Chick Wit

By Francesca Serritella

Francesca’s new novel, FULL BLOOM, an Instant USA TODAY National Bestseller, is in stores now. Here is a Dear Reader guest column she wrote recently:

I recently welcomed a puppy into my life. A roly-poly tricolor Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, with russet eyebrows that tilt with cartoonish expression and a penchant for belly rubs. I named him “Bobby Baby” after the Sondheim musical Company, because company is what I needed most.

Especially after I’d lost my beloved dog Pip. I didn’t know if I’d ever feel ready to get another dog, until I heard about this puppy born on the one-year anniversary of Pip’s passing.

I felt like he was heaven-sent.

My eighteen-year-old cat Mimi disagrees.

I thought hard about inflicting a puppy’s chaotic energy on Mimi’s golden years. But Mimi is aging like the feline Demi Moore.

Her blue-black tuxedo coat retains its luster, and she still leaps to every tabletop and counter with ease.

Her Churu squeeze treats are filled with “the substance.”

If I waited for Mimi to live out her remaining years, I’d be dog-less for longer than my mental health can handle.

Translated to human years, Bobby is five-years-old and Mimi is around 108. I hoped they’d be like a Pixar movie.

It’s more Looney Tunes.

There’s a generational clash.

I prioritized training Bobby to respect Mimi. And since I’ve had him, Bobby has graduated three levels of obedience training.

Mimi decries grade-inflation.

Dog trainers tell you not to say “no” anymore. Instead, you “redirect” with a toy. Gentle-dog-parenting.

Mimi believes in corporal punishment.

I’ve been considering switching Bobby to fresh-cooked, human-grade dog food.

In Mimi’s day, pets survived on animal by-products alone!

They have normal sibling rivalry disputes.

Mimi stole Bobby’s monogrammed dog bed the day it was delivered.  

Bobby chews her corrugated cardboard lounger.

They speak different languages and misread each other’s cues.

Mimi hisses; Bobby play bows.

Bobby gets the zoomies; Mimi tries to snag him by the claw, “no running in the house!”

Mimi alights on my desk chair for a nap; Bobby jumps up to say hi, sending the swivel chair spinning and Mimi on the tilt-a-whirl.

But I have reason to hope. There’s one place in my apartment where a truce is made.

My bathroom.

That mysterious kingdom where Mommy insists on shutting the door. Mimi used to meow and reach her white mitts beneath the door, as if feeling for something to pick the lock.

Enter, the Bobby Pin.

Finally that puppy energy to comes in handy as Bobby body-slams the door like a furry Kool-Aid Man. They both rush in and instantly flop on the bathmat at my feet.  

Peace in our time. Until the flush.

Copyright © 2025 Francesca Serritella