In Memory of Gizmo

Hi, everyone. I apologize for the length of time since my last post, and I'll warn you right now that this is not going to be a light, cheery entry. If you'd like, feel free to skip it and wait until next time, when we'll go back to talking about bathrooms or whatever. I won't be offended, I promise. If you're still here, please bear with me, as it's been a very rough day and you'll have to forgive me if I'm not up to my usual standards. The thing is that we had to put our bunny Gizmo to sleep today.

Sorry. It was tough just writing that, and I'm sure it'll get easier over time, but right now it's still so raw. I don't have much experience with pets -- beyond some fish, we didn't have any through most of my childhood. My parents had gotten a cocker spaniel years before I was born, so I remember being seven or eight and having to say goodbye to him when he needed to be put down... I recall being sad, but I was also so young, and kids are pretty resilient. But since then, Gizmo is the first real pet I've had in my adult life, and my wife and I got her very early in our relationship; in many ways it feels like she's always been with us, an integral part of our life together. Now she's gone, and I'm finding it harder to deal with than I expected.

Ironically, we first got Gizmo in reaction to another death: Bender, the bunny I had purchased for Ann as a holiday present the first year we were dating. She was living in her own apartment and lonely, and I thought a companion would be good for her. Within just a few weeks, we learned the hard lesson of why it's a bad idea to purchase a very young rabbit from a pet store, as Bender died of an unknown illness. That in and of itself was very hard, and I remember Ann and I seriously discussing whether we wanted to try again. Eventually she decided that she was willing to try just once more, and so we contacted a rabbit breeder, who offered to sell us what we were assured was a friendly, outgoing mini lop. And that's how we met Gizmo.

From the very beginning, Giz made it clear that she was both eccentric and strong willed. On the ride back to Ann's apartment from the breeder's, I held her in a cat carrier in my lap, and every time Ann would turn the car, either to the right or the left, Gizmo would rotate a full 360 degrees clockwise. It never failed, it was like she was trying to reorient herself every single time. Cutest thing you ever saw. When we actually got the beast back to the apartment and let her settle in over the next few days, it became evident that "friendly" is all a matter of opinion. Like most rabbits, Gizmo hated to be held or picked up, and while she was never aggressive and didn't bite, she made it quite clear that she was in charge: you would either pet her and groom her and feed her treats on her terms, or you wouldn't do it at all. She liked to chew things as much as any rabbit who ever lived, a trait that led to a few gnawed DVD cases and at least one ruined phone charger before I wised up and started keeping a closer eye on her while she was out. This behavior earned her the affectionate nickname "The Monster," but thankfully Ann and I quickly learned our place in the relationship and everything was fine from then on. As long as you respected her need for personal space, gave her a chair or table to curl up under, and petted her when she was feeling sociable, she'd be happy to scamper along at your feet, make purring noises, and even occasionally do the "happy bunny jumps" that are the hallmark of a truly content rabbit.

And so the years went on: we moved into a townhouse together, giving her lots of room to run around, and eventually welcomed a new addition to our family. I'm sad to admit that over the last year, Giz did not get out of her cage quite as much as in the past. When you have a baby, there's so much random stuff on the floor to pick up before you can let a rabbit out because she'll chew on it all, and once Molly became mobile, the floor had to be scoured after every time Gizmo was out for stray poop pellets, lest Molly do what comes naturally to babies and make an immediate beeline toward anything gross she could put in her mouth. Still, I like to think she remained happy- she still liked to be petted and fed treats, although she was getting older and didn't run around quite as much as before. (She was a little over 6.5 years old; rabbits typically live 8-10 years.)

And then just over a week ago, Ann and I realized that Giz was leaving hay and pellets uneaten in her bowl after feedings, an unheard-of phenomenon. As we learned to our regret with Bender, the natural instinct of rabbits is to hide any signs of illness, because visibly sick animals in the wild are natural targets for predators. What Gizmo couldn't hide was the fact that on the right side of her face, her mouth was drawn up like she was having a permanent muscle spasm. Naturally we took her to the vet, who said he'd never seen that kind of spasming before; he confirmed that it wasn't a problem with her teeth or mouth and suggested that a tumor was a possibility, though he also thought the lack of eating might be due to a respiratory infection. He prescribed some antibiotics and told us to feed her a special critical care food through a syringe inserted into her mouth several times a day, to keep her weight up and hopefully kickstart her digestive system again. So we spent the better part of a week doing that, with several visits to the vet along the way. And at the end of that week, it became clear that the facial spasm wasn't lessening, she was still just barely eating (a couple of carrots, a little applesauce, pretty much none of her normal hay and pellets), and she absolutely couldn't stand the forced feedings, which necessitated wrapping her firmly in a towel (which she hates), holding her off the ground (which she hates), and essentially injecting food into her mouth, much of which she let drop out or didn't seem interested in eating. So Ann and I had to ask ourselves the tough question: was it worth it to continue force-feeding her multiple times every day, a process she loathed and that was not unstressful for us, in hopes of prolonging her life a little longer; or stop doing it, keep making food available and watch as she slowly starves to death; or listen to what she was telling us and let her move on.

So today we brought her to our scheduled vet appointment, knowing we were going to tell the vet that she'd shown no signs of renewed appetite over the weekend, and knowing what he was probably going to say. And indeed, after consulting with two other vets to be certain, he informed us that a tumor pressing on Gizmo's brain had moved to the top of his list in terms of what he thought was wrong with her, suppressing her appetite and causing her facial spasm. He was very kind and gentle in telling us that he thought putting her down was the best option, which I think is what we both expected and had planned for. But planning for it and living through it are two different things, and God, was it difficult. I'm so glad that we let her out of her cage so much this weekend, and that I took as many pictures and shot as much video as I could of her. I'm glad that, as Molly and I were leaving to go to daycare this morning, I impulsively encouraged her to wave "bye-bye" to her big sister Gizmo. (While we expected what the vet was going to say, Ann and I both kind of thought the actual process would take place a day or two later. In retrospect, I'm glad we didn't wait, because it would have made our remaining time with Giz seem like a countdown. As horrible as the whole ordeal was, it's better we got it over with today.) And as rough as it was, I'm glad that Ann and I stayed in the room, petting Giz and whispering to her while the vet put her to sleep for the last time. We both agree that we would have felt even worse if we weren't there with her at the end, reminding her of how much she was loved.

But oh, people, it was hard. Tears flowed freely, only some of which I can blame on my allergies. And while I can't really put it into words, Ann and I both independently felt that as soon as her poor little heart stopped beating, she actually ceased looking like Gizmo. All the little facial movements you don't even consciously notice, and her eyes... immediately after the end came, her eyes just stopped being her. It was clear that Gizmo wasn't in there anymore. And that was tough. We went home, moved her cage to the garage and cleaned her general area because it was painful to look at, and then took her unused food, litter, and toys to a nearby humane shelter, which helped a little. And now, several hours later, here I sit reflecting. I have so many mixed emotions about the whole thing. I'm sorry Molly won't have any real memories of Gizmo, but at the same time a part of me is glad that she's too young to really understand what happened, so she won't have to mourn. One of the things that makes it hard is that Gizmo was still undeniably herself, right up until the end. With the exception of not eating, her behavior was the same as always. I think if she had been clearly in pain or miserable (and I've seen her that way, like when she ate tissue paper once and got really, really constipated), it would have made our ultimate decision much easier; but as it was, even though my conscious mind knows it was the right thing to do, I can't help feeling like I failed her somehow. I know many people believe that animals kind of tell you when it's their time to go, and I do believe that that's what Gizmo was doing with her little hunger strike, but it doesn't make it any easier after the fact. This evening alone I've looked over at where her cage used to be several times, subconsciously expecting to see her there, and even while writing this I caught myself thinking, just for a split second in the back of my mind, that I should pause and let her out of her cage so she can run around while I'm writing. That was a harsh comeback to reality.

I've always said that I believe the death of Gizmo's predecessor Bender served a higher purpose, as the sheer depth of how horrible I felt for Ann made me realize how much I loved her. It's my fervent hope that Gizmo's passing serves a similarly lofty goal that's unknown to us right now. But even if it doesn't, I think her life most certainly did- she made Ann and I, neither of whom ever had a real pet growing up, realize how rewarding and loving they could be. And while Giz's death hurts terribly, and I expect will for some time to come, I still wouldn't trade it away if it meant I'd never have had the chance to spend six terrific years with her.

Goodbye, Gizmo. You were a stubborn, obstinate, wonderful, amazing rabbit whose impact on our lives was greater than I probably even know. We'll miss you more than we can say, and I'm sorry things ended the way they did. But thank you for being the best pet we could ever have asked for. We love you.

The Roads Not Taken

Every so often I'm reminded of why I could never have ended up with any woman but my wife. And before I get any sidelong glances or angry emails, allow me to clarify: I never, ever forget how much I love my wife, or why she's the perfect woman for me. I can say with absolute honesty that I always remember why I married her. But occasionally it goes a step further, and I'm given a reminder of why it wouldn't have worked with any other woman I've ever known or dated. Of the latter category, some I'm ambivalent toward, but the majority I still like as friends and wish nothing but the best; but boy, would we not have had a future together. Whether they weren't bright enough (I'm not the smartest man alive, but if I have to continually dumb down the conversation, that's a problem), or we were just killing time till graduation, or the only reason they went out with me is because they were amused by my story about accidentally walking in on two Princeton alumni having sex in an empty office during Reunions... well, there's always a reason. I guess it's probably that way for everyone.

I'll give an example of what I mean. There's this woman at work, probably in her late 20's or so. I obviously have eyes for no one but my wife, but I have it on good authority from other men in the office that she could perhaps be described as quite attractive. I don't see it myself, but I suppose if tall, thin blondes with exotic accents, exceedingly... prominent attributes, and who teach aerobics classes at local gyms and colleges are your type, well, you just might be interested. (No lie, this is 100% true- I once happened to be in the break room with another male coworker when she walked through. Once she'd passed, he turned to me and said, "God, she's got an ass that won't quit." I think I gave an eyebrow raise and mumbled something noncommittal, then retreated to my desk trying to remember where I'd parked the DeLorean so I could return home from 1959. You may be pleased to hear that he no longer works at the company.) She's in sales, which is the exact right job for her, because all she has to do is walk into a heterosexual male's office and he'll pull out his checkbook and ask what she happens to be selling and what's the maximum number he can buy. And yet, I can't STAND working on accounts with her. It's entirely possible that she's a very smart person who's simply hamstrung by the fact that English is clearly not her first language, but she comes across as not particularly bright. She never enters any information about new clients in our computer system, forcing you to research them on your own or hope that she's at her desk when you call so you can find something out about this company you're supposed to be calling. She either doesn't know or doesn't explain the products we sell well at all, so invariably new customers don't know exactly what they signed up for or should be receiving. And I just think to myself, she's perfectly friendly and I like her fine as a colleague, but if I get this frustrated working on things she's tangentially touched for only a few hours a week, what would it be like living with her? I'm sure there are those who can make a relationship work based on nothing but looks, but for my part I need the whole package: looks, brains, humor, and compatibility.

Another example: in high school, I had a massive crush on one of my fellow students. I'm quite positive she had no idea and I never did anything about it, but if you'd asked my hopelessly naive 16-year-old self, he would have sworn she was the most beautiful woman in the world. (Needless to say that was before I ever laid eyes on my wife. Or Elisha Cuthbert.) A little over a year ago they started organizing our 10-year reunion, primarily through Facebook, with the end result being that I ended up friending or being friended by a lot of my old classmates, including her. She still looks good, although I'm glad to be able to truthfully say that there is no comparison between her and my wife. But like all my other classmates, I see her status updates from time to time, and I was both surprised and gladdened recently to note that she's apparently super into the whole Twilight phenomenon, particularly the movie sequel that just came out. Surprised because, well, we're late 20/early 30-year-olds rather than preteen schoolgirls, and gladdened because it confirms to me that, even if I'd gotten up the balls to actually ask her out back in high school, it still wouldn't have worked out. To be fair, I haven't read any of the Twilight books or seen the movies, so I can't fairly critique them; I can offer that they don't sound like anything I'd be interested in and I haven't heard good things from people whose opinions I trust, but who knows, they might be great. Nevertheless, I still can't see myself feigning much interest in them, so I think it's best that I ended up with the woman who rolls her eyes at my own Harry Potter nerdery, rather than one who would drag me along to watch vampires sparkle and write poetry rather than attacking people.

So yeah- while I never forget why I married my wife, I'm also sometimes reminded of exactly why I didn't marry anyone else. Still, whether it be the ones I still like as friends, the ones I don't care for, or the ones who never knew I existed, all of them help me to realize exactly how lucky I am in who I eventually ended up with. For that, ladies, I thank you one and all. Cheers.

Still Alive

Hey, all. Apologies for my complete absence lately. It's been a busy month or so... Ann, Molly and I are all fine, but it feels like we've been playing catch-up for a while. I won't bore anyone with details, but the most recent time-suck came in the form of acute bronchitis on my part. I don't recommend it -- it wasn't so bad the first day or so when I was just coughing and breathing a little heavier, but when it got to the point where I couldn't climb a flight of stairs without getting winded and sleeping became nearly impossible because I just couldn't draw enough air into my lungs lying down, I probably should've taken a hint and hauled ass to the hospital. Thankfully, CVS' minute clinic took one look at me and sent me there anyway, so now I'm back on the mend and once again able to oxygenate my red blood cells. The only really interesting part of it that's worth talking about came when I was examined in triage at the ER. The examining nurse or doctor asked if I'd been running a fever, and when I replied that I didn't know, he -- and this is key -- grabbed what looked like an electronic wand and ran it over my forehead. Just one swipe, it beeped, he looked at it and said, "99 degrees" and went about his checkup.

Now, possibly I'm just a poor ignorant bumpkin unaccustomed to you all's fancy sci-ehn-tific ways, but holy balls, why didn't someone tell me we were officially living in the future? Seriously, what kind of crazy Star Trek crap is that? The man read my forehead like it was a bar code and he was checking the price of a can of tuna. It was simultaneously awesome and frustrating, because if we have that technology, why the hell am I still sticking a thermometer under my tongue at home like a pathetic savage? To say nothing of, not to get too graphic, the fact that you can't take an infant's temperature orally, necessitating a different type of thermometer that strikes me as unbelievably inferior to this apparent receptacle of black magic. If I'd known I could have treated my baby's head like a Scantron to find out if she was feverish, well, let's just say that's the kind of thing I'd be willing to shell out an extra few bucks for.

So there you have it: the future is now, acute bronchitis sucks, and I promise not to let a month and a half lapse between posts again. Because really, even if I told you classes were just kicking my butt and I was doing homework every night, you'd know I was lying. The umpteenth unnecessary Crow sequel isn't going to review itself, y'know.

No heroes today

Today marked a momentous occasion that I think all should be made aware of. You ready for this? Here goes: I did not buy a single comic book today.

"That's nice," I hear you saying, "But most days I don't buy comics either." Ah, so it is with me as well, grasshopper, but Wednesday is new comics day. Ergo, every Wednesday I head over to my local comic shop at lunchtime and pick up the week's books. For the longest time every week's haul was a substantial pile. In recent months that's dwindled, as I've lost interest in some books and just figured I should save my money, especially with the price of comics going up again. (Remember when they were 75 cents? And how it was a huge deal when they made the jump to a buck? God, how cheap that sounds now. And how old I sound.) So over the last year I've had a few trips where I only picked up two comics on a Wednesday, and once or twice only one. But today... oh, today, my friends. Not. A. Single. One. Walked in, browsed the shelves, walked back out. It felt a little strange -- like a junkie who walks up to his neighborhood dealer, inspects the crack carefully, and then puts it back -- but it was a good feeling. And even if next week brings a stack of 10 must-buy comics to make up for it, I'll still have that one week.

He's a cold-hearted snake

So this was fun. The other night I go out to drop some clothes off at a Salvation Army deposit dumpster. This I fail spectacularly to do, as it used to be located behind our vet's office but they recently moved, and searches of both the old and new buildings reveal: no dumpster. (Well, they had a regular dumpster, but I thought that would sort of defeat the purpose.) Undaunted, I decide to stop at Rita's italian Ice on my way home to pick up a treat for my adoring wife.

So I get there, jockey for a parking space with the infinite restaurant goers, and eventually make my way to the counter, where I place my order. I know, dullest blog entry ever. Hold on, we're getting there. As I'm making my order I see a middle-aged woman approach the window next to mine and start talking to the teenager located therein. I finish my order and glance idly over, not particularly interested. However, out of the corner of my eye I notice that she's got something in her hands with kind of a mottled brown and black pattern. Huh, I think to myself. Wonder if she's got a snakeskin wallet? Still only half paying attention, some deep recess of my mind brings up the fact that the corner of my eye may be wrong, but is reporting that the object is rather too long and thin to be a wallet. Hmm, my conscious mind reassesses, becoming just a tad more engaged. Probably a beanie baby or some other stuffed animal. Is the carnival in town? It's at about this point that my brain becomes alert enough to tune in, just in time to hear the counter idiot ask, "How old is it?" As I've never before heard of someone asking the age of a stuffed animal, my just-getting-there mind crashes to a halt upon collision with one now irrefutable fact: it is a real snake.

Now, I'm a peaceful man. I bear no ill will toward my animal brethren, and even though I will gladly eat the tastier ones, I generally go out of my way to do no harm to animalkind beyond killing the occasional bug in our house. But I also feel the same way about snakes as Indiana Jones does, and that is not good when one is literally three feet away. My neck snaps back toward the counter window at approximately Mach 3, saved from debilitating injury solely by an unconscious slowdown to keep from seeming quite so obvious about being a wimp. I decide to collect napkins from the counter, because we'll certainly need those with our water ice, yes, and spoons besides. Other than vision, I'm unable to block out the blithering from next to me, which is how I find out that he's a bull python (because when I think of ideal snakes for pets, the word "python" is always the first one that comes to mind), he's only a foot and a half long now but he'll get up to at least five feet, and larger if she lets him, and that he eats mice that she buys at the pet store and keeps in her freezer. Oh yes, and his name is Murgatroid, because when I think of snakes, I think of effeminate pink cartoon cats. Doesn't everyone?

Still looking straight ahead, I bear witness to the poor girl who took my order bring it to us and putting it on the counter fearfully, shooting an apprehensive glance to the left, and then practically shooting back into the inner sanctum of the Rita's booth, never taking her eyes off the beast. I toss her a sympathetic look because hey, we're all in this together, me and teenage girls. None of this sinks in to Crazy Snake Lady, who continues blithering on about how you can't feed them mice from the garage because they might be carrying disease that could be spread to the snake, heaven forbid. Interestingly, I had her pegged as a slightly more goth version of Crazy Cat Lady, but she mentions how her daughter loves the creature too (I'll bet), so clearly she found someone willing to brave the viper's nest at least once. As quickly as possible without actually running, I scoot past her and make my way to my car, appetite thoroughly gone. And that was the end of my adventure, except now I know my town plays host to at least one person who is completely out of her damn mind, which is not a comforting thought. Still, I suppose there's always one.

I really shouldn't be surprised, I know. I mean, when you think of the best pets to bring along with you on family walks or drives, the list goes dog, cat, then snake. And it's a close third. But I'll admit I wasn't expecting to see my nemesis appear so suddenly, and it startled me. That won't happen again. And if the Rita's workers don't like it when I show up next time with a sword and a blowtorch, well, too damn bad.

R.I.P. John Hughes

Dear Mr. Vernon,

We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. But we think you're crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us- in the simplest terms, and the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, a princess, and a criminal. Does that answer your question?

Sincerely yours,

The Breakfast Club

Hey hey hey!

The other night Ann and I happened to catch an episode of The Cosby Show. We see bits and pieces periodically, but I don't think I'd watched a full episode since it went off the air. It was quaintly nostalgic and quite funny, but what really struck me was how little actually happened in the episode. The entire plot was: Claire is feeling stressed by kids and work. Cliff makes reservations at a hotel owned by a patient, they put Denise in charge, they go to dinner, then hang out in their room and eventually, as Cliff puts it, "get it on." They come home the next day and are glad to see the kids. The end. Oh, and Theo takes a call from a patient looking for Cliff and refers her to the on-call doctor. That's literally all that happens in the episode. It wasn't bad -- far from it -- but I was taken by just how little plot was involved. On any other show in the world, particularly these days, Claire and Cliff's dinner would have been interrupted by a rude couple at the next table, or the food would have been undercooked, or a robbery would have broken out. Or they would have come home to find the house flooded and Rudy missing. Nope - stress, hotel for the night, home, done. There's your half hour. Even the intro felt simplistic... I think it must've been from the first season or so, because there was none of this smooth jazz while Bill does some soft-shoe skat or booming grandiose island rhythms. Just some grainy pictures of the cast having a picnic in the park while their pictures blur out of focus. Frankly, it looked like a Kodak cross-promotion or something. "Was your family picnic ruined by a camera that took nothing but blurry photographs? Y'see, you need to get yourself one of the Kodak cameras, see, with the zoom lenses and the fast shutter speed and the oooooh, and then you can have some Jello pudding pops."

The only other thing of note was the hilarious mid-'80s "what lengths will we go to to protect the children even though both on-screen characters are talking about 'getting it on'?" In this case, that would be "Cliff has changed out of his clothes into full-length pajamas, even though he's clearly intent on romancing his wife." If any of you have ever (successfully) staged a seduction wearing matching pajama pants and shirt, kindly let me know.