When
I was 17, I walked out into the heat furnace that is a Southern California
summer to find my dog dead in the backyard. I knew something was wrong when I
approached her doghouse and saw her lying on her side, not reacting at all to
my presence. I opened the door of her enclosure and it hit her foot. She was
stiff. There were flies.
I
ran like I was being followed by every demon imaginable, all the departed
ghosts in this hellmouth of a house. Later I would come up with a calculus:
once I turned 34, twice the age I was at that pivotal moment, I would have
somehow transcended the experience.
Today
I am 45. It hasn’t happened.
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