Like a lot of people, I grew up with dogs. For most of my early life my family had three of them, a mother and two of her sons that we decided to keep after she gave birth to the litter – the third was given to a family friend. My father, employing some form of magic, was able to keep them alive until they were almost twenty years old. He would cook for them – ground beef, rice, and vegetables, and took them to the Pitt River dike religiously.

In June of 2003 I got my first dog and named him after one of my favorite musicians, Pete Townshend. A pure bread Daschund, Pete grew into the sort of affectionate, stubborn, quirky, and loyal dog that every dog lover dreams of owning. He was a joy to have around and, to be honest, changed my life completely. Unlike a lot of people, my dogs sleep in or on my bed, so Pete grew up sleeping under the covers and I suppose was treated more like a child than a pet in a lot of respects. Several months later, because there were concerns that Pete might get lonely, I got Casey, and then, while on tour in 2004, Benji.

Having moved recently, and being that Pete has spent most of this year living at my parent’s place because of his exceptionally strong attachment to my father, he finally returned to live with me and his brothers, both of whom remained with me over the summer. His time with me has been largely spent sitting at the front door howling, obviously distraught that my father is nowhere to be found. So today, though it pained me to do it, I gave him to my parents. I know to some of you this sort of thing doesn’t matter much, or might seem pathetic, but for me it’s pretty hard. My dogs are basically my kids, and with everything that’s happened this year, Pete leaving permanently is a bit of a blow. It’s not that I’ll never see him again, it’s just that the space that he leaves empty represents something almost ghostlike in a year overpopulated by ghosts.