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Zeke’s End  By  W. Bruce Watson
 
     "Who messed this little rug up?" I wanted to know of him, as if I didn't know. Zeke was the consummate rug crumpler. He'd be asleep on the couch and wake up and slump to the floor whereupon he'd sleepily begin pawing and scraping at the edge of the rug until he had it flopped back on itself. Virtually the entire length of the rug would be affected, crumpled and flipped upside down exposing the pad. And sometimes once the pad was exposed, he'd go after it too. Once the entire rug was in disarray at his end of the room, like as not he'd slink away from it and proceed to the other end of the rug, perform his obligatory three rotations and then collapse in a heap, head resting on his forepaws, and lapse quickly into slumber once again. No rug, big or small, was safe from his crumpling, not even the little hand made throw rug at the side of the bed in my room. All of 3 feet in diameter, he'd crumple it into a lumpy ball, a definite trip hazard in the dark. Its subsequent unrumpling soon became a part of a local, nightly ritual, one dutifully performed each and every night his whole life long: as I straightened it out, I'd demand of him, "Who messed this little rug up?" He'd pretend not to know what I was talking about, or feign innocence with "It was that way when I found it."

      I'm slowly coming to terms w/ Zeke's death: it's looking more and more like he just ran out of time, that his life was over, that every death is untimely and tragic no matter what the circumstances. What we do is we live our lives as best we can and then, one day, for some reason that doesn't really matter, we die—our clock stops ticking while everybody else's keeps going. No, really, with Zeke, 4 adults who're way dog sensitive and 2 vets on 3 different occasions attended to him and none of us realized he was dying. Not one of us! So he died. Shit! Had any of us had any inkling that he lay there dying, we'd've moved heaven and hell to save him. But we didn't. We didn't know.

      Isn't death the clever one? "Step right up folks. Only 25¢. Watch my hands closely," he said. "At no time do they leave my sleeves. And presto, digito, wha! whish!" He snuffed him the way you or I would snuff a lit candle and he was gone, not a trace left behind, no wisp of smoke, nothing! It was as if he'd never been, and this I resent deeply. I felt guilty then, guilty for not realizing what was happening, for not doing more, but really, I was no match for this 'magician', and this 'magic.' I'm all for him giving us back our quarters and we taking back our Zeke. He didn't say we'd like the show, or that there was a money back guarantee. No, all he said was "Watch!" So like idiots, we did. We watched. We watched him die. What choice did we have?
 
 
 
The truth is, after much furrowing of brow, I can't think of anything to say by way of preface to my blog. Along the way I wondered what it's purpose might be and maybe I should say a few words about that and would, except that I don't know what its purpose is, or could be, or should be. I only know that my clock is winding down and I'm so desperate to have my mind known that I could just spit! Maybe my blog could be about that. But how depressing and pretentious that could be! But hold on a second, maybe not—my therapist commented the other day how in late adulthood (AKA elder years), one is forced to deal with the sense of loss, all the time, it's always there, and it's painful, it takes great faith to live on even though one knows it's going to end and that whatever they accomplish, if anything, is not going to matter all that much. How does one find meaning or a sense of fulfillment in life knowing that it’s coming to an end? Psychologists have not written much about this if anything. It's sort of an unexamined part of adult life. It takes a lot of self-discipline to function in spite of this sense of loss—it's so easy to give up on the constant struggle, on life. A lot of people do—drinking, TV, drugs, electrosex, So, if you'll bear with me, let us examine this unexamined part of adult life.
 
 
 
 
Copyright © 2011 W. Bruce Watson, Inc. All rights reserved.  
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