Some memories are sticky because they touch something buried deeper than logic. When January 3 shows up on my calendar every year, it always conjures memories of Miro. Not Joan Miró. Miro the Pomeranian–chihuahua cross my sister adopted when I was a kid. We were told that date was her birthday. No documentation. No provenance. Just the date that was mentioned in passing when we adopted the pup. And yet it welded itself into my memory as if it were a national holiday. (Actually, better. I can...