Or maybe not. I read a lot of murder mysteries, crime stories, and even the occasional supernatural thriller. I admire writers who can dream up elaborate plots full of twists, turns, and dark motives lurking just beneath the surface. Which is probably why, when I had a slightly inexplicable experience during a four‑night hotel stay, my imagination didn’t just wander — it sprinted. My husband has hunting friends in Iowa, and we decided to stay in a small town for four nights so he could join in the fun. No Airbnbs were available, and once you added “pet‑friendly” to the
I sold my printing company almost two years now, long enough to assume I had wrapped up any leftover emotional debris from more than three decades of leadership. Thirty-five years as a boss tends to do that. You accumulate stories, scars, and a surprising amount of affection for the people who kept showing up every day and doing their level best to help build something real, lasting and meaningful. And then, without warning, Facebook taps you on the shoulder and reminds you that memory is subjective, perspective is optional, and some people prefer their history with a fictional twist. This
Keep inflicting this pain upon ourselves. I swear that having wonderful dogs is going to be the death of me. Maybe it’s luck, maybe it’s who we are, but for whatever reason, my husband and I have been the proud parents of so many amazing, talented, loving dogs over the past 20 years. And each time one of them dies, it feels like part of your soul goes with them. It’s literal agony. Every. Single. Time. And the craziest part?We do it to ourselves. We KNOW our dogs are only with us for the smallest fraction of the time we