Turning Left

Apollo likes to walk. We take him out with Rocky while Adrian stays at home. (Yes, our dogs are named for the Rocky movies.) Being a Doberman, with a splash of Black Lab thrown in just to keep us on our toes, Apollo isn’t satisfied with just “walking.” He thrusts his nose deep into the ground, snorting up anything that will fit into his blow-hole sized nostrils. And he’s not satisfied to walk leisurely. He wants to trot or run or anything really besides walk. There is always something more interesting just beyond the end of the leash.

How does he compensate for this restriction in mobility? He turns circles. He trots for five feet, sniffing and snorting, then turns a circle. To the right. Always to the right. Apollo can’t turn left…except for this one time, but I’ll get to that in a minute.

Rocky is an Akita with a splash of German Shepherd Dog thrown in for more dignity and a greater ability for condescension. He holds his head up regally, toenails elegantly clicking on the pavement in a perfect cadence, while his tedious companion slobbers and runs in circles, bounding from one dandelion patch to another…circling to the right, pacing, circling to the right, pacing…on and on and on.

But there was a day. One walk out of thousands, when my middle child and I were out walking the dogs…and I saw an Eastern Bluebird. Being from Nebraska, I don’t have much experience with the beautiful birds that flutter around our neighborhood here in Virginia…all different colors and songs….I’m not used to it. “Son, did you see that?” I asked, pointing. My son stood beside me, laughing. When he stopped, a grin plastered to his face, he said, “I know, Apollo just turned left.” Zoolander, eat your heart out!!

My dog turned left…and I missed it. I’ve watched diligently on every walk since then, waiting for him to repeat the act. But Apollo seems more comfortable turning right. It’s unnatural for him to do anything else.

So I find myself once again taking a lesson from this monster of a canine. Do I want to be the sort of writer that “can’t turn left?” Or do I want to do more? Be more? I’m in the second book of my Detective Baker series…and I’m happy with the way things are shaping up. But other stories…set in other times in other places…are tickling the back of my mind. And I find myself wanting to test the mysterious waters where these other ideas swim. I nursed the characters for The Deputy’s Widow for years, coddling them to maturity and, eventually, publication. Suddenly, that obsession isn’t there because I accomplished my goal. I’m published. And I’ll be published again with the sequel, provided my editor likes it. Trying something new doesn’t feel comfortable just yet. But, unlike my dog, I have higher brain function (sometimes) and I think I might give “turning left” a try. So I’ll keep watching Apollo, hoping he’ll overcome his multi-directional challengedness…and I’ll consider shooting off in a new direction myself on occasion.

Crashing...doggie style

Falling Out of Bed

When the house shakes at 3:00 in the morning my first thought, since I don’t live anywhere near a fault line, is “thunderstorm” or, since I live in redneck central, “the neighbors are shooting skeet in their backyard again.” I don’t believe I’ve ever thought to myself “Oh, dear. The dog has fallen out of bed.” And yet….

Sigh. And yet…it happened. The King of Our Beasts, the one hundred pounder, appropriately named Apollo, tumbled from our king sized bed, onto the floor. The house shook violently for a moment. When the aftershocks subsided, my husband sat up and said, “Did you hear something?”

Apollo was ok, too tired to do much of anything except moan a little at the disturbance before rolling over exactly where he landed and falling asleep.

“The dog fell,” I said. “And now he’s gone to sleep again.” I was leaning over the bed and looking at the great mound of black muscle spread eagled, feet up in the air, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth…snoring.

My husband smiled a little and lay down. “That is so him.”

And it is. It is so Apollo to fall out of bed in the middle of the night. But it is even more him to shrug off the interruption in his routine and make the best of the situation. If he can’t sleep in the bed, he’ll sleep on the floor…happily.

So what about me, the writer? If I can’t be a best seller, am I content for mid-list? If I can’t be mid-list, am I content with the simple honor of being published? If Arctic Wolf hadn’t signed me, would I have had the courage to self-publish?

Occasionally, I get frustrated. I feel like a failure. I want success; but in this new, unexplored territory, I don’t know how to measure it.

Today I find myself wondering how my dog measures it…I think success to him is having someplace where he can stretch out. And he stretches out no matter where he is. He is happy no matter what…even if he has fallen out of bed. The old saying, “Bloom where you are planted,” is his bumper sticker.

And so I sigh again today. It is humbling to take a lesson from a dog…especially one with no grace…and a tongue the size of Delaware. But as I look into those big, vacant, brown eyes, I can’t help but think that this creature is a good influence on me. But don’t tell anyone I said so.

It's a Dog's Life

Rolling in Dead Things

My dog got off his lead this morning. When he finally decided to stop running around and return home, he was wearing a lei comprised of grass, something resembling a dead rodent, and feces from an unknown species. Fortunately, it was all coagulated in his choke collar, so I removed that and tied him to a tree to hose him off.

What is it, I wondered, gagging on the smell, that entices dogs to roll in dead things? Growing up, I had a dog that tried to roll in the rancid grass clippings swarming with flies in the back alleyway. Another dog’s poop…she loved it. Dead possum? Oh boy!! She was a small dog and easy to manage on-lead, so we avoided much of the fur sticking goo she was desperate to coat herself in.

Nowadays, I have three dogs. And they’re quite large. Upon encountering a dead squirrel or flattened snake on the road, any of the three will drop a front leg and put rub a shoulder in it, trying to coat themselves with the stench.

No wonder cat lovers ridicule those of us with dogs. No wonder some people choose to keep their animals outdoors. I can’t do that. My dogs…all three of them…are my constant companions. I couldn’t make it through a day without them.

So before I pass judgment on my smelly friends, I guess I’ll take a look at myself. Some might look at me and wonder why I choose the write the things I write. Why would I opt to write about murder, about crime, about adultery? These aren’t things one would choose to discuss in polite society. These aren’t things we normally encounter except on daytime TV, primetime crime dramas, or on the news. Yet I delve into these topics with relish, thinking up new ways to torture, kill, poison, or maim someone. It’s my own method of “rolling in dead things,” if you will….except no one ties me to a tree and hoses me off when I’m done.

My dog is fresh and clean now. He’s inside, resting on his cushion and hating me for taking away his smelly necklace. And me…I’m fixing to roll in my own dead things today.