Novel Excerpt part three (fiction)

I'm sorry if you came here looking for the excerpt. I've edited and re-written it since I posted it here. I'm pleased with it now! I'll save the pages for any agents that are willing to look.

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hug your hounds

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

Novel Excerpt part one (fiction)

Emily Hunt sat at her computer. The phone startled her.

“You better come now. She just had a contraction.”

Lucy’s voice, rich and sixty, was usually a source of comfort for her niece-in-law. On that night it carried all the calm of a roller coaster, a little wild and out of control.

“Coming,” said Emily. “I’ll be right there.”

Still clutching the phone, Emily hurried down the hall, and burst into her husband’s study. A big yellow Lab and three whippets skittered after her, their toenails trying to find purchase on the old hardwood floor. The dogs had been sound asleep in Emily’s computer room. They entered Emerson’s den, doing the wake-up-shake-all-over with sleepy eyes and tails wagging, eager as ever to join in the fun.

Emily held the phone up as an explanation. “Zelda’s in labor. I’m on my way. Are you okay with the dogs?”

Emerson looked at his wife and smiled. She was so excited that he could feel waves of electricity surrounding her. He loved her.

Illustration (C) W.F. Renzulli, MD

(C) Patience Renzulli, all rights reserved

hug your hounds

P. O. (d)

I went to the Post Office today.

I love the folks at our Post Office. When friends or family visit, if I have to go to the Post Office I bring them with me so I can introduce them to the folks at our Post Office. We laugh, we ask how each others' kids are, we say it is great to see you, hope you have a great weekend, and we mean it.

When the 2nd edition of Mama Pajama Tells A Story got done, my peeps at our Post Office celebrated with me and helped me mail all the pre-ordered copies. They were happy for me.

So this new guy - new to our branch, not new to postal work - was at work one day. I brought some books to mail. My friend, Diana, weighed my packages and told me what they would cost. She got a thought and said to the new guy, "Hey, [hmmm says the evil writer... what fictitious name shall we give the new guy] MEAN MAN, Patience has written a book!" To me Diana said, "MEAN MAN collects books. Fancy ones, with autographs and stuff." To MEAN MAN, "You should get one of Patience's books!"

Nice as could be, all smiley and polite, I say, "I'd be happy to sign a book for you."

Mean Man sneered, yes he did, he positively sneered at me. "I only collect first edition hardcover books, signed by well known authors. I don't want your book."

Well, okay then. My friend Diana said, "You'll be sorry when she's on Oprah!" She rolled her eyes at me. "He will, won't he!"

That was a couple of years ago.

Today I went to mail a couple more books. (Thank you Dear Readers!) My friend Bonnie was working, but noooooooo, the way the line worked out I get Mean Man. Bonnie asks me how I've been, it's been a while, it's great to see you, you cut your hair! I told her that I was asked to do a reading of my book at the college on October 29th! Maybe she could come!

Mean Man said, "Something is wrong with dog people. They're sick." Now, Dear Readers, I'm not going to repeat what Mean Man said. He went on for EVER on how people who loved dogs didn't really deserve to live. And when he ran out of bad things to say about dog people, he started in on artists, and how crazy they are, and what inflated senses of their talent they all have. (My husband is an artist. I forgot to tell you that part, Bill!)

I was in a rather fragile state, and he was being so mean, without provocation, that I was actually fighting tears at this point.

Son of a bitch stinkin' snorkle douche (oops I didn't mean that) ugly horrid book collector with fake signatures on fake first editions shithead. (Oops I did mean that.)

I looked him in the eye. I knew anything I said in defense of dogs or dog people was only going to fuel his ugliness. So I said, "I suppose the twenty-six years I've been a Registered Nurse is worthless too." I know I was beat red. Poor Bonnie was mortified, as were the other people in line.

Well I guess he had a little change of heart or something, because he backpedalled. "Oh, I wasn't talking about you," he said. "I was just talking in general, you know."

Now, usually, I can't think of the right thing to say until I'm lying in bed at two in the morning, still livid. Or finally livid after being sad. But today? Today I had taken all the beating the universe had to give. I looked at that Mean Man and I said

"Oh, I know. Some people get pleasure out of saying hurtful things. They get pleasure out of making other people sad. There are actually some people who feel more important when they are mean to folks who haven't done anything to anyone." [Okay I didn't actually say the last sentence. I thought it, though, so there! And I did actually say the other two, out loud. Not ugly or angry, just matter of fact, trying not to cry.] "Bye, Bonnie! Hope you have a great weekend."

(Of course I forgot to pick up my flat rate envelopes, and Bonnie had to call me back when I reached the door, so I had to come back after sounding all baddass and everyone could see that I had started to cry, but still. I think the dogs would have been proud that I stood up to that Mean Man. It. Was. Enough.)

I am hugging my sweet hounds, and sending out big ah-WOOOOOOOOOOOS to all you WONDERFUL, KIND, LOVING Dog People!

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(Google Image, source http://blog.insweb.com)

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For Barry

My blog has been so sad lately. I have a blog friend who could use a laugh. This is an old story. I hope it brings a smile or two!

Back when we lived on the farm, I came up with this Great Idea. The dogs were pulling me down. Literally. We’d be out walking, enjoying life, and some stinking squirrel, or rabbit, deer, groundhog, fox, figment of Opie’s imagination, whatever would take off down the path ahead of us, and the six whippets would simultaneously accelerate. It is hard to stay upright and hold on to six leads when one hundred and eighty pounds of Whippets go from two to thirty mph and you’re not expecting it. Shoot, it’s hard to do it when you are expecting it, but at least you can sit down.

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I had started wearing a hefty belt outside of my coat, and affixing Giacomino’s lead to it. He was recovering from orthopedic surgery, and he simply could not run loose. So my Great Idea was to make special three- to four-foot-long leads for all of the dogs. I would snap all six leads to heavy brass rings on the hefty belt. That way, the dogs couldn’t pull the leads out of my hands when they took off. And because the leads would be attached to my waist, my center of gravity would be lower. It was a Great Idea!

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I figured the beauty of the Great Idea was that, what with my lower center of gravity and all, the dogs wouldn’t be able to pull me splat on my face, as had become their habit of late. I could dig in my heels, quite literally, and all would be well.

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I walked that way for about a week. There were a few incidents of squirrel, deer, and groundhog sightings, but I remained on my feet and no dogs got loose. I arrived at work fairly beaming. “This is the Best Idea I’ve ever had,” I crowed. “I need to find a way to market this so that everyone can walk all their dogs at once.”

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The very next morning I went walking all the dogs before work, congratulating myself for my Brilliant Idea. I turned the corner at the edge of the woods. There is a slight decline there, as the tractor road dips down for about a hundred yards until it turns gradually left into the woods.
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I felt the speed even before I saw the rabbit. I was somehow flying. Or, not quite. I was running like the Six Million Dollar Woman: going about twenty or twenty-five miles per hour, with each stride getting longer and longer until each foot would only touch down every fifteen feet or more. I was screaming, “No, no, no, no, oh stop, no, no, no, ahhhhhhhhhh,” but the Whippets didn’t hear any of it. They were six dogs who were one. Because of the belt, I couldn’t fall down. It was like I was water-skiing or on one of those flying kites behind a boat. And we kept increasing in speed.

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We had already covered the hundred yards and were turning into the woods. The stupid bunny just kept running straight down the tractor road ahead of us. It could have turned into the woods and disappeared, but noooooooooooo, it just kept running straight in front of the six Whippets and the Six Million Dollar Woman, and I swear to you, dear readers, I swear to you, at this point we were going at least, at least thirty miles an hour.

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Now I’m not a particularly religious person. It’s been years since I set foot in a church. But as we entered the woods, I felt both of my empty hands waving way up above my head. Every finger wiggling like so much wheat on a windy day. And I heard a humble little Patience voice, crying out loud, “Oh, Sweet Jesus, help me!”

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The next thing I remember is wondering why on earth I had decided to take a nap in a wild rose bush. I was lying about five feet into the woods, with my face smack up against a multiflora rose. For those lucky readers who’ve never been up close and personal with a wild rose bush, well, that’s what they use in Ireland to keep bulls away from the cows. A multiflora rose bush makes barbed wire look like dental floss.

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As I regained consciousness, there were six contrite little Whippets looking down at me, each one saying, “It wasn’t me. No ma’am. It wasn’t me at all. I wasn’t even here. I just got here to see if I could help you. Could you move away from the roses, though? They are awfully stickery.”

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Well. I thought it was a great idea.

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(adapted from an essay in Mama Pajama Tells A Story, (c) PC Renzulli, all rights reserved)

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hug your speedy, innocent hounds

Adagio for Strings

Thank you, John and Kristin Williams for figuring it out.

I believe my dear friend is hugging her darling hound. And that is something to rejoice.

Dancing

A friend sent me a note today, which ended with this line:

Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass... It's about learning to dance in the rain.

I love to dance. I'm not very good, but I imagine myself to be fantastic.

I love music. All different sorts of music. oh no let's go let's go crazy. I forget that I'm older than dirt. I forget that I look a little creepy: an old lady shakin' her booty.

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I love to sing. I'm terrible, but only in real life. In my mind.. in my shower, in my car... There have been times in the van when I'm singing so loud, with such enthusiasm and verve that the whole waggle has felt compelled to join in. And we are homeless, homeless. Moonlight sleeping on a midnight lake ahwoooooooooooooooooo!

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On the morning which would be Spice's last, Bill and I accidentally met on our walks. I was standing, transfixed, in front of this stunning home:

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Out of its upstairs porch were floating the most hauntingly beautiful strains. Violins leading their orchestral cousins in the sweetest, saddest melody. Vaguely familiar and so moving. The assembled whippets - Easy, Fat Charlie, Mama Pajama, Spice, Delia, and Luciano - listened. "Bill, what is that? Do you recognize it?" But it ended. We walked home together. I want to find that song, for it is forever linked in my heart now with one dear, sweet, loving, wagging, generous, darling dog. I want to find that music.

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I remember the title of a book, I'm Dancing as Fast as I Can.

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I was no saint for bringing Easy and Spice to our home. Please do not make that mistake in your thinking. It has been a rare gift. Spice was the sweetest dog I have ever known. Right there with Opie, our old Lab, and there is no higher praise. I have been able to hold on to a piece of my late friends, Easy and Spice's beloved Carolyn and Greg, right here in my arms.

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I am comforted by the image of Spice galloping towards Carolyn and Greg, with her head stretched high and her ears pricked, that tail wagging like crazy. And the reunion that would follow. That's what I hear in that music. That's it. I wonder if I heard it in those violins without knowing what I was hearing? I wonder if Carolyn was in that music? If the dogs heard her?

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I'm trying to dance. Sometimes it's raining too damn hard. I'm trying to focus on that happy reunion. I'm trying to block the image of that goddam bastard nightmare seizure.

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I need to find that music.

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I'm hugging my hounds