End of the Road

and a can of beans

tenderbastared

2026

Winter's Effect

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Trash Talk

trouble

in

trubbletown

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Drunk & Naked

on a bicycle

life remembered

in detail

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Mermaid of Marmot Hollow

the musical

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Hoodwinked

lies they told us we believed

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That's Love Baby 2026 tenderbastard

The most loving thing I’ve ever said to another living creature is, "Georgia, if you're still suffering in the morning I’m going to choke you to eath and put you out of your misery."

I said that to my dog the night she was dying, and hearing those words I realized I could and would do what I said and give her life a dignified resolution, that I would begrudgingly let her go like that and end her suffering. That's love baby.

I didn’t have to. She took her last three breaths and died in my arms, and in that moment I realized how love becomes, how it continues infinitely, effortlessly, and the depths of sorrow, loss, and tragedy.

I said what I did because of two experiences, what I got to say many times, and one missed opportunity when I didn't say what needed to be said when it needed to be heard.

My father often said, "I love you" to me, and as a kid I didn't think I needed to say it back. As I got older I realized I did. Any time we were together we'd say it. Nobody was going anywhere, nobody was leaving, nothing bad was going to happen.

Those were the last words we said. He went into a hospital, they gave him a staph infection, he went into a toxic coma, they pumped him full of saline solution, he bloated like a whale carcass in the sun, laid like that for eighteen days until I got a four in the morning phone call. The only good thing was I got to say, "I love you" all those times, especially the last.

The missed opportunity was when my mother's dementia necessitated she be in hospice. She'd forgotten how to walk and move. The doctor said she'd forget how to eat, drink, and finally, breathe.

I went to see her, wheelchair bound, having fallen on her face, her right eye purple and yellow. They were closed. As I was leaving she opened them and said, "I want to go home." I put my face to hers. "Mom, I don't have any place to take you," kissed her forehead and left. Outside, I realized I'd forgotten to say, "I love you," and thought, "I'll come in the morning and tell her." Four in the morning phone call, I didn't get to tell her, so when it came to that final night with Georgia I said what needed to be said when it needed to be heard.

Death came for her in a moment. Her eyes widened as if she knew. When Death arrives, love has to step aside like someone left for another. She slithered off of the couch, walked to me, looked up, regurgitated, looked at me that last tune, thhinking I could somehow miraculously keep her with me. That was the last time her eyes could focus on me, that look that said, "fix this." She walked away, fell down, cried out, stood, walked into a wall, and I knew she was gone from me and there was nothing to be done. I could only tell her what I’d said to her many times, every day. That’s love baby.

We laid down under a fifty year old tree. I thanked her for teaching me what love is and let her go.

I remember her running figure-eights in the sand, climbing to the Continental Divide, braving river rapids, chasing coyote, running up on two bear, curling in my lap when I meditated, peeking around the shower curtain making certain I was still there, and wanting to be with me, everywhere, all the time.

The most important lesson? No matter what happens, what we lose, we have to keep loving. Somewhere in our time together, always, everywhere, we became one. I miss her profoundly. Life is less without her, and I can’t do anything about that except, now that I know how love becomes and continues effortlessly and infinitely, I can love. The other lesson...the worst thing that can happen has. There will be no great loss.

The world needs to hear the most loving thing that can be said when it needs to be heard. Our best of times, worst of times, our faith, love, trust in one another...that’s love baby.

310-913-6271 tenderbastard@gmail.com