*Best neologism I came up with over the weekend: pontifisyphilitic. To the best I can gather, it's when the Pope has syphilis. Or maybe it's when you have syphilis, and you start to look like the Pope.

*James Doohan, aka Scotty from Star Trek, had his remains shot into space. I find this incredibly moving, and officially want my ashes shot into space. It almost gives death, if not a meaning, at least a reason to happen. Scrape the sky, young man. You died before your time, before men made life grand, before the Federation of Planets protected us from injustice. And Romulans.

*My dad gave a talk Saturday night at a prison ceremony, wherein outstanding inmates of some kind or another were honored with awards. Awesome.

*My dog is sick. Her ribs are showing. Her teeth are rotting. Her face is gray, though it looks a youthful blonde. She is still ecstatic and stupidly galloping from nowhere special to nowhere special. It is a perfect day, 90 benign degrees, the middle distance not yet swarming with hard-bodied and thoughtless insects. She, my dog, is staring at me, panting, her tongue hanging lopsided from behind a cavitied canine tooth, splayed out sideways and throbbing, and this is as closely as a dog can resemble an adolescent boy, hay-and-honey hair peeking out from under a black cap, running up to you after his ballgame and asking, “Didja see? Didja see me? I hit a double! Didja see?” A snaggletoothed kid. And you say, “Yeah, buddy, great job,” and give his shoulder a pound with your fist because you're just proud of him, is all. Her kidneys are failing. She’s eating special food, and taking a chalky white pill at night. A thirteen year old kid. But she'll never have to look up at me and ask, “am I gonna die?” Everything is just so sad.

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