These nights, so cold, I reach for Peter Pan, a lucky coin, deep in the warmth of my pocket.

"There's a dog in the oven," Silky says. 
     She's standing at the oven's door, staring into its darkened glass behind which I know there resides only a thin cookie sheet and the cast iron skillet in which we make our breakfast. 
     "Silky," I say, seeing the sparkle of her eyes reflected in the glass. "It's you." 
     Silky is adamant. "No," she says, shaking her head, "There's a dog in the oven. I can see it." 
     "Silky," I say, "Wag your tail." 
     She does. 
     "Is the dog in the oven wagging it's tail?" I ask. 
     "Yes!" Silky says, "Yes!" 
    But it's clear that Silky believes that this is only some magical coincidence, and that she wants even more to let the dog inside  the oven come out so that the two of them can play. 
     "Silky," I ask, "Is the dog in the oven pretty?" 
     Silky studies her new friend. She tilts here head to the left and then to the right. "Oh yes," she replies. "The prettiest dog I've ever seen." 
     "Well that proves it then," I tell her, and come tap the nose in the glass. 
     And inside the oven, with the skillet and cookie sheet, happiness ignites on the face of the most beautiful girl in the world.



       

This morning Silky did the Sun Salutation in its entirety ... using me as her yoga mat. 

   

When the squirrel that you stop for, holds up the acorn he was busy eating and motions for you to use the other lane and go on around ... you do exactly that. No questions asked. 

  

From Silky, I’ve learned that girls don’t like to be stuffed into sweaters like sausages, no matter how cold the morning, and that hearing that their tummies sound like ripe watermelons when patted, is best forgiven with ice cream. Plain vanilla.       

  

Crunchy is not a word that should ever describe one's bed. 



#lifewithdogs 

Silky got into trouble. 
   She was scolded and put out for the night, where she lay in her bed with her bun bun and cried and cried and cried, until she fell fast asleep. 
   In the morning, she was Silky again, bright and wagging. But she was still in trouble. Less trouble, but enough that she was not allowed inside. 
   All day she stayed out. She was quiet and calm, and when the sun set, she and Peter Pan pressed their noses to the back door, wanting in.
   'No, Silky,’ she was told. ‘No.’ 
   Silky sat and hung her head and looked terribly, terribly sad, not because she knew that she was still in trouble. For Silky, the trouble was over and done with. Forgiven. Forgotten. No. Silky was sad because Silky is Love. Pure Love. And Love just doesn’t understand not being wanted, even for one, single, minute.