I pull my key from the ignition and open my car door. My dog jumps out, and we headfor the path to the river. A young couple advance toward their car. I’m not paying attention to any oddities, I manage to look at the woman’s face, and we offer each other a greeting in passing.

The young man says “Yeah, so normally, we don’t carry a shovel to the river, but today, we buried my lizard.”

“Your lizard?” I inquire as I note him place the shovel in the hatch area of his vehicle. “Uh, what kind of lizard?”

“A bearded lizard. I’ve had him since I was fourteen.”

I feel see-thorough since losing a pet gets me in a way unlike any other death.

I offer my condolences, and carry on.

Recently, I was walking my dog early in the morning when I recalled how my name was once Snowflake. I grew up in the suburbs of Seattle — between Microsoft and Costco (as in the first Costco) and my Mom and I were part of a parent and youth group called Indian Maidens. My Dad and brother participated in Indian Guides. And by the way, the Guides did way more outdoorsy cool stuff than Indian Maidens.

I recall a moment when I had to pick an Indian Maiden name for myself, I chose Snowflake.

I might have considered that snowflakes are individual and each have a unique star shape.

One of my first attempts at humor, I picked that name because I had dandruff.

I open the frozen-section door of the local organic foods store. I spy my neighbor, also choosing from the refrigerator section. I say hello to her and offer my observation that her flowers and yard are looking spectacular. She nods, our masks hiding our mouths. I’m sorry, she said, I didn’t recognize you without your dog.