Colorado was beautiful, grueling, and cold. But, it was clean - the perpetual triple-pronged attack on body, mind, and soul inherent in FlozWorld was 600 miles SE and 2 miles below me. Joe and I had a very meaningful time making some business arrangements, discussing our worlds, and just trying to understand.

Immediately after returning home on Thursday, January 24th, I went to my old home, hoping no Flozberks would be there. Surely they had tended to poor Tasha's swan song by now.

Coming Home 
Standing there in the den profoundly creeped me out. Just me in my childhood home, everybody dead or estranged.  The sick feeling that had somewhat faded away in the mountains reintensified as almost 40 years of memories there blasted through my mind. I leaned on the back of the sofa and rained silent tears on it.

I felt awful about not fulfilling my agreement with Dad's request that I escort Tasha from this world when the time came. I felt bad about dumping the matter on the sorry-ass Flozberks and thought about how hard it must have been for them. However, my well-being and their recent gross behavior left me with no choice but to withdraw.

Suddenly, something cold and wet suddenly pressed into the back of my knee below my shorts. I jumped out of my skin, startled half to death, and almost tore what remained of my ACL.

It was Tasha Kix! And, poor thing, she was equally startled by my startlement!

Lazarus Tasha Kix the First
Stuck in the moment, I was thrilled. For the first time in my life, a departed loved one had come back from The Great Beyond. I showered her in affection and baby talk in a babbling, sobbing display far at odds with my normal reserved comportment.

Reality set back in. Keeping Tasha alive in that empty house was idiotic, cowardly, and monstrous. In other words, Flozberkian. Really, it all fit. How incredibly stupid of me to have assumed they had done the wise, strong thing as if they had suddenly turned over a new leaf in the short time I was gone. Yeah, right?

Sometimes, I do rather fine work. Other times, my stupidity floors and shames me, and that time it almost cost me my knee.

Something had to be done. After spending several hours hanging out with Tasha, I went home and emailed Neila:

TO: Neila
SENT: Fri, 25 Jan 2019 01:41:47
SUBJECT: Tasha Kix the Bucket

Good morning,

Upon returning to Dallas Thursday night, I decided to stop by Dad's and sit at the back porch, have a cold beer on a cold night, and quietly contemplate many things during what figures to be among the last of the roughly 50,000 hours I've spent at Camp Vxxxxxx since the summer of 1981. Pretty heavy stuff.

I'd assumed Tasha was no longer with us, so when she hobbled around the corner into the den, I about jumped out of my boots. Both of us got scared half to death for a half a second.

In hindsight, yes, it was indeed a fair assumption that she'd already got sent to doggie afterlife, but, still, far from a given.

I wasn't expecting to leave the area for an hour, much less over a week, but a golden opportunity to both get away from here and start establishing a new, very bright future presented itself, so I jumped all over it. I got to heal and feel better after a truly brutal month in a very pleasant and isolated rustic mountain hideaway with a longtime dear, brilliant friend. Smartest thing I ever did. I left as a worn out wreck and returned in pretty fine shape.

My phone died the same day Dad did - charge port failed - but it didn't matter much, for my host had a phone and most of the time we were 15 miles from a cellular signal, anyhow. It was great to not gaze at a phone screen for many days - I can't stand the things. I'll take it for repair in the morning.

I was surprised to hear that nobody got in touch with Lisa about helping with/dealing with Tasha. Yeah, I was gone and unreachable, but Lisa (and her best friend, who had a nice relationship with Dad) was at all times ready to act on 10 minutes notice. Our land line and Lisa's mobile were monitored almost constantly. Know that my team was ready and happy to help, and still is. Nobody asked.

Having that old wreck of a dog barely hobbling around and destroying the house while constantly looking for Dad is quite unkind. That infection is coming back, as one can clearly smell. Her hind end is barely holding her up. She's absolutely heartbroken and lost. It's getting to be about that time.

My family's history of forcing dog after dog to suffer to death has long been very troubling to me. I still cringe thinking about Kixel's malignant demise, and that was 5 dogs ago. Now's the time to put a stop to that dreadful practice. I suggest that in the very near future Tasha should receive the merciful act of euthanasia. I would like to tend to the matter, spend her last day with her, and handle the details and costs. I'll ensure she finishes her journey in the same home where her human parents finished theirs.

Do you have any opinions, suggestions, or preferences?

A Hot Mess of Death Stench 
The next evening I returned to spend more time with her. She was in terrible shape, barely mobile and always looking behind me for Dad. The chronic infection around her bitch parts were raging out of control and smelled ghastly. The degenerative myelopathy was worsening, leaving her barely able to hold her rear up, and was spreading to the front limbs, causing her feet to curl inward.

I wondered if Duh Flozwads had bothered to read anything about her disease. The lone spew about it I heard from Neila was a puzzlingly laughable, nonsensical splat of misinformation that I immediately set straight. No, they'd not read jack shit about it. They're not really the homework type.

I applied the very important medicine, sadly underused while I was gone, to her undercarriage in a decidedly unpleasant episode in which I was lucky not to get bitten, then went home and emailed Neila again:

TO: Neila
SENT: Sat, 26 Jan 2019 01:59:42
SUBJECT: Tasha Kix the Bucket, part deux

Good day,

I spent the evening with Tasha again Friday, she's about out of steam and sadder than any dog ever I've seen. I'll spend Saturday evening with her, then Sunday evening plus stay overnight and try to give her the most pleasant final day her circumstances permit. Monday Dr. Manny is going to come and put an end to her suffering and I'll take her to Dad's provider of choice to be cremated. I would do it Saturday but the pet cemetery is closed on weekends and the vet is always slammed then anyhow.

It will be much appreciated if we can be left alone in peace during those times, Saturday evening, then Sunday evening thru Monday afternoon.

And, for the record, I'll be quite relieved to know you guys will be freed from near-daily obligations characteristic of the last few years. The fact that I'm having serious differences with someone doesn't mean that I can't see through all that and soak in other things that matter. If I were you, I'd go do something carefree and cool and just take a deep breath or two while shaking hands with a different life. An injection of freedom is a wonderful thing.

Peace out.

I did not receive a reply to either email.

Deathwatch 
Saturday and Sunday nights were spent on the bed where Mom and Dad died 42 months apart as I went through the artifacts of our lives and went overboard, a la Neila's Silly Ass, heaping sugary attention on my poor friend. There was very little sleep. It was grueling, but it looked like a prompt, smooth ride through the nightmare was conceivable.

Monday, things got weird.

After spending all night soothing and pampering Tasha, we calmly sauntered outside to enjoy the cool air and great morning colors, she did her bidness, and we returned inside, both of us more settled down than I thought would be achievable. Tasha laid out next to me, I melted into Dad's chair. It smelled like Dad. Please, day, go OK.

Wow. in a few hours, poor Dr. Manny (hey, I felt bad for him having to do that) was going come and whack my old...

Curses! Flozberked Again! 
DING DONG DING DONG DING DONG DING DONG DING DONG DING DONG

The doorbell frantically rang exactly six times. Tasha exploded to life. I was floored.

I heard the deadbolt unlock, the door open, and Neila screaming my and Lisa's names in that goddamn voice of hers.

Absolutely unbelievable.

I then screwed the pooch something awful by yelling out, "Yess'um."

My inner voice screamed, "D-OH! Did you just refer to that daft parasite as 'ma'am' even in truncated, slang form?!?!?" Boy, how I wish I could have that one back.

I dashed to where I could see the front door. Reagan stayed outside, arms folded in a security guard pose. Neila marched in and looked around. Tasha, knowing that Dad often came home with Neila, looked around frantically for him. Neila asked why Tasha's harness was off. "Comfort," I replied, wondering if I was being recorded.

She went through her normal routine, filling Tasha's food and water bowls, then taking her out, to no avail, as I watched in disbelief.

For some reason, she went up the hall to the master bedroom just long enough to look around, then returned to the den still looking around. The same pointlessly vague "I'll be back in a little while" from Dad's birthdeathday was offered, and away she waddled. I debated whether to further engage her. No way.

It was the last communication I had with Neila, four years ago. Like on that sad day a couple weeks before, she mercifully did not follow through on her threat to return soon.

The Biggest Fucking Idiot I'd Ever Known
I was crestfallen. All that time and effort to get that dog at ease, and Neila trashed it for absolutely nothing remotely resembling a valid reason. Reagan shouldn't have even pulled into the driveway after seeing my car. There was no reason for them to be there, and the way she did it did it made it ten times worse.

After Tasha staggered around the house looking for Dad for another 40 minutes, I had no choice but to declare Neila the biggest fucking idiot I'd ever known. OMG, what a truly serially noxious presence. The good she had done was far, far outweighed by the negative she brought to the table. What an oaf.

It dawned on me that perhaps she'd not seen the emails I'd sent her through the weekend. Oh well, that's her problem - check yer email, dipshit. Boy, are they ever going to be surprised.

And then, my phone made that funny noise.

Great. Here comes Dr. Manny. My all-out effort to pave the sweetest road out of life possible for Tasha had been shit on by Neila's vast ass. She fucked up the end of Dad's life, now she's doing the same to his dog. This is like a horror movie.

Sudden Death Overtime 
I checked my phone. The Good Doctor had an emergency and couldn't make it until tomorrow. Wow.

I couldn't grasp if that was good news or not and found myself tempted to buy a pack of smokes, my first in over 5 years, and a six pack o' beer. It would be interesting to close out Life v1.x like things used to be, having a few beers and smokes outside while dealing with this.

No. Hell, no. The last thing I needed was chemical stimulation and yucky tar and it was no time to be drinking. I needed to focus on Tasha and going through sentimental stuff at the house, packing some of what I wanted and preparing to saddle up, perhaps never to return.

It Begins
The first message from Flozworld came a couple hours later. The eminently reasonable and sanitary Tiffany was their SpokesCornLogger:

Princess Corn Log
2019-01-28 11:07:15
Please take care of Tasha while your [sic] there. Let me know when you leave and we will continue taking care of her

Why the fuck do you think I was there, you MORON? I mean...EGAD, MAN!

Yet again, how perfectly Flozberk - a painfully obtuse, needless directive followed by classic virtue signaling. 

I pecked out a rather frank reply, then, wanting to keep it on the high road, deleted it and put the phone down for a few hours, not wanting to sully my final time with Tasha by bickering with that wantwit.

Clearly, though, Neila had not checked her email, so I had to explain the sad situation AGAIN. More wasted time that begged to be devoted elsewhere. More annoyance. More sadness. More having to deal with The Flozberks. All needless. Yet again still, how perfectly Flozberk.

Me
2019-01-28 14:16:42
Commence continuing to continue taking care of Tasha, I'm gonna run home and grab a bite and some shuteye. I was up with her almost all night. I'd like to return after dinner and again spend the night with her.

That poor, old, sick, infected, heartbroken, lonely pooch needs to be freed from her agony. THAT is the best way to take care of her now (Dr. Manny agrees 100%) and is in total accordance with Dad's wishes, for we discussed the issue in great detail many times including on Xmas Day.

Dr. M is scheduled to come at 10 tomorrow morning to bring mercy to this sad situation. The bitter legacy of forcing the Xxxxxx dogs to slowly suffer to death really needs to end.

Her prompt reply was a predictable stew of idiocy, virtue signaling, and snideness: 

Princess Corn Log
14:35:17
We had the dr come out and evaluate her after grandpa died. She got a shot and the past two weeks (we have been going over 6-10 times a day) she has been doing relatively well- definitely not in agony. However, the steroid is wearing off now. We are happy to continue caring for her, but we'll leave you with the decision. Hope your vacation was restorative.

It's again numeration time:

1. Tasha had arthritis, but it was secondary. Shots can't help myelopathy or the infection that was rotting her underside. The chlorhexidine that needed to be applied twice daily was used either none or far too little while I was gone.

2. She was miserable. After always having company for 13+ years and being obsessed with Dad, she was trapped in a usually-empty house, very ill with multiple ailments, and no Dad.

3. Six to ten times a day? If that ejaculation of virtue signaling is accurate, that amounts to torture. Tasha's brain was stuck on two things - "Where's Dad?" and "Why do I feel so badly?" Each time someone came/went, each car door slam, each noise in the house made her search and pine for Dad. Each change would again arouse her.

10x / day = TORTURE! Fucking idiots. I'd love to see a detailed breakdown of how the alleged 10x day(s), if such even occurred, unfolded

TEXTBOOK Flozzie - much effort pursuing of a undesireable goal executed clumsily and detrimentally, then bragging about it. The proper game plan was to go the fewest times possible, stay as long as possible, and operate all house and car doors with the noise discipline of a teen sneaking out of the house at midnight.

4. The decision was mine whether they liked it or not. Fuck them. I was merely trying to engage and include them in a civil, respectful manner in dealing with a very important issue, exactly how Dad would want. That's the opposite of how they tended to deal with me.

5. The Princess cared none if anything was restorative for me. I was trying to do the right thing and honor Dad's wishes in a very sad, stressful situation and that toxic uber-fool was squirting fuel on the fire. This poignantly illustrates why Dad dumped their sorry asses a month before.

6. It was not a "vacation." I was very sick from BOTH nearly a year (actually, 40+ years) of FlozTrauma that had brutally crescendoed in the final month of Dad's life AND extremely serious medical issues. I fled to a faraway place to sleep on the floor with no phones or Internet to rely on axe + firewood + stove, canned food, and a great, brilliant friend who changed my life during those days.

Lisa was a bit afraid I would not return alive, but was much more fearful for me if I stayed home. Going to Colorado turned out to be one of the five best decisions of my life. The farther away from those pigs I was, the better my odds of a badly-needed fast rebound.

7. As we know, their history with dogs (and humans...and astuteness) is ATROCIOUS. I'd not take them seriously on this matter (and a long list of others) any more than I'd have the Green River Killer chair a conference on women's rights. I've seen roadkill with more credibility.

Again, I pecked out a candor-laden reply, then erased it. Don't feed the monster. The monster is insatiable. Don't feed it. I'll force-feed that beastie later, on my terms.

Me
14:45:31
It was immensely restorative, thanks. Lisa was available 24/7 to help in my absence but was never contacted. That dog is DEFINITELY suffering terribly - agony comes in forms other than physical pain. Keeping her alive now is utterly horrible. I've spent over 30 hours with her since Thu night trying to distract and soothe her. She's miserable.

Princess Corn Log
14:51:57
Glad to hear it. We were completely unaware you were out of town- but we managed fine. We've spent countless hours with her since grandpa's passing and she certainly has been sad, but a far cry from miserable. The first few days were rough for her, but eased over the over weeks. Like I said, we'll leave you to decide. It seems you're certain, so we will say our goodbyes to her tonight.

Tasha was in agony, truly miserable. When people live in perpetual agony like The Flozberks do, it becomes much harder to discern it in others. And, if they're stupid fucks like The Flozberks, well, that helps none.

Me
15:00:01
Most excellent. Thanks for cooperating. This really is the best course of action, sad as it may be. Dr. sez the fewer people present, the better, for reasons I'm not quite grasping. Thanks again :)

Princess Corn Log
15:04:12
Please let me know when when it's done. I'll let you know when we've said our goodbyes. We'll make it early.

Me
15:14:43
Absolutely. Take all the time y'all like, its obviously a big deal. Thanks again for your efforts.

Princess Corn Log
19:45:04
We're gone.

Me
19:45:37
Good timing. Thanks.

I returned to my old home and put a sign on the door reading, "Sick person inside. You make noise, you get your ass kicked." Again, I was up all night, too yoked to sleep. I chose a blanket for her - the comforter I wanted for my new bedroom in 1981 and slept with until I left home six years later - and spread it on the floor at the foot of the bed where Mom and Dad died.

What a gut-wrenching night. It's beyond strange knowing when a loved one will shuffle off their mortal coil and all the more rattling to be the one who arranged the hit. What little I slept was on the floor with Tasha.

Damn, no wonder my family cowered before this responsibility so many times - it was a truly awful experience.

As zero hour neared, I made one final video of her.

Doc arrived reasonably on time, honoring my instructions to quietly slip into the house. Upon hearing him, I bit my lip and tensed up head to toe as an adrenaline blast coursed through me. Maybe I should bail. Am I doing the right thing? I was going to miss my friend. It was like killing the last part of Dad. Is this what a panic attack feels like? Was Tiffany right, is Tasha really not that bad? Sigh.

Nope, of course Tiffany wasn't right. Manny affirmed my fear that Tasha was indeed done with and that keeping her alive was cruel and cowardly, especially under a no-Dad and empty house situation. No shit.

Misty Green and Blue 
Dr. Manny was a fellow UFO fan. I chose the wonderful "Love to Love" from their exquisite Strangers in the Night live 1979 album for Tasha's exit music.

I was holding together great for someone with a tenuous hold on consciousness. Two shots, one sedative, one killative. I almost reached out and grabbed his arm to stop him before that second one.

And she was gone. We hauled her out in her blanket and put her in the trunk of Dad's old white Grand Marquis old dude-mobile. We looked like Mafia thugs dealing with a snitch. It was a trip.

Doc and I embraced warmly and that was that. I walked the house once more and soaked in the intense moment, then locked up, stood in the driveway staring at the house for a few minutes, and drove away to Pet Memories in Rockwall to have her cremated and spread in their...dog ashes place. They were great.

Before pulling out to return home, I had to take a break, not feeling safe to drive. I parked at the boneyard, put down the windows and listened to the final song of Life v1.x, Steven Wilson's "Nowhere Now:"

Then, and only then did I send Princess Corn Log her requested notification.

Me
2019-01-29 11:09:17
Tasha Kix October 24, 2005 - January 29, 2019 Goodbye, my friend. A million heartfelt thanks to all who loved and cared for her ❤

There was no reply. Not a single thanks for handling this extremely important and unpleasant matter. I tried hard to handle it with grace. They handled it with gross.

The Flozberks are simply idiotic, toxic pigs, to put it nicely.

That was the final exchange between me and any of them until Princess Corn Log relit the torch in fine Flozzie form four years later.

I went home a clinically-insane bundle of exhaustion and intense, conflicting emotions, then went to sleep for 19 hours, briefly unsure if any of the last year had happened upon finally awakening.

Life Version One-Point-X had concluded.

Bring on v2.0.

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