Because I know there’s a musical called Urinetown I don’t feel shy about my topic, or much of what it contains which is pee. My dog, Rosie, sixteen point ﬁve years old is slowly but inevitably dying. I drove up to LA about a month ago because JP has something called Craftnight at Akbar in Silverlake every week where she brings in materials, this night yarn, and people sit down with drinks and cross- stitch across the face of a cat or a dog and then after a few hours, dance. JP introduced me to her DJ. I said hi. Then I drove home. Little bits of brightly colored yarn are all over my house as well as a mop and a bucket and piles of old towels and a procession of ﬂuffy mats and the washing machine is always on. Part of dying is being helpless about peeing. You drink, it comes out. When I’m home I jump when I hear her unsteady legs struggling to get up. I leap ahead of her opening the door. She uses the front yard and we’re done. But for instance the night I drove to LA I came in with my unﬁnished dog pattern and she was lying on her soaking mat looking sad and there was a big puddle near the door. I begin our ritual. Washing her ass ﬁrst. With a small silver bowl and warm water and special dog medicated shampoo so her belly and legs and ass won’t get red and sore. I rinse her next, pat her ass dry, settle her down onto a clean mat. I do this again and again. Dog, water, soap, mat, mop, bucket. Dog craft is as close as I get in my life to devotion. Which is made of love.