Not a passive film. Completely engaging and fascinating. Just asks the audience to participate in the experience. Not popular with most consumer sheep. I highly recommend it. Original take on life in a Jewish Warsaw ghetto spanning the entire Nazi occupation of Poland. The movie deserves any accolades it receives. Go see it.

I often equate human suffering with my first pooch. When I was experiencing emotional difficulties with the deaths of my homies. Heh, emotional difficulties, fuck. I basically lost my shit. Well, I always compared the hurt with when my first dog, Hershey, died.

Hershey was an amazing Chocolate Labrador. He could fetch soap bubbles. No joke. Blow a soapy bubble, he'd chase it down, lightly wrap his fuzzy muzzle around it, and trot on back to you to deposit the bubble in your palm. Pop lamented that he never took Hershey out for some duck hunting, since he had a soft mouth that wouldn't damage the meat when fetched. Oh Pop, always the great outdoorsman.

He was a good buddy dog. Head on your lap, massaging his velvet floppy ears, calming your day away. Chillin in the summer sun, collecting mad heat into his dark fur. Sparking to life, chasing snowballs, bounding in and out of drifts. Playing tug of war all afternoon long.

Strange thud jostles me out of sleep. Briefly scan the dark bedroom for evidence of other entities or stuff flying off the walls. Sink back in the pillow.

It was the morning of my seventeenth birthday. Pop had a hold of my ankle, shaking my whole body, with a loud whisper telling me to wake up. Not only was it summer, my birthday, but it was also a Saturday. I wasn't about to leave the sack.

Can't really understand in my sleep clogged ears what Pop is saying. Slip on the specs. Rub my eyes, cause I don't believe Hershey's tongue is sticking out of his clenched teeth. Furry homie had a heart attack on my bedroom floor. The middle of the night thud hits me like a bitch slap.

Now, Pop and I are trying to gather up Hershey in a blanket. Attempting to not make noise or freak out so as to not wake up Ma. Rigor mortis complete set in and I have a nervous laughing fit as his legs poke out of the bundle, paws in my face, carrying him to the station wagon.

Blank stare at the dining room walls. Before the days of understanding that all my nosebleeds, ear and throat infections were connected to caffeine. Sipped through three mugs of sugar laden joe. Ma stumbles from the hallway wondering what the ruckus is. She goes into a self blame game. Pop and I unsuccessfully try and calm her down.

Don't remember the arrangements being made to dispose of the body. Quickly snap out of my stunned state as I am asked if I want to go to the vetenarians office where they handle such matters. Ugly vacant and still car ride. Don't even know how to handle passenger side images flying past. Can't figure out what anything means. Everything looks different. My own mouth tastes funny.

You might think its silly to react severly to the loss of a pet. Frankly, I degraded myself at the time for blubbering and sinking into depression. He was a good pal regardless of his species. Better than most in that he never lied to me, or spurned my company. He had my back more than some. I still miss the hairy fella.

That was a unfun birthday.