Sebastian went to his great reward. 

We said goodbye to Sebastian.

Sebastian has crossed over.

We lost Sebastian. 

Sebastian passed.

The euphemisms are exhausting. Turns of phrase tie our sentences into knots so that we can avoid saying the obvious:

Sebastian is dead. 

And in this case:

Sebastian is dead, and I killed him. 

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We didn’t know much about Sebastian’s start, but we knew it wasn’t good. He was probably born to a breeder in New Orleans’ dog-fighting scene, then abandoned when the asshole in question figured out that Sebastian was deaf. At about three months old, he was wrapped in a jumble of phone cord, dumped in a gutter in the Lower Ninth Ward, and left to die.

In one reality, Sebastian succumbed to his injuries, never knowing that life could be comfortable, kind, warm. In another, he was picked up by a different breeder and used as a bait dog. And in a third, he was found by someone else who enjoyed his endless capacity for licks. 

But in this reality, our reality, Sebastian was found by someone who knew Ken Foster, a man whose life was saved by one of his own canine companions and who had established the Sula Foundation, a nonprofit dedicated to rescuing abandoned dogs. The Foundation quickly took in Sebastian and paid for his lengthy stay at the vet. Good thing it did, too — the dental bills alone would’ve been enough to make most folks blanch. 

As Sebastian’s recovery period wound down, we got a call from Ken. He’d already placed another deaf pup with us, so who better for him to call than the Gays Who Can’t Say No (to dogs, at least)?

And so, against all odds, a deaf dog who’d been dealt an awful hand at birth wound up with a pack of three other rescued dogs and the three men who loved them. 

I won’t recount Sebastian’s many deeds and misdeeds, his peculiar quirks of personality. That would require an encyclopedia’s worth of entries, and my life is only so long. However, there are at least three things that I will always remember about him: 

1. Sebastian was indifferent toward dogs. I assume that his early months taught him that other dogs weren’t to be trusted, and he had a hard time shaking that view — even around his adopted siblings.

2. Sebastian loved people, although he had absolutely no reason to. 

3. Sebastian shuffled. When he walked, he dragged his feet across the floor so you could hear him coming from the other side of the house. Some folks thought that might be due to the length of his nails, but we never cut any of our dogs’ nails — daily walks on concrete tend to keep them filed down. My theory is that dogs learn to move quietly as they get older, but Sebastian obviously couldn’t tell that he was tap-dancing his way through life, so he never acquired the skill. My sole data point to support that theory is that our other deaf dog, Jacques, did exactly the same thing. 

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In the end, Sebastian’s kidneys betrayed him. I don’t even understand why dogs have kidneys. I mean, all dogs are good dogs, so what could they possibly need to filter out?

The 40-pound ball of muscle lost 10 pounds over the course of the last year. He vomited frequently, couldn’t keep food down, ate grass and puked it back up. Then came diarrhea, more wobbliness. When he hadn’t eaten for three days, when he sat on his bed, looking quietly out at the world, uninterested in much, I knew it was finally time.

The vet asked me if I was sure. There in the “family room” or “comfort room” or whatever somber nickname they used, there among plastic plants and a washable rug, Sebastian was showing off his usual personality, trotting across the room and giving everyone kisses, like nothing was wrong, nothing could possibly be wrong. But he could only keep up the act for so long: as I was explaining to the vet why I was sure, Sebastian vomited in the middle of the carpet, right on cue. 

If you’ve ever had to euthanize a companion, you know that it’s a two-part process, each consisting of a shot: the first puts the dog to sleep, and the second stops the dog’s heart. The end of stage one is the worst. 

Most dogs I’ve known, Sebastian included, have been alert enough to be curious about the injections. They lick the doctor’s hand as he administers the first, then they pause, suddenly realizing that something is wrong. They’re surprised, alarmed, they go stock-still. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. What is happening to me and why?

Then, they collapse. And the split-second before that collapse is the last time you’ll glimpse the shining brilliance of them, the brilliance that you have spent their whole lifetime getting to know. 

But, oh. 

Oh, it gets worse, because you can turn back. There is still time. The doctor, if they’re a good doctor, will explain that the next shot will “take them out” or “put them down” or whatever phrase they employ to avoid saying, “this will kill them”. But all is not lost! You can stop there, you can reverse course, you can let your friend wake up, you don’t have to say goodbye. A joyous reunion awaits! 

But you know that that’s a bad choice. You know the right path, the heartbreaking necessity. You’re letting them go because it is time. And so, you push forward. You nod quietly — a nod that says “yes, kill them” and also, “yes, I understand, and I cannot stop it”. Then you wait for your dog, your friend, the love of your life, to die. 

Three days after his thirteenth birthday, Sebastian died, and I killed him. I would’ve taken a bullet for that sweet boy, or any of the dogs I’ve lived with — a barrage of bombs, spears, asps, whatever anyone wanted to throw at me. 

I would’ve happily absorbed all that for them, so I guess it’s only right that I dealt the death blow. 

I’ve done drag — real drag, with a bra and all — a handful of times. Generally speaking, it was awful.

Sure, I enjoyed the makeup and the false eyelashes and the heels — who wouldn’t? But the wigs were hugely uncomfortable. The wigs and the shaving. I really hate to shave.

Until recently, I thought I could overcome those hangups, and I stockpiled a stellar list of potential drag/stage names for my alter-ego.

Alas, it’s clear that I’m never going to have enough time/patience/Barbasol to use them, so I’m releasing them into the wild. Hopefully, someone with a lighter beard, a softer jawline, and a greater tolerance for polyester wiglets can use them. Maybe you?

As an added bonus, some of them will work as band names, too. You’re welcome.

1. Nosegay Pantysniffer (Technically this one belongs to Jonno, but the copyright has probably run out.)
2. Wendy 2000 (She’s dated, not expired.)
3. Ovarian Thrombosis (This may be something horrible in real life, but the cadence is good.)
4. Transvaginal Messiah (All those mesh commercials finally got to me.)
5. Pussy Terwilliger (It’s like poetry.)
6. Cookiepuss McGruff (If you choose this one, your signature song becomes the best Beastie Boys tune of all time. And you get a signature dessert, too.)
7. Tundra Thundercunt (The loud, lewd lady from Lapland.)
8. Estrogenia McGuyver (Oh, what she can do with two bottlecaps and a maxi pad.)
9. Miss River Bridge (It’s funniest if you live along the Mississippi.)
10. Maxine Poutine (Girl likes to eat.)
11. Chanelvis (Which I stole from a co-worker at Lucky Cheng’s)
12. Chainsaw Guevara (She’s never heard the term “bloodless revolution”.)

I never played with action figures. I never saw the point. Acting out scenarios with tiny, plastic dolls? I preferred acting with my whole body. At recess, I recruited friends to become fellow jewel thieves or jungle explorers or doctors on desperate missions to halt raging epidemics of cooties.

I was even better at scenarios that played out in my head, scenarios I enacted alone, scenarios I never told anyone about. In one recurring fantasy, I was a cat burglar. (To younger readers: cat burglars were once a thing, though no one speaks of them anymore.) Every time I visited a mall or a department store, I’d note the location of the air vents, service doors, and other ways I could use to break in later — though sadly, later never came, because I was also a massive goody-goody.

In my other favorite scenario, I played a kidnapping victim. When my parents dragged my brothers and me on weekend errands, I’d lie face-up on the Naugahyde back seat of our hulking Oldsmobile station wagon, following the trees, trying to count blocks, and making note of telling scenery. I committed that information to memory so that when I picked the lock on my imaginary handcuffs and found my way to a phone in the kidnappers’ lair, I could tell the police where to find me.

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It’s so, so easy to take things for granted when the going is good. I have a hunch that’s what keeps us going, us humans. There’s something deep in our DNA that wants us to wear blinders, wants us to chug along believing that since we’re not sick, not in pain, not desperately sad, not running for our lives, everyone else in the world is fine, too.

That makes sense, I guess. If we dwelled on that too much, we’d never get anything done. We’d die of worry and guilt.

(Side note: it may be part of our DNA, but it’s not innate. It’s something we learn as adults: worry about what’s in front of you, worry about the things you can change. Six-year-olds terrified of atomic bombs or bad guys in the night haven’t perfected this skill.)

So, it’s rare when everything’s going fine — so fine that you can’t imagine a time when things would ever not be fine — that you stop and think: “Now. Right now. I’m very lucky right now. I’m more fortunate than many people on this planet. Possibly most of them”

It happened to me this week, driving home after a long day of work and errands. For some reason — I still don’t know why — I took stock of my life. And I realized how very lucky I am to have a job and a husband and a boyfriend and loving hounds and loving friends. And it’s all because of an accident of birth: American, late 20th century, middle class, male, white.

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In Louisiana, Martin Feldman has become the first federal judge to rule against LGBT marriage equality since last year’s twin Supreme Court decisions overturning California’s Proposition 8 and the federal Defense of Marriage Act.

You might’ve missed that, though, because when news outlets heard the details, most just shrugged.

That’s because an old, white, male, Reagan-appointee in the Deep South ruling in favor of bigotry is not news.

Despite the dozens of court victories we’ve had at the federal and state level since (and even before) Hollingsworth v. Perry and United States v. Windsor, Feldman chose to break ranks with his estimable, equality-minded peers. Not only that, he did it in the most bigoted way possible: in his decision, he called homosexuality a “lifestyle choice”; he compared same-sex marriage to incest; he insisted that marriage is all about procreation (thus assuming that gays and lesbians can’t procreate); and he said that states have the right to discriminate on the grounds of “any conceivable basis”.

Really, Mr. Feldman? Any basis?

What’s more, Feldman went over and above the call of duty.  The case before him only involved the recognition of same-sex marriages conducted outside Louisiana. But Feldman expanded his ruling to affirm Louisiana’s sovereign right to prevent same-sex marriages from happening on its own turf. You know, just for kicks.

My opinion? Look, I’ve said before that I’m not a perfectionist. I’m not a detail person. I prefer working with chainsaws, not mitre saws. To keep the construction metaphor going: I’m like the guy who gets all the right permits from the city and bulldozes the condemned house. I’ll let detail-oriented folks come in and put up the new building.

Which is to say: it would’ve been nice to have a perfect record for LGBT rights in federal court as marriage equality cases work their way through appeals, all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court. But even with Feldman’s misguided, off-tone, antiquated ruling, we’re still batting pretty near 1,000. I’m fine with that.

My only regret is that I’m not a fly. If I were — well, I probably wouldn’t live long enough to see the inevitable SCOTUS ruling, but on the off-chance I did, I’d love to perch on the wall of Feldman’s office as his decision is being overturned. I might even smile a fly smile as he sighs, realizing that times have changed, and he hasn’t adapted, and like a good loser in the Darwinian struggle to evolve, he should just give up. And then, he dies, with only his gay legal clerk for company.

P.S. I love the law, but I’m not trained in it. For a more detailed analysis of Feldman’s George Wallace-esque ruling, check out Ari Waldman’s take.