BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

About five years ago, I was working as a Humane Society of Skagit Valley employee and a 90 year-old friend of mine was looking for a dog. I've match-made before, connecting the right dogs with the right humans time and time again, but this was a special opportunity. I knew how greatly my friend needed the companionship of a dog as her mobility grew increasingly limited, and I knew how much love and lap-time her potential adoptee was in for. I connected P. and G. (names withheld for the family's privacy), and the rest was history. I promised G. then that if ever P. needed somewhere to go—a possible reality whenever you're in your 90s and adding to the family—I'd be there. In G.'s last days, I was on call, ready to scoop P. up and get her to her next home when the moment came. G. and P. brought a tremendous amount of love into one another's lives while they were together, and when G. passed away she was at home, with P. in bed beside her where she belonged. I'...

Russell (center) has dangerously low self-confidence. Yesterday, he reminded me of this by losing his shit when my friend D. dropped by around dinner time. Forgetting how heavy Russell's emotional baggage is, I let my daughter open the door while I stirred the onions. Russell freaked out and tried to save us, and I arrived just in time to grab his writhing form just before he slipped out the door teeth-first. I carried him to the bedroom, where he proceeded to have a total meltdown. He's valiant—I'll give him that. It's just that D. is the opposite of nefarious, and Russell seems to have missed the memo. Russell spent the first seven months of his life tied to a tree, during which time it seems he formed a few general impressions: 1) men are bad. 2) tall men are very bad. 3) tall men leaning over are very, very bad. As a result, no greeting of anyone even remotely mistakable for male goes down in my household without Russell being locked away, or at least a stern warnin...

For days when there's no time to write, there's slow motion dog video:

Clover and Shaila—two of my blessings. I saw something on Facebook along the lines of, "do you love your job, your home, your family, and your love life? Are you very happy with every aspect of your personal life? Do you wake up filled with joy and gratitude every morning?" And I thought . . . "yeah! Basically, I am, and usually, I do." Then I read the comments. It was a sponsored post, selling some kind of e-workshops with a self-help guru. People were pissed—in full denial not only of this guy's services but also of the general premise that it is possible to be pretty happy with every aspect of your personal life. Don't get me wrong—I get angry, sad, distressed, worried, anxious, irritated, blue. I'm pissed about Kavanaugh, enraged about family separation at the border, distressed on behalf of the animals suffering in factory farms everywhere, and devastated by the ways in which institutionalized racism and speciesism are upheld. I'm also occasiona...

I now have 8 baby citrus trees growing in pots in my home. My working theory is that the climate of Whidbey Island circa 2018 is roughly similar to the climate of Oakland, CA circa 1885, which is when the parent tree sprouted in what is now my brother's backyard. I plan to raise my shiny little trees indoors for a couple of years then dole several out to friends, plant one in my greenhouse, and pot one on for wintering indoors for as long as it can fit in the house. I might try putting one in the yard as well, though I'm nervous about its chances in a hard frost. Advice welcome. My brother's citrus tree is supposedly a pomelo hybrid. It has fruits which look and smell exactly like lemons but are the size of grapefruits. It's a fantastic tree, and though I'm not sure the offspring will share the parent's characteristics, I am very excited to have these shiny little green reminders from my brother's Victorian urban farm.