The only great thing about February, in addition of course to it being Black History Month, is that it is not January. For those of us in New England, January was cruel. Gray. Damp. Unfriendly. On the coast, where I live, we received sprinklings of snow that melted away with the following cold rain.
My scruffy shih tzu bull dogge rescue has joined those who don’t want their parents zoning out on cell phones. Roscoe now paw slaps the offender, whacking the phone. […]
My heartbeat, a staccato thrum of typewriter keys, leads me to kindred souls.
I chose him. The scrappy scruffy rescued rescue stole my writing week. And my heart.
I want the blush of newborn. The velvet of rose petals. There’s nothing gentle about it. My best badass self is alive.
What I didn’t expect (duh) was how much he would grow.