Wyvern's Delusions of Significance

Due to all sorts of personal silliness, I'll be telling you of my Saturday at Otakon a full two weeks after that Saturday actually happened. This is probably for the best, as some would argue that it would be wrong for me to report on events of such magnitude without the proper historical perspective. It'd be like writing a biography of a president before his term was up, or trying to tell people the history of gravy without pointing out, in a somber and academic tone, that gravy is delicous. The last time someone did that, you know what happened?  THE VIETNAM WAR.*

*(however these two events had nothing to do with each other.)

Anyway, enough of my nonsense, it's time to introduce the title of the report that's basically just more of my nonsense.

"SATURDAY," or, "Taking a Girl to Dinner is Better Without Sixty Thousand Chaperones."

Current Location: Beloit, Wisconsin
Current Mood: excited
Current Music: "Brand New World" by V6

So, considering how insanely long the first part of my multigenerational 19th century Russian novel  con report ran, I should probably give you guys a break before posting part two. As of this writing, part one has no comments, probably because people looked at it, saw what Diana has kindly described as "the apolocolypse of words," and ran, terrified, to another LJ, written by someone who understands the concept of editing. Am I actually foolish enough to add to that deluge by posting another one of these things?

Of course I am. Welcome to the Otakon report.

Current Location: Our house, in the middle of our street.
Current Mood: excited
Current Music: "A Perfect Sky," by Bonnie Pink

Financially speaking, I probably shouldn't have gone to Otakon this year. I have no idea how much money I'm going to need for day-to-day life at college, which starts in less than two weeks, and anime cons tend to be a bit expensive. Not counting money spent on food, I dropped about the equivalent of an Xbox 360 (a good one, not the "core set" favored by hobos and refugees) on either getting there, getting back home, or dealer's room tomfoolery. In a few months, I might need that money for books or transportation or something at college. But even then, I won't regret having gone, because I had the time of my life this year. Otakon was worth every penny, for more reasons that you'd think.

For one thing, I was kind of nervous (who wouldn't be?) picking up sticks and moving to a state I've never set foot in with a bunch of people I've never met. On the academic angle I'm not quite worried, but I was pretty nervous socially. I'm not socially inept by any means, but for a long time while I was young, I was, and I had a very hard time making friends during much of my school years. This changed as I got a bit older, but going back to school now had awakened old anxieties I had thought to be long buried. What if I have trouble making friends? What if the other students don't like me for some ill-defined reason my subconcious will rationalize at its conviniance? What if there IS no Beloit College, and the whole thing is an elaborate ruse by an undead Alan Funt? These concerns (especially the last one. Undead Alan Funt, if you're reading this,  I WILL enforce that restraining order) were leading me to be a bit wary of the coming months. IIt also doesn't help that I don't have a lot of friends where I currently live (no one's fault-there's just not a lot of people around here who I click with.) I'm not ashamed to say I was worried.

I'm not worried anymore.

Why? Because even with one of my best friends (lovely and talented Kim Fay, who had an adoreable son this June and was thus unable to attend) not present, the con served as a chance for me to be reminded just how many friends I've made without even trying, and I even managed to make one decidedly awesome new one in the process. It was insane how much I ran around the BCC just to make time for everyone, and the very fact that I needed to pretty much disproved any and all lingering anxieties about my ability to make friends with people. That, and all the laughs I got, the joking around and general geek comradery, which leads to such phenomena as Smash Bros. marathons that last until 4 AM, or text messaging using only real words and no abbreviations, or else.

Now, for the first time ever,  I'm not suffering from a post-con blues immediatally following Otakon. Instead, I'm looking foward to Orientation Week like there's no tommorow. Especially when I found out that there's an anime con in Wisconsin.

Serious part's over. Brace yourselves for the con report, peoples!

Current Location: This place here.
Current Mood: giddy
Current Music: "Link" by L'Arc En Ciel

Yes, it's an LJ Meme, brought to you by omgimsuchadorkwho herself got it from jl_toshee who herself got it from...someplace else. Maybe. And you can play along at home, gumshoes!

HOW IT WORKS:
01. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
02. I will respond by asking you five questions of a very intimate and creepily personal nature. Or not so creepy/personal.
03. You WILL update your LJ with the answers to the questions.
04. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the post.
05. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Venus' five questions for me were:

Current Location: Houselike structure
Current Mood: content
Current Music: Nextwave theme song. ("LIKE SHAKESPHERE BUT WITH PUNCHING!")

So it's been a while since the last entry, huh? Sorry if anyone was wondering where I vanished to. I've been around, been busy, been doing things. I finally wrote the aforementioned college essay I was obsessing over in the last entry. By the skin of my teeth, too. See, for some reason I thought my top choice school, Beloit College in Wisconsin, had its deadline on April 1st. Well, you know what else happens on April 1st, right? So I was browsing their site late at night on March 15th, and lo and behold, I somehow got the date wrong. The deadline was THAT SAME DAY. BY FIVE O'CLOCK. And it was already like four AM and I was getting ready to turn in, and then suddenly I discover that I have thirteen hours to put together MY ENTIRE COLLEGE APPLICATION.

It took me weeks to realign my sleep patterns after that.

So I did the whole app online. Luckily, I'd had the foresight to get my reccomendation letter ready beforehand, and we have a fax machine so I got it to them right away.

So then when it came time to do my essay, I had no idea what to write about, and I was severly sleep-deprived besides. But somehow I managed to get out a fairly well-written story about the time my dad almost died of a heart attack. And then I had to toss the whole thing out and rewrite it, because it was like twice as long as the maximum word count allowed for (why didn't they tell me about the damn word limit BEFORE I started?) SO by the time the application is finally, completly sent and everything's set up, it's noon and I've been awake for about twenty-eight hours.

Let that be a lesson to you about procrastination: procrastinators get huge scholarships.

Um, yeah, I got a huge scholarship. I mean a huge flippin' scholarship. I'm pretty sure it was an accident.

So I'll be going to Beloit starting in mid-August, shortly after Otakon. It's going to rule. It's exactly the kind of college I wanted-it's not well known but still very respected, has a strong sense of community and the arts, and is small, so most classes are actual discussions that encourage communication, and not just lectures where you sit in a movie theater listening to a guy talk. Not that there's anything wrong with lectures, but they're not really a good way for me to learn. I need to be able to be involved or I get bored and fall asleep and/or play Mario Kart DS.

Yes, it's a bold new world, an exciting new begining, a new chance to trot out countless dead cliches like those two. It's going to be a fun time.

And hopefully that will help me get over the trauma of losing both Justice Leauge Unlimited and Malcom in the Middle IN THE SAME WEEKEND. What the hell? Lex Luthor just gave Darksied a swirly magic thing and they both went poof? Oh, well, at least the part at the end where all the heroes are running towards the camera was awesome. And then after they fade to black, Malcom walks in and begins to mop the Hall of Justice. Poor Malcom.

Current Mood: excited

So my Circuit City job only lasted three weeks. This was expected, as it was techinically a temp position, but I was hoping for more. Ah, well. At least I'm not COMPLETLY broke now.

Anyway, since I have nothing much to do now, I'm trying to concentrate on finally getting myself into college. This doesn't appear to be too much of a problem, but since a lot of the people around these parts are of the undergraduate persuasion, I thought I'd shamelessly solicit advice. I have a couple of questions.

1-The essay. Now the actual WRITING of the essay isn't a problem. I have great confident in my abilities as a writer. The problem is, I haven't clue one what exactly to write about. None of the schools I'm appyling to are asking for a topic-they all just say "include an essay." I'm fairly sure it should have to do with me somehow, but there's so many angles to approach that horrific topic from that I wouldn't know where to begin. Anyone have any suggestions?

(sidenote:Someone else suggested I just send them the inexplicably famous "Story of a Dog," but I'm not sure that's really a college-y essay. Besides, is it even kosher to send out an essay that you already wrote and that's been sitting on the Intrawebs for four months?)

2-I'm still not married to any of the places I'm applying to, so if anyone who knows me well enough to think they might know a place I might like, feel free to suggest it.

3-Anyone know any good sources of financial aid besides FAFSA?

Aaaaaaaand....scene. Hopefully, with your help, I'll go from being the guy making a dollar above minimum wage at the video store to being the guy who makes a dollar above minimum wage at the video store who perodically can be heard going "Dammit, I have a Bachlor's Degree in English!" Dare to dream.

Current Mood: determined

Yeah, so I finally got a job again. Working at Circuit City as a cashier. Seasonal hire, but they may ask me to stay on permanantly. I certainly hope so. The people are nice, and I'm actually selling something I'm interested in. But mainly it's because I need money so I can finally get into college in the fall. That, and so I can go to cons this year WITHOUT eBaying everything I own.

But I have to say, their training methods are a little...okay, remember back when you used to care about Dragon Ball Z? You know, when it was the only anime on television and this distracted you from how much it sucked? Okay. Remember the bit where Piccolo is put in charge of training Gohan for the coming battle against Vegita, and his training method basically consists of the following?:

1) Toss Gohan out into the untamed wilderness full of dinosaurs and tigers and killer robots in hopes that his natural survival instincts will kick in and he will learn on his own.

2) Check back once a month to see if he's dead.

Yeah, Circuit City trains you a bit like that. You are told how to sign in and how to ring up a basic (there are many variables) sale. Then it goes like this.

1) Toss Ray out into the untamed wilderness full of impatient and pissed-off holiday shoppers in hopes that his natural survival instincts will kick in and he will learn on his own.

2)Check back in three hours to see if he's dead.


Thankfully, I've got years of register experience (that's kind of sad) so I'll be fine. You really do learn quickly this way, even if I suspect "hands-on training" is just an excuse for the managers to not have to actually be there while I'm being trained. Whatever. I'm doing pretty well, especially considering that I'm learning the job during the busiest time of the year, when 90% of the customers are people who've never set foot in a CC before and have no idea where to locate the mysterious "Gamebox 360" they seek.

Tommorow I get to work with a cold. Whee. I'm tempted to call in, but I hate calling in unless I have a really good reason, and I've worked sicker than this. No doubt the situation will lead to hilarious wacky tales of mirth, which may or may not be recollected here depending on my mood.

WORKPLACE BITCHING: A subject Livejournal has never seen before.

My mom said, "A friend of your dad's has a dog he needs to give away because his apartment won't let him keep him. We were thinking about taking him in. He's a cute little lab." Said cute little lab was three months old at the time, and upon arrival in our home, the puppy quickly and desicivly made his intentions known by running into the door at top speed, smelling everything he could find, and almost knocking over a lamp when he jumped on a table.

That was Cesar, and in the begining, he was a troublemaker. Not a bad dog, just an incredibly playful, energetic, curious dog who, at times, did not know his own strength. He was tiny at first-our cat, Zelda, was slightly bigger than him. However she was still pretty freaked out by Cesar, whose boundless enthusiasm was the opposite of her laidback, calm attitude. At first she was scared of him, then she began to hiss and snarl at him, and then she simply learned to tolerate him when it became clear he was here to stay. Cesar, for his part, never changed his attitude towards Zelda: He wanted to be her friend. He could tell, I'm sure, that she didn't like him, but he didn't care. He wanted to be everyone's friend. He was always smiling.

Time passed, and Cesar got bigger. MUCH bigger. By the time he was full grown, he weighed eighty pounds. That's big even for a lab. But while he grew physically, and he learned to make fewer messes and be generally less troublesome (he always loved making a mess of the garbage cans, though) he remained a puppy at heart. My dad encouraged this-he taught him some basic things like going outside when he needed to use the bathroom, but other than that he just let his spirit shine through-he didn't want to train him too much, as training can sometimes change a dog's personality, and dad didn't want to change anything about Cesar. Cesar never learned to come when he was called-he didn't need to. He'd come running the moment he saw you. That's how he was-he wanted nothing more than to be by the side of his family.

Cesar was a bit too big to be in the house most of the time, so we fenced off a large portion of the yard for him. It was a dog's paradise-a pastoral field all his own with grass, flowers, a doghouse, food and water at the ready, all capped by a pair of trees in the center, along with a statue of St. Francis (which served as the grave marker for our cat Maxx; later, a second marker was put in for Zelda's grave) and a park bench, perfect for sitting and lounging in the middle of nature with a favorite human. The back of the fence was covered by trees and bushes on the outside (which marked the begining of our neighbors' property) and this guarenteed that Cesar was always visited in his yard by many interesting animals whom he would chase, sniff and play with like squirrels, frogs, and the occasional racoon and bird, which came and went at all hours, keeping him entertained. He was a very happy, very lucky, very energetic dog.

And despite this, despite how much he loved the yard, he was never happier than in the evenings, when he was brought indoors and got to hang out with his family. He'd come see him in the yard, of course, but when he was inside, he was with us constantly, in the inner sanctum of the people he loved so much. Cesar's greatest joy in life was simply being with us-it didn't matter if we were talking to him or petting him, or doing something that had nothing at all to do with him-we were THERE, and that was enough. His devotion was boundless, his loyalty unparralelled, his sense of love, family, and fun beyond description. When our family went through rough times, he was our ray of light. In these times too, he was always smiling. So long as we were around, he was always happy, and when he sensed we were not, he made it his mission to spread some of his happiness to us.

Every time we glanced in his direction, you could see such adoration, love, happiness, and innocence in his eyes-he would smile, pant, wag his tail, reveling in the gift of our attention. He was only slightly less affectionate with strangers-everyone was a potential friend to him, the whole world was nothing more than a collection of people and animals whom he wanted to get to know better. And everyone loved him back. I've had people who only met him once, maybe for an hour at most, who, whenever they talked to me, even years later, made it a point to ask "How's Cesar doing?" Every time.

Cesar was especially fond of my father. He loved us all, but the bond he and my dad shared was something truly remarkable. When dad came into the room, it was like nothing else in exsisted in Cesar's world but him. He adored the old man, and loved going on walks, playing, or just sitting quietly with him. My dad has owned twentyodd dogs in his lifetime, but he always said that of all of them, Cesar was his favorite-that he had achieved a level of closeness with him that he'd never expierenced with any other animal. We live near a golf course, and on warm days, when the sun hung low in the sky, Dad would take Cesar out to the golf course, which had a vast forest bordering it on three sides. Golf balls got lost in there all the time, and dad had trained him to go get them. He would run into the forest, chase rabbits or squirrels, sniff all sorts of interesting and amazing scents, and after a few minutes, return with a golf ball. Golf balls were four dollars each at the resort, and over the years my dad saved a huge amount of money by using the ones Cesar found when he played golf. Running through that forest was the highlight of Cesar's day. Not just because of the fun he had, but because he got to spend time with Dad.

But Cesar got old.

He'd had a lot of medical issues over the years, mainly due to some allergies he had that kept him on medication constantly. But he was okay. In the last month, however, he started having problems eating. He would throw up-first it only happened once in a while. Soon it happened every time he ate. He would eat, and within an hour most of it would come back up. He still went to the bathroom, so he was retaining some food, but after a couple of weeks, everything he ate came back up. He could only retain water.

An X-ray revealed Cesar had swallowed a golf ball, probably years ago, and the stomach acid had eaten away at it until now the outer plastic cover was gone. They weren't sure that it was what was causing his vomiting, but it needed to come out anyway. The vet scheduled an operation. It was somewhat risky; he had a minor heart condition that could be aggrivated by anasthesia. During a previous operation, he had almost died because of this. Nonetheless, the surgery went ahead, and the golf ball was finally removed. He stayed in the hospital for two days, and finally came back home, weak and hungry but happy to be there with us again.

We tried to feed him and things were fine for the first day. But on the second day, he threw up again.

We tried putting him on thinner food. He threw up. We tried putting him on a liquid supplement that was full of nutrients,and for a while, he seemed okay, but soon he began throwing that up,too. Another surgery was needed-an exploratory one to determine what was wrong. This one really worried the vet. He said the odds of his survival were not good, especially not for a twelve-year-old dog with a heart condition.

By this point, Cesar weighed seventy pounds. Two weeks earlier, he had weighed eighty. We went ahead with the surgery.

Cesar survived. Not twelve hours after they had opened him up and looked around in his organs, he was running around in the yard outside the vet's. My dad came to visit him, and they played like they always did. He was running around and jumping only twelve hours after major surgery. And always smiling. The vet said he'd never seen anything like it. "He wasn't very animated until you showed up, but then it was like a switch was turned on," he said. "This dog's will to live is incredible."

Unfortunatly, the surgery turned up nothing unsual. Except for his vomiting, Cesar was unusually healthy for a dog his age. But he wasn't retaining nutriton now, and if this continued, his health wouldn't last long. Another X-ray was done. It revealed the source of the problem at last-he'd developed a problem with his esophagus. It had become extremly sensitive, rejecting everything that wasn't pure liquid that came down the pipe. And the thing was, when this problem was agigtated, his body responded by vomiting EVERY solid he had in his stomach. So even if he had managed to retain everything all day, all it took was one tiny irritation and it all came back up again.

Unfortunatly, the vet told us, the treatment for what Cesar had was extremly harsh, and he did not reccomend it. Even if it succeded, he would be unable to swallow anything but water for a week or more; he'd have to survive off an IV, and in his present condition, his body would not be able to take that. We had exhausted everything that could be done medically. All that was left was to take him home, make him comfortable, try to give him very soft foods, and hope his body would be able to hold it in. He had good days and bad, but slowly his attacks got worse, and the time it took for him to throw up after eating something got shorter. He fought so hard,too, always trying to keep the food down. He always failed, but he didn't give up. He was incredibly strong. Even after throwing up, once he'd caught his breath, he always smiled.

One day, my dad took Cesar outside into his yard and helped him climb up unto the park bench in the center. They sat there, together, looking at the world, Cesar with his head in his master's lap, my father petting him. They were there for a half hour. It was the last time Cesar ever set foot in his yard.

He got weaker and thinner. He'd always had trouble standing up because of his arthritus, but finally the time came when he wouldn't stand at all. He began refusing to eat food after awhile, only drinking water. His will was finally fading. It was clear he couldn't go on like this anymore-his body was rapidly failing him, and now he couldn't even walk. It was time, we decided, to set him free.

We called the vet, and made an appointment to put him down the next day. That night my dad did not sleep. He stayed by his dog's side all night long. For the last 24 hours of his life, not one moment passed when Cesar was alone. And despite his weakened state, he still made the effort to turn his body around so he was always facing us. And still he smiled.

Cesar was scheduled to be put to sleep at 4:30 PM. Around 8:30 AM, there was a knock on my bedroom door. It was my dad. "Come say goodbye to Cesar," he said in a worried, somewhat rattled tone, "I'm taking him now." I told him I was going with him, and he said "okay, but HURRY." I threw on some clothes in less than a minute, and for the first time in years left the house without showering or brushing my teeth. There was no time for that sort of thing. I helped my dad lift him into the backseat of the car and I sat there with him on the drive to the vet's, petting him and talking to him. He kept his head down, looking straight ahead. I think he knew what was happening. He made no effort to resist it.

My dad explained why he was in such a rush. Cesar had tried, for the first time in two days, to stand up. But instead he collapsed, falling over unto his side, and a moment later began coughing up blood. A lot of it. 4:30 was eight hours away. My dad wasn't going to make him wait that long. Througout his entire ordeal, the vet assured us that Cesar was not suffering or in pain-he just felt weak and sleepy. This was no longer true. And we owed it to him to take that pain away as soon as possible.

On the way there, we called my mom on her cell and she told her class (she's a Spanish teacher) to read quietly until a substitute arrived. She went straight to the principal, told him (not asked, TOLD) that she was taking an emergency personal day, and left (security tapes showed that her students, for their part, were extremly well-behaved even though there was no teacher in the room for fifteen minutes. They did as they were asked. Mom's good at her job.) We called my brother, who waits tables at a resturuant, but try as he might he couldn't get out of work (his boss is an asshole) and the place was so far he probably wouldn't have made it to the vet's in time anyway. I told Cesar that David loved him and was there in spirit.

When the car stopped, Cesar looked up at me and tried to get up again. He couldn't, but at least this time he managed to set himself down without falling. My dad picked him up and walked into the vet's. They all knew what was happening. A room was swiftly prepared, and Cesar was placed on the examining table. The Vet gave us a few minutes alone while he prepared the injection. In that time, my mom arrived. Cesar, for his part, kept moving his head, trying to look each of us in the eye.

There was something those big expressive brown eyes that I hadn't seen before. "It's okay," they were saying, "I know it's time. Don't be sad." We petted him, talked to him, told him how much we love him and how soon it wouldn't hurt anymore. My dad gave him in a kiss on the forehead. The vet walked in with the syringe.

My mom, during the days when Cesar was sick, had taken to telling him a story to calm him down. It was the story of his life, told as a fairy tale. "Once upon a time," she would begin (in spanish) "there was a black dog who everyone loved, because he loved everyone..." it would always start that way, and then diverge to tell of one of Cesar's various adventures. Cesar loved hearing these stories. They always calmed him down and got him to eat or relax. Maybe it was the calm, soft tone with which my mom would always tell them. Maybe he understood them on some level. But they always made him feel better. He would smile.

The doctor swabed Cesar's leg, finding a vein. My dad and I each held one of his paws. My mother looked into his eys and began telling him a story. "Once upon a time..." she began...

His eyes closed. My mother continued speaking. And as she spoke, as she told him this tale of a dog who had become the heart and happiness of a family, Cesar died.

She never finished the story. Her voice broke and she buried her face in her hands. Through my own tears, I saw my father crying, for the first time in my life.

The Vet, who has no doubt seen hundreds of animals die over the years, was crying too. In his line of work, he explained, it was important not to get too attached to the patients. But Cesar was different-you couldn't HELP but get attached to him. He was so agreeable, so loving, never resisting any treatment, always cooperative, not because he WANTED to have blood drawn again, but because he trusted everyone there. He knew they were his friends, and he had nothing to fear from them.

Every nurse in the clinic came in to pay thier respect, stroking his head or saying a prayer. All of them had come to love him. All of them offered sympathy. All of them were crying. The most senior nurse there, who had worked at the clinic for nearly ten years, said she'd never seen anything like it.

We needed a few minutes to compose ourselves. We had decided to have our friend cremated. It was Friday, and my dad couldn't stand the thought of waiting until Monday to get Cesar's ashes back, since that was what would happen if his remains were picked up at the Vet. The nurse gave us the address of a pet cremation service. It was a forty minute drive (which turned into a sixty minute drive because we got lost) but we decided to go, right then and there, to get it over with.

The owner of the crematorium was a sweet older woman who seemed filled with geniuine sympathy. All around us were samples of fancy urns and headstones, but he'd already decided what we were going to do. We only needed a simple container, we told her. We weren't keeping the ashes for long. A very kind pair of employees came to our car to take Cesar's body. They told each of us how sorry they were.

Cremation would take three hours, which gave us a chance to drive around the area and find a nice gift basket to give to the nurses at the clinic. My dad wanted to thank them for all their compassion and hard work somehow. To the Vet himself, my dad was planning to give a bottle of his most expensive brandy. We also donated Cesar's remaining food and medicines, along with the doggie bed he had slept on. Hopefully they'll help someone else's friend in some small way.

We returned to the crematorium with time to spare. There, among the remnants and mementos of other people's animal companions, the three of us broke down. My dad excused himself and went outside, sitting down on the bench outside (remarkably similar to the one in Cesar's yard) and looking out over the countryside. My mom stayed inside with me. It took us several minutes to stop crying.

Finally, the process was done, and we were given small plastic container. On it were written the words "My Beloved Cesar." Inside was a simple plastic bag containing his ashes. They were the almost same color as his fur had been.

We drove home, talked, remembered. My dad later told my mom that for the last few years he'd been dreading this day, and now he realized that had been a mistake. My dad came from an abusive background, and he'd never really had a real family before he had us. So the prospect of losing any member of that family terrified him. But now he realized, he said, that worrying like that was pointless-that someday, when he was ready to get a new dog (no replacement for Cesar, of course-that was impossible-but a new friend nonetheless) he'd decided to make it a point to not worry about what would come, and instead enjoy every moment he had with him. Even in death, Cesar continued to make our lives better.

When we're all prepared, the four of us will take his ashes, which are sitting in thier little plastic box in the family room, and we'll go out to that golf course again. We'll scatter some of his ashes in the forest where he ran and played, looking for golf balls and rabbits and enjoying life. We'll scatter some of them in the pond, where he tried to swim once and an aligator almost got him. He always loved to swim.

Finally, we'll scatter the remainder of them in his yard, the place where he spent countless happy afternoons. And in that yard, next to the graves of our cats Zelda and Maxx, we will place a small, hand-carved wooden statue, which stands about a foot high, which my dad recieved as a gift years ago. It is a statue of a black labrador retriever, and he is smiling.

I don't know what happens after we leave this world, but I like to think that, if there's any justice, there is a yard just like that one, a forest just like the one by the golf course, somewhere else in Creation. And that's where he is now, no longer shackled by pain or age. His legs work again, he can eat all he wants, no allergies, no pain, not ever again. He's running, playing, chasing, doing funny dog things, and waiting for the day when he sees us, his beloved family, once again.

And always, he is smiling.

It's the stereotype test! Brought to you by filiasan,who I stole it from.

( TEH FUN. )

SUNDAY: "The Big Goodbye," or "This Entry is a Bit Shorter Than The Others Because On Sunday the Con Was Only Open For Six Hours"

( Part One: It's the Last Day. Time to Run Around! )

( Part Two: Music Makes Me Lose Control )

( Part Three: Final Crumbs )