The end of the year, the middle of the puppy, and new beginnings
John Irving has famously said he doesn’t start a book until he knows the ending.
I can’t even imagine that. For me, the experience of writing a feels like fighting my way through a thicket of thorns armed with toothbrush and zero sense of where I’m going. Somehow, though, I do get to the end of a draft, which I did recently and handed off to my wonderful editor. With the work out of my hands for the moment, I’m facing other endings, like the conclusion of 2024. Can someone please tell me where it went? There are specific endings in these waning days of the year—that first draft, my early fifties, and the conclusion of various chapters in my life. Some endings are harder than others. They always seem to take me by surprise though I should know better by now.
I’m in the middle of other things—puppydom most prominently.
Maggie (who probably thinks her name is “Maggie-no!”) celebrated her half year on Winter Solstice. Our four months with her have flown by, and we’re still getting to know her. She’s brought much happiness into our household but unexpected sorrow too. Because getting to know Maggie is part of letting go of Pita, who died eighteen months ago after being ill for more than two years.
Pita was born here in Baja and spent all eight winters of her too-short life on its sandy beaches. I watch Maggie’s ears flapping in the wind and think of the first time we took Pita out on the beach in front of the puppy foster. Maggie tears down the waterline toward a pack of dogs and I remember Pita’s hijinks on the same shore. How she’d growl at a certain dog who came up our accesso uninvited once, which was exactly one time too many. How she’d curl her lips if you touched her snout with wet hands. How she’d bark and lunge if we got in the water, trying to “save” us. Maggie doesn’t do any of those things though I found myself anticipating her to when we first arrived. Last night Maggie sat barking at cows on the road, and her vocalizing turned into a full-on, entertaining yodel. And in that moment, I found I couldn’t recall what Pita’s bark sounded like. Letting go of the old is part of embracing the new. It hurts a little, sometimes a lot, and I remind myself that transitions take time.
Maggie will be a puppy for another six months at least, and I don’t want to miss out. So in these middle days of her first year, I stop myself when I’m feeling impatient— like when she’s racing around the yard with a pair of underwear in her mouth or wakes me up gagging in the wee hours. Or eats the dishcloth again or bites my hands to bits. I think of Pita’s too-short time, and I sit down with my new pup. As she burrows her head into my lap, I tell her how amazing she is. I feel grateful that she is healthy and active and alive. She looks at me with such intelligence, it’s almost like she understands. So I try to explain that if she just chills out a little, the kitty might actually befriend her. Or at least hate her a little less.
Just as surely as there are endings and middles here, I’m at the start of new things too.
A brand-new year is just around the corner. A brand-new book—fingers crossed—will be published in 2026. I’ll be doing a little Pacific Northwest tour for the paperback edition of Crow Talk. New creative outlets, new friendships, and new opportunities are popping up in my life alongside a new-found appreciation for the old. I know that whatever happens in 2025 will take me by surprise. I hope I can be ready for new beginnings and recognize them when I see them, notice the promise of them in their early shapes, like the hints of a great dog in a pretty good puppy.