​A week ago a year ago Nava died and Moose was born.
 
If Nava is my soul dog–and she is, even now when she is of this life no longer—Moose is my heart opener as he sits squarely on my funny bone.
 
This dog makes me laugh. All the time.
 
He has this amazing Poodle prance that Poodles do. This deet deet deet rhythm when he is playing with me and comes towards me with his toy. Fast forward and then those last few steps become the Poodle prance to land in my lap in the game that we play.
 
And he has this beautiful and so expressive face. And this lovely Poodle body.
 
He zooms around the house—true nervous system regulation—making these puppy now one years old sounds of activation. Prance and puppy pounce and then is at it again. Until he’s not and it’s time for a rest as he plops down, rolls to his side, and sleeps.
 
He jumps on our table—as I have shared here before—and which makes me laugh every time. 
 
He eats very gently from my fork. Pineapple and watermelon. And peanut butter. Peanut butter is both of our favorite food and we eat it together. We share.
 
He sleeps deeply on our bed at night. At the foot, or stretched in-between, and at some point, each night, above my head on my pillow for just a short time. 
 
When the coyotes are out he will sit up, alert, at the end of the bed looking out to the darkness through the closed shades. Guarding our selves.
 
He loves to show his love and excitement by licking us. Not my most favorite of Moose activities. Good morning licks. I just got home licks. I walked out of the room for a nano second licks.
 
He is his own self.
 
He is smart. God is he smart. And quite discerning. Friendly and playful and quite the alpha with most of his friends. And quick to decide a dog is not for him.  
 
Same with people.
 
Don’t just go to him and get in his face. He’s a Poodle. He’ll consider you and decide if he wants to engage. 
 
I love this dog.
 
Where Nava, my soul dog who I miss every day, nurtured and protected me by creating this container of safety and stability, Moose, my heart opener, funny bone prancing Poodle, walks forward with me in this joyful way. The light shines very brightly on this Poodle dog of mine.
 
Rest in peace, Nava Doberman—January 20, 2015 to February 22, 2023.  Happy Birthday Moose—February 24, 2023.
 
You light up my days.

​We all have these stories we tell. 
 
I like to break them into two buckets.
 
There are the ones we tell about those things that happen in our lives. You know, these stories we bring up at parties that we know will get a laugh. These stories that are classic and funny and so easy to share.  And each time we share these experiences we can hear the story as we tell it. And it comes out the same way each time. We can hear the repetition but can’t seem to detour from the path.
 
Because...
 
Well, these are really just good stories.  Like really good. They capture these moments that we are sharing about in such a good way.
 
 
These stories, I am finding lately that, though these are great stories, and basically true even though over time memory becomes the truth and the truth gets blurred by time. These are good stories. And so they come up. Even though I am a bit bored of them and when I share them, they feel routine and, to me, a bit predictable. And a bit pat. (trite)(mundane)(routine)(habitual)(automatic).
 
But God they are funny. 
 
Like the one about how we named our first dog story. Or the one about our Doberman’s girlfriend, who he dated for a quick minute, and then she had 12 puppies. (now that’s a story!). There’s the moving into Framingham story and the how I met my husband one, too. There’s the when I was pregnant and in law school and rear ended a fancy car in the parking garage, but when he saw my MASSIVE belly…precious cargo. And the we appreciate your talent story about landing a role in a film in New York that they suggested I do for free. 
 
And so many more. 
 
And I don’t want to hear myself tell them anymore. Even though, as I reflect on them as I reflect in this writing, I love these stories a lot.
 
So there are these stories. Still true. Faded a bit with time but I’ve told them so many times that each time I tell them, they are the exact same kind of true.
 
Then there are the other stories. 
 
These are more the ones we tell ourselves about ourselves and about other people.  These are not the, God that was such a funny moment story.  Nope.
 
These are the stories that fit a narrative that serves us. These are the stories that we have created over time because they fill a need. Because we need them. Because they make things make sense.  Until one day…oh fuck, they don’t. 
 
We still use them for a bit more after that. After the oh fuck moment. Because they are a habit and have kept us safe for such a long time and fit the rhythm of our internal dialog.  So we repeat them still. 
 
And each time, they feel that less good. 
 
I was coaching someone the other day, and we were talking about how the shifts we make in our evolutions of our soul in this journey of our human experience, these shifts, when we drop in there is often a delay. Our soul goes ‘oh thank fucking God that you made it here finally’ but in our bodies and our minds there is a bit of a lag. And so the stories, they continue for a bit.
 
And then, one day, we say this story out loud to our friend. Or our therapist. Or our friend who’s a therapist and these words, they exist in the air and we say, ‘oh fuck.’ But louder now, because this really isn’t true anymore.
 
And then we let them go.