Thinkingdog Publishing

I live in a beautiful place. Like breathtaking sunrise over the lake while birds sing your personal soundtrack kind of beautiful. And no, I am not writing this from the balcony of my lakeside mansion while sipping artisanal espresso made by a butler named Giles. I live here because I moved in when this part of town was considered “the wrong side of the tracks.” Back then, the only things appreciating the view were me, a couple of squirrels, and a retired guy named Bob who walked shirtless year-round (we never spoke of winter). But I got lucky. I settled in, built a life, and now I get to walk to a little sliver of land—what I call my nature recharge zone. It’s got a trail (sort of), trees that lean in like gossiping grandmothers, hedges bursting with birds, and a beach the size of a postage stamp. In short, it's perfect. WAS perfect. Enter: The Town. Cue the menacing music. The town, in its infinite and completely questionable wisdom, has decided to “beautify” this space. Th...