Carrie Anne Noble, Author

by Carrie Anne Noble Some people called Ruby a bad dog, and it was kind of true. The summer I turned eleven, my brothers, sister, and I found Ruby on our porch. She was sitting there like a fluffy, black-and-white, tail-wagging package left by the UPS man. A really smelly package. On the spot, five-year-old Janie named the dog Rubella Polio (words she’d learned from pamphlets in the pediatrician’s waiting room, being too advanced a reader for Highlights magazine). When I suggested we call the dog Ruby for short, the big fur ball jumped up and gave me a slobbery kiss. “You’re welcome,” I said, wiping the doggy drool off my cheek with the hem of my t-shirt. Ben and Doug, my three-year-old twin brothers, let the dog into the house before Mama could object. Not that Mama would have. Mama didn’t do much objecting back then. She didn’t do much other than stare silently at the kitchen wall. If Daddy had come back from the Afghanistan war instead of going to heaven, things wou...

I live in the country. There are birds.   Don't get me wrong. I love birds. They're amazing little creatures. However, every morning at 4:45, a single bird starts singing outside my window.   4:45 a.m .   The sun hasn't even begun to come up. It's still dark. I'm trying to sleep, for goodness sake!   But he sings. After a while, another bird answers him. As dawn sneaks up, more birds join the birdy choir. By the time the sky is well lit, tweets and whistles fill the air.   This morning (shortly after Bird 1 began tweeting), I thought about What It Means. This one bird's song. So here are my deep thoughts (these are rare occurrences, so pay attention!).   Bird 1 sings alone. He sits in a dark tree and no one is listening to his song. He sings anyway. He makes music because he likes to, because it's what he was meant to do . If he had to sing alone all day, he would.   But then the other birds hear him. They open thei...