Pep Talk #15: Precious, beautiful, and fleeting
A turning point in my childhood
Iris was my childhood dog and what one might call an odd duck. We named her after the Greek god of rainbows and I guess after women born in the 1950s. Her bark was “like an ice pick in [one’s] ear,” as my dad would say, especially during dinner. It was loud and piercing and constant. We became desensitized to it, but sometimes I would wonder why a dinner guest was wincing until I realized that Iris had been shrieking at an eardrum-popping volume for food scraps.
Iris acted like an old woman, but she was terrifyingly athletic. She weighed less than 15 pounds, but was somehow able to carry an entire soccer ball in her mouth and sprint around the yard with it. She had the reflexes of a hummingbird. Every soccer ball I owned was covered in teeth marks and was at least 25% deflated. You could kick the ball at her as hard as you could and she would attack it with the fervor of a World War II soldier on crystal meth.
Despite her athleticism and mania, Iris had mysterious catatonic episodes. There were times where she would get a faraway look in her cataract-laden eyes and pant very slowly with a strand of drool hanging out of her mouth for hours on end. It was common for me or Abby to scream from the living room on a random Thursday, voice quivering from holding back tears, “MOM?? IRIS IS HAVING A SEIZURE.” Mom would tell us not to worry, and Iris would be back to her deranged, demonic self in a few hours.
One day, when my sister and I were 7 and 9 years old respectively, Iris was acting even weirder than usual. She was scooting around on her ass, all over the carpet, as if her hind legs didn’t work anymore. My dad, who is very into protecting his personal property, kept saying “NO!” and “What is up with this dog?” and pushing her off the carpet. But Iris, being a stubborn little freak, could not be deterred from rubbing her butt on every surface in our house.
That night, we were watching a movie when someone — I don’t remember who — went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. What happened next is hard for me to recall fully, but I know that we all ran to the kitchen and saw Iris, still scooting around, but there was a trail of blood all over the kitchen floor. In case you’re struggling to picture the scene — “What do you mean? What are you talking about?!?!?!” — think: Hansel and Gretel, except instead of a path into a forest, it’s a circle on the kitchen floor, and instead of breadcrumbs, it was blood from my dog’s butt, which was bright and red like a tiny lightbulb.
This was the closest Abby and I had ever been to real suffering and possibly death. We were in hysterics. Mom whisked her away to the vet emergency room, where it was revealed that Iris’ “anal glands had popped.” Iris lived for 10 more years and had to get her anal glands “expressed” regularly.
Most people don’t find this story about Iris’ anal glands poetic or even appropriate to discuss, especially “not at the dinner table.” Most people try to change the subject as soon as they hear the words “anal glands.” Most people are concerned about why it took so long for us to take Iris to the vet for her other health issues. But those people are missing the point. This story is not about anal glands; it’s about life. Life can be undignified and humiliating. Sometimes we bleed out from unwelcome places in front of everyone we know. But there are other times, like when you’re running around the backyard with a huge soccer ball in your mouth, where life is precious, beautiful, and fleeting.
She is in Love with ChatGPT (NYT article) by Kashmir Hill
I don’t think this article was “meant” to be funny, but I made a list of quotes that had me choking on my chocolate scone on the R train:
Please like and restack, if it makes your life better, smoother, and more connected to me 😘my queen😘.
Every pep talk gets more poignant
With the fervor of a World War ll soldier on crystal meth .
That is perfection!!!