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Sweet weekend snoozes

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Most people use the weekends to unwind and pamper themselves. Well, I am the same way, but with my pup. As a dog parent, I always want the best for my little Dyson. Sometimes a nice bath and nap on my Brooklinen sheets is all he needs to feel good.

Whether you are a dog or cat person, furry friends bring so much joy to our lives! Even when Dyson sleeps, just noticing how sweet he looks makes me smile. I think my dog deserves his own Instagram. I am always tempted to fill up my feed with cute pictures like this one.

My baby Dyson is cute art inspiration!

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Compromise has a negative connotation, but finding middle ground helped to revive one of my passions: painting. I graduated from college with an art degree, but I have not made any art in awhile. I have been thinking about painting lately, but there are many reasons as to why I have put it off. It is a hassle to set up an easel, get paints out, and find the space to create. So, I got an iPad and all those problems were solved.

My iPad acts as a digital canvas, there are very few limitations, and most importantly, no mess. I used my new found medium to combine what I know with what I love, and created a portrait of my dog, Dyson. My artwork allowed me to show off his best attributes: a fluffy coat and happy face.

I do not know if this will be a sustainable medium for me. I have to relearn a new surface, a new set of tools, and a new way of working. I am hoping one of the millions of ProCreate YouTube videos will help me spread up this process, but only time will tell.

Sleepy Saturday Baby – this bed is my bed

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Another ongoing photo series of mine—taking pictures of Dyson—is also an ongoing ode to him. Anything he does is worthy of commemoration. He’s just that cute! Look at that sleepy Saturday baby, all curled up and comfortable. Here’s Dyson snoozing on our pillows and Parachute comforter. Like many dogs, he thinks our bed is his bed and prefers to take his naps there.

This is his typical “baby face” when he wakes up in the morning—sort of sleepy, sort of “hey, how’re you doing?” Sometimes he’s just too cute. He looks like he’s posing and showing his good side, but I can assure you, as his owner, every side is his good side!

He looks out on the morning mist

He looks out on the morning mist.

From the balcony, the river is a sheet of quiet glass, holding the pale sky the way a house holds a familiar smell—something you don’t notice until it’s gone. Across the water, the hills sit in a single long exhale, their edges softened by fog that refuses to hurry.

He stands at the railing and watches as if the view is speaking in a language older than commands. No barking, no spinning in place. Just that forward-tilted attention, the kind that makes the rest of the morning feel like it should lower its voice.

Down below: a curve of path, a bench waiting out the season, stones stacked along the shore like punctuation. Out there: the Hudson, slow and wide, carrying the day in without ceremony. Even the distant boat looks like a thought you almost remember.

The mist makes everything honest by making it unsure. It blurs the line between what’s happening and what you’re imagining, and somehow that’s comforting. You don’t have to name the feeling. You just have to stand near it.

Dog Overlooking Misty River: a small moment, held still long enough to feel like a place you can return to.

Everything the light touches…

The caption says, “Everything the light touches…,” and it’s hard not to believe it when the morning hits the floor in clean, angled stripes.

By the window, the room feels quiet in that settled way—like it has already decided what kind of day it will be. A small dog lies stretched on a dark, plush bed, paws folded around a worn toy, ears lifted as if listening to the house breathe. The sunlight doesn’t just brighten the space; it softens it, turning ordinary corners into something almost familiar, almost remembered.

There’s a table nearby with a patterned runner and a book left open, as if someone paused mid-thought and stepped away. The rug holds the light in pale patches, and the rest of the room stays gentle and still.

I like moments like this because they don’t ask for much. They’re not grand. They’re just proof that warmth can land wherever it wants—on a rug, on a tabletop, on a dog who has claimed a bed as if it’s always been theirs.

Everything the light touches becomes its own small world for a while, and if you stand there long enough, you can feel the day widen.

Puppy Pool Party

There’s a particular kind of summer moment that doesn’t ask for much. A patch of sun on the deck. The wood warm underfoot. A small blue pool holding a thin, honest layer of water—barely enough to make ripples, but enough to change the day.

Puppy Pool Party is the name, and it fits in the simplest way. Not a crowd, not noise, not anything staged. Just a puppy standing in a fish-print kiddie pool, looking up with that steady gaze that feels like a question: is this all there is? And if it is—can we stay here a while?

The pool turns the ordinary into something a little brighter. The water catches the light. The painted fish float under the surface like a tiny summer world. The puppy’s paws make soft circles that travel outward, then disappear at the edge, like so many things do.

I like how animals don’t overthink joy. They step into it. They test it. They decide, in a moment, whether it’s worth trusting. And when it is, they settle in—not with grand declarations, but with presence.

Maybe that’s the whole party: a small body of water, a warm day, and the quiet permission to be exactly where you are.

Deep Deep Thoughts

A small dog sits with its back to me, ears lifted like two questions, watching the day through a bright window. Outside, everything is washed in light—soft greens, a pale street, the faint suggestion that the world is continuing without asking us to keep up.

I keep thinking about how dogs practice attention better than we do. Not the frantic kind that chases pings and updates, but the quiet, steady kind. The kind that can sit on a favorite bed and simply stay with what’s there.

“Deep Deep Thoughts” sounds like a joke until you meet a moment that’s too ordinary to be anything but true. A window. A pause. A creature whose whole philosophy is presence.

Sometimes a home teaches the same patience. It holds warmth, collects routines, and turns them into something like memory. In that familiar stillness, you can feel two worlds touch: the inside where you’re safe enough to soften, and the outside where everything keeps moving.

Maybe that’s what the dog is doing—listening to one world press up against another, making sense of it without words.

If you need a thought to carry today, let it be simple: sit for a minute. Look out. Let the light arrive. Let the quiet have its say.

Dyson, “I’m snooow much fun”

Dyson runs straight into winter like it’s an invitation. In the middle of all that white, he’s a dark, eager shape cutting a path through the churned-up snow, tennis ball held tight like a prize he earned fair and square. His ears are up, his eyes are locked in, and his whole body says the same thing: throw it again.

Snow has a way of rewriting a place. It softens the edges, hushes the street, and makes even familiar ground feel briefly new. Every footprint becomes a small story—where you went, how fast, how excited you were to get there. Dyson seems to read the page as he goes, adding lines as quickly as he can.

There’s a particular joy in watching a dog take the cold personally, like it’s not something to endure but something to conquer. The air might sting, the snow might melt into slush later, but right now it’s all possibility. A ball, a run, a return. Simple rules, endless rounds.

Maybe that’s the best part of days like this: the reminder that you don’t need much to feel full of it. Just a bright green-and-blue circle, a stretch of snow, and someone who comes back every time like it’s the first time.

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