Jack

We have a new English Shepherd pup named Jack—and I’m pretty sure he’s made of fluff, mischief, and some kind of voodoo that makes you hand over your snacks without even realizing it. He’s impossibly cute, smells like puppy breath and sawdust, and has already climbed the ranks to become Grandkid's Favorite and Local Celebrity.

Nate, who’s almost 17 and suddenly aware that girls exist, took Jack to a local soccer game and returned glowing with success. Jack, it turns out, is better than cologne, a gym membership, and a pickup truck with a lift kit. He drew in the girls like moths to a porch light. Now half the teenage boys in the area want to rent Jack for their own social advancement. I may need to start charging a handling fee.

Fun fact: Jack is Roxie’s half-brother, which means they share DNA but not personal space. On the ride home, Roxie gave him the full “older sister” treatment—glared at him, huffed dramatically, and made it crystal clear that sitting on her tail would be considered an act of war. But after a long car ride and a post-arrival nap, she discovered he plays tug-o-war like a pro and decided maybe he could stick around as long as he remembers who’s boss. (Spoiler: it’s not me.)

Now I’m surrounded. Today I was minding my business, working on my computer, munching a peaceful bowl of popcorn, when two fuzzy heads slowly popped up on either side of my screen like a screen like a furry periscope. I swear they rehearsed it. I held out for about ten seconds before crumbling like a stale cookie.

So, Jack’s officially one of us. Roxie’s accepted him. The kids are obsessed. And I’ve learned that it’s impossible to say no to a tag-team of furry con artists with eyes like melted chocolate and a well-timed head tilt.

Welcome to the farm, Jack. Try not to chew through any electrical cords before breakfast.

Don't forget to leave a comment below so I know who stopped by. I'll come visit you as well.