You can't go home again.

You can't go home again. The first proof of this was two weeks ago when Roxie, the little foster dog I adopted to my neighbors down the hall from me and Leif, died. Our building was like a college dorm, and Roxie always drank with us. That is, she sat on the couch in the lobby while everyone else but me (I don't drink) drank, and growled at passing neighbors with dogs. Also notable is that Roxie was a flower dog at my wedding.

Roxie's adoptive mom Erika was the internet ordained minister at my wedding. Erika's elderly gay father is the only father figure I've ever had, since mine died. I love my stepfather here in Portland, but he doesn't fill in for my own father. He's a friend.

Leif and I loved their whole family. I think they contributed to Leif's drinking which put the nail in the coffin of our marriage, but I still loved them. They should all be here in Portland instead of me, because the alcohol flows biblically.

Two weeks ago Erika texted me these exact words, checked against my messages, "Roxie just died in my arms. Very unexpected. I'm devastated".

Leif called me to mourn, the first he's spoken to me almost since I got here. Then he called again a couple days ago.

Erika had died. Just as suddenly as Roxie. She was my age but had a stroke. I don't think it was the loss of the little dog, though I could believe it. It was possibly because of high blood pressure and life style issues, but just as possibly not. I read up to see if I could suddenly drop dead.

I knew I'd never go back to LA and and drink with Roxie, Erika and her father again, but I knew they were still there waiting for me if I ever could. Just like Spike, my little dog, is waiting for his mother to come home. I'm going to visit Spike and Erika's dad over Christmas.

Roxie - Member of the Wedding.