Ugly, Stupid, Greedy, and Loud
Grace reminds us that we don't have to be part of the problem.
Hungover on Saturday morning, I get a text message that my dog Daphne’s ashes are ready to be picked up from the emergency veterinary hospital where she was put to sleep a few days before. For a 10-minute emergency exam, the hospital charged me $1200. There were no last-minute heroics, no emergency operations to save her life, there was simply a diagnosis and a hard coming to terms with reality. Trust me, as someone who dreaded this day for 14 years, she’d still be here if any other option had been viable. For 10 minutes of their time, I walked away with a bill that will take months to pay off. The vet looked bored as she scrolled through social media when I left the room where I petted Daphne’s body for the last time. In the parking lot, there was a Mercedes parked in one staff spot and a Tesla in the other.
Back at the hospital days later, I stand in the waiting room wrecked with emotion but stoically holding it together as the receptionist gathers Daphne’s ashes and brings them to me. It takes much longer than it should and later I realize that the delay was them scrambling to sign a generic condolence card they stuffed in the bag, along with a clay paw print—Daphne’s name misspelled. They didn’t even bother to verify my dog’s name with me before they sent her off for cremation, pressing her paw into the clay.
When they hand me her ashes, the composure I’ve been struggling to hold together crumbles. I’m pretty sure I said thank you—southern manners reflexively kick in at times like these—but I don’t recall. I just know I have to get outside fast before the sobs hit, clutching the bag of what’s left of Daphne to my chest. Even in my grief, I have certain feelings about how much a grown man should cry in public for his dog.
My Girl Daphne, A Light in the Sky
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 raci…
Driving home across town, I weave through construction zones—the whole goddamn city’s a stuttering, spastic mess of lane switches, flashing lights, and steam. A young man in a white Cadillac tailgates me, then zooms around me at an intersection, flipping me off as he cuts back in front of me. My crime—driving the speed limit.
The next morning, I’m having coffee outside when a bum on a bike with a cart piled high with garbage rides by blasting the most hideous, vulgar “music” at 6:30 in the morning—stupid bass laced with swear words that no barbarian could call “music.” The point of such sound is to denigrate.
My brief moment of serenity broken, I decide to walk my husky Jones, my remaining dog, to the dog park before it gets hot out. The route takes us over a highway overpass littered with discarded food, styrofoam cups, fentanyl foil, and needles. Behind a wire fence surrounding an elementary school, plastic bags, fast food wrappers, and sales-papers hang in cacti.
At the park, another bum rides by, blasting equally offensive noise while people try to enjoy the morning with their dogs. Last fall, at this same park, a woman had stood outside the fence screaming insults at everyone in the park as we played with our dogs in the grass. I had caught an elder millennial’s eye who seemed as annoyed with it as I was. “A lovely day at the park,” I had said. Seasoned, he replied, “Welcome to Phoenix.”
What happens to a culture with no compassion? No taste? No care for the common good? A culture where professionals exploit the desperate without a second thought? Where the random jerk on the street hates you, your kids, your neighborhood—spreading garbage, feces, and drug paraphernalia like it’s their right to do so before asking you for money? What happens to such people, to a world like this?
I know I am taking my Daphne’s death hard and that it is dragging out my jaded, hostile side. It’s worse because I’ve got no one close—I am 45 and single, my close friends are in other places, and there’s no one to call up here that I can just go hang out with and lean on.
On the rare off night when I do log on to the dating apps, the majority of people online are either partnered or just looking for “fun.” Filter those out, then ditch the ones who you know will ghost you for saying something rational like—maybe comparing the president to an actual Nazi is a bit hysterical—and there’s nobody left. I log off, throw on a record, mix a cocktail, and sit on the floor rubbing Jones’ belly.
The world feels too ugly, stupid, greedy, and loud–and within a few weeks it’ll be hotter than actual hell here. I moved to Downtown Phoenix just over two years ago looking for fun, a career change, some culture, some adventure, maybe even love. Instead, I wake up to zombies from the Walking Dead shitting on sidewalks and raiding trash cans. At work, I’m in a beige cube where nobody does much but fakes being busy so we can all be left alone. There are no responsible adults anywhere to fix this mess. We all just keep our heads down, avert our eyes, take prescription drugs, and watch hours of Netflix as our neighborhoods, cities, and country crumble.
I drink too many beers, listen to Fleetwood Mac, and scroll through a year’s worth of dog photos and videos on my laptop. I stop on some clips from last summer, sunset on the beach along the southern Oregon coast. It was the last time that I saw Daphne be genuinely youthful—she’s running in the sand, chasing the tide and her husky brother, stopping to stare up at me with those big beautiful brown eyes and that wonderful smile. With the setting sun, it was the type of beauty that makes these vulgar days worth living.
As I left the beach that day, a young man came running up to me as I started my car. He introduced himself and said he was a photographer and that he’d taken some photographs of me with the dogs that he wanted to send me. We traded numbers and he said, “Life’s beautiful and should be shared.”
I thanked him but honestly didn’t expect to hear back from him, but once I was back in Phoenix he sent me the photographs. They were stunning. That was September, and I had a dreadful feeling that it was the last time I would get to stand on the beach with Daphne, that place that we had loved more than any other in our travels. It turned out that my fear was right.
This morning, I’m up early and the sunrise is stunning. It’ll get hot soon, and Phoenix will turn into its ugly, drab summer self. But right now, right now it’s peaceful, quiet. I light a candle, pray for Daphne, for my loved ones, for the health of the natural world—a private ritual I’ll do every morning for 49 days.
I sip coffee, go over to Jones—who is waiting patiently—and rub his chin and back. He flips over for belly rubs and smiles. How can I say no? After a few minutes of this, I breathe in another deep moment of sunrise and go to the outdoor table where I spend an hour reading before I have to get ready for work.
In this moment, there is no trash on the street, no vulgar ugly people with boomboxes, no one profiting off my heartbreak. Beauty is a choice—a choice that is hardest to make in times like these, but with prayer and a little grace it is a choice I remember to make.
In a culture that is ugly, stupid, greedy, and loud—being beautiful, contemplative, charitable, and reserved is as punk as it gets. I think about Daphne’s smile and make that choice. Fuck the rest of it.
