For my 40th birthday, I asked my friends to shave my head in an unintentionally bloody fireside ceremony in Chaco Canyon. I half-jokingly referred to that as a ritual sacrifice. As an atheist, I have to create my own communal rituals and rites of passage to mark the milestones of my life.

Twenty four hours after Lucky’s death, I shaved my head again. In some cultures, the grieving ululate, whip themselves, and rend their clothing. Now I wear my sacrifice as a disfigurement I cannot hide. Still, in time, some of my hair may come back in a slow indication of renewal. Life does go on.

Although Lucky took to Merri immediately, he wasn’t so sure about me. He eyed me suspiciously and kept his distance. The first time I entered our bedroom as Merri slept, Lucky barked a warning. We considered it might be my maleness, about which I have never been able to do anything, one way or the other. In desperation, I shaved off my goatee (my pride), as a sacrifice for the pack. Eventually, Lucky came around and the goatee came back.

We’ll bury my hair with Lucky’s ashes, as well as with shards of his food bowl, which I shattered. A part of me will always be with a part of him, and vice versa.