My eight cats. Eight lives, not one of which has been lost. Because each still has their ninth life. That would be me.

Upon us now is high summer, a season for enchantment, childlike playfulness, and openness to the impossible.

Because, after all, Persephone embodies life and death, and there is nothing more messy, unpredictable, and uncontrollable then life and death.

When I looked out my windows at sunrise the other day, I saw red. It was the dark red of anger, spent blood, and demon eyes.

Wonderful then this new year began with some snow. Not much, but enough. Enough to remind me to take heart. That no matter how dark and dismal things get, fresh starts are regularly in sight.

My Christmas tree is listing like a drunken sailor. I wonder why. Perhaps because I got it lit on cheap vodka.

Yet, for all that friendly familiarity and feelings of unbreakable attachment, there are moments when, with no warning whatsoever, these woods take on an eerie, surreal quality.

It’s fall. Ghosts are rising up. Their hauntings inspirit and enliven me. Each morning begins with a danse macabre (dance of death).

Then I will make my wish. That all my days be days with dogs, and that I, along with all people follow the lead of dogs and live up to our humanity.