When my rescue puppy developed neurological distemper, I watched him slowly lose recognition of the world around him. Sometimes he remembered me and stayed close beside me like he always had. Other times his eyes felt vacant and unfamiliar, and he would snap at the air or at the people he loved, as though his mind had separated from his body.

We Called Him Puppet is a memoir about witnessing memory, identity, and personality begin to fracture inside someone you love, and the frightening realization that a body can remain present even when the person inside it no longer fully is.

An ivy-covered mailbox. A secret alphabet invented around a kitchen whiteboard. An essay about the imaginary worlds we build with the people we love — and what it feels like to grow up alongside them.

Asked to write about a hero's journey, I picked the bravest thing I've ever done: auditioned for American Ballet Theatre as an Indian girl from a family of walking brains, against a roomful of Cinnabons — armed with a smashed CVS photo, a brain doing pirouettes off a cliff, and a mom in a dog-smelling sweatshirt. A heroic journey, for the both of us.

A dog. A bowl of the spiciest curry on earth. One very bad decision. What happens next is even worse — and a whole lot weirder.

A brief but deeply sincere tribute to peanut butter: sticky destroyer of shirts, ruler of pantries, and silent witness to sandwiches past. Written in the exaggerated spirit of a traditional ode, this piece transforms an ordinary comfort food into something strangely... noble.