I woke up at 3am, this morning. It's been a little while since I've had any real trouble sleeping since one of my medications is meant to keep at bay the racing thoughts that often prevent my nocturnal rest, but some anxieties apparently transcend 300 milligrams of drowse-inducing anticonvulsant.

My dog died a week ago, Sunday. She would have been 14 years old in April, a respectable number of years for a Pembroke Welsh corgi. I somehow thought she would succumb to degenerative myelopathy before she would succumb to lymphoma... that I would wind up carrying her around in a little sling or pushing her in a baby stroller the way my neighbors back in the Bay Area used to take their grumpy looking cat for walks.

She was about half way through chemotherapy and the cancer was in remission. The change was sudden and startling. The day of her last lab, where it was reported she'd gained a little bit of weight back and that things were holding steady as far as her bloodwork went, she was spirited in a way that made me think she was really in recovery, that we might get a whole extra year with her. A few days later, she became particularly resistant to taking her medication, and pretty much stopped eating despite being on two kinds of appetite stimulant. She kept walking into the yard and staring off into space, not wanting to come in, despite the cold.

The morning my husband and I decided to let her have her permanent rest, I picked her up and held her as I sat cross-legged on the floor. She'd never been much of a cuddler- herding dogs supposedly rarely are- but the springy tension I'm accustomed to feeling when picking her up was markedly absent as her furry little body dissolved into my lap. We took her on a drive and I held her up to the open window, but she seemed neutral to this. When she was younger, I used to have to belt her harness down to keep her from jumping out the window in excitement.

We took her to a drive-thru, bought her a burger, fries, and some nuggets. If I'd been completely certain it was going to be her last day on earth, I would have insisted on getting her a proper steak. We went home and let her have at it. She devoured everything in minutes, and for a moment, she was back again. She eagerly paced around us, keenly aware of potential food to be dropped. But once lunch was over, the spark disappeared and she went out into the yard, stood in the grass, and stared.

We hoped that once she had a little food in her, she might perk up. A couple hours later, we tried to take her on a walk. She couldn't get past the neighbor's house.

Once, at one of her earlier chemo appointments, I observed a woman briskly enter the waiting room toting a carrier with a yowling cat. As she handed over the carrier, she said, matter-of-factly, "I've had him for 19 years. He stopped eating and all he does is cry. I need you to take him." And then she briskly walked out.

Sobbing, I carried my dog's limp body to the front desk of the pet hospital. My husband was the one who spoke to the receptionist and I can't really remember much of his tearful report, only that we were taken immediately to a private treatment room and after speaking at length to the attending veterinarian, she gently, if a little too cheerfully, said, "In a case like this, sympathetic euthanization is a kind and loving option."

It's hard to explain how signing off on that decision was both incredibly difficult but also easy. We opted to be in the room with her when it happened. I didn't want her to be alone with strangers when she went.

I've had her since she was 12 weeks old. She was my first dog. She was sometimes too smart for her own good. She was a great alert dog, and had a usefully deep, boof-y bark that made door-to-door solicitors think she was a bigger dog than she actually was. Sometimes, when she was a little too vocal, I would tell her, "Calm your tits; all eight of them." She rarely would. She had such a stub of a tail that when she was excited, instead of wagging it, she would swing her whole rear end back and forth.

She loved to chase little dogs and wrestle bigger dogs at the dog park. She had a big dog personality in a little dog body.

I had a lot of nicknames for her, including but not limited to "Bunny Butt," "Droolia," "My Furry [Sack of Poo/Vacuum Cleaner/Garbage Disposal]." There were times she was my main reason for getting up in the morning.

Mike, my former musical partner, had a rough collie, Penny, who passed almost exactly a year before. I remembered this distinctly, because I got the text from him about it while I was at the very first Easyfolk Featured Artist mixer. Penny was my dog's oldest canine pal. They met as young'uns and even though sometimes years would pass between being reunited, they would always hop in excitement and chase each other around in greeting, like they did when they were pups. There's something slightly comforting in thinking they're together, now.

When it was about time to let her go, it felt like I'd been saying goodbye to her all day. A vet tech carried her off to prep her, and my husband and I were escorted to a more comfortable room. We were left alone for a few moments before they they rolled her in on a cart, swaddled in a blue blanket and strapped down securely.

She's always had a very expressive face. She often wore a big, goofy smile that would mostly only disappear if she was sleeping or if she observed you not sharing your food with her. Her grin would widen if you were looking at her and she thought you would drop something, but shrink into dismay if the food her attention was trained on disappeared completely into your mouth. It was kind of hilarious to watch her expression change so transparently from optimism to defeat. It would never be defeat for very long, though. She was too cute not to share something, eventually.

The end was mercifully brief. She looked very tired and vacant while she lay on the hospital cart. She was so out of sorts she didn't show the slightest interest in the can of Cheez Wiz left with the goodbye treats in the Final Room. We did not prolong our goodbye. We kissed her, told her she was a good girl, the best girl, then signaled to the staff to give the injection. I'm not sure that she recognized us at all as she gently drifted off.

Science Fiction Sally Ride Valentina Peterson

April 25, 2012 - January 11, 2026

I haven't really felt like doing much of anything since it happened, but I've been somewhat negligent about advertising the sweet little show I've curated for this Friday night at Covert Café. It would be a shame if you were in the area and missed this one... it's a lot of top-tier talent in an intimate little setting and it's going to be gorgeous. The food ain't bad, either.

And it's good to be around people, too. I say this as someone who tires easily of people. Sometimes isolation can mean rest, but too much isolation warps your perspective. I'd been a week living in my phone: memories of my dead dog intermingled with the relentless news cycle, outraged cries of real human artists drowning in a sea of ai slop, fighting for the attention of seemingly indifferent end users, stuck in the consumptive, infinite, meaningless scroll. It's a double-edged sword: this internet. So much beauty and horror all in one place. Connected and not.

Not doing is convenient. It's easy to slip into, but too much convenience lets your muscles atrophy. Some things must be done with intention.

Monday night, still feeling largely awful about the death of my dog, I made myself drive down to Portland for a mic, mostly to remind folks I exist and have a show in the neighborhood. I remembered that sometimes I actually do like Portland's Most Okayest Bar, and I encountered some friends I hadn't seen in a hot minute.

One of them was also processing a recent death, and I was slightly taken aback when he dedicated the resulting song to me and the memory of my dog. I suppose if I must begin the year faced with mortality, I at least get to contemplate it with pleasing music and favorable company. I was also surprised and a little relieved the song was not so much a dirge but an upbeat reflection on legacy: life is complicated and messy, but there's still beauty in it, and endings always come too soon, like little yellow sunsets. Summed up in three words: "It goes on."

The world is always ending for somebody. I don't want to minimize the horrors of what's happening in the relentless news cycle, but it's heavy, and it only grows heavier in the endless scroll, til the thing flowering is hopelessness and apathy.

Which is why it's good to be around people, because you're forced into perspective. To care for people as they are, instead of as you want them to be, is a tough but important practice. Which is not to say there aren't limits. We're only human. But you might be surprised the practice is easier than you think, and you might make a beautiful connection.

Anyway, come be around us on Friday night, if you can! If you can't, use that little double-edged internet device of yours for something positive and tune into the livestream at 8.

Hope to see you soon!