Dogs

What My Dog Taught Me

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One can learn a lot from one’s pets, and not always in that cute Marley and Me way either. Oh how I wish this was a story about how smart and evolved my dogs are, but sadly, the dogs in my household have as many Achilles’ heels as the humans with whom they share their lives.

A few weeks ago, we gave Millie a plastic toy that was shaped like a Christmas present. Millie has not generally been a toy lover, but for some reason she fixated on this particular piece. And she looked super cute in all the pictures we took of her, holding the present in her mouth. It was a little too big for her and watching her try to carry it around the apartment made us laugh, not AT her of course, WITH her.

But this week, I had a realization about Millie and this brightly colored cadeau. It brings her no joy. She obsesses over it, stands guard, licks it occasionally, and worse, growls whenever Ricky or Eric or I get too close to it. Not once has Millie wagged her tail over her gift, the way she always does when it’s supper time or she’s going for a walk. I wake up in the middle of night, wonder where Millie is and I’ll look under the bed. There she’ll be, alert when she should be resting, her big eyes scowling at me, “Don’t take my present! It’s mine!”

Not to beat anyone over the head with the symbolism, but it was a big reminder to me to enjoy the gifts, tangible and otherwise, that I have been given. I think we all have a tendency to take things for granted or not appreciate, but the hope is that our gifts bring us joy, that wagging our tail kind of happiness.

I’m not particularly known for my optimism or even my gratitude. But one gift I receive every year is a chance to push the reset button. A chance to say, this is a new year, today I start becoming the person I’ve always wanted to be.

As for poor Millie, I don’t think she can change who she is. She’s just a dog, an old one at that. So, it’s been discussed and today, the gift goes into a drawer. No doubt, she will soon forget about it and it won’t be a source of torment any longer. Don’t feel too bad for her, she’ll still have the the things that do bring her joy: wrestling with her brother, cuddles with her Dads, walks in the sunshine, treats.

Happy New Year to all! Every day, but especially today, the possibilities are endless. May 2015 be filled with all the things that make your tail wag.

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Life Is Strange

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safe_image.phpEric and I went to see the new film, Love is Strange, yesterday.  Directed by Ira Sachs, it features John Lithgow and Alfred Molina as a gay couple of a certain age living in New York City.  Perhaps you’ve seen the trailer or caught an interview or already viewed the film yourself.  This isn’t really a review of the film, but I will probably give away a few spoilers about the movie, so if you’re super spoiler sensitive, do not read further.  I will say that I’m not going to write about anything you wouldn’t have already learned by watching the actors being interviewed on The View or The Today Show.

The film opens on the day John Lithgow’s Ben and Alfred Molina’s George are getting married in an intimate ceremony, after 39 years as a couple.  What happens next is that George loses his job and the couple is forced to live apart, with friends or relatives, one in Manhattan, the other in Brooklyn.  This separation is the premise of the film.  Okay, that’s the end of the spoilers.  The movie moved both Eric and me at several points throughout the 90-some minutes.  At one point, I was reduced to an audible, blubbering gasp.  

After the movie, Eric and I walked to a restaurant (Islands) nearby.  We sat at the bar, ordered mai-tai’s and talked about the movie.  We had been back in Los Angeles less than 24 hours and it was bittersweet to revisit New York with a story about aging and financial concerns and health and love and enduring love.  I kept saying how much I hated the movie, how I wanted to love it, but that I hated it.  Yes, I was quite moved by some scenes, but well, I just could not believe that these two would be forced to live separate lives after 39 years together.  “It’s just unrealistic,” I kept repeating.  Eric agreed, perhaps mostly because I was so adamant.  

And then we went home to our little home,  the dogs came out to greet and welcome us.  In New York, lying in our hotel bed, we conjectured, as we always do, what living in New York would be like.  How expensive it would be, how Ricky would be too confrontational on the sidewalks, how smart Millie would look prancing down 5th Avenue in tweed coat during the winter.  I don’t really see us moving there, our life is here, our home is here, but it’s fun to imagine another life, in a city we both love.

As we were going to bed last night, I still could not let the movie go.  George and Ben would not have let themselves split up like that.  They would have sold the stuff they’d collected in their 39 years together and found a sensible studio on the Upper East Side for $2000 or a one bedroom in Bay Ridge for $1600 or even rented a room in Williamsburg for $1000.  Any of these scenarios would have been better than the one they opted for, the one that the writers Ira Sachs and Mauricio Zacharias opted for.  If they did that, there would be no movie, you say?  Last night, as I fumed, tossing and turning, even going so far as to hop out of bed and check Manhattan and Brooklyn rental opportunities on Craig’s List, I wished that, indeed, there was no movie, that Love is Strange was a 5 minute short where Ben and George get married and Marisa Tomei gives her wedding speech and everyone drinks red wine and eats lasagna and Harriet Harris’ homemade cookies and that’s it.  Roll credits.

I was still mad at Ira Sachs and Mauricio Zacharias this morning when I woke up.  How could this have happened to poor Ben and George?!?  I even read the New York Times review, hoping that A.O. Scott had been as hung up on the implausibility as I was, instead I found a love letter to everyone involved, a New York Times Critics’ Pick.  

And then during my morning swim, I, of course, continued to ponder Love is Strange, the scenes I loved, the scenes I hated, the characters, the ending, New York.  I imagined myself having a conversation with Ira (first name basis, at this point) where I told him that if someone hates your film with this much passion, you must be doing something right.  I imagined him being hurt by my words, but then later, chuckling to himself, muttering, “That guy’s got a point.”

And then somewhere before my last lap, I realized why I hated Love is Strange so much.  It wasn’t the implausibility that burrowed into me, in fact, it was the opposite.  I watched my biggest fears: becoming homeless, rudderless, partner-less, play out on screen and it was just too much for me to wrap my head around.  It was just, all of it, too much.

In all the time I kept thinking, how can I save Ben and George, I was really thinking, how can I save Ray and Eric? What can I do to ensure a peaceful 30 or 40 (or 50?) more years? The answer is, of course, there are no insurances. We live our lives, try to make good decisions and hope for a little luck.

But from Love is Strange and Ira and Mauricio, John and Alfred, I am reminded of the importance of enjoying the music and the art and most important, the ones that you love, because all of this, like a lazy stroll in a leafy park, or celebratory meal with friends, or a sunset on the Manhattan skyline, is fleeting.

A Good Day

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For the last few months, my check engine light has been coming on in my car. It would last a few days or weeks and then disappear only to reappear days or weeks later. It’s no surprise how long I can put off something I don’t want to do. If you don’t believe me, ask my dentist. Anyway, yesterday, I mustered the courage to address the check engine light. I called my VW dealer in downtown LA and made an appointment. At 9:30, I dropped off my car. The shuttle was leaving as I bit into my first bite of the free chocolate cake donut that I’d been fantasizing about on my drive to the dealership, so I ran to the shuttle and asked for a ride into the heart of downtown. The guy in the front seat was being dropped off at Main and Temple and I said that was fine for me, too.

When the driver dropped us off at Main and Temple, I said my thanks and looked around. Okay, what will my downtown adventure be today, I thought. I pondered walking to Grand Park and then I looked up at City Hall and remembered that the Observation Deck on the 27th floor is open to the public Monday through Friday, 9am-5pm. So, I walked into City Hall, was checked through security and asked the police officer at information how to get to the observation deck. After taking an elevator to the 22nd floor and getting on another elevator to the 26th floor and walking up a flight of stairs, I was on the open balcony of the 27th floor of City Hall and I was completely by myself and I felt like the entire freaking city was mine. I walked around and took pictures. The entire time I was up there, I shared this amazing view, these amazing views, with only a handful of people. It was one of those “I am such a lucky guy” moments.

But wait, let me just back up a little. In the morning, when I was drinking my first cup of coffee, I looked to my left and these two dogs were laying next to me, looking like this:securedownload-7
Lucky Me.

Anyway, while I was on the deck, Eric told me I had to check out the rotunda in City Hall, so I went back to my friend at the information desk, who, by the way, reminded me in all the best ways of Edie Falco. I asked Edie where the rotunda was. “Take the elevator to the 3rd floor, you can’t miss it.” And I took more pictures walking around the 3rd floor. Business types floated past me as I shuttered away. They think I am a tourist, I thought. And you know, I am sort of a tourist, but Los Angeles is my home too. At 46, I’ve lived here longer than I’ve ever lived anywhere else. I love LA. Also, I hate LA. But LA is part of who I am and I am part of who she is. And experiencing City Hall in such an intimate way, made me proud.

But wait, there’s more. I popped into The Last Bookstore (453 S. Spring), one of my favorite used book sellers. The first time I went there, no one had told me about the labyrinth upstairs where all books are $1. I don’t want you to make the same mistake. I spent an hour there picking through shelves and boxes. I purchased four books and as I was leaving, I thought, wait, isn’t the Bradbury Building near here. Shameful side note: I’ve lived here 20 years and had never been inside the famed Bradbury Building, famous among other things for being a noted filming location (Blade Runner, The Artist, Chinatown, Disclosure). So, I walked over to 304 S. Broadway and made my own history by going in and taking some pictures. And by the way, my pictures do not do it justice.

As I was leaving, VW called to tell me my car was ready. (I never did quite understand why the engine light came on in the first place.) They asked if I wanted a shuttle and I paused and decided I would walk back. I walked down Broadway to Fifth, then walked through my favorite downtown hotel, the Millennium Biltmore. Then I walked to Bottega Louie and pondered buying a sandwich (I passed) then walked over to Figueroa and walked into the trippy Hotel Figueroa, then LA Live, then all the way down Figueroa to Washington, turned left and my tired legs were back at VW. When they brought me my car, it had been washed and vacuumed and then I went for my morning swim that had been postponed into an afternoon swim.

And while I was swimming, I thought about how great my day had been and that I wanted to go home to blog about it. But I also thought, while I was swimming that maybe it’s not a good idea to proclaim, “This is how awesome my day has been.” That maybe, that’s an invitation to the universe to send something horrible your way. And while I drove home, decided against writing a blog about how awesome my day was, (don’t tempt fate) I wondered why I was so neurotic, why couldn’t I just enjoy my day?

I did not blog later that day, instead Eric and I went back downtown to visit his friend Val and the three of us dined al fresco at a new restaurant (Zinc Cafe & Market, at 580 Mateo St.) and had a relaxing vegetarian meal. As the sunset on a perfect Los Angeles in July evening, we ate meatless tostadas, mushroom pizza and even ordered dessert. When our brownie a la mode came out with orange zest on it, I thought, I do NOT like fruit and chocolate. But I tasted it and it was really, really delicious. Maybe even better because of the orange zest. Who knows?

Anyway, last night, as I sat on the couch reading one of my new $1 books, I thought, THIS was a good day, maybe even a perfect day. And yes, perhaps I should have just kept it to myself, but I have decided to share it with you. Sometimes, you have to tempt fate.

The Morning After

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1425719_10152094998587755_185085023_nI’m usually the first to hear it, especially if it happens in the middle of the night.  I am not necessarily a light sleeper, but in the years since Millie started having these episodes, these seizures, there is a part of me that, even when sleeping, is always listening for the tell tale signs.  Last night, around 1:00 a.m., I woke up. hearing the sounds, sensing the vibrations, of Millie stirring awkwardly in the bed.  I found her at the foot of the bed and sure enough, she had started having a seizure.  Eric woke up when I started talking to Millie, telling her she was going to be okay.  “She’s having one,” was all I needed to say and Eric was beside her too, also holding, also calming her.

Millie’s seizures, which started in February 2011, are unique, just like she is unique.  She does not lose consciousness, her eyes do not roll back, she does not foam at the mouth, but merely salivates more than usual.  She shakes, her paws clench.  If we were to put her on the ground, she would try to walk, but stumble about.  These seizures have happened enough that we know what to do, or at least we think we do.  We hold her and tell her that we love her until the episode passes.  Usually, it lasts about 10 minutes, and once she’s out of it, she’s still not 100% Millie for awhile.  Even this morning, the morning after, she’s quieter than usual, more reclusive.  When I walked her and her brother Ricky a few minutes ago, she did feel impassioned enough to bark at another dog on the sidewalk which, under normal circumstances is annoying and embarrassing, but today was a relief of sorts, an indication that she’s getting back to normal.  

Eric does better when she is having her seizures than I do.  In fact, the way he is in those moments, is probably Eric at his very best.  He becomes the chief Millie holder, the coddler.  I have to run into the closet to grab a towel in case she wets herself, I have to run into the kitchen to take a Xanax, but the whole time, Eric lays there on the bed and holds her, kisses her, tells her that we love her and need her.  As my mind runs away with the worries, he is calm and present for her.   When she appeared to come out of the seizure last night, I ran back to the kitchen to get her a little treat, to see if she would eat it.  She nibbled on it gingerly while Ricky hopped and moaned and pounced.  He has some compassion for his sister, but when treats appear, he becomes quite single focused.

After the treats and the hugs and the “you’re a good girl”‘s, we settle back into bed, Millie at the foot, in the same place where she was when it started and ended.  Ricky lays on his pillow in the middle of the bed and Eric, on one side, me on the other.  Eric’s joke is that the two of us are always sleeping on a celery stick because of these two.  They are our little bed hogs and we love them.  As I lay there worrying about Millie and how we need to go to the neurologist and how the seizures have picked up frequency in the last few months and how are we going to pay for an extra vet bill, extra medicine and on and on and on, I hear Ricky and Eric snoring.  Millie looks at me and I look at her.  What is she saying to me? I don’t know.

And this is the morning after.  There is a glow that comes from surviving a crisis.  Eric is at work, but told me to keep him posted.  Ricky is sleeping on the couch.  Millie is napping under the bed, also known as, her hotel suite.  And here I sit, typing away, trying to make sense, trying to ease my pain.  We survived another storm, weary and shaken, but happy to see the sunshine of a brand new day.

One Hundred

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photo-34Three years ago today, I was on a plane to Hawaii.  I’ve written a little about that trip on this blog before here.  Yesterday, I was looking at pictures from the trip because I wanted to post a fun one on my friend Kim’s Facebook wall for his birthday.  What I wrote about the trip a few months ago was how the illness of my pet dog, Mandy, was a sad memory woven into that trip.  I will never think of that time without thinking of her.  But looking at the pictures I’d taken, I also remembered something very happy about the trip.

A couple weeks before going to Maui, I met a guy and started dating him.  His name was Eric and from our first date at Damon’s, there was something special about him, but also, something that felt like this relationship was going to be substantial.  It had been a long time since I’d had a boyfriend, probably a few years.  My life was full with friends and dogs and spending game show winnings, but truth be told, I was a little lonely.  But we met and, well, he made me laugh.

Our courtship was very new when I went to Maui and today, I thought about how electric our phone calls and texts and emails to each other were in those few days.  Michael and Kim would tease me when he’d call and I’d go outside so we could whisper sweet, yearning words to each other. And for some reason, I thought about the end of that classic John Hughes film, Some Kind of Wonderful, where after Eric Stoltz gives Mary Stuart Masterson the diamond earrings, he says, “You knew you were going to get these.”  And she says, “I didn’t know, I hoped.”  And then he tells her again that she knew and she admits, “I had a feeling.”  And then Lick the Tins (whatever happened to them?) start singing the best cover of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” that anyone of my generation has every heard.  

All this is to say that I didn’t know if Eric and I would become a couple, move in together, raise dogs, build a home. But I hoped.  I had a feeling.  A few weeks ago, we celebrated our three year anniversary, at Damon’s, of course.  And when I think about my trip to Maui, I feel like he was there with us, with me, because, in a way, he was.  And when I have a little vodka in my system, I’m apt to tell people that Mandy somehow sent Eric into my life because she knew how broken-hearted I’d be when she was gone.  It’s possible.

I titled this post One Hundred because it’s my 100th blog post.  It’s been a fun, challenging, emotional, humbling, ego-boosting, humbling again, educational six months, but I’m glad I started Easily Crestfallen and I’m thankful for people like you who’ve read, shared, commented, clicked “like”, etc.  I don’t know what the next 100 posts will look like, but I’m enjoying and learning from this journey.  

And I’m also thankful to Mandy, or Whoever it was, that sent Eric into my life. I couldn’t imagine the last three years without him and hopefully, we’ll have one hundred more together.

A Boy and His Dog

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20130818-140207.jpgWhen I was ten years old, something happened on a family trip that changed the course of my entire life. Are you hooked yet? My uncle’s dog had recently given birth to puppies a few weeks before our visit and when we visited my uncle’s family, I got to play with the puppies. Of course, I begged my parents to keep one of them. Of course, they demurred initially and no surprise here, eventually they relented. While there are people who would say I always got my way when I was little, the truth is both my parents were as charmed by one of the pups as I was. When we left Colorado a few days later, we had an extra companion, the puppy who would come to be known as Buford Jake, B.J. for short. It’s a familiar story and a happy story. Buford Jake became this boy’s best friend.

Just yesterday, a friend of mine posted a picture of himself in his teens with what I assume was his childhood dog. It hit me, there’s just something special about a picture of a boy and his dog, so I composed an album. Some pics are of people I know, some are famous paintings or photographs, there’s even a little beefcake. My favorite, though, is the one of Eric and Millie that I took not long after we started dating. From the minute Millie met Eric, the dog who is not easily won over was easily won over. And now, with Ricky, we are four, two boys, two dogs: a family.

Mugs

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A couple of weeks ago, a few days after my birthday, Eric and I were walking around at the Grove.  As we passed by Anthropologie, Eric said, “Oh, I just remembered one of your gifts that I forgot to give you.”  We went inside and meandered around the store.  We pointed out various objects to each other, as people tend to do when they’re in a store together.  I saw some cute mugs with dogs in hats that I pointed out.  I told him they were cute, but I bet they were delicate.  He said that he thought they would be okay if cared for properly.  From his reaction, I had an idea that I knew what the forgotten gift was.  Indeed, when we got home, he dug a package from the closet and I opened it and inside were the mugs you see in the above picture.

Now, almost every morning we drink our coffee out of these mugs.  I suppose it’s a form of narcissism, but since we think our dogs are the most attractive dogs in the world, we buy each other little statues or bookends or jewelry boxes or mugs that have dogs that remind us of Ricky and Millie.  The dog on the mug looks more like Millie, but with that bright fez, clearly evokes the spirit of Ricky.  

This evening as I was washing the dishes, I thought to myself how much I loved the mugs and I probably loved them more because of the way they belatedly came to me. With tender loving care, I washed and rinsed each mug. Like so many of us, they are a little delicate, but are okay if cared for properly.

Storytelling

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179892_142463809146815_2502641_nI had a storytelling show tonight.  I just got home a few minutes ago.  I do these shows every couple of months and some go better than others.  Tonight, I talked about one of my blog posts, The Forgiveness Machine.  The goal with these stories is to be funny, but also share a real experience from your life.  From the beginning, I was a little off my game.  I was more nervous than usual, I didn’t feel like I had a strong opening to the set.  The arc of the set was supposed to be tell something funny (me being drunk at a luau in Hawaii) followed by something sad (talking about my dog Mandy’s last few days) then wrap up with something funny again (me overreacting to some stupid things I did a couple of days ago.)  Halfway through the show, before I hit the stage, a group of drunk people came in to watch their friend perform.  They sat at a table in the main room and talked during their friend’s set.  Then the emcee made a point to tell the room to be respectful of the performers and the people listening when he introduced the next performer.  They talked through his set anyway, despite people around them ssshh-ing them.  Then I got up.  Toward the top of my set, I heard them talking and I said from the stage, “Hey just so you know, there is a room in back where you guys can talk.  You don’t have to be in this room.”  They stayed in the room.  I got into my set, I couldn’t quite hit my groove, but I got a few laughs.  Then I launched into the sad part, talking about dealing with Mandy’s death. I heard that group laughing.   And that’s when I did something I have never done on stage before.  I went off.  I bellowed, “Shut the f@#% up. If you don’t want to be here, go in the back room.”  The ring leader responded, “I thought this was supposed to be a comedy show.”  And then the emcee said, “Actually it’s a storytelling show, it can be funny or serious.”  And then the guy muttered something and then I wrapped up my set, omitting parts of the story that may or may not have paid off anyway.  I got to my closing sentence about how we want forgiveness to be something instantaneous, but in reality it’s a process.  I got off the stage and decompressed while the next and last comic performed.  

Usually, after a show that does not go the way I hope it will, I have a tendency to beat myself up.  I replay all the missed laughs in my head over and over again.  For lack of a better word, I can be unforgiving. Tonight however, I felt exhilerated by what happened.  I’ve had people talk or heckle during my shows before, but it’s the first time I ever addressed it from the stage.  I was giving them the full Julia Sugarbaker and I kind of liked it.  

After the show, several people came up to me and told me how rude they thought that group was.  They were rude, but you, and by you, I mean I, you have to be ready for events like that to occur when you step up on that stage.  It’s what you’re signing up for.  Also after the show, the drunk ring leader came up to me and asked if he could have a minute of my time.  My friend Linda was there and as I stuttered with “uhhh” she told him that whatever he had to say, he could say right there to all of us.  Then he started to launch into something about how my words from the stage made him feel.  And then, Linda cut him off and said, “Minute’s up, you’re done.”  And then his friends pulled him away.  

I realized as he was standing there, that I wasn’t mad at him at all.  He hadn’t ruined my set, it wasn’t great to begin with.  Also, as I said, I was proud of myself for shouting out, in essence, “I don’t want to be treated like that.”  My daily life is filled with experiences where I have to nod and say yes when I want to say no, where the person I’m talking to deserves to be told no.  But tonight, it went a little differently. And somewhere in the midst there is a lesson in forgiveness, forgiving myself and forgiving others. Sometimes, usually, it’s a process, and every once in a while, it is instantaneous.

Lucy

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A couple days ago, we recognized the four year anniversary of Michael Jackson’s death.  Whenever I think about MJ’s passing, I think about my dog Lucy who passed away a couple days after Michael.  This video I’ve posted was filmed two weeks after Lucy’s passing.  I remember talking to my friend Traci, the show’s producer, that morning, saying I didn’t know if I had it in me to go on stage and be funny. But sometimes grief can lend itself to comedy and the laughs get us through the sadness. Doing this piece helped me heal and move forward.    

The Forgiveness Machine

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The artist Karen Green has written a book called Bough Down about her grief over losing her husband, writer David Foster Wallace. In a review of the book I recently read, there was talk of an art piece that she built and exhibited in 2009 called The Forgiveness Machine, which is pictured here. Basically you write down something you want to forgive or something you want to be forgiven of and you place it at one end and a vacuum sucks it into the machine and it comes out shredded at the other end. What I read piqued my interest so I googled “Forgiveness Machine” and found a few interviews with Green where she talked about how she came to build the piece and the response people had to it. Of course, the first thing I thought was what would I write on that piece of paper. What would I want to forgive? What would I want to be forgiven of?

In November 2010, I was on Maui with my friends Michael and Kim, on my last night on the island, we treated ourselves to a luau at one of the fancier resorts. Now there are two things you should know about me:
1. I love a Mai-tai and 2. I love an open bar. We had a glorious evening under the stars, watching the show, eating poi and pulled pork, and drinking free Mai-tai’s. I had a few, more than a few. I don’t remember all the details, but at the end of the night, as we were walking to our car through the hotel lobby, I said, “This hotel is so pretty, let’s sit here and talk about what a beautiful night it’s been.” 30 seconds later, I was weeping convulsively. Kind of like an Oprah’s ugly cry, but darker. Uglier.

A few days earlier, hours after landing in Maui, my neighbor who had offered to care for my dogs called to tell me one of them, Mandy was not well and did I want them to euthanize her while I was gone. Mandy had been suffering from cancer, a fatal tumor in her sinuses and I knew her time was coming to an end. I had vacillated between going on the trip and canceling. My neighbor knew Mandy was sick and because she’d had her own elderly and frail dogs through the years, I knew she’d keep a watchful eye on her. I was not prepared for her phone call and I did not know what to do. I thought about coming home immediately. She ended up taking Mandy to her vet, he said that the end was near, but he gave her fluids (she’d become dehydrated) and a cortisone shot, which perked her up a little. Even though I had taken Mandy to my vet just a couple weeks before and she’d assured me that Mandy was in pain, but not so much pain that it was time to put her down. I still felt like I let her down, in fact, just reading these words, I still feel like I let her down.

All of these emotions flooded my rum-soaked heart that night when we were sitting on that couch in the hotel lobby. I started crying and I could not stop for 20 minutes. I was sad that Mandy was dying and sadder because I had failed her as her caretaker, as her father. Michael, who does not drink and Kim, who’d drank less than me, both offered support and hugs. If they were embarrassed by my display of emotion they gave no indication. I’m sure it’s not the first time someone’s cried their eyes out at the Kaanapali Beach Hyatt Regency. Eventually, the three of us pulled me together and we headed to our condo, stopping at another ABC store to pick up chocolate covered macadamia nuts for my plane ride home the next day. A couple days later, after spending about 48 hours with Mandy, I did decide to put her to sleep. It was a sad day, to say the least.

If I could go back in time and do things differently, I would. But I can’t go back. Something people told me during this period is that we make the best decisions we can at the time and just hope for the best. I understand why The Forgiveness Machine resonated with so many people. With it’s bright colored gizmos it presents forgiveness as something convivial and instantaneous. It’s neither, but we wish it was. Forgiveness is not a machine, but rather a process.

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