Kate Ryan

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.

As an Uber driver, I have the privilege of talking to and eavesdropping on a sampling of L.A.’s finest, ranging from the clinically insane to the simply self-absorbed. As a writer, there is no end to the amount of inspiration my passengers provide.

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.