This is a guest post by Sam Sykes. 

I don’t know how he got in here.

Please call 911.

* * *

What was the first fantasy book you got hooked on?

Go ahead. Think back on it. I’ll wait.

I see your fingers hovering over the keyboard, trembling like they did the first time you ever touched a high school crush. They’re probably all sweaty, too. Gross, but understandable, because I bet each and every one of you had a thought that you might be embarrassed by what you’re about to type.

Maybe you were about to type The Belgariad by David Eddings. Maybe you were about to type Legend by David Gemmell. Maybe you were about to type Dragons of Spring Dawning by Weis & Hickman.

And just maybe you were a little bit embarrassed by it.

That’s okay. I’m not judging. For the very longest time, I was embarrassed by this stuff, too. When I first got published and people asked who my influences were, I thought the answer I wanted to give would sound…what? Childish, maybe? Not serious? Illegitimate? Whatever it was, I hastily mumbled some generic catch-all Tolkien titles that I thought would fit the bill and changed the conversation.

For some reason, I was really terrified by the thought of people knowing I used to read Drizzt novels.

Yeah. Drizzt. Lonely outcast of drow society, rejected by both the surface world and his own kind. Driven to good in a world that expects him to do bad. Wields a pair of badass scimitars and throws his magic cat at a thousand orcs while fighting three-headed liches while being watched on by sexy frost giants holy shit what am I saying.

I don’t really blame myself for being worried about what people might think about me for that. I feel like a lot of fantasy — readers and writers alike — have this latent fear of not being taken seriously. We’re mocked by mainstream literature, we’re made fun of by a lot of press, the word “nerd” is still (rarely) thrown around as an insult.

Basically, I think a lot of people are already embarrassed by fantasy without us being embarrassed by ourselves.

It took me three books to arrive at this conclusion. Three books of trying to figure out how to be edgy, how to be tough, how to really, really change this genre so that it would finally be taken seriously (because naturally, I surmised, who else would do it but me)?

And at the end of those three books? I think I kind of missed Drizzt.

I mean, I liked what came out of this era of fantasy: I loved the morally ambiguous characterization and the political intrigue and whatnot, but I was growing increasingly burnt out on cynicism and bleakness and hatred.

I missed swordfights. I missed monsters. I missed magic cats and badass scimitars. I missed three-headed liches and sexy frost giants. I missed magic and mayhem and I missed witty banter and romance. I missed being excited by fantasy.

True, those aspects aren’t for everyone. And it’s true that there are some skeezy elements of older style fantasy: whitewashed casts, unnervingly rigid morality systems, women characters who don’t get to do much, a rather alarming pattern of justifying the mass slaughter of other races.

These aspects, I am keen to leave behind and not revisit.

But there’s a certain thrill to some aspects of fantasy that I think a lot of people put behind them for fear of appearing childish, juvenile, immature, whatever. And somehow, they’re the aspects that sounded great when I wrote them down. If I could get those again, while leaving all the gross parts behind, I think I’d have something nice.

This is what I thought when I started writing The City Stained Red.

I wanted to write something that made me happy again. I wanted to do all the stuff I love doing: fights and awkward relationships and monsters and demons and magic and shit going wrong and people trying to do the right thing and sometimes failing and exploring lost civilizations and treasure and all that cool crap.

So I did.

And it was pretty great. The City Stained Red is my strongest work yet and I’m amazingly proud of it.

And somehow, it wasn’t shallow. It wasn’t immature. It wasn’t not serious. It was me. It fit.

So, now I want to ask you this: when’s the last time you had that same feeling?

We, as authors, always give the same advice to aspiring writers: “Write what makes you happy! Write for yourself!” And that’s good advice. And it’s damned easy advice to put into practice if you don’t consider all this other stuff.

I mean, even if we weren’t considering the mainstream heckling of fantasy, there are other aspects to consider. We don’t write in a vacuum: we’re always considering what else is out there, how we’re going to leave our mark. And leaving a mark is arguably the most important thing a writer needs to do past getting enough money to feed themselves.

And speaking of money, “write for yourself” is a strong sentiment, but “write what gets you paid” is also pretty hard to argue with.

But for as deep a conversation as this could get and for as much as we can talk about improving ourselves as writers and making careers out of writing, we should also focus on the most important question.

Does writing make us happy?

Does the thought of not writing terrify us?

Or does it not even occur to us because what the fuck else would we do?

These are questions that demand honest answers. And the honest answer must come from another question: what do you love? What do you have to write? What story must you absolutely tell?

And why haven’t you written it yet?

I’m sure there are a lot of answers to that last bit. But we really can’t afford to go into them. I’m running out of time and eventually Chuck will wander back here and wonder A) how I got into his house, B) what I’m doing on his computer and C) what’s all this pink stuff I’m covered in.

So I want you to be honest with yourself. I want you to find out what you’re afraid of and what you love. And then I want you to write about it. And then I want you to keep writing until it is done. I want you to do this for yourself.

And if you get it published, that’d be nice, too. I’d like to read it.

* * *

Sam Sykes is the fantasy novelist who covered himself in some kind of pink slurry that he used as a lubricant to shunt his way through Chuck Wendig’s ductwork, like some grease-besodden John McClane. He is tired of your bullshit and likes pugs but not in the way you want him to like pugs, y’know, it’s not a love thing, so stop sending him all those pug figurines for that glass menagerie of pug figurines you think he has but he doesn’t have, you presumptive person, you. Also, Sam Sykes is not writing this bio, but Chuck Wendig is writing this bio, so whatever, sucker.

Sam is the author of the newly released The City Stained Red: 

A long-exiled living god arises.

A city begins to break apart at the seams.

Lenk and his battle-scarred companions have come to Cier’Djaal in search of Miron Evanhands, a wealthy priest who contracted them to eradicate demons — and then vanished before paying for the job.

But hunting Miron down might be tougher than even these weary adventurers can handle as two unstoppable religious armies move towards all-out war, tensions rise within the capital’s cultural melting pot, and demons begin to pour from the shadows…

And Khoth Kapira, the long-banished living god, has seen his chance to return and regain dominion over the world.

Now all that prevents the city from tearing itself apart in carnage are Lenk, Kataria, a savage human-hating warrior, Denaos, a dangerous rogue, Asper, a healer priestess, Dreadaeleon, a young wizard, and Gariath, one of the last of the dragonmen.

This book is presently a mere $1.99 (?!) in e-formats:

The City Stained Red: Amazon | B&N | Kobo

Sam Sykes: Website | Twitter 

Here is a modified version of the keynote speech I gave to the very wonderful Surrey International Writer’s Conference this past weekend, should you care to check it out. It’s been slightly rejiggered and reformatted to fit a proper blog post rather than a banquet speech.

* * *

There’s a war going on.

No, no — it’s not the war between self-publishers and the traditionally-published. Not a war between lit fic and genre nerds, not a clash betwixt authors and reviewers and the authors who, ahem, stalk the reviewers. This isn’t a war between you and me because frankly there’s way too many of you and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t last fifteen seconds.

This isn’t even a war outside this blog.

It’s a war inside here.

*taps chest*

Inside the rusty bucket of fireplace ash I call a ‘heart.’

And even then you’re saying, “Oh, I know what he’s about to say. He’s about to talk about the war between cake and pie,” but there I say, nay, nay, that is not what I mean. (Besides, that is a Cold War, long locked in a permanent state of stalemate. Just as you think pie has clenched it, cake rises from the darkness of defeat, sporting frosting that tastes like buttercream and vengeance.)

The war I’m talking about is a hot war. Active and alive, fought even now as I write this blog post.

This war is about magic.

This war is about whether or not this thing that we do is somehow magical.

(And by “this thing we do,” I do not mean publishing. Oh hell no. Publishing is purely the making of sausage. Publishing is a gray and lightless place. Publishing is Mordor. Publishing is the inside of Gollum’s mouth: sticky and fishy and bitey.)

No, what I mean is: we sometimes think of writing as being a precious thing. A magical talent, an otherworldly commodity. When talking about writing we sometimes speak of things in a magical way, right? THE MUSE COUGHED INTO MY MOUTH AND FILLED ME WITH HER PRECIOUS BACTERIAL WHIMSY. Or, MY CHARACTERS DIDNT LISTEN TO ME, NO SIR, THEY JUST WENT OFF AND DID THEIR OWN THING, LIKE A GANG OF ROGUE CHIMPANZEES LET LOOSE IN A SHOPPING MALL HA HA HA SILLY SENTIENT CHARACTERS I’M JUST A PAWN IN THEIR GAME.

Trust me — I get it. I even want to agree. Our writing certainly feels magical, right? It has the sense of the ritual about it — the occult, the arcane. Conjuring something from literally nothing. The act driven by little reagents: the right pen, the proper font, the perfect coffee mug. The act further driven by sacrifices big and small: things laid on the altar of the act like our time, our tears, our sanity. (I mean, because c’mon: writers are cuckoo bananapants. I would posit that as writers we are each crazier than an outhouse owl. Which is of course an owl trapped in an outhouse. I think we can all agree that is an owl we do not want to meet because that owl wants to fly but all it can do instead is huff outhouse fumes in a dark crap-closet poop-prison.)

With writing, we all feel like little Harries and Hermiones running around:

“SCRIPTO NOVELIOSO!”

*shoots words out of magic wand*

Ah, but see — I was not raised with magic in mind.

My father was not a man given over such foolish notions. He was a man of fundamental things: dirt, wood, hay, the bang of a hammer, the growl of an engine. I remember at a young age asking him about God and he shrugged and grunted: “God lives in the Earth and makes the plants grow.” I was like, whoa, really? Is that true? Here I was picturing an actual deity lurking beneath the unturned earth, ready to shove corn stalks and blackberry briar up through the ground. And he gave me this look like I’d been donkey-kicked and was like, “Jesus Christ, how should I know? Now hand me that wrench.”

My father’s answer to things was not ‘magic.’ It was HARD MOTHERFUCKING WORK. God forbid you tell him you were bored. “Go build something. Mow the lawn. Move that box.” He would utter that dreadful curse: “Bored? Oh, I’ll give you something to do.” He literally — and this is a true story — told me one time to dig a ten foot long ditch, three feet deep, in the yard. I did it. Are we laying pipe? Hiding a snake? Burying various body parts? Then he covered it back up again. I was like, what the crap are you doing? Why did I dig that hole?

He said: “Sometimes you just need to dig a ditch.”

When the day came that I made it clear I wanted to be a writer, I’m pretty sure his ass clenched up hard enough to snap a piece of metal rebar. Writing was a soft job. A writer’s hands were soft hands. My father’s hands were no longer hands: they were just bones wreathed in callus. (Actually, a note about my father’s hands: he was missing his pinky finger, because he smashed it in a log splitter, and instead of paying the doctor to cut it off, he did it himself with a pair of bolt cutters to save some coin and, apparently, aggravation. By the way,there’s no writing advice analog there, no storytelling metaphor buried in that — seriously, do not cut off your own finger with bolt cutters. That’s a PSA from me to you. You can thank me later.)

So, I took his grumpy ethos of GRRRR HARD WORK with me to into the word mines and I told him, you’ll see, I’ll work hard, I’ll make it big someday. (And I think he was like, YEAH YEAH, LEMME KNOW WHEN YOUR LITTLE HOBBY MAKES YOU CUT OFF YOUR OWN PINKY FINGER.) And then that was that for how he felt about my career choice.

So, a big part of me is very much anti-magic when it comes to this thing we do. Anyone presents a romantic, misty-eyed narrative about writing and my knee-jerk response is, SHUT UP. WRITING IS JUST DIGGING DITCHES. ITS YOU CLEANING OUT THE CREATIVE HORSE STALLS. ITS ALL HORSE POOP AND HEAVY SHOVELS. SHOVEL IT! HORSE POOP!

*thrusts shovel full of horse poop at you*

It’s easy to see how magical thinking can hurt you, as a writer. By giving over your writing to the fates, the gods, the muses, and in that, you remove your own agency. You cede control of the work — of the creation of the work — to forces beyond you, absolving you of all responsibility. I had a neighbor who talked about wanting to be a writer, and she said that she’d do it but she just had to “find the time,” but that when she did she would do it because she was inspired — she’d be hit by a “bolt of lightning” and even if she were driving her grandchildren around she’d have to pull over on the side of the road and just write it all down. Which of course sounds lovely. Inspiration! Bolts of lightning! So dramatic! Also sounds like a really great way to never write a goddamn thing.

With magical thinking, if the ritual isn’t perfect, if the proper sacrifices were not made, if the magical elves who live under your desk are not appeased — then the work never gets done. I can assure you right now: every day of writing does not feel like magic.

(Some days feel like an act of violent proctology on an angry goat.)

And don’t even get me started on editing. If magic was an essential to edit your book, I’m not sure a second draft would ever ever EVER get written. Editing can be a bewildering slog. It can be a dizzying run through a hedge maze at night. The only magic felt there sometimes is a nightmare magic — imps and incubi hounding your every step.

Leaving writing as a magical act further suggests that those that can conjure the creative power are somehow more special: given over to a sacred gift, born of a proper bloodline or under an alignment of authorial planets. Writing too hard? Hm, must not have that old wordslinger magic! You’re not a proper ordained priest in the Inkolyte Brotherhood. Oh, what, you think anybody can just write? What are you, some kind of Lutheran? Get your weird manifesto off my door, anarchist.

But even still, even in those comparisons…

Little hints of magic. Sparks in the dark.

And so then the battle flares up again: I like magic. Magic is neat. I want this thing we do to be magical because it explains so much — it explains the serendipity of a good day’s work, it explains when your characters seem to have minds of their own, and it explains what happens when you get a really great book that grabs you by the sticky wicket and won’t let go. Imagination and creation are so volcanic, so pyroclastic, how can that not be magic? Stories shape the world. Writers have power. What I’m trying to say is:

GODamnit, I want to be Gandalf.

Why can’t I be Gandalf?

WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME.

One day, I too shall have a Gandalfian beard.

*slams down giant pen against the earth*

THOU SHALL NOT PROCRASTINATE

*wrestles the fire demon of authorial distractions into a chasm*

Ahem.

Still, though, much as I want to be Gandalf — Gandalf was special. An elevated class. A proper wizard. I’m no wizard. I’m just a regular old human tub-of-guts. It feels like magic, but it can’t be magic — can it? Maybe there’s something there, I think. I wonder, then, is it less about casting a magic spell or giving yourself over to mystical forces, and is it more a magic trick? Is it artifice and illusion? Less Gandalf and more Penn and Teller? What we see as the audience at a magic show seems impossible: the rabbit in the hat, the girl in the box. But the magician isn’t given over to that magic. The magician knows the trick. The magician created the mechanism by which to fool US into thinking that what we are seeing is real.

So, which is it? Spellcasting magic? Just a trick? Purely the product of hard work?

Let me tell you about three times where this thing that we do felt magical truly for me.

One: me, the year 2010. I spent five years trying and failing to write what would become my debut novel, BLACKBIRDS. I have a screenwriting mentor at the time — because that’s what you do, right? You want to be a novelist, go get a screenwriting mentor? — and he sits me down and tells me to outline the book that I am unable to finish. And I say HO HO HO no silly Hollywoodman, we AUTHORIAL TYPES find our sails filled with MUSE BREATH, not with the crass and gassy winds of your pedestrian outlines. And he says, no, shut up, do it anyway, and so I gnash my teeth. Grr. And bite the belt. And punch frozen meat. And then I do it. it. Holy shit, I do it! Suddenly, I have a plot. I have an ending! And a month later, I have a novel.

Two: another writer’s conference. Not long after Blackbirds has come out. I’m coming out of a banquet a young woman hurries up to me and she’s shaking and quaking and I’m suddenly worried about her. Is something wrong, I ask? Seems she’s nervous about meeting me. And I think, oh, god, what has she heard? What did I do? Is she about to serve me a subpoena? She’s totally about to serve me a subpoena. But then she says she’s a fan, she loved my novel BLACKBIRDS and it made her want to be a writer and I think, oh my stars and garters, I think this is my first bonafide fan! (And then I think: I should probably tell her to learn restaurant management or lockpicking skills or anything but writing.)

Three: this memory, a few years before the other two. My father is still alive, before the prostate cancer would come to claim him. I’m in Colorado visiting his new house, for he had just moved out there to retire, and as with the war between cake and pie I feel like my father and I have forced a stalemate. He doesn’t approve of my career choice but he grudgingly acknowledges it and I acknowledge his grudging acknowledgment and life moves on. Then comes a day on this trip where he introduces me to a close friend and neighbor, a man named George. And George proceeds to dictate my career to me thus far: all my successes, all of my projects, none of my failures. And I ask him, how do you know all this? Are you stalking me online, George? Though I am always flattered by the attention of older gentlemen — *bats eyelashes* — you don’t seem the type. He seems surprised and says, “Well, your father told me all about it, of course. He’s really proud of all the things you’ve worked to achieve.”

*jaw does not hang open so much as it unhinges and falls to the dirt*

Well, holy shit.

There. Magic. Punctuating the darkness like little fireflies.

Three times that are not exhaustive. Just three snapshots among many.

What all this tells me is that:

The act of writing is not magic.

But it sure has its magic moments.

And why does it have those moments?

It has them because of us.

See, the truth is, no war is going on. These different ideas — magic as spellcasting, magic as trick, writing as a product of hard work — come together to tell the whole story. It’s hard work that allows us to tirelessly practice and reiterate our tricks. It’s hard work and indeed sacrifice that allows us to sometimes conjure those moments that remind us that writing starts as fingers on keyboards and words on pages but can end up as something so much stranger and so much greater than we ever anticipated. We are the magicians and wizards, but it takes a helluva lot of hard work — not from the outside, but from the inside, magic drawn up from within like water from a well more than it is hoped for like a bolt of lightning — to clinch the spell, to perform the illusion.

We asked about books, and then movies.

Now it’s time to talk video games.

Scary, distuuuuuurbing video games.

(insert something something gamergate)

(respond with something something fuck gamergate)

You’ve played video games. Which ones startled you? Freaked you got? Climbed up on your back like a demon monkey and chattered its infernally primitive heresies into your ear as you played?

Drop into the comments, let ’em fly.

Last week: horror as spam.

This week:

The country’s in EBOLA PANIC, going so far as to elect an Ebola Czar. (Did you know that vending machines kill 13 people a year? I look forward to our new Vending Machine Czar to address this grave concern.) Disease of course freaks people out. And next Friday? Halloween. The time of horror!

Which means it’s time for you to freak people out with disease.

Write 1000 words of flash fiction.

It should be horror.

It should feature disease as an axis of that horror.

That’s it. That’s the mission.

Write it at your blog or online space.

Link back here.

Due by Halloween, noon, EST.

Updates will be a little thin on the ground here until next week or so — because I’m leaving on a jetplane to go to the OTHER end of Canada (I was in Toronto around May). I’ll be in Vancouver for the Surrey International Writers’ Conference, with the likes of Mary Robinette Kowal, Diana Gabaldon, Pam van Hylckama, Sarah Wendell, Donald Maass, and Cory Doctorow.

I’ll be giving a keynote, and also giving workshops on THEME and CHARACTER.

Because theme and character are awesome, that’s why.

Oh, and a panel on THE SOCIAL MEDIAS. In which I will refuse to acknowledge that any social media exists that is not Ello. I will also fire Ello Invites from a cannon.

If you’re attending, say hi! I may have stickers. STICKERS, I TELL YOU.

Because what 12-year-old doesn’t love stickers. (And, at heart, I’m basically 12.)

If you’re in the area but not attending, do note that there is a “free to the public!” author signing on Saturday night, which I will be attending.

*waves*

*takes off in ornithopter*

*wait I said jetplane*

*lands ornithopter on top of jetplane*

*gets arrested for ornithopter terrorism*

nooooo

Tai was our little taco terrier.

A taco terrier is — well, yes, a terrier that will eat tacos, but also a dog that is part chihuahua and part terrier. In this case, part toy fox terrier, or so we were told. (Sometimes they’re called chitoxies, but as that does not contain the word “taco,” it is plainly inferior.)

My wife and I bought Tai when she was a pot-bellied little pup. We bought her from a pet store at a time we were naive enough to think that most pet stores didn’t source their animals from puppy farms. We bought her from a time when my wife wasn’t even my wife — when in fact we did not even live with one another and shared her briefly between houses.

We were young and dumb. Puppies ourselves. Everybody told us not to buy her. Why would we? My wife and I hadn’t been together all that long but we knew this dog was our dog from the moment we picked her up and she climbed all over us, not demanding pink belly rubs so much as forcibly rubbing her belly wherever she could. Snortling and snorfling. So we took her home and hurried out and bought all the canine accoutrements and everyone rolled their eyes at us wondering how long any of it would last. But our doggy did last, and I eventually married my wife, and our taco terrier was a part of our family from the moment we laid eyes on her.

Tai was pugnacious, but sweet.

She owned any big dog she came in contact with. She would bite them on the lip. And this small but powerful action would allow her to rule even the largest dogs.

(She did not trust little dogs.)

She was reluctant best buddies with our last dog, Yaga. They were like a mismatched cop team. He was blissfully ignorant as she groused at him. But her disdain of the big lunkhead was a lie — they ate together and she waited for him outside so they could pee together and they were pals.

When he died, I think she was a little bit heartbroken. This, the chihuahua curse, and a part of her that overruled her terrier components: a chihuahua often only bonds with a few others. A couple-few humans, maybe one other dog, and that was it. Yaga died and Tai never seemed quite right after. She lost a step. Our son being born and our new dog, Loa, failed to lend her any energy — and while she tolerated Loa and accepted petting and cuddling from our boy, she never really connected with either of them.

Still, she was curious and funny and weird.

She snored so loud that if you were upstairs, you could feel it in the floorboards coming from downstairs. Like a dragon sleeping on its hoard of gold.

She barked in her sleep. Little yips.

(Plus, she could basically sleep anywhere.)

She liked to lay with her back against you and her belly out toward the world.

For rubbings, of course. The sweet canine currency of belly rubbings.

She was stubborn as anything. Nearly impossible to move. For a small dog, she was basically a mountain attached to a leash — you went where she went, and not the reverse.

She was totally nosy. A major busy-body, this one. Give her a window and a perch and she will watch every neighborhood argument, every cat, every squirrel, every crankhead and mailman.

For such a small dog — and for such a stumpy loaf of bread — she loved the snow and navigated it like a dolphin. A furry, bitey dolphin.

(Though sometimes she looked more like a baby seal than a dolphin, truth be told.)

At our new house, she liked to climb up on the mound in our backyard and bark at distant, unseen neighbors. Or chime in at the goings-on of rustling deer. (Nosy even with woodland creatures.)

She was a diligent explorer.

She could make tons of funny faces.

I like to think she was a happy dog, cantankerous and cranky as she could be.

Thing is, she was also sick a lot of her life. Not dramatically so, but she was prone to allergies — early on she was basically tearing herself apart, stripping off her fur and biting herself raw, and when the vet called after many tests to read us the list of allergens, it was a five minute voicemail. I didn’t know that many kinds of grasses even existed. So, we put her on a wonder drug called Atopica, but the not-so-wonderous part of that drug was that it reduced her immune response which left her prone to opportunistic infections (usually in her ears).

Still, it allowed us to sometimes dress her in a hilarious clown collar:

Recently, though, she’d begun to suffer the effects of what seemed to be IBD/Colitis — a severe thickening of the small intestine made it very hard for her to absorb food or even get hydrated, and so she started drinking a lot and having accidents. The vet confirmed the diagnosis but suggested there could be more at play — there, that specter of cancer (and speak the refrain with me: fuck cancer) and all the while, she was wasting away and we were losing control of the situation. We tried everything. Our house became a pet biocontainment unit. We tried food, meds, ran tests, spent lots of money (her health problems throughout her life probably caused us to spend the rough equivalent of a cheaper new car — worth it, which is why we spent it).

We were at our wit’s end.

It was only recently that I’d found folks online that had luck with Atopica controlling their pets’ IBD, and so I dug out our old meds (thankfully not expired) and tried those.

We had her scheduled to be put down last week.

But literally at the last minute, she finally started to show improvement.

And we had about four or five days of steady, meaningful improvement.

The last couple days, though, she started to go back downhill again. Her face began to twitch — we suspected a calcium deficiency but the vet said it was suggestive of seizures that themselves suggested brain involvement of what may be cancer. (IBD can be caused by cancer or can be the cause of it.) The Atopica had worked, but only temporarily, it seemed. We were losing her.

We didn’t know why.

But there comes a point when it seems cruel to let them continue. A mercy humans aren’t really allowed, but one that we can reserve for our beloved animals — the ability to take them away from the pain before it overwhelms them. It’s hard to know when to do this, and even now I’m bawling my eyes out thinking, but we could’ve tried one more thing. But so it goes. She was reduced in body. She didn’t enjoy the things she once enjoyed. She didn’t eat much food. She drank so much water you’d think she was addicted to it (and yet, paradoxically, was so dehydrated we had to give her fluids through a bag-and-needle). Couldn’t get up the steps easily, as her muscle tone was wasting away. It’s true that we still saw the spark of the old dog in there a few times a day — the way her ears perked up, the way she went sniffing for food while I was cooking, the faint crankypants growl in the back of her throat at invaders real or imagined.

I’m thankful for the days of improvement we did get. She showed more of that spark. She got to play with my sister’s dog a little. Got to eat more food. Get more love. I’m glad we had her around for a few more days. A few more genuinely good days.

Still.

Those days are gone. As they are for all of us, eventually. (And here, not an urging toward the edge of the pit of grief but rather toward the realization that we all head toward the doggy dirtnap one day, and so we should make the best of the time we — and our loved ones — are given.)

Tai, I think, was letting us know.

It was time.

So, we had a new appointment.

The vet came today.

And we had to say goodbye to our little taco terrier here at home.

(Our son said goodbye to our dog, and then went off to stay with his Mom-Mom while the vet came. It was very hard to explain to a three-year-old what was happening, and for a half-hour he was basically shutting down, not acknowledging that she wasn’t going to be here anymore, and was not acting as nice as we’d like — though at that point I found it really important to realize that as much as we dream of his perfect reaction to this whole thing, I’M barely keeping shit together so it’s not very princely of me to expect the toddler to be strong and compassionate.

But just before he left, we told him outright what was happening — no mincing words. I said, “Do you know how my Daddy is dead?” and he said he did. And I said that’s what’s happening to Tai. And then he asked us to turn around so he could say goodbye to her, and he told her he loved her. Honesty, at least with our kid, seems best — even when it’s hard to hear.)

We took her outside to the front lawn. On her bed. The day was bright. The air was warm. The sun poked through the clouds and the sky was blue. Leaves of many colors fell around us. Tai stretched out and relaxed in a way we hadn’t seen her relax in a very long time. We petted her and talked to her. Told her we loved her. She went to sleep. And then she went beyond it.

Goodbye to our little Tai.

I’m sorry we couldn’t do more for you.

We miss you.