Eleven Dogs, One Storm, and No One Got Pregnant: A Quiet Weekend Gone Feral While Megan, Austin, and Alida took off for a sunny (and slightly soggy) weekend in Wilmington, Jamie and I stayed behind for what was supposed to be our “quiet weekend.” You know the kind. The mythical, never-actually-real weekend where you get to sleep in, maybe take a peaceful walk, eat food that didn’t come out of a paper bag, wasn’t microwaved, and didn’t involve stepping over a bowl of kibble or someone’s tail to eat it. Instead, we got: One tropical storm system Four additional dogs Seven regulars already living here Mud, fur, and emotional instability (mostly mine) And the sudden realization that “quiet weekend” is just a phrase people use when they hate themselves It Always Starts with Good Intentions Jamie’s been rescuing dogs for years. She’s placed more unwanted mutts into loving homes than some shelters do in a fiscal year. She does it all with a sixth sense, like a psychic w...

I haven’t even left yet, and I already miss him. Titus is sprawled on the chair  near my backpack, suspicious. He’s no fool—he’s seen this routine before. The laundry pile disappears, the suitcase reappears, and his world tips slightly sideways. The tail doesn’t wag quite as freely. He shadows me like he’s trying to solve a mystery before it’s too late. The truth is, I can call Jamie. I can text the kids. I can hop on FaceTime and see their faces and reassure myself that all is well. But Titus? He doesn’t get video calls. He doesn’t know that I’m just gone temporarily. He only knows I’m gone . Vanished. No warning, no explanation. That’s what hits me the hardest. This dog—rescued from a Walmart trunk, turned into my shadow, my buddy, my once-small fluffball turned suspiciously food-motivated companion—won’t understand why I’m not there to let him sniff every random patch of grass like it contains the secrets of the universe. Who’s going to give him those unnecessarily long, me...