One month ago, I had three cats. Today I have two.

Zoe, our nine-year-old long-haired tabby wandered off into the woods sometime in February and didn’t return until a month later. I found her as I was heading out to work, stretched out on our driveway, at least five pounds lighter, stiff as cement. She was battered and bloody. Her face was fixed ( Read more... )

Every journal has to start somewhere. Here’s what shakes out in my laundry today:

·         I am Canadian, but I live in America. This is a recent development. It feels weird, but not as weird as I expected.

·         Most dramatic epiphany since moving to the States? Discovering that all Canadians really do say “aboot.” This is a stunning ( Read more... )

Many years ago I wrote in a journal nearly every day, faithfully filling many small 200-page books with angst-ridden teenage musings.

I always used pencil, an early indication of my life-long attraction to impermanence. Probably a reflection of frail self-confidence, too.

My earliest journal entries were mostly about boys I had crushes on and ( Read more... )