Some people consult vision boards. Others call mentors. Me? I pitch my ideas to the dogs.

It’s a sacred ritual. I pace the room, rambling some grand scheme or mildly delusional plan, and there they are—my panel of furry consultants.

Middle dog, the unbothered philosopher, barely lifts his head. Maybe an eyebrow twitch. A single side-brow of judgment, if you will. Meanwhile, the little one? Oh, he’s already delivering a level-five side eye, the kind that says: “Ma’am… rethink everything.”

They don’t speak, but I know. Their looks say what friends are too polite to: 
“This is not your best idea, human.” 
“Did you sleep last night?” 
“Are we spiraling again?” 

Sometimes I ignore them and barrel ahead anyway—because I’m a grown-up, allegedly. But I do so knowing I’ve been warned. And when it inevitably flops? They don’t gloat. They just crawl up next to me, snuggle in, and offer the ultimate canine comfort: unconditional love… and maybe a tiny told-you-so nudge.

Other times, I heed the eyebrow and the side eye. I back off the bad idea, scoop them up, and we dance around the kitchen to something ridiculous. They wag. I laugh. Equilibrium is restored.