The Day the Earth Stood Still and Sabbath Played On

Other than my usual Metal Hammer assignments, I haven’t written a goddamned thing in weeks. The keyboard’s sat cold. The well’s been dry. My fingers, usually twitchy and fueled by half-baked ideas, have been listless—slumped across the desk like passed-out roadies at the tail end of a bad tour. Things have been heavy.

I'd love to tell you that I hit pause out of some noble instinct to dodge the soul-sucking repetition that's swallowed the music press like quicksand—Sabbath retrospectives, Ozzy eulogies, the whole industry jerking off into a velvet-lined urn. And sure, there's some truth to that. In the past month, Black Sabbath played their final show—an emotional, stripped-down return to Aston that felt less like a farewell and more like the flicker of a closing eye. It was quiet, dignified, and soaked in the holy water of heavy metal history. And then, just two weeks later, in a cruel trick of cosmic timing, Ozzy Osbourne died.

The man who laughed in the face of addiction, disease, and reality TV—a roguish and relentless self-saboteur who should’ve been dead a hundred times over—finally stepped offstage for good. I should’ve been writing like a lunatic about both. Shouting into the storm. Drafting blistering tributes and tearing open the guts of legacy and finality and everything these moments stirred in the feral basement of my heart. Sabbath weren’t just a band. Ozzy wasn’t just a frontman. These were pillars of the old guard. Architects of that rare, sacred thing: substance. Real fangs. Real shadow. Real menace.

But while the gods were dying, so was my dog.

Not even three months had passed since Abby—my sweet, pointy-eared Buddha—exited this mortal coil. And now, Zoe, my soul dog, my ride-or-die heartbeat in a fuzzy suit, started showing signs of a UTI. Simple stuff. I booked a Tuesday vet appointment and figured we’d be back to chasing lizards by the weekend. But Monday night, the real horror began. She couldn’t pee. She kept trying—tail raised, eyes confused, squatting like the motion would trigger relief—but nothing came. A dry faucet. A jammed valve in the machinery of life.

We drove to the ER. Got some pain meds and antibiotics. I knew it was a bandage on a severed limb.

By Tuesday morning, she was in real distress. My vet took one look at her and laid a hand on Zoe’s belly. Then came the words that sliced the world in half: “Her bladder is full.”

Not in the cute way. Not in the oops-she-pees-on-the-floor way. Full like a grenade. Full like something about to rupture. They sent us immediately to UC Davis, phoning ahead like we were transporting the Pope. Through it all, Zoe remained a rockstar. In pain but still licking my face, still wagging her tail like it was her job to comfort me through her dying.

At UC Davis, they confirmed it: tumor. Inoperable. Tucked in some cruel anatomical cul-de-sac. They inserted a catheter—temporary relief, no cure. A countdown had begun.

So we went home with my sweet girl wrapped in a surgical sock. We promptly instituted a new house rule: when Zoe wanted a treat, she gets one. That was the law. And if that sounds cute, let me paint the scene—this was a house that hadn’t seen meat in years, but vegetarianism died that week like a hairless deer in a wolf’s den. I bought steak. Turkey. Roast beef. The kind of cold cuts that make cardiologists sweat in their sleep. I built her a Paleo paradise. Every meal was a feast. Every day, a festival. Every breath, a bonus round.

But the clock ticked inexorably on and by Saturday, she was hurting again. The catheter was failing. Her spark—still there, but dimmer. Friends came to say goodbye. And at 1:30 that afternoon, I found myself back on the floor of the same room where Abby had died. Same floor. Same position. Different heartbreak.

I held Zoe, whispering cosmic truths into her velvet ears. That we are stardust and static, just flashes in a universe that doesn’t blink. That I loved her. That she was safe. That we were still connected, always would be. I told her not to fear the crossing, because I was coming after her, just not yet. And then, as I kissed her snout and felt the warmth of her last breath, she slipped away. Just like Abby. Just like everything.

Once again, I walked out of the vet’s office holding only a leash and a collar.

I drove home in a haze.

All afternoon, the livestream of Sabbath’s final show was playing in the background. I couldn’t bear to sit and watch it—couldn’t give it the reverence it deserved—but I needed it on. Like a pulse in the next room. I needed that tether to my people. To the music. To the community that taught me how to survive in the first place. And as I collapsed onto the couch, soaked in grief, Black Sabbath played their four final songs—War Pigs, N.I.B., Iron Man and Paranoid. Time froze for an instant as one last time, the world witnessed the mighty Black Sabbath, holding up the weight of this world through the alchemy of heavy music.

And there I was, reliving the raw sensation of holding my dying dog, letting it all pass through me—the riffs, the pain, the joy, the absurdity. My house a cathedral of meat and metal, grief and grace. Zoe was gone. Sabbath had taken their final bow. And I was still here, Jacques on the floor next to me, my heart splintered with grief, refrigerator full of steak, and nothing but time to figure out what the hell it all means.

Ozzy would die just days later, as if to seal the door on an entire era—like the gods were leaving in pairs.

It’s easy to talk about impermanence like it’s some enlightened truth we get to wear like a robe. But when Zoe slipped from my arms, it didn’t feel sacred. It felt like getting gutted.

The silence she left behind wasn’t peaceful. It was unbearable.

But I keep thinking... maybe that’s what waking up feels like. Not peace. Not clarity. Just the brutal recognition that I don’t know what happens next. And maybe—just maybe—that’s the beginning of understanding.