The meaning of life

I used to manage a group of about 20 adults with developmental disabilities in a vocational workshop. During downtime I would make conversation. One day I went around asking a few folks, "What is the secret to the meaning of life?"

The answers I got were:

• Michael Jackson
• Jesus Christ
• 9 o'clock
• I like you.
• Star Trek
• I just came to work.
• Say "please" and "thank you."

This will be a sad one.

This past Thursday marked 6 months since I put Bela down and I've had a hard time bringing myself to write about it.

The day I brought Bela home in February 2005. She was 1.

In October of last year, Bela began to develop a mass on one of her legs. It didn't seem to cause her pain, but the mass was solid so I knew it wasn't fluid. I took her to the vet for x-rays, but the first thing out of the vet's mouth when she saw her was "oh no." X-rays came back with what she expected. On her recommendation I took Bela to a cancer specialist where she spent an entire afternoon getting a bunch of fancy tests to see where we were at.

What we got back was aggressive osteosarcoma, bone cancer. We had several options for treatment: radiation, chemo, and amputation. The estimated cost was $7,000 for the initial round of treatment and surgery. I was told most dogs would have about 6 months at this stage, despite treatment. The thought of her sick from chemo and recovering from an amputated limb for her final months didn't appeal to me. I got her a prescription for pain meds and decided that I would just bring her home and do my best to help her be comfortable for her remaining time. The next couple months, Bela got to do whatever the hell she wanted. She slept on the couch all day, she ate from the table. I bought all the best treats I could find... bacon-wrapped peanut butter biscuits, duck jerky.

By Christmas, Bela spent her entire day like this:

I made a special place for her on the couch where she would sleep all day. She would get up exactly twice to go to the bathroom. After being on a strict meal time routine her entire life, she was now free-fed. Sometimes she would eat a bit after going outside. She had lost about 15 pounds. Her tumor was the size of a baseball now.

The first week of January, I called my mom for help. I couldn't even speak when she answered, I just cried. To this point I had felt that Bela would let me know when it was time, that there would be some indication. But now I felt terrible guilt. She had deteriorated significantly over those last few weeks. The skin around her tumor had started to rupture and it was evident that it was causing her pain. I had begun to realize that I was not ready for her to go and I couldn't fight that it was influencing me. There wasn't any way that I would be able to make the arrangements, so I asked my mother to help. She called back 15 minutes later with a date, time and location. She agreed to go with me.

This is the last picture I took of Bela.

January 5, 2012.

Bela lay in the back seat while my mom checked us in. She weighed 22 pounds, less than half her normal weight. You can see her tumor, it was bad. They brought us around the back to a private entrance to a special room set up for this sort of thing. They had a blanket laid out, several toys and pillows, and a giant jar of treats. I brought Bela in and she greeted the two vet staff. They began giving her treats. Bela ate more food in the next few minutes than she had in the past week. She just kept scarfing them down. While she ate, the vet staff talked to me about the procedure and what to expect. They explained that every dog is different so even a healthy dog's reaction couldn't be predicted. They talked about convulsions, her body evacuating, and other unpleasant things. They anticipated having difficulty administering the shot due to her low blood pressure. Having such a large tumor contributed to the possibility of complications.

It took several minutes for Bela to relax, and they began the procedure. I was instructed to hold Bela in a side hug to prevent her from lashing back at the vet staff administering the shot in her back leg. As expected, it took several attempts to find a vein. When they finally did, they were only able to administer part of the shot. Bela immediately went limp, and I let her lay down. She was still breathing, but her eyes were closed. I laid down next to her until the vet could try again. She was successful this time. Bela's breathing stopped immediately. They checked for a heartbeat. She was gone.

I buried my face in her neck and sobbed (something I subjected her to on more occasions than I care to admit). But this time it wasn't comforting at all. She wasn't my dog anymore, she was just an object. I took her collar off and left the room. Looking back, I regret leaving so quickly, but I knew if I didn't I'd have a harder time doing so.

It's taken me a long time to work out how I feel about the whole thing. Bela was the most significant and consistent part of my life for 7 years and saying good-bye to her was hard, of course. But the part the just ruined me was the thought that she might be confused about what was going on. She obviously knew that something was wrong with her leg. The thought of her being in pain, and not knowing why or what was happening makes me very sad. She and I were a team, a pack. It's something that makes the dog/person relationship unique. I assume that she looked to me for any answers I was able to give her. In those final moments, all I could feel was the weight of having to make the choice to end her life, and I expect I'll continue to carry that weight.

Everyone thinks their dog is the best dog. Well I had the best dog.

Bela is a dog.

"Every dog is different. Just like people, some dogs could live for years after this diagnosis," the vet said. "But most dogs will only have about 3 months."

Aggressive osteosarcoma.

 

Here is where the evil lives.

Bela has been pretty sedentary for the couple weeks since her diagnosis. I've been particularly attentive to her and every rule she's come to know has been dissolved. She eats from the table. Sleeps on the couch. I bought the expensive treats for her: duck jerky and chicken wrapped peanut-butter biscuits. I get nervous the rare times she becomes energetic. I remember once when my cat, Cali, became suddenly overly-affectionate. She climbed into our laps as my family sat in the living room. A few hours later, she passed on, seemingly out of no where. Later we would talk about how she knew the end was coming and made the rounds saying her good-byes. So it makes me nervous when Bela makes an effort to sit next to me.

She is my best friend. I rescued her from the Orange County Humane Society. She had only been there 2 days when I visited. She was the most recent arrival. She was filthy and smelled of death, but she tried her best to push through the fence of her kennel when I walked by. It really bowls me over when I think that there was a time when I had an opportunity to decide if she would be a part of my life. I can't imagine what my life might have been without her. She is my best friend.

There is a song I made up about her. It goes: "Bela is a dog who's got four paws and a furry face." You can sing it to any tune, really. The other day, I got a bit of a chuckle over the irony the song would have if she'd've had her leg amputated. This is, without a doubt, a shit situation. But we're trying to make the best of it.

Talking about something you don't know anything about.

Last summer the Museum of Contemporary Art San Diego commissioned a huge piece by Shepard Fairey as part of a street exhibit series called "Viva la Revolución: A Dialogue with the Urban Landscape."

Everything seemed so deliciously coincidental. The piece is located on the side of an Urban Outfitters, a store predicated on superficiality and the coopting of cultural imagery that is watered down and mass-produced because it's "cool." And then we have Fairey, a white kid from South Carolina, being paid by a museum in La Jolla (one of the wealthiest communities in California) to paste up a giant portrait of Angela Davis. Fairey, of course, became famous by using an image of Andre the Giant. The connection to Professional Wrestling, perhaps the most pure and simple commodification of exoticism, racism, sexism and bigotry, is particularly sweet.

When it comes to his art, Fairey states he is not an activist, he only sometimes uses cultural and/or political imagery to communicate his feelings. Fairey's work is controversial, I suppose, in both its nature and content. Fairey, himself, has been repeatedly accused of stealing or at least failing to give credit for the imagery in his art. Likewise, has Urban Outfitters.

Shortly after its completion, it got tagged.  The tagging was a nice commentary on the ephemeral nature of street art, and much more poignant than the original piece, which is merely a staged representation of what it claims to be. The tagging was scrubbed, however, and the piece has remained as is, until recently.

A few weeks after the piece went up, an illustration was posted nearby outlining proposed construction in the adjacent lot that would obscure the piece entirely. A month or so ago, construction began, and in a few weeks it will be gone. I can't help but think that this was all part of the plan, perhaps to legitimize the project. In either case, it seems to be a perfect ending.

rape culture what?

Hall Pass is a film written by the Farrelly brothers (Dumb and Dumber/There's Something About Mary), distributed by New Line/Warner Bros, about two men who are given seven days by their wives to pursue their uncontrollable male urges without consequence, I assume to save their marriage. I'm not the biggest proponent of marriage, but its depiction as the ruination of masculinity is enough to encourage me to pass on the flick.

But what really got my back up was a line from the trailer. One of the main characters is trying out pick up lines on women in a bar. He holds up a napkin and says, "Excuse me, do you think these bar napkins smell like chloroform? I'm kidding. Can I buy you a drink?"

I'm not going to say anything else about this fucked up movie.

Times are Scarry

maybe there is hope for us yet

If there is ever a time that I feel optimistic about our chances of avoiding our own self-destruction, it is at the thought of the potential to teach our children not to be horrible people. It is difficult not to be wondered and romanced by the efficacy of new, unspoiled life.

Parenting, I imagine, is the most difficult and terrifying profession. Similarly, it provides an unparalleled opportunity to influence change. Let us not waste it.

Cynicality couldn't comfort me again.

For the first time ever, women earn more PHD's than men.

Reading this made my morning. Then I remembered I'm a cynical curmudgeon. Women earn less than men; we all know this. So it occurred to me that a woman might pursue extended education to increase her chances of gaining employment and to command a larger salary, to counteract the prevalent and well-known marginalization of women in this area. It's a sore spot for folks married to patriarchy, so it is unsurprising that Time Magazine would rush to print a recent study which shows that FULL STOP women actually earn more than men. Don't worry yourself that these results only apply to single, childless women, under 30 who live in urban areas. There is one additional caveat in this article that goes unmentioned and the news of the increase in doctorates earned by women brought it all together for me.


In order to earn a proper salary that might rival the men in her community, a woman must possess significantly greater skill, experience and education. Heather Boushey beat me to the punch.