Thank you, with Teeth

A post-election newsletter about my complicated dog in this complicated world

My dog, Zokami, has kind eyes and it gives strangers the wrong idea. He’s beautiful—all white, with almost feathery, stuffed animal fur that makes your hands positively ache to touch him. And that’s what people do. In the crowded Bordeaux streets, stray hands caress him as we pass. Even muzzled on the train, people try to stroke his ears. When I tell them, 'Please don’t, he bites,' they look at me like I’m delusional—until he gives a low growl or even lunges, and then they get it. He’s also huge. We’ve all gotten used to the human habit of keeping wild animals in our homes; it’s mundane now. But with Zokami, it’s hard to forget that I am living with a wild beast. Pretty things can be dangerous too.

C&J, my dad and stepmom, came to shelter here for a week during the election. Luckily, to say they are dog people is an understatement. After some growling and barking, Zokami remembered them and began joyously doing his love leaps.

Something I’ve learned from this dog is that you can have more than one emotion at the same time, even if they conflict. When Zok saw C&J, I could hear both delight and alarm in his bark, and his stance showed both excitement and terror. Maybe it’s obvious, but I realized that sometimes emotions are a fruit cocktail, not just a blended smoothie.

The thing is, this newsletter is going to be about the good things in a bad time—and the overwhelming good in a sometimes-bad dog. Isn’t it weird how much more interesting this beautiful dog becomes once you know he has problems, and that I have issues because of his? After all, isn’t it the things that go wrong that make the stories?

If I were just telling you how soft my dog’s fur is or how sweet his disposition can be, you might already be yawning. But when I say he once bit a guy’s butt as the man passed by in a hallway, now I’ve probably got your attention.

It must be the white wolf mixed in with the rare white German Shepherd that makes Zokami so unpredictable. Like a wolf, he’s terrified of people, and it takes careful steps for him to accept you. Luckily, even though C, my dad, made all the classic mistakes—approaching too quickly, making direct eye contact—his pure love shone through. C&J became some of the rare few to see who Zokami really is. And once you’re in, the love is profound.

Zok in matching clouds

C&J were visiting, in part, to help my sorry ass, which had been shaved down to the bone by the sheer task of my move. They arrived armed with ideas and assistance, and their timing couldn’t have been better—I was on my last legs.

In normal times, this newsletter might have just read: 'Had a really nice week with my dad and stepmom. The end.' But this visit was unforgettable—none of us will ever confuse it with others. The election sat in the middle, like a creaking rope bridge between two eras. Its light (and looming shadow) cast a chiaroscuro contrast over the whole trip, the kind of sharp light and shadow that will linger in our memories, like a painting you’ve spent hours tracing with your eyes.

Some chiaroscuro with Joseph Wright

Tolstoy said, 'All the diversity, all the charm and all the beauty of life are made up of light and shade.' We need the darkness; without it, nothing else means anything. We all strive to be our 'best selves,' but maybe it’s our flaws that matter most—they make us real. It’s in those little moments when we slip up, lose our civilized selves, and go feral, unable to control what’s inside that we are most visible and authentic. Perhaps it’s in the worst of times that our true stories emerge, and where we find the most grace.

It’s like the hero in a zombie movie who never really confronts who he is until he’s forced to, faced with the horde of the undead—you know the trope. My fears and grief this week made my love for C&J that much more tangible, sharpening the images from our time together.

In the days leading up to the election, there were long walks, long lunches, and a birthday party they threw for me. J (my stepmom) and the kids gave me beautiful plants and a strawberry cake. My dad, C, cracked me up with a death metal customized birthday song, 'It’s your birthday SANDY!' We reveled in the strange fact that we genuinely enjoy each other’s company, despite being family.

Zokami is obsessed with light, he chases it like a cat.

The election results day felt like a strange, sunlit dream. C, J, and my oldest son stayed together, oddly at ease, floating in a whiskey-glow haze. The sunlight blinded us into a warm fog. I felt like I had cotton in my ears, and everything seemed to move in slow motion. It was a day of grieving, but also one of unexpected grace and softness. We talked about the election, but also about other things. We even laughed together over lunch. J wore a beautiful pale blue sweater, and the restaurant around the corner we’d been trying to visit all week was finally open. Inexplicably, a baby doll lay faceplanted on the ground just behind my chair, and a part of me liked the verisimilitude—my heart felt a bit like that forgotten (or fallen?) doll.

I wasn’t panicking—until suddenly, later that afternoon, I was. I ended up in C&J’s room, tears in my eyes, asking if they could stay a few more days, maybe even longer. I felt like a kid again, clinging to my dad’s hand on a Sunday night, not ready to say goodbye, dreading the start of the week.

And then the emotion passed, and I called Aym, my boyfriend (still searching for a better word. Is it ‘partner’—what do we own a chain of furniture stores together? Companion?—are we wintering at the club in Florida?). Aym didn’t quite understand how the election results were affecting me. From a distance, he saw it as just another asshole in a long line of political assholes. Misjudging my usual even temperament, he picked a bad moment to tell me he’d decided to spend Christmas with his family in Paris. I was invited, but Zokami was going to be an issue. His mom has a bite-sized dog, his brother has a baby—Zok’s wolf fears would make it impossible. The thought of spending Christmas alone punched me in the stomach (the same feeling J and I had when the election results hit). In that moment of vulnerability, I sank into a brief but total despair.

It didn’t last long. The part of me that runs the show knows Christmas alone isn’t that big of a deal for me. I’ve done it before—Prosecco, sushi, movies—I’m good company for myself, plus I’ll have Zok. Normally, I take great care of my emotions. I settle them into comfortable armchairs, tuck blankets under their cold toes, and bring them spiced cider. I listen carefully, making sure they feel cozy and heard. But lately, it’s been like Halloween jump scares, and I’m not used to it.

When C&J drove away, I was hit by a wave of flatline desperation, an emotion that surprised me in its intensity. It was different from other goodbyes—sharper, rawer. Part of it was the fear surrounding the election, this creeping sense of dread I can’t shake. The data my brain tries to process—the raw feed of promises from the new president, the implications for my parents and everyone in America I love: all rise up like a pack of angry dogs, snapping at the edges of my mind.

Early morning fog in Angouleme

But it wasn’t just the election. Separately, I have this loneliness, this feeling of being crushed under the weight of the move and its sheer responsibility. Despite all the help I’ve received, I feel alone in carrying the burden. It’s unusual for me to feel this way—like a child trying to hold on to something bigger than herself, reaching out for a hand that isn’t there. These two distinct feelings, mingled together, left me standing there with tears in my eyes, struggling to untangle them, feeling vulnerable in a way I’m not used to.

And then, just as quickly, it passed. The weather shifted right after C&J’s plane took off. We’d had unseasonably sunny days while they were here—golden leaves, Charente fog lifting by mid-morning. But as soon as they left, clouds crowded in, adding to my unexpected gloom. I found myself humming a low, quiet 'Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone' as I worked, then belting out the louder lines, 'AIN’T NO SUNSHINE WHEN SHE’S GONE,' startling Zok, who lifted his head at the sudden noise, before I softened again to sing, 'and this house just ain’t no home, anytime she goes away…'

Since they left, Zokami’s been ignoring me. Maybe the excitement of C&J’s visit exhausted him—C took him for long daily walks—but for the first 24 hours after they left, he barely stirred, only lifting his head when I belted out that line. Was he pissed off? Depressed? Usually, he’s glued to my side, but he didn’t even stay in the same room while I sawed, painted, and rearranged like a madwoman. What gives, Zok?

Find the hidden dog

Every night since C&J left, when I finish my late-night unpacking and decorating sessions, I drink a flute of leftover champagne and eat a few of those chocolates the neighbor with the ceramic ladybugs on her facade gave the boys on Halloween. She’s the one who stuck her head out the window, exclaiming, clearly moved, how beautiful Zok is, as the whole family—C&J, the boys, and I—passed by together. I’m still living off that week, even now, and this nightly ritual soothes the wild dogs of emotion and their darting, fear-filled eyes.

In a way, my family’s ass got bitten this week (it’s actually far worse than this, but bear with me). We were walking along the corridor, telling ourselves how well we were implementing our agreed stoic philosophy, a philosophy we’d discussed in depth, but somehow, as we strolled, each of us had fallen into a magical care bear world of hope without even entirely realizing it. We were trying to prepare for the worst, but the truth is, hope—like a kind of colored smoke—had snuck under the doorframe and slipped into our nostrils. And those teeth caught us off guard. Maybe our blind faith in humanity was just that irrationally strong.

Since then, the only thing I can do is work—keep my head down and move forward without taking in the larger perspective. The other day, still in a bit of a daze, I held a group workshop with a young group of adults with disabilities we’ve been working with for ten years. We, the facilitators, decided to take a different approach from our usual dance-then-drawing sessions. Instead, we ended up having an unfettered, evening street dance party. It was weird and wonderful, and as usual, the guys (as B, the dance teacher, calls them) reminded me of those rare, beautiful moments in life, reigniting that deep, blind faith in humanity I carry within me.

We were singing and dancing to everyone’s favorite songs. It felt like a moment of pure grace, with golden leaves drifting slowly in the glow of the streetlights, the pink tint of pre-rain twilight. This, I thought, is what it’s all about. I’ll include a clip of the video I took of our feet dancing—in case anyone needs a bit of cheering up. At the very least, it brings me joy every time I watch it.

Yesterday, Aym called and told me that he and his daughter decided together not to go to Paris for Christmas. He explained that I’d be alone, and she said, 'Hell no, we have to stay for Sandolore!' (Okay, she’s nine and French, so she didn’t exactly say it like that.) Even though I wouldn’t have been miserable spending Christmas solo, it means so much that they chose to stay, partly because of me.

I’ve been thinking about what I’m grateful for, even in this mess, because this is all I’ve got. I’m trying to hold onto the light part of the chiaroscuro. In Rebecca Hooper’s essay “what we carry” (

rebecca hooper

), she writes, 'Memories formed through negative experiences are stronger; they’re more vivid.' She adds, 'Maybe when we do find light and beauty and joy, we must hold onto it with both hands.' So, I try to map and remap the beautiful moments, inscribing them into a mind that tends to etch only the worst parts. I want to memorize, mimeograph, and train my mind—to get through this hard time and the harder times ahead.

So, here’s my list—if it’s not interesting to you, feel free to use your digital white-out and write your own version. And if you comment, I’ll send a little love back, like those gold-painted bottles of love letters I left for strangers on the Tucson campus back in ’95. I think we could all use a bit of that right now.

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My list of things I am thankful for/appreciate:

• The wishbone (I kept the bones through the move!) that made finding this new home possible.
• J, for her endless help and partnership in making a home. I’m terribly lucky to get along so well with my stepmother.
• Aym, who lets me be my full self (warts and all), tells me the truth, and bought, fixed, and installed the dishwasher, saving the family tribe from the onslaught of cutlery and glassware.
• Moosa, who, like some kind of superhero saint, made my move possible and was totally there for me, along with his ladylove A, who showed up for me (again!).
• Nancy, whose intelligence beam feels like a warm hand on my back, her words smelling like baking chocolate chip cookies. When I look out, squinting as if I’m on stage, trying to see into the sea of unseeable readers, seeing her in the crowd makes me feel better knowing she’s there.
• Maya James

On the Apollo

, with her stern, no-nonsense brow, who says, “Sandolore, you know what you’ve got—be real.” She reminds me that I will, in fact, be frustrated by the things I love, and that’s okay. “Get back to work,” her words seem to tell me, “you deserve it.”
• Joann, whose batteries seem charged by the mere suggestion of spreading love—she knows what a flashlight can do.
•

Andrew Robert Colom

, who calls us writers warriors, and my dad, who reminds me that writing is real work.
• My mom, out of the hospital and feeling a little better, living in a red/blue home. For all she’s done for me and for always being there.
• My rats, who still like me most days.
• E, who reads my work, and S, who watches my videos—their joy in this new home radiates off of them, and makes me inexplicably joyous.
• Akr and her W, who will always watch an episode of Melrose Place with me, screaming so much that we’re practically writing a new voice track.

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I’m especially thankful for the time spent with my dad, pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoy his company. It’s not a given to truly like your family—I just hope my kids, when they’re grown, enjoy hanging out with me half as much as I do with him.

And I’m grateful for Zokami, my crazy-soft, fiercely loving, complicated dog. There’s a part of me that’s terrified of people too; his fears mirror mine in ways I can’t ignore. He’s the untamed side of me, and together, we’re learning to trust the world—one cautious step at a time. When he presses his forehead against mine or tucks his head into my chest, it feels like pure grace. To be loved by this wild, complicated creature is an honor. And though it’s difficult sometimes, I accept him—like everyone I truly love—just as he is, flaws (and teeth) and all.

Here’s a champagne toast to the dark times coming. As Fyodor said, 'The darker the night, the brighter the stars.'

Tchin, tchin