Once, years ago as I was writing at my desk late at night, I heard a tap against the window. It was winter and cold, and I assumed it was snow falling from the roof.

A few minutes later, I heard it again, louder this time. I crept over to the window, peered through the blinds: A large moose stared back at me. Neither of us moved and it was the oddest thing, as if we were somehow communicating, both of us nighttime wanders, awake during that soft, hushed time when everyone else slept.

I opened the windowblinds and went back to my desk. That moose curled up in the snow against the house, its mangy back pressed tight to the window as it chewed its cud. It was comforting to write through the night with a moose outside the house, almost as it if were keeping sentinel, watching over the night. After I while it felt companionable, as if we were connected in some old way that stretched back before language and conscious thought.

Since then, I’ve felt a strange kinship with moose, and forget the fact that I’ve been charged three times by mothers with calves while running mountain trails. I fear moose and yet I respect them, love them in a way. They are so awkward looking. They appear to stumble when they walk, and their heads are so long and bony. They are the anti-heroes, creatures lumbering through the woods and tearing bark off of trees and staring, with bewildered interest, as two-legged humans run and walk past.

Maybe this is why whenever I pass moose or they visit the yard, I feel momentarily blessed.

Something you must read: I love this blog post by Eliza West about friends and writing and how sometimes books are the best, the most intimate of companions. Check out Why Do I Write?

Mega giveaway: Dolls Behaving Badly turns one year old in a few weeks. Stay tuned for massive giveaways including books, Alaska chocolates, Alaska socks and key chains and other cool stuff.