The music that I play nearly every waking hour is suddenly not quite right.

Lately, nothing's sounded good. We lost someone last week: Our ferret Timothy got out of the house and was mauled by dogs. It was sudden, shocking. It's amazing how attached you can get to a three-pound fur-covered creature, but there it is. Or was.

Now, the house that has always seemed so full of life with four ferrets suddenly seems so quiet with just three. And the music that I play nearly every waking hour is suddenly not quite right.

I know; it's not the music. It's the loss, the grief. I've heard that losing a pet is actually harder than losing a person, because people understand that kind of grief; the pet thing they think is inconsequential. Maybe that's true; I wouldn't know (thank god). I just know that it hurts a little more each time we lose one.

I've been playing my music louder these past few days, in an attempt to get through whatever wall has built itself around my skin. In an attempt to reconnect, to feel fully alive. I'm not quite there yet, but yesterday in the car, I did find myself singing along to Lorenzo Goetz. That's something.

We went to Minus the Bear last night in an attempt to do "normal" things. It was pretty good. The band wasn't quite connecting with the audience; the audience was annoying; and I found myself with still too much time to think, despite the action and the noise around me. But we got out; that in itself is a good thing.

The only real sound I can't take these days is that of the neighbor dogs barking, the ones who attacked my baby. I wonder if that will ever get easier.

NP: Eric Anders: Tethered to the Ground (Seattle singer-songwriter; great stuff)

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