Write One True Sentence

My husband took our two dogs to a bar this afternoon where the sled dog aware owner commented that Punchy’s paws were large but too spread out and Swirl’s were smaller but better formed, a bruising comment for one dog but redundant adoration for the other.

We put kitchen chairs in our backyard for a family gathering yesterday which felt like a lacking thing for a moment, like why don’t we have decent outdoor furniture, and then felt like the best thing we ever did.

My older son, now 36, asks entertaining questions in a conversation like “What is the most exotic thing you’ve ever cooked?” and “Have you ever hitchhiked” and when asked the latter, responds, laughing, “Yes, but nobody would pick me up.”

When I look across the street at the big white house, a part of me thinks that the bodybuilder who owned dogs that she had to smuggle into rescue groups because they got into trouble still lives there even though she left twenty-five years ago and now lives in Florida with two rescue dogs who were bad on somebody else’s time.

I’m grateful for my lifelong habit of not planning ahead because it frees me from the dread that many older people wear like a thick stocking cap in deep winter.