She’s mine. And I never lose things that matter.

Emma, is a little chaotic—but the good kind. The kind that makes piles of books and fabric and shiny things she swears she needs, then forgets where she put them. Sometimes I watch her walk into a room, turn in a circle like me before I lie down, and say, “What was I looking for?” She calls it being “scatterbrained.” I call it magic. Her brain is full of things—bright, beautiful, buzzing things—and I know she's trying to catch some of them before they float away.

 Her plan is to write every day. I approve. When she writes, she seems more herself. And she says this year will bring changes, so she wants to hang onto herself through writing. I get that too. Dogs are excellent at knowing who we are. I’ll help remind her if she forgets.

She also wants to read every night before bed. She calls it her Book Hoarder’s Bedtime Reading. She has a LOT of books. Piles of them. Towers, really. She’s trying to read them all so Joel, her son, isn’t stuck with mountains of random paperbacks and half-read novels when she’s gone. (That part made me whimper a little. I don’t like thinking about “gone.”)

She’s started a blog for me and for her.  One for me and one for her.   Not for fame (though I personally think she's famous in my world), but to keep her thoughts safe. I love when she types. Her fingers dance, and I nap nearby, knowing she’s doing something that feeds her soul. Sometimes she reads what she wrote out loud to me. I wag my tail in encouragement.

Emma teaches from home. That means more walks for me, more snacks, more cuddles. (I benefit, let’s be honest.) She teaches 380 students now. That’s a lot. I don’t even know that many squirrels. She works hard to make things meaningful for them. I see the effort. And I also see how fleeting it feels sometimes. But she keeps showing up. She keeps trying. That’s something I understand—persistence. Dogs know a thing or two about that.

She says she can’t do everything she wants every day: yoga, walking, cooking, cleaning, teaching, writing, reading, painting, beading, meditating, lifting weights, talking to friends. She tried. She really did. But now she’s learning to spread those dreams across the week. That seems wise. Dogs don’t do everything every day either. We just do what matters in the moment—sniff the air, nap in sunbeams, sit beside our people when they need it.

So here we are, in January. She’s writing. She’s reading. She’s trying. And I—Peanut—am here, watching, loving, reminding her that even if she forgets where she put her scissors or loses track of time, she’s doing just fine.

After all, she’s mine. And I never lose things that matter.