In red states like Kentucky, people see masks as unmanly. That’s Trump’s fault.

From refusing to wear masks, to armed militias at our state capitols, to irresponsible preachers, to raising our sons not to be or look like “sissies,” Kentucky’s toxic masculine culture makes fighting this pandemic exponentially harder.

I wrote about it for today’s Post.

The earrings

Today, I found a pair of earrings glistening in the bottom of my purse, tiny gold loops with a dangling, pale blue stone. The earrings are new. I wore them only once, on March 11.

Finding earrings in the bottom of your purse sounds trivial, doesn’t it? And yet, I have such vivid memories of that week, the last week things were normal. New earrings worn for the first time. Lunch with a new friend and his wife. The last time I saw my 10 month-old grandson. A small gathering of Lawrenceburg city leadership to celebrate our county attorney, Bobbi Jo Lewis, leaving to work in the Beshear administration.

Bobbi Jo, the last friend I hugged.

I teach personal essay and memoir writing at the Carnegie Center for Literacy and Learning. My students tend to be over 50, brand new to writing, and most importantly they have been waiting decades for this moment, for the time to finally tell their stories, to try to make some sense of the thing that keeps them awake at night.

My students are brave. And with rare exception, their stories are about loss.

One month into social distancing, we are all experiencing varying degrees of loss, our frustration and questions building into a crescendo over days that blend inexplicably together. When can I go back to work? Will my kids return to school? What happens if my elderly parents get sick, who will take care of them? When should I go to the grocery store, and how carefully do I need to disinfect the packages I bring home? I miss my friends, my routine, the life I had before. When will this be over? we want to know. When will life be back to normal?

I am trying to absorb less news and more art. On March 31, I listened to writer Brene Brown interview grief and loss expert, David Kessler. “We are all dealing with the collective loss of the world we knew,” he said. “The world we knew is now gone forever. We talk about 9/11. Remember what the airports were like before 9/11? [One day] we’re going to talk about what the world was like before the pandemic. I don’t know how this is going to change, but it will. We are going to find meaning. We are going to come out the other side of this, and we are going to say things like ‘remember the old days when we used to shake hands, how crazy was that?’”

I was set to start teaching a new class at Josephine Sculpture Park in Frankfort on March 12. As silly as it seems now, I remember going back and forth several times with the owner of the park, the host, and the students. Surely we could figure something out, couldn’t we? We’d all been looking forward to this class so much! What if we postponed a week, would that help? What if we met in a larger room and spaced ourselves a few feet apart? We checked and rechecked the weather. It might be 70 degrees soon, could we meet outside?

And on and on until we surrendered. It was, after all, not the class we were fighting for. We were fighting for a normal that was already lost.

A month later, a month into social distancing, the losses are piling up. And yet I finally find myself looking more forward than back.

Kentucky poet Jayne Moore Waldrop’s “Eclipse” closes with these lines:

Last night we retraced our steps
in the moonlight,
over worn brick sidewalks in need of repair but still in service.
Beyond the quieted tower and darkened
windows we found the place
where we once toasted and laughed
and smiled for the cameras.
This time we took our own photograph,
the two of us,
then strolled on, fingers interlocked,
in wonder of everything to come.

Yes, there is so much loss, so much to keep us awake at night. We are scared. We are grieving. But in conversations and on social media I also see us finding new paths, new joys, and making our way to what comes next.

Today, I found new earrings in the bottom of my purse. And though no one will see them but me, I am going to put them on and wear them to a Zoom meeting (something I’d never even heard of back when I bought them) with my baby grandson. Here’s to the wonder, yes wonder, of everything to come.

The year of reading Sue Grafton


We began with “A is for Alibi” and Kentucky Hall of Fame author Sue Grafton’s opening lines: “My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private investigator, licensed by the state of California. I’m thirty-two years old, twice divorced, no kids. The day before yesterday I killed someone and the fact weighs heavily on my mind.”

It was February 2016. My husband had lost his job; we were in the process of moving from city life in northern California to rural Kentucky, leaving a life we’d been building for a decade to save money and be closer to family; and though my husband had no symptoms, his doctor had called with news: prostate cancer.

To say we had a hard time focusing on anything but sickness, moving, and money would be an understatement. We were both big readers, but who could read at a time like this? He’d recently made it through Shelby Foote’s Civil War series and everything Cormac McCarthy; for me it had been Jane Hamilton, Mary Karr, Ann Patchett, the collected short stories of Grace Paley. And yet, we both knew we needed an escape, maybe something fast-paced and light and out of our ordinary, and wouldn’t it be fun to read the same books for change?

“I ordered the first one, A for something,” he said one morning over coffee, handing me his New York Times crossword with less than half the answers filled in. “You want to read it first or do you want me to?”

We were tag-team crossword solvers, yes, but regardless of who started our puzzles we both wanted to be the one who finished, the one who could claim victory. I took the folded newspaper and went to get my own pen. “You start,” I said. “You read faster than me, and that way you can move on to “B is for Burglar” without having to wait on me.”

“Wait, is this a trick?” he said, laughing.

Two weeks into social distancing, with mounting fears about the spread of coronavirus and the lack of enough ICU beds, healthcare providers, and ventilators, I’ve been thinking about 2016 —not about the Donald Trump getting elected-part, but about the year we spent trying not to panic. The year we spent escaping into Sue Grafton’s 20-plus books and the fictional life of private detective Kinsey Millhone — and how I couldn’t wait to get through it all so life could get back to normal.

And yet, isn’t “normal” simply code for wanting our old life back? For what Joan Didion famously called “magical thinking” in her 2005 memoir?

In 2016, we read Sue Grafton during a year of magical thinking. Our adult son who now lived nearby would come often for dinner. My husband would finally, after decades away, get to spend time with his parents. After he finished treatment, and if he was healthy (which of course he would be!) he would find a new job, which likely meant a lot of traveling. And I’d be home alone, out in the country with no distractions, so I’d get back full-time to the book I’d been researching and writing. Everything would be back to normal.

The good news is that my husband is cancer-free, for which we are so very thankful, but he decided to retire, to stay home. Then his parents died within two months of each other, our son moved to Boston (you saw that coming, right?), and with Trump’s shocking election, I set my step-parenting book aside as I started writing about Kentucky politics and teaching at the Carnegie Center for Literacy and Learning.

A normal — a life — I could not have imagined in February 2016.

I bailed on our Sue Grafton reading marathon after “N is for Noose“—I’ll give you the win,” I said. “I need to read something else.”— though my husband, as is his character, kept his commitment and read all the way through “Y is for Yesterday,” Grafton’s last book before she died.

In these terrifying and uncertain days of 2020, I worry for all of us and wonder what our new normal might one day be, how on earth we are going to come out on the other end of this, and I try not to panic. Try.

I have four stacks of new books on my bedside table. I can’t make myself care about any of them. Not a one. I’m too scattered, too scared.

But I remember the year we read Sue Grafton and how it helped. It’s time to go back, I think, to pick up “O is for Outlaw” and find out how Kinsey survives her next close call. To find out what happens. To see how her story ends. There’s still time, right?



The comments section is open. Please share the books you’re reading, the shows you’re binge-watching, how you’re getting through these unfathomable days. I wish you and your families good health and good spirits. Here’s to fighting on.

The president’s war is not on the press. His war is on us.

Photo credit: Business Insider

We knew this day was coming. The day President Trump’s unAmerican war on the free press would take a dangerous turn.

After years of rallies and Twitter rants calling journalists the “enemy of the people,” many have grown numb to the way the president demeans and disrespects the press. And it is both notable and infuriating that the last, official, daily White House press briefing took place over a year ago, on March 11, 2019.

Maybe the president feels outmatched by the White House press corps. Maybe he would prefer to skip the “nasty questions” asked by women like PBS’s Yamiche Alcindor and answer directly to us, the electorate. Maybe he thinks we would ask less “nasty” questions. Here are few that come to mind.

1. Why did you refuse the coronavirus texts from the World Health Organization? We want to know why you refused a test that might have saved the lives of our families and neighbors. What was your rationale for such a decision? Where are the tests?

2. You are stoking racist, xenophobic fears by calling this the Chinese virus. What does this accomplish? Are we not all terrified enough? You used to call it the coronavirus like everyone else. Why the sudden change?

3. My dad is a retired, Frito Lay, delivery driver. He voted for you in 2016, but has grown tired of your hateful, misleading rhetoric. He voted for you because you said you were a good businessman, and he’s scared now that the stock market is crashing. What are you doing to save his retirement?

4. You claim to be a religious man. You even declared March 15 National Prayer Day. And yet you recently mocked Speaker Pelosi’s comments about prayer, you play golf most Sundays, and we have never once heard you offer up a prayer of well-wishes for anyone. How do you explain this?

5. We are exhausted. We are scared. But instead of offering support to our local leaders with their coronavirus efforts, you have publicly disparaged governors of New York, Oregon, California, and Michigan. In the words of Adlai Stevenson, “Have you no sense of decency, sir?”

Donald Trump has been our president for almost four years, and what do we have to show for it but a daily Twitter feed filled with the rantings of a childish, fearful, incompetent narcissist who cannot be bothered to answer the press’s most basic questions without calling them the enemy.

If you want to assess the fallout of this president’s years-long attack on the credibility of the free press, look no further than small, Trump-voting counties like mine. On March 16, I was scanning The Anderson New’s Facebook page for the latest, local business closings and instructions. I read a comment from a man named Hank: “Just doing minor bit of research will tell anyone that there are flu viruses out there way more serious then this strain. But the media has many in a follow me over the cliff mentality. Oh look we’re relevent again. bs.”

A man named Adam wrote: “People get sick and die. That’s life. This has been completely overblown.” I click on Adam’s name. His profile photo shows a boy holding a “Trump 2020: Keep America Great” sign.

In May 2018, “60 Minutes” correspondent Lesley Stahl told PBS’s Judy Woodruff the president explained why he continually attacks the press. “He said you know why I do it? I do it to discredit you all and demean you all, so when you write negative stories about me no one will believe you.”

This president’s war on the free press—his war on facts, information, and the truth—was never about the press at all. It was a war on us. On our freedom of thought. On our press’s freedom to ask hard questions and demand answers, especially in a time of crisis. Like now.

Hang in there, friends.

This hour, this trial

Doug Mills / AFP – Getty Images

Within hours of the president’s Oval Office address on the coronavirus, in which he stared into the camera and insisted, “We must put politics aside, stop the partisanship and unify together as one nation and one family,” he was already tweeting, “Nancy Pelosi all of a sudden doesn’t like the payroll tax cut, but when Obama proposed it she thought it was a brilliant thing that all of the working families would benefit from because if you get a paycheck, you’re going to take home more money.”

Back when I played sports, my teammates and I used to talk about how we and our opponents handled the pressure of the moment, how we became our truest selves when we were out there alone with our fear and our nerves, when our facades were stripped away. If you fell to bullying or cheating or name-calling, the stress of the situation was not the problem, your character was.

The president has been in office more than three years. He is running for re-election. He can no longer claim to be new to politics nor shocked by the vagaries of Washington D.C. And what we are witnessing in this time of global crisis is the man behind the boastful facade, a man who remains hopelessly entrenched in the bitterness, petty jealousies, and long-running grievances that fuel him.

Why? Because this is his true character. This is who he is.

Like many of you, I have found myself stocking up on things I don’t normally buy—hand sanitizer, disinfectant wipes, bags upon bags of frozen vegetables, an entire pallet of canned chicken, six huge bags of dog food instead of one—all while calmly moving through the store, smiling and saying hello to neighbors, like everything is fine, just fine, as we sneak knowing glances at the contents of each other’s shopping carts.

But as late as the morning of his Oval Office address, the president remained seemingly oblivious to the mounting fears and preparations of the American public, tweeting, “Vanity Fair Magazine, which will soon be out of business, and their third rate Fake reporters, who make up sources which don’t exist, wrote yet another phony & boring hit piece. The facts are just the opposite. Our team is doing a great job with CoronaVirus!”

The president, laser-focused on his coverage by a fashion magazine, as Dr. Anthony Fauci testified on Capitol Hill that the coronavirus is ten times more lethal than the seasonal flu and “repeatedly corrected the president by saying the real timetable [for a vaccine] is a year to 18 months.”

On Sunday, March 8, as I was flying home from visiting my baby grandson in Boston, acutely conscious of every coughing passenger and pulling disinfecting wipes from my purse to clean and clean and clean again the armrests, seatbelt buckle, and tray table for my two-hour flight, the president was playing golf and tweeting, “The New York Times is an embarrassment to journalism. They were a dead paper before I went into politics, and they will be a dead paper after I leave, which will be in 5 years. Fake News is the Enemy of the people!”

Erik Larson’s new novel, “The Splendid and the Vile,” opens in the spring of 1940 and tells the story of Winston Churchill’s first months in office at the start of WWII. On his first night, Churchill wrote that “coveting power for power’s sake was a base pursuit, adding ‘But power in a national crisis, when a man believes he knows what orders should be given, is a blessing’ … I felt as if I were walking with destiny, and that all my past life had been but a preparation for this hour and for this trial.”

Eighty years later, we must ask: Is President Trump prepared for this hour, for this trial? Can he rise to lead in a crisis? Can he put aside his petty and divisive rhetoric and consider the welfare of the American people before his own financial and political interests?

Or, like the athlete who reveals his true self in the pressure of the big moment, will he continue to lie and bully and tweet at his perceived enemies? Will he point his finger at #FakeNews and insist this is yet another hoax, as he called it at his recent North Carolina rally, in his long list of imaginary hoaxes?

If past is prelude, God help us all.

No, Mr. President, traumatic brain injuries are not “headaches”

In her memoir “A Three Dog Life,” Abigail Thomas writes of her husband’s traumatic brain injury (TBI), “It’s hard for me to remember what we were like before the accident. The years since have been have been harrowing, Rich in and out of psychosis, terrible paranoias, rages, the kinds of things brain injury sets in motion.”

I was reminded of Ms. Thomas’s story on Jan. 22 when, two weeks after Iranian airstrikes on Al Asad Air Base in Iraq, it was reported that a few U.S. troops had been treated for TBI, and President Trump said, “I heard that they had headaches and a couple of other things. I don’t consider them very serious injuries relative to other injuries I have seen.”

The dismissive nature of the president’s comments would be stunning were they not so common. Consider the last week alone.

Following the end of the impeachment hearings, the president wasted no time having Lt. Col. Alexander Vindman and his twin brother, Yevgeny, not only dismissed from their White House positions but ceremonially escorted off the grounds as though they were criminals. All because Lt. Col. Vindman dared testify under oath, after obeying the law in answering a subpoena. 

The president — who infamously avoided service himself by claiming, without evidence of medical records, bone spurs — tweeted that Lt. Col. Vindman, recipient of the Purple Heart, was “very insubordinate” and “given a horrendous report by his superior,” both lies according to a statement given to the Military Times by his former boss, retired Army Brig. Gen. Peter Zwack, who said, “I would trust Alex with my life,” adding that Vindman was “always smart, interesting, and had good judgment … I trusted him completely.”

In the hours after two soldiers were killed in Afghanistan on Feb. 8, the president was busy sending out dozens of vitriolic tweets. “Senator Joe Munchkin in West Virginia. He couldn’t understand the Transcripts,” he wrote, and “lightweight Senator @DougJones cast a partisan vote for the Impeachment Hoax. Thought his boss, Cryin’ Chuck, would have forced him to vote against the Hoax. A Do Nothing Stiff!” 

While the president tweeted nicknames like Joe Munchkin, the Stars and Stripes was reporting that SSgt. Javier Jaguar Gutierrez, 28, of San Antonio, Texas, and SSgt. Antonio Rey Rodriguez, 28, of Las Cruces, N.M. had been killed. It was SSgt. Rodriguez’s 10th deployment. Both men were posthumously awarded Bronze Stars and Purple Hearts.

The president’s seeming disregard for the needs of our military is also financial. According to a Feb. 10 article in the Independent, “Last year the president took $2.5 billion from the military budget’s anti-drug programme for the wall. This year that figure could be much higher, with the Washington Post claiming as much as $7.2 billion could be diverted from the Pentagon help build the wall.”

The wall he insisted Mexico, not the Pentagon, was going to pay for.

We now know that more than 100 service members have been treated for TBI following the Iranian airstrike, a fact the president has yet to correct. And a TBI is not merely a headache. As Ms. Thomas wrote in her memoir, “It took a year to realize the severity of Rich’s injuries. His body was slowly recovering, but his mind was not…. Rich had suffered permanent brain damage. He was never going to live at home again, never going to drive a car, read a book, make a cup of coffee. I knew this and I didn’t believe it. But fourteen months after the accident, Sally and I moved him to a long-term care facility for people with brain injuries.”

If the president spent less time engulfed in the flames of Twitter self-pity and more time seeking guidance from experts (those intellectual elites he continually ridicules) or reading the occasional book, he would be less embarrassingly ignorant, a better leader, and a better human being.

The man will be 74 in June. Time is running out. May I suggest he start with “A Three Dog Life.”


L to R: Sheriff’s Deputy, Mayor, me, Police Chief, City Manager, Sheriff.

As you read earlier this week, I’ve left my local newspaper column. That decision was the right one and it remains. There comes a time to move on and this is the time for other writing subjects and projects. But I owe it to you, my readers, to tell you that some of the recent issues that led that decision have been resolved.

We live in an online world — social media, news, entertainment, virtual friends, remote offices, etc — and in a polarized political environment. This means we have also become used to dealing with tough issues from a distance, and from within our own silos, and believe you me I am as guilty of this as anyone. Today’s meeting served as a lesson, and I share it with you here:  This is not going to get any easier on its own. We have to start talking to each other face-to-face again, especially when those conversations are hard.

Thanks to Mayor Young for setting up our meeting today with city leadership and law enforcement. Last week I was afraid to drive through town, and next week you’ll probably see me having coffee at McDonald’s with local law enforcement, getting to know each other better. Issues resolved.

Good things happen when you get everybody in a room and have a long conversation, and this was a great one.


The last word

A letter to the editor and to the community:

I wanted to let you know I have written my last column for this newspaper. There are many reasons for my decision, not the least of which is that the risks finally, after 3 years, outweigh any reward.

In my Jan. 8 column, I asked a hypothetical question about guns and race, a question that has been in the mainstream, national dialogue since Colin Kaepernick first took a knee 1,068 days ago. A hypothetical, by definition, means “imagining a possibility rather than reality.” I have since learned that both law enforcement and the editor of this newspaper took my hypothetical as reality, as an accusation that was neither stated nor intended. A month later, none of these men has asked the one person who knows what she wrote and what she meant. That person is me.

I can take the threatening mail, the hate mail, the notes hoping for me to be raped, and the comments section. I am a professional and, sad as it is, this is the normal course for columnists and journalists, particularly women, in the Trump era.

In writing for The Anderson News, I have gracefully tolerated men grabbing my grocery cart at Kroger while they look my body up and down and tell me I’m an idiot. I have been berated on the County Park trail while walking my dogs and while shopping on Main Street. I have been “taken down a notch” in the lobby of The Animal Clinic minutes after putting my beloved, 13 year-old dog to sleep. All for voicing a political view.

The disproportionate, and frankly terrifying, response to my Jan. 8 column is where I put down my pen. I no longer feel safe writing a column in Anderson County.

To those of you who supported me and, in turn, the 1st Amendment, thanks is not enough, but thanks is what I have. I thank you, and I wish you well.

The 2nd Amendment doesn’t need a “safe space”

Photo credit: Ben Carlson, Editor of The Anderson News

On New Year’s Eve, I found myself at Urgent Care. My flu had been getting worse over the past few weeks (though I’d had a flu shot) and I woke up on Dec. 31 with two realizations: I wasn’t getting any better on my own, and this was the last day my insurance would pay for a doctor’s appointment and medication, as Jan. 1 sets a new clock for meeting the new and dreaded deductible.

Welcome to our convoluted American healthcare system, where you find yourself hoping you’re sick enough on the right day.

The day got even more convoluted — Lucky me! — when, after picking up three prescriptions and restocking my supply of Puffs Plus with Lotion and a variety of chicken soups, I read this newspaper’s front-page headline, “Push on to make county 2nd Amendment sanctuary,” and Editor Ben Carlson’s corresponding editorial.

Having just received medical care, I considered this sanctuary push alongside the fact that people often have to set up GoFundMe accounts and pray for donations because a child needs life-saving medical care. America, where “healthcare for all” is roundly ridiculed, but “guns for all” is worthy of signing petitions to challenge the Constitution. With the added irony of declaring ourselves a sanctuary county — a “safe space” — for guns, while blowing nine kinds of gaskets at the idea of being a sanctuary for human beings.

Tell me what I’m missing.

Some time ago, I had a long conversation with a friend here in town about his reasons for being, in his words, “a big 2nd Amendment guy.” (Note that yes, it is still possible to be friends with people you disagree with politically, no matter what your TV tells you.) It was dead of winter, and we were the last two standing outside, building locked, in downtown Lawrenceburg. The wind kept blowing harder, but we kept debating and wrapping our coats tighter until finally the cold won out and we were forced to give closing arguments.

“What if, one day,” he said, “the government showed up to take my property, your property, or the town’s property? If that happened, our last defense would be a well-armed militia.”

“So what you’re telling me,” I said, “is that if President Trump sends the Marines, with all of their equipment, manpower, and firepower, to take your house, you’re going to be able to fight off the Marines?”

“That’s not the point,” he said. “The point is that if they know they’re dealing with an armed citizenry, they’ll think twice.”

I understood his point. Still do. But folks, if we ever get to the point that the Marines are rolling into Kentucky in tanks and taking our property, we’ve got exponentially worse problems than a few guns in the house are going to solve.

Perhaps this is where you remind me of the “good guy with a gun” theory by pointing to the recent shooting at the church in White Settlement, TX. If so, this is where I remind you I am not anti-gun. But the story here is not the former reserve, deputy sheriff, a member of the church’s voluntary security team, who took down the shooter with one shot. The story is that, with his long criminal record and psychological history, the shooter should not have had access to a gun. Any gun.

Tell me how being a 2nd Amendment sanctuary makes our community safer in a situation like this.

Noah Pruitt, the local resident who started the petition to make Anderson Co. a safe space for the 2nd Amendment, said last week, “We just want the county to declare this a 2nd Amendment sanctuary, and if any unconstitutional laws are passed that they would not be enforced locally.”

Please explain how Mr. Pruitt with his petition, or law enforcement, get to decide which laws are unconstitutional and which ones are not. Laws which, by definition, became laws when they were passed by elected lawmakers who took an oath to the Constitution.

Mr. Carlson argued in his editorial “that if state and federal lawmakers declare some of the firearms and magazines locked in my gun safe are suddenly illegal or require registration, I’ll have a simple choice to make: obey the law or become a criminal.”

Being required to register a deadly weapon, or giving up a few guns used for recreation, is worth becoming a criminal?

And last, can we talk about the photo that ran with the article, the one of two high school boys posing with “a large flag which bears the image of a military-styled rifle and the words ‘Come and Take It’ fixed to the bumper” of one of their trucks?

Be honest. If the two boys in that photo were black, wearing hoodies and baggy pants, would you look upon it so admiringly? How might law enforcement react to such a photo of two young black men pointing to a weapon like that while daring them to “come and take it?”

On New Year’s Eve in Harris County, Texas, a state which has some of the most lax gun laws in the country, a 61 year-old woman died in her driveway after she was shot by celebratory gunfire. Consider the abject absurdity of dying by something called celebratory gunfire.

On New Year’s Eve in Anderson Co., coughing myself into a massive headache, I took my meds and got ready for bed at 6 p.m. My husband offered to heat me up some soup, but I insisted on making a grilled ham and cheese I couldn’t even taste because by God after three weeks of chicken/vegetable, chicken/rice, and chicken/noodle, I refused to swallow one more bowl of soup, even if broth would have been the best thing for me.

Guns don’t need sanctuary, people do. And petitions like this are a reminder that we are all capable of getting het up and making nonsensical declarations and decisions, big and small, for no other reason than to prove a point.


Welcome home, Hazel Belle

Our 2020 kicks off with our new rescue pup!

Hazel Belle is about 2 years old, and she was found starving, with Parvo, covered in ticks, and nursing a litter of puppies in Rockcastle County, Kentucky.

I’ve had my eye out for an elderly rescue, but for a number of reasons none were working out. Golden Rescue of Louisville rejected our application outright because our yard did not meet their fencing requirements, the older dog we wanted to meet at Camp Jean was adopted (yeah!) before we had the chance to meet him, another big girl could not live in a house with a cat, and yet another would not be good with small children (and we have a new baby grandson). Anyway … you get the point.

A few weeks ago, as I was coming down with the flu, I stopped by L.I.F.E. House 4 Animals to meet an 8 year old they’d had for several months. I knew, as we often know, within minutes that she was too reactive to live with my 2 rowdy dogs and a visiting toddler. As I was sadly walking her back to her kennel, I passed this little girl.

She walked quietly right up to the fence, and when I knelt down to pet her through the chainlink, she looked me in the eye, leaned her whole body into me, and sighed. I took her out of the kennel to spend some time with her. She was lovely, truly. But she was only 2 years old, and I was not looking for a 2 year old. I took her picture. I went home. I could not stop thinking about her.

Three days later, much sicker with the flu, I took my husband to meet her and about 5 minutes into taking her for a walk he said, “We’re not leaving her here, we’re taking her home.” We had no idea at the time, but it turns out she’s housebroken, crate-trained, great on a leash, and loves to ride in the car!

I’m almost over the flu, and it already feels like Hazel Belle — who we think is a combination of about 5 different breeds and will max out at 35 pounds once she puts on some weight — has always been here!

Happy 2020, everyone.