I was out at a rock-a-billy barn dance in Northwest Washington with a bunch of strangers. We ate organic poutine, watched the golden light come sifting through the cascading branches of the property’s stoic willow, and danced with our eyes closed among anonymous bodies. Sweat, smiles, the sweetness of soulful music on my lips, and incalculable joy. Roscoe had to listen from his owner’s car but sang along jubilantly. His eyes captured my heart.