Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts

Monday, April 13, 2026

Sophie

     Her life started in circumstances unknown to me. All I know of her first two years is that she was neglected. Her humans sent her out to forage for her meals. They left the back door to their house open at all times, so that they didn’t have to be bothered walking her or taking her out to eliminate.

     That family was pure trash. Why they wanted a dog in the house is unclear, considering how little attention they paid her. They had to haul stakes and leave town quickly when their 14-year-old daughter got knocked up by a member of MS-13. They drove off in a big hurry and left Sophie behind them. I’m told she chased their rented truck for a couple of miles before giving up on them.

     A friend of ours who’s involved in rescue work found her and took her in. She told us almost offhandedly about the two-year-old German Shepherd / Husky mix she’d just taken in. I immediately told her we’d take Sophie. My wife Beth gave me one of those looks; I shut her down on the spot.

     Sophie was ours a few days later. She had a little trouble settling in: learning not to pee or poop in the house; adjusting to Rufus, our Newf; learning not to eat the cats’ food; and so forth. But from the start she was as affectionate as if she’d been with us from birth.

     That was the late summer of 2012. Sophie hung on through a lot of changes. We lost Rufus in 2017, to lymphoma. We lost Precious, our Pit Bull Terrier, in 2023, to an untreatable abdominal tumor. We lost several cats. Sophie took that hard. She loved the cats.

     Sophie was my dog. Beth has always been more partial to Newfs. That didn’t bother Sophie. It certainly didn’t bother me.

     Dogs do get old. They do deteriorate and die. But their humans are never really ready for it. I certainly wasn’t.

     For nearly fourteen years I had her companionship and affection. She’d sit in my home office while I worked. I’d take her on walks around the neighborhood, or out in the back yard, where she’d romp around with our other dogs, and sometimes with a neighbor dog. I had her on the sofa beside me, her head in my lap, while I read or watched some sporting event on the idiot box.

     These past few months, Sophie’s joints and nervous system started to degenerate. She lost control of her back legs and her sphincters. As of early in March, she could no longer deal with stairs, even the two steps from our deck to the back yard grass. I told myself she could still get over it. Even if it was against the odds, she still might recover. I knew better, of course.

     Sophie died today, at 12:35 PM New York time. Her breathing stopped and didn’t resume, and that was that. We can’t be sure of her exact age, but our best guess is that she was sixteen years old.

     I’m 74 years old. My age and heritage suggest that I shouldn’t adopt another dog. I don’t suppose I will. I’ll be in mourning for Sophie for quite a while.

Wednesday, October 11, 2017

Farewell And Godspeed

     Rufus, our eight year old Newfoundland, passed away at 11:25 this morning. He’d been suffering from B-cell lymphoma and a compromised spinal cord. We’d had him on three different kinds of chemotherapy, and the cancer had developed an immunity to all three. He’d become indifferent to food and extremely lethargic. Despite multiple painkillers, he was almost unable to walk. We did what was necessary.

     Goodbye, beloved friend. May God clasp you to His bosom, where you’ve always belonged.

     Don’t expect much from me for a few days.

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Words Fail Me Dept.

Sometimes, nothing I could say would do justice to the outrage I feel.

About a year ago, I posted about the horrific abuses committed by the so-called "Family Courts" (an Orwellian appellation if ever there was one) in dividing divorced fathers from their children and essentially pauperizing them with grotesque awards of "child support." Joined to the contemporary phenomenon of unilateral, no-fault divorce at the request of either party, this has become a major weapon in the arsenal of the Left, which has been unceasing in its attempts to destroy the family as Americans know it.

But looky here! A comedian has joined the fray...on the wrong side:

Adam Carolla says deadbeat dads have cost society far more than serial killer Charles Manson.

The comedian and actor made the provocative claim in an extensive interview with The Daily Caller about politics, Hollywood and his new book, “President Me: The America That’s in My Head.” TheDC will be featuring segments from the interview over the next couple weeks.

“Charles Manson was responsible for the killing of seven or eight people. He didn’t do it himself; he just sort of unleashed his minions,” Carolla explained.

A “deadbeat dad,” Carolla continued, “may crap out a handful of kids with a handful of mamas, and you spread them out out there, and you start thinking about what that costs us as a society, and then the likelihood that those kids are going to get into trouble, get into gangs, possibly kill people. Parole officers. The whole mess. The money, the taxing on the system. Then the daughters perpetuating the same thing — not having a father, looking for love in all the wrong places, getting pregnant as teenagers.”

“You take that deadbeat dad and you go ahead and fan that out and really sort of look at the damage that a handful of deadbeat dads can do as far as society goes, and you’ve probably trumped Chuck – Charles – Manson in terms of what it costs society,” he concluded.

I've been aware for quite some time that entertainers are generically oversupplied with opinions and undersupplied with intelligence and knowledge, but I was under the impression that this...person was an exception. Well, not on this subject, at any rate.

Please read through the comments. The Left has succeeded so completely at promoting this shibboleth of the "deadbeat dad" that it appears that nothing can countervail it. You would think that conservatives, at least, would do a little reading, take some time to look into the phenomenon behind the hype, and compare the facts to the PR before lining up on what's been presented to us as "the side of the angels." But then, the greater part of Mankind is stupid, headlong, and unjustifiably sure of itself...including most self-nominated conservatives.

But that's not what I really sat down to write about.


There are some abuses so severe, so far beyond all exculpation, that they cry out for redress from the very grave:

Does a wife who may have driven a husband to suicide with the assistance of our corrupt family court system, then have a legal right to claim copyright — of his suicide note?

According to attorney Rachelle E. Hill, of Bean, Kinney and Korman, and a judge, that is precisely the claim. Their lawyer has written the offices of A Voice for Men to demand that we remove a post from the forums containing the note.

Please read it all. I cannot do justice to it with an excerpt.

I haven't yet looked deeply into the matter; that can be very difficult with Family Court proceedings, so I might never have the full story. But as Paul Elam says in the cited article, the ex-wife's determination to prevent her ex-husband's suicide note from being read by others implicitly confirms, at the very least, Chris Mackney's sense of having been abused -- and given that he suicided over it, that the abuse went well beyond "the norm," whatever that happens to be, in conflicts between ex-spouses over child support and visitation rights.

A court of the United States was deeply complicit in this campaign of abuse.
A court that operates, de jure and de facto, beyond all Constitutional constraints.
A court that has the power to incarcerate a man without trial and without review for any "offense" whatsoever.

Think about it.


I wrote the following essays:

...in a white heat, determined that for once, the natural scholasticism of my style in composing these essays should not impede the outrage I feel over the destruction of the United States as it was conceived and dedicated. The effort was exhausting, but the purge is not yet complete.

The weaponization of the government at all levels has been so thorough that the attention of even the lowest State functionary must be regarded as a harbinger of lethal danger. Every one of them knows who you are. Every one of them knows where you live. With little effort they can discover what you do for a living and how much you earn at it. They can delve so deeply into your history that regardless of any efforts you might make or have made, you must regard yourself as completely exposed, utterly without secrets.

From that comes the most terrifying deduction of all: They know how to hurt you where it would hurt you worst, and they have, or can invoke, the power to do so.

And your enemies, should you have any, know it too.


I have no better title for this post than the one it bears. I thought long and hard about it and could do no better. Here I am, a thousand words later, and I still can't come up with a preferable alternate. At least the one above is accurate.

It isn't often that words fail me. I've developed a reputation for eloquence; I value it, and I try to live up to it. But there are some outrages that defy confinement in a cage of words. The events cited above are of that magnitude.

Dina Mackney used a Family Court to reave Chris Mackney of all he possessed.
Along with everything else, Chris Mackney lost all access to the children he loved.
The abuse became so severe that he felt he could bear it no longer, and took his own life.
Now she wants his dying declaration to be declared her property, so no one else will ever read it.
But the "problem," according to noted social analyst Adam Carolla, is "deadbeat dads."
Yeah, right.

Have a nice day.

Monday, December 30, 2013

Fiction: "The Knight Before Christmas"




Find this free story in its entirety HERE at Smashwords.com.

(part of) Part 1

Jamison Riley strode quietly to the doorway leading into the spacious modern kitchen. “Mrs. Costas!” The frat housemother glanced up calmly, as if she truly did have a sixth sense when it came to her boys. “What are you still doing here? It’s after five on Christmas Eve for God’s…I mean, well…” The 21-year-old suddenly looked embarrassed.

Sigma Mu Pi’s chief cook and practically resident Dear Abby glared at him; quickly glanced heavenward; mouthed something religious sounding; then made the sign of the cross.

“I could ask you the same thing, Mr. Riley. Weren’t you--”

He cut her off. “Meeting a new ‘friend’ that now I fully suspect will turn out to be a figment of Mr. Brit-Lit’s imagination? Yeah, well, either way it kinda fell through…” If she was real all they had to do to dissuade her was post any of a million geeky pictures they have of me.

“Oh dear. I’m so sorry, Jamison,” she said, rushing around the island cook top, arms outstretched towards the lanky 6’ 7” engineering student, whose Santa hat barely brushed the top of the doorframe, even in thick-soled boots. He’d had a major say in designing the new house, recently rebuilt from the ground up. So here, at home, his typically battered noggin was safe, unlike elsewhere around the historic college, with its antiquated structures.

He halfheartedly returned the proffered hug.

“So that’s what some of the boys were joking about it,” she said, “at the farewell breakfast…” She looked away and bustled back to finish whatever tidying he’d caught her at.

“Seriously? Well, no great loss; it was just coffee.” Though he tried to sound cavalier, the date was the first he’d almost had all semester. “Guess they took bets on how close to 6 p.m. she’d bail.”

“Bail?”

“You know; break the date. Bail out…on me.” He set a large SMP-logo’d mug in position under the single-serve coffee maker and absently twirled the pod tree.

On the cast-concrete counter Ivana Costas’ phone lit up and vibrated.

“Ah. There’s my baby,” she said and snatched it up, but not before Jamison had gotten a look at the glowing portrait of Nadia, the housemother’s achingly attractive youngest daughter.

Nadia…for me it might as well be nyet.

“Oh Noddy, sweetheart,” she paused listening, “I’m so sorry--” paused again and locked eyes with Jamison; shook her head and shrugged. She looked at the kitchen clock. 5:20. “Then there’s no reason, I mean no objection counselor, that you can possibly come up with now to keep from coming to dinner and then to church with the rest of us.”

The older woman fairly beamed. As if she’d won her first case against her law-student daughter. “Five minutes then?” She paused to listen. “I’ll overrule you! Approach me at the curb.” She chuckled into the phone and winked at Jamison as if he was in on all of it. “Love you, too. Bye.”

“She’s…Nadia’s…back? From the University?” He squeaked at the end and felt plenty stupid. Of course she was back. It’s Christmas, idiot. It was no secret, from most of the students in SMP and because of that, most likely not from Ivana Costas either: Jamison had long been smitten with the girl. From the first time he’d seen her sitting in the car out front while her mother had interviewed for the in-house job and every time thereafter she’d acted as chauffeur...FIND the rest of the story at the Smashwords link above.