Tag: Love

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

My Favorite Love Story; Happy Birthday, Alex

RaeAnna

Alex is the person I have written about most. In a way, he’s at the heart of every word I write, and my heart will always write about him. He turned 33 two days ago, and for the first time in a few years, I wasn’t able to celebrate with him. I didn’t post anything the day of because I couldn’t come up with words to say, and, if I’m being honest, I will never be good enough with words to properly convey what he means to me. 

This is and always has been who we are together.

I have spent twelve birthdays loving Alex. My entire adult life. I used to believe all love was conditional, but over the last twelve years, he has proven time and time again that some love comes without strings, rare though it may be. Through college, break ups, an enlistment, deployments, vacations, cross-country moves, deaths, coming outs, falling in love, buying cars, growing up, fights, and so much more, we have persevered. 

At 31, I’m not old, but I’m no longer young. I can look back on the stunningly complicated life that I have led because Alex came into my life. Thank you choir. Every person we encounter shapes us in some small way, but there are people who are fundamentally impactful. Looking at my life, Alex is the fundamental human for me. I am who I am because of him. I am because of him. Every story I tell, I get to tell because he showed me I was worth loving, that life isn’t just pain. Life can also be joy. He saved my life in the abstract but also held my head above water many years ago. 

Falling in love isn’t a choice, but the act of loving someone is a choice. To stay, to work, to be present, to ask the hard questions, to show up, to admit fault, to forgive, to see someone at their worst and at their best, to communicate, to be compassionate, to challenge, to support, and all the in betweens, that is a choice. An active choice made every moment of every day in big and little ways. Alex has made the choice to love me even when he has had every reason to walk away. From the very beginning, if he were any less of the man he is, he would have and should have walked away. When we broke each other’s hearts, he could have walked away. When I came out, he could have walked away. He never has. I hope he never will. At this point, there’s only so many life altering things I can drop in his lap.  

Our love started in college. A grand, sweeping love. The kind I dove into with body and soul. The kind that is devastatingly beautiful. A once in a lifetime kind of love. I knew the moment we kissed I would die loving him, and I will. Though, I’ll never wear white or have children with him, I will grow old by his side—good lord, I hope his future wife likes me. We have never been a perfect couple; there is no such thing. To me, he will always be perfect. The pain. The love. The tears. The laughter. The life we built and lost. The love we found and have worked to maintain. It is all perfect. We are my favorite love story. Love cannot conquer all (it’s the gay bit), but it has conquered so very much.

One of my favorite pictures of us.

Life didn’t play out the way I saw it at 19. Although, looking back, I’m not exactly sure what I saw for us. I saw him. He saw me. There have been so many twists and turns to get lost in the way I used to get lost in his eyes in our bed ten years ago. I’m not going to go down the what if road because I am who I am and he deserves to find someone who is not gay. I don’t think I would change a single thing about our story. It’s beautiful and sad. If I could go back, I would tell myself to give more grace, be angry less, communicate more, be vulnerable, tell the hard truths, stop being strong all the time, lean into him because he loved me as I was, as I am, and there’s nothing I could have done that would change that. 

I will never love anyone the way I have and do love Alex. A love I could spend forever writing about, and I might. A love that I can’t explain but I feel so deeply. It’s transcendent. 

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

The Vice Grip In My Chest

RaeAnna

I don’t exactly know what I’m trying to write, what the point of this is, if there’s a point at all, where this will even start, or end. 

I love old and forgotten things. Broken. Worn. I see myself in them. 

All I know is that it feels like my lungs and heart are slowly being compressed in a vice grip I can’t shake. I can’t stop crying. But I can’t seem to start breathing. Every time I almost get a breath in my lungs, the vice grip clamps down even harder. My body feels like it’s slowly dying, and I actually know what that feels like. Though, I know this time it’s just emotional pain corporally manifesting rather than internal organ failure. I’ll take one over the other, and it’s not the one I’m struggling with right now.

My pain is so interwoven with one another. Start pulling on one string of pain, and all the rest start to twinge. Trauma. Survivor. PTSD. Love. Anxiety. Failure. Depression. Abandonment. Worth. I can handle them all. I’ve done it over and over and over again for so many reasons. I fight those demons daily, and I’m still here. I’ll be okay, but I’m crumbling right now.  

I can’t sleep. And food, just, yeah. I’ve been exercising like my life depends on it. In a way maybe it does. The mind needs sleep more than the body, but both have learned how to survive on all but none. I run and do yoga every day. I never stop moving, trying to find something to take my mind off of this pain. Pushing myself past boundaries I hadn’t known existed so the physical pain can, at least, match the emotional. 

I couldn’t sleep last night. So I took to the woods at 3:00 am with my dog to run until my legs couldn’t go on. Truly. I ran until my legs couldn’t, so I sat down and cried. I focused on my heart beat. Feeling my heart condition being pushed to its most extreme limits so my heart would feel like it could explode at any moment because the physical pain made the fact my heart is imploding on itself over and over again a little less poignant. I crawled back in bed and never found sleep. So I laid on the bathroom floor and sobbed until the sun came up. 

I left my room and chose to use my rare free time to chase happiness, doing things that bring me joy. REI, the zoo, a carousel ride, walking Hermann Park, a train ride, dinosaurs at the Science Museum, art at the MFA, more walking, writing at one of my favorite coffee shops. I’ve managed to make my feet cover 26 miles in the last sixteen hours. Yet I’m not tired. I’m not happy. Nothing I do allows me to breathe or dry my tears. 

I’ve been told my entire life I’m horrible at being vulnerable. Vulnerability has always been dangerous. Surviving doesn’t allow any room for weakness, mistakes, failure. I can. With a chosen few… The few who chose themselves to put in the work, to push. To not take ‘no’ for an answer.

It’s the common complaint from friends and partners. They don’t know me because I don’t show them the parts I’m scared of. I’m scared because I can’t change them. I have no control over them. I’ve been met with callous cruelty far more than loving empathy. I make jokes to distract from the agony of so many things. If I make them laugh, they won’t see the silent desperation in my eyes or the tremble in my voice or the way my body language gives nothing away. I have no problem putting down these feelings here, sharing it with the world. Ask me to crumble in front of my people, I can’t. 

I can, but they have to push. They have to demand, leave me with no other option. They have to keep showing up and saying they want the broken parts. They have to see the shine in my eyes and the stoicism take over. An absence of feeling usually means only one thing: They’re on to something. I’m not okay. I’m falling apart. Quickly. I will leave and disintegrate if they don’t just ask the one question: “Why?” Then make me answer it, no matter what. Don’t try to dry my eyes or let me make jokes. Don’t even try to hold me or make it better because they can’t. Not until it’s come out. Then simply exist with me as I lose it. 

The moment I know something is off, wrong, different, emotional, I steal myself. Compartmentalizing every single feeling except kindness and empathy far away from the surface so I can be there for them without needing a single thing in return. I’m a great friend, but I’ve had a hard time letting others be friends to me. So they’re left wondering if I ever felt anything at all. 

I’ve been told I have no feelings; computer programs have more emotions than I do; psychopathic tendencies; cruelly unfeeling. Surviving meant keeping emotions at bay until there was an appropriately solitary moment to deal with them, the shower, before holding my chin up to keep on keeping on. The truth is, I feel everything. All the time. So deeply. So viscerally. I take everything personally. Over-analyzing every conversation and interaction to find out what I did wrong, what I could have done better, how I could have been better. I just don’t show it. 

Someone spent eleven years loving me without knowing I’m sensitive. 

I compartmentalize to survive. I hurt people with my compartmentalization, which only makes me hurt more. 

The fact is, my inability to be vulnerable means I have so few people in my life. I know this to be true. I’ve known it for a long time. But people keep leaving without ever trying to push past a single boundary I’ve erected purely for self-preservation. I can give help without ever asking for what I need. 

So I’m thirty and broken. 

I’m going through it. 

I know I’ll get used to this new vice grip in my chest, and I’ll breathe again. I don’t know when. I know because I have a few I’m already used to, but this one feels different. Bigger. More real. 

11..., Lifestyle

11… Things I Learned From Heart Break

RaeAnna
Life is better with love.

Cuffing season is upon us. If you don’t know what that is: the season people search out a partner for the long or short term to cuddle up with through the cold months and/or celebrate the holidays with; beginning in October and lasting until after Valentine’s Day. 

As all the beautiful people in the world are coupling up, I’m reminded of one of the possible and inevitable endings every couple faces: the end. Every. Relationship. Ends. Some with a breakup. Others with death… We call these the lucky ones because they lasted. Either way, every relationship ends and is often partnered with heartbreak. Happy holidays! Let’s talk about pain.

Heartbreak comes in all shapes and no two feel the same. So often heartbreak is equated with romantic relationships, but it doesn’t have to be. I’ve had friendships hurt far more than romantic relationships. Whether romantic, platonic, familial, or other, to love is to open ourselves up to pain. So much so that, for me, love and pain are all but synonyms. Not to detract or overwrite the joy and warmth of love, but those feelings cannot exist in the absence of pain. The two breathe in tandem making one all the more poignant because of the other.

My heart may break, but I won’t stop loving.

Autumn and winter are the seasons where couples, families, and friends come together. In Texas, it’s wedding season. The holidays are looming; families and friends are planning gatherings. It’s a time to be with loved ones. Social media becomes even more inundated with people declaring their affections for one another. These occasions also have a tendency to bring up unresolved issues, hurt feelings, drama, and all things heart aching. There’s love and happiness in there too, I suppose. For me, it has been no different. Well, the declaring my love on social media for a romantic someone is far from likely. I’m speaking to the holiday heart aches. Historically, October has been a consistently traumatic month for me. Some of the worst events of my life happened in October. Some of the biggest heartbreaks too. October wrote scars across my heart, so I’m always happy to say ‘Au revoir, October’ and ‘Привет, Christmas!’ 

In no uncertain terms, heartbreak is the fucking worst. I’m not talking about breakups, friendship endings, or endings specifically. Breakups are not always painful; some pain does not accompany an ending; and heartbreak can happen when no relationship ever occurred at all. It’s the pain that sits unrelentingly inside my chest. Whatever the reason. Whoever the person. No matter the relationship. Pain is still pain, and it has been my greatest, most consistent teacher. 

Over the course of thirty years, I’ve learned a thing or two from my heart breaking, and I expect I’ll learn many more. Some opinions may change, and hopefully I get better and less bitter with time. I remain hopeful.

I don’t know if I’ll ever walk down an aisle in a white dress, but I’ll wear them with flower crowns any day.
  1. Love Hard; Love Ferociously; Love Resolutely I truly believe in loving with everything I have. Friends, lovers, family. I will give everything I have and everything I am. I have never regretted loving someone fiercely; though it has been painful, I don’t look back with regrets or what ifs. Even as endings loomed, I loved hard even when quitting would be the easier thing to do.  
  2. Love Has Boundaries Boundaries are hard for me, but I’m learning love, healthy love, has boundaries. Just because I love ferociously and without limits does not mean it’s a free for all. It took me a long time to know what I would endure and what I will not. I was a doormat for a very, very long time, but I’m finally learning how to stand up for myself. That comes with setting boundaries for myself and for my relationships. I’m still not great at this, but I’m trying, damnit.
  3. Timing Matters I wish this weren’t true. Sometimes you meet the right person at the wrong time. It’s so cliché, and yet it’s true. Timing matters, and sometimes that’s the only reason a relationship needs to crumble.
  4. Set Expectations Take this in any and all ways. Friendship, workships, family, sexual partners, romance, whatever. Expectations are so important. If they’re not established, how the hell is the other person to know what I want and need and expect from them and us. Expectations change with time and growth, so continue to talk about them. Have check-ins. Regular check-ins! 
  5. A Breakup Isn’t Failure This one took me a long time to come to terms with. I have a deeply rooted fear of failure. Anything not working out was a failure, a personal failure, all my fault, and no one else’s. I know in my brain this isn’t true; my irrational brain has not caught up. Breakups—romantic, familial, platonic—are not failures. Sometimes things just don’t work, and that’s okay. People are not always compatible, and that does not mean either one is wrong or problematic or “crazy.” It just means people are different. The failure is in not trying at all. 
  6. Radical Honesty I’m not a relationship expert, obviously. I’m sitting here in my office absolutely single at thirty, but I have had incredibly successful relationships and breakups. People ask me for relationship advice—I don’t know why either. I always say: Communicate all the time about everything. There is no such thing as too much honesty. In my relationships, I practice radical honesty, which is why I’m so close with all my exes. We never had secrets. There was nothing to hide, so when an ending came, there wasn’t anything to be angry about. No dark secret that tore us apart. The problems were on the surface. They’d been talked about for a long time. We tried working through them because we were honest about what we needed and wanted from one another. We gave it our all, but things didn’t work for whatever reason. Lack of love has never been at fault. Radical honesty doesn’t prevent pain or arguments. It may not even prevent a breakup. It does make everything healthier, happier, and so much easier. My life is so much better because I have been honest in my relationships. Even when honesty stings, it saves much bigger pain.   
  7. You Will Not Be the Same Person People change us. Every single person in my life has influenced who I am today. Those I have let into the deepest corners of my heart and soul have a larger influence over how I move through the world, which is why I’m choosy! I don’t want to be influenced by crap people. Ideally these very important people make me a better person. Even in heartbreak, I have take aways on how I can do better in the future for myself and in relationship with others. I am not perfect. I never will be, but I am a better person because of all the incredible humans I have loved. 
  8. Always Say ‘I Love You’ I have never regretted saying these three words. Sometimes they’re not said back, and that’s okay. I don’t say them with the expectation of hearing it. Love is amazing when it’s reciprocated. It can fucking wound when it’s not, but I will always say I love you to the people I do love because I don’t want them to wonder or not know where they fit in my heart. I say it a lot, but I also show it, but I’m also going to say it. I want the people I love to know without a shadow of a doubt that they are loved.  
  9. Fight For Love, But Know When To Leave I have fought so hard for love. Not a regret in sight. I will always fight for love as long as there is a love to be fought for. Sometimes, I’ve fought a lot longer than I maybe should have. There has always been that moment when I knew in my heart it’s time to be done. I can’t tell you when that moment is because it’s different for every person and every relationship. When that feeling settled in, I let go. The pain didn’t necessarily stop, but I learned to stop fighting for something that wasn’t meant to be.
  10. Love Is Not Enough I said this at nineteen. I’ll say it at thirty. Love does not conquer all. Love is not always enough. This is probably an unpopular opinion. Love is enough of a reason to sure try. Many obstacles can be conquered with love, dedication, and hard work from both partners. But there are obstacles that even love cannot surmount. That does not mean the love is any less real or pure. It just means life is ridiculously hard.
  11. Life Goes On I’ve had a breakup where I really wish this weren’t true. I’ve had my heart broken with grief over someone passing or friends leaving my life. The pain doesn’t always get easier. I hate to say it, but sometimes the pain doesn’t go away. I’ve learned to live with those aches like the knee pain I have from my ballet days. Life does go on.

bisous un обьятий,
RaeAnna

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In My Own Words, Lifestyle

In Seven Days, I Turn 30 Years Old

RaeAnna

This past year has been quite the year. So long!

I turned twenty-nine. 

I rescued a dog, who had thirteen puppies. 

I raised those puppies and that dog in the midst of a global pandemic while depending on the kindness of family and friends as we bought a house as we dealt with rare puppy disorders as we coped with Dylan losing his job as my work slowed down to a near halt as we criss-crossed the country. 

Me living my life.

For the first three months of the pandemic, I was stuck inside with fifteen dogs, of which thirteen were completely dependent upon their mama and me. I was run ragged to the point of complete exhaustion. My body was even starting to give out under the physical strain of toting around thirteen large puppies. 

As a constant struggler of anxiety, depression, PTSD, and in a perpetual nihilistic crisis, it was not an ideal time to be trapped inside with me, myself, and my multiple internal narratives of doom for company. 

Now, I work from home under normal circumstances, so I am very used to my own company. I used to joke about never leaving the house, but that’s not nearly true. I was always on the go. Having lunch with friends, traveling, going to dog parks, attending events, exploring fun Houston things, creating content, and so much more. My calendar and life were filled with talented people who inspire me. 

Everything changed. The puppies gave me a brief respite. They’ve helped alleviate the catastrophic train wreck that would have been my mental health with their pure existence in my life. But during the pandemic, I’ve felt like I’m watching my impending quarter-life crisis trundling right at me for all of the reasons: imagined and real. 

I turn thirty in one week. I am not one of those women who are scared of turning thirty. In fact, I quite embrace it. The vast majority of me is so ready to be out of my twenties. Those really sucked a big D. I’ve gone so far as to preemptively tell people I’m thirty for the last few months because why the fuck not. At the same time, thirty does come with its fair share of burdens.

As a woman, this is an age where culture, society, the media are persistently confronting me with an alarm clock ticking down the time left on my worth to and in this world. 

I feel like time is running out. I’m almost thirty. Society is a barrage that, as a woman, life ends at thirty. I know it doesn’t. So far all the women I know over thirty have not ceased to exist when their 10,957 day arrived. But, no matter how hard I’ve tried, I can’t help internalizing all the cues telling me life as I know it is over for me and, in a week, I’ll be shipped off to the glue factor with last month’s Kentucky Derby winner—who even remembers that horse anyways. I think if we took the part where I had to age in society out of the equation, I wouldn’t care at all. If I could hermit á la Michel de Montaigne circa 1571, I don’t think I would give a rats ass about aging and this post wouldn’t exist at all. Unfortunately, I must be of this world.

Me wearing the bikini and being all but thirty in this world because I can and will and won’t stop.

I would be 100% lying to you if I said, “I have not ended up covered in snot crying on the kitchen floor being held by my partner as the dogs try to figure out what’s wrong with their seemingly resilient mama because I’m getting older and the world will stop looking at me and stop caring because I have a gray hair (I haven’t found one yet; that’s not a lie) and the hints of forehead wrinkles so none of my big dreams will come true because they haven’t come to fruition yet and all this work has been for naught and fucking life is hard.” That would be a lie. It would be a lie if I said it didn’t happen at regular intervals over the last two years. I’m not scared of getting older, but I’m scared of how the world will treat me as I get older. The world hasn’t been kind to me for the first thirty years when I was apparently worth something, so how the hell is it going to be for the next seventy years? Society tells me: not great. 

Life is terrifying. There is so much to process, handle, solve, enjoy, escape, see, do, taste, smell, and avoid all the time; honestly, I love each and every one of those pieces of living life. But being an aging woman is just terrifying. I know it’s different for me than it was for my mother and grandmothers, but things haven’t changed so much that wrinkles and grays and numbers don’t matter in the world. They do. And I don’t really care for anyone to tell me otherwise because my entire life all I’ve ever been validated for is my looks and what that means for my place in the world. The marriage I could make, the doors that will open, the way life will be “easier” because I was tall, thin, fair. So for me and my life experience, the moment my boobs start to droop, my waistline starts to expand, my hair starts to thin, my skin starts to slacken, what will I be? Who will care? It doesn’t matter and has never mattered that I’m intelligent, well-spoken, a linguist, possess a wicked wit, kind, giving, accepting, an activist, a writer, a creative, a critic, a dog mom, a friend, and all the other things that actually make me me and interesting and complex. My existence has always and almost solely been validated and made worthy by the way I look. 

Who I am has always just been a positive addendum to the way I look. 

I have never liked close up portraits. My teeth are funny. My nose is weird. I’m hyper critical of everything. As I get older, I see the lines, the pores, the acne that had never been there, everything. But if I don’t take them now, I never will, and I’ll look back and say, “damnit, I should have.” And I don’t do regret.

So… I love getting older. I’m wiser, funnier, smarter, humbler, more experienced, a better listener, a better talker, a deeper thinker than I was at twenty. I think I’m cuter, but that’s probably because I know how to do my makeup better. I truly and completely love getting older. Life is so much better than it was twenty years ago, ten years ago, a year ago. I know myself more completely. I am happier at a week away from thirty than I was at a week away from twenty. 

But… I’m scared of getting older. I don’t know how the world will treat me. I know how the world has treated women. I know how I want the world to treat women. And goddamnit, I have the audacity to age like the women who’ve come before me.

Now… I can only do one thing. Wake up tomorrow and keep on living my life. I’m going to moisturize and exercise—sometimes, infrequently, it will become a habit—to fight off aging physically, emotionally, but most of all mentally. More than anything, I’m going to keep working on my dreams. I’m going to keep creating new dreams. I’m going to strive for happiness. I’m going to live my life fully and enthusiastically surrounded by weirdos who love life and me. I’m going to support women and be everyone’s cheerleader. I’m going to be kind and find beauty in my body as it changes with the days and years I have ahead of me. I’m going to write. I’m going to lift up women’s voices of all ages because the world needs to remember that we women continue to evolve not stagnate. I’m going to tell my stories because I have seventy more years of stories, and I’ve hardly started on telling the first thirty years. My life isn’t over. I’m not done living. I will age with audacity.

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

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Blog + Dog, In My Own Words, Lifestyle

Christmas Tree Hunting in 2020; A Family Tradition

RaeAnna
I love Christmas tree hunting even more beause of Beau. | Sweater | Jeans | Flannel | Boots | Beret

Christmas tree hunting has been a tradition my entire life.

What is the definition of Christmas tree hunting? For me, it means, first, locating a Christmas tree farm: one that grows Christmas trees. [My personal favorite in the Houston area is High Star Christmas Tree Farm. It’s north of Houston. They have amazing prices and friendly staff.] Once at the farm, the hunt is on. Grab a saw and a measuring stick. Find the plumpest, tallest, most symmetrical tree that your space allows. Lay down on the ground, saw that tree down. Shake it, bundle it, pay for it, put it in the truck, head home to set it up and decorate!

Every single year, minus 1999, 2014, and 2015, I have gone to a tree farm, hunted the perfect tree, and cut it down. By I cut it down, I mean, my father, my boyfriend, my friend, my boyfriend, anyone that wasn’t me cut it down. We’ll get to that in a moment. The reason for no tree hunting in 1999 was: My family and I weren’t home for Christmas. We were celebrating in California with family, so we decorated a Christmas cactus. 2014 and 2015 did not have a tree hunt because I was living with my best friend’s family, and they have a fake tree. 

Beau loves the big dogs that moo so much!!!

Out of my thirty Christmases, I have had a real live tree personally cut down (by a someone close to me but not me) for twenty-seven of those Christmases. 

The most fun part about Christmas trees… I’M ALLERGIC!!! Our love is greater than my inability to touch them. I have a commitment to real trees because I love them, I love their smell, I love having a real tree that I picked out of the ground. Luckily, I have people who love me enough to struggle cutting down a tree, setting it up, and decorating it. I, graciously, take on the role of manager, pastry chef, and barista. Everyone gets what they want, but mostly I do.

Loving on the best girl in the whole world.

Once Beau entered the family, she started coming on the hunt for the perfect Christmas tree. This is her fourth year. This year, we have five extra dogs in the house. We decided to save our sanity, and only brought Beau with us to hunt. She loves it. She loved looking at the big dogs that go moo and rubbing up against the pine needles. She did her very best to try and greet every human and pupper she met. And per usual, she did not want to cooperate for family pictures, but I managed to get one nonetheless. 

This is also the first Christmas in my own house. A house with a very high ceiling, a very large living room, and fireplace warranting a large ass tree. I managed to find the chonkiest twelve foot tree I could find. It is a giant of a tree. I love it so much. The amount of joy it brings me is too great for words. Pictures will be coming soon. Bringing it in, setting it up, and decorating it was a several day process because it’s very large and very beautiful. I am in love with my Christmas tree. 

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna + Beau

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Blog + Dog, Books, Fiction

Story Time

RaeAnna

DSC_0462
Reading When You Love A Dog by M.H. Clark with Tess and the puppies! | Shirt | Glasses |Pants |

This may come as a shock to you, but I read a lot. I think story time is important for everyone, including puppies.

They’re six weeks old today. They love playing outside, eating all the food, gnawing on plants, pooping everywhere, and taking naps. I can’t wait for them to learn how to climb stairs. Carrying thirteen heavy, growing puppies up and down the stairs four plus times a day is exhausting. Although, I’m going to have a great butt when this is all said and done. They have loved running around Amanda’s – read this post if you don’t know what I’m talking about – backyard and laying in the sun. Today, they spent nine hours outside; 70° couldn’t be better for them. They’ve also found a love of playing in water. When it gets warmer, we’re planning on filling the kiddy pool, the one they were born in, for them to splash around. 

Whenever I sit down, all thirteen fuzz-butts come running and volley for a place in my lap. It’s heaven. They always sit so cute, I thought it would be a great time to read them a book, or, at least, pose with a book for a super cute picture. It did not go quite so smoothly. They were too excited about literally anything else to crawl in my lap. We’ll try again another time, but we did get some cute photos and a lot of bloopers. 

DSC_0399
Reading with as many puppies as I could wrangle.

I bought When You Love A Dog by M.H. Clark from a store here in Houston back in February before the puppies and Tess arrived on the scene. A week later, my house had fifteen dogs instead of the one. When you love a dog, you take on a lot of responsibility and tasks you probably wouldn’t otherwise, like not sleeping, cleaning poop, doing laundry at 4:00 am, bottle feeding every two hours, spending thousands on emergency vet runs, moving in with your best friend so the puppies can be safe and happy, making stinky puppy food at 1:30/5:30 am, and so many more things. I took on Tess and the circus because I love Beau with my entire heart. Tess needed someone to love her and help her through this time, and that person was me. I knew it the moment I stood in the field coaxing her into my arms. I’m exhausted, broke, homeless (not really, but it kind of feels that way), and I couldn’t be happier. Loving dogs has always been the best part of my life. Now I can love thirteen puppies and help them find their furever homes so other people can love a dog too. 

When You Love A Dog is a cute little book perfect for any dog owner. I can’t wait to decorate one of the rooms in my home with pictures of all the puppies, Tess, and Beau and fill that room with sweet little books like these. “When you love a dog, someone waits for you, with a true and joyful heart.” It couldn’t be truer. My life is hectic and exhausting, but I have never felt more loved by my fur babies and my friends. This has been an incredible blessing.  

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna + Tess + The Circus

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Title: When You Love A Dog
Author: M.H. Clark
Illustrator: Tatsuro Kiuchi
Publisher: Compendium Publishing
Copyright: 2018
ISBN: 9781943200986