I’ve spent the past week traveling through time, revisiting six years through the portal of memoir. October 20, 2013, the day I walked into my parents’ house to find a small puppy, one week old, crawling around the corners of the house, mom and my brother chasing him; a scene that hits me awkwardly, making me laugh but at the same time glad to see how happy we all were to have a new pet in the house. Since my brother and I were born, dad used to raise dogs, as hunting was his favorite hobby, and he introduced it to my brother, who never looked back to become a member of the Lebanese Shooting and Hunting Federation for several years. He even turned out to be more addicted than dad was. We spent the first month with our dog “Max” just trying to clean after his mess at home, up until he was ready to be left outside in the garden where he has his own house and space for moving around as much as he wants. Dad made it a routine to take care of his needs and feed him once every day in