Sadness beyond words

I had hoped to write a long post about Roger Stone's testimony and the "intermediary" he used to contact Assange. I believe in the existence of this intermediary -- one of Stone's rules is "Always use a cut-out" -- although calling this unnamed personage a "journalist" might well be (to put it charitably) a matter of opinion. The name Lee Stranahan immediately popped into my mind, perhaps because I've sparred with him a bit in the past, perhaps because this NYT story riveted my attention earlier today.

(Please please please hit the link and read that piece. It's a must-read.)

Stranahan has written critically about Assange in the past, back in 2013 when the political playing field was arranged rather differently. Arguably, this history makes Stranahan a more effective agent. Of course, my wild hunches have gone wide of the mark before, and there is a very good chance that Stranahan is not the source, whom Stone has identified only as a "libertarian" journalist. I'm guessing that this "libertarian" is associated with either Brietbart or InfoWars.

Perhaps even...little Alex himself?

That would be hilarious. AJ is just dumb enough to function as a Stonian stooge.

Speaking of Jones: The above-linked NYT piece explains AJ's bizarre accusations against Chobani yogurt. It all has to do with -- get this -- an alleged "globalist" plot to take over Idaho and turn it blue. I kid you not.

Our nation's political conversation has been commandeered by madmen. Sad is this situation is, it is not the reason why this post bears the title Sadness beyond words.

RIP George. Regular readers know that, not long after I lost my beloved dog Bella in 2015 -- this blog's mascot for more than a decade -- we acquired a rat terrier named George, a senior dog who almost certainly would have ended up in the pound had we not taken him on board. His most memorable appearance in these pages was this post, in which he offered his response to certain not-quite-credible letters associated with the doctors for Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton.

In real life, George had diabetes, which proved to be quite challenging for this family. He required a special diet, twice-daily insulin injections, and more or less constant attention. For months, his glucose levels seemed to fluctuate wildly despite our best efforts; there was one occasion when I thought we might lose him.

After a difficult period and some terrible scares, we finally found a schedule and a diet that kept him more-or-less regular. I thought that we would never again have a major problem.

A little more than a week ago, George began acting strangely; eventually, I understood that he had developed an infection. The root cause, we later found out, was leptospirosis, a disease transmitted through rat urine. Rats -- some of them not much smaller than a Mini Cooper -- have been known to scuttle through the yards in this neighborhood.

Certain infections can play havoc with a dog's glucose levels and need for insulin. Basically, George stopped needing insulin. Although our old glucometer no longer functioned, I had become sensitive to the first signs of hypoglycemia (too much insulin and too little sugar) and thus knew when to feed him something with carbs or sugar.

Why didn't we take him immediately to the vet? Because we knew that the doctor would insist upon a hospital stay, which meant sky-high bills. We simply didn't have the money -- at least not right away. It would take a few days, perhaps longer, to scrape together the cash.

My job was to keep the dog alive until the money came together.

His symptoms became extreme -- vomiting, inability to stand, incontinence. Without fully being aware of what I was doing, I hit upon an approach which might well have saved him: A meal of pasta and syrup laden with antibiotics. (Please spare me the lecture about administering fish antibiotics to pets. Thousands of people do it.)

George showed almost immediate improvement -- he stopped vomiting, stopped urinating indoors, and could even manage stairs again.

I'll never forgive myself for giving him a partial insulin shot the next morning. Hours later, he began vomiting again. It looked like a hypoglycemic emergency -- a situation in which one is supposed to rub syrup on the dog's gums. I've had to do that before, but on this occasion self-doubt overwhelmed my judgment. He seemed hypoglycemic -- but we didn't know.

So we acquired a new glucose meter which told us that the dog's blood sugar was high (237). Under the circumstances, giving him syrup seemed dangerous.

That last night was just...horrible. The next day, the dog had a terrible seizure just as we managed to scrape up the money to pay the vet. Although the doctor thought at first that George could be saved, his end came just a couple of hours later. In the hospital. We could not even be there with him. He died from a combination of hypoglycemia and leptospirosis.

The blood work revealed that George's glucose level was zero. The Doctor told us that the glucometer must have been seriously wrong.

I blame myself. For two reasons:

1. Having come up with a regimen (syrup and antibiotics) that might have cured the dog, or at least kept him alive indefinitely, I suddenly doubted my instincts and my judgment. Instead, I trusted a machine -- a new machine, with which I had no experience.

2. As it turns out, we had the means to pay the veterinarian all along! We belatedly learned that most animal hospitals accept CareCredit, which is basically a credit card for veterinary care.

Time for a confession: In my youth -- when I stupidly thought that the days of easy money would last forever -- I ran up a large debt which proved hellishly difficult to set right. Even now, I feel extremely ashamed by the mistakes I made as a young man (even though we have a president who has declared six bankrupticies and who has stiffed God-knows-how-many lenders and contractors).

Friends advised me to adopt a strict "cash only" lifestyle. And so I did. For more than twenty-five years, I proudly refused any further involvement in the credit trap, even though that option was available. My ladyfriend long ago made a similar decision for similar reasons. Through thin times and flush, we refused to re-enter the seductive world of APRs and TRW and credit card bills and debt.

The idea of applying for a line of credit simply did not occur to us -- not for a second. Our minds did not work that way. As it turns out, approval was instantaneous. We could have taken the dog into the hospital on the first day he became ill!

In essence, I killed my dog. My thinking had become ossified and I could not see an obvious financial solution. Moreover, my original home care regimen (amox, carbs, syrup) could have kept the dog alive. I didn't follow my instincts. I didn't trust myself.

And now I can't forgive myself. Of course, George's "mommy" is inconsolable. He always had a special bond with her.

The loss of my beloved Bella in 2015 was extremely difficult, but at least she had lived a full life and was gloriously healthy for much of that time. George was a special needs dog who depended on us. For two years, I thought I was up to the challenge. Then I failed.