I am sixty-four years old, a professional witch, and a resident of a perfectly accessible ADA-compliant fortress in a remote mountain area of El Dorado County, California. By all accounts, I should be drifting through my golden years on a cloud of lavender-scented serenity. Instead, I am currently being held hostage by a two-year-old death row survivor from an orchard in Porterville.
Meet Bruce (short for “Brucifer”). To the casual observer, he’s a charming Jackshund. To the officer who tried to abduct him in Central California, he’s the reason for a tetanus shot. To me? He is the sovereign ruler of the 3:00 AM hour, the high priest of a cult of one, and the primary reason the bags under my eyes have their own matching set of Samsonite luggage.
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