How the Worst Crag Dog Saved My Life

In the thirty-fourth year of my life, I walked into a ring of oak trees in the foothills west of Carbondale, Colorado, to kill myself. Pixelated by panic under a bright autumn sun, I was fresh off a rapid taper of the final psychiatric medication I would (or will) ever take, the antidepressant nortriptyline. It had plunged me into a fat, apathetic fog that left my mouth dry and heart palpitating each time I stood up.