Big Diesel Energy

My dog Diesel died in Sioux Falls, South Dakota on Sunday, August 3rd, 2024. He passed away only one year and 13 days after he’d come to live with my first dog Winn and I. I started writing this to you from a Quality Inn in Sioux Falls, where we holed up for several days, waiting for Diesel’s ashes to return to us before continuing our cross country journey to Massachusetts. I finished writing it in my new home in Waltham.

I recognize that every time I send one of these newsletters lately it is with reports of traumatic events: death, divorce, more death. If you haven’t seen me in person recently, it probably feels like I’ve become fixated on the theme of grief. To an extent that’s true, but it’s not a choice. This newsletter wasn’t meant to be trauma porn.

I'm aware that not everyone has as deep a relationship with their pets as I. It’s also not lost on me that my response to another one of my dogs dying is probably heightened because unlike many people my age, I don’t have children.

I’ve added a few new names to the newsletter’s mailing list, mostly friends I made in Portland who I said goodbye to recently. Any of you should feel free to skip reading this or unsubscribe entirely, as the rest is a long, inward reflection on death, responsibility, and companionship. I don’t expect you to go down this rabbit hole with me, but I appreciate it if you do.

This is 10,000+ words. Most literary journals wouldn’t accept it as a submission due to the length. I know it's too long. According to Ghost, reading it in full will take you 41 minutes. It’s the most I’ve written since my separation in February of 2023. But writing about Diesel's death is helping me process what happened and it will give me a record to turn back to when enough time has passed.

I’d much rather share information with you about my writing, publishing, and adventures. Good things have happened recently. I have a new job at Framingham State University. I moved back to Massachusetts to be closer to friends and family. For the journey I purchased a modified Subaru Crosstrek that I really enjoy driving. I had several joy-filled goodbyes with my friends in Portland leading up to my departure. I started working on my fiction again.

But… another one of my animal companions has died and I need to write about it because writing helps me make sense of the grief I’m experiencing. I try to honor all of my beloved pets by eulogizing their lives when they pass. I did it for Kezzy and Nailo and Ood and Nim and Jimmy McNulty and Essie Blue.

Now Diesel’s gone too. His ashes have joined the others in a shrine atop my dresser. The first six rode shotgun with us across America in a carefully packed container. Once I got Diesel’s ashes back, he joined us on the center console as we finished the journey. Thinking about all their deaths and everything that led to this is best represented by the following Nick Cave quote:

It sometimes feels like we spend much of our lives putting ourselves back together.

I quote Cave several more times here, because I turned to his archived Red Hand Files writings for help understanding this pain. If you’re unfamiliar, he’s suffered the deaths of two of his sons in recent years. I’m not a religious person, but Cave has become the priest I turn to when it comes to trauma and grief.

While putting myself back together, Diesel taught me the value of physical affection. I think that’s something I’ve struggled to accept as an adult because of the domestic abuse I experienced as a child. Who knows what kind of abuse Diesel suffered in the six years before he came into our lives, but it was clear he wasn’t cared for. Despite that, he loved everyone around him unconditionally and he showed it by climbing on top of them to give one of his infamous, gooey hugs, whether you asked for it or not.

He brought light into our home at a time when I felt unloved and needed more family in my pack. There was so much joy he brought to us that I don’t think I’ll be able to capture it all here.

Here’s Cave again on the subject of joy:

I try to live life with a joy that is reconciled to the sorrow of things, but not subsumed by it.

As I write this, I’m trying to remember that Diesel lived the same way.

Personally, I worry the events of the last two years are too much sorrow, turning me into someone who is harder, weathered and even less trusting of the world. But Diesel didn’t let sorrow conquer him. And from what I can tell he went through a hell far worse than I. So in order to honor him I’m desperately trying to reconcile my sorrow instead of drowning in it. Writing this eulogy is part of that process for me.

Will You Be My Friend?

I’ve told this story before in this newsletter, but it deserves repeating here, given how uncanny Diesel’s arrival was. On the first Sunday of June, 2023, there was a knock on my door around 7:00 am. It was a young woman named Allison and she had a pit bull with her: male, but roughly the same breed, size, and white/blue/gray coloration as Essie Blue. We’d lost Essie seven months earlier and I separated from my wife two months after that. So it was strange to witness this gender-swapped lookalike bouncing all over my front yard. How slim were the chances that this could happen?

Allison explained that she’d been driving to work and saw this dog walking around in the street in front of our house. She thought he might be mine. He had no collar or leash, so I agreed to take him for the day while she went to work. She came back that afternoon and decided to foster him, eventually naming him “Diesel.”

That first day, he was skin and bones, ribs visibly pressing against skin, with patchy, infected fur, a scabby belly, and an abscess on one paw. His drooling was constant and I later learned this was because of an impairment with his tongue that prevented him from fully utilizing it. Drool just fell out of the sides of his mouth.

Allison describes him as having, “the cutest but saddest face; a lug of bones trotting around with sad, fearful eyes. He looked at me with so much fear. He wanted help but was just so scared of the world.”

I’m familiar with this stance, wanting help but fearing the world. Maybe that’s why Diesel and I bonded so quickly. After he died, I told Allison we could take solace in knowing how much less fearful he became.

Winn and I spent that morning feeding and bathing Diesel so he could go home with Allison. I let him chew on some of our dog toys. He rolled in the grass happily, rambunctious, full of high energy. After his bath he lay out on the patio in the sun, with the same chicken-leg posture that Essie used to.

But it was his first hug that caught my heart. He climbed up into my lap, placing his torso against mine, and resting his big, drooling head on my chest. It felt like he knew he’d finally found a home, after wandering the streets of Portland for who knows how long. This was the first of many times he would drop that boulder of a head over me in comfort. I later learned that he “hugged” almost anyone he met like this. But that didn’t take away from the enormity of love he gave to all.

The St. Vincent song “Los Ageless” reminds me of each of my rescued animals. I sang its chorus to Diesel often:

How could anybody have you?
How could anybody have you and lose you?
How could anybody have you and lose you and not lose their minds too?

A month and a half after she took him home, Allison texted me. Her family was struggling and couldn’t afford to keep him. Would I consider taking him in on a trial basis? The “trial” quickly became permanent and Diesel lived with Winn and I for the last year. He legally became my dog in the winter, when I’d passed the county’s waiting period and switched his microchip over to my name.

There have only been a few moments in my life like Diesel’s arrival that make me think there's something going on in this universe we can’t fully understand, some providence that connects us all. Whatever it is, Diesel made it feel like someone was looking out for me.

Party Man

Diesel filled our home with joy and energy after it had been absent for some time. According to his microchip, his original name was “Charlie.” Allison and I both had vets reach out to the owner encoded on this chip, but they never responded. I also checked the missing pet boards and found nothing.

Allison originally liked the name “Boomer” because he bounced back like a boomerang. But their choice in “Diesel” perfectly captured his character, a big rig engine roaring straight at you. He deserved his own Fast & Furious spin-off.

He had a big smile, happily grinning ear-to-ear. And his eyes had a wet sheen that perpetually made him look like he was on the verge of tears. Once the infection faded away, his fur became smooth and vibrant. He was a good-looking dog. Just a few weeks before we left Portland we ran into my colleague Kelly at the gas station. She said, “I think your dog is flirting with me” when he wagged his tail at her from the back seat.

When Diesel was excited, he’d show you it by performing a bunny hop, where he jumped up and down with only his front legs. He was goofy like this, a silly dude always looking for attention. If he couldn’t get it with a grin or a hop he’d roll over on his back and spin around for you. Someone must have taught him to shake hands in his past, because he’d often greet me with an outstretched paw. Every time I left for work we had a ritual called “The Talk,” where we’d hold hands while I told him and Winn exactly where I was going and for how long, before leaving them with toys full of treats.

Winn can only tolerate a certain amount of touching while he’s trying to sleep. So maybe it’s a pit thing, because both Diesel and Essie were both heavy sleepers who clung to me all night, staying in bed until breakfast.

Almost every night Diesel climbed up on the bed, usually with a little difficulty finding purchase with his back legs. Once up, he’d climb in as close as he could possibly get to me, practically pushing me off the mattress some nights. Sometimes that giant head draped over my body with deadweight, his top fangs pressing slightly into my skin. Other nights he’d spoon me as I fell asleep, staving off divorce nightmares. The internal combustion of his body heat kept me warm and our hearts slowed together to a resting pace.

When he wasn’t bouncing around or sleeping, Diesel loved to eat. Some of his favorites were pumpkin, peanut butter, light cream cheese, and the tiny pieces of cheddar I reward my dogs when I'm cooking. Diesel chewed a mean bully stick and could never get enough of pig knee caps.

But he struggled with eating because of his tongue impairment, especially with anything wet. It just… splattered everywhere; his face ending up caked in goo. The drool was never-ending, but in an endearing way. I purchased plaid hankies to tie around his neck and catch his spittle. Every few days I’d mop to clear the dried little droplets he left behind and once I moved into a furnished apartment I covered all the furniture with blankets or plastic. Sometimes the sheath over our coffee table looked like a Pollack painting. Despite the drool and his horrific breath, I’d let him give me gross little kisses. There are still streaks of spit all over the back window in the car. I bought chamois cloths to keep up with it, but now that he’s gone I don’t want to lose that remaining trace of him.

He had other odd little habits that left me wondering where he’d come from. For example, he humped the air when he got excited, usually after we’d come inside from a walk, and especially if it was raining outside and everyone needed to get toweled off. I tried to discourage this and he eventually did it less frequently, but it was always peculiar that towels made him horny.

Despite these odd behaviors, he was a normal dog in most ways. He loved to play, to catch tennis balls and tug on ropes. He greeted everyone at the door with a toy in his mouth, ready to go. He just wanted to run around and play forever. Sometimes we danced together in the kitchen to songs like “Gangnam Style.” Despite his size, he wanted to be a lap dog and would often climb in my lap while I was working in a small desk chair. If I wasn’t stationary he’d follow me from room-to-room to the point I eventually tripped over him. So I’d set him up on the couch until I was ready to join him and we could all be still together.

But more than anything, Diesel was Winn’s constant companion, whether Winn liked it or not. After Essie died and my ex moved out with our cat, Winn’s separation anxiety increased. When I went to work he’d bark constantly. But when Diesel arrived, Winn’s nervous barking quelled, because he was no longer alone in the house. Much like with Essie, Winn tolerated Diesel’s antics. But occasionally he’d show affection and they’d play together or give each other tentative kisses. Whatever Winn sniffed, so did Diesel. They curled up together when resting and if anything made Diesel nervous, Winn went on defense, barking a warning of protection.

But outside of Winn, Diesel was reactive to other dogs. Not with anger or fear like Essie Blue, but with a deep desire to rush every dog he saw and immediately pounce on them to play. I first learned how detrimental this could be when Diesel got into a scrap with Rosie, the German Shepherd who belonged to one of my dog walkers. Rosie scratched his face up pretty good that day, leaving permanent divots in his fur.

So from then on I kept Diesel at a distance from other dogs until he could regulate and remain calm. We practiced leash reactivity constantly, but there were some days where his desire to play could not be deterred. For this reason he didn’t get to meet a lot of my Portland friends. Only a few folks met him if they came by the house or I brought him to the office.

We had several adventures during Diesel’s year with us, traveling to Astoria and Seaside and Crater Lake. The three of us hit practically every dog park in the city of Portland, working on Diesel’s reactivity training every time. I quickly learned he never met a leash he couldn’t get tangled up in. At first we stuck to my old neighborhood in St. Johns, the purgatory we were trapped in until the house finally sold. But it was familiar to him and we practiced two-dog leash walking until we were ready to venture further to the tall trees of Perimeter Park or the desolate beach at Kelly Point.

After the house sold we moved to Woodstock temporarily and walked the neighborhood twice daily, circling the park, coffee shops, groceries, and bars. They were my boys, or as my friend Marie called them, “Da Boyz.” Once all our gear was on I’d tell them, “Gentlemen, let’s broaden our minds” in my best imitation of Jack Nicholson’s Joker before the “Partyman” scene in Batman. It occurs to me that Diesel truly embodied Prince’s lyrics to that song.

We explored the campus at Reed College and stood over its footbridge, watching the water rush past below us. Most often we hit Brentwood Park. Its dog park was perfect for reactivity training and afterward we’d commandeer a tennis court and play catch or tug-of-war off leash. But our favorite spot was up on Broughton Beach on the Columbia River. Just like with Essie, I’d break out the thirty-foot leash to let Diesel run in the sand, trying to keep up with Winn, who dove in and out of the bramble along the shore. We went there the weekend before we left Portland and I captured the video above when we made our way back along the overhanging cliff. I’m not great at recording my life in photos and videos, so this is the only video with Diesel I have. Many of the photos you’ll see here came from my dog walkers’ daily outings with the boys.

The dogs also joined me in preparation for the relocation I’ve been trying to achieve for the last year. We lugged loads of belongings to and from one storage unit to another. When I finally secured a job back east we packed up one last time and left Portland on July 31. Before his death struck midway across the country, we explored the Spokane River in Washington and Diesel met horses for the first time on a farm in Montana. He was so excited he bounced up and down for an hour, trying to get their attention from the fence line.

Journey Into Mystery

Diesel’s arrival was such a mysterious gift that there were times that I wondered if my friends had orchestrated it to help me survive the divorce. The lengths to do such a thing are obviously ridiculous, but at times it made more sense to me that they’d adopted an Essie lookalike, hired an actor to pretend to find him, and then delivered him over the course of a two-month long game.

There were two alternatives. Either:

1. It was a complete coincidence that this specific dog showed up when and where he did, or
2. There was something miraculous that brought him to us at a time when I needed him most.

I’m not a religious person, but I’ll admit to occasionally dabbling in magical thinking. Diesel’s arrival couldn’t help but trigger this wonder in me. When he entered my life it was like I could begin to see the outlines of fate from my peripheral vision. Maybe those outlines are something we humans will never fully understand, but we can occasionally tune into like a distant radio signal.

Was he a reincarnation of Essie Blue? No, I knew he wasn’t. As similar as they were, he had his own personality and quirks that made him uniquely Diesel.

Okay, then did Essie’s spirit somehow lead him to us from the street? Did she guide him, knowing he needed a safe place to land and we needed someone to cheer us up?

I’ve been warned that going too far down the rabbit hole of magical thinking can be detrimental during grief. I can see why, because if his arrival was a miracle it opens up a can of questions about his departure.

• Was he for some reason only allowed to live with us for the last year? Why?
• Did the universe decide that Diesel was no longer needed now that we’re healed up and on our way to a new life?
• Was he only meant to be a balm of light through that hardship and now we have to continue on without him?
• At six years old (according to the microchip), was he born when I arrived in Portland and died when I left it? Was he never meant to make it to the east coast?
• Did he know his death was coming? That he only had a year with us?

You can see how easy it is to spiral when considering possibilities outside the realm of empirical reality.

It’s also important to recognize that at the time of his arrival I was in full-blown trauma over my divorce and the death of Essie Blue. It’s far more rational to consider that in an attempt to respond to and resist that trauma, my brain attached symbolic meaning to Diesel’s arrival when there was none. The stress of those events was severe enough to change my brain architecture, making room for Diesel’s Magical Mystery. In this framework I could create a safe context to heal and restore power over my life.

A friend of mine told me that Diesel reminded him of the Sufi belief in angels, who can appear to us in many forms to guide and support us on our spiritual journeys. He referred to them as “incipient angels,” which comes from Melville’s Moby Dick, mortal beings who become closer to the divine through the way they live.

Ultimately it doesn’t matter why Diesel showed up. What matters is that he appeared when I needed him and I’m thankful for that.

In return for this, I made a pledge. It was my responsibility to take Diesel in and give him the best life I could afford. That may sound simple, buying some more dog food each month and adding on a few more veterinary bills. But there were a number of factors that made taking him in a challenge, much less a logical decision.

First, when he showed up I was living in a staged house that wasn’t selling. 90% of my belongings were in storage and every day I had to reset the facade of what remained to look pristine for potential buyers. That’s not easy to do with one dog in the home, much less the drooling steam engine that was Diesel. I cleaned constantly to keep up with it.

My ex also made it clear that she didn’t want Diesel in a home for sale that she co-owned. She considered him a detrimental liability toward selling the house. Specifically, she thought he would damage the property. With this complaint our communication broke down to the point that we only used our realtor and mediator as go-betweens. I committed myself to this dog and refused to be talked out of it.

Once the house finally sold, trying to find a new rental wasn’t much easier. Most Portland and Massachusetts apartments are run by property management companies, who either don’t allow dogs at all or whose insurance rates require them to enact breed restrictions on certain animals. Every iteration of “pit bull” falls under these restrictions, because of the unfair reputation they have as being aggressive or dangerous. One place actually asked me to submit DNA tests for Diesel and Winn. We’re living in Gattaca for dogs.

Finding dog care for the two of them wasn’t much easier and it certainly wasn’t cheap. Diesel couldn't do daycare until he was legally mine and Multnomah County has a four month waiting period to claim strays. I eventually turned to Rover and used its service to hire walkers to take the boys out once a day while I was at the office.

Despite these complications, I stayed committed to Diesel. He gave me a new sense of purpose in the wake of my divorce, a gift after that hardship. No matter what challenge we faced I promised to do right by him, which might be why I feel so guilty in the wake of his death. Did I fail that promise?

Try to imagine that something uncanny happened to you, something more than just a brief moment of coincidence or serendipity. A prophecy fulfilled. Blindness healed. A reunion with a long lost love. Now imagine that it is snatched away from you, possibly because of your own failure.

Diesel was there. And then he wasn’t.

What's So Good About Goodbye?

I did my best to prepare for trouble crossing the country, so we all went to see our veterinarian the day before we left. Diesel had vomited a few times in the preceding days, but I thought it was caused by anxiety since our routine was off. Dog barf isn’t that uncommon in my life. Winn often eats too quickly and undigested food spills out. A minute later he consumes it all over again. Gross but true.

Our vet checked Diesel out and ran a fecal analysis that came back negative for parasites. I bought anti-nausea medication, some trazodone for his anxiety, and a bland, prescription dry food to try to calm his stomach. Our vet asked if I wanted an X-ray done, but we agreed that he wasn’t showing the usual symptoms of an ingested obstruction, so it would probably be extraneous. Aside from the vomit, he wasn’t lethargic or dehydrated. He showed no indications of pain and food was passing through his body normally.

He continued to have a healthy appetite… until the morning we woke up in Montana. He refused to eat, but I again chalked it up to nerves. We’d just spent our first night together in a tent and he was on edge all night from the sounds of wildlife around us.

That day I’d booked us a campsite in Hulett, Wyoming, but when we arrived it turned out to just be someone’s backyard. A heat wave brought the temperatures up to over 100 degrees, so I decided on a hotel instead. I was informed that the annual Sturgis Motorcycle Rally was happening and lodging was ratcheted up to 200% their normal rate. Deadwood, South Dakota was where I wanted to be anyway, since I’m a fan of the television show set there and wanted to see what it was actually like. According to Google the hotels there were mildly less expensive, so we booked one and got in late. Diesel still didn’t want to eat dinner either, but he’d had a bully stick and some snacks in the car during the day. Because of this, I again assumed he was simply nervous.

In Deadwood, Diesel and Winn were doted on by everyone who met them, mostly the bikers in town for the rally. Lots of gruff dudes with tattoos and beards got mushy over them, saying things like, “We like pits here” while scratching behind their ears. We went for a walk downtown in the morning and the heat was already rising again. About ten minutes in, Diesel puked up grass he’d been chewing on in the parking lot. Ten minutes after that he collapsed in the shade of a Jeep, panting severely. I immediately took him back to the car, making brief stops for water and shade so he could catch wind. In the car I gave him plenty of water and cranked the AC. Within fifteen minutes he seemed to recover from what I thought was heat exhaustion.

We went to a grocery, where I bought a bag of ice to cool down the back seat and dried pig ears for the dogs to chew on when we got to the hotel. Diesel pleasantly roamed the store’s aisles with us and smiled when a clerk greeted him. I thought the danger had passed, so we headed to Chamberlain, South Dakota, the next leg of the journey. In all the panic I left a poinsettia I’d been growing since Christmas on the roof of my car. It must have flown off somewhere in Deadwood, the first casualty of our expedition.

Halfway to Chamberlain, Diesel started vomiting all over the back seat of the car. I gave him the trazodone and anti-nausea meds. At the Chamberlain hotel he puked in their lobby and then again in the room. I still thought these were symptoms of heat exhaustion, so I put him in a cool bath and continued to give him water. There are no emergency vets within two hours of Chamberlain, so I called one and asked their advice. They recommended giving him Pepto Bismol and Tums until his stomach quieted down. If it didn’t let up by morning we should go to an emergency clinic.

Diesel slept that night in a pile of sheets he’d thrown up on. He’d tried to bury himself in them, so I set them up like a nest next to the bed I slept in. At dawn I took Winn out for a bathroom break, but when we returned Diesel had vomited blood on the floor. I immediately rushed him 141 miles to the nearest emergency clinic in Sioux Falls.

On intake, his body temperature was only 98F, despite the hot weather. Normal temperature for a dog is ~99-102. He was in shock and very dehydrated. They pumped him full of fluids and plasma via an IV, saying he’d need a few days to recover. This brought him out of shock. His temperature increased and his bloodwork parameters improved. But after running an X-ray it turned out he did indeed have a bowel obstruction. They thought it might be fabric stuck in there. The plan was to fully rehydrate him before surgery to remove the obstruction, otherwise he wouldn’t survive the anesthesia.

Before surgery, Winn and I visited him in the back of the clinic where all the sick dogs were kept in stacked crates. He was inside a floor-level crate, lying on his side, with an IV attached. Bloody vomit lined the cage and a nurse told me he regurgitated the water they gave him. I climbed inside the crate, putting my head next to his. I pet him softly and told him how much I loved him and needed him to make it through this so he could continue sharing this big adventure with Winn and I. We touched noses together and I left him to rest.

I thought we’d solved the problem. He was ill now, but the doctors would fix him up and we’d be on our way in a few days. In the back of my head I was aware that surgery was dangerous, but assumed the odds were in his favor now. Winn and I booked a hotel and fell asleep, exhausted from the morning’s events.

When I woke there was a message from the vet to call her back. I did and she explained that what they found inside Diesel’s stomach was a cellophane-type plastic material. His bowl was very unhealthy looking and bunched up. They successfully removed the cellophane, but found indication of another foreign material. When they attempted to remove this and close up his stomach, Diesel’s vitals plummeted, he went into cardiac arrest, and he died.

I immediately knew where the cellophane came from. In our furnished Portland apartment the air conditioner had a cellophane sheath protecting the electrical cord. The week before we left I’d caught Diesel chewing on this. He had never swallowed anything inedible before, so I cleaned up all the remnants, assuming he’d just shredded it to release some nervous energy. The other material could have been from a toy, maybe one of his. But during my final clean of the apartment I noticed that a previous tenant had left cat toys under the couch, including several tiny, cloth mice. Was one of these the culprit he swallowed? I’ll never know.

I was in shock when the vet told me over the phone that he was gone. When they asked if I wanted to come down to see his body I declined. My first thought was that I’d already told him what was in my heart and the sight of his cold, lifeless body would haunt me forever, as it did with my six other deceased animals. I didn’t think that’s how I wanted to remember him. I wonder if I made another mistake, because now my last memory of him is lying in a steel crate, plugged into an IV, with bloody vomit everywhere.

They also asked me if I wanted his ashes mailed to my new address. It would take 2-3 days, they said. In a panic I said yes, but later realized I wanted him to continue the journey with us, like he was originally supposed to. We received his ashes four days later. In a way it was good to wait, as it afforded me the time to properly grieve and regulate my condition before hitting the road again.

Portrayal of Guilt

I know that like Essie Blue, Jimmy McNulty, and my four ferrets, that I’ll forever grieve Diesel’s death. But this wound feels worse, deeper somehow. It’s compounded by a lot of factors, not the least of which is guilt.

I typed the first 50% of this out on my tablet with a portable keyboard, in a tucked away row of Sioux Falls hotels adjacent to mini-casinos, dive bars, and gentleman’s clubs. The entrance to the room we spent five days in smelled like curry and mildew. Two strange men seemed to live behind the hotel in a trailer with a German Shepherd. One of them wore a t-shirt that said, “Bitches Be Crazy.” He reminded me of Manny Jacinto’s Jason Mendoza character from The Good Place.

That was the setting for where I received the news of Diesel’s passing. It was not conducive to self-forgiveness or being gentle with myself. This was where people came to destroy themselves slowly.

I was so out of it that for the first three days I thought I was in Sioux City, Iowa... not South Dakota. That hotel was a strange place to face the first week of grief, with no one from my support network within hundreds of miles.

My immediate, selfish thought process went like this: Why the fuck is the universe doing this to me? What did I do to deserve it? Why am I being punished this way, when we were so close to a new, happier life?

I couldn’t help but rethink every step leading to the tragedy. Did I kill him by walking them in the Deadwood heat? We’d walked in high temperatures before and neither of the dogs seemed affected. Winn was fine. But maybe the stuff in Diesel’s belly made him more vulnerable to the heat. I even bought a guide to survival before we left, to keep on hand in case of a crisis. The next time I opened it after his death, the page told me to do the opposite of what I’d done:

After going a long time without water, don’t guzzle when you do find it. Take only sips at first. Large gulps will make a dehydrated person vomit, losing even more of the valuable liquid.

I’m fairly certain this is exactly what happened to Diesel in Deadwood. Was I so distracted by the move, the new job, leaving my old job, and driving across the country that I missed obvious signs of distress in Diesel? Did my own stress cause him to eat the cellophane in the first place? Were there different decisions I could have made that could have saved him? If we stayed in Portland, would we have detected it earlier? Would he have lived through the surgery?

Diesel had never swallowed something inedible before with me. But shouldn’t I have known something wasn’t quite right? Thinking back, did he maybe strain slightly one night while out doing his business? Was his urine too yellow? I can't remember. Why didn’t I pay for that X-ray? When he stopped eating, should I have immediately gone to a vet in Montana? After the incident in Deadwood, should I have driven through the night across South Dakota to find an emergency clinic?

Leading up to the journey I spent time and resources preparing for many safety precautions. I’ll admit, I was paranoid about crossing the country during yet another contentious presidential election. After watching Alex Garland’s Civil War I was even more anxious about driving through red states.

I bought a $500 spare because my new car had all-terrain tires that a standard donut wheel wouldn’t compensate for. Other precautions I added included: a first aid kit, multi-tool, AAA support, flashlight, tarp, water jug, non-perishable food, emergency medications, a specialized tire jack, a cargo net, a road flare.

I had all of that with us in the car, only for one of us to still die midway like he caught dysentery crossing the fucking Oregon Trail.

I thought he was just nervous about the trip. Remember how Allison said he started out fearful of the world? Of course all the packing, camping, and long, fast drives would give him anxiety. His routine was messed up and he wasn’t in a place he knew to be safe or comfortable. On top of that, I didn’t know what was going on inside of him.

I look back on some of my last interactions with him with embarrassment and regret. Why didn’t I listen every time he begged me to step away from working on the computer to play with him? When did he start to know something was wrong with his tummy?

To help with his reactivity training Diesel had to sometimes wear a “gentle leader” headcollar. He hated it and I feel guilty for making him wear it, even though it was making the training easier. In the days leading up to his death I kept asking him to “focus” on his leash, pulling him away from walking off in the wrong direction. I thought he was misbehaving because he was distracted by all the new things we encountered. Now I realize he was weak, confused, and lethargic from the obstruction in his belly. I didn’t know.

That morning in Montana, when Diesel stopped eating, I woke up with a huge, painful canker sore. It was so severe I thought a bee might have stung my mouth while I slept. It lasted through the whole nightmare in Deadwood and then gradually faded after Diesel’s death. Was that a coincidence? Or was my body trying to tell me something my mind would not?

While I was stuck in Sioux Falls I went to a laundromat twice to clean all the blood and vomit off our blankets and dog beds. Similar to the drool, I felt guilty for erasing these remnants of him, no matter how nauseating the smell.

Then there’s the guilt over how, with each passing minute since his death, the idea of it becomes a little more acceptable. Kubler-Ross’ stages of grief tells us acceptance is the end goal. But it also feels self-indulgent.

And of course, there’s the inevitable guilt that comes with all the things that are easier now without him. I no longer have to struggle to walk two 50 pound dogs together. Winn can go to dog parks again without Diesel’s reactivity making it difficult. There is no more drool cleanup. I don’t have to worry about pit bull restrictions with my living accommodations, unless they test Winn’s DNA. None of these benefits are worth Diesel’s absence.

When someone you love dies, you’re often haunted by their missing presence during your routine. But there are no memories of Diesel in my new apartment in Waltham, Massachusetts. In this situation, our routine is already upended. I don’t expect to find him following me into the kitchen. It doesn’t feel like he’s still there in the room with me. Instead, there’s an empty void where there used to be a bundle of love and energy.

Except Winn’s still here and I’m trying to consider everything he’s been through and how it affects him too. He doesn’t understand concepts like divorce or death. All he knows is that the members of his pack are dwindling and the only person left is deeply upset. Winn's depression manifests differently, first as boredom, then unease. He’s been more skittish about loud, unfamiliar noises and he paces frequently. His separation anxiety is back with a vengeance and until just recently he wouldn’t eat his favorite treat, bully sticks. Dog daycare has helped. Socializing with other animals seems to get him out of the dejection and he’s enjoyed playing and walking with my friends and their kids. I should remember that when I’m feeling similarly affected.

This journey was meant to be a happy adventure for the three of us. I pictured us camping overnight in the Badlands, exploring the streets of Columbus, bringing cheer to my friends in St. Louis. Instead, there was an evening in St. Louis where a wave of grief crept up on me because Diesel wasn’t there with us. I excused myself and went to bed early.

I’m conscious of the mortality of my animal companions, but I never thought he’d go like this. Five days after he had a thorough checkup with a vet, he died uncomfortably, in a strange place, surrounded by strange people. I hate that’s the ending he got, especially after the short time we had with him. It feels wrong that he didn’t get to see the rest of the country with us. He deserved to be part of the better future we headed toward.

Diesel never saw our home fully unpacked, just bare remnants for survival while the house sold. Most of what brought comfort to the space was packed in boxes kept in a storage unit a mile away. Until we got to Waltham I’d been living out of luggage and cardboard boxes for over a year. Diesel never saw the art on our walls or smelled the shelves full of books.

While unpacking I found the dog stuff that I put away 2 months ago, knowing we were leaving. He’ll never play with these toys again or wear the gear I bought him. Some items went into storage before he joined us, but others still have his hair and scent on them.

Diesel only got one Halloween with us. One birthday. One Christmas. We only celebrated the anniversary of his coming to live with us once. We never lived a stable life together. I haven’t been my best self in a long time and I wanted to share that with him and his Party Man energy. He wasn’t supposed to be temporary; I thought I’d spend the next decade with him. Diesel left us just as quickly and strangely as he arrived.

Instead of a fresh start, I’ve moved back to New England with grief tied around me like an anchor. I concoct bargain scenarios, like an alternate reality where he didn’t eat the cellophane. Or another where he survived the emergency surgery and our pack continued across the country together. Or a third where he actually lived through the surgery, but the Sioux Falls vets lied to us and he’s actually somewhere in South Dakota, waiting to be reunited with us. I wish he made it to Waltham with us and met all my friends and family. I wanted to take him to the beaches of the North Shore and let him run.

With all of my other pets’ deaths I had a partner with me. We shared the grief, supporting and hugging one another when debilitating waves like this hit. We also shared the burden of responsibility for these creatures. Now that duty is mine alone. That makes it easier to blame myself.

Because of my pledge to him I would have pushed any boulder uphill for Diesel’s well-being. It was my responsibility to protect him from this world. It feels like I failed.

“It’s Not Your Fault”

Writing all of this out has helped to ease the lingering guilt I feel about Diesel’s death, especially the chronology leading up to it. Composing it and reading it back, it’s obvious that logically I did the best that I could. It took some time – pretty much that whole week in Sioux Falls – but I’m almost able to forgive myself again.

The voices of my friends and family were also important to get me there. Despite the isolation, I spent hours with people on long-distance phone calls that brought me some relief. Here are some of the kind things people told me:

• “You gave him a good life.”
• “He knew he was loved.”
• “You provided love and a sanctuary for him.”
• “You did nothing wrong.”
• “You did what you thought was best. That’s all any of us can do for our loved ones.”
• “You loved the shit out of that dog and he knew it.”
• “You shouldn’t blame yourself. Hindsight is 20/20.”
• “You loved him and did the best you could, like we all do. There’s no shame or fault in that.”
• “You have so much strength and perseverance. More than you give yourself credit for.”
• “You are strong. Draw on that strength now and come home to those who love you.”
• “You saved him. You gave him a life he never knew he could have… I know he loves you so much and appreciates everything you did for him.”
• “He was a sweet, gentle, loving soul. You made the choice to take him in, knowing some of these issues he had. But you didn’t look at him any differently. You had your heart set on it. He got to do and see things most dogs only dream of.”
• “If I were a priest I would absolve you. You did your best.”

Not only is this extremely validating; I know they are right. Diesel wouldn’t be angry at me. He wouldn’t want me to be sad.

But if I’m being honest, I’m not good at accepting compliments, much less forgiveness. So when I heard these affirmations, a voice in the back of my head whispered: Yeah that’s nice they said that and all. But they don’t know all the ways you could have done better.

I’m like Will Hunting, refusing forgiveness by repeating “I know.” Maybe I can't accept compliments or absolution because I’m a domestic abuse survivor. Or maybe it’s just my New England wiring.

In rhetorical terms, I’m not responding well to this kindness because I’m too aware of my flaws, the lack of quality in my character. In terms of trauma informed care, Diesel’s unexpected, sudden death took some of my self-worth with it. If I’m going to resist that effect, I’ll need to build my confidence back up in a safe context. I need to figure out how to change my brain architecture again, so it allows me to forgive myself and accept the forgiveness of others.

In the meantime, it seems like the only appeal I’ll accept absolution from is logic. The comment that gave me the most relief actually came from my veterinarian back in Portland, who said:

I hope you can get to a point where you don't blame yourself. You are an amazing dog-parent and Diesel was fortunate to spend time as part of your family. Usually, dogs who have GI obstructions from a foreign body present very differently than Diesel - they are not eating, not defecating, painful and consistently lethargic. I can’t help but wonder if there was something else going on that contributed to his illness that we couldn’t have predicted or controlled.

Her expert testimony was capable of cutting through my crisis of confidence. She’s probably seen a wide range of dog owners, from the purest to the most abusive. Moreover, she was witness to my attempts to do right by him.

The other logical absolution I’ve accepted comes from another Nick Cave quote, in a tough love answer to a person similarly blaming themselves:

Don’t waste this precious opportunity lying around torturing yourself, pointlessly replaying the past, thinking about how things should have been. It may feel like the end of the world right now, but it is not. It may feel like the world is cruel and unkind, but it is not… Get up. Get strong.

I know that given enough time, this is what I will tell myself about the summer of 2024. But to get there I still need to make sense out of this overwhelming remorse.

Make Sense of This Mess

My friend Josh’s dog Patch died earlier this year. Josh was crushed afterward, but still had a sense of humor. He said his review of the experience received “zero stars.”

I thought about that the first week after Diesel died. There was an empty pit in my stomach when I thought about a future where he wouldn’t ride alongside Winn and I, grinning ear-to-ear. I felt empty behind my eyes and my circulation was cut off to my hands. The day after he died I could barely eat, nibbling on leftover ziti my sister sent via Doordash.

That night all the food came back up and I puked in the hotel bathroom. This made me think of Diesel on his last day, vomiting his own blood in a strange hotel room, refusing to open his mouth for even honey or peanut butter. The taste of my own vomit was awful, as it must have been for him, bile and acid that forced me to rinse my mouth out. Diesel barely drank enough water to wash his own away. I fear he consigned himself to death.

If I told this story in a work of fiction it would feel contrived. There’s too many coincidences used as deus ex machina. I wonder if the immensity of it all is simply my brain’s attempt to make sense of it. Am I turning his life and death into a narrative to give meaning to the simple fact that my dog ate plastic and died?

According to Nick Cave:

“Death brings us a spiritual reckoning… This is a necessary but painful form of spiritual renovation - to discard the ancient, destructive versions of oneself to become an actual person, unique among other people. We must do this lest we be frozen in a stasis of the soul.”

If Cave is correct, the universe has asked me to cast aside a LOT recently: my marriage, my home, two of my dogs, my job, the city I lived in. My spiritual renovation seems more like a demolition, building from scratch after clearing the wreckage. So I realize that I’m not just grieving Diesel, but also what he represented: survival, joy, new beginnings, the confidence that the universe is looking out for me.

There’s another musician I keep thinking about amidst all of this. Steve Albini died earlier this year, just a few days before To All Trains, his last album with Shellac was released. That album’s been on constant play in my home since, to the point that I suspect my dogs knew every song, even if they didn’t understand them.

Even though Albini’s passing was not expected. the lyrics to the album are littered with portents of death. “I Don’t Fear Hell” is the track most reviewers obsessed over, with these seemingly prescient words:

“Something something something when this is over
I'll leap in my grave like the arms of a lover
If there's a heaven, I hope they're having fun
Cause if there's a hell, I’m gonna know everyone”

But my favorite two songs on To All Trains make me think of Diesel and not just because he’s dead now too. On “Scrappers” Albini sings about a father/son duo who cruise the streets of Chicago, picking up trash to scrap and survive on. Even before he passed, it was easy for me to picture Diesel in the son’s narration:

“The cool night air will fill our lungs
And songs, we'll sing each other
I am small, but you will come
To trust me like a brother
We'll be pirates”

I can only hope that Diesel saw our life together with that same wonder.

Finally, my friend and Supercontext co-host Charlie pointed out that the song “Tattoos” is about COVID and the anti-vax/anti-maskers who made our lives even more miserable during those years. Albini imagines a legion of ghosts haunting these assholes, tracking them down and forcibly tattooing the names of the dead on their hands.

“We should raise a ghost army
Volunteer ghosts, enlisted ghosts
Help the living help the dead with their tools”

Earlier he taunts the subjects of the song: “You got ghosts chasin' you now, in your truck / Ghosts got a ghost truck.”

I must have sung that ridiculous line a thousand times with Diesel and Winn in the room with me. But it feels appropriate, because there's some days when I feel like the spirits of my deceased animals are following me, just behind, always out of my line-of-sight. I’ve felt them there since Kezzy died 16 years ago. Ever since, I carry the lessons each of them taught with me. Diesel’s there now too. They’re probably not all riding in a ghost truck, but wouldn’t that be something if they were?

If I’ve given you the right impression of Diesel you understand that he had so much joy and energy to give to the world. Now that he’s gone I think of the people who’ve told me they think we’re all just energy, connected and repurposed by the cosmos. If that’s true, where did all of Diesel’s vitality go? Surely for Big D it must have weighed more than the 21 grams of a human soul.

Several friends have told me I’ll see him again. I think they mostly mean that when I’m dead I’ll reconnect with my animal companions in the afterlife. I don’t know what I believe. Maybe his energy was added to the whole of existence and his joy still brings a little more light into this sometimes too dark world. The first time I took a shower in my new bathroom I found two tree crickets clinging to the tile. Some believe discovering crickets indoors is auspicious, leading to good luck. Others note that they’re simply attracted to moisture. But I still wondered if somehow Essie and Diesel were checking up on me through those crickets’ eyes.

Whether Diesel is energy or light or a cricket or a soul in some kind of heaven… I hope he can do all the things he wanted to do in life. He should be able to play with others, run freely, and eat whatever he wants without splattering it everywhere. I tried to give him these things whenever it was possible, but more than anything I hope he has the freedom to do what he loves and know that he meant the world to me.

When we were still in Sioux Falls I took Winn to a dog park everyday. I brought Diesel’s collar and held it tightly. The emergency clinic gave us back his harness in a zip lock bag, so I brought that too. While Winn ran around exploring I unzipped the bag and smelled Diesel’s scent on the harness, trying to will him back into existence through sense memory.

Together, his ashes, the urn, and the velvet bag they’re wrapped in all weigh just a little less than Diesel’s head did. This makes it easier to imagine he’s still resting his head on me. Once we got the ashes back, I drove long stretches of the route home with the urn in my lap. Sometimes at night, in strange hotels, I’d fall asleep with it on my chest. The thing is - and I recognize this is the most woo-woo thing I’ve written in a piece that’s already teetering into superstition - I can feel something coming from the ashes. It’s electric, like when you place your hands on the sphere of a Van de Graaff generator. The soft texture of the velvet is close to the touch of his fur and I swear there’s a pulse emanating that I can feel in the back of my neck.

So yeah, I’m concerned that the last two years worth of trauma might make me a harder, more calcified person than I used to be. But I can’t think of a better way to honor Diesel’s life than by reconciling my anger and grief, before pushing away my gloom with the same joy and light he brought to every space he entered, lifting the spirits of all around him. I should remember that in the face of darkness.

The weekend I finished writing this, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds released a new album, including a song titled “Joy.” Its lyrics are a relevant epigraph to conclude this eulogy for Diesel.

I woke up this morning with the blues all around my head
I woke up this morning with the blues all around my head
I felt like someone in my family was dead
I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
Call out all around me, said, "Have mercy on me, please"
"Have mercy on me, please"
And over by the window, the voice came low and hollow
Over by the window, a voice came low and hollow
It spoke into my pain, into my yearning sorrow
Spoke into my pain
"Who was it," I cried, "What wild ghost has come in agitation?"
"Who is it," I cried, "What wild ghost has come in agitation?
"It’s half past midnight! Why you disturb me so late?"
Then I saw a movement
Then I saw a movement around
Then I saw a movement around my narrow bed
I saw a movement around my narrow bed
Oh, a ghost in giant sneakers, laughing stars around his head
Have mercy on me
Sat on a narrow bed, this flaming boy
Who sat on a narrow bed, this flaming boy
He said, "We’ve all had too much sorrow, now is the time for joy"

And all across the world they shout bad words, they shout angry words
All across the world they shout out their angry words
About the end of love, yet the stars stand above the earth
Bright, triumphant metaphors of love
Bright, triumphant metaphors of love
Blind us all who care to stand and look beyond, that care to stand and look beyond above
And I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
I jumped up like a rabbit and fell down to my knees
I called all around me, said, "Have mercy on me, please"
"Have mercy on me, please"
"Have mercy on me, please"
"Have mercy on me, please"