Being Dead Wrong, and Dealing With It

WHEN I WAS ABOUT TWENTY ONE, in 1976, getting ready to finish college,a friend of mine was home on break,and when he and I got totether, we started talking, and decided to get a group of people together,a small group, at his parent's house,including a well known local minister, I believe a Presbtyterian or some "similar" demonination, and have an evening discussion group. My memory, which is very good, has dimned somewhat about this event, but I believe the reason we invited the minister, and older man, was that we wanted the discussion to be based on religion, something about religion, although I cannot recall exactly what. Hell, maybe we were going to discuss or debate what religion, in any, is true, especially Christianity. I became a non Christian early in life, and remain one. A I recall, there were maybe ten people there, including my friend and I, my friend's nice mother, an attractive, intelligent, middle aged woman, the minister, and several good friends our age. As my friends were discussing an dplanning our big event, we talked about how it woas going to function, topic, and so forth, and we talked about wheehte alcohol woule be served, in particulr, screwdrivers, voda and all. I argued stronglky that I wanted no alchol present, because it might damage or destory the discussion, a point of view I still consdier valid and sensible today. Back then ,as well as now, I am a modest to moderate drinker, although I can certianly "tie one on" form time to time, but that night, I wanted no part of it, for me or anyone else. My friend, however, who was less of a drinker than I, very much wanted to have the screwdrivers, and made it known that he and not I would decide. Fair enough. His house, after all. recall feeling kind of hesitant and nervous as the discussion group members assembled, but, his forty five year old open minded mother was perfectly to willing to allow this strong drug to be served to a group of twenty one year olds and a minister in her home, so, away we went. Opposed though I was to the booze, once it started flowing I wasn't about to miss out. I started drinking right from the beginning and got very drunk very early in the discussion, as I beleive did everybody else. The mother and the minister may have drunk a bit less than the rest of us, but, I believe, if memory serves, that they drank their fair share, if somehat less than I. The evening proceeded, very interestingly, amiably, and successfully if I recall. I can vaguely recall that I emerged as non religious, the minister was religious, and the others, including my friend, I recall not what they said, though I suspect that my friend was agnostic. The minister was, as I recall, very progressive, open minded, and understanding, and although he was a good witness to his faith that night, he made no attempt to pressure and proselytize me or anyone else. The most interesting development that night was that, at length, by some winding but presumably rational path, the conversation turned to the question of whether or not animals have amotions.... Why, and exactly how, I can't recall, but it did, and the topic lasted awhile, many comments were made. The one thing I absolutely remember is that I was the only one who said that animals do not have emotions. Everyone else said that they do. For whatever reason, I was not only certain that they do not, I was dead certain, and could not be moved, although all the others, especially and including the minister, tried to convert me to the emotional animals point of view. At one point he asked me whether I had a pet, what kind, gender and age, and I answered, yes, I have a pet. He asked me whether I loved her. Without hesitation, I strongly declared my love for my precious female Manchester Terrior,a chihuahua-like dog. He quickly proved that she loved me too, which of course should have been obvious all along to me. Only, it wasn't. For whatever reason, I insisted that what my dog felt for me was something other than love, a emotion-free creature concerned only with food and survival.... At some later point in my adulthood, as I aged, of course I realized how wrong I had been, though I can't remember when and how this transition ocurred. Of course, I still realize it. Now, the older I get, the more ashamed I am of ever having believed such nonsesne, as a smart, well educated young adult. As I write this, it seems kind of funny, and kind of embarassing. Well, and then, one cannot change the past. The best we can do, maybe, is to either forget it, or learn from it, and it seems I have chosen the later. With my generally good memory, I can never forget the past, even if I try, without some kind of drug or brain damage, neither of which I want. But at least I recognized my error and corrected it, if belatedly, and I feel that I grew in some weird way because of it, and I will never make that same mistake again.