Novel Excerpt part two (fiction)

Sorry! I've re-written and now I'm very pleased with the results. FINALLY! Maybe someday this will actually be a book.

hug your hounds

A Bump In The Road (fiction)

Here's the short story. All of it. I couldn't bring myself to split it up, so you can read it in parts or move on to your next blog and I'll totally understand.





It was an accident, she thought. No. It was less than that. Random. Don’t stars collide everyday? No great master plan. Just by chance.

She was completely, utterly lost. She had gone exploring the back roads that surrounded this new town. It was a very old town, but it was new to her. How odd to find herself well past fifty, barely able to get to a Krogers without losing her way. Where she lived before, she had been since birth, and she knew the shortcuts to everywhere and back. Here, in this strange river town, roads struck out willy-nilly like broken bicycle spokes: no north, south, east, west. On a whim they took off in big circles, or worse.

I should have bought a map. According to the sun she was now driving north, and, she guessed, a little west. And then the road changed its mind and just like that she was heading southeast. It was late afternoon and she began to cry.

Then the road turned rudely, with no warning. Caught her right as she was wiping the blurring tears from her left eye with her left shoulder, all hunched over. She had to yank the wheel to the right.

She hit a horse.

Now, that’s not something anyone puts in their ‘to do’ list. What was I supposed to do today? Oh, yes. Take part in a little vehicular equinocide. Only the horse wasn't dead. Heather didn't even know what she had hit at first. She leaned back. That was a successful move as it stopped the horn from honking. Her head hurt, oh and her knees. Well, for the love of God she hadn’t fastened her seatbelt. She always fastened her seatbelt. She glanced in her rearview mirror. Her forehead was bleeding.

Her brain told her that she was seeing something beyond the rearview mirror, off to her right. Clearly her brain was playing a not so funny joke. She had left her horses back home. She had sold the young ones, placed the old retirees with generous people who thought they understood. She missed her horses with every breath. She missed them the way you’d miss a dead best friend. The way you’d miss church. She focused her eyes through the cracked, kaleidoscoped windshield. Apparently her brain wasn't lying.

She had hit a horse.

Heather stumbled out of the car. This everyday act caused her knees to demonstrate their dissent: they crumpled. That hurt. Behind the hissing of the engine and the creaking of various cooling metal parts, Heather heard her own pulse in her ears and the sonorous nasal blowing of horse breath. She got up.

Oh no. Oh my dear Lord. No.

It was a little chestnut. Fifteen hands, maybe. No more than fifteen-two. He looks like a thoroughbred. Can’t be. Not out here. The only horses Heather had seen in the counties surrounding her new town were Saddlebreds, Quarter Horses, Walkers, a few Arabians. Not that she’d been looking on purpose.

“Whoa, bud,” she said, low and soft. Damn. The horse was standing in the grass next to the road. A huge vee-shaped flap of skin and meat hung from his shoulder. The whole animal was shivering, and he was blowing like he'd run a race. But his eye was kind; he looked right at her. He had fine, tiny ears, laced with distended veins. Hot blood.

Heather took a few steps closer, steadying her undependable knees by leaning on the car. The scent of the horse hit her like a whip. In that smell was her son’s old pony, young still, with ten year old Charlie waving and smiling at her. Holding his little trophy over his head. We won, Mom! We won! In that smell was a deeply bedded stall, sweet oat straw, and a mare’s quiet whunkering to her half-born foal. Heather, magnified by a down parka, huddled there in the corner. Keep pushing, Scarlet. You’re almost done now. Good girl. In that smell were the last three jumps at the Olympic Trials. A young Heather gunning her brave Rupert toward a huge oxer, down over the drop, and then galloping hell bent for leather to the final jump, a simple post and rail, collecting him now, up over the last, and then draped around his lathered neck, hugging him from above. Good man, Rupe! We did it!

She touched the chestnut’s wet neck. It was a bad sweat. Cold. He was going into shock. “Easy, hey, we've got to stop that bleeding, bud.” Heather ran her hand down the horse’s forelock, down his face, gently grabbed his lip and checked the color of his gums. He didn't take his eye from hers. His gums were pale. His upper lip was tattooed on its inner surface. This was a thoroughbred. A racehorse. Well, now both of them were in shock.

Heather’s head pounded. Why did the back of her head hurt so much when the cut was on the front? She remembered something about a past concussion - you ride a lot of horses, you fall off sometimes - the brain would get bruised from bouncing against the back of the skull. Whatever. She went to the rear door of the car and got her old afghan lap blanket from the back seat. Her mother-in-law had crocheted the thing ages ago. Heather had thought it was ugly until this very moment. Her knees were still numb, which she found curious, but they were wholly unreliable, so she steadied herself by gripping the car. She hoped the horse’s injury was numb, too.

“This might hurt, bud.” He was swaying a little bit. He had widened his stance, like a foal trying to stay upright. Heather wrapped the afghan over his withers, around the front of his chest. She brought one corner in front of his leg, the other corner behind, where a girth would go. She tied those corners to the top two, pushing the huge flap of meat closed. The horse trembled more violently. And bled.

I need more direct pressure. She took off her shirt, surprised by the amount of her own blood on it, and balled it up. She wedged it under the afghan, directly over the wound. The bleeding slowed. Heather smiled and stroked the horse’s neck. I need to get help.

She reached in through the passenger window and got her cell phone out of her purse, which rested, unopened, upside down on the floor. 911. Nothing. Heather looked at the phone. Her own hands were shaking. Duh, push the little green send button. Nothing. No bars. She turned the phone off and back on. No service.

Heather looked at the horse. He was swaying badly, fighting to stay on his feet, his eye still fixed on her face. It unnerved her, as much as anything in this whole slow-motion otherworldly scenario did. Horses normally looked off, seeing the unseen, or they looked inward, sheathing their disappointment in humans the way God would. But this horse never for a moment took his eye off her. Heather expected to see blame in that stare. Instead, she saw trust. Charity. A wave of nausea brought her back to her senses. I've got to get help.

On both sides of the road were woods. She couldn't see around the sharp turn that had caused this mess. Ahead, she could only see as far as the next snaky bend and rise and it was just woods. The sun had dipped behind the trees when she wasn't paying attention. Think! Had she passed a farm? A house? Where the hell was she?

The horse went down.

Back when Charlie was seven, his pony had gotten a foot stuck in the fence while Heather and Charlie were at church. They had come up the drive trying to understand the scene before them. Grampa, who never had anything to do with the horses was holding the pony’s head. Charlie’s dad, who loved the horses but never handled them, was being whipped around like a kite, as he tried to put pressure on the pony’s lacerated hind leg. Blood shooting a full ten feet from the severed artery. The pony trying to kick free of the pain and of Sam’s attempt at a tourniquet. The vet had arrived a minute behind Heather and Charlie. They got the pony into a stall right before he went down. The vet started two IV lines and bear-hugged the bags to get the fluids in faster. “A horse won’t go down until he’s given up,” said the good vet. “Going down means he’s ready to be something's dinner. Ready for the wolves.” Heather remembered her profound relief and Charlie’s happy tears when, after the leg was bandaged and four liters of IV fluids had infused, the pony stood up and nuzzled Charlie’s pocket for a carrot. Their church clothes were ruined.

Only in the movies do horses whinny in the face of danger or pain. In real life, they whinny for their dinner, or in greeting, or to call to a friend. They are prey animals; when threatened it’s a better plan to be dead silent. No need to attract the predators.

The horse made a sickening thud when he went down. His legs just buckled. He landed like a foal, lying on his chest with his legs folded under him. His head up, still looking at her. Don’t you die on me, horse. Oh, God help me! She had stopped asking for help from God or any of His assistants years ago. He hadn't had time to help when Charlie had needed it in some godforsaken village in Afghanistan. God had been too busy when Sam’s heart exploded, not a month after they buried their only son. She had begged Him to let her go on with her life. Widows went on all the time. Sonless mothers went on. But she had seen Charlie and Sam in every corner of their farm. In every horse’s expression. Anytime she heard a tire crunching up the driveway she knew it was them. God ignored her, so she left. She left the horses, the farm, the graves, the friends. She tried to leave the memories. She succeeded in leaving herself.

Heather remembered that she had a bottle of water in the car. A liter. She had only taken a few swallows when she started out. It felt like it was a long time ago. She got the water. Her knees were no longer numb. Walking without supporting herself on the car was not an option. The fronts of both knees were split wide open, so crawling was completely out of the question. Heather sat on her butt and scooted backwards to the horse’s head, the water bottle jiggling in her lap. She unscrewed the cap, propped the horse’s head up and tipped the water into the corner of his mouth, where a bit would go if he were bridled. He swallowed, big horse swallows until the bottle was empty.

It was all she could do.

Heather was exhausted. Maybe she was ready for the wolves. The horse’s wound had started a fresh trickle. The makeshift bandage had shifted when he went down. I’ll lean against it. She scooted back until she could rest against the horse, one shoulder blade leaning on the wound. Her head hurt. The horse curled his neck around so that he could keep that eye on her. It looked like God watching her, soft. And then the horse’s eye closed. Or her eyes closed. But it was dark and she was distant and it was quiet and nothing hurt.

“Jay-sus Gawd in heaven! Hang on, lady, I’ll be right back. You useless sonofabitch bad luck bastard, now look what you've done. Jay-sus Gawd.”

Heather heard a truck door slam and tires spin and then the sound went away. She was thirsty and she hurt. The horse. She cracked one swollen eye open and looked directly into his. He was still curled around her; neither of them had moved a fraction. The morning light hurt her head. She drifted off.

“Lady, I gotta move you. Can I get you over to this blanket?”

Heather shaded her eyes. She couldn't focus. She tried to speak. It didn't work very well.

“I called an ambulance, but I gotta move you so I can shoot this goddam sonofabitch. Son of a bitch!”

“No.” She got that out.

“Lady, it wasn't my fault he jumped the goddam fence again. Jay-sus, I’m sorry. Son of a bitch hasn't been nothing but trouble. I got insurance. Where is that goddam ambulance? I gotta move you out of the way.”

“No.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll wait til the ambulance gets here. But if that goddam sonofabitch tries to get up he’ll hurt you worse than you already are. No. I gotta shoot him now.”

“No!” Heather struggled to make sense. She couldn't move her legs at all, but she managed to get her eyes open. The horse looked from her with his eye soft, his ears pricked, to this man. His eye went wild, his ears flattened back.

“You won’t shoot this horse.”

“The hell I won’t.”

Heather felt a big fight come up from deep in her belly. It came from where her son had kicked and somersaulted inside her before his birth. It came from the place that had grabbed her when she first met Sam.

“If you shoot this horse, I’ll sue you for every penny you have. You know damn well if your horse is in a road, you’re liable. I can afford good lawyers. But. If you give me this horse, we’ll be even.” She could hear sirens in the distance.

“Lady you hit your head hard, I …”

Heather cut him off. “Be quiet.”

The ambulance, the sheriff, and other assorted wailing vehicles arrived. Heather said, “I want to talk to the sheriff.”

A sleepy-eyed, crisply uniformed man identified himself as the sheriff and kneeled beside her. She smelled coffee on his breath.

“Can you take a statement? Can you get these witnesses to sign it?”

“Ma’am, let the paramedics tend you now. You can deal …”

“Please! For the love of God, please,” Heather interrupted.

“My credit card is in my purse. I want you to call the best horse vet you know. I want you to save this horse. I’ll assume complete financial responsibility. I want you to write down that I said if that man over there harms this horse I will sue him for everything a high-priced attorney can think up, and there should be plenty. But I’ll take this horse as payment in full. As a settlement or whatever and I won’t sue him. Have you got that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you know a good vet?”

“Doc Eugene is as good as they come. Not fancy, now, like some, but he’s got common sense and a good heart, ma’am.”

Heather felt herself melting. Sweet warm relief. She touched the horse’s neck with the back of her hand. “It’s going to be all right, bud. Thank you. God, thank you.”



(C) Patience C. Renzulli, all rights reserved



hug your horses and your hounds (and thank you for reading)

Another Angel

[I am a storyteller. Sometimes when reality is ugly, I make up a story, and fill in the blanks, to make it better. You never know, it could be...]


-------------

The landlord checked out the apartment. Poor old lady, he thought to himself. Not a single "next of kin" and what was he going to do with all this stuff? Well, that china cabinet might be worth something. He didn't even see the small dog trot out through the open door. He did see the dog dishes in the kitchen, but assumed the police had taken whatever it was to the pound. Then he noticed the small black dots on his pant legs. Oh, great. Fleas.


The two friends were talking about what a scorcher it was going to be as they walked around the corner, and the two whippets they were walking went into "small furry animal" alert. Straining on their leads, heads and tails up, eyes trained on a little something hobbling in the parking lot.

"Oh, no," the woman said to her friend, Karen. "It's a dog."

It was a blessing that Karen had just recently started walking with her, as there would be no way to approach the little dog with the whippets barking and being whippets. Karen held her two dogs, with the woman giving the younger one a firm 'sit, stay' command. As she got closer to the little dog, her stomach lurched.

It was nearly bald, and what coat it had was filthy and matted. The temperature had already reached ninety-four degrees with stifling humidity, at seven thirty in the morning. The little dog, which she could now see was a Shih Tzu, was panting with raspy breaths. And limping.

The woman tossed a small blueberry dog treat from her pocket in front of the little dog. "Come here sweetie." The little dog smelled the treat, and then wagged up to the woman's voice. "Oh, you poor dear. Let's get you out of this heat."

Karen led the two curious whippets, and the woman carried the little dog home. "I'm sure it's a Shih Tzu. I wonder if this is mange, look how swollen and inflamed its skin is. I don't see any fleas or flea dirt at least."

"She must be old," Karen said.

"I don't think so. because she doesn't have cataracts. Look how black her eyes are." The woman lifted a lip. "Oh and her canines are sparkly white. She's had a litter though. I think she must be maybe around two?"

After her dogs were walked and Karen had gone home, the woman got the little dog out of the crate. She was pleased to see that she had eaten the senior food and had a nice drink of water. The little dog wagged and then convulsed in long raking coughs. The woman saw a flea. She picked it off, only to see three more. Bath time.

She bathed the little dog in a flea repellent herbal shampoo, followed by a soothing oatmeal shampoo. She tried to cut off some mats, which were pulling the dog's face in a twisted, grotesque distortion. The little dog struggled, setting off another debilitating fit of coughing. "No more of that for now," said the woman. She wished she knew more about coated breeds. And she wished it wasn't Sunday.

She took the dog outside to dry. Now the warm sun and hot breeze was just the thing, and the dog was dry in an instant. And so were the fleas. Scores of them, leaving the mats in droves. The woman shuddered, and made her decision. She sprayed the little dog, much to the dog's delight, and toweled off the dead fleas. The little dog had another bite to eat, and another drink of water, and after another coughing spell, she curled up on her clean bedding in her crate and slept.

The next morning they were at the vet's at nine-thirty. This woman just loves her vets. "I think she's young," the woman said. "But I'm really afraid of her cough. Could she have an irritation from being out and panting so much?"

"It could be a tracheitis," said Dr. Compassion. But her face betrayed her concern. The woman told the vet that she had found three toenails in the crate bedding this morning. The vet said, "Mmmm. She looks like a thyroid dog. She's completely blind, you know."

The woman said, "What! Her eyes are so black!" The vet explained that she had a disease where the cornea is replaced with pigment, and is like a window with a blackout shade pulled down. Then, after looking at her teeth, she said, "She's probably more than ten."

"What! Her canines are pearly white!"

Dr. Compassion showed the woman that all the bottom front incisors were not only gone, but the gum had long ago healed over. She explained that all the roots were exposed, and the constant itching in the long coat had flossed those canines clean. "This is an old, old girl," said the caring vet, giving the little dog a gentle caress. Then she put her stethoscope in her ears and listened to the dog's chest. "Oh dear. Did you listen?"

"No," said the woman, who was a retired nurse. "I'm no cardiologist."

"You don't have to be," said the vet, handing the ear piece over.

The woman listened. No lub dub. Just a rapid, loud, leaky wusha-wusha-wusha. The little dog started to cough again, a long, wheezing, choking rasp.

Dr. Compassion continued with the exam, giving the woman a moment to digest what she was learning. "Her knee joint is destroyed. I can't even find her patella. Oh, there it is. Poor, poor girl."

Tears were forming in the woman's eyes. "Damn," she thought. "Damn it all to hell."

"This heart might last four months, if we're really aggressive, but it would not be a good four months for the dog."

"I just can't walk away from them when I see them. I just can't," the woman was crying.

"No, I know you can't," said Dr. Compassion. "I'm glad you brought her in. She's not out in that heat, alone and blind and lost. But now? It would be a kindness."

And there, where ever "there" is, a lady opened her arms in delight. "Sweetie! My little darling! There you are! Oh how I hated to leave you, but here you are!"

The little Shih Tzu, long silky coat in glowing beauty, tail gaily wagging, proudly trotted up to her Lady. She looked with eyes that, after so long, could see again, and with legs which felt no pain, she jumped up onto her Lady's lap, and kissed the face she had loved. And she felt her heart, strong and full, dance in the loving embrace of her Lady, which would now last forever.


hug your hounds

The Rescue (Part Three - Conclusion)

[This the conclusion of a three part story. If you haven't read PART ONE, please CLICK HERE. It will link you to PART TWO, which will bring you back here. Or you could simply scroll down.]

She pulled into her driveway just as the mail man stepped onto her porch. "Hey, Doug! Want to meet the new rescue? I just picked her up."

The mail man walked over to the van and reached in his pocket for a biscuit. The dog in the van stood in her crate and wagged at him, accepting the treat with glee. "She looks like a sweetie. And she doesn't mind the mail man," he laughed. "Remember Joe? I'll never forget that dog. It sounded like Armageddon on the other side of that door every time I tried to push your mail through the slot, and I thought we'd never win him over."

"Yup, good old Joe. He shredded my bills before I paid them. By the time he left here he loved you though, Doug. Amazing what a treat and a kind word can do, huh. He was a good dog, that Joe."

"Well, here's your mail. Good luck with the new one."

The woman said, "Thanks. She'll be easy to place. Her owner died in a car accident, so she's a little lost right now. I'm sure I'll find a home that will be just right for her in pretty short order."

She sat in the doorway to her van and leafed through the mail. One little envelope made her heart jump. "Well, speak of the..." She opened it with a broad smile and began to read.


I want to thank you for the joy you brought us by trusting us with Joe for the last thirteen years. He has brought so much to our lives. Thank you for letting me call you those million times for advice. When he chewed up my shoes that first week, and you said how hard it is on a dog that had a good home to be abandoned because they had known love. You told me he didn't know anything about expensive shoes, "he only knows they smell like you."  Thank you for helping us get his I.L.P. number, and thank you for celebrating with us when he got each of his Agility titles. Did you ever know a dog who loved Agility more? How much I learned from him!

He was so good for Toby growing up. When Toby was mad at the world, Joe was always there, doing something crazy to make Toby laugh. Remember the time he ran around and around the yard with Toby's underpants on his head? I don't know which one I worried over more when Toby left for college: the kid or the dog. But they were both fine. And our house wasn't empty. Joe was there.

I write with both grateful joy and a terrible sorrow. We had to let Joe go today. His fifteen year old heart just got too big. I have a confession to make. That day when we came and got Joey from you, you were so brave, and I even wondered what kind of person you were, that you could give up a dog you had literally brought back to life. But after we had turned the corner, I thought of something I wanted to ask you and we backed up the car. I saw you, crumpled on your lawn, face in your hands, sobbing. We drove off, not wanting to intrude. I've never shared that with you, in all these years. But I realised that you had given us a piece of your heart.

I wanted to give you that piece back. In the form of my deepest gratitude, and this little token. It came from you, thirteen years ago.

I could never, ever thank you enough.



The Rescuer turned the envelope over, and an old dog tag fell into her lap. She always had the new homes keep the tag with her phone number on their dogs until they got their own. It was Joe's old tag from when he was with her. A scuffed up, red metal tag in the shape of a heart.

She held tight it to her chest, while images of a good dog danced through her heart with each beat. She wiped her face on her sleeves and turned to the dog in the crate.

"Come on, girl. Let's get you cleaned up and settled. I know someone who needs a good dog like you right now. I need to make a phone call."





hug your hounds

The Rescue (Part Two)

[If you haven't read PART ONE, please CLICK HERE. There will be a link to bring you back to part two.]

The van pulled up to a modest, cheerful house with a small front yard. The Rescuer unloaded the rest of the dogs and put them in the fenced back yard, where play broke out in riots of toy shaking, grass rolling, and boisterous games of tug and tag. As she returned to the van, her husband pulled in the driveway from work.

"So you were able to spring him?" he asked, kissing his wife hello. The two peered in the dog's crate.

"Oh my dear Lord," cried the man, clutching his mouth.

"They were going to put him down today. Apparently he hasn't eaten since he got dumped two and a half weeks ago. I hate to put him through getting a bath first thing, but I've got to do it. I have to treat those sores, and I can't stand the smell anyway. I had to ride the whole way home with the van windows open."

The Rescuer's gentle hands took him out of the crate. He felt the sunshine as he stood on the warm grass in the front yard and he started to tremble violently. His legs buckled, whether voluntarily or from weakness, he didn't know. The Rescuer sat down beside him, placed his head in her lap, and stroked him with kindness and care. His eyes started to see then. He lost the nothingness stare and he looked at the Rescuer. And his tail wagged once.

He didn't mind the bath. The water was warm and the hands were gentle, and though the sores burned like fire, he didn't flinch. He was toweled and medicated with ointment and wrapped in warm blankets. By habit, he turned away from the food. The Rescuer gently opened his mouth and put some in, and softly held his jaws closed. He swallowed. Hello! What was this? He sniffed the bowl, and then gulped the rice and hamburger and broth as fast as his jaws would let him. Was there more? The Rescuer laughed and clapped her hands in delight. He slept.

He was now better than he had ever been. The sores had long healed. His dead coat had been replaced by a shining, healthy, proud one and he was friends with the other dogs in the Rescuer's house. He had learned so many lessons. The Rescuer had taught him to sit, lie down, shake, and his favorite, roll over. When he raided treasures from trash cans, she taught him a great trick. She put a piece of Italian sausage in a trash can and put it in the middle of the kitchen. When he trotted over to retrieve it, she said a sharp, "Unh-uh!" and when he turned to look at her, she gave him a piece of the delectable sausage that she had in her pocket. Cool! They practiced this and practiced this, in every room in the house. He did love this game! And after a while, when there was something wonderful in a trash can, he would trot over to tell her and she would fish an ever-present treat out of her pocket and give it to him. And tell him what a wonderful dog he was.

When he was first well enough to realise that there were girl dogs in this house, he became the Humping King. He was delirious with Humpzeist. He thought he was Rescuebert Humperdink. He humped air, he humped pillows, he tried to hump the girl dogs.

"We will never find you a home if you live in Humpville," said the Rescuer. She had gotten his boy parts removed as soon as he was strong enough, but this did not stop him. He heard the "unh-uh" but there were no treats involved. Then she told the girl dogs, "OK ladies, let him have it," and let him in the room with them. They did not appreciate his advances. They let him know this and his nose bled and his ear. Then he thought he would bestow his love on one of the boy dogs. He did not try that again. His humping days were done, and besides, he went on such long walks, and played for so many long hours in the yard, that he was tired and forgot all about it anyway.

"Joe," the Rescuer said as she was drying him from a bath, "Your Forever Home is coming in the morning. They are good people and I have told them all about you, and I have checked them out, and I believe they are perfect for you. Nope, I know it in my bones. Perfect." She had started calling him Joe, because he was a Good Joe, and he liked it very much. "And you are ready. Yes you are. But, Joe, my heart is going to break a bit. You will take your piece of it with you. And it's an awfully big piece you own, Joey. You are such a good dog."

Joe didn't know why her eyes were leaking, but he cleaned her face and wagged his best for her.


The Rescuer.


His Rescuer.




... to be continued HERE (part three, conclusion)


hug your hounds

The Rescue (just a little short story - fiction)

Part One

He had no idea what had happened to his life. He was sure he hadn't done anything Against the Rules. He hadn't Pooped in the House in forever, and he had chased that neighbor cat back to Creation, when it had dared to step on his family's property. He was pleased with the job he'd done terrifying the invading mail man every single day. He was sure his family appreciated his excellent skills of finding treasures in all of the garbage cans. Especially when he found the best treasures in the bathroom garbage and brought them into the living room for all to see.

Still, his safe, familiar, loving home had disappeared faster than stupid squirrel up a handy tree. He had heard his tall humans fighting and arguing about nothing and everything. His whole family was crying and sobbing and boxes were filled with their stuff. Then he was at a very strange place and the dad was sniffing and saying, "Sorry, buddy. I'm so sorry," and after handing his leash to a tired person, the dad walked away, without turning back. The tired person put him in a run with two other dogs and he had never felt such all encompassing, stark terror.

He curled up in a little ball in the back of the run and closed his eyes to all of it.

He didn't notice how many dark times passed. He knew the lights came on, dogs barked, and people came in and cleaned up the run, food dishes appeared, which he couldn't bring himself to touch, so his runmates argued over his. The lights went off and dogs continued to bark. So many dogs. The lights came on and the routine started again. He knew his bones were sticking into the hard cement more than they had when he first came, and he knew his family hadn't returned; that was all he knew.

A woman stood at the front of his run. Something tickled his nostrils.

"Oh he absolutely is one!" the woman was saying. "Thank God you listed him on PetFinder! We try not to let any of them spend a day in a shelter. I guess his family didn't bother to let the breeder know they couldn't keep him. Or I suppose he could have come from a puppy mill in the first place. Who knows. I just so appreciate y'all working with Rescue."

The shelter worker sighed as she accepted the fee and the paperwork from the rescuer. If only all of the dogs had such active advocates as these less popular breeds. Oh well, one less dog to put down today. One less.

This woman's van smelled of joy and treats and fabric softener. Instead of riding in the back seat like he had with his family, the woman put him in a crate. His eyes were still blinded by the sunlight, so he relied on his nose. The crate had fluffy blankets in it and clean water and a chewie and a biscuit. There were other dogs in the van, dogs just like him, and they wagged and sniffed greetings from their crates.

His Rescuer gave him a tender pat as she gently settled him in his crate. "You'll be all right now, sweet heart. Everything will be all right now." He smelled her tears, and without thinking he licked her face.

"Oh you poor, dear dog," cried the woman. "Let's go home."


... to be continued [Click HERE for Part Two]



hug your hounds

Time for a little fiction

Her tea had gotten cold again.
She stood, balancing herself for a moment against the kitchen chair, and then carried the cup over to the microwave, thought better of it and dumped the stuff in the sink. And put the kettle on. She would start over.
She glanced at the clock and realized she had been lost somewhere in her thoughts for a good half an hour. This was a bit concerning; what was happening to her?
She was eighty-six years old. She had outlived her husband by twenty-two years. It had been a good marriage, wonderful really, and she was ashamed that after twenty-two years of living alone, she could barely remember what living with her husband had been like. She could no longer remember the smell of him, or his touch, and she no longer thought she heard him call her from his study. That hadn't happened in years.
She buried her only child ten years ago. She thanked God her husband hadn't been alive for that. She had been close with her daughter, Cappy, who had been quite the scientist, never married and childless. Her funeral had been so very hard, and if it hadn't been for Zelda, she was quite certain she would have simply blown away, like one little spent spark of a fireworks display. No one to notice, plenty of other fireworks to see, just drifting away on the dark breeze.
But there was Zelda. Her dog needed to go out. Needed to be fed. Needed to be hugged. Five years before she died, Cappy had argued and argued with her mother.
"You should not rattle around this old house alone. You've never been without a dog. Of course you can still travel, Jim and Sue will watch a dog for you, you know that. You are not too old, don't be obtuse."
And finally, she had simply brought Zelda to her mother. But that was fifteen years ago, and Cappy had been inconsiderate enough to die, and then last month, so had Zelda.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, we have a policy not to adopt our pets to anyone over eighty-five. I'm sure you understand: there's such a likelihood that the pet would have to be re-homed in the future, and that wouldn't be fair, would it?" said the nice lady at the shelter. And it seemed most breeders had the same policy.
She knew better than to buy a puppy from the Internet, as that was just the newest outlet for puppy mills, now that folks knew not to buy from pet stores. Then a neighbor asked her if she had tried any pure breed rescue representatives in the area.
"Maybe they would have an older rescue which needs a home. It wouldn't hurt to try."
She felt a little excitement for the first time since Zelda died as she contacted several rescuers by email. But the replies weren't coming. And then she noticed that one person lived right in her town.
"Hello, is this Sarah Jones? I contacted you before about getting a rescue. I don't mean to be a bother, and I can understand why people wouldn't want to adopt to me, I mean at my age. But my Zelda had such a very good life, you see, and I think I could give another dog a nice home. I'm alone, you know. I have no family." And she immediately hated herself for sounding so old, so pathetic, so hungry.
The voice on the other end of the phone said, "Oh I think you would be a fine home. Luckily our breed doesn't get that many into rescue but sometimes we do get an older dog in and you would be just perfect. I will definitely spread the word, and let you know if I hear of a good match for you."
"Well, I don't think I could handle a dog with a lot of health problems, but I would appreciate your help."
It had been two months since that phone call, and no word.

The foster home "mom" figured Old Mac would be with her for the rest of his life. He didn't know how to walk, and was nearly totally blind. He had been kept in a crate for his entire eight years, and when the animal control officer opened the crate door, the dog refused to come out. He could stand, but to move he would drop on his belly and slither like a snake. But he would wag his tail, and he would melt with delight at a kind touch.

She sat down with her newly brewed cup of tea, picked up the newspaper and was trying to be interested in the front page when her phone rang.

"Hello? This is Sarah Jones. I have heard about a dog that might work out. I'm so sorry it took me so long to get back to you. The dog is in Chicago, and he needed some time with his foster mom before he was ready to be adopted. He will need a very special home, and you came to mind."
She worried about a "very special home" - that spelled trouble.
"Could you please tell me about him?"
The rescuer took a little too deep of a breath.
"Well, he hasn't had such a great life. Horrid, really. He stayed in a crate for eight years, and he had to learn to walk again. Well, not again, I mean, he had to learn to walk."
"Oh, oh dear."
"But he's quite healthy, and though he's a little timid, his foster mom says he is just a love, and he adores to snuggle, and he's never ever had an accident in the house. He is a beautiful dog, and just as sweet as they come. He's been neutered and of course has a totally clean bill of health."
"Well, that sounds promising!" She felt her heart step up the beat, just a bit. "How would we get him here? I couldn't drive to Chicago."
"Oh that's no problem, we can get him a ride with folks going to shows. He loves to ride in the car. There is one thing."
"Yes?" She didn't want there to be one thing.
"He's pretty much blind. He can see light, so when he goes out at night you'll have to lead him with a good, strong flashlight. He still plays with toys, and can fetch a ball like you wouldn't believe, but he will depend on you more than most dogs would."
"Oh. Oh, I see. Oh, dear. I don't know."
There was a pause. An awkward, loaded silence.
The rescuer said, "Would you like to think about it? You could talk to your vet, do some Internet searches and learn about blind dogs, talk to friends."

She had never been the impulsive sort. She had always planned and studied, researched and carefully considered before she made any decision, and she could scarcely believe her ears when she heard her own self say, "Why no, I don't think I need to do any of that. I think I need to get some dog food and biscuits and a new, no two new flashlights and lots of extra batteries. How soon can he come home?"