Family

I found this one at the dump. I reminded me of my great-grandfather, Joe and his eldest son - my grandfather, Forrest. The painting is real and the story is true-ish.

Rainy all day, but they need their exercise. The park, emptied of everyone except me and the dogs— tails up, noses down,

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.

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?

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 gents. The kind of imbalance that called for… let’s just say, some poultry-level testosterone.

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.

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 …

While working on the house, I’ve been working on these two as well. It’s getting better. Spanky (the cat) want to snuggle, while Rou wants to herd. This is the compromise. A somewhat tenuous truce but the beginnings of a real truce nonetheless.

When I first bought this place, it was a tragic wreck. But I didn’t care. I was actually considering stapling AstroTurf to the floor and walls, adopting ten dogs from the pound and turning it into a big playhouse with balls and sticks, plenty of good food and fun - lending credence to the term rough-housing. It was going to be a space devoted to dogs, guitars, and beer.