One day when I arrived at the Pacific Heights Health Club everyone was very animated. From what they told me, John F Kennedy, Jr, had been in for a workout that morning, and I had missed him by about three minutes. Aw, shucks, an almost brush with celebrity. It did, however, confirm for me that PHHC was just about the classiest fitness club in the city. From classy to no class, read on.
As luck would have it, I encountered a problem once again collecting the balance on a job that I did for a designer. After six months of sending invoices and dunning notices, Mortimer Hertzstein, who happened to be an attorney, still hadn’t paid me the $650 that he owed for work that I had done at his home in Diamond Heights. Frustrated, I filed a small claims suit against him and his designer, which prompted him to send me a check … for only $350 which he marked “paid in full!“ What cheek! Needless to say, I didn’t cash it.
Instead, I returned it along with one of my infamous and eloquent letters, extremely well written and carefully crafted, with a copy to his designer. Then I received a letter from him, threatening to sue me for $25,000 libel and slander. Knock me over with a feather. I went to an attorney who had also been a client. He told me that Hertzstein had no case because: First, it is not libelous unless it is made public, and sending a copy to his designer did not qualify as public, because she was a party to the case. Second, it’s not libelous if it is true. He then sent a letter to Hertzstein, setting him straight, and telling him, in so many words, that he was embarrassed that a member of the bar would stoop so low as to take advantage of an honest tradesman for such a pitiful amount. That cost me a hundred bucks.
Well, I never heard anything more about the libel and slander, but then a week or so before the court date one of Hertzstein’s peons called to ask if I would agree to postpone the date for two weeks. I was pretty sure that I didn’t have to agree to such a request, and I certainly wasn’t going to agree to anything that would benefit these bastards, so I said no. Then this peon told me that they had the right to postpone the court hearing without my agreement, and advised me that the date would be changed from the 11th to the 28th. I smelled something fishy!
Without further communication, I showed up at court on the 11th and positioned myself in the front row, which is where I was, with a big smile on my face, when Hertzstein, his designer, and the peon walked in. Surprise! Surprise! Can you believe those jokers? They were clearly bottom feeders. In Small Claims Court one is not allowed to be represented by an attorney, which is sort of irrelevant when an attorney is a defendant. I made my case, and the judge took it under advisement. A few days letter I received the verdict in the mail. I was awarded the full amount, but the judgment was against the designer only, not Hertzstein, because it was she who had signed the contract.
Don’t celebrate yet. Next I received notice that the case was being appealed to Superior Court. These people had no scruples whatsoever (one of the things I had mentioned in my “libelous” letter). I went back to my client/friend the attorney, and he said that he wouldn’t take such an insignificant case, but referred me to a friend of his who was fresh out of law school and starting his own practice. Enter Walter Parsley. Walter was a very nice young man (who happened to be quite cute, not to mention ‘gay’), and we discussed the case and prepared for our day in court.
A week or two before that court date, I received a call from the designer’s husband. He tried to get me to drop the case, claiming that his wife was seriously ill, and blah, blah, blah. I told him, “You want me to drop the case?! Tell them to pay me my fucking money and then this will all be over. It’s only $650!” Walter and I were the first to arrive, followed by Hertzstein, the designer (who appeared to be in perfect health), and the peon. As Hertzstein walked in he said, “Good morning, Your Honor!” And the judge replied, “Nice to see you Mr Hertzstein, it has been awhile.” And I thought, Oh shit!
Hertzstein was just there as a witness, the peon (who was, curiously enough, also young and cute and ‘gay’) was representing the designer. So I had another day in court. Walter did okay, but he was as nervous as a virgin in a whore house, and I think I could have done better. The details are not important, as the case was cut-and-dried. You signed a contract for this amount, the work was completed as agreed, and you own the money. When we all “rested” I raised my hand, “Your Honor?” “Yes Mr Edwards?” “I read that a new law was recently passed, that allowed a Superior Court Judge to award up to $1000 in punitive damages, if the court feels that the Small Claims appeal was filed simply as harassment.” “I’m aware of the law, Mr Edwards.” “Well, I …” “You just wanted the court to consider that in this case.” “Yes, thank you, Your Honor.”
A few days later the verdict was received, and I got my $650 plus $250 in punitive damages. YEA!!! Now how to collect? They had thirty days to pay, and when the deadline was passed I called the peon about my money. He said to me, “Are you still represented by Walter Paisley?” “Well, yes, I suppose I am.” “Then I can’t speak with you,” he said. “Well that’s just fine, BECAUSE ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS LISTEN!!!” (Wow! So many years later and I still love that line, one of my best!) Then I read him the Riot Act, and received my check—in full—two days later. So, after the $100 that I paid to my client/attorney about the libel and slander issue, the $750 that I paid to Walter, I ended up with a hundred bucks and an education that was worth thousands.
Six months after losing Daffy I was still crying frequently, an improvement from daily, and always during and after visits to the SPCA shelter. Although I did not plan on getting a pound puppy, seeing all of the dogs that needed a good home and lots of love was very therapeutic. As the end of the first year without Daffy approached, I bought the Encyclopedia of AKC Dog Breeds, and Vince and I started selecting which breeds we liked, when and if we decided to get another dog. When we heard about the dog show at the Cow Palace we decided to go, yet I knew that that decision was a much bigger decision than just going to the show.
We had our favorite breeds narrowed down to three, and after looking at all of them at the show we decided that we liked the Pug the best, the largest of the toy breeds. Yet I had reservations. Having always had furry fluffy dogs, I was afraid that the short-hair Pug wouldn’t be cuddly enough … I sure got that wrong. We picked up business cards from a few breeders, and once back home we gave it a lot more thought and consideration. Ultimately we called a breeder in the Santa Rosa vicinity, and one day made that faithful trip north. Vince named our little faun Pug Paula, Paula Pug, inspired by that 1963 #1 hit “Hey Paula” by Paul & Paula (who were actually Ray Hildebrand and Jill Jackson from Texas). Paula was our present to ourselves to commemorate our fifth anniversary.
January my office manager and dear friend Bill Stenger moved back to Cincinnati, to go into the family business; mining, or something to do with mining, as I recall. Bill’s replacement was a fellow named Dale, who only stayed until June, when he was diagnosed with AIDS. He was the first person with AIDS that I had known face to face. Rather than replace him, I decided to phase out the majority of my wholesale installation business, keep just a few of the nicest clients, and concentrate on building up the retail business. Just about that time a postcard arrived in the mail asking, “How would you like to contact X-number of new homeowners each month?” Well, that was exactly what I wanted to do. So I signed up for their mailing label service, and started sending flyers to about 1000 new homeowners a month. That proved very successful.
Vince loved horseback riding, having done so since he was a kid, and a few times we rode at the Wild Horse Valley Ranch in Napa, California, which is the winter home of the US Equestrian Team. Sadly, riding didn’t work for me at all. My legs simply do not spread apart far enough to straddle a horse, and once I get into the saddle my leg muscles are so taut that I cannot move my legs. Then they become increasing painful, until they go numb. Like mother like son. I would go riding with Vince whenever he wanted, just like my mother would go out fishing with my father on the JALAHOJE, despite such terrible seasickness that popping Dramamine didn‘t really help.
One long weekend we spent a few days at a ‘gay’ owned Bed & Breakfast Inn on a deserted stretch of the north coast, a few miles north of the tiny town of Westport, which was about twenty-two miles north of Mendocino. The first thing the innkeepers told was where we couldn’t wander, where not to go because of the danger of getting shot by the marijuana farmers. Good thing to know. The Inn had two horses, a mare and a gelding, and guests could ride them as they pleased.
Out at the corral it was no problem roping the mare and putting on the bridle et al, but the gelding was a different story. Vince spent about a half hour trying to get the rope over his head, but the gelding was having no part of it, and kept trying to kick him. Vince might have been the experienced horseman, but finally I had had enough. “fools rush in” as the saying goes. Taking the rope I walked up to the gelding and said, “Listen you son-of-bitch, no more screwing around. I’m gonna put this rope over your head, and don’t you dare try to bite me or kick me.” Then I put the rope around his neck without any problem at all, and led him to the fence. Vince was awed.
Vince took the feistier gelding and I took the mare. We rode around the woods and the meadows for a while, steering clear of the pot farms, then crossed Shoreline Highway One and out onto the beach. The horses were fine in the sand and didn’t mind loping along the edge of the surf. Then all of a sudden my horse started to lie down. Of the thoughts that flashed through my mind in nanoseconds: The first was that the horse was dying (I thought that they only laid down when they were sick or dying). The second was that I was going to be crushed under a dead horse. Instantaneously I was airborne, proving that in fact fairies really can fly. Next the horse rolled right over on her back wiggling. Back at the Inn the guys, barely able to contain their mischievous giggles, asked who got the mare. You bastards, you knew that she would do that! As it happened, that mare liked to roll on her back in the wet sand. How very peculiar. I thought only dogs did that, usually in something smelly.
As much as it was nice not having Phil in our lives, after his departure we seemed to have inherited Scott. He started spending a lot of time at our place, making himself right at home for days at a time. At least he wasn’t an obnoxious in your face drunk (I had yet to learn of his heroin addiction). Much to my surprise, I was pretty cool with that, until I discovered that he was wearing my underpants. When I scolded him he said, “Well, you’ve got to share you know.” “SHARE?!?!?!” I exclaimed, “I share my home, my partner, my dog, my car, my food, my clothes, I draw the line at my underclothes. If you need underpants just ask, I have some that I will give you.” Funny how the sharing thing works though, is it ever reciprocal?
When we were doing our taxes that year Vince was complaining once again about how much he had to pay, and that’s when I said let’s buy a house. We did a little browsing, checking the newspaper every Sunday, as well as the real estate magazines, mostly just seeing a lot of places that were out of our financial reach. We looked at a few places, but for the most part the process was halfhearted, discouraging and frustrating.
After earning his baccalaureate from Golden Gate University, graduating sigma cum laud, and after nine years as a Critical Care RN, Vince was keeping his eyes open for other opportunities within the UCSF system. His search came to fruition when he was offered the position of Protocol Manager for UCSF’s AIDS Testing and Evaluation Center at San Francisco General Hospital. There, at the epicenter of the pandemic and a political hotbed, he worked with Dr Donald Abrams and Dr Paul Volberding, at the time two of the world’s leading AIDS specialists.
San Francisco General was on the other side of the city, and my chauffer service did have its limits, so Vince needed his own wheels. Considering the amount of samples that I had to take on sales appointments, the Buick station wagon was not working that well for me. Then one rainy evening I had parked on an upward incline a block or two from my appointment destination, and when I opened the back of the wagon just about all of the samples came sliding out into the rain and onto the wet pavement. At that point I was desperate for a van, so rather than Vince buying a car, he took over the Buick and I bought a new Dodge utility mini-van.
With Vince in his new job and my business booming, and despite Scott’s all too frequent presence, it‘s fair to say that we were living the good life. Vince began the preadmission process for a master’s degree at UC Berkeley—a dual discipline, Public Health and Epidemiology. Thanks to his increased salary we became a more viable home purchasing couple, and I jumped into the house hunting process once again, this time with a gusto.
Three weeks after we started living together back in 1983, Vince informed me that he was not comfortable with a particular aspect of our sexual activity, and told me that that was not going to be happening much anymore. Interesting that he waited until after we started cohabiting to tell me; unfortunate for me because that particular activity was what I liked best. Our sex life took a hit. A couple of years later I read an article in the “Bay Area Reporter” recommending that couples, even monogamous couples, that had been together five years or less, should practice protected sex. (NOTE: I do not use the term “safe sex” because the only truly safe sex is solo.)
When I discussed this with Vince he opposed it, saying that there was no need. I explained to him that I didn’t want to run the risk of someday discovering that I had infected him, I couldn’t live with myself if that happened, and I would think that he felt the same way. In the end I told him that it was not a request, it was the way things were going to be from then on. Our sex life took another hit. As it turned out, that decision could very well have saved my life.
In his new position Vince was putting in extremely long hours, working in an atmosphere of constant crisis and stress. Although as a Critical Care RN he had been accustomed to twelve hour shifts, his schedule of four days on three off, three days on two off, gave him ample time to recoup. As Protocol Manager he was doing ten to twelve hours every day and working most Saturdays. It didn’t take long for this to catch up with him, and he started to suffer from chronic fatigue.
Ultimately we had to think the unthinkable, and he submitted to the tests that could tell us what we didn’t want to know. A couple of months earlier I had made plans for Doug and me to attend the annual Drapery and Window Coverings Show, which was held in Los Angeles that year. As it turned out, the day that Vince would get his test results, was the day after I would have left for Los Angeles. Vince said go ahead, don’t change your plans, but there was no way that I would leave him alone under the circumstances. So I told Doug to take a friend along, and have a good time in La La Land.
That October Friday we were told what we didn’t want to know. Vince was diagnosed with AIDS Related Complex (ARC), a classification that has not been used in many years. The only advice that his shithead of a doctor (Jeremy Burke) could give was to “start getting your affairs in order.” What an insensitive schmuck. What I told Vince was, “We still have what we have always had, which is now.” Vince said to me, “Don’t cry. Please never let me see you cry.” Once again I was being asked to stuff my feelings. If ever there was a time that being an ACA came in handy, that was it.
It is difficult to put into words how one feels at a time like that, I suppose “befuddled“ “dazed” “distraught” “distressed“ “hysterical“ “panic-stricken“ “staggered“ “stunned” “stupefied” could all apply, but they still don‘t capture what I/we felt, or what I/we were going through on that Friday afternoon. Both of us being in a sort of numb stupor, we went to the movies. Don’t ask me what we saw.
One of the first things that I did was to get tested. As we started to share this terrible news with friends and family, I needed to be able to answer that inevitable question. The answer, by some miracle, was that I was (and still am) HIV negative. When talking with Marion’s daughter, BJ, she said to me, “You must be afraid.” And I said, “No. No, I’m not.” “But you must be,” she insisted. And I told her, “You know, B, previously I was afraid of AIDS, but when it walks in your door and climbs into bed with you, you stop being afraid.”
As an ACA, one of my first responses to a crisis of this magnitude would be to do a “geographic!” But that was completely out of the question. Well, not quite. House hunting was immediately put on the back burner, and the flame turned off. There was no way that Vince and I would be doing any moving for the time being. So I channeled the house hunting time and energy into finding a new location for Western Window Design. At the time the greater majority of my business was in Marin County, and Doug had moved to Guerneville, so I started looking in and around San Rafael.
Ultimately I found the perfect place in Terra Linda, northern San Rafael, a strip shopping center right off of Highway 101. From our home in Presidio Heights it was a sweet commute, through the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, over the bridge, and then sailing north on 101, looking at the traffic backed up in the other direction heading to San Francisco.
The shop was about 400% larger than my little space in San Francisco, and was fully carpeted in a decent light brown. The rectangular space was divided in the middle, and the front square had a square office in one corner which left an “L” shaped showroom perfect for a number of window treatment displays. The square back half was wide open. I built a big work table in the middle, a lot of shelves and racks for rolls of fabric, and everything else we needed. To top it all off, at the back there was a sliding glass door that opened onto a fenced patio, perfect for Paula Pug!
Do you see how well doing a “geographic” works. Even in memoir writing it was effective in taking me away from the crisis at hand. Back to that. Vince naturally had to tell and ‘come out’ to his family in Schenectady, NY, so it was a double whammy: Guess what folks, I’m gay, and I have AIDS. The only one really surprised by the ‘gay’ part was Vince’s father. There were a lot of phone calls back and forth, and then in January Vince’s sister Cheryl called to tell us that the family was planning to pay us a surprise visit in two weeks. Cheryl figured she had best give us the heads up, because there would be eight of them, and they all planned on staying with us … for two weeks!
Eight people! Two weeks! As usual Vince started off on what we should do; which included us giving up our bedroom and sleeping on the sofas or wherever. I cautioned him that if he wanted this visit to go as pleasantly as possible, with eight people (most of whom were strangers to me) superimposed on our home for two weeks, it would not be a good idea to have me give up our bedroom, my sanctuary. Then I took complete control over the process.
The first contingent would be flying in: sister Cheryl, her two sons, Nick and Chris, Vince’s father Louis, Aunt Eleanor, and her grandson Patrick. The second contingent would arrive on the train the next day: Vince’s mother Chrissie, who would not even consider flying, and Aunt Eleanor’s best friend (whose name I don’t remember so we’ll call her “BF”) stuck on the train because they didn’t want Chrissie traveling alone. Vince’s parents were simple folk, so to speak, while Chrissie’s sister Eleanor was a professional and a notable trend setter for professional women during her day.
First I had portieres made from two beautiful fabrics that I had on hand, one a gorgeous floral print in muted colors on a linen background for the living room side, a beautiful linen weave for the den side, and hung those over the eight foot arch between the living/dining room and den, so that they could be closed to give the den privacy. Then I rented two queen size beds from Corts, and had those set up in the den cum dormitory. Along with the den sofa, that took care of sleeping for the parents, Cheryl, and her two boys. Eleanor and the BF got the guest room, and Patrick the living room sofa. Thanks to keeping our bedroom for ourselves, I was able to retain my sanctuary and (with the help of ear plugs) my sanity.
My business activities were kept to a minimum, and Vince took some vacations days, so we were able to spend time sightseeing and whatnot. It was difficult to get the elder women out of the house though, especially out of the kitchen, and it seemed as though Louie was completely out of his element; a lot for him to digest in such a short time. One evening while the ladies were cooking, the trap under the kitchen sink broke, and not only was I able to fix it, but I had on hand what I needed to do so. It seemed as though Louie was impressed and surprised by that, and it gave us a little common ground. It also made it a little easier for him to interact with this 43-year-old ‘gay’ man who was the ‘lover’ of his 36-year-old son.
One evening I had an appointment, so I was not able to have dinner with everyone. When I came home I nuked some leftovers, and when I was eating at the dining room table, three-year-old Chris asked his mother, “What’s Buggy eating?” (Chris had a big appetite, was always profoundly interest in food, and is now a professional chef.) “What?” Cheryl asked. “What’s Buggy eating?” he repeated. “Who’s Buggy?” she asked. “Him.” he said, pointing at me. None of us could figure out where that came from, until Cheryl mentioned it to her husband Tony, when they were talking on the phone. When they were leaving Schenectady, Tony admonished the boys, “Now you have a good time, but don’t drive your Uncle Vince and his friend buggy!”
Everyone had a great time those two weeks, and despite Vince having been so reluctant to ‘come out’ to his family for so many years, then doing so as a result of such unfortunate circumstances, their response was a truly heartwarming and overwhelming expression of love and support. It was during that visit that we became a family, and I became “Uncle Buggy!”
After the family visit Vince surprised me by booking us for six days in March at Pueblo Bonito, a beachfront resort in Mazatlan, Mexico, for a much needed R&R. Situated a couple of miles north of the center of town, the place was absolutely gorgeous, complete with a rambling natural looking pool, that wound its way through a tropical garden, under a bridge, and had a big waterfall at one end, with the swim-up bar underneath. Our unit was a ground floor studio with a shaded patio, that looked out upon the park-like garden complete with two pair of Flamingos (live ones, not pink plastic) and the pool beyond.
The first morning we were invited to a complimentary breakfast, in conjunction with a timeshare presentation. They were having a special offer, buy one red (top-level) week, and get a white (mid-level) for half price. We bought the studio that we were in for a week in April and another in September. Having put the brakes on house hunting when Vince was diagnosis, we seriously need to do something that affirmed a future. Included in the purchase was a year’s membership in Resorts Condominiums International (RCI), the exchange network.
That evening I did a thorough analysis of RCI’s exchange catalog, and discovered that only 33% of the resorts listed had studios. That would seriously limit the value of our studio in the exchange process. In addition, Vince felt it would be better to have a one bedroom, which would sleep six to eight, rather than two to four, so that we would be able to invite friends and/or family to vacation with us. That made sense, being that I had learned a few weeks previous, that the DeGenova/Amiccuci/Vitelli clan always traveled in groups of no less than eight. So the next morning we traded our studio for a one bedroom, and then got on with the rest of our holiday, the operative word being rest!
Returning home (from Mexico) it was back to dealing with the reality of our situation, and I needed to plan my strategy. Assess my role. As far as “materia medica” went, I could bring nothing to the table. Vince was Director of Research Nurses for UCSF’s AIDS Activities Center at S.F. General Hospital, at the time the leading AIDS research and treatment center in the world, and he worked with the two leading researchers in the world. My contribution, in addition to support and care, needed to be different. Something he wasn’t and probably wouldn’t be getting. That’s when I turned to Christian Science.
There were a few churches in San Francisco (at one time there had been over 20), so I went to the reading rooms and got some books and literature, and started doing the daily readings. A couple of times I went to church services, but I knew that I was not going to get involved at the church level. Then one day I mentioned it to my massage therapist, saying that I would really like to find a Christian Science practitioner. Scott (the masseur, not the Scott spending too much time at my house) said, “Well, I can help you with that. See that picture of the man playing the harp? That’s Boris Goldman, and he is a Christian Science practitioner.” Kismet! For over two years, I had been spending an hour and a half every week on the table under that very picture, getting a massage.
Boris was a grand and expansive man, and I started seeing him once a week. As I furthered the study of Christian Science on my own, rather than under the tutelage of Mr & Mrs Harris, I had a very magical discovery. Thanks to their love and support and caring during my formative years, and their sharing of their faith with me, my life had been very much an expression of Christian Science. I had been practicing it for all of those years, and never really knew it. And at this critical time in my life, the truth with which I was refreshing my memory, was reinforcing my strength and my faith, and giving me what I needed to deal with the tasks at hand and the future. It gave me an alternative to affirming and reaffirming a belief in disease and death.
At a practical level though, other things needed to be addressed. Vince frequently lamented the rigors of keeping house, and obsessed on who was responsible for what. My approach was always a little simpler. When I saw that something needed cleaning … I cleaned it! In fact, when he spent three weeks in July of ‘86 back east for his father’s 70th birthday, I spent all of my free time cleaning house. So detailed in fact, that I finished polishing the living room floor as I backed out the door to pick him up at the airport, leaving everything pristine!
Nonetheless, a few times Vince tried to “control” the situation, but when we sat down to “discuss” the chores, he‘d always have his pad and pencil. “No, no, no!” I‘d say, “You don‘t need a pad and pencil. You‘re not going to be making lists and assigning duties!“ That was usually the end of it for a while. It was a stressor for Vince though, albeit self-induced, so one of the first things I did upon returning from Mexico was to contact a house cleaning service for weekly cleaning, and that is what brought the delightful spirit of David Arajo—fresh from a fledging modeling career in Los Angeles—into our home and our lives.
Not long after that David left the service he was working for, so we dumped the service and kept him on independently. At times he worked with me in the business, and did a lot to finish setting up the shop in Marin. He was a helpful and positive presence in our lives from that point on. Through David we met Lynda Bunn, his on-again off-again girl friend since high school (not that either of them were very long out of high school). Lynda was destined to become a beloved friend, and our primary house/Pug sitter.
Paula Pug became my constant companion, and she commuted with me every day to the shop in San Rafael. Such a regular presence was she, that some of the toll takers on the Golden Gate Bridge were always happy to see her. Her carrier became a permanent fixture between the front seats of my mini-van, where it fit perfectly, so that if I had evening appointments in Marin on the way home, it was a comfortable and secure place for her to stay. One day in May, however, she had a major seizure episode which the vets thought were snail-bait-poisoning, and she barely survived. In barbiturate coma for over twenty-four hours, packed in ice with temps of 108° … they said she wouldn’t make it, and when she did they said she would be a vegetable.
We brought her home a few days later and she had lost all of her memory. It was a week before she started to know us, a month before she barked again. Gradually she came back, almost to her old self. Despite what the vets said, I took her to dog training (i.e., “owner training”) classes two months later, and she completed the ten week program and got her diploma. On the last day as all the owners and their dogs were making a few final laps, parading around the training area, one woman exclaimed, “Paula has her tail up!” and then everyone stopped and applauded. For those who don’t know the Pug, their curl of a tail is usually up and wiggling, but until that moment Paula’s had been down since her trauma.
September we winged our way back to the timeshare in Mazatlan, with Linda Pavia and Tina (Vince’s cousin) as our guests. We had a great time, despite a hurricane that kept us resort bound for a couple of days because of the flooding. We spent leisurely days lounging in and around the pool, and one day Linda must have made one too many trips under the waterfall to the bar, or a tad too much mote (“pot”). That evening we went for dinner at the rather elegant and up-market Senior Frog’s across the road from Pueblo Bonito. Before our entrées were served Linda excused herself to go to the loo, which was on the second level, at the top of the grand staircase that was flanked by the entrance lobby and the bar.
The next thing we knew, a waiter was hurrying up to Vince, “Senior! Senior! Your wife, she is pass out!” The four of us went running and found Linda at the bar, a lovely shade of pale green. She said that on her way up the stairs, every step she took she sunk lower, until she was finally down-for-the-count. Vince walked her back to the condo, then came back and had his dinner, which I guess some thought was a little insensitive, what with his “wife” sick and all, but we did bring Linda’s dinner back to the condo in a doggie bag. We made good use of the unique Mazatlan “taxis” called pulmonias, sort of souped-up golf carts, for a sightseeing tour, shopping trips downtown, and dinner a few evenings. That Christmas I gave Linda and Tina custom bumper stickers that said, “MY OTHER CAR IS A PULMONIA!”
October Paula Pug started with grand maul seizures once again, and by the end of the month she was so bad that we had to keep her on Phenobarbital. December she broke through the meds, and went downhill rapidly from there. She couldn’t walk properly, just dragged her feet, so badly that we had to bandage them to keep them from bleeding. She was always restless, walking in circles, getting stuck in corners and crying. Many trips to the vets, many many dollars later, we were referred to a neurologist in Berkeley. He ruled out the poisoning, said it must be a brain disorder (although unknown at the time, this condition would later be identified as Pug Encephalitis). A spinal tap showed nothing, so he scheduled her for a CT-Scan on the 22nd.
When we awoke the morning of December 20th Paula was in a coma, and we knew what we had to do. We called the vet and made an appointment for that afternoon, and then Vince went to work, promising to come home early. With Paula on the sofa next to me, I kept my arm around her while I read from Science and Health by Mary Baker Eddy. Then Paula made her own decision, and passed at 8:42 a.m. She was buried next to Daffy at Pets’ Rest in Colma, and her stone read, “A brief visit filled with love.” Somehow we got through Christmas.
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