Only the Quiet Remains

Here's how I like to imagine the story goes. Sometime in 2012, an American Eskimo named Queen Elizabeth the Second crossed paths with a ruffian mutt somewhere on the mean streets of Austin, Texas. Think Lady and the Tramp but with breakfast tacos instead of spaghetti. Their courtship was brief, their romance similarly short-lived, and when it was all said and done, the ruffian mutt disappeared into the night, leaving Queen Elizabeth the Second to deal with the consequences of her actions, specifically, the small litter of puppies she brought into the world in January of 2013. Almost all of them were brindle with warm black and brown tiger stripes. All except one, a little black and white princess with classic Border Collie markings.

The shelter named her Cheyenne. We called her Chy.

I don't remember why we went looking for a dog to adopt way back then, nor do I remember what our life was like in the years leading up to bringing Chy home for the first time, only that it was cold and dark and nothing but a pale echo of the happiness an Amazon truck driver must feel when they look back and see no more packages to deliver. I'm exaggerating, of course, but I can't overstate how much everything changed when Chy arrived. From the constant peeing to the nipping to learning to play fetch to escaping her pen... she brought life and chaos to every room she entered and then eventually peed in.

Like her mother before her, Cheyenne was royalty, and her nickname of Princess came from the way she ruled over her domain. Everything the light touched belonged to the crown. The glass of water I left sitting out? That was hers to drink. The popcorn in the bowl I left on the couch? Hers too. The treats locked away in a jar? All hers, as far as she was concerned, and all available at a whim with nothing but a sharp bark that pierced both the ears and soul. We spent years in service to Princess Cheyenne, and it never felt like work. We emptied our bank accounts, became dog park people, took training class after training class, and to repay our dedication to her well-being and enjoyment, do you know what Chy gave to us?

Everything. She gave us everything.

As the years wore on and the world around us fell apart, Chy was a constant source of comfort. She was there every night demanding to sleep in our bed, only to leave twenty minutes later when she became annoyed by our presence. She would join her adopted brother, Jetson, at the door to meet us when we got home, content to stand back and wait for things to calm down before moving in for her greeting. After a time, she stopped meeting us at the door, preferring instead to simply look up from her place on the couch, as if deciding whether it was worth getting up.

I don't think the answer ever changed, but the head pops did slow down, eventually disappearing along with her hearing. There were times in the last year when we were able to surprise her on the couch, still dozing. And upon seeing her beloved subjects return home, she would jump down to the floor, give the largest stretch her aching bones could manage, and then walk us over to the treat jar.

When the vet told us Cheyenne had multiple cancers, they put her remaining time at just a few months. That was more than two years ago. Defying the vet was such a Chy thing to do. She was a princess after all, and no mere animal doctor would tell her when her time was up. She stayed with us until she no longer could, spending her last months constantly underfoot, always worming her way into our laps, and demanding treats as a reward for the slightest of inconveniences.

The princess who liked to feign indifference clung to us, and us to her.

Cheyenne Marie Verastiqui passed away at home on August 2, 2026. Her absence is felt throughout the realm, by every stranger she ever barked at, by every friend she ever manipulated into petting her, which often left them covered in dog hair, as was her custom. Closer to home, there is a sense that everything is irrevocably broken, that the foundations upon which we built this house have been shattered, leaving the world off-kilter and wrong. I doubt that feeling will ever go away.

What gets me most is the silence.

You grow used to certain sounds in your home. The ticking of the clock in the living room. The whine of the condenser in the fridge. The beep-beep-beep chime of the alarm system every time the back door is opened. What often makes power outages so eerie is having every noisy machine around you suddenly fall silent. You realize how much background noise is now missing, and how those sounds had become the soundtrack of your life.

There have been moments over the last few days when I think I hear her nails clacking on the hard floor. Her yawn. Her full-body shake. The sharp bark at the back door to be let out. The scratching of couch cushions. The endless lapping of water at her bowl. The barking at the world through an open window. The whine that came from not getting enough treats or table scraps.

Now all of those sounds are gone, and only the quiet remains.

It's a bit of a tongue-in-cheek thing to call Cheyenne my writing partner, but I think it's defensible if you consider how often she lounged beneath my desk with her body pressed up against my foot. She was there when stories began and ended, through breakthroughs and defeat, through every challenge a writer faces while trying to do the thing they love.

She was always there with an unspoken whenever you want to take a break, we could play fetch, go for a walk, or eat some marshmallows.

And yeah, I could use a break.