We love dogs, we spoil dogs, sometimes we give dogs the love we can no longer afford to give human beings, after so many losses and disappointments.
My black dog Pip, now three and a half years old, fears not cold, snow or rain. For him it is all an adventure.
Life gets pretty boring for a lone dog like Pip, especially now—it is so hot and the hiking trails are so crowded we don’t go there much.
It has become clear that saying, “Come, Sweetie” in a treble voice may work with your lover but not with your canine. Actually it probably doesn’t work with either.
“Don’t feel sorry for The Teaser,” our guide told us, though it seemed to me more likely we might feel sorry for the mares.
Writers have never been paid a living wage… never a princely—or princessly sum—our incomes are now not equal to sustaining even a modest life.
Pip and I were on to adventure, on the edge of danger, full of life and energy—the way I want to live.
Our spring comes with a roar of wind and startling blasts of cold air, but it is spring, nonetheless, and Pip and I rejoice.
I think we women writers sometimes scant the snow, and the weather in general, in favor of the human characters that obsess us.
The snowfall heralds real winter, even though our aspens are still golden, leading me to plan the season’s reading in the hope of more evenings spent quietly by the fire.