Four years on, and still incomprehensible:

the difference is that there is joy
in remembrance now, sometimes

the light itself belongs to him, to Us–
the micro-snapper, mid-road, newborn

and needing relocation: the single eft
mid-path (fear not, wee basilisk,

we mean you no harm). First mile
an open flood; thereafter, rivulets

and a single raven among the crows.
A vibrant black shadow, iridescent,

at the heart.



Observation: 1,095 days.

Three years since Gilgamesh’s last breath hit the palm of my left hand, and I caught it there, held it.

It’s part of me now, that breath of his I took into me and died with, as surely as he did.


Since he died, I have left not only New England, but the country, in largest part to escape the buffeting memory of The Us, the pack of two, the outside-of-human-love tracks everywhere I went: just recently, I’ve returned to the States, and am back in his home ground, our home ground.


I wonder if some of you who loved him virtually, but never knew him, still get email notifications from this mostly-quiet blog where for so long he brought strangers all over the world joy.


The Inugami Mochi was published in February of this year by Saddle Road Press. While it’s shelved as fiction, it is in fact an intentional amalgam of fiction, creative nonfiction, and magic realism of a vaguely animist sort, in which the character of Dog is the dog-god, the character of Cecily is the human claimed by him (and is no longer exactly of her own species as a result), and the ancient honor paid to this kind of archetypal relationship is brought back to the front.

In a few places, though, it’s just simply and entirely Gilgamesh, and all he gave: he is the truest thing I have known.

He and his life, our life together, doesn’t need a lot of dressing to summon something far larger and wilder than the domesticated nonsense where most people stop.

Right now, I’m working on a second that is also about the rare but once-familiar archetype of the familiar spirit and the consequences of its loss, called Gilgamesh/Wilderness. This will also come out from Saddle Road Press (next year).

If you miss him, you can read these. You will find him there, and hopefully something much larger than him, or me, or The Us we were: something that is about you. If you loved him because you recognized something of your own extra-human experience with a familiar—not a pet, an inugami who is your soul’s beloved more fully and well than any human could ever be—I hope this work feeds you.


I needed to read these books when he was so suddenly gone, but couldn’t find them.

So I wrote them.


After two years in Canada, where grief could happen without interference, without all the places he was so present creating a constant tearing at the wound of his absence, and where my deadened spirit and being came to new life, I find that on my return, these New England places we loved are now places of peace. I feel close to him, to who we were, and also in another life now, an entirely different skin than the one I occupied when he and I were The Us. This skin remembers the wholeness we had, from the vantage point of having shrunk back down to the singular. This skin remembers being riven. This skin remembers joy.


Today I went to Wendell State Forest for the first time since he died, and hiked our favorite six mile loop. Slowly, breathing it in and remembering the hundreds of times both of us were gently bounced by this springing ground amongst the mountain laurels, the bear who came out onto the Lookout and what Gilgamesh did, the cannonballs into Ruggles Pond, the discovery of otter scat composed entirely of fish scales (and the obtaining of permission – the rolling in it with passionate glee – the coming up covered in glitter, and laughing).


The miles and miles.


One being in two bodies: autonomous, but one.


Today, I found him a deer foreleg, marrow-sucked by coyotes. I found him a tree bole that looked exactly like a knee joint. I stopped and scented the air for him, accosted suddenly by some flowering thing at distance, the exact scent of happiness. I wondered, for a moment, if I smell like that, now, from taking in his last breath: that faint gardenia scent he had, under whatever he’d rolled in, the essential him underneath taken into my own skin, my own blood and bone. Here, the cool copper scent of water. Here, intoxicating loam. Here, the brave scent of a stone.


He wasn’t there, of course. He did not find things for me. Or maybe he was, and did. Both things can be a little bit true: he is of me now.


Lookout Trail, then a hook along Jerusalem Road and a drop down into Hidden Valley. Connecting with the Metacomet-Monadnock Trail and taking a winding route back toward the beginning.


Drought, so the water was lower than I’ve ever seen it: the convergence of the waterfalls and the torrential brook a tepid pool, barely moving. Still, the forest was cooler than the rest of the world, and noisy with life but none of it human. It fed me. Lifted my spirit to where it belongs more wholly than anywhere else—and in a way (though not a platitudinous way, not a way without loss of the entire world and having to make a new one), with him.


Even so resurrected to some new skin, or series of them, even in the quiet joy in the places where he had joy, the slow pulse of memory beats the anniversary drum.


Two days ago, I watched a video of one of our deepwades at a writer’s colony where we lived for six intensely beautiful months in New Hampshire. It’s a peaceful video, navigating the relentless dumps of a series of storms, helping each other break trail in January depths.


So much peace, so much love that winter.


Still, when I fell asleep that night, I dreamt that Gilly and I were out in the forest, in deep cold and incoming Nor’easter, and night was falling: we dug a snow cave, to shelter from the storm, and crawled into it together. I made us the best igloo I could, but he froze, in my arms: I felt it happening, and I could not stop it, I could only whisper love to him while he shivered in my arms. When he stopped shivering, his body gone soft, then stiff, I said, my own face, throat, arms cracking like ice with the movement of my lips and falling in shards around us: you’re safe now, love. Nothing bad can ever happen to you now.

And woke in the abyss of his absence.


This is the way of loss.


When it is deep, when the love was total, it never ends.


The image of a meteor strike always resonates as true for me, about real grief. The crater never goes away. It fills with water, stuff grows there, the sharp edges erode and soften, it may even become a cauldron of new life, generating like mad and full of joy—but the landscape has been altered, and shall ever remain so.


This is as it should be.


*  *  *


God/Dog, you know, for all that this familiar stuff, this inugami stuff, this one being in two bodies stuff, The Us, is profound and serious and very, very real – the thing is: we spent most of our time, when we weren’t saving each other, or exploring, or worldbuilding, telling each other goofy jokes until we collapsed into giggles.


So much laughter.

So much love.


*  *  *

Some of his joy:


Hitting it off with a pretty girl—


Vermonting in storm and ice, laughing to keep warm—


And ocean. Oh, ocean.


Two years on,

I’m sitting in my office three and a half thousand miles from where Gilgamesh and I lived in perfect harmony for twelve years. I’m weeping a bit, because I’m eating angel food cake a student baked for me without measuring cups. It’s perfect. I’m taking care of this student’s dog for a bit, but really, the cake is because he knows today is the two year anniversary of Gilgamesh’s death. An anniversary should have a cake, he says.

Angel food was Gilly’s favorite.


Gabriel García Márquez gave you away. I can tell you are an angel by the way you smell of flowers.

Love you, my Angel.



Even this week, dreams of the moment of his death.

More, now, his life; his presence right here in the present.



In this place with no memory, I can bear his absence, and remember.

I have been able to grieve here.

And unexpectedly, I have been resurrected here, after dying when Gilgamesh did.



Today I will hit “send” on the final manuscript of The Inugami Mochi, a collection of short stories, and sign the publication contract. These stories are hybrids of fiction and non, about the animal familiar, about Gilgamesh, about what happens when a love between a human and an animal has primacy in this world. Pieces of it were written and published when Gilly was still a youth: some I wrote in the last two years.

I’ll sign the contract with Saddle Road Press, and with enormous gratitude for the fact of it, put these stories in the hands of an editor, poet, and publisher who recognizes Gilgamesh, and me, and the larger-than-nonfiction nature of our relationship, as well as the value of the stories to speak beyond me and Gilgamesh—to speak to the larger Us that is made of those weird, bi-pedal creatures who have had the good fortune to be truly claimed by an animal.


Today I will perhaps go up the Stawamus Chief and look down into Howe Sound, where there are orcas who show up in my dreams, carrying Gilgamesh back to shore from Sedna’s abode and giving him back to me, alive and laughing.


Or I may just put on my wetsuit and swim the cold lake he would have loved, where the sky is a raven-filled bowl, their corvid iridescence his fur.



The last lines of The Inugami Mochi:


At world’s end, the stars have shaped themselves into a new constellation.

In the land of no-memory, when she looks up, it’s Dog’s face she sees.



guardian Ripton 4-08

Memorial, at his favorite home of all the places we loved.

Gilgamesh, on the Bridge of Names

Gilgamesh, on the Bridge of Names

The Lake.

A(n Open) letter to a friend whose beloved is dead.

Continue reading

Tablet VIII

May the trees and the rocks and the trails

…..mourn you


May the paper birches strip themselves of their skin

…..and hobblebrush rip itself up by the roots

……….to lie down in weeping cradles

……………of meadowsweet and dog-toothed violet

……………… mourning

May wooden bridges hurtle off foundations,

…..mourning the lack of your feet

May the beechnut keen itself in two and cast forth a grove of cedars


May quartz extrusions shaped like dragons

…..crack themselves open in the shape of your name

……….and weep ten thousand tears of garnet


May the deer, the moose, the wolves

…..mourn you

May coyotes fill meadows with lamentation for you

May the chickadee whistle your summons

…..forever mourning that you do not come

and may every dog lie down and howl


May every forest that lacks you

…..turn the billion scents of the world to one

……………and sandalwood become the breath

………………..of every living being who mourns you


My Onyx Anubis, my Friend:

…..I will fashion nothing for you

……….with these empty hands

……………but a place to carry you always


The skin of the lion will smell of you

…..and the wilderness echo with mourning


(Like) eagles’ wings over the beloved’s face,

… soul’s mourning


King Gilgamesh


If you would like to give a gift in memory of Gilly, you can send something to the Thomas J. O’Connor Animal Control and Adoption Center, who placed him in my arms 12 years ago. They will use it to help other animals find the people who need them.

Gilgamesh 8.13.2001 – 9.9.2013

8.13.2001 – 9.9.2013