Thinkingdog Publishing

True story: a peaceful morning, blue sky, the smell of damp leaves on the sidewalk, birds chirping with enthusiasm that can only mean one thing— trouble. I’m out walking my adorable Papillon, Blueberry (who is, let’s be honest, the true star of my writing life), when BAM. Something hits me. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Physically. With a plop. I know immediately. There’s no mystery here. I’m a cozy mystery author, and even I don’t need clues for this one. A bird just pooped on me. Right on the head. Bullseye. Olympic-level accuracy. Somewhere, that bird is getting high-fived by its feathered friends and earning itself a tiny gold medal for "Most Precise Aerial Delivery." And let me tell you—it was disgusting. So there I am, frozen on the sidewalk, trying not to scream in front of my dog, who is looking up at me like, “Why are you standing still, and also… ew.” I sprint home, Blueberry bouncing along beside me, clueless to the drama, and I leap into the shower...

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...

  Let's be honest - while you're out there being all patriotic and eating your weight in BBQ, your furry family member is having a full-scale meltdown under the kitchen table. Today's reality check: that beautiful sweet dog who usually greets everyone like they're returning war heroes? Yeah, she's currently wedged behind the washing machine because apparently, freedom sounds terrifying when you have four legs and no understanding of American history. Here's the thing about being someone's safe person... Your pets don't care about independence or star-spangled banners. They just know that the sky is making angry noises and their favorite human seems oddly excited about it. This is where you become their superhero - not the cape-wearing kind, but the "I'll sit in the bathroom with you for three hours" kind. Create that cozy fort. Put on some calming music (classical works, but honestly, whatever keeps them from stress-shedding all eve...

If you ever see a kid in the corner at a party with their nose in a book, oblivious to the games, snacks, and mild chaos around them—yep, that was me . Always reading. Always scribbling something. Sports? Please. I was too short to make any team that didn’t require a step stool. Science? It was fun until they asked me to memorize the periodic table—pass. But reading? Writing? Oh, baby, that was my jam. I tried my hand at writing my first mystery novel at age 14. My protagonists were (shockingly) teenage kids who solved crimes. There were flashlights, a lot of sneaking around old buildings, and absolutely no understanding of how actual criminal investigations work. But hey—what I lacked in forensic accuracy, I made up for in enthusiasm and lots of dialogue tagged with “he said dramatically.” Then came the romance years. You know the ones. All fluttery hearts, brooding strangers, and small towns with improbably high numbers of single billionaires. I loved it. I still do. There’s noth...

Dear Human Readers, Hi. It’s me. Pixie. The fluffy superstar of the Magical Papillon Mysteries —and the uncredited, unpaid, and completely underappreciated behind-the-scenes talent of this entire household. So apparently, this week’s blog post is “About the Author.” But really, who knows her better than me ? I see all. I hear all. I nap through most of it. So buckle up, because I'm about to tell you what it’s really like living with a writer who moonlights as an audiobook narrator—and spoiler alert: it involves a lot of dramatic whisper-talking and an unreasonable amount of “SHHHH-ing.” Let’s talk about the Little Room. No, not the bathroom. The other little room. The one filled with foam panels and wires and that giant puffy microphone that looks like it should be chasing Indiana Jones through a cave. This, apparently, is where “the magic happens.” I call it the Box of Solitude and Unjust Barking Bans. Every day, Mom walks in there with her mug of tea (that I’m not ...

Every morning as I sit down to write, my own Papillon, Blueberry, curls up beside my keyboard. Her expressive eyes follow my fingers as they dance across the keys, almost as if she's reading along. Sometimes I swear she nods in approval when I nail a particularly good plot twist. It's this daily ritual that breathes life into Pixie, the telepathic Papillon in my Magical Papillon Mystery series. In creating Sarah Anderson and her four-legged detective companion, I didn't just want another cute animal sidekick. I wanted to capture that ineffable connection that exists between humans and their beloved pets—the silent understanding, the comfort in shared solitude, and yes, those moments when you'd swear they can read your mind. The Secret Language of Pets in Cozy Mysteries If you've ever found yourself in a quiet room, looking into your pet's eyes and feeling utterly understood, you already know why animals are the perfect addition to cozy mysteries. They witn...