In 2009, I took one of a litter of Beagle pups that had been born on a farm. I named him Fitzgerald and, for the few months Aunt Tudi and I had him, he was an absolute joy.
Except for one thing...

On our return from grocery shopping one day, Fitzgerald met us at the car. You may be inclined to think, "So what? That's what dogs do!" But, see, my yard is completely fenced in, thanks to another Beagle in my life, Henry Herman, who ate all the wiring out from under my car. I figured there had to be a hole in the fence somewhere.

I investigated, and found one spot Fitzgerald could squeeze through if he really wanted to. I blocked it off and figured the problem was solved.

It was not.

The next week, coming back from the store, Aunt Tudi and I watched slack-jawed at Fitzgerald bouncing merrily alongside the car, acting like he was herding some nerfs. But I couldn't find anywhere in the fence that was compromised.

A few days later, Janice called to inform me that Fitzgerald was up at her and Uncle Michael's house, and she saw how he was getting out.

Fitzgerald, wee escape artist that we is, or was when he was a pup, was climbing the fence to get out and follow whatever scent he'd caught. He could climb out, but didn't seem as confident trying to climb back in. Not only that, but he was almost guaranteed to be hit by one of the speeding maniacs who lived further down on Paul's Drive or facing a fate worse than car homicide.  He could have been taken by people who could sell him to less than reputable labaratories, where he'd be caged, tortured, even mutilated, then usually killed.

The lady who initially told us about the Beagles said that she could take Fitzgerald back. We were assured he'd be living a good farm life with wide open spaces to roam, as that would have been his gig had I not snatched him up in my arms, suffering from full-on Beagle Fever.  The last I heard, Fitzgerald is living the good life out in the country. Considering the chaos that life has been since 2011, I'm glad I gave him back.

After Toby passes, assuming he goes before I do, I don't see myself with another dog. My age, living arrangements, and health concerns make it all too clear that bringing another dog "home" would only end in grief and god knows what else when I'm gone. That's not fair to the dog. I don't like the idea of never having another dog in my life, especially if it's a Beagle but, when a decision you make will have bearing on more lives than just your own, it would be beyond unethical to make a pooch believe s/he has found their forever home, then find out their forever home called in dead, having hanged herself from the Cabrillo Bridge with a dog leash.

Looking at the possibility of future adoptions, then looking at the peevish expression on Fitzgerald's face, I am certain I'm making the best decision for everyone who is, or might be, involved or affected in the matter. That said, if anything should happen to me, don't do the flowers thing. And no, I'm not engaging in suicidal ideation. I'm just writing this as though it were a tragic dog drama lauded by the Academy Awards. Anyway, instead of purchasing dead posies for a dead person, give the money to the Beagle Freedom Project. Click their logo seen in this paragraph to learn more about the BFP, the Beagles they have rescued, and their plans to rescue even more as soon as they can.

Even better, this handy-dandy app does not require death for you to get involved right now.  In fact, instead of endorsing death on any level, purchasing the Cruelty Cutter will help you save lives and spare others a grim, pain-filled existence.

Sally forth to buy the Beagle Freedom Project's app, Cruelty Cutter, that will allow you to shop cruelty-free, as well as add your voice to the thousands demanding corporations end their unnecessary, immoral, and antiquated research methods.

The app is cheap, but it works like a charm, and the $2.99 you spend to get it will go to help the organisation rescue and rehome Beagles who have spent most, if not their entire lives locked in a cage that's locked in a laboratory.

Do it for Fitzgerald, the pooch who earned his honorary title, The One that Got away!

This one perfect [portion of a] sentence flawlessly describes the point at where my lifelong spiritual journey has been going since August 2011. When I began studying Witchcraft in the late 80s, I was particularly struck by the notion that praying or working magick for someone who neither asked, nor gave their permission for you to do so can, at the very least, be perceived as unethical when looking at the deed through the Wiccan Rede. As someone who grew up in an area of America where "I'll pray for you" was a phrase that implicated two very different messages (1. I care about you and only want the best for you in these difficult times and 2. Just you wait - you'll get yours!), I began refraining from imposing my spiritual inclinations, if only indirectly through prayer/magick/whatever, without explicit permission to do so.

When Aunt Tudi died, I was bombarded with declarations, all of which were well-intentioned from people who truly care about me, of: "I will pray for you." Her death had already hurtled me into a crisis of faith, so the innocent efforts on the part of friends and family, fell on increasingly resentful ears. Most of the time, I felt violated in a very profound way, by the very people who meant, and still mean, everything to me. That one simple sentence tipped the balance of my Agnostic Paganism onto a burgeoning Agnostic Atheism. The emotional and psychological landscape in which I found myself, and still do to a slightly lesser degree, found no presence of god, goddess, or anything in between. I began politely requesting that people leave me out of their communications with the deity or deities in which they believe. Most everyone understood why I asked this of them. Some were offended, but came to accept and honour my wishes. A minute number were determined to carry on with their activities, feeling that my request was born out of aftershock, immeasurable grief, and misplaced opposition to faith-based efforts on my behalf, their logic being that, once the initial trauma eased, I would be grateful to them for keeping my spiritual back when my own belief system had been shaken to the point of abandoning it altogether.

The reason why I'm posting this quote and link, and adding my opinions regarding its subject, is to add some perspective for anyone who is suffering in some way, or knows someone in crisis of any kind. The issue of spirituality and the countless religions that have sprung from it is probably the most sensitive in human culture. Before you inadvertently have a hand in someone's loss of faith, think as objectively as you can in a wholly subjective situation. Pray on it, if that's how you address the moments in life that leave you unsure of what you could or should do. Listen to your inner voice and, most importantly, listen to the one for whom you want to pray or hold ritual. Just being there for her/him could be the best thing for them, and may eventually restore faith on its own terms.