A Cozy Creative Life

My grandparents had several iron dogs. They were different colors, but all were pointers. My sister got the black-and-white one.

This one stood in my parents’ home for as long as I can remember, always beneath my mother’s writing desk. I think she put him there so no one would bump into him. He’s very heavy—not something you’d want to catch with your foot.

When my parents left their home, he became mine. And I decided to keep him in exactly the same spot my mother had: beneath her writing desk.

The desk is in my home now, with my blue-and-white pitcher and dried hydrangeas on top. But underneath, the iron pointer is right where I remember him.

Some things find a new place when they become ours. This one kept his.