I didn’t expect to find a sidekick when I came back to Whiskey Pines. Especially not one under ten pounds with a lace garter on her front leg and a nose for beer cans. But then again, nothing about Kenzie has ever followed the rules of logic, physics, or polite society.

Technically, she’s a Bichon Frise. Fluffy. White. Looks like something you’d find in a celebrity’s handbag or on a pastel greeting card. But don’t let the fluff fool you. Kenzie has the soul of a bouncer and the eyes of someone who’s seen too much and still keeps showing up anyway.

She came with me as I moved into Maxx Lighthouse. I was struggling to unpack a life that had been shaken like a snow globe. One night, I heard a scratching at the back porch. There she was, fur wild, eyes blazing, and dragging what I swear was a six-pack box behind her. I thought I was hallucinating. Turns out, I wasn’t. I opened the door. She walked in. And she’s been running the place ever since.

It wasn’t long before I started noticing her quirks, having gotten her just before I came back to Whiskey Pines. She refuses to eat from a bowl unless it’s been warmed. She circles the living room exactly three times before sitting down to watch the news. She growls at pictures of Dut Steeplepuss III and once peed on a file folder labeled “Alimony.” I didn’t teach her any of that.

But the strangest thing? Kenzie talks to me. Not with words, of course. She communicates in thoughts. Clear, dry, occasionally snarky thoughts that land in my mind like they were always mine—except they’re not. They’re hers. I know what you’re thinking. But before you send someone with a butterfly net, hear me out: she knows things she shouldn’t. She warns me when someone’s approaching. She nudges me toward hidden doors. She even pointed out the location of an old keyhole under a floorboard I would’ve sworn wasn’t there.

I used to think I was just projecting. Then I found an old photograph in Roxanne’s trunk. A woman from the 1920s, standing behind a bar in one of the underground speakeasies beneath the house. Her name was Mackenzie. Same piercing eyes. Same crooked grin. And on her arm? The same lace garter my four-legged roommate wears now.

Coincidence? Maybe. But if you believe that, you probably haven’t lived in Whiskey Pines long.

Kenzie has become more than a companion. She’s my radar, my conscience, and on particularly hard days, my reminder that I am not, in fact, going crazy—just navigating a life full of past lives, underground tunnels, and the occasional haunting.

So if you see us strolling downtown—me with my notebook, her with her nose in someone’s purse—just wave. She’ll probably ignore you. Or telepathically judge your shoes. But she means well.

Probably.

Stay peculiar, Roxie Maxx

Occasional journalist, full-time dog psychic