The Truest Ride or Dies Have Paws

There’s a very special kind of loyalty in this world, and no, it doesn’t come from your group chat, your coworkers, or that friend who “meant to text back.”
It comes from your dog.

Dogs are the quiet witnesses to everything. They saw your whole world fall apart. The bad days. The messy days. The “I’m fine” days that were very clearly not fine. They watched you sit on the floor staring into space, cry into your coffee, and question every life choice you’ve ever made… and they never flinched.

They just stayed.

No advice. No judgment. No “have you tried thinking positively?”
Just a warm body leaning against you like, I’m here. That’s enough.

Somehow, in the middle of chaos, dogs become emotional first responders without even knowing it. They don’t realize they’re helping you pick up the pieces. They don’t know they’re grounding you back into the present. They just know you’re their person, and that’s their whole job.

They celebrated your tiny wins like you won an Olympic medal. Took you outside when you forgot the sun existed. Made you laugh on days you didn’t think laughing was still on the schedule. And when you started putting your life back together, they acted like this was the plan all along.

Honestly, dogs are living proof that love doesn’t need words, explanations, or perfect timing. It just shows up. Over and over. With fur. And maybe a toy they insist you throw for the 47th time.

So here’s to the truest ride or dies. The ones with muddy paws, pure hearts, and absolutely no idea they saved you. 🐾
You were never alone. They made sure of that.

Comments

The Absolute Madness of Naming Characters

Let’s talk about one of the most ridiculous struggles of writing a book. No, I’m not talking about the part where you stare at the blinking cursor like it personally insulted your ancestors. I’m talking about naming characters. It should be easy, right? Just slap a name on them and move on? Oh, my sweet summer child. If only. See, naming a character is like naming your kid—except worse, because nobody is going to complain if your kid and their cousin both end up being named Liam. But if your main villain is named Liam and you accidentally give the quirky coffee shop owner in book three the same name? Cue the existential crisis. Let’s walk through the madness. The Overthinking Spiral of Doom You start writing, and there’s that moment: your brand-new character walks onto the page, full of potential. All they need is a name. A simple name. Something strong, something fitting, something— Oh no. Nothing sounds right. This one is too complicated. That one is too simple. ...

A Labour-Free Labour Day? Yes, Please!

Hello and Happy Labour Day to all my lovely North American readers! Now, isn’t it just a little bit ironic that a holiday with the word labour baked right into the name is universally observed by doing absolutely none of it? Zero. Zilch. Unless, of course, you count the rigorous work of flipping burgers, casting fishing lines, and chasing wasps away from the potato salad. Then yes—we are a nation of highly skilled, recreational labourers. Olympic-level loungers, really. This year, I’m wholeheartedly leaning into the contradiction. After an exceptionally busy summer filled with writing deadlines, creative misadventures, and one unfortunate incident involving a Papillon, a pie, and a squirrel (don’t ask—Pixie is still refusing to discuss it), I’m embracing the art of not doing much at all. My Labour Day weekend plans include: Reclining in my favourite chair like a dramatic Victorian heroine recovering from a fainting spell. Watching the endless activity in the harbour just outs...

The Art of a Well-Timed Swear

There comes a moment in life when frustration bubbles over, and the only logical response is… well, a good, solid, soul-cleansing swear word. I’m not talking about casual, everyday muttering under your breath. No, I mean that moment when nothing else will do. The kind of moment where dropping your toast butter-side down feels like an act of war, where technology conspires against you, or when you stub your toe so hard you briefly see your ancestors. Now, I was raised in a house where we had a rule: Use your words, not you hands. This was my dad’s way of preventing sibling-induced concussions, and frankly, it worked. We weren’t an inherently violent bunch, but three kids in one tiny household meant tempers flared, and so did elbows. The logic was simple—if you had time to yell, maybe you’d have time to think twice before swinging. Or at least give your victim a solid head start. This philosophy stayed with me, though in adulthood, I’ve adapted it to use a well-placed expletive now a...

Thinkingdog Publishing

Search This Blog