Here is some of what we did in 2007

Resolution

I started this blog for one reason: to get discovered by a literary agent. Then I would sign a book deal for my novel in progress, and be a guest on Oprah. Ha!

I met some great new friends, and was delighted to see a bunch of my faithful past readers were here and I started writing like crazy. Oh it felt good. I gave up my custom collar business to give me more time to write. A bunch of people found my book here and bought it, which helped.

In September, on the first week of this blog's existence, it was visited 516 times, with 853 page views. Even though Bill and I probably accounted for at least 500 page views, it was still an exciting start. This week, we had 2336 visits, with 3205 page views. Come on Oprah! The average visit has stayed pretty constant at around two minutes. Visitors have come from sixty-seven countries. Only, India doesn't count, because the fifteen visitors from India averaged two seconds per visit. No, India doesn't count.

Thank you for giving me your most valuable two minutes! I know how crammed every one's day is.

Now, for the resolution. The blog has gotten me writing consistently, but not necessarily on my novel. So. What do you think of my posting more excerpts from the novel here as I go? Just little snippets. Do I run the risk of having my story line stolen? Or boring you all to death? Please tell me what you think, if you have a moment, or if you care. Either way, I do resolve to get at least the first draft of this book finished in 2008. There. I said it. In public.

There are three other excerpts of the novel on this blog. You can start with this one (scroll down to the large writing), the next is here, and then this one.




Here is the newest. The Woman has lost her dog, Hope.


The calls were starting to come in. The Woman and Laura and Gayle had made posters with photos of Hope and a large, legible “REWARD” and the Woman’s phone number and had posted them all over the community. They had hit every veterinarian’s office and shelter for miles. They had gotten permission to speak to postal workers, Fed Ex and UPS drivers and supplied all of them with the posters. They had canvassed every convenience store and gas station, and there wasn’t a telephone pole in the county that wasn’t decorated with Hope’s photo and the words “Reward, no questions asked.” And the phone was ringing.
After a few crank calls, one call made the Woman’s heart leap. ”I’m pretty sure I got your dog,” the man’s voice said on the other end. “It’s white and got a spot on its side, and it looks just like the dog on the poster I saw.”
“I’ll be right there, if you could give me directions to your place?” the Woman practically shouted. On the drive there, she called Laura. “Oh my God, Laura, I think I’ve found her. The guy says she looks just like the photo. But I don’t know how she could have gotten there; it’s clear on the other side of town. It’s got to be every bit of twelve or fifteen miles, and it’s kind of a creepy area.”
“Did they say if she were hurt or anything?” asked Laura.
“No, he didn’t say, and I didn’t think to ask. She’s got to be ok. I just can’t wait to hold her in my arms. Hello? Laura? Hello? Damn!” Her cell phone was dead as a smelt. She reached to plug it in to the charger, only to realize that she had left the charger in her husband’s car. Damn and damn.
She saw a rusty mailbox with the number on her directions and pulled into the lane, winding into some scraggly woods, which hid the house. As she rounded a corner in the pocked drive she saw that hiding the house was a good thing. It was a mess. Broken bikes and trash and a rusted tattered swing set decorated the front. The house itself was cinder block, painted white or gray. It was so covered in black and green mildew, she couldn’t tell what color it had once been. There were bushes and landscape plants, but they were obliterated by tall weeds. She fought off a big wave of fear; she would get her dog. She clutched her purse tightly under her arm, picturing the $500 cash reward in her wallet. She wished her cell phone worked.
She looked around for any glimpse of Little Hope, but instead saw a man coming out of the house. A large man. Good God, the guy was a whole mountain. He had to be six foot five, and had a belly that belligerently fought any attempts to cover it, be it by pants or shirt. Suspenders kept the belly from pushing the pants clear down around his knees, but they had to go the long way around, making them look like parentheses.
As the Woman walked from her car to the door, that blimp of a belly seemed to be its own life form. She kept her eyes focused up on the huge man’s eyes, and said, “Hi. You have my dog?”
The tall man forced a smile, but it was evident that smiling politely was not a part of his normal activities of daily living. His cheek muscles twitched with effort. “I’m sure it is. It looks just like that picture. I don’t want to, uh. I mean… I mean wasn’t there a mention of a reward?” The smile wasn’t even a memory when his face hardened. His eyes didn’t contain a speck of kindness and the woman couldn’t wait to get her dog and get out of there. As if to confirm her need to turn away, the man cleared his throat and spit a glob of something that made the woman suppress a gag.
“Yes, I have the reward, but please let me see my dog. I can’t thank you enough. I’ve been so worried. I can’t begin to imagine how she got so far from home. Where is she? I don’t see or hear any dogs at all?”
“I put it in the shed so it wouldn’t get lost again.”
“Oh, that was a good idea. May we go get her?” If the woman had to stand there for another minute talking to this man, she thought she was going to have to spit a glob of something herself.
She followed him around a footpath to the back of the house. She was afraid. She realized that she had placed herself in a ridiculously vulnerable position. She was on a remote property, with a strange man who could sit on her and crush her to death, she had $500 in her purse, and she hadn’t told a living soul where she was headed. She wondered what the hell was wrong with her, and she wondered if this guy had Hope. Certainly if Hope were here, she’d be screaming ah-woos at the sound of the woman’s voice, and there was no sound at all, other than the distant drone of traffic from the Interstate.
“Oh, my husband is coming here, too,” she lied. “He’s probably a couple of minutes behind me.” It sounded just as lame to her as she figured it did to the man-mountain. She saw a shed, outhouse width, but three times deeper, attached to the back of the house. It was weather beaten, and the bottom boards were green/gray with slime. The woman felt her fear morphing into anger and she wanted to get her Little Hope out of there. But she had a bad feeling about the whole deal. Bad.
The large man fiddled with a key in the padlock and then opened the door. He moved his bulk out of the way and grunted, pointing the woman towards the back of the shed. She peered in, letting her eyes adjust and called softly, the universal call of a loving breeder, “Pup, pup, pup!” Even her oldest could not resist that high happy invitation, imprinted as their earliest memory of food, affection, and fun. In the very back of the shed, curled in a corner, looking with wary eyes was a small terrier mix. A male.
“This isn’t my dog. This isn’t even close to my dog. It’s a male and it’s not a whippet.”
“Are you sure? It’s white with brown patches. It looks like your dog to me.”
“It’s a male. I’m missing a female.” She turned to the miserable creature in the corner. “Come here, buddy. It’s OK.” She threw him a little biscuit, which he sniffed and then quietly ate. “Come on, come here. You’re alright, come get another.” The dog crept over, its tail low and it’s body language conveying nothing but fear and submission. She held out another biscuit and he took it gently from her hand. She scratched the side of his neck and then got a hold of his collar.
“He’s got tags. His owner’s phone number is right here!” What a jerk, she thought. A quick look at the little guy convinced her that he was someone’s loved pet. His nails were trimmed, he was in great weight, and his coat, though superficially dirty, was in excellent condition. She was gently stroking him during this assessment and the dog was wagging his docked tail faster, and squirming with delight, pressing his body into her secure arms.
“I need to call his owners,” she said, immediately blushing with her mistake. She did not want this man to know that her cell phone was caput. “Let me put him in my van.”
“Hold on there. Just hold on. Here’s what I think. I think this is your dog. I think you are welching on the reward. You offered a reward, and I have your dog and you aren’t going nowhere with this damn dog until I get the reward.” The man’s eyes looked snaky; no mammalian feeling, just flicking for prey. He absently grabbed at his waistband and futilely tugged at it.
In a fit of absolute inappropriateness, the woman fought an overwhelming urge to giggle. She was reminded of an old Saturday Night Live skit. Chris Farley played a failed motivational speaker, a derisory loser who was constantly hiking up his pants. The effect was to diffuse her fear, and she realized she could outrun this guy with her legs tied together if need be.
“Come over to my van. Let me show you something.”
At her van, she put the little dog in a crate, giving him another biscuit, and grabbed one of her “lost” posters. She showed it to the man.
“See here? Female. See that dog? Male. See this picture? Long legs, pointy nose, stripy spot on the left side of the body, long skinny tail. See that dog? His tail is cut off. This is not my dog. OK?”
The man’s face was purple with anger and he made a rumbling noise.
“I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take this dog and I’ll get him back to his family. I have your name and phone number and I will strongly suggest that the family thank you for keeping him safe. But, this isn’t your dog and it isn’t my dog and I need to get him home.”
The man said, “Yeah, whatever. Great.” He hefted his bulk back into his house without so much as a glance over his shoulder.
The woman called out, “So nice to meet you, Creephead. Thanks for your help.”

Be Still

Be still, my little dog, lie near and let me love you.
Your heart and mine, close and quiet in deep calm.
I need this time, this peace, this moment just because you
Share my very soul, you are my prayers and my psalm.

Be well, my little dog, rest easy and recover.
So tired from the struggle in your body with disease.
Sleep tight my little dog, while around you I will hover
Praying deep with all my voice: heal my little dog, oh please.

I love you, little dog, I love everything about you.
I love your quiet, and your wildness, your softness and your might.
You are a great little dog, I've never had a cause to doubt you.
Now, be still my little dog, rest quiet and sleep tight.

(c) P C Renzulli

Elsa Update

What a difference a week makes. Deb and Merle are working miracles with this dog, who is now called Shelby. Her tail just wags, wags, wags and she makes eye contact and uses her ears to convey her joy.

I have to tell you dear readers a little more about these good people, Deb and Merle. They are doing all of this, knowing that they can't keep this dog. They are doing all this while their house is on the market, being shown!!!! Thankfully, their real estate agent is a dog person who totally understands. Can you imagine showing your beautiful home, "Oh and this is our starved-to-death foster dog." So, if you dear readers could think positive thoughts about Shelby finding a forever home...

She loves to retrieve (no big surprise there!) and has learned to

"go get your ball"

"give"

"'sit"

"ya-hoooooo!"

"stand patiently while the humans yack"

"give kisses"

She got a dose of Heartguard today. The vet had us give benedryl 50mg a half hour beforehand. I've never had a heart worm positive dog before, so I don't really know what to expect. I know the Heartguard today was simply to lessen the microfilaria load in the bloodstream, and the real heartworm treatment can't start until she's gained ten pounds. (Which will be soon at this rate!)

My experience has been with Whippet Rescue before, and finding a home has meant picking the best fit from a long waiting list. If any of you have ideas to help find a forever home for Shelby, I'm all ears!

hug your hounds

Radio Interview

Our local NPR station, WKMS, did an interview with me about the "No Christmas Puppies" story which was featured on http://www.ilistpaducah.com/ . I did a terrible job with the interview (not enough coffee) but the station manager (Kate Lochte whose voice you hear asking me the questions) did some very artful editing. Though I did not make some points I wanted to, (and, as always I displayed my big fixation on POOP, good lord) the end product wasn't as bad as it started.
The interview can be heard HERE. It's an MP3 thingy, and my computer uses RealPlayer. It didn't come with any graphics on my monitor, but it worked.

I'll be back with more stories in a bit, but I thought you dear readers might enjoy hearing me bumble through.

Patience

Christmas at 'Chateau Cuckoo'

My son came home for Christmas.

I drove to Nashville yesterday to pick him up from the airport. Southwest airlines decided that Jake's suitcase, and one belonging to another passenger on that flight, would be happier flying on the next plane. That plane wouldn't arrive for a few hours. Jake said forget it. He had his laptop in his carry on. He could go to Salvation Army and get some jeans.

It was a last minute decision to come home, but such a welcome one for me, and Bill, and Jake's cousin. I told Jake that we didn't have a tree, and the only decorations in the house are bazillions of wonderful holiday cards with whippets on them. And that we had accepted invitations from neighbors for Christmas dinners, but I was sure he would be warmly included by all our friends. That was fine, he said, he just wanted to come home. He's not had the best year of his life. You might say that everything that could go wrong for him has. Twice. And if you said that you would not be guilty of hyperbole.

So we talked and talked the two and a half hours home from the airport. We stopped and visited with Phyllis and Maddie and gave them their presents. Phyllis had an only son, and had out lived him. I thought she would enjoy a visit with Jake and I knew he would love to meet her.

At our house, the whippets went bonkers over Jake's magical appearance. Their favorite Jake was home! Ah-wooo, woo-woo, wildness and frivolity! Jake stepped back out to get something from the car while I settled the waggle.

When I looked up through the kitchen door onto the breezeway, Jake was standing there with an eleven foot Christmas tree. What was Jake doing with an eleven foot Christmas tree? A Christmas tree? Where did Jake get a Christmas tree?

"Jake. Where did you get that Christmas tree?"

"Someone left it in the alley for you."

My mind raced. The tree even had a string of lights in the uppermost section. The trolley station is on the other side of the alley. Oh my, did Jake help himself to one of their decorations? He wouldn't. But.

"Where in the alley? What do you mean someone left it in the alley?"

"There's an Indian belief, Mom. If you find a hammer, that means that someone left it for you and wanted you to have it. Someone wants us to have this Christmas tree."

"There are no Indians in our alley, Jake!"

"It was in the alley next to your neighbors' trash cans."

I have an over active imagination. Our neighborhood has had a bit of a hubub over a Christmas tree, which looked a lot like this one. One group bought an artificial tree for an official lighting by the Mayor, asking for donations to cover the cost, and only recouped about a third. The tree had lights and some sparse decorations. Some anonymous elves bought beautiful red ornaments and ribbons and strands of beads and decorated the tree under cover of darkness. The neighborhood celebrated this delightful act of generosity. Only someone somehow misunderstood and there was talk of filing charges against the people who "desecrated" the tree. And that was soundly booed as flabberghastorhetoric histrionics, and the neighborhood was very quiet for several weeks, except for people remarking on the lovely decorating job of the public tree.

I imagined that someone had vandalized the scandalized tree and tossed it in our alley and it was now headed for our living room. That there would be a big empty place where the public tree once stood and a familiar looking tree in Casa Renzulli's living room window. And we would be found out and never live down the shame. But no. This was a real tree, and the scandalous one was fake. I called my next door neighbor.

"Hi Michael. Jake is home for a visit. Yes, I'll tell him you said hi. He just showed up with a tree he found in the alley. Oh you are? It is? Are you sure? OK. Thanks. Merry Christmas!"

So, it turned out that Jake was right about the Indians, only it wasn't Native Americans, it was our next door neighbors. They had opened presents in the morning and then Ashly and the kids had already left to visit family in Texas. Michael is a CCU nurse and has to work Christmas day and the next, and then he will join them. He had just taken the tree down and was delighted for us to have it. Now we have a Christmas tree.

The Salvation Army was closed today. So were the consignment shops. Jake did not want to buy new clothes, as he has plenty of clothes. Another neighbor stopped by with a delectable plate of cookies. She heard the story of Jake's lost luggage, and said, "Well, you're exactly the same size as my husband, and we have a pile of clothes to go to the Salvation Army. I'll go get some." She came back with pants and shirts and even a pair of perfect cowboy boots. Jake practically lives in cowboy boots.

I think those Native Americans were pretty smart. Merry Christmas everyone!

Hug your hounds, and yourselves, and each other too.

A Chicken for the Miracle Dog

Elsa is thriving under foster parents' Deb and Merle's loving care. The Great Rescue happened on Thursday. On Friday, day two, I went to visit and was greeted with big full tail wags. My niece went with me and sat on the floor, and Elsa sat on her lap. Looking at Deb. Wagging.

We bumped her up to a half a cup of sensitive stomach kibble four times a day, plus the A/D with the Panacur once a day. Her belly looked even skinnier because it was less bloated on Friday; losing the belly worm load. But she looked the tiniest bit less gaunt. Better hydrated. Shoot, she looked alive instead of like the standing dead. We sat and wondered about her past. Elsa took a long, peaceful, deep nap, opening her eyes only if Deb left the room.

Friday evening the phone rang. It was Merle. "We have a new development." My heart sank. Was she having bloody diarrhea all over their lovely house? Was she screaming in pain? Panting uncontrollably from Congestive Heart Failure?

"What is it, Merle?"

"She wants to play. We need some toys for this dog."

Oh my goodness, you are kidding me! "Bill, I'm going to run to my shop and get some toys for Elsa. I'll be right back."

Bill looked incredulous. "The water is almost boiling. You can't go now!" Bill had been given the all clear from his doc, and was celebrating being alive and well and in full control of his faculties by making a new and delicious pasta dish.

"Ok, I'll grab something from here and just run it over to Deb and Merle's and be right back, I swear." I grabbed a hard green squeaky ball which was a little too big for the whippets, and a rolled rawhide, and a large rubber ridged chew. It was all I had which was big enough for her. I jogged down the street with the treasures.

I was met at the door by a beaming Deb, a laughing Merle, and a wagging yellow skeleton dog playing tug with a knotted towel. I threw the squeaky ball and the skeleton dog ran after it and pounced and brought it back just a'squeaking and a'wagging. We all clapped and laughed like big goofs. We were big goofs. Big happy delighted amazed goofs. And it was only day two.

This morning, day three, I called to see how things were. I feared that Elsa had in a moment's boredom, oh, I don't know, eaten their dining room table. No, she had been great. Still some loose to liquid stool, but not frequent. Still not a single accident in the house. She had chewed on the rawhide, and was learning the "out" command with toys. Merle would have her sit, give her the toy, have a kibble ready, tell her "out", and trade the toy for a kibble. A natural at this dog training stuff!

I stopped by this afternoon with a couple more toys. Deb had already been to Petsmart and gotten her a Kong, (perfect!) some training treats and biscuits. I brought a dead rubber chicken. This particular dead rubber chicken has (had) a squeaker and a little bit of stuffie stuffing for disemboweling pleasure. Elsa had at it:

If anyone ever needed an example that Life Is Good, here it is, in living skeletal color! If anyone ever needed an example that people are good, there are Deb and Merle, bringing a dog they can't even keep back from the very brink.

And someone is going to get a great dog.

Hug your hounds!

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