There's a picture of me as a kid, sitting on the kitchen floor, feeding the family dog. I don't remember it. But I've looked at it a thousand times.
It's the earliest evidence I have of the truest thing about me.
Dogs have been the through-line of my whole life.
The dogs I grew up with, who somehow always knew when it was a bad day. The thirteen guide dog puppies I raised in my twenties, who taught me more about myself than I knew there was to learn. You love a puppy knowing she has to leave. Knowing that's the whole point. And then you do it again. I'm still not sure how, honestly.
One of those puppies, Fabiana, came back to me retired. She's asleep on the couch right now. The whole arc of my adult life, in one dog.
And then the careers. I've tried a couple times to do work that wasn't about dogs. It never quite stuck. The marketing job that became a pet pharmacy job that became me, at my kitchen table, making this. They follow me. They've always followed me.
I think what dogs taught me, mostly, is that love doesn't have to be earned. You don't have to be impressive that day, or productive, or okay. They don't think you're behind on anything. They think you're home.
Tail Mail is the newest version of this. Probably the most intentional thing I've made in a long time. And the one that's most clearly about the part of my life I've never really been able to put down.
Anyway. If you've ever cried in your car listening to a podcast about dogs, I think you'll like it here.
Stacey
(Bob and Fabiana are asleep)