Two nights before I left to Los Angeles, Bernie fell. He sustained a deep cut on his right temple and the next day came down looking like he just lost a boxing match—badly.

“This is your way of discouraging me from going to LA,” I said accusingly over breakfast. “You fell on purpose!”

“I did not!” he said.

“In a year and a half you haven’t fallen, and suddenly, in the middle of the night, I wake up to a smash and find you on the floor.”

“That’ll teach you not to leave us,” says Stanley. “Not to mention that you didn’t follow MOST instructions.”

“You mean, the MOLST form Bernie signed about how he doesn’t want to be resuscitated in case of an event?”

“Aha!“ says the Man. “I had an event and you resuscitated me.”

“I didn’t resuscitate anyone. There you were, lying in a small pool of blood, unconscious, so I called out your name. A couple of times. A little hysterically, maybe.”

“I blacked out and you brought me back to life. You didn’t obey my instructions!” said Bernie.

“I didn’t do CPR or anything like that,” I said, “just called out Bernie! Bernie! And falling on the floor isn’t considered an event.“

“If you ask me, it was a dress rehearsal,” opines Stanley.

“Nobody’s asking you. Beside, where were you all that time, dog? I saw you scurrying downstairs even as I helped the Man up. You left the scene!”

“I was so traumatized I ran downstairs and lay down next to my food bowl.”