Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Advocating, Not Battling, for Fairness

Satirist Al Franken wrote this before becoming Senator Al Franken, but my guess is that he still stands by it. If you’re part of the 99%, it should make you smile, or at least nod in agreement.

Any time that a liberal points out that the wealthy are disproportionately benefiting from Bush’s tax policies, Republicans shout, “class warfare!”

In her book A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous Fourteenth [sic] Century, Barbara Tuchman writes about a peasant revolt in 1358 that began in the village of St. Leu and spread throughout the Oise Valley. At one estate, the serfs sacked the manor house, killed the knight, and roasted him on a spit in front of his wife and kids. Then, after ten or twelve peasants violated the lady, with the children still watching, they forced her to eat the roasted flesh of her dead husband and then killed her.

is class warfare.

Arguing over the optimum marginal tax rate for the top one percent is not.

—from Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them: A Fair and Balanced Look at the Right

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Soothing Savage Beasts, or Why I Was Late to Class

You don’t always get to choose the theme of your life. Sometimes it chooses you. So it has seemed for me this past year, which I have dubbed The Year of the Squirrel.

Upon reflection, I have a surprising number of memories over my lifetime involving squirrels—the black ones, the white ones, the red ones. Now it seems they’re all grey, like Stubby.

When I was a kid, my grandfather “talked” to squirrels, who would trot right up to him to be handfed a tasty snack. My grandfather seemed part Dr. Dolittle to me, and I dreamed I’d be just like him one day. Of course, the Universe had other plans.

Years on, when I lived in the Windy City, I was racing against the clock one day to get to a class. The college was downtown and after parking my car, I knew I could make it if I took the shortcut bridge that arced over the expansive park standing between me and music theory. I was on edge about this plan, though, because the park was full of panhandlers and ne’er-do-wells, either of which could easily waylay me. (I’m a sucker for sob stories and when in danger, my fight-or-flight response goes dormant—I freeze.)

I started across the bridge at a brisk pace, my eyes scanning the horizon for potential trouble ahead. As I reached the top of the arc—halfway across, another half to go—I started to relax a bit. It looked like my plan was going to work.

Then I saw them. I thought trouble would come at about my height; I’d failed to consider ankle-high trouble.

There were five of them, maybe more, and they stood in a semicircle in front of me, blocking my route across the bridge. True to their Windy City roots (Al Capone territory, you know) they were the definitive gang—a gang of bushy-tailed squirrels.

Now you may have read, as I have, that squirrels are solitary creatures—they don’t colonize or have a social structure. But I know what I saw and I saw a GANG.

“Hello, everyone,” I squeaked out. “I’m afraid I haven’t time to chat with you today. I have to hurry to class.”

They didn’t budge. The gang wanted something and I knew that if I didn’t come through fast enough, they’d think nothing of leaping onto my shoulders or head to “encourage” my compliance.

I opened my purse, hoping to see a granola bar or maybe a package of crackers from a restaurant. Nothing. I had nothing for them.

“Shoo, please,” I ordered, unconvincingly even to me.

They shuffled a bit, closing in on me. I dug deeper into my purse. Desperate, I brought out the only edible thing in my possession: a mentholyptus cough drop.

“I’m sorry, but this is all I have.” I unwrapped it and set it on the ground.

A scramble for the treasure ensued. A couple of the squirrels gave up quickly, probably because after one sniff, they didn’t want to waste their time.

It came down to one squirrel, with two of his buddies intently watching. He (she?) took one lick and vigorously shook his head. He tried it again and then set it down, bewildered, it seemed, about how best to eat the thing. He circled it, picked it up and, finally, popped it into his mouth.

His friends craned their necks in anticipation of what would happen next. The squirrel drew the cough drop from his mouth and shook all over.

At this point, of course, I was not only late to class, but also worried that I’d caused the squirrel to have seizures and I didn’t know the first thing about squirrel first aid. The squirrel’s buddies, on the other hand, weren’t so concerned. They scampered off to catch up with the other gang members.

But the lone squirrel persisted. Once he got past the unusual nature of the cough drop, he began licking it in earnest. It made him giddy, maybe even a bit high. He seemed to enjoy it.

I stayed with him until I was convinced he would survive the ordeal. I may not have been Dr. Dolittle, but I wasn’t heartless.

When I at last reached my class, I didn’t reveal why I was late. The experience still felt mystical to me—something to be protected. And I was pretty sure no one would buy the gang-of-squirrels story.

[Photo of Red Squirrel adopting a baby by Ryan W. Taylor from The Nature Files. Black Squirrel photo by James Marvin Phelps. I’ve not been able to identify the photographer of the other photos.]

Saturday, January 28, 2012

“Life’s a Treat with Shaun the Sheep”

Need a lift?

Watch Shaun the Sheep.

Yeah, I know I’m late to the game. I’m just catching up on everything I missed during my workaholic years.

Shaun is a little sheep who is wise beyond his wool yet never lets on to The Farmer. He turns bath time into fun time, helps anyone in need, and never holds a grudge against those who hurt him, nor does he accept credit for the problems he solves.

In addition to reading more cheerful material this year, I’ve taken to watching STS every night before I go to bed and I can’t tell you what a great end to the day it is—no matter how awful the day has been.

I’ve already started to worry about running out of episodes: The show ran on television for only two seasons. A film is due out next year, but once you’re hooked on Shaun, next year might as well be the next millennium.

If you’ve never seen Shaun the Sheep, try watching just once. The episodes are quite short and I’m pretty sure the flock’s antics will get a smile out of you. Just as the opening theme song promises, “Life’s a treat with Shaun the Sheep.”

Friday, January 27, 2012

Wisdom from Fiction: What Matters

“By the time everything is decided, it will be too late. The moment is always now. There is no then, it turns out. Everything real is a kind of now.”
—Hope, the elderly artist in John Updike’s Seek My Face

[I’ve no idea whose artwork this is. Do you?]

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Evil Cookies and Wayward Comments

a! I was beginning to develop a full-blown inferiority complex until I read this on The Real Blogger Status.

I’ve posted comments on a number of blogs recently, but they haven’t been published. The first few times I just thought the blogger wasn’t moderating very often. However, I’ve returned to these blogs to check, only to find that other folks have commented since my attempt.

It’s a cookie thing, apparently.

Note to the bloggers of…

Dig-It Fetch-It Herd-It
Dog Art Today
Dog Bytes
Everything and the Dog
Grey Horse Matters
Paradigm Farms
The Other End of the Leash
…I tried.

A few of my attempts to comment got caught in some sort of verification loop, which has also happened to some readers on Lull. It’s a Google/Blogger cookie thing, apparently.

Anyway, I’m working on workarounds at my end, but you might want to check your own cookie settings, too.

[Initial from Daily Drop Cap.]

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Happy Anniversary, Husband Dearest

We’ve been married for 5 years, known each other for 30, and lived together for 27.

Whew! Where’s the bubbly?

“Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.”

[Contrary to the photo, our ceremony did not involve a church or flowing gown. Instead, we had a corporate conference room and pinstriped suits. But that’s another story…]

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Sociopaths and Sandhill Cranes

Sorting the Defective Brains from the Poorly Operated Ones

One of the horse bloggers I check in with periodically is starting an online reading group: WHOAprah Whinny’s Book Club. The blogger is pushing for the inaugural book to be The Sociopath Next Door by Martha Stout. Her reasoning: She wants to understand horse abusers.

After scanning the reader reviews on Amazon.com, I may actually read Stout’s book. Not only does she identify the conscienceless and describe typical interactions we may have with them, she instructs readers in how to navigate these interactions.

Wish the book had been around in the previous century. Years ago my husband and I had only M. Scott Peck’s People of the Lie: The Hope For Healing Human Evil to turn to. We were trying to understand the odd behavior of a theatre director. The book described this guy to a T and labeled him “evil.” Though it was a relief to read about our problem, it didn’t help us handle our problem. I suspect The Sociopath Next Door could also have helped us deal with Mr. Slimy, our nasty landlord in the Windy City (or any of the other psycho landlords we cycled through there). As for the horse blogger’s desire to understand horse abusers through this book, though, I’m not sure how enlightening it will be.

The Sociopath Next Door examines only one end of the spectrum—the folks whose brains are clearly physiologically without conscience. What the book probably doesn’t explain are the motivations driving the millions of other a _ _ holes out there who simply aren’t engaging their consciences. The folks who capably exhibit sympathy or empathy or compassion in some situations yet not in others.

A character in The Last Detective television series said: “Really decent people have a tendency to bring out the worst in the rest of us.” Could it really be that simple? Sometimes it is. I’ve seen it played out in the workplace.

The only way in which I can relate to this phenomenon is when one element of my personality is brought front and center by some opposing personality. For instance, an extroverted, authoritative personality (i.e., “bossy”) will meet a mute me; a timid, uncertain personality will be drawn out by an encouraging, courageous me. Both are elements of my personality, but they usually act in harmony with all the other elements. They don’t go solo except when provoked under certain circumstances. When this happens, I feel as if I’ve been taken hostage. Maybe it’s the same for some people when they run up against goodness. They can’t help it: Their antigoodness element gets switched into high gear and before they know it, they’ve said or done something despicable.

In the case of bullies, perceived inferiority, lack of intelligence, or weakness may trigger their nasty behavior. Unfortunately, animals fall into all three of those categories (not in reality; just in perception). And bullies aren’t the only ones classifying animals this way.

I’ve been watching Buck, the documentary film about Buck Brannaman’s gentle approach to starting and training horses. Brannaman endured years of physical and emotional abuse at the hands of his father, and so seems to be able to understand the hypersensitive nature of horses. Yet, in one segment of the film, he treats cattle as if they were simply obstinate moving objects.* Which is pretty much how most animals deemed “livestock” get treated. Even horses fall into this category in some folks’ minds (see “Do Horses Live in the Moment” on Grey Horse Matters). It bothers me that Brannaman, who has so much empathy for horses, can traumatize calves and their mothers without a second thought.

I’m not saying Brannaman abuses the cattle. But he doesn’t offer them the same respect he shows for horses. Not all animals are equal.

“If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?”
—Alexander Solzhenitsyn

I don’t believe all animal abusers are completely without conscience. If that were true, then the number of sociopaths in our midst would be much higher than the 1% to 5% range researchers currently report. However, I do believe these people are deeply flawed. At least, their thinking is.

This subject has been top of mind for me recently because I’ve been invited to attend Kentucky’s upcoming Humane Lobby Day. Animal welfare advocates from all counties gather in the state capital and meet with politicians to press for change. Not long ago, the Bluegrass State fell dead last in the Humane Society’s state rankings on animal welfare. The low score was achieved by having few laws on the books to prosecute animal abusers in a meaningful way.

Certainly, laws are important in this battle, but once you have a law in place, you have to enforce it. And more than that (and this is the crux of the matter), people (residents, cops, lawyers, judges, etc.) have to comprehend the laws and understand the necessity for the laws, which requires a certain mindset regarding animals. While my peers push for new and stronger laws to be enacted, I will be pushing for this mindset to be instilled in Kentuckians. I’ve come to this decision, oddly enough, because of Sandhill Cranes…
to be continued

* I still recommend the film. The methods Brannaman uses with horses and the results he achieves are worth emulating.

[Top pic is Abbie, rescued from a “horse breeder” by Catskill Animal Sanctuary.]

Technical difficulties at Blogger today. Hope to post again soon, Blogger willing.

[If you know the artist of this little robot, please let me know.]

Monday, January 23, 2012

A New Soul, An “Aw” Moment

Did you see the news? Rachel Alexandra, who made headlines some years ago in the racing world, gave birth to her first colt yesterday.

[Pic from Stonestreet Farm.]

Saturday, January 21, 2012

You Think You’re Special?

dysfunctional family: any family with more than one person in it”
—Mary Karr

[Art: The Family by Picasso.]

Thursday, January 19, 2012

A Moment Suspended

After seeing the autumnal splendors from Natural Bridge last year, we met this little fellow (gal?) on the path back to our car. He appeared to be teetering between life and the next life, so we moved him closer to the woods for a calmer transition.

“Uh-oh. What are you about to do?”

But not before we took some photos of him, which, in spite of his condition, he managed to blur or escape the frame each time. I regret taking advantage of him that way, though I like to think that we gave him a better end than getting stepped on by other tourists.

“Knock it off with that picture-snappin’, boyo. I mean it!”

Watching him—his vivid green, his leafy shape, his tense determination—was a near-perfect end to our afternoon.

“To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson

Monday, January 16, 2012

Merry Monday

“Someone spiked my coffee with optimism this morning and I spat it right out.”

—Larry Carlat

This made me laugh, but I imagine some of you out there are facing your workweek with just this sentiment. Shoulder on, readers…

[Art by Eric Carle.]

WordGazing: Finally, Justice Will Be Served


The text above is on the Martin Luther King Jr. memorial in D.C. Not only is it carved without punctuation, it’s also paraphrased.

Yup. Not really a quote. And not even the gist of the original utterance, which is:

“Yes, if you want to say that I was a drum major, say that I was a drum major for justice; say that I was a drum major for peace; I was a drum major for righteousness. And all of the other shallow things will not matter. I won’t have any money to leave behind. I won’t have the fine and luxurious things of life to leave behind. But I just want to leave a committed life behind. And that’s all I want to say.”

What’s more, when you think about the abundance of material the highly quotable Dr. King provided us, why in the world was this chosen in the first place?

The truncation was a “design change” according to Ed Jackson Jr., the executive architect. He ran it by the oversight body, the U.S. Commission of Fine Arts, and they didn’t have a problem with it. Neither did the Council of Historians.

Shame, shame, shame. If space was really an issue, then the solution was not to abbreviate but to choose different material. A quote that’s paraphrased isn’t a quote. Period. PERIOD, screams the editor in me.

I don’t expect architects to understand the problem with this kind of language bastardization, but I certainly expected more from the historians who approved it.

The good news today is that the stone-chiseled text is going to be fixed. Not sure how, but I’m glad someone in D.C. finally saw the light.

Here’s a King quote that speaks to me, that reminds me how to live my life:

“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”

Sunday, January 15, 2012

What We Cherish

Just as Jane Goodall continues caring for Jubilee, I continue to keep Icky by my side.

I’ve no idea how he got his name and no one in my family remembers either. He entered my life shortly after my birth, while I was still in the hospital, and has stayed with me ever since. He’s been cuddled, fought over, lost, found, washed, and stepped on; he’s gone swimming, swinging, camping, and travelling; he’s been read to and cried on, squeezed and loved.

Last week my husband operated on Icky, who had become profoundly impaired. I’m sorry I don’t have a “BEFORE” photo to share with you (although Icky probably wouldn’t have appreciated that). Imagine a wilted mound of terry cloth with felt facial features.

NOW look at him! Icky has never been so solid. It’s the first time he’s been able to sit up on his own. With new stuffing and a clean playsuit (he didn’t come clothed originally, but a good wardrobe was always paramount in my family so I kept him in doll clothes), he’s ready for the next segment of our journey together.

Thank you, dear husband, for reviving my first animal.

And thank you, Icky, for your perseverance and patience.

Saturday, January 14, 2012

Book Report: Seeking Good Cheer (Or, Barring That, Hope)

I finished the sheep detective book last night. Hated closing the cover on the little flock. They were quite charming.

Started Jane Goodall’s Reason for Hope: A Spiritual Journey. Seemed like a sound choice for someone in need of uplifting reading material.

Goodall’s concern for nature and animals was evident when she was but a baby. Her mother often told a story about the night she stepped up to 18-month-old Jane’s bed to wish her sweet dreams and found two handfuls of earthworms wriggling beside her daughter.

“Jane,” she cautioned, “if you keep them here they’ll die. They need the earth.”

Jane immediately scooped up her little friends and, with her mother’s assistance, returned them to their home in the garden.

I think I’m going to like Jane…

[That’s 18-month-old Jane in the photograph, on the beach with Jubilee—a stuffed animal commemorating the first chimp born at the London Zoo. Goodall still has Jubilee.]

Friday, January 13, 2012

A Friday the 13th Tale: Crossing the Line

This tiny tale has no spook factor except, perhaps, for its starring black feline. (And truth be told, when you stepped close to her, you could see she was more auburn than black.)

A purebred Sable Burmese, she entered my husband’s life after being abandoned by a second set of human “guardians.” When my husband’s life expanded to include me and a couple of other cats, her indignation rang loud and clear. She kept to herself and was easily annoyed by everyone around her. She had a range of strident, nails-on-a-blackboard vocalizations that we all dreaded and, as she aged, she added barking to this repertoire.

One evening we were watching television. The two younger cats were amusing themselves elsewhere and, in a rare moment, the Burmese deigned to join us. We gave her a treat—the last bit of yogurt on a spoon. Placing the spoon in a bowl, we set the treat on the floor for her.

Heaven! She was all over that spoon! We’d made her one very happy kitty.

But then she made such a racket clanging the spoon against the bowl that we couldn’t hear the television. As we turned to watch her, she stopped. In the quiet, she uttered one of her signature “Hrrmphs” and next, as if it was so-ooo-oo beneath her, she picked up the spoon with her right front paw, brought it to her tiny mouth, and licked the last bit off—the bit that had resisted her during all that noise.

My husband and I looked at one another, then back at the cat. She returned the spoon to the bowl and, satisfied, walked away.

We witnessed it only once, but it was enough to convince us that the Burmese was capable of anything—speaking five languages, roller-skating, leading Special Ops. Of course, these are mere Human activities and she crossed the line only when she deemed it absolutely necessary.

Animals are a great deal smarter than humans give them credit for. Just ask the Burmese. But don’t expect an answer.

Sunday, January 8, 2012

The “Not What It Seems” Department

For those whose New Year’s Resolutions include slimming down, here’s Sleep Talkin’ Man’s take on the poundage situation:

“I’m not fat. No. It’s just my awesomeness swelling up inside me.”

[Art by Fernando Botero.]

Friday, January 6, 2012

Holding Gloom and Doom at Bay

“Hey, Poky,” greeted my husband the other morning as he inched his way into our living room. I’m not sure why he called me Poky. A reference to Poky Little Puppy perhaps?

“That’s just what I’m reading about!” I said a little too enthusiastically, The Omnivore’s Dilemma open in my lap. “The Poky Feedlot is…”

He didn’t let me finish because he assumed the word feedlot led only to tragic details. “Maybe it’s time for you to read something cheerier.”

What? Oh, well, I suppose feedlots are not the best topic to start the day with. And I suppose bringing up 1950s American civil rights issues the night before as we got into bed was also a poor timing choice. (I’d started reading Nikki Finney’s Head Off & Split.)

My husband continued his argument though he’d already made his point. I’d started a similar debate in my head long before that morning. Much of what I read upsets me, then upsets him whenever I share what I’ve learned. If I don’t share it, then my somber mood says what I haven’t vocalized. To reinstate calm in our house, I needed to rethink my reading list.

So I’m wiping the slate clean. I’m putting aside the remaining books of my “Current Reading Lineup” and starting over. I’ll get to those back-burner books one day (especially Pollan’s work, which I highly recommend). For now, I’ll avoid the library and pull books from my own inventory.

My first choice? Three Bags Full: A Sheep Detective Story by Leonie Swann. Yes, you read that right. I’m still reading about animals. But (and it’s a BIG BUT) the sheep are the protagonists of a fictional whodunit laced with humor and woolly-eyed insights about our culture. All the wooled ones know of the world they gleaned from the stories their shepherd-cum-murder-victim read to them. It’s a refreshingly inventive and fast-paced read. For those of you who have sheep, I would guess this is even funnier, and might prompt you to reconsider some of your flock’s behavior.

Until tomorrow, I’ll be in Ireland with Miss Maple (a very intelligent ewe), Mopple (who has an excellent memory, but an insatiable appetite), and Othello (the mysterious black ram, of course)—my first attempt to bolster cheer and optimism in my home.

[Art by Thomas Sidney Cooper.]

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

What’s Your New Year’s Resolution?

If you’re short on goals for 2012, here’s one to add to your list:

“Read, every day, something no one else is reading. Think, every day, something no one else is thinking. Do, every day, something no one else would be silly enough to do. It is bad for the mind to continually be part of unanimity.”
—Christopher Morley

[Blue Penguins after surviving an oil spill last year, now enjoying their new volunteer-made sweaters. Photo by Toby Zerna/Newspix via Rex USA file.]

Monday, January 2, 2012

Love in Shades of Blue

A month ago I got a call from a friend—the kind of call we dread receiving, the kind of call we dread having to make. I knew from B.’s voice that something was wrong. And then it tumbled out: His cherished buddy—his first dog—had reached the end of his Earthbound days. They parted physical ways with the assistance of a veterinarian’s needle.

I felt B.’s pain. Not just because I could relate, but because I’d witnessed the profound changes the canine brought to B.’s life.

I remember the first day I saw them together. B. had just adopted Roark from a rescue group (the same one our pooch came from). They were standing together in front of a neighborhood pet-supplies shop, turning the heads of drivers and passersby. In an area glutted by Retrievers and Labs, a stylish man with a sleek blue Weimaraner becomes a spectacle. B. was over-the-top happy with the creature at leash’s end. This happiness alone was an entirely new dimension of B.’s personality. Well, perhaps not new, but previously concealed most of the time. Roark had managed, in only a few days, to beeline straight to B.’s heart and make public B.’s range of emotional depth. They were bonded.

Then came trouble. For, of course, Life is a bloody seesaw and won’t let you experience long-awaited joy without soon balancing that out with a burst of bad news. In Roark’s case, it was a wonky heart and kidneys. B. saw more vet specialists and emergency teams in his first months with his first pooch than some of us see in our dogs’ lifetimes.

The rescue group stepped in and defrayed the costs (financial, not emotional) of the healthcare roller-coaster Roark was riding. In the wings, B.’s friends and family held their collective breath. Would the dog make it through? If not, would B. make it through?

When both made it through, there was a collective sigh of relief. Death had not only released the dog from Its grip, but had also left Roark and B. even more devoted to one another.

B. was no longer alone. He became part of a six-legged man-beast hybrid, half of an inseparable pair. They walked together, lazed around together, travelled together, ate together, snuggled together.

B.’s fashion priorities shifted. In the B.D. era (Before the Dog), my friend never stepped beyond his threshold without being tastefully dressed. And he could get snarky about people who did otherwise. But once B. accepted his new status as dog steward, along came “dog clothes.” Stylish still, but not always so perfect.

B. started to rethink his life’s purpose. He gave up everything in the Windy City and ventured West—with Roark at his side—in search of new terrain and soul-fulfilling work. They camped. They met interesting people. They smelled the unusual, saw the magnificent. They had a truly great adventure together. And on the road, B. learned more about himself and realized he belonged—at least for a while—back in the Heartland. The answer was not in the West. And so they journeyed, from Oz to home, together.

B. and Roark lived with us for a bit until their new apartment was available. We were happy to have a dog roaming the rooms again, and B. was a great help to us as we prepared to move to the Bluegrass. I took Roark for walks, but mostly I just watched him, for he made it quite clear that his affections were meant only for B. When B. left the apartment for any reason, Roark cried and pined inconsolably at the door.

After we moved to Kentucky, B. and Roark moved to the East Coast temporarily. B. had been accepted into a degree program that would springboard his life’s calling. We were thrilled for him. At last, with Roark at his side, Life was falling into place for him.

Three months later, the seesaw shifted. Roark’s body started turning against them both, his impaired organs becoming markedly wonkier. Filled with toxins, the poor dog could no longer control his actions, and knew it. Soon, according to the vet, Roark’s brain would also be affected. The inseparable pair knew this couldn’t be allowed to happen. The inseparable pair knew they had to let go of one another.

B. spent Thanksgiving weekend snuggling with his best friend, giving Roark his undivided attention. It would be their last weekend together.

When B. and I talked, he mentioned that Roark had been with him for only 4.5 years. I couldn’t believe it. Obviously, I’d lost track of time, but they were so much a part of each other it seemed they’d been together a lifetime.

Whatever the time they had together, I believe B. and Roark spent it “ankle-deep in Heaven.” And it just doesn’t get any better than that.

À bientôt, Master Roark…

Sunday, January 1, 2012


If you’re reading this, then you made it through 2011. And that’s something for some of us.

I’m glad you’re here and I hope you keep coming back.
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