Rainy all day, but they need their exercise.
The park, emptied of everyone
except me and the dogs—
tails up, noses down,
Bella with her tug ball,
oblivious to weather,
or maybe made for it.
No voices. No cars.
Just the soft drip of water meeting earth,
and the rhythm of paws
in soaked grass.
We got wet.
We didn’t mind. Nothing a car towel can't fix.
The world had stepped out,
and left the silence to us.
It happened too fast.
My little dog Beatrice—BB—was ahead of me, doing what she always does in the park: sniffing, patrolling, trotting just slightly too far, like she’s got her own errands to run. I was trailing behind, letting her be her scrappy, independent self.
Then I heard it. A scream. High, sharp, unmistakable.
It was BB.
I ran. Not thinking, not planning. Just running. The kind of sprint your body invents when you hear someone you love in pain.
Two larger dogs had gotten her. I don’t know what set them off. I only know they backed off when they saw me barreling toward them. And their owner? Said nothing. Did nothing.
No apology. No concern.
Just… silence.
I had to yell—really yell—to get her to leash her dogs and put them in her car so we could have a “chat.” And we did. I let her know, in no uncertain terms, that what happened was not just unacceptable—it was burned-into-my-memory unforgivable. The owner is older than I by about 10 years. I'm not proud of what I said, but it could have worse. "You're too old to be this dumb! YOU are responsible for your dogs behavior. What the fuck is the matter with you". I felt like throwing a rock through her window.
Let’s just say: I don’t think I’ll be seeing her again. If I do, it won’t be a quiet reunion.
This is the second time BB has been attacked recently. And Bella—my other dog—was hit by a pit bull a few months back. So yeah, I’m thinking about carrying bear spray now. Not because I want to use it. But because I don’t want to be helpless again. And, as bad as it sounds, I believe in retribution.
BB is moving gingerly today, a little slower, a little sore—but she’s here. Still wagging her tail. Still showing more grace than I’m capable of.
Dogs are like that.
They forgive faster than we deserve.
I decided to test out some of Google’s newer AI tools—specifically, NotebookLM. I was curious about their podcast generation feature, and figured: why not throw something personal into the machine and see what comes out?
So I uploaded a story—one I’d written about a conversation I once had with my grandmother, Nana. A quiet memory, dusted off and given a slight narrative shine.
I fed it into NotebookLM, clicked the “generate podcast” button, and waited. It took about 15 minutes.
Below is the story.
And then—what the AI did with it.
Some months later, Lucky found a new home.
A nearby ranch had what I was told—quite delicately—was a “hen-heavy situation.” Dozens of ladies. No rooster. The kind of imbalance that called for… let’s just say, some poultry-level testosterone.
Enter Lucky D. Clucky.
He was dropped off like a traveling bard with a story to tell and a mission to fulfill. I wished him well. Gave him a quiet goodbye. Told him to mind his manners but enjoy himself.
He’d earned it.
After all, he’d lived in my living room. Jumped through windows. Napped with rabbits. Survived fires and predators and the existential oddness of being a rooster raised in the company of mammals and music and hardwood floors.
I hope he’s out there somewhere—strutting a little, crowing a lot, surrounded by hens who listen. Or don’t. Either way, I hope he feels like he landed in the right place.
Some animals pass through your life like background noise.
Others leave claw marks in the woodwork and take a piece of your heart with them.
Lucky was the second kind.
It crowed.
That was the beginning.
Lucky D. Clucky was supposed to be a she. Soft-spoken. Egg-laying. Hen-like in all the traditional ways.
But Lucky crowed. And kept crowing.
So. Not a hen.
Ah well. It was never really about the eggs. And definitely not about the meat—I’m not the killing type. No, this was always about communion. About sharing space with the endlessly strange and varied citizens of the animal kingdom.
But Lucky has had a rough go of it lately.
I started with four chickens, raised from chicks right there in my living room. A tight little crew. I gave one away—contractual obligation—and the remaining three seemed to be getting along just fine.
Then the fire came.
We were evacuated. The neighborhoods turned ghost-quiet. And in that stillness, the predators emerged. With no one home to lock the chickens in at night, two of them didn’t make it.
Sacrificed to the hunger of the wild.
That part still stings.
Somehow, Lucky survived. Shaken, but alive. I heard him one night a few weeks back—distressed, clearly not okay—and I brought him inside. Just like that, he was back in the living room.
He now enters through the window, like some eccentric boarder in a folktale. At first I had to train him. Now there are stairs.
In at dusk. Out in the morning. Rinse, repeat.
He seems okay. I don’t know if he gets lonely. Hard to say with chickens. But he seems content enough. He gets along with the dog, the cat, the rabbit. Especially the rabbit. They nap near each other sometimes, which feels like some small quiet victory.
A friend who had pancreatic cancer (and has since passed away) created a campaign to raise awareness and research funds called Purple Stride. I wasn't able to make the walk so I let her know I was thinking of her ...
