For years, Raising Artemis lived quietly in journals, notebooks, and on my desk. It began as a collection of stories about the animals who shaped my life and the lessons they taught me about love, loss, and connection. I never set out to write a novel. I certainly never expected it to be published. This is the story of how the book I thought no one would read found its way into the world.

There was never really a question about who would narrate Raising Artemis. It was always Lucy. Small, luminous, and entirely self-possessed, she ran the house with military precision and a twinkle in her eye. When she died—on my birthday, of course—I knew she had chosen her moment. Writing her voice after she passed didn’t feel like invention. It felt like transcription.

I had been thinking about writing a book centered on my animals for years, but I didn’t know the shape of the story yet. I only knew the animals mattered. While the world changed during COVID, I kept writing—without a map, without certainty—listening for what they were trying to teach me. What they never let me forget was this: stories don’t need forcing, love doesn’t need justification, and the right path reveals itself only when you’re willing to walk it slowly.

Some lessons about life dogs taught me that humans forgot to mention.

Some lessons about life cats taught me that humans forgot to mention.