My Girl Daphne, A Light in the Sky
The Universe winks as I say goodbye to my Queen.
Shortly after the sun comes up, I’m woken by the sound of falling. Still half-lost in a dream, I try to drift back to sleep but the scrape of nails on hardwood and another thump jolt me awake. It takes a minute to realize it’s my old dog, Daphne, struggling to stand and greet me, her legs no longer able to support her. For a dog who once reveled in racing ahead on backpacking trips—pack strapped to her back, darting down side trails to report back to me whenever she found water—this is a hard truth. She might be handling it better than I am.
Some dogs are pets, some are teachers, and some save our lives. Daphne was all of this for me. She chased antelope to the horizon and came back with one call. There was never a day when she wasn’t right beside me, as long as she was able.
To celebrate Beltane, I took a few days off and drove to the town of Portal, a remote spot near the Arizona/New Mexico/Mexico border . We arrived mid-afternoon and, following the recommendations of a gentleman in the forestry office, headed up a rocky mountain road to a remote campsite at 8,000 feet where views opened wide in all directions. A cold, steady wind blew through the canyons—unexpectedly cold for Arizona in May.
When you allow yourself to tap into mysticism—an innate capacity that nearly all of us have if we choose to develop it—strange timings map your life. On a large scale, some call this synchromysticism, but on a personal level, “divine timing” or “synchronicity” feels right. What follows is a true account. You are welcome to take it as you will.
On Beltane night, May 1, 2025, I stood by the campfire watching the sky. The first-quarter moon shone bright in a dark sky unpolluted by urban light. As I traced the planets, a second “moon” appeared over the mountain behind me—brilliant, moving, and clearly not natural. Ten years ago this month, I had my first UAP/UFO sighting, and on this night it was happening again.
(Follow the link to read about that 2015 encounter)
Unlike the sighting in 2015, this time I had a cell phone in hand and captured most of the experience on video. I estimate, using the height of the mountain for comparison, that this craft was flying between 10,000 and 15,000 feet. The craft made no sound in the quiet forest, and the way it disappears does not match conventional aircraft.
Despite these abnormalities, I acknowledge that I was camped within 50 miles of the US/Mexico border, that Fort Huachuca is about 60 miles northwest of my location, and that the possibility that this was a military or even a Mexican cartel drone is high. That the craft has a non-terrestrial origin is also possible, and it’s worth noting that the Vatican’s observatory is less than 100 miles to the north. In the end, I don’t know what I saw, but I’m including the video below so you can judge for yourself—the importance of this encounter to my larger story will become clear.
I slept in a hammock that night with a pistol close by, the dogs slept soundly in the truck, and at sunrise we walked. The sun broke over the distant mountains, and the sunrise was truly stunning. Daphne lagged behind, eager to return to camp, but I managed to snap this photo of her, not knowing it would be one of her last.
For years, Daphne was my reason to keep going. To say that she saved my life during a brutal period is not hyperbole.
We lingered at the campsite all day, then broke camp the next morning. I drove to Mt. Graham, to the same spot where Maxwell died two years back. (My essay about that experience is here). It was our first time back to that area since Maxwell passed and the campsite where we stayed two years before was open. We made camp there again.
Daphne mostly slept, her energy had noticeably faded since our last visit. That night, I built a fire, the dogs settled in the truck, and I stood by the fire thinking about all the time that was passing. The looming sense that Daphne’s end was nearing hovered over me, and in the moonlight, I felt the subtle flicker of Maxwell’s presence. I didn’t know it then, but I suspect Maxwell had returned to help Daphne find her way home.
We broke camp early the next morning and drove back to Phoenix. Daphne was physically spent, and I had to help her to the door when we arrived home. Hours later, her condition worsened. The next day, she barely moved, and I had to support her to eat and drink. We hadn’t hiked much, but I felt immense guilt, thinking I’d pushed her too far with the weekend walks.
The following morning, her pained yelp and a fall woke me. She stood in the corner of the living room, disoriented, eyes rolling—something serious was happening. I wrapped her in a quilt my grandmother made me as a child and carried her to the truck. At the animal hospital, the seriousness of her condition was diagnosed within minutes—it was time to let her go.
Daphne left this world at 10:30 a.m MST., May 5, 2025. What I wouldn’t realize until later was this: I had adopted her exactly 14 years before, to the hour. I remember the day because it is my ex-husband’s birthday and on that morning in 2011, I’d arrived at the shelter at opening, met her, and was in the car driving home home by 9:30 a.m PST., exactly 14 years before I held her paw, thanked her, and told her I loved her over and over as she slipped out of her body.
In Greek myth, Daphne was a nymph, the daughter of the river god Peneus. She was renowned for her grace and devotion to chastity, which attracted the god Apollo. Inflamed by Eros, Apollo chased Daphne through fields and forests. Desperate to preserve her purity, Daphne prayed to her father for escape. As Apollo closed in, Peneus transformed her into a laurel tree, her limbs rooting into the earth and her arms sprouting leaves. The laurel tree became her sacred symbol.
The likelihood that Daphne passed on the same day of the year at the same hour as when I brought her home is 0.00011416%, or 1 in 8,760. That we visited Mount Graham on her next-to-last night, the first time returning there since the night Maxwell—a dog she raised—passed, adds to the wonder. Yes, it’s possible that all of this is mere chance, that in my grief I have gone a bit mad. That is always a possibility.
But it’s also possible that a divine hand sent her to me at the start of the roughest period of my life and that these little synchronicities are a wink and a nod to encourage me not to give up hope, to trust that I am being loved and cared for in ways beyond my current understanding. This summer, I will buy a giant pot, spread some of her ashes in it, and plant a laurel tree.
I choose to believe in a world that holds some mystery, a world where a dog—a being so intimately connected to you that you forget she isn’t actually part of you—comes to you when you need her most. I choose the world where Daphne is waiting for me—a pure ball of light—at the end of my own journey when I am ready to let go.
