Of course, no one is agnostic behaviorally. When we act in the world, we act as if there is a God or as if there is no God, so by default we must make a choice, if not intellectually then at least behaviorally. To this extent, I assume that there is no God and I live my life accordingly, which makes me an atheist. In other words, agnosticism is an intellectual position, a statement about the existence or nonexistence of the deity and our ability to know it with certainty, whereas atheism is a behavioral position, a statement about what assumptions we make about the world in which we behave.

When I left Christianity, I still considered myself a believer for a long time. I believed in some sort of god; I knew I didn’t believe in a Christian god or any sort of personal god, but I believed in the same vague, indescribable Something that so many seem to believe in. Then a day came when I realized I didn’t act like I believed. I realized I didn’t pray to God, and I didn’t ask God to guide my decisions, and I didn’t even think about God all that much anymore.

When we act in the world, we act as if there is a God or as if there is no God,

The day I realized that was the day I realized I no longer truly believed in God. I was acting as if there was no God, despite what I thought I believed. And once I realized I acted as an atheist, I became an atheist.

Unfortunately, a lot of people are still confused by the word atheist. They think that when I call myself an atheist, I’m in some way asserting that I know that God doesn’t exist. It’s not like that. Here’s my position. First, I do not believe in any sort of personal God, including the Judeo-Christian conception. I don’t believe in the Father, I don’t believe in the Son, and I don’t believe in the Holy Spirit.

Second, I do not believe it’s possible to disprove the existence of God, or, to put it another way, I believe it’s impossible to prove the nonexistence of God. You can’t prove a negative. God might exist, but then again, so might Zeus and the rest of the Greek pantheon. Which leads to point three …

Third, I believe the burden of proof is on those who make claims. I don’t claim that God doesn’t exist, therefore it’s not up to me to prove he doesn’t. Those who claim God does exist and that he manifests himself in the world — the burden of proof is on them to demonstrate this is true. Thus far, no one’s presented compelling evidence to make me believe it. And since the God question has existed in some form for thousands of years, without anyone presenting demonstrable proof of its claims, I have a strong suspicion it’s unprovable. If anyone could have proved it by now, someone would have. I think that if God does exist, we can never prove it.

So in sum, I think God’s existence is an unprovable question, which makes me an agnostic. But I also personally don’t believe in God, which makes me an atheist. There’s a term for this, and it won’t surprise you: agnostic atheist.

Dr. Lund brought Kali in to us, wrapped in a blanket, and handed her tenderly to Jen. I snuggled in close, and Jen cradled Kali in her arms, like a newborn baby. Dr. Lund quietly backed out of the room, and we sat with Kali, scratching her head, petting her whiskers, and singing softly to her. She began to unclench; her brow unfurrowed and she went limp all over as the sedative lured her down into Dreamland.

We hadn’t seen her look so peaceful and calm in weeks. Even in sleep recently, she’d been tense and furrowed.

We continued to sing to her and pet her pretty little face, even after she was completely unconscious, taking solace in the knowledge that her last sensations were of how deeply we treasured and adored her. Dr. Lund came and retrieved her for the final shot, and Kali was gone.

April 2008

We were back in New York City after a couple of days in Providence and Boston. We had booked a Zipcar to drive some belongings up to our new Providence apartment, and Jen had job interviews lined up in Boston. With these new opportunities on the horizon, though, we were still worried. Kali’s brother, Dubby, had taken a bad turn just before we left, and we wound up having to take him to Cat Practice in Manhattan, on our way out of the city. We thought it was somewhat routine, but he had chronic health issues, so we took no chances with him.

The morning we got back, we thought we’d be able to pick him up that afternoon and bring him home. We were excited for him to meet the new apartment, with its staircase for him to run on, and skylights facing up to tall trees with their birds and squirrels. We knew he’d love his new home.

I got to my desk, and within minutes had a call from the vet’s office. He was having trouble breathing, and they suspected he was having heart problems. They wanted to know whether I could get him and take him to a cardiac vet specialist. I said I’d work on it and get back to them. Alarmed, I tried to call Jen. She was apparently in a tube somewhere on her way to work, because I couldn’t reach her cell. When I got off the phone, there was already a message from Cat Practice. Before I could listen to the message, the phone rang again.

“Mr. Dietsch, this is Dr. Shaheri. Can you get here immediately? Dubya’s in cardiac arrest.” I grabbed my coat and ran. Luckily, Cat Practice was very close to my office. I called Jen en route; she had just reached her desk and several unheard messages from Cat Practice. I told her she needed to come immediately.

I got there in about 5 minutes. They led me to the exam room. Dubby was having a seizure, breathing rapidly and shallowly, wild-eyed, in deep pain, and terrified. The doc was going to tap fluid from his chest to relieve the pressure on his heart. Bereft and afraid, I retreated to the waiting area. One of their in-house cats, Miss Kitty, approached. She climbed in my lap and stayed with me a while, keeping me company while I waited for Jen and further news.

A while later, the doctor came back out. Dubby’s heart had stopped and she wanted permission to resuscitate and intubate him. I knew Jen was underground again, so I consented. Around 10:20, she returned, teary-eyed. Dubby was dead. I went back to see him and spent some time with him, crying over him and petting him. Telling him how much I’d miss him. I returned to the waiting area and Miss Kitty came back into my lap. Other kitty parents were sympathetic but uncomfortable, wouldn’t meet my eyes.

The elevator opened and Jen stepped off. She only needed to see my face to know.

September 2010

I thought this would be much harder, killing my loved one. I knew it was time, and the right thing to do. When Dr. Lund examined her, she told us that Kali’s abdominal cavity was full of fluid, indicating that her organs were failing. This would explain the rapid decline in Kali in the days before her death.

She seemed bad on Monday, when I took her in. But at the same time, she was eating and getting around somewhat. By Thursday, she had stopped eating and drinking water, and she remained on the bed in the same spot all day, shifting position every so often. She was wetting herself and unable to shit. Although she was calm, she was obviously suffering. But brave little girl that she was, she seemed not to want to show us.

Although I knew it was the right thing to do, it still felt like killing. Intellectually, I knew it was right, but emotionally, I was conflicted. In the end, though, it felt like a beautiful moment. We were honoring her life by giving her a graceful, peaceful death. It may have been the most loving moment we’ve ever given her, and in a bizarre way, one of the most loving moments Jen and I have ever shared together.

I expected we’d get shit-faced drunk afterward. And although we had more cocktails and wine than most people put away in a week, we actually drank less than we had each previous night over Kali’s final two weeks, when her decline became so rapid. I think after the end, we were relieved. Relieved for her, that her suffering had finally ended, and relieved for us, that we wouldn’t have to watch her in such misery. We had all been so upset–Kali, too–that she couldn’t get around, and that her quality of life had gone so quickly downhill.

She had an anemia diagnosis about a year ago, and she nearly died then, before we could find the right way to deliver meds to her. (She always refused to take anything by mouth, unless you hid it very well in food. We settled on shots.) The cancer scare arrived on Thanksgiving, when we noticed the lump in her mammary tissue. That was virtually untreatable; we’d have had to remove the entire chain of mammary tissue, along with the lymph node, from one side of her body. This would be invasive surgery with no guarantees the cancer wouldn’t return. Her doctors understood when we said we’d just continue to monitor it to make sure it didn’t worsen or spread.

The anemia and cancer were treatable, possibly for years. It wasn’t until her blood sugar spiked that her condition went downhill. That particular bit of nasty news arrived in July. On Monday, Dr. Lund was so alarmed by it that she suggested we could try insulin. But the prognosis still wasn’t good, even with insulin, and she suggested we might not have any real options other than euthanasia. In retrospect, I think even by Monday it was too late for Kali–that organ failure was inevitable and would happen soon. I know we made the right choice for her at the right time.

When I reflect on the differences between her death and Dub’s, I know whose was more peaceful and less painful and terrifying, and I’m very grateful we had the chance to give our graceful little princess a tranquil death.

The other night dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
So I hung my head and I cried.

All photos by Jennifer Hess; all rights reserved.

Needless to say, the number of people who’ve viewed those pix has now gone through the roof.

Jason notes: “If you want to know where your bacon or ham-related food comes from, here’s your chance.” Lemme be honest, that’s exactly why I went.

When I was a child, my grandparents Dietsch raised pigs and, every year, everyone would turn out to help butcher those pigs–even to the extent of going out in the morning and shooting the pigs dead (as opposed to letting someone else slaughter the animals). My sister, cousins, and I never saw the slaughter, since we were all pretty wee, and we didn’t see much of the butchering, although I clearly remember watching the adults making sausage.

What sticks closest is how damn good that pork tasted. Every butchering, my grandmother would fry up tenderloin medallions for those who’d helped in the butchering. Only once or twice did the kids get them, but we certainly got to feast on fresh chops that night. I know how good, fresh pork should taste–pork that’s been raised on a small farm, given room to roam and root around, and fed good stuff.

I’ve seen live pigs, scratched their heads, watched them play and run, and fed them. I know where pork comes from–or at least where it should come from. Frankly, I don’t want to know where Smithfield pork comes from. I guess for that, I could read some Upton Sinclair and assume that things have only gotten worse since his day.

What I didn’t know, because I was never there, was what went on during the actual butchering. I didn’t know how the pig was carved up and taken apart. So when Jen offered to buy me a ticket to the demo at Brooklyn Kitchen, you can bet your hairy ass-crack I went.

I was heartbroken as an adult, when I could only get the factory-farmed shit from Smithfield and their ilk. The other white meat, indeed. It tasted like nothing and was tough and dry. I thought I had fucked things up by overcooking it, but my mother reported the same disappointments. Only later did we realize that it was the pork producers to blame, not the cooks.

I never had pork I liked again until one of our first meals at Marlow & Sons, in Brooklyn, when I had braised pork–Jen and I think it was belly, but we can’t remember for sure. I can’t say this without lapsing into cliche, but it honestly did bring me back to my childhood. I closed my eyes and remembered meals at my grandparents’ table. I finally had pork that tasted like pork, that tasted like what I remembered and loved as a kid.

As we were leaving that night, the chef, Caroline Fidanza, was chatting with one of Marlow’s owners. I gushed so much I embarrassed not only myself but also them. Luckily, my social skills are just good enough that I realized I was about to cross into stalker mode, so I faked a cough and ducked quickly out the door.

So it’s only appropriate that the butchering demo I photographed was led by Tom Mylan, butcher for Marlow, Diner, and two locations of Bonita. I’m going to get gushy again, but you gotta love people who can really help you remember your roots.

Before leaving for Providence Tuesday, we had to take Dubby to the vet because he hadn’t eaten or used the litter box since at least Monday evening. He had a slight fever and mild constipation, so we left him with Cat Practice overnight so they could monitor him.

By Wednesday, he was fine and ready to come home, but since we were coming back from Providence, late, we left him at CP overnight again.

This morning, I got a call at work at a little after 9. He was having serious breathing problems; the vet suspected heart failure. She asked me to be ready to get him to an emergency vet hospital to see a cardiologist. But then she called me back almost immediately to say the situation had turned more serious and I needed to get there immediately.

I called Jen as I ran up Fifth Ave from my office to Cat Practice and told her to get to Cat Practice as soon as she could. The vet took me back to see Dub. He was breathing quickly and shallowly and didn’t appear to acknowledge me at all. She said she was going to try to tap some fluid from his chest to lessen the pressure on his heart.

She also said that she had written on his discharge papers on Wednesday that she had detected a mild cardiac irregularity while examining him and recommended we get him to a heart doc for testing.

She had me sit back down while they worked on the fluid tap. A while later, she came out to say his heart had stopped and she asked permission to resuscitate and intubate him. I gave her permission.

Then, around 10:20, she came out to say that Dubby was dead. She asked me if I wanted to go see him, and I did. It may be one of the hardest things I’ve done, but it wasn’t as hard as telling Jen the news, when she arrived a few minutes later.

We love that sweet boy so much, and this happened so suddenly, that it’s just brutal to think he’s gone.

http://www.centralhs1987.com/

20 freakin’ years.

I tend to think of myself as the guy who wasn’t listening to pop radio in 1987, but nevertheless, here are the top 20 songs of 1987 (after the jump):

1. “Faith”…..George Michael
2. “Alone”…..Heart
3. “I Wanna Dance With Somebody (Who Loves Me)” …..Whitney Houston
4. “C’est la Vie”…..Robbie Nevil
5. “Shake You Down”…..Gregory Abbott
6. “La Bamba”…..Los Lobos
7. “Livin’ On A Prayer”…..Bon Jovi
8. “Here I Go Again”…..Whitesnake
9. “Heaven Is A Place On Earth”…..Belinda Carlisle
10. “(I’ve Had) The Time Of My Life”…..Bill Medley & Jennifer Warnes
11. “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now”…..Starship
12. “I Think We’re Alone Now”…..Tiffany
13. “With Or Without You”…..U2
14. “At This Moment”…..Billy Vera and the Beaters
15. “Keep Your Hands To Yourself”…..Georgia Satellites
16. “Heart And Soul”…..T’Pau
17. “Open Your Heart”…..Madonna
18. “Didn’t We Almost Have It All”…..Whitney Houston
19. “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For”…..U2
20. “Looking For A New Love”…..Jody Watley

Thirty-three years ago today, Virgil Martin Dietsch, my father, died of pancreatic cancer. If I’m doing the math correctly, he has now been dead for longer than he was ever alive.

Well, I don’t give a shit, really. But day games at Yankee always start at like 1:00 or something, and they end a little after 4. My old job let out at 4:15, dumping me into the Yankee Stadium subway stations at the same goddamn time as 57,000 motherfuckers.

Every day game carried the same hope–extra innings, extra innings, extra innings.

Even now, slacking at the desk of the new job, posting to a blog that was blocked at the old job, I’m feeling some of the old apoplexy as I remember the clogs of pinstriped morons blocking mezzanines, turnstiles, and platforms. Ah, how fun it is to have a drunk from Long Island rocking left and right in the seat beside you, calming himself only upon feeling your elbow in his ribs.

Watching dudes throwing up or starting fights–so classy. Hearing the fans loudly recap the same goddamn game they all just watched. Fun!

How fondly I remember the day some dingbat chick and her friends were goofing around on the platform. She stepped backward directly into my path while I was walking to the end of the platform–since of course the fans all thronged the middle section. I had a wall to the left of me, a crowd to the right, fifty people on my heels, and suddenly a feathered-hair bimbo directly in front of me. What do you do? I said, “Excuse me, please,” while I reached up, placed my left hand on the back of her shoulder, and nudged her to the right. She got the hint and apologized.

Happy Opening Day, Yankees. You won your opener, but I hope you finish at the bottom of your division. You’re just one more thing I don’t miss about the old job.