Move Over, Influencers — My Dog’s Running the Show

Let me tell you a little secret from behind the scenes of my very professional author platform: I put actual effort into my social media. Like, the full package. I plan it out. I write the captions. I pick the music. I schedule it so it doesn’t look like I’m flying by the seat of my sweatpants. I even think about lighting and fonts and which filter screams “whimsical but with integrity.”

And yet.

The most successful posts?
The ones that get the likes, the shares, the "OMG I love her" comments?

Are the ones where Blueberry shows up.

That’s it. She just shows up.

No effort. No notes. No mood board. She doesn’t brainstorm content pillars. She doesn't try to grow an audience or tailor her brand voice. She doesn’t even know what her niche is. (Unless it's squirrel-chasing and chicken snacks.)

She just exists — gloriously. Fluffily. Sassily. And people adore her.

I’ll admit, it’s humbling. I mean, I’ve got a degree. I’ve got story arcs and character spreadsheets and a carefully crafted cozy mystery brand. But if Blueberry aka Pixie (her alter ego in my Magical Papillon Mysteries) is within two feet of the camera lens? I might as well pack it in and go home. She's the star. I'm the unpaid assistant with the treat bag.

Honestly, if her charm didn’t work, I’d be forced to hate her. I mean, I love her — of course I do — but still. Some days I look at her and think, “How do you do it? What is your skincare routine, and why is it just ‘eat grass and nap in sunbeams’?”

I would love to be as effortlessly cute, photogenic, and successful as Blueberry.

But I’m not.
And that’s okay.

Because I have one small, deeply important skill she will never have.

I can open the fridge door unaided.

That’s right. I hold the power over cheese.

And in that moment — when I swing open the cold light of dairy destiny — I know she wishes she was me.

So we’re even.

(Except she still has more followers.)

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