BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

  You may recall that when we lived on Bent Barrow Farm, Fenway Bartholomule was astounded by the fact that we kept little tigers in our house. Those ferocious felines—majestic Desmond and comical Townes—have both sadly passed away, but about four years ago two new wonderful cats entered our lives.  While we did not know them when they were small, we did recently receive this kitten photo from their first family: I'll wait a moment while you recover from the cuteness. . . . Carrying on . . . Milo is a dog in a cat suit, a burly fluff ball, a Saint Bernard with a feline figure. If he were a human he'd probably look like James Corden and walk around in cute slouchy sweaters. He has 9 of 9 lives remaining, and plans to spend 8 of them lounging in bed and 1 of them chasing twist ties under the refrigerator.  Tiger is a cattish cat, regal and poised in almost every way. He has used up at least 3 of his 9 lives and holds the record in our family for most hospitalizations, both ...

Humans, meet Bleu. Bleu, meet humans.  Bleu is diplomacy in action—a real mule among dogs. He came here from Texas in October 2020, seamlessly integrating into the family. He has not yet put a paw wrong, but he HAS put a tooth wrong—he has chewed a TV remote, several leashes and harnesses, two tasty shoes, several couch cushions, and the interior of one Honda SUV. He is now closely supervised most of the time, which suits him just fine and seems to be the solution to his destructive chewing.  Bleu is half Australian Cattle Dog, half Australian Shepherd—otherwise known as a Texas Heeler.  Russell, pictured here with the late, great Brodie, is energy incarnate.  Russell has become considerably more grown up during our lull in blogging. He is now a seven year-old perma-puppy. He has moved from 100% Chance of Stranger Danger Mode to 25% Chance of Stranger Danger Mode, which means he can make friends with—or at least entertain the concept of making friends with—three quar...

When you establish your writing career by channelling a mule, you set yourself up for a dilemma: how to go on when the blogger outlives the mule? If you're reading this blog, there's a solid chance you found me through Fenway Bartholomule. From 2008 to 2015 or so, he was my muse as we successfully co-authored the blog Brays of Our Lives (the archives live on at www.fenwaybartholomule.blogspot.com ). You may also know that he died unexpectedly at the age of 23, one day before my 39th birthday.  I miss Fenway every day—the smell of his breath, the sound of his hoofsteps, the flick of his ears, the warmth of his hide. I also miss the easy flow of banter, the effortless way I guessed at what he might write if his hoofies could use a keyboard. I miss the unique perspective I was able to take when I had his voice in my ear. When I wrote Brays of Our Lives , I wasn't just pretending to be Fenway—I was picking something up and letting it flow through me. I could let it flow now if...

Pictured: Bleu, our recently-adopted Texas Heeler (ACD/Aussie mix)  I've always been a good dreamer, and lately I've been dreaming with an almost exhausting level of detail and complexity. For a couple of weeks now, I've been dreaming about writing books—sometimes my memoir-in-progress, sometimes whole novels, sometimes opening paragraphs, and once an entire sci-fi trilogy (dreamed over the course of three nights). I literally wake up in the morning feeling as though I've written a book, or feeling ready to write a book, sometimes with specific lines or paragraphs running through my head. I think my subconscious is nudging me to get on my writing projects. As a not-morning-person, I'm wondering something: does this mean I should get up earlier and write?  Also, I woke up Friday morning with some weird affirmation running clearly through my mind: "I am committed to excellence." Not a phrase I ever remember reading, thinking, or saying in my waking life. I w...