The Dog Days of Winter

As anyone who’s known me longer than ten minutes will tell you, I’m a dog person. And this isn’t mere admiration: After two family dogs and more than decade of canine-related nonprofit work, I like to think I know a bit about them, too. Have a question about temperament? I’m your girl. Wondering about body language, breed-specific traits, or animal-shelter stats? I’ve read an article or two (or two thousand).

So when my beloved mutt died last year and the time came to consider getting another, I felt confident in my ability to choose a pet that would fit in with my family’s lifestyle. I was looking, specifically, for a housebroken, older dog with a disposition suitable for a couple of empty-nesters. Calm. Easygoing. Happy to lounge on the couch and take slow, meandering walks through the neighborhood.

As I began to search through the local rescue organizations’ (painfully cute) listings, I reminded myself to stay level-headed and rational about this Very Important Decision. And for a while, I did exactly that.

Then I saw the brothers.

They were three months old, on their way up from Mississippi on a transport truck. The picture was blurry and inauspicious: One was howling, the other was staring in bald terror. They seemed to be shepherd mixes, though it was hard to say for sure.

Nope. I crossed them off the list. Not at all what we were looking for.

As the days passed, though, I found myself inexplicably thinking about that picture. A lot. When I wrote to the rescue to ask about the two pups, I learned that one of the brothers had already been adopted. But the other, they told me, was still available. The “mischievous” one. The howling one. His name was Hobbes.

Hobbes, like Calvin and Hobbes? That was my all-time favorite comic strip. Was it kismet? A sign? No. Of course not. This dog didn’t meet any of my checklist criteria. He was too young, for starters, and not even close to housebroken. And then there was that word: “mischievous.” No matter who I spoke to at the rescue, it came up again and again.

That weekend, I was gathered with friends at a writing retreat. I showed them his picture. Should I adopt him? “No,” they all answered, practically in unison. Right. Of course they were right. The next day, I went to a restaurant alone and started up a chat with my waitress. I showed her the picture. Should I adopt him? “Oh, definitely,” the waitress said.

Well, then. If this perfect stranger thought I should do it, who was I to argue?

My husband and I decided to set up a meet-and-greet. When we set off, I didn’t even bring a leash. It was only a meeting, I said. Probably nothing will come of it. “Sure, mom,” my son said, rolling his eyes.

It was raining that day. We entered the foster family’s house, shook off our soggy shoes, and rounded the corner of their kitchen. The foster mom was on her knees, holding the puppy back. When she let go, he exploded like a cannon shot towards us. Hello, hello, hello! Thanks for coming! I love you!

He was tiny. So, so tiny. And absolutely, completely nuts. He chased the family’s cat like a frenzied cyclone. When we took him outside for a “walk,” he was afraid of the rain and had to be carried. He chased his own tail. He leapt great distances in a single bound. Adopting this creature, we all knew, was a totally irrational, possibly insane idea. An hour later, we drove away with a borrowed leash and a puppy on my lap.

The following months went about as well as you might guess. Hobbes was resistant to housetraining (to put it generously). A few weeks after we brought him home, we hosted my daughter’s graduation party—yes, excellent timing, I agree—and I spent most of the day in the yard trying to keep him from relieving himself all over our guests’ feet. That pretty much set the tone for the remainder of 2025.

Now, Hobbes is 11 months old. And as the new year dawns around us, I’m happy to report that he has grown into a peaceful, mature, relaxed— Just kidding. If anything, this dog is more devilish than ever. He’s stubborn. He’s destroyed dog beds, shoes, blankets, Christmas ornaments, loaves of bread, furniture, and (most deplorably) books. His energy is limitless. He bounces from one end of the room to another like Tigger on steroids. He has an unhealthy fixation on tennis balls. He gets into everything, all the time. He is, in a word, mischievous. (Can’t say they didn’t warn me.)

So. I must surely be exhausted and miserable, right? Exhausted, yes. Absolutely, 100 percent yes. But miserable? Turns out, I’m as surprised as anyone to report that this whirling dervish keeps me laughing in an almost endless loop. He keeps me nimble, too. Dare I say… he keeps me young? When he finally tires, he snuggles on my lap every night. He loves riding in the car. He loves all other dogs and all other people. He even loves going to the vet. He kind of loves…everything. And in a year when that sort of positivity was in short supply, I gratefully drank up every drop.

Bottom line, here? Always listen to your waitress. And your gut. Because sometimes, your rational mind is the last to know what you really need.

Happy New Year, one and all. May your 2026 be as wonderful as Hobbes thinks it is.

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Trisha Blanchet is the author of Murder Like Magic (coming August 25, 2026, from Crooked Lane), The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key), The Cow Crashed into the Moon, and more. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast, a member of the Tall Poppy Writers, and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).

Murder Like Magic < Preorder here!

The Neath Trilogy (Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key) < Get your copies here!

Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans < Learn more here!

A Mighty Blaze Podcast < Great author interviews here!

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