Dog Bites Man, Man Wants Mommy, or "You Might Feel a Little Pinch"

I hear the beast before I see him, his humid, heavy breathing filling the darkness, bouncing off the discarded junk strewn across the factory floor.  He’s trying to find me.  I’m curled into a fetal ball on a shelf of a musty plywood cage, locked in from the outside, straining to make myself smaller.  He’s getting closer, and his panting makes a rhythm with his loping strides as he pads across the floor, his breath and the soft slap slap slap of his paws stopping and starting as he searches for me, smelling the air for my fugitive scent.

I tilt my head to see his shadow, the afternoon sunlight sliding under the metal door, framing his ears, head and neck as he sniffs the ground, the walls and everything else in front of him.  The fear’s rising in my chest, and I want to scream for help but don’t.  I stay silent and motionless, watching him pace back and forth across the dirty concrete, searching for me, his target.
 

Seconds ago, I heard a voice shout, “This is the Hillsborough Police Department’s K9 unit.  This dog will search this building.  He will find you, and he will bite you.”  This preamble could have included reference to “Admiral Lollipop from the Petunia Brigade,” and a “my pet unicorn Herschel,” but I was too fixated on that last part – the “He will bite you” phrase - to hear much else.  There’s just something about being locked in a chicken wire cell in an abandoned plastics factory in Goffstown while a fanged animal hunts for you to make you reflect on your place in the universe.

 

There’s no reason for alarm, I tell myself as the dog saunters closer.  I’ll just use my safe word if things go sour.  Except that when the officer locked me in this cage, he said nothing about words like “bunny” or “potato.”  And I don’t know any German except “liverwurst,” and that’s no safe word to a hungry German.

It’s been less than two minutes but feels like forever as the dog continues searching.  He slows a bit, sniffs the air, sniffs some more and trots over to my hiding spot.  We lock eyes as he sits.  I smile and say, “Fanto, you found me.”  The dog barks and lunges towards my face, erupting in short, staccato bursts until the lights come on.  With one guttural command and the toss of a rubber ball, Fanto stops barking and sits chewing his toy, happy and unimpressed I didn’t cry for my mommy.

Fanto’s been unimpressed with me the entire day, focused far more on his partner’s commands than on my feeble attempts to hide or make small talk.  Fanto is the lone member of Hillsborough’s police canine unit, paired with Sergeant Nick Hodgen, Fanto’s partner, trainer and, by all accounts, best friend, and my host for the day.  Sergeant Nick invited me to join him and Fanto as they train with Goffstown’s K9 unit on one of the two days each month local departments convene to work on discipline, agility, exercise, searching and biting, lots and lots of biting.

 

Fanto and his two cohorts – Cyrus and Koa - are muscular, fit German Shepherds with black and brown coats, massive necks and eyes that fill me both with a mix of warmth and abject fear.  Nick’s human counterparts, Officers Chris Weeks and Jason Hull, make up the Goffstown K9 unit, and all three men spend every other Wednesday together with their dogs, honing their skills in dual purpose policing – patrol and narcotics – twenty hours a month.  “Dogs are not like a piece of equipment that you take out when you need it.  Dogs need training,” Nick tells me earlier in the day when we first meet.  We’re at a park in Goffstown, minutes outside Manchester, and Nick’s running Fanto through a series of obedience drills.  Fanto walks in cadence with Nick, responding to every word and tug on the leash, slight or harsh.  Nick raises his arm, and Fanto moves.  Nick says, “Down!” and Fanto lies down.  Every time Fanto does what he’s told, Nick tosses him a rubber ball on a string.  “That ball is the only thing Fanto cares about – it’s his reward,” Chris tells me as Nick puts Fanto through his paces.

“Time for bite work,” Chris announces, and Nick puts on a bite sleeve, a thick fabric tube running from his wrist to his collarbone as Jason preps Cyrus for the attack.  Jason utters a few commands as Nick stands, bracing himself for the dog’s lunge.  Jason shouts, “Get ‘em,” and Cyrus lashes out at Nick’s sleeve, clamping down hard and letting out a loud whine, which, translated from the German means, “This feels uber awesome.”  Jason shouts, “Out!” and Cyrus releases.  After a few minutes of this, the team agrees it’s time for me to get bit.

Nick helps me into the suit – a pair of thick pants with suspenders and a heavy jacket, telling me, “You’ll get pinching and bruising,” as he cinches up the pants.  “The biggest effect a dog has is as a psychological deterrent,” he mentions as I waddle over to Fanto, eyeing me like I’m a two-legged mega pork chop with thinning hair.  As Fanto stares, I’m being deterred psychologically, but I’m in the suit, Fanto’s ready, and I’d never make it if I try running for the woods.

Nick and Chris offer instruction, none of which I remember because Fanto’s gaze pierces my soul, tempting me to confess every transgression I’ve ever committed, and just before I admit to getting two McDLTs and only paying for one in the summer of ’84, Fanto’s jaws clamp down on my forearm, and I can feel the contours of his molars as they search for a better hold.  To paraphrase Ron Burgundy, I immediately regret this decision as the dog reopens his mouth and clamps down again and again, his mouth filled with healthy teeth and pinpoint fury.  Everyone’s watching, including Fanto, and I can’t burst into tears, so we keep going.

Isaac Newton’s little-known Law of Canine Propulsion states, “A body at rest stays at rest; a body in motion attacked by a running dog with fangs will wet its pants.”  I’m reminded of this as I jog slowly from Fanto and Jason.  Instantly, Fanto barrels into me, his jaw a vice-grip on my bicep as I struggle to remain standing, wincing as the dog’s teeth pinch me through the suit.  “Out!” Jason commands and Fanto heels.  We finish with some bite work on my leg, and I see blood on Fanto’s gums as he engages.  It’s forty degrees outside with a bitter early Spring wind, but I’m in a full sweat and out of breath.  It’s Fanto’s world, and I’m just his chew toy.

Soon after we’re at the highest point in Manchester, standing atop the massive landfill next to the highway, along with the Manchester PD’s K9 unit, at least six dogs strong.  This is a meeting place of sorts for police officers and their hirsute partners as everyone gets ready for the annual certification tests in June, a weekend where cops and dogs gathers to test each other’s mettle in feats of strength, speed, agility, sniffing out would-be ne’er do wells, and, one presumes, late-night beer and/or water bowl drinking contests.  I watch Nick, Jason and Chris lead their dogs through an obstacle course and play a game of hide and seek that always ends with a dog biting someone in a bite sleeve.

During a break, Nick shows me his specially-outfitted K9 police cruiser.  The back seat is one large metal dog pen with a small water bowl bolted to the floor, automatic fans for extreme summertime temperatures and doors Nick can open with a remote-control he wears on his belt.  “If I’m out of the car and need Fanto, he can come find me.”  It’s like having an on-demand superhero – one push of a button and salvation arrives.

 

Over lunch, the officers explain the commitment this job takes.  The dogs live with their partners year-round and require constant attention.  “It’s like having a four-year old on a sugar high,” Chris says.  They talk about the economics of a K9 unit, and how the upfront costs of  a well-bred, well-trained dog and a special cruiser are offset by the fact that a dog will go places humans won’t and the presence of a police dog is often enough to stop a suspect in his tracks.  “Most of the time just the sound stops people from running,” Nick says.  He tells me of an unfortunate duo suspected of pilfering copper piping from an abandoned house one night in Hillsborough.  “All I had to do was pull up and let Fanto bark.  They both surrendered immediately.”  Jason concurs wistfully.  “They all give up when they see the dog.  I just wish someone would run.  They always give up before the bite.” 

 

As I rub the swelling on my arms from Fanto’s brand of justice, I silently agree to do the same thing if and when I find myself breaking the law in Hillsborough, Goffstown or the handful of other New Hampshire cities and towns with their own Fantos.  The alternative is too terrifying.

The Loneliness of the Vegan Zombie, or How Zombies Stole my Mind

             I miss the zombies.  It’s been almost two months, and I miss their plodding gait, their gurgling moans and their unwavering quest for feasting on all things living.  The Walking Dead, the greatest hour of zombie-themed televised entertainment in the history of the world, is in mid-season hiatus, not to return until February, and I can’t take the waiting.  Based on a series of graphic novels of the same title, The Walking Dead concerns the misadventures of Sheriff Rick Grimes and his ever-dwindling band of stressed-out survivors.  They’ve stuck together in the searing heat of the Georgia summers while hordes of virus-infected fellow citizens make their lives miserable.  Rick and crew have endured lies, deception, double-crosses, infidelity, abandonment, spousal abuse, matricide, lack of food, water, gas, bullets and sleep and, of course, non-stop harassment from their former neighbors, families, co-workers and friends who are determined to eat them.

                Everything’s better with zombies.  Transform any boring situation into a laugh-riot in a snap by just inserting a simple word!  Consider the following paragraph:  “I went to the hospital the other day to visit my cousin Gina, who just gave birth to a baby.  I took the bus home and sat next to a vegan.  He seemed lonely.”  Add “zombie,” and you have the start of a compelling story.  “I went to the hospital the other day to visit my cousin Gina, who just gave birth to a zombie baby.  I took the bus home and sat next to a vegan zombie.  He seemed lonely.”  Thrusting zombie-ness into everyday life means instant danger!  Except if the zombie waiting for his cross-town transfer refuses to wear leather or eat meat, dairy or eggs.  There’s nothing lonelier than a vegan zombie on a public bus.

                There are countless zombie-themed films to help me wait it out like a holed-up survivor of an apocalyptic attack, but the catalogue is vast.  For every 28 Days Later and Dawn of the Dead, there are so many others, like Shaun of the Dead, Dead Clowns, Dead Summer, Fast Zombies with Guns, Redneck Zombies, Zombieland, the aptly named They Must Eat, and the closest the genre comes to documentary, the fabled 1959 classic Teenage Zombies.

                Or I could skip the cinema and hunker down in the Xbox bunker to satiate my hunger for zombie tomfoolery, playing endless hours of Left 4 Dead 2, Burn Zombie Burn! or Lollipop Chainsaw (“An action game which stars a chainsaw-wielding cheerleader who must rid her high school of zombies”) until Rick and his winnowed band of survivors returns to my Sunday night TV screen, welcoming me with entrail-soaked arms and sad faces.

                Perhaps I’m being too low-brow with these ghoulish distractions and a good book’s what I need.  There too I can find a book mobile’s worth of zombie novels, everything from Max Brooks’ Zombie Survival Guide and World War Z to acclaimed novelist Colson Whitehead’s Zone One, where the protagonist, Mark Spitz, balances his zombie-killing duties with the ennui that comes with any post-societal collapse at the mouths of those who want to dine on his flesh.  And if I finish those, there’s always Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, the 2009 novel that’s exactly as it’s described, right down to the Bennett sisters slashing a roomful of corseted attackers to death (again) with razor-sharp knives.

                 I can’t explain my obsession with zombies, much less everyone else’s.  Our culture’s so saturated that even dilettantes of the living dead know that A) zombies can infect you with a single bite, B) you’ll die from that bite and reanimate as a zombie, C) you’ll cast off any concern for personal hygiene once this happens, and D) you will be really, really slow, like your older sister who hasn’t owned sneakers since Reagan’s second term slow.   There are examples of running zombies, like the ones chasing Will Smith and his dog across zombie-infected Manhattan in I Am Legend.  Fast zombies upset the natural order of things, like when old people buy family planning supplies.  Slower zombies and celibate gammies are better.

                Maybe we conjure so many zombie stories as a way to tackle our fear of humankind’s haphazard advancement (aka, zombies a result of government scientists goofing around on our dime) to distrust of technology or even fear of socialism (comrades, like the zombies on the front lawn, don’t go to church or care about our freedoms).  Or maybe it’s a manifestation of our deep-seated desire to live without rules.  If you survive the first wave of flesh-eating monsters, like Rick and his desperate cohorts, your only rule is to STAY ALIVE so why not liberate that Mustang for a spin or eat Mallomars for breakfast or burn your AP History textbook or IRS audit notice to keep warm.  We live under a pretty strict social order and need an excuse to throw it all away –outlasting undead throngs is as good a reason as any.

                I’m not sure which is nerdier – proclaiming my love of zombie culture or sounding like Dr. Joyce Brothers while doing it.  But I don’t care.  In just a few weeks, Rick, Glen, Michonne, Merle, Maggie and the rest of them will be back, and I’ll be taking notes.  Because if (when) the zombies come for me, I’ll be ready, even for the vegan ones. 

(email Tim at timcoshea@gmail.com)

Merry Christmas, From No One . . .

With the yuletide clock ticking down on this holiday season, I need a timeout.  A man can hear only so many versions of “Santa Baby” sung in a half-toddler, half-boozy harlot voice before he questions his worth as a human.  And I’ll put up with the tedious debate about “Christmas” versus “Holidays” for only so long before I give in and remove my nine-foot inflatable Old Saint Nick lawn decoration out of deference to those Santa agnostics in the neighborhood.  I’ll replace him with “Slappy Nick,” the non-denominational five-inch garden gnome in a red tunic who appears to be on cholesterol medication and may have had some sherry with lunch.  And I don’t know what it is exactly, but I’m confident wassailing is legal but sounds inappropriate, as in, “Dude, I had some eggnog and wassailed all over her front porch.  In a top hat!”

But nothing causes me more angst during the holiday season than Christmas cards.  They come in wave after wave, crashing into my mailbox with the force of stale fruitcake shards hurled by striking elves.  The cards start arriving in late November and continue through early January, adorned with smiling faces, cats drinking tea, and families at play.  Messages of “Joy and Happiness,” “Merry and Bright,” and “Peace and Hope,” abound.  But as I look past the leaping children, wedding shots and well-groomed pets, I see only evidence of a tradition that needs mending.

First, there’s the “Former Friend,” the most popular Christmas card, and the worst offender of holiday form over function, delivered by the dozens unsigned.  If my address serves as proof that we’re friends, then I’m also best buds with the Yoga Nation catalogue publisher and my local payday loan proprietor.  No note?  Not a word?  At least a stranger like Rayleene!! from The Longhorn gives me a heartfelt, “Thanks!!”  No “Hey guys!  Great karate party last summer!  Have a swell holiday!” or even the delusion but sweet, “2013’s definitely the Mets’ year!”   Apparently the decades of chats, shared secrets and experiences, and common bonds of friendship have sapped you of all strength to scrawl a single phrase.  Merry Christmas to you too, Mr. Potter.

How about the “One Percenter” card?  These float to my home on the wings of partridges in envelopes crafted from select papyrus reeds and unicorn fibers.  The photo invariably depicts a grinning family in its natural habitat, either on the beaches of St. Tropez or the slopes of Hinterglemm, in matching outfits of denim and white shirts or escutcheon-adorned unitard ski suits.  But this audience would just as soon skip penning a note as they would skip the gardener’s tip, so these smiling senders offer tiny clues of caring, often a single red line slashed through the printed greeting, a wry hint that yes, they do wish me a Merry Christmas, and they mean it!  “The O’Sheas are dear to us, Lovey, so be a crumpet and add a red pen mark through our name as proof of our enduring friendship.  Now back to the slopes!”

But few things capture and kill the holiday spirit like the “Dear Everyone” card-letter combo, that two-page rambling essay hand-written in haste, mailed two weeks after the tree’s been tossed to the curb and the Tyco Racing Set’s already been broken and discarded under the divan, right where little Freddy left it on Boxing Day.  These annual family manifestos run the gamut from celebratory, (“The Reform School Reunion was a success!”) to explanatory (“Sadly, the tattoo artist’s fee was better than his spelling . . . “), and from cautionary (“As Cousin Polecat can confirm, chili cook-offs and screwtop wine are not a good match . . .”) to hopeful (“And Whitman, our Princeton graduate, has moved on from Occupy Wall Street into Occupy Basement without a hitch. Job search starts in January!“).

  

So for the remainder of this holiday season, I refuse to listen to another bloated Groban/Bolton/Bublé interpretation of “What Child is This?” or open one more Christmas card until someone sends me one with feeling.  Until then, I’ll be with Slappy Nick and Rayleene!! on my front lawn, wassailing my woes away.

Time's Up! or How I Plan to Survive the End of the World

Are you ready for the end of the world? I just learned that on Dec. 21, Planet Earth will be engulfed by massive solar storms, followed by a cataclysmic reversal in the magnetic poles. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, the planet Niburu will collide into our big blue marble, knocking us into oblivion, bringing everything we know to an abrupt and inelegant end.

Say goodbye to plans for that midwinter cat show road trip, getting started on your coming-of-age teen robot novel, making amends with your vegan friends or doing at least one pull-up before you die – we have only a few weeks until it’s lights out for our little corner of the universe.

Let’s blame the Mayans, those Mesoamerican math nerds who, through a complex series of calculations using their fingers, sticks, chalk and iguana bones, determined that on Friday, Dec. 21, 2012, the world’s taking one big dirt nap, having calculated we have only 1,872,000 days here together. If someone had told me this as a kid, things would have been different.  More time on music lessons and less time with Tom and Jerry, for one. It’s too late now – learning “Frere Jacque” on the Pan flute takes a minimum of eight weeks, and all the sit-ups I can manage between now and then won’t earn me a one-pack, much less six of them.

I've done a little digging, and we have good reason to trust the Mayans’ ability to foretell the future. Did you know the Mayans correctly predicted the pet rock craze, every Preakness winner from 1971 to 1983, the lyrics to Gerardo’s hit song “Rico Suave” and that Fred “Gopher” Grandy would one day be elected to the U.S. Congress? They did not, however, predict the successful career of comedian Carrot Top – even the Mayans didn't see that coming.

Sure, lots of post-Columbian math nerds have “debunked” this “myth” of the world’s demise, but I won’t let my plans for the end be ruined by fact checkers.  They claim the Mayans were good at some things, like pottery, maize-based porridges and human sacrifice, but not at complicated mathematical theorems involving the earth’s journey around the sun, leap years, lunar cycles and the End of Days.

They insist the Mayan Long Count calendar didn't predict this calamity, that they ran out of stone tablets or were distracted by the cute girls at the Olmec-Mayan mixer after a long day of mathlete training – that all this angst about our planet dying is just a reflection of the human race’s sense of uncertainty in an unsafe, unstable and unpredictable world. And because of the Kardashians.

I’m not alone in this – some have been prepping for this day for years, stocking up on foodstuffs, weapons and bodily-fluid-to-drinking-water instruction manuals while others are looking to make a quick buck.

Want to watch the end from a bike seat? For $5,300 you can join the Ruta Maya Doomsday Bike Tour through the jungles of Central America, a 35-day, 1,400-mile guided bike tour, culminating in a visit to an ancient Mayan temple in Belize to watch the horror unfold.

I don’t know about you, but after riding 1,400 miles in the jungle in tight spandex, I’d swap my water bottle for a nice warm mug of hemlock tea and end the misery early.

My plans to prepare for the end of the world are not elaborate, and none involve hoarding canned goods and ammunition in my root cellar.  The last thing I want to see just before my hair bursts into flames from a solar flare is a can of generic creamed corn or the words “Dinty Moore.”

I expect to spend my last few weeks on Earth writing combined holiday/thank you/goodbye notes, picking up my dry cleaning, returning all library books and enjoying equal dollops of mayonnaise and spicy cheese sauce at every meal. If it’s time for our swan song, I’m going down singing.

I’ll miss early morning sunrises, bacon cheeseburgers, zombie movies and my family, and not always in that order. But I’m not really sad. If the Mayans had it right and there’ll be no Dec. 22, then we all suffer the same fate equally. Even the Kardashians.

Bagel Nation

It’s time to choose.  I’ve thought about it, weighed my options and considered the differences.  Time’s up.  This decision I make may be the most important one of my lifetime.  My future hinges in the balance, and its importance cannot be overstated.  What’s it gonna be?  Bagels or donuts? 

I choose bagels.  I know – “But everyone loves donuts!  Donuts are fun!  Donuts are frosted!  Donuts come in round and stick shapes!”  But just like that first kiss with your sixth grade girlfriend in your neighbor’s basement, the first bite of a jelly donut is a brief moment of bliss followed by hours of guilt, regret and lies.

Bagels are more like your college girlfriend who writes in a journal, throws a Frisbee with skill, and has friends with goatees who don’t own sneakers.  Bagels will fill you up with lots of things, but regret isn’t one of them.

It’s 2 AM on a brisk October night, and I’m standing alone on Main Street, my love of bagels leading me here.  I’m on the curb outside The Works, the only area bakery to still boil its bagels, as the baker motions for me to come inside.  I’m here to help bake bagels for the morning rush, watching and learning from Jason Scheiman, one of The Works’ bakers.  Jason greets me, and we walk to the back where Jason starts prepping for the day.  “I have to get the pastries set and in the oven - we want to start the bagels at four so we’re ready for the first customers at six,” he says as he scans the day’s orders on a clipboard.

Jason joined the baker ranks at The Works three years ago, and he handles this early morning shift only a few days a week.   Jason came to Concord by way of Fort Wayne, Indiana, famous not for its bagels, but for being the birthplace of legendary pro bowling commentator Chris Schenkel.  Jason’s been baking since high school, starting in the commercial business before taking this job.  “I kind of fell into baking and found out I was good at it,” he says as he starts in on the muffins, scones and cinnamon twists.

I thought we’d be elbow-deep in flour and yeast by now, making the bagels from scratch, but Jason dispels that notion.  “We’re too small to make the dough ourselves, so we get them frozen,” as he takes me into the deep freezer to show me the bagels in their embryonic stage, palm-size ugly ducklings, frozen lumps, unimpressive and nothing like the bagels I’ve eaten here.  Jason explains how these crude blobs transform into bagels.  “We do all the proofing here – we give them time to defrost and allow the yeast to rise.  Sometimes we proof them for 36 hours,” he says adding, “That lets the flavor develop as the dough sets.  The bagel’s flavor profile depends on the proofing,” he remarks as he shuttles back and forth between the kitchen and freezer.

Jason slides the muffins, cookies and other still-frozen morsels into the giant reel oven, a massive multi-shelved wonder that rotates its five steel planks around and around, like a mini Ferris wheel furnace.  Jason continues explaining bagel baking, saying, “After we take these out of the oven, we’ll get going on the bagels – first we boil, and then we bake.”  Jason motions towards a giant steel kettle, the water bubbling as the gas flames heats it to a boil.  “Boiling bagels is the old fashioned way to do it – lots of places will steam them, but we boil ours.”  For a moment I imagine a toddler learning to swim in this kettle, or maybe the kettle as a kitchen conversation piece for the upscale cannibal – it’s really quite impressive.   

The store’s now filled with an overwhelming scent of sugar, cinnamon and fresh bread as I help Jason slide the pastries out and plate them near the register.

It’s close to 4:00 AM.  Time to start the bagels.  The kettle’s boiling, and the reel oven’s hot and ready for dough.  Jason’s wheeled the huge rack of bagels, now swollen with flavor, next to the kettle, and he starts sliding boards of bagels into the water.  In one motion Jason grabs a giant ladle, gives the boiling bagels a swirl and scoops them out, dumping them onto the prep area.  “The boil’s what gives the bagel that sheen and crust,” he says as he takes the first batch and coats them in cinnamon sugar, pushing them into the oven.  He lets them bake, checking once in a while for the “oven spring,” that telltale moment the baker knows a bagel’s ready.  “It’s about touch without touching,” he says, handling each bagel gently and only for a moment. 

Now it’s my turn, and I slide a board of bagels into the water and fish them out.  I coat one side in sesame, and Jason shows me how to line the bagels on the burlap, a metal board coated in fabric, sesame side down, placing them into the rotating oven.  He teaches me how to flip the bagels off the burlaps onto the metal shelves and how to brush away the water spots so the bagels don’t stick, using an enormous broom to scrub off any water remnants before flipping the bagels.  My first flip attempt is a disaster, and Jason moves me aside to clean up my mess.  By the third or fourth burlap flip, I have the hang of it.  He even lets me grab the huge wooden peel to slide the bagels out of the oven and corral them into their wire bins.  Bakers must have cast-iron fingers because these things are burning hot.  It’s a minor miracle these bagels don’t end up on the floor. 

Bit by bit the bins fill up – wheat, sesame, onion, salt, garlic, and multi-grain followed by plain, poppy seed and a dozen or so pumpkin bagels.  The Works will sell about ten boards of plain bagels alone today, almost 250 of that variety, and even more on a weekend. 

Jason and the other bakers are here every day of the year, except for Thanksgiving and Christmas Day.  “People love our bagels, so we’re open all the time,” Jason tells me while we take a break, the wire bins full of warm bagels as the sun starts to peek through the early morning darkness on Main Street. 

Before I head home and leave the job to the professional, Jason motions for me to grab one of the bagels I made.  It’s just out of the oven, and I slice it and add more than a little bit of cream cheese.  This one sesame bagel with plain cream cheese is better than the thousands of donuts I’ve eaten in my lifetime.  With each bite my conviction grows – I made the right choice, and life is good with more bagels.