No Promises.

Late February. The Toad's killing us, pitching fits, kicking, hitting, screaming. When he's out of control, he's gone. When he's not, there are flashes of his same sweet self. There's a new kid on the block. Nico. The Timber Wolf. One week old. He barks in his sleep, knew his name before he got here. This morning, walking back from The Toad's school in all this rain, there were hundreds of cardinals and robins. AMR's asleep upstairs with TW. We're about to slide into spring. Even in the brutal cold of the weekend, there was heat in the sun. I make no promises, but the maples are blooming, and nobody's up, and in the thin light from the overhead in the kitchen, I felt like I ought to tell all this to someone.