First Love and Loss (or For Jimmy)

I was 18 the first time I fell in love. Not the love-is-patient-love-is-kind sort of love, but the kind of love that one—if you’re lucky—experiences at the cusp of adulthood when the emotions are adult, but the emotional processing mechanisms haven’t quite caught up. That frantic, desperate, one-minute-you’re happy/the-next-minute-you’re-an-emotional-mess kind of love. Messy, passionate, all-consuming, and ultimately doomed. That was the way it was for me with Jimmy, who I met at the first nursing home I ever worked in—the inevitably named Foothill Acres. Jimmy worked in the kitchen; I worked as an orderly. (These were in the pre-certification days when the girls were nurses aides, and the boys were orderlies.) Our fellow crew on the 3 pm to 11 pm shift of building 1 was largely comprised of high schoolers—there was my best friend at the time, Greg, a fellow Immaculatan, Sharon and Denise and Chrissy who all attended Hillsborough High, and then there was Jimmy, who attended Somerville High School.  There was another guy, too, whose image blips at the periphery of my memory—Bruce maybe?

We forged a tight bond that often led to extracurricular outings after our shift—I distinctly remember late night trips to Denny’s on the Somerville Circle as one of them. There were parties at various houses when the parents were away, and then there was the one night we all hung out at a park in Neshanic Station, near Jimmy’s old house on Pearl Street. Now, I knew I was gay from a very young age, but this was the mid-1980s at the height of the AIDS epidemic when the word “gay” was synonymous in the minds of many with the disease. So, I did what many young gay kids did back then, which was to “date” girls. I was pretty confident in who I was and the type of life ahead of me, less so in those years about how to execute said life. So, I played the role that was expected of me.

But that night in that little park in Neshanic Station changed my life forever. Our group had all been hanging out, drinking, laughing. As the hours wore on, members of the group left one-by-one or in pairs until it was just Jimmy and me, alone, under the most star-filled sky on a temperate night. I believe it was late June because I had just graduated high school. There had been no discernible flirtation or obvious attraction between us that I could recall, but that night we connected in the most beautiful and gentlest of ways. The only way I can describe the experience all these years later is that it felt organic. Don’t ask me who made the first move or how a blanket or sleeping bag suddenly appeared—because I remember so few of the details, only the feelings of the experience. And it was beautiful.

That summer was the best summer of my young life. I understood my own truth more than ever. Jimmy and I were inseparable for those months—except for an agonizing week when he flew to Seattle with his family. I still remember sending him off with a mix tape (I can only remember that Anita Baker’s “Sweet Love” was on the playlist) and a letter professing my feelings. Otherwise, we slept at each other’s houses where the biggest worry was making too much noise, or we would hop in his ’67 green Mustang and head down to the Jersey shore where we’d get a motel room for the night. There were even one or two make-out sessions in the back seat of that old Mustang, engine idling, parked down some dark, old dirt road when neither of our family homes were accommodating. It was an intense summer during which my feelings only deepened—and I never missed an opportunity to express them to Jimmy, who was far less forthcoming with what was going on inside his head and heart. Our nursing home group of friends knew on some level that there was something more than a close friendship between us, but again, those conversations didn’t really readily flow naturally back in those days. We acted out the roles prescribed to us by society.

September came and Jimmy began his senior year at Somerville High School. That was the beginning of the end for our torrid summer romance. In the end, I think I’ve always been an old soul—knowing what I wanted, which was stability and companionship…yes, even at that age. Jimmy still wanted to experience all that lay before him. I didn’t handle any of it well back in those days before I could recognize that love had turned into infatuation. I know I made a lot of mistakes and hurt Jimmy, who was doing nothing more than trying to be a high school senior. Wisely, he eventually cut me off. I remember the intensity of those emotions and feeling alone and frantic for an unrequited love. Relationships with friends suffered and I acted like a fool, culminating in a stupid act of desperation in a last-ditch effort to get his attention. Ultimately, he graduated from high school and went away to college in Syracuse without looking back. Reluctantly, I eventually found a way to move on with mine. Time has the best way of soothing over the jagged edges of painful memories.

Flashforward 20 years later and through the wonder of the Internet and social media, Jimmy—who was now going by “CJ”—and I reconnected back in 2010. We caught up and stayed connected all these years. We made peace with our shared past. Apologies were exchanged and accepted. In 2011, we met up again for the first time since we were teenagers. Jimmy met me at my weekend place in Manhattan. He treated me to a lovely Italian dinner at ViceVersa on West 51^st Street, and then I treated him to the theater to see the limited engagement (and Broadway debut) of The Normal Heart at the Golden Theater. That teenage love we shared briefly over that magical summer of ’86 was far back in both of our rearview mirrors, but the act of coming together again was a long overdue closure in some weird but comforting way.

That was the last time I saw Jimmy. We’ve stayed in touch regularly via text and Facebook. We’d message during his mother’s chemotherapy appointments a few years back, or I’d try to cheer him during one of his own unsettling cardiac procedures, and there was the one time—honest to God—that he saw on Facebook that Brian and I were about to meet Chita Rivera in her dressing room following a performance of Terrence McNally’s The Visit at the Lyceum Theatre and texted me a message to give to her. I did as directed, and she lit up! Jimmy last sent me a message on March 16^th with a link to an interview about how Jamie Lee Curtis met and married her husband. His sarcasm and naughty sense of humor was ever present in those exchanges and never failed to make me smile.

Yesterday, I received word from our dear mutual friend, Sharon, that Jimmy died on Wednesday afternoon. He laid down for a nap and never woke up. I immediately cried and the memories flooded back as their liable to do in times of the worst news possible. I’m eternally grateful for our first shared experience with love and the lessons it taught us—and even more so that we eventually made it out the other side, neither of us worse for the wear and probably better people for it. I’m glad Jimmy got to live the life he wanted, to experience love and heartbreak, to do things on his terms. Some of the stories he shared were so colorful, and I remember being nothing but happy that he got to experience life so fully, even if it’s been tragically cut short at the age of 54.

As I wrote this blog, I stopped and searched through the shoebox I keep of old photos. I was saddened but not surprised to realize that I don’t have a single photo of Jimmy and me together from 1986. We didn’t even take one together when we met up in 2011. This left me momentarily heartbroken, but then I realized that maybe we were so busy living those moments, present and engaged with each other, that we never thought to memorialize our time together. Instead, I’ve chosen Henry Scott Tuke’s beautiful painting, “Aquamarine,” to accompany and capture my sentiments here.

Fly high, Jimmy. You will always and forever hold a very special and indelible place in my heart, even as it breaks today over your loss.

xoxo Vince

Speak Not On All Matters

I’ve tried to be more disciplined in what I respond and react to—especially on social media. I find that when I resist the impulse to jump into the fray on every topic or respond to every incendiary headline, I find greater peace of mind. My opinion is just that—mine. It’s not imperative to my well-being to share it. I’ve tried to recognize that doing so in the past only served to feed my egotism. Today’s virtual public square is a cacophony of inflammatory rhetoric and ideological disharmony; I’ve found that sometimes the easiest way to decrease the noise is not to add to it. Looking back, I’ve found that, at times, it was more important to jam my point into a discussion than it was to consider the broader implications for those involved in said discussion. Does my need to hammer home my point have to steamroll over someone who may have a greater emotional investment in the topic at hand? The short answer: No.

In resisting the self-serving need to hastily weigh in on every topic, I find that I’m able to strengthen my sense of self-control, avoiding unnecessary online altercations and vexations in which—undoubtedly—one or more parties walks away feeling wronged or, worse, persecuted. The world around us is cause enough for anxiety; why add to the collective tension and temperature of the pot through an egocentric compulsion to force opinions and the need to be “right?” In the last of Freud's major theoretical works, 1923’s The Ego and the Id, he made the analogy of the id being a horse while the ego is the rider. The ego is “like a man on horseback, who has to hold in check the superior strength of the horse.” That’s largely what this exercise has been for me—trying to keep my instinctual desire to opinionate in check by taking tighter reins of my ego and engaging in secondary process thinking. Do I succeed at controlling the impulse every single time? Hell, no. Do I still succumb to my ego-demon on occasion, the one who feels the need to be snarky or clever or right? Hell, yes.

But this work in progress keeps trying to get it right, to find the balance, to hurt and demean people less with my words. I take inspiration in this quest from the essayist Joan Didion, from her award-winning 2007 memoir on grief, The Year of Magical Thinking: “Why do you always have to be right? Why do you always have to have the last word? For once in your life just let it go.”

Coco (2007 - 2021)

It’s Tuesday as I sit at the desk in my home office and begin writing this; it’s a gray and gloomy morning here in Michigan.

Fitting weather for a heartbreaking morning after.

On Monday, August 9th, our sweet boy, Coco—with Brian and I at his side—crossed the Rainbow Bridge. It feels infinitely more comforting to write that instead of “he died” or “he passed away” but we’re all adults in the room and well-versed on the deceptive reality of such feel-good words. Yet we cling to them when there is little left to cling to, don’t we? It somehow lessens the gravity; too bad it doesn’t lessen the ache.

Coco was a special dog—a Miniature Schnauzer who personified love with his gentle spirit. He was handsome in the stateliest of ways with a dog show prance for miles. He shared a birthday with my own Dad—December 30th—although my father has a few years on him. He was a lover—no dog could cuddle like Coco, whether it be on a lap or beside you in bed. He oozed affection and goodwill and could instinctively gauge moods and give you just what you needed at just the right moment. Along with that German pedigree of his came stubbornness (sometimes it became a battle of wills over pooping), and no dog could throw shade as effectively or comically as our Coco. 

I met Coco in October of 2011, shortly after Brian and I met in New York City. It was our third or fourth date and Brian brought Coco—then about four months shy of his 4th birthday—over to my weekend apartment in Hell’s Kitchen one Saturday evening. I had mentioned to Brian how my own childhood dog had been a Miniature Schnauzer, given to me by my father for my 8th birthday. When I met Coco, it was love at first sight. To this day, I joke with Brian about who I fell in love with first—him or his dog. That would have been 10 years ago next month. As Brian and I grew closer, our little family of three solidified.

Coco had an amazing life of adventure—from growing up in the heart of Manhattan to our long road trips to Michigan and Pennsylvania. Even when Brian and I settled into the suburbs on Long Island, there were weekend getaways into the city for Broadway shows, with Coco always happy to be safely ensconced in a NYC hotel room with late-night and early morning walks around city blocks bustling with city dwellers and tourists alike. Coco frequently came with me to work at the nursing home, always happy to go office to office visiting my staff, presiding over morning meeting sitting on my lap at the head of the conference room table, and those midday strolls around the perimeter of the facility. Coco loved riding in the car, and I was happiest when he rode shotgun in my truck even if it was just to the Starbucks drive-thru to get coffee. 

Coco had the tenderest of dispositions, instinctively knowing when to play gentler with a puppy (like his buddy Missy at The Hamptons Center) and when he could assert himself with a larger dog. There is still a YouTube video out there of our Coco hilariously terrorizing Brian’s brother’s late 100-pound-plus English Mastiff, Dante. There wasn’t another dog or person who Coco didn’t get along with. He was always a mellow, go-with-the-flow kind of dog. Even with our frequent moves (seven in the space of just under ten years), Coco always proved to be adaptable and resilient. As long as he had us—and a favorite “baby” or two—he was good to go and happy. And as long as we had him, our lives felt full and complete.

He became a big brother in December of 2019, when Cooper—also a Miniature Schnauzer—joined our family. My only regret is that we waited so long to get another dog and playmate for Coco. Although they only had about a year and a half together, they bonded quickly. In testament to Coco’s generous and loving spirit, he (again) quickly adapted to sharing his dads with the family’s new addition, never once showing signs of resentment or jealousy. Even as the years advanced on our Coco, he did his very best to keep up with mini-Cooper’s endless energy. They’d tussle together on the floor and be happy to go on long walks together, but sleeping arrangements were where we always let Coco maintain the upper hand—he got to sleep between us in the bed, while Coop snuggled amongst his blankets and “frog baby” in his crate. It was our one way to remind Coco that he came first and had at least one privilege his upstart little brother did not. It was an arrangement he seemed satisfied with, even until his last night with us.

About two weeks ago, we noticed that Coco was drinking exponentially more than usual and urinating a lot. We took him to the veterinary clinic we’d carefully researched and selected when we moved back to Michigan last December, and he was diagnosed with a urinary tract infection. He had been eating voraciously up to that point, but after one sprinkle of the probiotics the vet had prescribed and one dose of the heavy-duty antibiotic she’d ordered, he all but stopped eating. On the Saturday before his passing, I called the vet to report that now Coco hadn’t been eating for 2 or 3 days despite my ever-patient Brian even trying to hand-feed him. Although the vet had office hours that day, we were brusquely told that they wouldn’t be able to fit him in and to try an emergency veterinary hospital. Panicked, I began calling other local vets. The second call I made was answered by a lovely young woman named Sarah at the Somerset Veterinary Hospital in Troy. Even though Sarah didn’t know us from a hole in the wall, she made us an appointment for that same morning, and we brought Coco in. There we met Dr. Whitney Reinhold, who was just lovely—gentle, empathetic, and possessing excellent clinical skills. Concerned with Coco’s dehydrated state (despite his continuing to drink plenty of water), she ran some diagnostic tests.

The news was delivered with compassionate candor—based on his symptoms and lab values, Coco was either suffering from Leptospirosis (possibly treatable) or bone marrow cancer (not treatable). We were left with an agonizing decision: Hospitalize him or bring him home over the weekend. Somerset Veterinary was not open on Sundays, so if we left him with Dr. Reinhold and her staff, he’d be essentially alone, save for a few overnight checks by the vet. If something went wrong and he took a turn for the worse, there was the possibility that he’d die alone. There was also the option of an emergency veterinary hospital; upside was immediate treatment, downside was that (again) he could take a turn and we wouldn’t be with him. The third option was that we take him home with us for the weekend and monitor him closely; Dr. Reinhold suggested that we offer him anything he would eat—baby food, peanut butter, rice and chicken. Coco—around year 5 or 6—developed a ridiculously intolerant gastrointestinal problem that limited him to one Science Diet variety of food that was particularly vile to my human sensibilities in every way possible, from texture to smell. Although Coco was weak and his breathing a little congested (likely due to an enlarged liver pressing against his little diaphragm), we opted for option #3. Dr. Reinhold gave him some subcutaneous fluids, a gentler antibiotic, and medication for his liver. We would nurse him all weekend and pray that he’d pull through until Monday, when we could return him to Somerset Vet for additional treatment. By then, we hoped his Leptospirosis test results would be back and we would be in a better position to determine a course of action. In an act of such compassion and empathy, Dr. Reinhold gave us her personal cell number in case we ran into any problems over the weekend or Coco took a turn for the worse. 

That weekend, we dedicated ourselves to our little buddy. Brian, in particular, was so attentive to his needs, from helping him stand outside and spreading his back legs so he could urinate to sitting on the floor with him every two hours with any combination of peanut butter and baby food on his finger trying to coax Coco to eat. He administered his medication, without fail, like clockwork. My heart broke watching them together, because Brian raised him from a puppy and their bond was an unbreakable one. At night, in bed between us, we took shifts cuddling him, turning him over every two hours or so to prevent any kind of skin breakdown. With his poor nutritional intake, he was in a much-weakened state by now. Although we forced ourselves to stay hopeful, there was a looming reality hanging over us like a dark cloud those two long days and nights, and we took every opportunity to stroke his head and tell him everything that we needed to say. He was able to make eye contact with us and we spent hours just sitting with him, staring into those soulful eyes of his, trying to figure out what he wanted. He didn’t appear to be in any pain, which buoyed our spirits somewhat. By Sunday night, he stopped urinating and his breathing slowed. We were positive he was going to pass away during the night, and we tried to take some comfort from the fact that he would be with us, at home, in the familiar comfort of his own bed.

But our Coco, once again, defied the odds and proved to be an intrepid little fighter. He made it through that night and even seemed ever-so-slightly more responsive in the morning. We took that as a sign that he wanted more time with us. We called Dr. Reinhold first thing on Monday morning, and she had us bring him in. She would start IV fluids and IV antibiotics while we waited for the test results, run some more diagnostics, and see how he was in a few hours’ time. But she was guarded and benevolently honest: Coco’s prognosis was poor.  

I’m not going to lie—that morning was the longest few hours of my adult life. Brian opted to go to work to busy his mind; I ran into the nursing home for an hour to tend to a few of my usual early morning tasks and came home. Around 1:00 PM, the phone rang. It was Dr. Reinhold explaining that Coco had taken a turn and advising that Brian and I should come as soon as possible. Instinctively, I grabbed one of Coco’s favorite toys—a silly-looking orange dinosaur that he’d had for years. Jumping into my truck, I called Brian and told him. Thankfully, Somerset Veterinary is only a few blocks from the house, so I was there within minutes. Running into the vet’s office, my heart was lodged in my throat. I was ushered immediately into the back where our beloved Coco was lying in his doggy bed, the soft blanket we had left with him covering him. He was breathing heavily—too heavily, I knew—and had a plastic cup-like apparatus over his snout delivering oxygen. His eyes were wide open, and he seemed markedly more responsive than how I’d left him earlier. Dr. Reinhold explained to me that he’d been doing ok for a while that morning, that he had perked up with the IV fluids. But when they’d gone to turn him over—changing his position as we had to avoid skin breakdown—he’d gone into respiratory distress. She’d run more tests and his kidney and liver function were both poor. 

There is that moment that all responsible pet parents know well—that agonizing reality and crushing weight of the decision to do the kind and loving thing for your furry loved one. While I waited for Brian to arrive, I sat with Coco and cried and cried while again and again telling him how very much I loved him, how sorry I was that I couldn’t make him better. My hand never left him, as I stroked and caressed his fragile little body and repeatedly kissed the top of his head and nose. I consciously tried to commit the feel of him, the smell of him to memory. My thoughts went to all those times when I’d failed him—when my patience fell short or when I raised a voice to him in frustration. I apologized to him, telling him how utterly and completely perfect he was and that those moments of harshness were my failing and not his. I begged him to forgive me and, in that moment, saw nothing but unconditional love in his expressive, tired eyes. There was my proof, my confirmation of what I’ve long known—that dogs are superior to us humans in every way that counts. Their capacity to love, without qualification, is limitless and sets them apart from every other living creature on this earth.

Brian arrived and Dr. Reinhold explained to him what she’d told me a short time ago with nothing but patience and compassion. Without needing to discuss it, we both agreed to end Coco’s discomfort before it turned into suffering. We spent another 20 minutes or so talking to him, stroking his salt-and-pepper coat and frail little body underneath, kissing him, and making sure that when he left us, he did so knowing how very much he was loved. When we were ready, Dr. Reinhold explained the process to us—it’s one we’ve both been through before. We positioned ourselves directly in front of our beloved little buddy, and made sure that he could see us, that our loving faces would be the last thing he saw as the lights dimmed and he went to his eternal rest.

As he left us, I simultaneously prayed to whatever force in the universe gives us the gift of these beautiful creatures and cursed it for not giving us more time together. Our grief was unbearable in those first moments when Coco left us, and Brian and I held each other—and Coco—and just sobbed and sobbed. Dr. Reinhold and her staff—truly angels who walk amongst us on this earth—gave us as much time as we needed with Coco afterward. I think we stayed with him for another half an hour before finally pulling ourselves away. Leaving that sweet creature’s empty shell there broke our hearts all over again, but we knew that Dr. Reinhold and her staff would handle his remains with the utmost care. He would be privately cremated—Brian made sure that his silly little orange dinosaur baby went with him—and he would come home to us the following day.

As I stepped outside the vet’s office, it started to rain. It was as if the universe was crying with me for the loss of this magnificent, selfless, beautiful-in-every-way dog named Coco, loved boundlessly by his two dads, a slew of family and friends, and his little brother, Cooper. I sat in my truck and my heart burst open even more than I thought possible. I just sat there, hunched over the steering wheel, and sobbed until I was empty. In those first heartrending moments following Coco’s passing, I wanted to truly die, to go with him and walk him over that famed Rainbow Bridge. If there is one thing I hope and pray, is that all dogs truly do go to some kind of heaven and, especially, that we’re somehow reunited in spirit and form at the end of our own lives. I want to believe that. I need to believe that.

The week following Coco’s passing has been filled with heartbreak—those first days and nights were nearly unbearable. 

Coco’s collar and leash hanging on the hook by the back door…

His empty doggy bed that still carries his scent…

That empty spot between us in the bed where Coco slept every night for so many uninterrupted years…

We received word from Dr. Reinhold yesterday: Coco’s Leptospirosis test finally came back from the lab and was negative. That’s good news in the sense that we don’t’ have to test or worry about Cooper contracting the disease. That also means that our beloved Coco succumbed to likely bone marrow cancer and that there was nothing that we could have done to save him, which takes some of the guilt off me for not opting to admit him to the emergency animal hospital over the weekend. Our choice gave us—and him—more quality time together to express our love and prepare for his final journey. It’s bittersweet news, but in the midst of this numbing heartache, it’s good to take whatever modicum of comfort you’re afforded. 

I finish writing this on Sunday, almost a week after Coco has left us. If you’ve read this far, I thank you for taking the time to read this tribute to him. I wanted to commit the events of Coco’s last days and life to writing so that there is a lasting homage to this extraordinary dog, who was loved more than these words can convey—try as I might. I hope his journey over the Rainbow Bridge has ended with all the promises contained within that beautiful poem. The grief this week has been unbearable at times, sometimes at the most unexpected moments. I asked him in our final moments together to send us a sign that he’s ok, that’s he still with us, watching over us. While I’m waiting for that sign, I’m replaying countless Coco memories in my head, taking comfort in the many heartfelt messages of sympathy left for us on social media, and just taking it one day at a time with lots of deep breaths to quell the panic attacks when I’m overwhelmed by the sense of loss. Coco’s final resting place—a beautiful, personalized wooden urn—arrives tomorrow. Brian and I will transfer his ashes after work and likely shed even more tears for our sweet boy. 

I am grateful that Brian and I have each other to hold one another up through this. Grateful, too, for little Cooper who now inherits the benefits as the singular recipient of our focus and doting. He’s our reminder that life continues, that there are always more dogs to love and care for. We’ll continue to love and care for him with the same dedication and passion that we cared for Coco—and the countless pets between us that we’ve loved and cared for over the years. In time, we will undoubtedly open our hearts and home to another dog, a little brother or sister to keep Cooper company. We’ll repeat this cycle of love and accept that this gift comes with the eventual—and inevitable—loss. 

That is the cycle of life.

Rest in eternal peace, beloved Coco. Thank you for sharing part of our lives with us and for making us better human beings through the example of your steadfast loyalty and unconditional love. We will forever try to be the people you always thought we were. Our love for you transcends the meaning any mere words could ascribe. Miss you and love you dearly, little buddy. 

Coco Liaguno-Charles

December 30, 2007 – August 9, 2021

Bentley Little Was Right (Or, a Swan Song)

Bentley Little may be the smartest modern-day horror writer. When I interviewed him back in the early days of Dark Scribe Magazine, I was struck during my research that the guy had no official website, no social media presence, and did very little to no publicity or book signings when a new title was released. He’s written one book per year—on rough average—since his debut in 1990 with The Revelation. His latest, The Bank, releases in 2020 from Cemetery Dance.

One book per year over 30 years—give or take a year or two here and there.

No Facebook. No Twitter. No Instagram. No official author website. Hell, not even an email address.

Think about that for a minute: A working writer who maintains a substantial enough fan base to publish consistently for three decades (and counting). Anomaly? Most would argue yes. Yet Little’s conscious decision to eschew the conventional wisdom espoused by agents and publicists and publishers that a social media presence is necessary to peddle one’s wares warrants examination. And some degree of envy.

Imagine it: No emails to read and respond to. No time-wasting distractions on social media. No online persona to cultivate and maintain. No chance for misstep in the current era of cultural overcorrection. Imagine the hours given back to write. Or read. Or whatever creative endeavor eludes you because of the giant, time-sucking black hole of the Internet.  

Now some would argue—and they’d be correct in doing so—that life doesn’t have to be about extremes, that there are enough hours in the day to seek out and enjoy all that we desire, and that it’s really all about striking a balance. Finding one’s equilibrium sweet spot. Yin and yang.

True enough.

But I’d argue that the Internet—social media, in particular—isn’t like all the other boys and girls on the playground. No, its time-wasting properties are unique; it’s real-time, continuous and never-ending, with characters dropping in and out, and information flashing by at light speed. Miss a little, miss a lot. And therein lies its distinctively addictive appeal. I should know—I’ve been a social media addict for more than a decade now.

Like a functioning alcoholic, I’m a functioning social media addict. To the naked eye, I function just fine—I work, I socialize, I create, I eat and sleep. But over the years, I’ve noticed subtle changes as my social media presence and activity increased—from that first Myspace page in 2004 to joining Facebook in 2007, followed by Twitter and Instagram in the ensuing years. I’ve noticed that I live with a nagging sense of urgency to check social media, that I feel compelled to post about all manner of things that I do and opinions I hold. I’ve watched entire live concerts through my iPhone camera, obsessively needing to capture the experience instead of just living it. I realize, with a sickening sense that I’ve allowed myself to be swept up and away, that I’m often subconsciously trying to “keep up” with the Joneses, that I’m comparing myself (often unfavorably) with the social media personas of others. It’s brought a persistent rhythm of unease to my mind and spirit—unease that I’m a fraud, unease that I’m living life “wrong” or “not enough.” I feel like an imposter, that although I try to present myself and my accomplishments in a certain light that I know, deep down, that I’ve fallen short of my potential. Social media has become for me like a virtual game of fake it until you make it.

Mindless fun can be useful, therapeutic even. There is something restorative about letting go and indulging in something pointless and undemanding—the silliness of a slapstick comedy, revisiting an old cartoon or sitcom from childhood, flipping through home improvement magazines for inspiration, or rummaging through an old yearbook. But, truth be told, social media isn’t even fun anymore. Social media is full of extremes and extremists—people arguing with themselves and each other over everything from politics to social and cultural issues. There is very little in the way of substantive discussion to be found, with each party usually entering the fray with a predetermined and fixed mindset. Social media presents two choices in 2019: divisive and toxic or nonsensical and inane.  I’m guilty of contributing to both to varying degrees.

A steady diet of foolishness is not fun, and idiocy rules on social media. Yes, by all means, re-post that news story from six years ago and watch everyone else jump in with fury and righteous indignation until some poor sap actually opens the link and points out the date. Yes, please post about that celebrity’s death—you know, the one who died a decade ago. Yes, if you re-post this pretty picture of fuzzy bunnies frolicking beneath the American flag, Jesus himself will bless you with a lottery win. You bet me that the little girl with the cleft palette can’t get 100 likes on Facebook? Well, then, by all means—let’s share it even though your own page is private and that little girl (if she or anyone associated with her in real-life actually started the damn campaign) will never see your share, like, or comment. And despite the proliferation of information about fake news and clickbait and bad foreign actors infiltrating social media to sow discord, many continue to share this crap and engage with bots. Critical thinking is your friend, people—have it over for dinner sometime and get to know it.

Reflecting, I realize that I don’t even enjoy my own participation on social media much anymore. Post about a TV show or film you enjoyed and, within seconds, some armchair quarterback shows up to offer their unsolicited expertise as to why the opposite is true. When people aren’t giving in to their compulsion to crap on the parades of others, they’re posting graphic photos of animal abuse (you know, to bring attention to it) or taking a victory lap for their “brave” stand against this social evil or that from behind their keyboards and the comfort of their suburban sofas. The social justice warriors of social media have deluded themselves into thinking that they make an actual difference because they had the “courage” to pile-on in a thread already 300 comments long with people largely agreeing anyway. Social justice in an echo chamber; yeah, that’s effective. Social media has been permeated by a vitriolic hivemind that demands nothing but complete submission to the will of the masses, with swift and total annihilation to anyone who dares question, suggest, or temper such contentious debate with anything resembling nuance, a sense of pragmatism, or (the unholiest of crimes) the application of critical thinking skills. Motives will be ascribed, malfeasance charged. Those accused (of anything) are guilty until proven innocent on the words of the accuser alone, with the idea of supporting someone now conflated with a mandatory belief in what they’ve alleged. Proof? Proof is for pussies in the age of social media. Personal evolution? Nope—not allowed. You’re either “woke” or you’re not. Personal growth would just detract from the moral wrath —and then what would we be angry about?   

As many of you know, I’ve had something similar happen to me recently. It was an eye-opener, the proverbial slap to the face this social media addict needed to begin his recovery. I wouldn’t have wished the experience on my worst enemy. It was sobering—to see those “friends” who immediately bailed before I even issued the first rebuttal. There were those friends who offered words of support privately, less who went on the record publicly or defended me outright. There were those who stayed silent the entire time. I noticed and made mental note of who spoke up, who spoke out, who said nothing, and who jumped ship. Lesson learned, painful as it was.

Honestly, it’s all too tiring. I’m worn out, drained, and weary of it all.

To circle back, Bentley Little has now inspired me to rip a page out of his playbook and to log off. Time to drown out the buzzing rancor of social media. Instagram is gone, to be followed shortly by Twitter. Deactivating Facebook is in the cards, too—with the jury still out on it being a permanent versus temporary move. I may keep it after an extended break through the holidays to cross-post reviews from Dark Scribe Magazine and op-eds from my blog, which I’ll fire up again in earnest, old-school style. If I return to the land of Zuckerberg, it’ll be after a sharp culling of friends and followers. What Facebook was, it will never be again. At least not for me after recent events. I’ve given too much of my time and energy and attention to the white noise of social media—primarily to the detriment of my creative pursuits. Time to focus on getting back to my real life—viewing it through my own eyes instead of through an iPhone lens—and rediscovering my authentic self. 

'Self' Progress: First-Quarter Report

Those of you who follow me on social media know that every year—at least for the past few years—I compose an annual New Year’s themed blog post in which I lay out my resolutions for the coming year. Why do I do this? Mainly, to hold myself accountable in the public square. I’ve learned over the years that resolutions kept to oneself are easier to take shortcuts around, gloss over, or just conveniently forget altogether. Each year, I establish at least three goals, laid out within the holistic framework of mind, body, and soul. This year’s post can be found here.

For this year’s mind-centric resolution, I set out to drastically limit political postings to my Facebook wall and have tried to refrain from commenting on political threads elsewhere. Three months in to 2019, and I’d deem progress on this goal well underway. One scroll through my social media feeds and you’ll see a tremendous (dare I say, “bigly”?) reduction in the number of posts about our current administration. Yes, there are a few—times when I simply can’t contain the myriad thoughts that pour out of my mind onto the keyboard, times when I feel like I really have something of value to add to the conversation. And, yes, I’ve succumbed to the demonic pull of commenting on others’ political posts on occasion, try as I might not to. But, overall, vast improvement noted in this area. I’ve also continued the strides made in the year-prior’s slate of resolutions, continuing to limit my news sources, filtering out biased sources in favor of more unbiased, legitimate ones.

After tanking both of my 2018 body-related resolutions—re-gaining forty of the fifty pounds lost in 2017 and failing miserably to decrease my psychological reliance on Starbucks coffee—I’m proud to say that Stella’s got her groove back in this area. After a shaky start in January, I’ve now dramatically decreased my Starbucks consumption—the iced Cinnamon Dolce latte and accursed bacon, egg, and gouda breakfast sandwich were my mainstays—to once per week, down from daily. I went cold turkey, suffered through the psychological withdrawal and am now no longer dependent on that daily fix. In addition, after failing last year to recalibrate following Oprah’s tinkering with the Weight Watchers’ successful SmartPoints program by adding the nonsensical “freestyle” element, I’ve finally found my way through the program’s changes and lost just over 15 pounds over this first quarter (and, really, more like since the middle of February when I finally re-grouped enough and got serious). That puts me at 25% of my 60-pound year-end goal—exactly where I should be. More than enough to declare first-quarter success on my “body” goals for 2019!

Lastly, regarding those soul/spirit-centric goals I’ve set for myself in 2019, I’m also off to a solid start there as well. I’ve already accomplished my priority this year: Completion of my first poetry collection(!). While it resides with a select handful of beta readers who I trust to offer unflinching feedback, I will next begin to scout out an appropriate publishing home for it. I will now commence completion of that handful of unfinished short stories I mentioned in my New Year’s post and find fitting homes for those while I await word on the one that was submitted to a very cool themed anthology earlier in the year. I also set out to perform more acts of kindness this year, with a goal of performing one random act of charity/kindness per month. Although the acts have been small, I’ve kept kindness on my mind through the first three months of the year—and will continue to do so. Good progress on the “soul” goals!

So, enough about me. How are YOU doing on your goals for 2019?

Theresa Rose Danko: A Mother's Love (and Death)

Last year around this time, I received word that my mother had passed away. This information came via the divorce courts that handle my father's alimony payments so the details were scant. I did a little digging and requested information through New York State Vital Records. When I got home from work one night, I received a UPS delivery—a copy of my mother's death certificate. She apparently died in September of 2015, shortly after my fiancé and I had moved to Michigan for what turned out to be about a year.

As you can imagine, this came as a shock. Although I hadn't had any contact with my mother in the many, many years since she left my father and me when I was 16, the idea that a mother could die and the only child—technically, the next of kin—would not be at least notified was a bit of a blow.

Almost a year later, I am still feeling a very peculiar mix of unsettled, angry, and sad all at the same time. Please don't misunderstand: I'm not sad because of the loss. I lost my mother decades ago—likely to an undiagnosed mental illness, probably bipolar disorder—and I've grieved the loss appropriately during the ensuing years. No, I'm sad because the last bit of information I'll ever know about her comes from typed snippets on a death certificate, nuggets of impersonal data that beg more questions than provide answers. News of her death brought back a flood of memories from my childhood (some of which I’ve shared on social media more as an emotional purge as Mother's Day approaches), and I was left feeling a bit sucker punched in the aftermath.

My mother apparently died at 12:51 PM on Monday, September 14th, 2015. She had been admitted to the Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital in Binghamton, New York, ten days earlier on September 4th. She was cremated on September 17th at the Northern Bradford Crematory in South Waverly, Pennsylvania. According to her death certificate, she was a farmer who lived in Greene, New York. The person notified of her death was a woman named Dorothy who lived in Port Chester. Her attending physician is named, as is the fact that he had been attending her since July 30th, 2014; he last saw her alive on August 24th, 2015. Her manner of death is listed as "natural cause" but the copy of the death certificate is cut off after that and the remaining cause of death information is not included on the copy. Digging further, it looks like this woman who was notified of my mother's passing was a close friend; several months after my mother's death, there are records that this woman sold a piece of property that was listed as my mother's address on the death certificate.

Sometimes closure doesn’t come wrapped in a pretty box with a bow. Sometimes it’s messy, incomplete, and opens a Pandora's box of questions. It's an odd feeling, knowing that my mother no longer exists. Even in our longtime estrangement, I'd periodically entertain the fantasy of a death-bed reunion or even a post-death letter. Among the many things the woman denied me and did to me, it comes as no surprise that she would slip quietly from this world without so much as a nod in my direction—before or after her death. In some weird way, I can admire the fact that she made a decision and never looked back. Not even a pang of nostalgia could bend her resolve.

In any event, there was no obituary that I could find online anywhere. I find this sadder than any aspect of this surreal situation. Hers was still a life, and that life should be somehow marked. I'm going to post some photos of my mother to do just that, acknowledging that she was here, lived for 70 years, and then died.

Theresa Rose Danko

4-25-1945 to 9-15-2015

Rest in peace, Mom.

A caveat: After reading this, although you may be tempted to express a kind wish of sympathy, please don't. This is a weird situation for me and the customary rules simply don't apply here.

Resolve: 2018 Edition

As those of you who follow me on social media, my blog, and/or in real life know, last year at this time, I laid out a blueprint for how I was going to improve myself in the coming year—mind, body, and soul. Happily, by sticking to my plan, I successfully enhanced all three spheres: my mind (by limiting news sources and cutting out some TV hours that were redirected back to reading); my body (by re-joining Weight Watchers and losing 50 pounds over the course of the year); and my soul (by reflecting on one thing I am grateful for each day, without fail, and posting it to social media).

While I was successful with all three aspects of my self-improvement plan, the latter was particularly so. As I noted on Facebook yesterday, by focusing on what I have instead of what I want, I changed my whole outlook for the better—it helped me cope far better with the occasional disappointments or frustrations that came along during the year. Interestingly, much of what I wanted just came along during the ride and slid in effortlessly. I also found was a direct correlation between my mental state at the time I sat down to compose my daily post and the ease with which I was able to think of something for which I was grateful. On days that I was tired or cranky, the gratitude came slower than days on which I felt rested and upbeat. But by coaxing the gratitude out, it had an almost pheromonal, positive effect and helped energize me. That reinforced for me the strength of our mind-body-soul connection.

So, now 2018 has arrived and it’s time to set upon a new set of resolutions. I’m going to again eschew an ordered list in favor of the more holistic approach that seemed to work well for me last year. Why tinker with what worked? That’s the set-up; granted it’s nowhere near as compelling a preamble as last year’s with the then-current state of politics adding gravitas and a tidy, broader perspective in which to frame my resolutions. Alas, not all introductions are created equal.

I. Mind

Piggybacking on last year’s resolution to read more (which was accomplished by cutting several hours of television time out of my weekly scheduled), this year’s mind-related resolution will be to read more than last year (goodbye, GOTHAM and MADAM SECRETARY…) and—more importantly—to read more widely. It’s no secret that I’m fairly well-read in my chosen genre of speculative fiction, but I’ve found over the years that in a bid to “keep up” with all the new books published in horror that I’ve sacrificed other genres I equally enjoy. So, this year, it’s back to literary fiction, mysteries, LGBT fiction, and at least one non-fiction book that strikes my fancy (I’ve got my eye on the Armistead Maupin biography that’s been staring at me from the bookshelf).

II. Body

This one’s easy. I’m going to continue on my current weight loss trajectory and resolve to lose another fifty pounds. I swerved a little at the end of last year—in fairness, Oprah’s tinkering with the successful SmartPoints program by adding the nonsensical “freestyle” element didn’t help one iota—and January will be my month to recalibrate and get back on the proverbial wagon.

I’m also going to decrease my psychological reliance on Starbucks. Although I did successfully lose last year’s weight while indulging in a daily stop at the coffeehouse, I don’t like the fact that I “need” my Starbucks. Plus, the 18 SmartPoints I use every morning is now more than half my daily allotment under O’s re-tooled “freestyle” program so cutting back is also practical. I’m shooting for the stars here with a dramatic decrease from a daily stop (seven per week) to just two—either weekends or once on Saturday following weigh-in and one mid-week pick-me-up. Less sugar, less daily SmartPoints used, less money given to Mr. Schultz and company, although by all accounts they’re lovely folks.

III. Soul (Spirit)

Last year, I experienced my greatest resolution-related success with my daily gratitude postings. Not only did they reframe my own perspective, they also seemed to connect with folks who follow me on social media—an unintended but welcome altruistic twist on what’s essentially a bid for self-improvement. This year, I’m again going to aspiringly set out with two resolutions to enhance my spiritual well-being.

First, I’m once again to consciously devote more time to my writing. Last year, I was able to complete two short stories and submit them to editors, resumed writing book reviews for my online DARK SCRIBE MAGAZINE, (finally) finished editing the long-gestating UNPEAKABLE HORROR 2 anthology and saw that published, and rather unexpectedly discovered an affinity for writing poetry. This year, I resolve to return to one of my (three!) unfinished novels and make significant headway with one. If I find myself unmotivated to work on the novel, I resolve to write something—review, short story, or poem—to keep the forward momentum.

Second, in perhaps a quest to help foster the first, I’m going to look for inspiration. Just as I committed to reflecting on something that I was grateful for and documenting my gratitude last year, this year I’m going to seek out something that inspires me—a quote, a piece of art, a person, a place, a photograph, a book or film, a historical figure, a motivational article, a clever meme, a current events story reported in the media—and post it to Facebook each day. The idea is to refocus my perspective on all the inspiring people, places, and things that surround me and use those as inspiration to be the best possible version of myself and motivation to do the work required to do so. So, there you have it: 2018 is the year of inspiration!

I’d like to extend heartfelt wishes to all my friends and readers everywhere for much happiness, success, and a personally satisfying year of the highest order ahead. As I said last year: Irrespective of what resolutions you make this January 1st, remember—above all else—to be kinder to yourself in 2018.

With love, light, and inspiration…

Why Is Understanding Mandatory?

Over the last few days—against my own better judgment—I've engaged others on a few friends' Facebook timelines on the subject of Trump's transgender ban earlier this week. To say that some of the responses I've gotten are disheartening is an understatement. So much fear (which leads to hatred) of that which we don't understand.

When cornered by logic, some of these respondents went radio silent, others lashed out with that underlying transphobia you knew was there the whole time bubbling under the surface. Some finally acquiesced in frustration to just "not getting the whole thing." And here's the thing: Why do we have to understand something to exhibit kindness and human decency?

I'll readily admit that I don't understand every facet of transgenderism. That's largely because I am not transgender and have therefore not experienced what it feels like to have a gender identity or gender expression that differs from my biologically assigned sex. I likely don't always get the preferred idioms correct or readily identify with every nuance of the transgender experience. But I try to learn by interacting with trans men and women, by reading more on the subject, by listening to the experiences of others. And still I don't understand every aspect of someone who is transgender.

But I don't have to. I can still choose—and make no mistake, it is a choice—to be compassionate and kind and to consider the totality of the individual with no judgement or malice. If I feel uncomfortable with some aspect of someone's gender identity or expression, that discomfort is mine and mine alone. It's based on some deep-seeded bias within me and has nothing to do with the other person. I try to push myself through that discomfort or aspect I don't understand and try to expand my mind...to try to figure out the reasons and origins of that discomfort. What I don't do is make a trans man or woman feel less than because of any shortcoming of mine. That's cowardly and morally wrong.

All human beings deserve to be loved and to be able to express love. They deserve to be treated with kindness and respect— what we've come to know as basic human decency. I may never know or fully understand what it feels like to be born into the wrong body, but I can treat people who do with empathy and compassion. It takes nothing away from me to do so. I subscribe to the philosophy of inclusive humanism, which embraces the idea that all human beings matter and deserve equal respect and dignity, regardless of geographical region, age, achievement, ability, appearance, ethnicity, religious beliefs, nonreligious beliefs, sex, sexual orientation, or gender.

This is not rocket science, folks. People are different. Some of those differences will be easy to understand and accept; others may prove more difficult based on our biases and preconceptions. Work through them...or at least try to. There are no pitfalls to doing so and an expanded world and worldview are among the many benefits.

Resolve: 2017 Edition

Another new year is upon us. This one seems to hold particular significance coming off the tumultuous year that was 2016. From the veritable circus sideshow leading up to and in the days following our nation’s historic Presidential election to the seemingly endless roll call of notable deaths, 2016 isn’t likely to be remembered as either the gentlest or kindest of years. Civility seemed to wane considerably, fear seemed to take hold of minds and hearts, and both reason and rationalism were unceremoniously tossed out the proverbial window in favor of emotionally-charged rhetoric often devoid of sense or sensibility. Facts became inconvenient and people became firmly rooted in personal convictions informed by fake news sites, heavily-biased media sources reflecting their own political affiliation, and outright conspiracy theories that took on lives of their own across social media platforms.

Some of the consequences of such a game-changing year seem permanent and intractable as we flip the calendar this morning. Minds of all shapes and varieties closed over the course of 2016, and it’ll likely take great mental crowbars to pry them open again.

Amid such a challenging landscape, personal New Year’s resolutions take on a new sense of urgency. After all, when the world seems to be spiraling out of control, we look to gain some semblance of solid footing – to compensate for what we can’t control in the world around us by seeking change within ourselves and our own insular worlds.

With that preamble, the stage is set for my own New Year’s resolutions. But instead of creating an ordered list this year, I’m taking a more holistic approach to formulating my personal pledges and promises. I’m going to approach 2017 with a desire to improve myself mind, body, and soul – with each resolution directly tied to one of those broader spheres of holistic well-being.

I. Mind

I’ve got two resolutions to improve my mind. First – and I’ve already started this post-election – is that I’m going to limit my news sources. As of now, I’m focusing on NPR, the BBC, and (to a lesser extent) the NEW YORK TIMES. I’ll keep my mind open to exploring other news sources with reputations for fair and unbiased reporting, but I’m going to try and consider news sources whose percentages of unbiased versus biased are higher. This will be a tough one because headlines are seductive, especially when one speaks to a personal perspective. I categorically reject this trend of fake news and recognize that it’s intellectually lazy and dishonest to cite and circulate such.

Second, I’m resolved to decrease my television viewing this year and give that time over to more reading. To this end, I’ve made a list of all the shows I currently watch and re-assessed which ones I look forward to and watch for enjoyment versus those I watch out of habit. Gone are: EMPIRE, ARROW, THE FLASH, LEGENDS OF TOMORROW, SUPERGIRL, QUANTICO, and DIVORCE. That gives me back six and a half hours of time per week that will be spent with my head buried in books and other endeavors outlined below instead of lazily watching the boob tube.  

II. Body

This is an easy one – and likely one shared by many. When I hit the age of 40, I resolved to take better care of my body. By my mid-forties, I weighed less than I did in high school and was in the best shape of my life, a faithful gym rat and dedicated weight watcher. Then old habits insidiously crept back in. Apathy and laziness took over and most of those hard-won bodily gains fell by the wayside. I’m not going to spend much time analyzing and Monday morning quarterbacking on the why’s of this backslide – the mind can be either a powerful ally or foe, and if I could figure out the trick to engaging one while rejecting the other permanently, I’d be a millionaire. Instead, I’m going to forgive myself the failing and look forward to the challenge of achieving physical fitness all over again. Building on past successes in this area and what works for me, I’m not going to overshoot the goals here: I resolve to lose 50 pounds by the end of 2017 and to move more. Simple, to the point.

III. Soul (Spirit)

There are a trio resolutions making up my 2017 focus on my spiritual well-being.

The first is to make a concentrated effort to return to my writing. I’ve always struggled with the balance between passion and practicality in my life. I’m blessed-cursed to have a chosen vocation in the healthcare industry that I’m passionate about – one that brings me immense personal satisfaction that meets many of those higher self-actualization hierarchal needs that Maslow famously theorized about while providing the practicality of a generous financial compensation. I term this both a blessing and a curse because I’m also passionate about writing and the creativity that comes with world-building through the written word, which also brings me tremendous personal satisfaction. If my day job in healthcare only provided the financial security and not the personal satisfaction, it might be easier to pursue my writing with more zeal. So, for me, it boils down to consciously making the time to do both. With some of the time gained as part of my “mind” efforts above, I resolve to sit my (hopefully shrinking) ass down in front of the computer and start flexing those creative muscles again.

My second “soul” resolution is to concentrate more on my good fortune in life and myriad blessings. To that end, fulfilling this one is relatively easy and boils down to establishing a daily habit. Each day, I’m going to post something I’m grateful for to my Facebook wall. Easy-peasy. Some days the gratitude may be more profound than others, but the point of this exercise is to increase my level of self-awareness and recognize that blessings need not be momentous to be appreciated.

Lastly, I’m going to try to permanently capture more of what I experience in this grand life of mine. Photography has long been an interest so I’m pledging to take more pictures…to see life through a slightly different lens. It’s another creative outlet in which I’ve dabbled in the past and I’d like to expand both my knowledge and experience. Maybe a class is in my future, or more likely just bringing my camera along for more rides. Either way, I’m going to try to look at life in pictures…and see life reflected back in those pictures.

Wishing all my friends and readers every happiness, success, and personal satisfaction imaginable in the coming year. Regardless of what resolutions you make this January 1st, remember – above all else – to be kinder to yourself in 2017.

Forever My Girl

Today I said goodbye to one of the best friends I’ve ever had – a blessing in every sense of the word and one who enriched my life in every way possible. My beloved Sydney crossed over the Rainbow Bridge late this afternoon amidst much tender stroking, soft kisses, and too many tears to count. Her beautiful life ended much in the way it began, with her two Dads marveling over her intrinsic exquisiteness. Much like our hearts threatened to burst with love on the day she came home to live in that A-frame house on Longwood Road almost fifteen and a half years ago, so too did they threaten to burst with grief today as she gently slipped from our lives.  

The heart-wrenching decision was made on Saturday morning after conferring with my ex. As some of you may remember from social media posts a few months back, Sydney’s health had been steadily slipping. In addition to a sudden onset of complete vision loss, the veterinarian discovered a tumor of unknown origin and severity near her rectum. That tumor continued to grow and started to bleed with increasing regularity in recent days. Her overall skin integrity started to decline as well, with small growths and scabby areas appearing in spots where hair had fallen out.  Vinny and I discussed that her quality of life was starting to slip now, with no discernible reaction to being outdoors (which was always certain to set her tail wagging) and increased difficulty navigating around his house in her darkened world. A slip down the stairs, a fall off the bed, aimless wandering and bumping into things…not good signs. Although she remained responsive to touch right up until the end, it appeared to us that her overall awareness of her surroundings was gradually diminishing.

See, Sydney was only the second dog I ever had. My first – a floppy-eared Miniature Schnauzer named Scuffy – was a birthday present for my eighth birthday and we were inseparable in the way only an adopted only child and his dog could be. As I grew into adolescence and then young adulthood, my youthful exuberance for the life before me took center stage and Scuffy, whom I still loved dearly, faded a bit – without intention or malice – into the background. She became less “my” dog and more the family dog, with my Dad and then stepmother becoming her everyday constants while I experienced life on my own out in the larger world. And although I was almost 200 miles away when Dad called to say that he’d had to put Scuffy down, the stab to my heart – grief mixed with a new sensation of guilt for all those later days lost with my childhood dog – was palpable. To this day, my warm memories of that scrappy little Schnauzer who served as my constant childhood companion and amateur show dog in summertime 4-H fairs is tempered by my guilt of not being there to say goodbye to her at the end. In fact, it haunts me at times.

So when Sydney came into my life, I made her a promise on the very first day we met that I’d always be there for her. I still remember the late April day in 2000 when my dear friends Lisa and Brianne, together with our late friend Jeffrey, all conspired to visit a local pet store (before it was not politically correct to patronize them) called Puppy Deport in Port Jefferson while Vinny was at work, unaware of what we were up to. We had talked intermittently about getting a dog and were eyeing the Cocker Spaniel as the chosen breed. But I had a long history of “surprising” Vinny with furry companions – beginning the month after we met when he was greeted with two little fur balls who would come to be named Branigan and Bam Bam, both stray kittens found underneath my stepmother’s garage.

“Happy Father’s Day”, I remember announcing on the day they were presented to him.

Two more kittens would come into our lives during those first years together. The first, a gray and white kitten who we dubbed Chapman, was found clinging to a tree by a former roommate and moved into the two bedroom apartment (our first after moving out to Long Island) we shared with her and our two cats. When she split, Chapman stayed behind. A few years later, while Vinny was home painting the interior of the townhouse we had moved into (Yaphank, 1993), a simple trip to the grocery store resulted in Moyet, a fiery little ball of mischief who I gingerly placed on the kitchen counter before calling Vinny downstairs.

“Don’t be mad”, I said as he rounded the corner into the kitchen and caught sight of the latest member to our growing family.

But Vinny was never mad, always melting immediately after the requisite eye roll, as if to say: You did it again, didn’t you?

So on that late April day, as my friends and I meandered through the Puppy Depot, I knew two things in my heart: I was going to find my second dog that afternoon and Vinny would not be mad. Not really. Or at least not for long.

I told the pet store staff that I was in the market for a Cocker Spaniel and they readily presented me with several squirming, licking, panting specimens for my consideration. Let’s face it: All puppies are pretty damn cute and irresistible, and I probably would have been happy with any one of them. But something kept telling me “No, that’s not the one” with each successive puppy I held and so I kept on wandering deeper into the Puppy Depot.

About thirty minutes in, I passed a cage with three puppies. Two – I couldn’t tell you the breeds this many years later – were pressed against the front of the cage, vying for my attention with whimpers and wagging tails. But it was the third – a doe-eyed little Cocker Spaniel with champagne-colored fur and matching freckles on her white nose – that caught my attention.

“That’s a Cocker, isn’t it?” I asked the attentive pet store clerk, pointing to the cage.

The clerk nodded. “Yes, but you don’t want that one. See the freckles on the nose? You’ll never be able to show her.”

Show her? I thought to myself. Did I look like I was shopping for the next entrant into the Westminster Dog Show?

With gentle defiance, I instructed the clerk to let me see her.

And when the pet store clerk shrugged and placed that freckled-nosed pup in my arms, it was – as the cliché goes – love at first sight. We locked eyes – hers always sorrowful and sweet, mine quickly welling with tears – and then she rested her head against my chest and exhaled deeply. She had picked her owner; she was home.

That story is often repeated amongst my group of friends who were there that day and we laugh at the memory of Brianne nearly screaming from the sheer cuteness of the scene as she exclaimed, “Oh, my God! She looks like you!” I can still recall – with great detail – the immediate sense of urgency I felt at needing her to come home with me that day and the sense of horror when the cash machine Lisa drove me to would only dispense half of my new puppy’s sticker price. I’ve always been blessed with great friends – and Lisa is no exception, quickly taking out her own bank card to lend me the balance.

The freckle-faced puppy came home with me, a rainbow-colored bow adorning her neck. When I heard the crunch of gravel from Vinny’s car, I met him at the front door with a familiar refrain.

“Don’t be mad…”

We named her Sydney, after my favorite red-haired vixen on Melrose Place played by Laura Leighton. I am, after all, always and unapologetically a pop culture junkie. The rest of Sydney’s story is a decade and a half chock full of wonderful memories, each one coming back to me over the last few days as I prepared myself to carry out my last act of love in helping this beautiful creature make her final journey.

Sydney running across the green lawn of our Middle Island house, chew toy in mouth…

Sydney taking her first swim in Lisa and Brianne’s pool, plunking down into the water after slipping off the first step…Brianne shrieking in the background while Lisa and I howled with laughter…

Our refrigerator loaded with “Sydney” magnets from anywhere and everywhere we ever traveled…Las Vegas, the Hoover Dam, Boston, Florida, Belize, to name a few…

The way we’d laugh at how Sydney developed this soft little “woo-woo” sound to indicate her impatience at having to wait for her meal-end treat of table scraps. I smile thinking about how she wooed louder and louder the harder we laughed. And how we laughed until our stomachs hurt…

The way we nicknamed her “Woobie Girl” shortly after bringing her home…a nickname that would stay with her throughout her life…

Sydney moving with the speed of light to pilfer an unsupervised hot dog off the table during barbecues…

Sydney rolling around gleefully in the grass after just returning home from the groomers while her fretful Daddy carried on about the money he’d just spent…

Cuddling in the bed with Sydney as a puppy and as an adult, the soft feel of her fur between my fingers, the warmth of her body pressed against me…

Sydney’s gentle kisses on my nose and mouth, the intoxicating smell of her doggy breath…
The look of happiness on Sydney’s face and dance of joy she did whenever one of us came home from work…

The very last sight of Sydney taking her final, gentle breaths – under the kindly supervision of Dr. Kevin Lynch,  the veterinarian who  has cared for her since the day we brought her home – while  Vinny and I wept and wept and wept, knowing that we were doing the right thing but hating every second of it…

**

This morning, I awoke to the sound of torrential rain. It was as if the universe was in perfect synch with my emotions, weeping torrents of tears with me for what was to come to pass this afternoon. It was a fitting tribute to Sydney, courtesy of Mother Nature. The weather only heightened my sense of overwhelming melancholy, and I found myself thinking of my failures when it came to my sweet Sydney. I hope the majority of her memories of me are good ones and that she’s forgiven me for the times when I may have raised my voice in frustration – not over her, but more likely some inconsequential human problem for which she was the vessel that received my angry tone or impatience.  

I hope Sydney forgives me for splitting with her other Dad, hoping that she never felt for a second like I abandoned her, understanding that she went to live with one Daddy and not the other because we both agreed that she shouldn’t be split up from her younger brother, Kirby, or little sister, Zoe. I hope she knows somehow that even though I often went to bed crying during the ensuing years because I missed having her in my everyday life so much that leaving her with her other Dad and doggy siblings was genuinely done in what we both believed to be her best interests. I hope Sydney knew that her daddies’ split from each other eventually brought two more wonderful people who loved her unconditionally into her life, her “stepdads” Ot and Brian. I hope she felt the four of us gathered around her yesterday to say our goodbyes and spend one more afternoon with her. After a good portion of her adult lifetime spent adhering to strict dietary restrictions due to some persnickety kidneys, I hope she enjoyed her special meal today – steak and Teddy Grahams. Something salty, something crunchy-sweet for her taste buds.

I hope she heard every one of my heartfelt thank you’s – for her unconditional love, for her affectionate, gentle disposition, for her sense of humor, for her compassion and companionship, for her sixth sense in knowing when I needed one of her sweet kisses or a random woo-woo. And I hope, as she slipped into her sweet hereafter this afternoon, that she sensed how much her other Dad and I loved her and that choosing this time for her to make her journey across the Rainbow Bridge was not done lightly or for any kind of human convenience and only to ensure that she never went out in severe pain or suffering of any kind. She deserved infinitely more than that, and I was determined to keep that promise I made to her on the first day we met – that she would never suffer and that I would be with her at the end.

My sweet, one-of-a-kind Sydney is gone now as I type this through tears that feel like they may never stop. It’s times like this where I happily push my agnosticism to the side and believe with unwavering certainty in a place described in that infamous Rainbow Bridge story, where Sydney is young again, her legs strong and steady, her eyesight restored.  A place where the sunshine always beams down on her – catching the red highlights in her fur – and gentle breezes caress her beautiful face. In my mind’s eye, I see her meeting Scuffy for the first time and being reunited with Branigan and Bam Bam and Chapman and Moyet, their animal kingdom differences cast aside and all of them playing happily through endless sunshine-filled days and cuddling together under starry moonlit nights. In the sweet hereafter that I want – desperately – to believe in for Sydney, all dietary constraints are gone and she has a never-ending supply of doggy treats and hot dogs.

Most of all, I hope those last lines of the Rainbow Bridge story prove true. That someday, when my own days are done, that I’ll be reunited with her, that she’ll be there to greet me with wagging tail and endless kisses like she did all those times I walked through the door after work.

 I want – no, need – to believe this today more than anything else in the world:

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together....

***

Goodnight, sweet Sydney. I’ll love you and keep you in my heart forever, my unforgettable Woobie Girl.

Sydney Liaguno-Pers
February 26, 2000 – June 15, 2015