Thinkingdog Publishing

  A lot of people have asked me lately, usually right after “What are you working on next?” and right before “Can Blueberry please narrate my life?” — how is Buddy doing? Is he settling in? Is he adjusting? Is he surviving life with a self-proclaimed magical Papillon? If you missed it last year, yes — I adopted another Papillon. His name is Buddy, he is eleven years old, and he arrived with big eyes, a hopeful heart, and absolutely no idea what he was walking into. Blueberry, of course, had opinions. She would like it officially noted that she is the magical Papillon. Capital M. Capital P. She insists Buddy is a “muggle Papillon,” which feels both unfair and suspiciously on brand. Still, despite her protests (and her dramatic sighing), I have a strong feeling he’s growing on her. Not that she’d ever admit it. In the beginning, she made sure to establish the rules. She demonstrated her agility skills with the enthusiasm of an Olympic athlete auditioning for applause. She...

  Here we go again. That strange, awkward, emotionally confusing time of year where winter hasn’t technically left, spring is definitely late, and we’re all just standing around squinting at the weather forecast like it personally owes us something. You know the days I mean. One glorious afternoon appears out of nowhere. Blue sky. Sunshine. Birds doing that hopeful chirping thing like they’re auditioning for a Disney movie. You step outside and think, This is it. We made it. I survived winter. I am a resilient woodland creature. And then the very next morning you wake up to gray. Snow. Slush. The emotional equivalent of someone unplugging your happiness and shrugging. I am caught, once again, between hope and deep suspicion. I want to believe. I truly do. I want to put the winter boots away, stop wearing seventeen layers, and feel my face without pain. But experience has taught me that spring likes to flirt. It shows up just long enough to get your guard down, then vanishes...