Not just any cat.

Leonardo DiCATrio

Joe, our landscaper, stopped me while I was heading up the blackberry path for lunch, and offered us a cat.  We needed a new rat catcher for the barn, so I encouraged him to run it by my husband.

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As the sun snuck below the sky on a crisp Monday evening, I arrived early to my dance studio on High Street and received horrible news – the studio was closing.  I sat right down and stuck my nose in a book to avoid openly crying.

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Firefly’s baby boy.

Meet Hank

Late last fall, Firefly the Scottish Highland Cow (shown above) gave birth to a beautiful bull calf.  After a heated vote at a staff lunch, he was named Hank.  Hugh was a close second, but after getting to know him, he’s totally a Hank.

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I’m a store owner.

I purchased a square-shaped, spiral notebook when I was 14, maybe 15. It’s about 7 inches on each side, 1” thick with a faded navy cover that has designs on it similar to the ones created by an old toy I used to have that held a pen still while a paper turned below it on a little wonky, Lazy-Susan.

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We finished.

Amid an August full moon night, I lay alone on the couch, eyes fixed wide to the ceiling in fear. Sleep wasn’t interested. My hand bounced, powered by the unwelcomed adrenalin that coursed through my veins. We’d just sold the book, and now, we had to finish. Finish. Finish. Just finish. I’ve finished things in my life – college, culinary school, relationships, leases, jobs, projects . . . why was this so raw and different? Why did I feel that it might literally kill me?

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