feel to be so cute and bushy, to have such a tiny body attached to such a heavy tail, to—

He stops what he's doing and stares directly at me. His eyes look like big Hershey's Kisses, and I swear I can taste the sweetness of his gaze.

But I fight to break the connection and force myself to look away. For the time being, at least, I've had enough.

Settled in on the grass beside my former tent, I lower my chin onto two paws well-healed, lick the tip of my nose with my tongue, and wait patiently for my master to toss me a juicy bone.