Still impossible to write about burying my beastie in the backyard with her balls last summer after suddenly collapsing at my feet and dying seconds later in my arms beyond the brutal observation that when one door is buried the only way through it is to log in for the kill. There are bullies and there are bully breeds and then there are ferocious bitches not to be fucked with by any of them or anything else for which she was the ultimate example. I owe her nothing less than to keep this legacy alive. Watching the latest American Nazi cosplay jump the shark from the safety of sensing it coming and getting out of dodge together a couple years ago brings to mind the Japanese word for shark which is spelled same, if not pronounced the same. Anyone who’s ever been led to a better place by a lost dog knows there are no words, only the promise that one day a similar magic might be invoked again. The closest animal in spirit to my Rottweiler who wagged her glorious tail at a cruel world and feared nothing native to Japan as far as I can tell is the Tosa Inu originally bred by Samurai to bite but not bark in order to fight in silence. I’m no ancient warrior, but it has only ever been by working quietly before dawn like this on another velvet morning that I could hear the future in a bowl of tea while savoring the taste of blood in the water. The same never stood a chance.