One of Those Days

It was one of those days. The snow swirling through the fog looked how my head felt.

We’d brought Quinn home from the hospital prepared for sleepless nights with a newborn, but we hadn’t planned for Lincoln to come down with a respiratory infection at the same time. A deep cough informed me that my prize for sharing my son’s bed to comfort him would be sharing his illness. I felt like giving up.

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Are Rhodesian Ridgebacks Easy to Train?

No! And despite all the fun photos and videos I post, we’re always working on some kind of training – failing in new and spectacular ways each day. I’m often asked about the behavioral challenges of training off-leash so I put together this longer video of our imperfect efforts to corral Zero’s alpha tendencies.

If you’re struggling with your own dog’s behavior, I hope you find the video a helpful reminder that even D-list famous Ridgebacks aren’t all they might seem. If you aren’t struggling with your dog’s behavior, well then just feel free to enjoy watching one man’s flailing attempts at taming the chaos!

Our Year in Review

Emily, Lincoln, Quinn, Penny and Zero are stuck with me. Not sure what the rest of your excuses are, but nonetheless I’m grateful for everyone who shared the year with us. As always, thanks for taking the time to watch or comment or send us a message. It makes my day when I know one of our posts made someone else’s day just a bit brighter. Your kindness and generosity makes me a better person – so thank you!

How Do You Get Over Losing Your Dog?

The death of a beloved dog wounds us each in a uniquely terrible way. We fear the day we’ll lose them, we are shattered the moment it happens, but what comes after?

Three years after losing Eko, I finally have the perspective to appreciate all the moments his love still makes possible. There’s no getting over the pain, there’s just getting on with it – knowing the unimaginable hurt is the price we must pay for a love that will guide us for the rest of our lives.

The Scar I’m Most Proud Of

I grew up in a restaurant where scars were the closest thing anyone had to a resume. 

The prep cook’s hands looked like knife-sewn stitchwork quilts, and the line cooks all shared the same smooth fingerprints from searing burns. The mark of a novice pizza maker, like myself, was brands across the forearm from inexpert removal of a pie at the back of the 700° oven.

By the end of my less than illustrious tenure, my arms were scored with the bright red lashings. For years afterwards the scars remained distinct and pronounced against my skin. I still shudder when recalling the excruciating sizzle of the oven, but these days only I can see the scars. And only if I look closely. The scars, and their lessons, are now an inextricable part of who I am. 

It seems the marks on our hearts are the same. 

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