My Friend Lives

After careful consideration,  my Mom has decided not to have our dog Turo put to sleep.

With some input (tearful pleading) from my brothers and I, we convinced her that something might be wrong with him and he should visit the vet before any rash decisions were made. He could have doggy dementia, or been in some kind of pain. She agreed, having no desire to Old Yeller him anyway. I spent several days in quiet anguish, hoping there was some sort of medical explanation for his actions.

Alas, Turo is just a dick.

As far as his doggy doctor could tell, he's a perfectly healthy specimen. Other than his advancing age, he's fine. The vet recommended that my Mom not put him down, but advised that she keep him away from my nieces and nephew (who are 8, 3, and 2 respectively) until they were older, in case he did it again.

So Turo gets to live after all!

It is with much relief that I write this, as his imminent demise was causing me a large degree of heartache. The downside for poor Turo is that he will be wearing a stylish muzzle whenever he's around the kids, or outside of the house.

But it's much better than the alternative.

Birthday Introspection

As much as it pains me to say it, today is my birthday. I hope somebody had the foresight to get me a walker as a birthday gift, because I am old. 

"How old is he?"
"He's so old, he's using us to make a joke!"

I'm thirty three now. The number sounds...odd (get it?). Like a pair of brand new shoes, it just doesn't fit right. No doubt in time I'll get used to the idea of being thirty three. Right around a few weeks until my 34th birthday. 

I'm having a poor time adjusting, if I can be honest. When my 30th birthday rolled around I handled it in the best way possible: I used it as an excuse to take a week long trip to Vegas in the hopes that I would conveniently forget the fact that my twenties had withered and died, only to rise from the ashes as my thirties, not unlike a phoenix. An older, decrepit, crotchety phoenix that needs to invest in some Depend Underwear.

You see where I'm going with this, right?

The point being, I entered my thirties full of hope, of aspirations of awesome. Because to be honest, my twenties weren't all that pleasant- other than that whole youthfulness thing. I spent all of my twenties miserable and broke. I had hoped that by the time my thirties crept up, I would have overcome that little hurdle and figured shit out. 

Fast forward to today, the beginning of my third year of my third decade, and I have come to one conclusion: I cannot adult. I'm still broke, and still miserable. Except now I have a mountain of debt to go along with the standard all purpose misery that buzzes angrily in the background of my day to day world like white noise. But I've bitched about that often enough; at this point, what can I say that's any different from bitching I've already been doing since I started writing this thing?

Instead, let's review the last year.

Surprisingly, Year 32 had some not-too-terrible moments to add spice to the otherwise bland Suck Soup I subsist on daily. 

1. I met a pretty lady who would become one of my closest friends. Okay, that technically happened at PAX last year a few weeks before my 32nd birthday, but I'm still going to count it. The point being, she has been someone whom I could talk and vent at all year without worrying about being judged. True, good friends are hard to find in this world, and I'm happy to have found another to add to my small collection.

2. With some encouragement (nagging) from another friend, I finally got off my hump and got back into acting. With her assistance (nonstop flailing of the arms as she lectured at me), I even managed to get represented by one of the best talent agencies in the Seattle area. 

3. I finally gave in to my aspirations at becoming a professional writer and began the arduous process of writing a book. While there have been numerous twists and turns (a lot of whining,procrastinating, and binge watching of netflix), I'm happy to say that the first, really rough draft is near completion. 74,478 words of word vomit sit on my computer-- and a few usb drives to be safe (paranoid). While it is still unfinished, and nowhere near being anything remotely resembling good, it is technically a novel. 

4. I got to meet one of my idols (someone whom I look upon with great envy in addition to respect). 

As I reflect on this past year, I'm forced to acknowledge some painful events-- the passing of my grandmother being the worst. I lived in an awful area for most of that time, under cramped and uncomfortable conditions. I've had my stuff stolen multiple times. I suffered through difficult financial burdens-- which still haunt me like an overly handsy Ghost of Christmas Past. 

I can't shake the disquieting sensation that my life just continues to slip by, like fine sand through half-numbed fingers. While I'm probably still a little young for a mid-life crisis, if I keep up in my current direction, I may get an early start on one.  Another year past is another year gone forever, one in which I didn't do so many things that I want to do. For instance,  I've still never left the country-- not counting the three or so hours spent driving through Canada to reach Anchorage. 

So this year, I'm going to work on doing all those little things. 

I don't know how well things will go, but I will declare this: by September 18th of next year, I will either be a published author, or well on my way to becoming one. The silly little word document of verbal excrement I've written thus far is just eight or nine chapters away from completion. Then comes the editing, the shameful tears and fits of explosive rage. Then more editing. Repeat until complete. 

That way, when I'm writing next years birthday reflection, I'll be able to describe in great detail how awful writing is and bemoan those life choices.

Assuming I haven't given up writing all together and accepted my fate as just another listless drone shuffling from one crap job to the next until the Grim Reaper comes along and offers sweet, sweet release.

Happy Birthday to me. 

The Passing of a Friend

My dog is going to die today.

Not because of old age, though that would have been the likely cause if we fast forwarded a few years; despite being eleven or twelve years old, with a black coat more and more peppered in gray, he's as spry as a puppy, full of bouncy energy. Whenever I see him, he prances around the room in a display of doggy joy, ignoring all commands to sit and behave. He'd jump up and desperately try to cover my face in saliva as he lavished dog kisses.

Nor is disease the cause; horses would envy his health.  His visits to the vet always revealed a healthy, happy dog who is aging well and not suffering the indignities of the time ravaged.

And accident isn't the cause either. No horrible story about a clueless animal running in the streets, ignorant of oncoming traffic.

Part of me wishes it were because of one of the those causes. Because the reality is far worse.

My dog is going to die today, because he made a mistake.

I should clarify. Turo isn't my dog personally. He's my mom's dog, but we all love him. He's been a part of the family for ten years now. He was there for the good times and the bad. My late grandmother fondly referred to him as her "body guard dog," a role Turo relished as he trailed her where ever she would go around the house when she visited us.

I don't know much about what happened. What I do know is that I received a text from my mom a little past midnight, as I was heading home from work. Turo had bitten my mom, and wouldn't stop growling at her. My heart sank as I read it, for my mom and for Turo.

I'm having a hard time articulating how I feel. There's too much. My heart aches for my mom, who is shocked and dismayed. Once Turo calmed down, he seemed to realize what he had done, because she says he looked sad and ashamed. But the damage has been done. She can no longer trust him.

I feel so bad for my mom, for what she's going through. For what she has to do. Despite what happened, she loves Turo. She doesn't want to hurt him or see him suffer, but what happens if he attacks her again? What if he attacks my nieces and nephew when they visit her? It's understandable that she can't risk that. And simply taking him to a shelter wouldn't work; if he bit her, the woman who had raised him from a puppy, no one else would be safe.

I feel so terribly sad for Turo, who knows that he messed up, that he crossed a line that can't be uncrossed. He's going to spend his last day on Earth knowing that he hurt the person who loves him the most. And the sadness will be mixed with stark terror as he's carted off to be put to sleep.

I feel so helpless. They are both in so much pain, and there's nothing I can do to help either of them. I'm going to miss Turo so very much; I can't express my grief. I just feel...heavy, as though a mountain has settled on my heart.

Goddammit. This sucks.

PAX 2015 and the Aftermath

PAX (Penny Arcade Expo) has come and gone once again.

I had originally intended to give my semi-annual report on the geek fest immediately after it ended, while it was fresh in my brain. Alas, I fell ill the day after and spent the remaining four days of my vacation suffering sporadic sneezing fits strong enough to give me headaches, late night coughing which prevented me from returning to slumber, and a nose that oozed green slime whenever I decided to crawl out of my bed long enough to interact with other humans.

So now that I've recovered, I can report what little I remember of PAX: there were people everywhere, I spent the majority of my time standing in lines (or standing in line to get in line), and I've eaten enough Cheesecake Factory to last me a year.

It doesn't sound very entertaining, but believe it or not, I had a blast. I got to visit with friends I haven't seen in a year or more, and the mere idea of doing something not work related had me walking on air. Stuffy, stale air that reeked of b.o. and doritos.

Because some gamer stereotypes are real.

And then it was over, and I found myself experiencing a common phenomenon called the Post-vacation Blues., wherein you realize that the party's over, and you now have to return to the mindless drudgery of your miserable life. Much like a hangover after a rowdy night of tequila shots, it hits you like a stampede of elephants-- elephants who also had a long night of tequila shots.  In my case, I felt the jubilant energy quickly seep away from me like a leaky balloon.

"Some night, eh?"

Going back to work was hard. I had two weeks worth of emails to catch up on, which I still haven't gotten around to. I already know that at least one of them is from my boss, asking me to pick up some extra shifts to help out. Now, I'm not adverse to helping the team-- when it doesn't inconvenience me-- and considering I only work three days a week now, it's entirely understandable to ask me. I have intentionally not opened that email.

Because to put it bluntly: No. I don't wanna.

Fast forward to the present day, a week after the end of PAX and my vacation. My birthday is a mere 9 days away, and like always, I'm not looking forward to it. Not because I'm getting older; I've made peace with that-- though I have noticed a few grey hairs in my beard, which does cause some concern-- rather, it's because it represents another year of my life that has been spent doing nothing of importance. I can't recall a single thing I've done in the past year that was truly exciting or exceptional.

I should probably work on that.

Today I found myself with time for a rare moment of introspection. I had no work today, no D&D game, and no plans of any kind. My PS4 has been on for the last 13 hours downloading the latest expansion for Destiny, so I couldn't even play that.

As I sat in my room, bored, lamenting the poor choices I've made and my inability to correct them, my gaze happened upon a slip of paper that has been sitting next to my laptop for the better part of a year. Having forgotten what was written on it, I unfolded it.

It said, "Change enough of the little pictures and you'll find you've changed the big picture."

I have no idea where that quote came from, but it seems like sound advice. Plus I had nothing better to do, so why not? So I started with something simple: I cleaned my room.
My room hadn't been properly cleaned once since I moved in. The last week of June. That's not saying it was a pigsty either; I just haven't gotten around to unpacking all the boxes. Or dusting. Or vacuuming.

Shut up.

Once my room was neat and free of debris, I sat down and wrote out a few character outlines for a story I'm going to be working on.

Okay, I lied. I didn't actually write them out. But I did think about writing them out, which is pretty much the same thing, right?

It's some kind of progress, dammit. Don't judge me.