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Yoga By Katie, 698 Main Street, Lumberton, NJ (2026)

05/03/2026

05/03/2026

❤️ Aloha Saturday ❤️ Be Love in your every thought, word and deed ❤️ Rita ❤️

04/17/2026

Do you habitually hide your feelings from others? (There’s usually a good reason for that.) Telling the uncomfortable truth about your grief can be an immensely powerful act.

The Writing Your Grief e-course helps you tell the whole truth about what it’s like to be you, right here and now, without the need to sugarcoat it or censor yourself to protect other peoples’ feelings.

Get started now at https://refugeingrief.com/wyg

04/17/2026

❤️ Aloha Friday ❤️ Be Love in your every thought, word and deed ❤️ Rita ❤️

04/03/2026

Good Morning! Let’s turn gratitude into a habit. Write down one thing you’re thankful for in the comment area. . .

04/03/2026

I want to start by saying I am a 34-year-old man who has never owned so much as a goldfish.

My ex left. My apartment went silent in a way that felt heavier every night. My therapist suggested I get “something living” to take care of.

I assumed she meant a houseplant.

Instead, a coworker sent me a rescue post: two 10-week-old blue-gray pitbull puppies—brother and sister—needed an emergency foster because the shelter was overcrowded.

“Just two weeks,” she told me. “You literally just have to keep them alive.”

That sounded manageable.

I picked them up thinking: I’ll put them in the bathroom, feed them twice a day, and absolutely under no circumstances will I get attached.

Day one: one of them climbed out of the bathroom, waddled into the living room, and fell asleep directly on my chest like she’d already signed the lease.

Day three: I woke up with both of them snoring on top of me like two warm little weighted blankets.

Day five: I bought them a $70 orthopedic dog bed.

They completely ignored it.

Apparently the preferred sleeping arrangement is my rib cage.

Here’s the thing nobody warned me about pitbull puppies—they are ridiculously affectionate.

Like… aggressively affectionate.

If I stop petting one of them for more than three seconds, a tiny gray head immediately wedges under my hand like, “Excuse me, sir. The pets have stopped.”

The other one has started bringing me “gifts.” Socks. The TV remote. Once my wallet.

She dropped it at my feet like she’d just hunted it in the wild.

Then the rescue coordinator called at the two-week mark.

“Great news,” she said. “We found an adopter for one of the puppies.”

Just one.

I looked down at the two little gray pitbulls asleep on my chest—one using the other as a pillow.

And something in my chest just… shifted.

“No,” I said.

A pause.

“No… to the adoption?”

“They’re not getting separated,” I said. “I’ll take them both.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.

“Sir… you told us you’ve never owned a dog before.”

I looked around my apartment.

There were chew toys everywhere. Paw prints on my couch. And two tiny pitbull puppies breathing softly while they slept on top of me like I was their favorite place in the world.

“Yeah,” I said.

“I guess I do now.”

My therapist asked how the “houseplant” was going.

So I sent her a picture of two sleepy pitbull puppies passed out on my chest.

She replied with three words.

“That’s not a plant.”

No.

It’s better.

📍 Foster Fail Anniversary: 4 months.
And they still refuse to sleep anywhere except directly on top of me.