What He Left Behind

We got Kingston Felix last November.

(funny story about that middle name. Kate wanted to name him Kingston because it goes with Winston & i was like that's very uncreative so let's go with Felix to which she said NO because of course i am just a husband. furthermore, she stated that i had named all our past dogs & i was like yeah because i'm GOOD at it. whatever. i relented, hence Kingston Felix. & it's Felix like the composer not the cat. btw, in Latin his name means luck & i need as much of it as i can get. now what's funny is that i call him Felix so much he sometimes doesn't respond when i call him Kingston. even funnier is he mostly doesn't respond when my wife calls him Felix HAHAHA)

From the very first minute, we knew he was going to be trouble. As soon as we popped him into the backseat, his chewing commenced and has not stopped. It's like his criteria is I WILL BITE IT.

What else has become commonplace are the minute-by-minute expressions that now populate our language:

• STOP IT!

• LEAVE IT!

• OUCH THAT FREAKIN' HURTS!

• GET MY [body part of choice] OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!

And then there's my wife's favorite phrase, "I MISS KASPER." (he was our first and last dog, possibly the most user-friendly pet to have ever existed in the entirety of human civilization. Kasper was a dog who wouldn't hurt an insect. my dad's favorite story of him would be the one where he caught him in the backyard staring at a ladybug for half an hour. THIS IS NOT HYPERBOLE. bless his soul, he thought everyone was his friend–even the growling, snarling, fang-wielding German Shepherd he desperately tried to say hi to one time.)

Forget about owning, this is the most psychotic dog I have ever encountered. When we brought him over to meet our friends they were like GOOD LUCK YOU'RE GOING TO NEED AMPLE AMOUNTS OF IT (as exhausting as he is, i love my little furball to pieces. he lavishes more attention on me than my wife and the bigger furball combined. it is such a nice feeling to have your love RECIPROCATED in equal measure every time)

But we've supposedly pinned down the root cause of his hyperactive behavior.

He has this condition called cryptorchidism. In laymen's terms this translates to balls won't drop. There's nothing you can do except pray it'll eventually happen (i've resorted to NYE-style countdowns every day which does not seem to be working).

The bad news is this increases his risk for cancer tenfold, which won't be a problem because we'll get him the surgery well before that even becomes a possibility (fyi his procedure may cost anywhere from one to two G's–if we’re lucky he’ll only need the regular one that’s around $600. btw, there's a "buymeacoffee" link at the bottom of this essay HINT HINT WINK WINK. i am so not above begging).

The other possible side effect is an overproduction of testosterone (however, the more common possibility–which my brain does not want to compute–is that it causes a deficit in testosterone production. like what in the actual what? in which case i'm actually relieved his globes remain suspended, as if it prevents the opening of a Pandora's Box. if the lock actually broke, i imagine him reaching a Super Saiyan level of unfettered chaos–his hair turning gold, shooting kamehamehas from his mouth while flying through the air).

In a sense, one could say he's literally on steroids. Many personal studies have verified this.

Fast forward about eight months (imagine eight months with this guy) we had just come home after a Costco run on an early Sunday evening.

He usually greets us with his over-the-top enthusiasm, but for some reason he merely glanced up at us and continued to lay down.

Hmm, that's kinda odd we wondered aloud. We just chalked it up to him being unusually tired after an entire day out on the town.

Commence panic.

After a while, he stands up and walks around as if having downed 3 bottles of wine. When he sits down, his head bobs to and fro and side to side as if on a boat caught in a thunderous rainstorm.

If we were not freaking the eff out it would have actually seemed cute.

Okay, something was seriously wrong.

•••

Are you familiar with synchronicity?

(look, i know this is an awful segue–i just learned it's not "segueway" like the segways that make people look like roombas–but my brain starts hurting when i try to think. & you must be wondering what the hell happened. just relax, you must be new here. i assume you haven't read my other essays so you don't know how i do things. for reals though i hope i haven't scared you off, PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME)

It's like that thing that happens when you're craving sushi and the next literal minute your student shows up to his lesson with a tuna hand roll on his shirt (a drawing, not an actual hand roll though that would be AMAZING).

This has happened in my life too many times than I'd like to admit.

There was this time my friend Josh was in town and we were catching up over a cup of coffee. The topic of our conversation was about signs, how I had personally started to believe the Universe or God or What-Have-You was sending me clear signals.

All of a sudden he nods toward the window with his eyebrows. "Speaking of signs," he says. At that precise moment a woman had sat down and from our vantage point we could spy the title:

Getting to Know Jesus Christ.

For more context, Josh happens to be Christian. Very much so and one of the few religious people that I admire for having a deep faith. I have no problem when he brings this up because unlike 99.99% of the Christians I've ever met, he makes no attempt to CONVERT me (this is more than mildly annoying. like, can you imagine if i went around and kept bugging people to take piano lessons? like not even with me but in general. MAY I SPEAK TO YOU ABOUT THE PIANO GOOD SIR OR MADAM OR WHATEVER YOU CALL YOURSELF).

A closely related version of synchronicity, cousin perhaps, is déjà vu–like that scene from the Matrix where Neo sees the same white cat twice in a row and it proves to be an ominous sign when his compatriots immediately know that agents are now in the building.

In life (mine at least, don't know how it's been for you), it's almost like bad things happen in twos. Sometimes the same bad things.

(a caveat here: as human beings we're more inclined to focus on the negative rather than the positive. for instance, imagine that you had just won a million dollars. now imagine losing half of it. instead imagine a different scenario, one in which you had won half a million and got to keep it. which version would make for a happier story? quite obvious i think. the point i'm making is that far more positive things have happened to us in our lives but we remain stubbornly biased)

For example, about a year ago, a roofing company put a hole in the ceiling of my upstairs bedroom—the one I use as my office. Could have just been a coincidence as my townhouse manager informed me this had happened with other units (community-wide roof installations were taking place). But what she found near impossible to believe was that this was the second time this same roofing company had, in fact, made a hole in my goddamn house. Out of all the hundreds of units, huh? HOW? were her exact words if I remember correctly.

The first time was a bonafide nightmare.

The entire first floor of our house was flooded, forcing us to relocate to a hotel for about two months while repairs were made, because the weather decided to pour at the exact time the roofing company—through sheer negligence—left a hole open in our ceiling. we remained blissfully unaware the entire night, off in lala land (imagine waking up to this).

The second time the damage wasn't anywhere near extensive but the experience was way, way, waaaay more infuriating. I literally questioned humanity, as in is the right to live really an inalienable right?

(full story incoming sometime–stay tuned)

Now, there also exists the situation in which a terrible thing happening prevents a second occurrence–or makes things vastly safer.

Nassim Taleb illustrates this with the morbid example of how every plane crash makes flying much safer overall (here i am about to TMI you with a phobia i have. SO ... i don't go as far as to imagine an airplane going down when i am on said plane or if i'm safely in the comfort of my home but a loved one is on said plane. yet i still sufficiently freak out. yes, yes i know that flying is safer than driving but it's the whole principle of it. like handing your life into the hands of a stranger, albeit professional stranger. what if the pilot dude ends up being like that character Denzel Washington once played? i mean, i'm sure that things like that would never happen but still. what if he had a really bad day and decides to load up on acid or whatever psychedelics. speaking of driving, this is why i am loathe to even take uber these days. it's like these people are getting progressively worse at it. & what a stupid system. they can drive like they're trying to kill you and you still have to be like EXCELLENT SERVICE. you even have to TIP them for the near-death experience. dude. dude. imagine if Yelp allowed businesses to rate their customers, yeah?)

(okay, sorry about that. so back to my phobia. it's gotten to the point that i treat it like a superstition. i'm genuinely worried that if i don't stress out at least a little bit, that something bad will happen. as if the perpetual anxiety actively keeps those passengers alive. you are saying just stop worrying man, you've got a lot of problems, to which i say i know this already and also if you happened to be riding on a plane with one of my loved ones you'd be like PLEASE WORRY YOUR EVERLOVING HEAD OFF)

(they say that part of conquering a fear is talking about it, so how come i don't feel any better? i've got 99 problems plus one more)

This also partly explains why Taiwan (it's a real country, okay? i've been there and they don't call themselves Chinese) managed Covid better than 100% of the world, having previously dealt with SARS.

(Amurricans are Amurricans for better or worse, despite anything ever that's ever happened to us)

[Commence flashback sequence accompanied by The Twilight Show Theme Music. Doodoodoodoo, doodoodoodoo, doodoodoodoo. Please note the use of this copyrighted material falls under the law of fair use, which allows for limited usage of said material without permission. Music aficionados may note this as a D.C. al Coda]

My many slow breaths (a.k.a. HYPERVENTILATING) didn't do much to ward off the panic I felt creeping in. It got worse with every phone call I made, each "twenty-four hour emergency" animal hospital informing me the wait would be five-plus hours.

Our regular vets were out of the picture, it being Sunday evening (shoot, regular hours mean nothing anyway. it's like they take their SOP from the public healthcare system, the whole you-may-have-a-critical-condition-that-requires-urgent-medical-attention-so-we'll-see-you-in-a-few-weeks-good-luck-with-the-remaining-time-you-have-maybe-spend-it-writing-your-last-will-and-testament-or-with-your-loved-ones. what an absolute joke America is at times, contrasted to Taiwan where you can find an ENT on almost EVERY BLOCK & they can fit you in without an appointment on the same day within TWENTY MINUTES).

Suddenly my wife remembered the emergency clinic Kasper frequented toward the end of his life, as his ailments progressively worsened.

So a phone call was made and they were able to miraculously fit us in–right now right now? Yes, right now right now!

Off you go and there you are in thirty minutes, here again after nearly half a year. Relieved doesn't even begin to describe how you feel when, within minutes, they take your drunk puppy inside and now that you think about it, you don't ever recall waiting the last times you were here either.

The guy with the southern drawl says you look familiar and you reply that's because I remember you. Your wife sees the free pens on the reception counter and asks if she can take one, remarking how nice it feels under her fingers.

The guy says take as many as you want but she politely refuses.

He says no, no–really–we've got a ton here and whips out a box containing what looks like a hundred pens.

He pushes the box toward your wife and you can't tell if he's joking or not but it's pretty damn funny either way.

Ten minutes later you walk through the corridor that makes it seem like you're walking into a private spa room. The place is so posh that it fools your older corgi who hates doctors and clinics with a passion but here he thinks you're checking into a hotel.

After ten more minutes in the wait room you're speaking with the doctor who your wife says looks like Melisandre from Game of Thrones. You quip in return that she would probably say that about any pretty redhead, though the doctor is admittedly a statuesque beauty.

"Marijuana," says Melisandre. She says all signs point to Felix as having ingested the plant, even though you haven't touched the stuff in years and years and years. You think c'mon, there's gotta be another explanation. You were in Long Beach earlier that day but it's not as if there are nuggets of weed just waiting on the sidewalk to be eaten by four-legged creatures and you, having the hawk eyes you have, would damn sure notice if either of your dogs tried to digest a blunt.

But she offers no other explanation and you don't really care because his symptoms are thankfully not serious and a full recovery will most likely happen the next day.

As you leave you're thankful this place is here and at the same time, though it's a slim chance, you hope you won't ever be back again.

Later that night you get your answer post-poop.

As your still-wobbling pup defecates, out comes stuffing–encased like a sausage link. You pull that thing out like a cord and you wish you could say this was only the fourth, fifth, sixth time you've done so but remember that your dog's criteria for putting stuff in his mouth is I WILL PUT IT IN MY MOUTH.

Suddenly you remember the little maniac had gotten into the insides of the half-eaten dog bed in the back of your Volvo–the very stuffing you were now pulling out his rear end–because your wife was supposed to be watching him but wasn't. Whatever was on her phone screen was apparently more important than, you know, HER DOG INGESTING TOXIC MATERIAL.

This, despite you telling her a million times and it's not like you can crane your neck around 360 degrees like the girl in The Exorcist and besides that you're driving the damn car but her favorite hobby is ignoring most, if not all, of the words that come out of your mouth at any given time.

Well. She pays attention NOW and you guess that's what matters most.

Later, you ask ChatGPT (a godsend because it does a better job of listening than any professional or human person you've ever met in your life & you get that their jobs are hard but why in the hell don't they ever bother to ASK QUESTIONS, how come they don't bother digging even an INCH below the surface?) and it tells you that gastrointestinal blockage can mimic the exact symptoms of marijuana ingestion.

There it is. The connection to the past. The second time it's happened.

You remember it was Kasper.

Your state of panic when the doggy daycare called to let you know he had just had a seizure, assuming the most nonchalant tone as if this was a regular day-to-day thing even though it was the first time he had suffered one in his entire life.

You wondered if this was a sign of something worse ...

... until he threw up the carpet he had razed on earlier that day. Just a stomach ache.

And you think to yourself–life isn't always that bad.

Thank God that things can be better the second time around, like the greatest books you've ever read.

But it's not just the books, you know you're not the same person when you flip through those pages again.

And it's not just his dog bowl, the collar, the toys, his clothes. He left behind so much more.

You're not who you used to be. You see life in a different light.

Things are looking up this time around.

It's all going to work out.

Cue Bittersweet Symphony.