My dog died yesterday. There is no silver lining to this. She was my beloved. My sweetest, goodest, irreplaceable baby girl. And now she’s gone.

Peggy was eleven, which isn’t tragically young. Her death, after months of worsening health, was as good as a death can be–peaceful, painless, at home, surrounded by her family.

But she’s dead.

In my day job in the clinical trials office at Virginia Tech’s vet school, I have a lot of end of life conversations. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been telling myself all the things I tell other pet owners. “You’re doing the right thing.” “We are blessed to be able to offer pets a way to end their lives with dignity and compassion.” “Your pet is lucky to have an owner who puts their comfort and happiness above all else.” I say these things to others because I know that words matter. The right words shape our darkest, heaviest pain. They scaffold feelings and fears. Sometimes they give us ways of thinking that help us to snatch a scrap of meaning from the pile of tornado-spun ruins that used to be our hearts.

I was talking to a colleague recently about why I write. I sometimes joke with other writers that I do it for the money, and then we laugh until we cry. There are maybe a dozen people alive who’ve gotten rich by stringing words together, and we are not them. I’d get better ROI from selling my blood plasma. So why do I do it? And why, in particular, do I churn out formulaic comfort reads about, of all things, murder?

As I clung to my little heart scraps in the wake of the emotional calamity of my dog’s death, my reasons came into focus. Part of why I write is because meaning-making is what I feel compelled to do as a human. Everything alive will die, but only humans, and maybe some really emo chimpanzees, actually seem to be aware of this fact. Death fills us with awe and dread. I can’t even begin to fathom it. It is obvious, basic, and mundane, but it’s also too large and bewildering for my puny brain to hold. Death is the ur-Bogeyman, the OG unknowable unknown.

When I write a murder mystery, I can put guardrails on death. I can ensure that the mystery of (the fictional) death is solved and that wrongdoing is dragged into the daylight and wrongdoers are brought to justice. Isn’t that what humans have always used stories for? We take something that makes no sense and build a framework of explanation for it. Word by word, we give it shape. We constrain its scope. We nail it to the wall to be studied. It doesn’t make the bad thing any less bad. A turd in a frame is still a turd. But maybe we can take that turd, put it in a better frame, on a bigger wall where it really catches the light.

I wrote an obituary for my dog the day before she died, knowing that there’d be zero chance I’d have the wherewithal to do it afterward. I wrote it because I knew that telling the story of who she was and what she meant to our family would be important.

Words are not resurrection spells. I wish they were. But in the face of the world’s unfathomable mysteries, in the aching absence of warm, furry cuddles, words give us something to hold.

Peggy Lymm Quigley returned to the light on October 16, 2023, dying peacefully at home, surrounded by her family.

Peggy was born on February 10, 2012 in the quaint English village of Lymm. The family she was born into had named all the other puppies in the litter, but her, they simply called Quiet No Name. She had a sweet and passive disposition, preferring to let her littermates take center stage. When the Quigley Family was given pick of the litter, they knew that this sensitive soul would be the perfect fit for them.

Peggy lived the first year and a half of her life in Edinburgh, Scotland, exploring the city and hanging out in dog-friendly pubs. She especially loved jaunts up Blackford Hill with her father and human sister. From up there, Peggy’s beard could blow majestically in the breeze as she took in views of Edinburgh Castle, Arthur’s Seat, and the Firth of Forth.

Peggy took it in her stride when the family relocated to America in August 2013, making the transatlantic crossing in her usual no-fuss style. She developed a reputation as a sweet and friendly neighborhood fixture, who went on occasional sprees to visit her friends. At Virginia Tech, Peggy trained as a therapy dog, doling out cuddles to stressed students during exam weeks.

When her little brother was born, Peggy again rolled with the changing family circumstances, gently tolerating his clumsy pets and wild games. “Giggy” was one of his first words, and he christened his most beloved stuffed toy “Giggy” in her honor.

Peggy enjoyed walks in the cool weather, pouncing on the snow, chasing waves, and lying quietly in the sun. Most of all, she loved cuddles. Peggy poured her boundless love on everyone who crossed her path, and was loved in return, especially by her extended family. Her mother Mindy was her closest companion. During the Covid lockdowns and every day since, Peggy could be found quietly snoozing under Mindy’s desk chair.

Peggy, we wish you could’ve stayed with us longer. You gave everything and demanded nothing. You loved bountifully and unconditionally, and were loved in return. Your heart was the purest gold.