Do I Have What It Takes?

Right.

So.

Couldn't talk about this for a couple of weeks. Well, I could, but it would not have been appropriate. I wrote a quickie synopsis of what's involved in Getting Your Book Published on my Fans Of Mama Pajama Tells A Story group on Facebook:

1. write the damn thing
2. revise the living poop outta it
3. send it to your Beta readers (oh yes, I am talking fancy writer-speak. Impressed?)
4. get it back from the Betas and revise all over again
5. have a little break down. or two. three is a nice round number.
6. (here comes the fun part)
7. begin to query agents. LOTS of theories on this, if you're an unpublished writer with not a lot of writing credits, maybe it's best to start querying young, hungry, new agents, or what the heck you can start at the top with NYC agencies. you send a query (type of book, word count, synopsis, your writing bio, first 6 - 10 pages).
8. expect the rejections to come in at 4 - 6 weeks post query
9. IF IF IF IF an agent likes your query they MIGHT MIGHT MIGHT request your full manuscript.
10. and then say "No thanks" and you start all over again

My excitement came a couple of weeks ago. Foolishly (and not living up to my name) I queried two agents. BIG time NYC agents. Presidents of the agencies, not some hot to trot brand new need some clients young 'uns. Nope. And here's the dorky part. I knew my book wasn't ready. But I queried. I figured I'd get rejected, but maybe the big shots would have suggestions for my query.

I've read that THREE out of 10,000 queries end up with a request for a full manuscript. One out of 80,000 ends up published.

So, I figured, what the heck.

And the day after I emailed my query, I got a reply: they wanted my full manuscript.

Oh. My. God.

I'll skip the part where I was at lunch at work when I checked my email and saw the request for my manuscript and started to scream and cry and called Bill who thought I had accidentally killed someone and said right away, "We'll get through this, Patience, no matter what it is," (oh how I love him), and I finally got out the part about them wanting the manuscript, and then he started to scream and cry.

Oh my God, they wanted my manuscript!

And I knew it wasn't ready.

My name is Patience. The name of this (my) blog is Patience-please. Every time someone says my name I get a reminder: patience, patience, PATIENCE.

I worked for six hours on the manuscript the next day and then emailed it to the fancy president of the fancy literary agency. Knowing it wasn't ready.

For two weeks I didn't get a rejection. I knew one was coming; of course one was coming. You've no doubt heard of the SIXTY rejections over the THREE AND A HALF YEARS of revising of the NYT best seller The Help. I couldn't sleep. In my little heart of hearts a silly voice would sing, "They're thinking of what a great movie it would make!" I had fantasies about the book tour in my (imaginary) motor home with Bill and all of the dogs. I told Bill, "It will get rejected. I will not go into a deep depression. I will soldier on, continue to revise, and keep querying. My God! I got a request for a manuscript on my first query! It's all good!" And in my little heart of hearts that silly voice whispered, "They won't reject. They'll offer you a contract. It is this easy."

The rejection letter came yesterday, an hour before folks started to arrive for Bill's opening. It was a personal, kind, lovely letter and it even included suggestions! That is huge! The big fancy NYC agent actually read the whole manuscript, and then she took the time to write a personal note and she included feedback. HUGE.

"Bill, it has to be okay with you, and with me, if I give up on this book and live my life as a normal person. You know, go to work, play with my dogs, go to movies." We were lying in bed, after hosting a couple hundred people in the house and gallery for the show. Food and wine were served, clean was the house, spruced was the yard. Bill and Patience were pooped.

In the morning - this morning - Bill held me and said, "You won't give up."

"But it has to be okay with both of us if I do."

"Yes, but you won't."

hug your hounds

We've Broken the eBook iBook Barrier!

***
It is a bit magical, and I suppose frightening in a who-has-got-control-of-copyright sort of way, but I'll be daggone!

Mama Pajama Tells A Story is now available on Kindle and Nook. Who'd of ever thunk it? And it's selling!

So I'm sitting in my little computer/sewing room. (The room is newly spic and span and organized, I might add, due to the fact that my novel had been nudging me to work on it, so of course I spent days cleaning, instead). I log on to my Facebook page and spit my coffee on my screen. A friend from Norway wrote on my wall. That's not so unusual, but what she posted caused the coffee spewage. (I think that's not a word, but it should be.) She wrote:

OMG had to share, it had been a while since I checked to see if your book was on amazon in kindle form and it now is!!! Very excited, just downloaded it :) I have been wanting to read it for a while but trying to keep all my books in kindle version. Hug your whippets for me :)

And she included the link:

Mama Pajama Tells A Story: A Collection of Writings About Dogs and Their Servants [Kindle Edition]

I marched myself down in my Big Pink Thing to Bill's studio.

"Great, just blankety-blank great! Now my book is available on Kindle for $3.99."

"How did that happen?"

"Do I look like I know?"

"Guess you better call the publisher."

"Guess I better."

After hours on hold and being disconnected twice and speaking to two different departments, we ascertained that no, I hadn't signed the eBook clause, and yes, they could take it off Kindle right away. 

Hmmmm. 

I've been reading every book I've read for at least a year (has it been two?) on the free Kindle app on my iPhone. I'm reading more than ever, and no waiting for the book to arrive, and wasn't I being just a bit hypocritical and ...

"Well, no, don't take it down just yet. Let me think about it."

I went to the Kindle store link that my Norwegian friend had provided. I scrolled down the page to find:

Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #241,692 Paid in Kindle Store

That was humbling. Meaning that not counting the free books, mine ranked way down at the bottom of the barrel. But, I had no where to go but up, right? So I posted it on my Facebook page. And I posted it on the FANS OF MAMA PAJAMA TELLS A STORY Facebook page. My Facebook friends who have Nooks said they felt left out. I did a little search on Barnes & Noble and there it was. So I put up that link. My kind and generous Facebook friends shared the links. This was getting exciting.

I just now checked on the Kindle store page. 

Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #14,096 Paid in Kindle Store 

Holy moly!!! [She does a little giggly dance, a kind of Staying Alive John Travolta meets the Michelin Man and Pillsbury Doughboy's illegitimate love child. She's grateful no one except her dogs can see her. Even they look askance, except the youngest two who join in the fun.] 

Amazon's Sellers Ranking formula is strange and incomprehensible, but that was a heck of a jump! I think it translates to somewhere around $20 to $30 in royalties for me, and that's if there is any way to hold Amazon accountable for eSales.

But. I need an agent for my novel. I believe in the story I'm trying to tell. I'm not so good in believing in myself, but oh I do so believe in this story. I'm on the third revision. The third rewrite. I want to get it right, as right as I possibly can, before I search for an agent. I wish I had an MFA in creative writing after my name. I don't. I can't tell an agent that I am on the Faculty at some prestigious writing college. I've never even submitted to the New Yorker, much less been published there.

And this day? It might mean nothing to a 'real writer'. It does mean that there are 14,096 Kindle books which are selling more than mine today. But it has given this little writer the courage to dare to call myself a writer again.

Thanks, my friends.

Hug yourselves for me.

The Sun is Out ...

Poor little Tindra is going to be the only whippet in the history of whippets that thinks a walk is torture.

It has rained nonstop since her arrival to Western Kentucky. Non. Stop.

Some of it was warmish rain. That was bad enough. But on Tuesday it was bitter cold, windy, with a mix of biting rain/sleet/wet snow.

Lovely.

A brilliant member of the fabulous Whippet World group, (my scissors sister Christel of Cottage Hounds Coats and Jammies) , suggested taking a sleeve of an old coat or sweatshirt and cutting leg holes to make a coat for a young pup. Perfect! I had an old Goretex jacket, which Tindra's great grandfather Jazzbo had chewed a hole in years and years ago. I finally had reluctantly put it in the trash clothes bag (but hadn't actually gotten the bag to the trash - imagine that). I whipped it out, hacked off a sleeve, cut some leg holes and voila!

L to R: Delia, Jabber, and Tindra

Only it was a wee bit snug. I had to work on Wednesday, and I had worked the weekend so I was comatose on Monday, and I just felt like these dogs NEEDED to get out of the house on Tuesday. The grown up dogs (including 11 month old Jabber, whose puppyhood has been assassinated by the arrival of his sister/cousin) rejoiced! We're going for a walk oh happy day! Even Fat Charlie walked to one corner, crossed the street, and walked back. (Mama Pajama didn't budge from her warm, blanketed throne in Bill's study. Clever as ever, that one!)

Normally, the youngest puppy goes on several walks. I just take two adults and a puppy until all the adults have walked. Now, I have two puppies. It's just a lot of walks, but we get it done. (Occasionally in desperation and in deference to my aching nurse's feet, I break my own rule and walk four at a time, instead of my maximum of three. And pray for a minimum of squirrel/feral cat/loos dog encounters.)

Tindra didn't mind wearing her makeshift coat at all. (Whippets are all about warmth.) But when I headed out the gate and expected her to come with me, she balked. "You are not even considering... Oh you are an idiot human! No! You can't make me!" I pulled her through the gate, her four little legs squarely planted, her eyes squinting in determination. "Okay, you apparently can make me. But I don't have to like it. Oh merciful heavens HUMAN did you notice that it is spitting ice and freezing awful stuff on ourselves? And the wind is going to blow me over and I am going to die" (this in a long, pitiful wail).

Her walk-mates, Fat Charlie and Sam the Puppy Slayer, busied themselves with a hearty pee on the wilted day lilies. They celebrated the great good fortune of their walk, if not the weather. (Note re: whippets - try to bathe a whippet in nice warm water with the heat turned up and a cushy towel for drying and wrapping up in and they will tell you in no uncertain terms that whippets will melt and water is acid and someone had better call the animal control officer immediately and report your sorry ass for cruelty. But. Pouring rain, sub zero temps, and puddles on a walk/run/lure coursing/racing/hunt? No problemo!!! Buck up, wimpy human. Come on.)

Tindra hung behind us, contemplating her future adoptive home in Florida or the Bahamas after she called WRAP (Whippet Rescue and Placement) and reported me. This was a short walk, as mentioned already, so that Fat Charlie could feel like he'd been out and about. When we turned for home, Tindra surged to the front. "Well," she huffed. "Thank my Ancestors you came to your senses. Hurry up."

Imagine her dismay when I included her in the next walk, with her great, great aunt Delia and her brother/cousin Jabber. This time she jammed on her parking brakes in the kitchen. "No! No! No! I will NOT! Arrrrrrrgh! This is a travesty of injustice! Call the warden! Mr. Bill help!!! No! Oh NOoooooooooooooooooooooo! Where's my Nana Laurie! Mother!!! Father! Auntie Lindy! Someone make her stop!"

I must say, I am impressed with this puppy's homing instincts. She knew with each turn whether we were heading towards, or away from, home. Zoom to the front as we turned west. Slam on the brakes when we headed eastward.

I didn't take her on the last walk. Bad enough I had made her squeak when I struggled to get the sleeve coat off. It really was too small. Jabber marched happily along with his mother and father, looking at me occasionally to see if I realized that I had forgotten Little Bit. When we got home, the Little Bit was curled in a tiny whippet snail ball in her downstairs crate.

I opened her crate door. She opened one eye, halfway, doing her level best to ignore me. "I don't see any stinking Human. Don't even think of taking me out of this Safe Place." I picked her up. "Moannnnnnnn. Errrrrrrrrr." (Aren't puppy mumbles the cutest thing ever?)

I carried her upstairs to snuggle on our bed pillows while I took a hot shower and changed into dry clothes. (Yes, I did put on my Big Pink Hoodie-Footie, why do you ask?)

In the wonderful Way of Dogs, when she woke up, she had forgiven me. That and it was suppertime.

Today the sun is shining. Tindra and Jabber played in the puppy yard all morning long, though the temps are only in the mid 40's. Who cares? The sun is amazing and glorious and good for a puppy's soul. When she wakes from this nap, we'll go for our walks.

I'll be curious to see if she is mortified at the notion.

Hug your hounds and enjoy the sun whenever you can.

So what ...

So what is going on with me?

Every once in a while I get a comment on my Facebook page or an email telling me that the writer misses my blog. My response is always, "So do I."

It isn't that I haven't had anything to write about. Good Lord, I've had a whole litter of puppies, (well Lindy Loo and Swede William did) and now there's a new litter in Minnesoooooota. Swede William is the dad, and Lindy Loo's litter sister Simmer is the mom and they are Laurie's first ever litter and they are beyond adorable.

Simmer and Swedish Seven

And we've had some HUGE BIG wins in shows. HUGE BIG. Once in a lifetime - for me, anyway - kinds of wins.

Swede William and Lindy Loo's daughter Alison was Best Puppy in Specialty

More excitement, I was asked to judge at the Continental Whippet Association National in Wisconsin. It was like old home week for me. I got to see people that I love and haven't seen in years. Lindy Loo and Swede William and little Jabberwonkus got to run after the lure and woo-hoooooo they loved it! And I ran smack into the fact that I miss doing performance stuff with my dogs. I miss it way down deep in my center.

And there's work. I can't write about work, because of HIPAA laws and my patients' rights for privacy. There is so much to write, but legally I can't - and don't - even talk about it with Bill. I see stuff. I feel stuff. Heart warming stuff, horrifying stuff. Mostly I'm beyond exhausted. Day before yesterday was one of the worst days yet. By 9:30 in the morning I was fighting tears, mad at myself because using energy to fight tears means my energy and attention are being wasted, and I need every ounce I can muster. I feel so old and foolish.

The ballast to days like that is the little medicaid patient with terrible health problems who is a multiple hospital frequent flier. She introduced me to her family as "the best nurse I've ever had." Why? Not because I was in fact the best nurse she had ever had. No. Believe me there are much, MUCH better nurses out there than I am. I still have to ask my co-workers and charge nurses questions and questions and stoooopid questions ad nauseatum. I'm still looking up every other drug I give before I give it because there are all these new meds with four different names each and I can't remember what I looked up yesterday because I'm so damn old. (I miss my brain.)

So what made me "the best nurse" on one day and a sniveling idiot on another? The very same thing. I try to treat every patient, no matter what, the way I would like my mother or my husband to be treated. Period. On the days when I have too many patients who are too sick and have too many meds too many dressing changes too many orders too many admissions too many discharges too many doctor calls too many infusions too many transfusions too many lab results too many stool samples too many need to pee need to poop peed the bed pooped myself too many pain meds too many re-assess too many care plans too much charting not enough me ... on those days I can't treat my patients the way I would want my mother or my husband to be treated and it makes me cry.

On those days I tell my Bill, "there has got to be a better way." On those days I long for a home looking out over a distant row of mountains. With some mares whunkering at me when I walk into the barn in the morning, and their foals, folded up in the straw, turn to me with their soft curly whiskers. With a field where I host whippet races and folks come for the weekend and we have a blast with our dogs and with our friends.

On those days I am off in my imaginary motor home, with Bill and the old dogs along, not left back in Paducah. We are going someplace fun together. Just imagine that! Going someplace together.

I gave up the American Whippet Club Board. I gave up being President of the Paducah Kennel Club. I am still on two city boards which take up a lot of time and energy and brain space.

And I sit at my (imaginary) blog and my murdered muse sneers at me. "You want inspiration?" she asks. "From me? You kill me. Literally. With your thirteen hour shifts and your four hour board meetings twice a month and your committee meetings. You want to write funny things. You want to finish that dumb book you started. Yes? Well something has to give and you CHOSE me. Didn't you? You fed everything else and let me die of neglect. So bite me."

She's a mean muse. I guess we all are when we're starving...

hug your hounds and feed your muses

Free Day :-)

I was supposed to work today. Actually I was supposed to work this weekend. We are scheduled to work every third weekend.

No. Matter. What.

But this weekend is the Paducah Kennel Club show. I am the president, so I must be there. I had to beg, borrow, plead, and freak out to get the weekend off. Meaning I can't get the weekend off; I must ask my fellow nurses to trade days with me. Because of this, I was scheduled to work yesterday and today, which was icky and a half because Bill is tra-la-la-ing around back east getting an award from his college, visiting with family and friends, and eating. (I'm not envious. Or anything.)

Now I do have the best friends-and-neighbors in the world, so they come and let the dogs out for me, and feed them. The dogs were actually less frantic when I got home last night (late - two end-of-shift admissions meant I wasn't able to leave the hospital until after 8:00) than they are when Bill is home. They nonchalantly said, "Woo, woo. It's only you. We've had such fun with our new best friend Deb today. She pretty much rocks. Obviously she cares about us because she came and let us out from LOCK UP. And Lee and Dee are the best cooks! Dinner was scrumptious. You could take a lesson or two."

But. Two days in a row of crates all day, just the thought of it was giving me hives.

Then around one o'clock yesterday at work my belt phone rang. Patients can call their nurses directly on our belt phones when they need something, and our unit clerk can transfer calls from doctors or alert us if a patient puts their call light on. But this call was my Charge Nurse who was off yesterday. She asked if I could possibly switch days with her. She needed Wednesday off, so could she work for me on Tuesday and could I work for her Wednesday?

Yippeeeeee! Oh yes I could switch days with her!!! Oh thank you God and Charge Nurse! So, the dogs got to walk this morning, and lay around on couches and I didn't have to leave them for two days in a row of lock up. And my old body didn't have to work two days in a row at the start of the busiest kennel club week.

The Universe was lining up to make my Free Day pretty darn awesome. After the dogs and I climbed in bed last night, I remembered I needed to give Fat Charlie his second dose of thyroid medicine. I threw on a pair of shorts and trekked downstairs to get it. Oh. That somehow triggered the thought that I hadn't brought in the mail. And in the mail? Lo and behold the videos of Best of Breed from the National! Me, the mail, and the moonlight doing twirly happy dances on my front sidewalk. I had ordered those videos so long ago and here they were in perfect time for my Free Day? Oh yeah, more twirly shoulder pumping head wagging happy dances. Me and the mail and the moon.

Something else happened at work yesterday. To get the joke in this I have to make you like me a little less, and understand a little more just what a Saint my Bill is. For a solid year, and more, I have dragged my sorry self home from work and cried. I won't bore you with the why's of it all. I come home to a delicious dinner of Bill's creation and I tell him through sobs that I can't do this. That I'm a burden to my fellow nurses. That I'm constantly asking them questions, because I would rather ask the question out loud even though I know I know the answer, just to be sure I don't make a mistake.

I cry to Bill that the nurses I work with are fed up with me. That they must think I am the stoooopidest old woman alive. I weep and wail to Bill. (Sometimes the weeping is because of the human tragedy I see - this is expected, weeping about bad things happening to good people.) It's the wailing, the constant "I can't DO this!" that tries my dear husband's patience.

"You are too hard on yourself," he tells me. Over and over. What I want him to say is, "You are right. This is too hard on you. You should quit."

But he doesn't. He says, "I believe in you."

Last night I phoned him but he didn't answer. I emailed him: I have two fun things to tell you. I wrote about my unexpected Free Day, and said that the second fun thing needed to be told, not written in an email, so please call. He called after I had climbed back in bed from finding the videos in the mailbox.

"What's the other fun thing," he asked?

"You are not allowed to say I told you so."

It had been a bad day at work. The most experienced, organised nurses were just shy of frantic. No one could get caught up. One of nurses was sick and was going home. She was finishing up her charting in the nurses' station. I zoomed in to get a dose of pain medicine out of the AccuDose.

"Oh," she said. "Congratulations, by the way."

"For what," I asked? I thought maybe she just heard about Swede William at the National.

"For being Employee of the Month," she said.

"What?"

"Yes," she said. "I got an email that you are this month's Employee of the Month."

I started to giggle. "You mean GOOBER of the Month, maybe! You are not well! You better get home and lie down." I couldn't stop giggling; this was surreal. Each month or so all of the staff on our unit does a secret ballot to pick out an Employee of the Month. Even now I'm shaking my head and chuckling. Goober of the Year, maybe.

Our Unit Clerk joined in. "Oh that's right! Congratulations, Patience!"

"What? What? You two are funny." I headed off to give my Small Bowel Resection their Zofran and Dilaudid. Still giggling. Later I pulled up my work email on my Computer On Wheels.

"Oh my God," I said out loud. I blushed. I started giggling again. "I do NOT believe this."

Bill cleared his throat. "So. I'm not allowed to say I told you so?"

"Good night," I giggled. "I love you."

hug your hounds

Spam a Lot

Blogger intercepts spammy comments before they get published. But they hang onto them for the blog author to check and see if they are really spam.

Sometimes they make me laugh.

I got this comment:

Thank you for this thoughtful topic. It is a topic I have given a lot of pondering and your insight is very helpful. (And then there's a link to an Asian Girls Escort Service.)

On THIS post. Which just cracks me up, because the entire text of the post is:

Where are my boobs

and

what are they doing there????

hug your hounds

But then I got this comment on my National post:

Man proposes but God disposes.

It was an anonymous comment, so I didn't know if it was spam or not, or if it had some little spyware pixel attached. I deleted it. I figured if Blogger thought it was spam, they were probably right.

I spent a long time yesterday writing a long post explaining how I had been in a horrible bad mood for days. And poor Bill. And why I thought I had been in such a horrible bad mood for days.

While I was writing it I felt like it was spam. Brain regurgitation spam. It was helpful to me to write it all down and think it through. But it was basically brain barf. Still, I was tempted to publish my pundit puke. I wanted you dear readers to say, "Ah yes. I understand." And "Oh, Patience. How brave and noble you are to endure what you do and only ever get in a bad mood once in a while."

But, shoot, even when I read it, I was all, "Geez. Get a grip." Midway through I wrote, "Of course the bottom line is that I am angry at myself." And that is the crux of the matter.

I did hurt my back on Saturday, from being stupid. I undid three weeks of miracles by Emily the Magical and three weeks of hard work exercises by me. I was so very angry at myself for that. But I did the exercises that I could, and I saw her again today, and I feel much, much better. So I'm not so angry at myself for that now. Plus I realize I was scared. It really hurt and I had felt a big POP. Now I don't have to be scared, either.

I spent a lot of time making ads for Swede William, Lindy, and Jabberdude. I am not a graphic designer, so of course the ads look amateurish. I was mad at myself about that. Well. Duh. Am I mad that I didn't go to Graphic Designer school? That was stupid, too. I do like the way Jabber's ad turned out, because it is just Laurie from Minnesoooooota's beautiful photo with some text overlay. Here it is in all its glory:

One of the other many, many things I am mad at myself about is I had a couple of ideas for good blog posts. Only I didn't make time to write and now of course they are dust in the wind. Arrrgh. When will I learn to make time to write? Instead you get this drivel.

Speaking of time: I had better now type up the Kennel Club minutes, the Paducah Main Street minutes, and the Paducah Renaissance Alliance minutes.

Yup. I have good reason to be angry at myself!!! I am a fool.

hug your hounds who don't care how foolish we are, thank goodness!

We Got A Little Rain

In Fact, between April 22nd and May 2nd we got 17.05 inches of rain.

I took this photo of our (and I say that so very fondly: "our") Flood Wall while I walked the dogs yesterday. Note the glorious blue sky. We had forgotten what that was. Blue sky.

Thanks to photos that journalist Eddie Grant took and put on Facebook, I can show you what is on the other side of the flood wall. I think it was taken almost at the very same time, because I think I saw him flying around in the sky (that same blue sky) while we were walking.

See the small dark roof in front of the red X? That is the red building in front of the car in the top photo. That red X is where the dogs were tied back on March 28 in the photo below. And I thought the river was high then!

Here's another red X where they were standing when I took the above photo in March:

We didn't walk in the River Park:

Have I mentioned how grateful I am to the folks in 1947 who built our flood wall? The arrow points to our home, in another aerial shot by Eddie Grant.

It is so strange. Neighbors just 4 miles away have lost their businesses. Folks who live along little creeks are completely under water. Our local NPR station, the marvelous WKMS, posted a Community Relief Fund where we could send donations.

My sweet friend Heather, (Emmett's mom, and Baby Ben who is NOT a baby anymore, but a fine young man's mom), is an avid and accomplished sailor. She has a new boat in her driveway. She said if the flood wall broke, she would sail down and get us all. That was a comfort.

Really, we are in the safest place, as long as the flood wall holds. I think today is the crest. The Army Corps of Engineers blew up a levee on the Mississippi River, flooding130,000 acres of farmland in Missouri, to save some of the towns above it. It did relieve our river some.

But oh, those poor farmers. I can't even imagine. The photos are devastating. And people comment on them on Facebook. "That was my grandfather's house." "There's our family farm. It's been in our family for generations." Being human is all about being resilient.

The dogs can't seem to soak up enough sunshine. The puppy is so very very glad to be able to pee and poop without being rained on.

I don't think I'll ever live this close to big water again. It is an awesome, uncontrollable, powerful beast.

I love the gentle mountains, off in the distance. I like my horizons lumpy.

Which says a lot about me!

hug your hounds

Just One Question, No, Two

Where are my boobs

and

what are they doing there????

hug your hounds

(Steve Surfman photo)

Useless

I am just about useless today.

Why? Because I am already anticipating the energy I will need to work the weekend.

HOW RIDICULOUS IS THAT!!!!

What a waste. In a couple of weeks I'll be fifty-seven. I've never been that old before. (Har har) I've never felt this old before. I got to work at 6:45 Monday morning and I left at 8:45 that night. I was toast. It had been non stop. Although I did manage 25 minutes for lunch. I had called Bill and told him not to bother to wait to eat for me; I'd be way to late. But he did.

He had made some oh so delicious pasta. I come home every time I work to something unbelievable that he has made. How lucky is that? I don't know how he waits until eight, eight-thirty, even nine o'clock, but he does. (He allows as how sipping on wine helps.)

I will work the weekend and it will be fine. I love the nurses on my unit. I will have the rare privilege of caring for people. Do you know how awesome it is to be able to make someone's day better? There's not much cooler than to be giving report at the end of your shift and have your patients and their families ask hopefully if you will be back tomorrow.

Except maybe the relief of saying, "No, no I'm off tomorrow."

I'm getting some new shoes. My dear beloved Charge Nurse recommends them highly. And it is supposed to stop storming tomorrow. Poor Fat Charlie has been in a constant state of terror for what, five days? He's still quite weak and fragile from his bout with Vestibular Disease. (Here is a link about him on Whippet World.) His eyes are normal now, but he has the tiniest head tilt still. His hind legs were getting a little wobbly before all of that and now they are not so trustworthy.

We've been carrying him up and down the stairs, but yesterday he managed with only a steadying hand on his collar. But he's been shaking and trembling and panting and pacing with all of these relentless storms. It has to exhaust him beyond his nearly fourteen year old limits. My brave dog who never ever showed fear, until a hideously unfortunate Fourth of July last year. He was my Steady Eddy. My Fat Charlie.

Well the storms are supposed to stop tomorrow.

Maybe I can walk the waggle between the rain drops after lunch. Then maybe I'll go to our locally owned garden store (NOT LOWES) and buy some plants. Even if it's raining I can fill the pots on the porches.

Oh I just remembered I have a puppy! Here are his parents when they were puppies:

Hmmmmm. Well maybe we can protect the plants until the quilters leave at least. We're on a home tour Friday and Saturday.

Time for lunch.

Hug your hounds

The National Simmers!

(this is part three, part one is HERE)

Laurie and Simmer after Obedience on Monday at the National - photo Steve Surfman

I have no clue what time I got back to the hotel. I have no clue what time Lee and Dee and the dogs got back, but they had filled my prescriptions and they said that Laurie and Simmer had done really well. Really well!!!

Swede William's breeder, my good friend Lisa from Sweden, called to say that her flight from Chicago to Lexington had been cancelled because of the storms, but she would be on a later flight that would arrive at 9:30. I told her I was a little under the weather and that either Laurie or Lee and Dee would pick her up. I called Laurie, or she called me.

"Simmer has done really, really well," Laurie said! A little background, first on Simmer. I had promised to give Laurie the pick bitch from Logan and Maggie Mae's litter. And from the moment Simmer was born, ooh boy I knew it was her.

Puppy Simmer photo by Laurie Erickson

In fact, I was pretty sure she was the best whippet I had ever bred, and man oh man would this test if I could live up to my word. But Laurie would do far more than I could with Simmer. She is a gifted, dedicated trainer and Minneapolis is full of training/competing opportunities like nothing we have here. And Laurie loves her dogs like I do. No brainer.

Second background. When Laurie decided to aim Simmer towards the Triathlon, oh I was full of advice. (After all, I had twice been second, (once by .01 of a point), and once fifth, and I was there when Rhonda won it; so I was an expert.)

"I know how competitive you are, so don't plan on winning it your first time. If you can just finish you have really accomplished something, and if you finish in the top ten, wow," I pontificated from my Paducah van on the way home from work in February. "It's the top whippets in the country. People who have been triathlon-ing for years. Really."

"Mmm-hmmm," said Laurie. Every time we talked about it I warned her not to have her expectations too high. "Mmm-hmmm."

Laurie arrived back at the hotel with Lisa from Sweden. They both looked at me sort of the way you would look at a big pile of vomited dog poop that you had to clean up. (I'll refer you to the E.R. photo from yesterday, and the hoodie-footie photo from the previous post, as it was a combined effort.) "You don't look so good."

The most fun thing was when Swede William saw Lisa. Whippets never forget. He began to wag the greetings any guest would get. Then all of a sudden, he whipped his head around and his eyes got HUGE and he started wagging all over and happy dancing. He jumped on my bed and said, "Look! Look! It's MY Lisa!!! LOOK!!!" I wouldn't have gotten so teary if I hadn't been sick I'm sure. (not)

Laurie was bubbling over. "Patience, they're saying that Simmer has a really good chance! She was tied for second in [her first ever] Obedience Trial, and she got second out of 35 in her conformation. With her Lure Coursing score..."

"Oh my gosh Laurie, do you think you made the top five?"

"Well, they're saying she has a shot at maybe the top three!"

Now, antibiotics are just the most wonderful invention. My face was already hurting much much less when I woke up Tuesday morning. My neck still was stiff and sore, but I felt almost alive. I had slept like the dead. After a hot, hot shower and the application of lots of make up (for me) I even looked sort of okay. Laurie had left early with Rivet and Simmer. Lisa, Lee, Dee and I fed and walked the dogs and loaded us all into the van and headed over to Griffin Gate. We walked into the ball room.

Laurie was beaming. "Patience," she said. "I think she won!"

"What?"

"Yes! Her name is at the top of the scoreboard and she has the highest total score and people are saying congratulations!"

"WHAT!!!!!?????"

It was Laurie's turn to get a little leaky-eyed. "Patience, Simmer won the Triathlon."

And I thought antibiotics could work miracles. HA! No comparison! Laurie and little Simmer had won the Triathlon!!! I was already proud as could be of them; this was just sheer fun! Laurie and little Simmer had WON THE GLORIOUS TRIATHLON AT THE 25TH AMERICAN WHIPPET CLUB NATIONAL SPECIALTY!!!

Get out of TOWN!!! Laurie and Simmer!!! I called Simmer's co-breeders Jim and Sue. "LAURIE AND SIMMER WON THE TRIATHLON!! WON IT CAN YOU STAND IT??? CONGRATULATIONS!!!" (This was especially fun because Sue was scheduled to have a total hip replacement on the following Monday and I loved giving her such great news.)

They called the top ten finishers into the ring in reverse order, starting with number ten, to get their ribbons and plates. And last they called Laurie Erickson and Simmer, Champion Warburton WW's Southern Skies, RN, NA, NAJ, PR. As they made their victory lap, I just whooped up a storm.

bad cell phone photo by me, but isn't Simmer beautiful?

I don't know what happened to the rest of Tuesday. I'm pretty sure there was a long nap with Lindy Loo and Swede William and I felt even better when I woke from that. I had to think long and hard when I woke up if I had been having a wild dream that Simmer had won the Triathlon. Nope, I was pretty sure it had actually happened.

And all I could say when I first saw her was, "She's FAT!!!" Remember?

Simmer, Lindy Loo's glamorous litter sister had won the Triathlon. I am so proud of Laurie! I guess living up to my word and giving her the pick bitch worked out just fine.

Little Simmer won the Triathlon.

And that, my friends, was just the beginning... to be continued HERE

hug your hounds

The National - Monday

(this is part two, part one is here)

I pushed the button on my phone. Three oh three A.M. The maxillary and ethmoid sinuses on the right side of my face burned like they were filled with flesh-eating acid. And speaking of flesh-eating. On the unit where I work at the hospital, we care for patients who have bad infections. So I'm routinely up to my elbows in MRSA (Methicillin Resistant Staph Aureus). Granted, I'm gowned and gloved and I wash and wash and wash all day long, but in my three oh three A.M. mentation I was picturing my whole head just a'swarming with MRSA bugs and surely I was going to die a slow horrible pus-filled death.

It didn't' help that if I moved my head the slightest bit in any direction or if I held it perfectly still, I had stabbing pain clear down my spine. I turned away from Swede William so that I didn't infect him with my MRSA breath. At three oh three A.M. it was clear that I would be cold and dead long before I ever got to see Bill again, and I would never get to kiss Mama Pajama on her little nose.

When Laurie started stirring (six? seven?) I must have said I would ask Lee and Dee, who were in the room across the hall with puppy Mia, to take me to the E.R. (I'd love to blame the total lack of recall for Monday on my illness, but I'm just generally senile and I already can't remember what I had for breakfast this morning and it's only 8:40.) I imagine that Dee walked all my dogs. I know that Bill was terribly alarmed when I called and told him that Dee was driving my van with me and all the dogs in it. In downtown Lexington, no less. WHAT??!!

I do remember convincing a reluctant Lee and Dee to leave me at the E.R. and go back to cheer Laurie on. The clincher was when I pointed out that the dogs would be better off at Griffin Gate in the van than in downtown Lexington. The waiting room was empty (say hooray for 7:30 A.M. Monday morning E.R. visits) and the clerk asked me to write the reason for my visit.

I was momentarily stumped. I figured "sick" wasn't a good enough answer. I pressed my R.N. brain to come up with something professional. What was wrong with me, anyway? I had pain above and below my right eye. Oh! It suddenly dawned on me! I wrote:

I thought that sounded much too run-of-the-mill over-the-counter for how I felt, so on the next line I wrote:

That was better.

I work at Western Baptist Hospital. This was our sister hospital, Central Baptist. I was seen, stuck, and CT scanned in very short order, and everyone was so nice. While I was waiting for results I felt like my right eye was swelling. There was no mirror, so I took a picture with my phone. Bill double-dog-dared me to use it here. I figured after the hoodie-footie shot, what the hey?

the Queen of Glamor!

The doc came in and told me it hurt to look at my CT films. "Nasty," he said. Then he said he would have to do a lumbar puncture because I had a stiff neck ("nuchal rigidity").

Say what? A spinal tap? Could this day get any better?

"Well, you have a raging sinusitis, and a stiff neck. Your white count is normal, so it's probably a viral meningitis, but we have to check because your sinuses lie right there next to your brain." He did allay my fears of MRSA. "Nah, we're just usually colonized with the stuff when we're exposed all the time."

I called Bill. "They have to do a lumbar puncture," I weeped.

"It will be okay," Bill said.

"I know," I squeaked. I sounded pathetic, even to myself. I had assisted in a bazillion of them back in my O.R. /Recovery Room days. But it was hard to look forward to a lumbar puncture, even with my Big Girl Panties on.

End result: normal CSF. If anything was going on in my brain it was viral. I promised the doc that I would call my retired doctor husband to pick me up and take me to my own hospital if I didn't get better. They gave me a shot of Rocephin and a prescription for Augmentin and called a (free) cab for me - wasn't that nice?

I can't say enough good things about Central Baptist Hospital! (Little did I know I'd be seeing them again...)

Now enough of this wallering. Back to the show!

continued HERE

hug your hounds

The National

What a week. I don't know where to start.

My first American Whippet Club National Specialty was in Vermont in 1996, and I've gone every year since. Last year it was in Tucson, AZ, which was a long, weary drive. This year it was in Lexington, KY: a mere four and a half hours from home. Piece o'cake!

While showering before work on Tuesday morning, I thought, "Huh. I must have slept with my mouth open. My throat feels funny." While showering before work on Wednesday morning, I thought, "Hmm. Now the back of my nasal passages are kind of burning. I couldn't be getting a cold. Nah. Not right before the National."

I got a cold. No biggie.

I packed the van including Swede William, Lindy Loo, puppies Jabber and Alison, and my pink hoodie footie, and went to pick up Lee and Dee and older puppy Mia. We left on Saturday so that I could watch Lindy Loo's sister Simmer run in the Lure Coursing Field Trial on Sunday, and see my dear Laurie from Minnesooooooooota. (Bill told me that when I drove off, leaving Sam and the Dear Old Ones behind, Sammy threw his head back and howled like a broken-hearted Lone Wolf in the dining room. That made me die a little bit.)

We got to Lexington in no time. The puppies were stellar. No one would guess this was their inaugural road trip, or that they were just fourteen weeks old.

Minnesoooooota Laurie could stop and join us for an early dinner in Lexington. (She would spend the night an hour further south, so that the 6:30 AM Roll Call wouldn't be quite so onerous. We would drive down in the morning.) Sure enough, she arrived and oh how wonderful it was to see her, and there was Sam's sweet brother Rivet, and Lindy Loo's glamorous sister Simmer. Only...

Breeders are strange creatures. I open my arms to hug my dear friend, whom I haven't seen in ten forevers. "Oh Laurie," I exclaimed! "It is sooooo good to see y..." My eyes widened in horror as I gazed down at my Simmer, my little pup-pup.

"She's FAT!!!" I just blurted it out. Right like I was saying "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!" or, "You have an ax sticking out of your skull!"

Simmer was entered in the Triathlon at the National. The Triathlon is a Big Deal. Whippets entered in the Triathlon combine their scores from Lure Coursing, Obedience, and Conformation. You have to have your dog fit enough for Lure Coursing, trained in Obedience, and they have to conform to the breed Standard. Mama Pajama had twice finished second in the Triathlon; accomplishments of which I am enormously proud.

Luckily Laurie is a forgiving sort. "Well, we do live in Minnesota, and it's been a horrible winter, and I've been working her on treadmills and doing everything I can," she reasoned. Using all my gracious tact I said, "But she's FAT!!!" (Do remember this later, Dear Readers. Do remember how I carried on.) Laurie, being a Kind and Gentle Soul, just smiled and hugged me and said it was so good to see me and let's eat.

Sunday morning I really didn't feel well at all. The right side of my face burned like fire and my neck was stiff, and maybe I had a little fever? Lee and Dee had never seen lure coursing and I had never seen Simmer run, so I didn't care how I felt, we were going. The day was sunny and windy. We got to the field and oh the memories. Giacomino had been Best In Field at the 1998 National in Temecula, California. And oh the friends! Folks I hadn't seen in years! "Don't hug me," I warned. "I seem to be a little bit sick." Well that was pure torture.

Fat little Simmer ran her heart out and finished with quite a respectable score. In fact, her final run was just beautiful, so much so that she reminded me of her famous cousin Mama P.

Simmer at the National - Photo Steve Surfman

"Laurie," I gushed! "That was awesome! She was fantastic!"

"Not too bad for a fat dog," smiled Laurie. "No," I agreed. "Not too bad at all. And I think she lost three pounds today. She ran so fast she ran away from them!"

I don't remember all that much of the evening. We went back to the hotel and fed dogs and we went out to eat. I don't remember where but I remember I had hot water with lemon to drink and it was like heaven. Laurie and Simmer would do Obedience in the morning and conformation in the afternoon. Sweet Sammy's brother sweet Rivet would do Rally in the morning. I couldn't wait to see it all. But ugh. I couldn't wait to get in bed.

We got back to the hotel and I called Bill and told him what was going on. "You better go to the Emergency Room," he said. "Okay, if I'm not better in the morning I will."

I woke up at 3:00 AM. Oh boy. This wasn't better...

to be continued HERE but obviously I lived because I'm not writing this posthumously so go ahead and hug your hounds

Funny little stories...

Oh hello dear readers! Yes, yes I have missed you terribly.

My name is Patience and I am not not not a writer. I used to write funny little stories, mostly about my sweet dogs. And then life whapped me upside the head. And then it whapped me in the gut. And then it whapped me with a sucker punch to the kidneys. It kept whapping and whapping, and if you read my blog for the last year I was writing it, well, I don't know how you did. Because it was nothing but "WHAP", wail, "WHAP", wail, "WHAP", wail, "WHAP", wail, and so on ad nauseum.

Finally even I figured out that my stories weren't so much funny anymore. Heck they weren't even stories, so much as PDWs. (Public displays of wailing.)

The worst part is that Life really didn't whap me at all. It whapped people I love and some of the sweetest old dogs ever what graced this earth. (Told you I'm not a writer: 'ever what graced this good green earth'? I just like how it sounds, so that's how it stays.) I stand around here all unwhapped, virginal in my unwhappedness. I should be doing cartwheels and off-to-see-the-wizard clicking of heels.

Instead, I'm Madame Morose.

I found myself wandering around this new land, a land so null and void of Funny Little Stories that it made Job's famous dung heap look like an SNL skit (the OLD Belushi/ Aykroid/ Curtain/ Radnor/ Morris/ Chase/ Newman cast, I'm talking - pee your pants funny). Not that my life in any way resembled Job's. No no no. I had nothing but good, and I recognized that, it was just that I couldn't come up with a Funny Little Story for the life of me.

I got tired of reading my wails and I was sure that you were too. Sick and tired. So I stopped.

Kind and generous folks have encouraged me to start up again. I've tried a bunch of times. But my Funny Little Story maker is broke down. I can't find the Funny for the life of me. Poor, poor, poor Bill. He married this Young Honey who was all sparkly and entertaining and now he's stuck with Madame Morose who cries at breakfast because there are assholes in this world who want to de-fund public broadcasting. (Because the amount of money per year spent on public broadcasting represents about 0.003 percent of the federal budget, or $1.35 per American citizen, and I know that extra $1.35 per year in MY pocket will sure make a big difference to me. In fact, come to think of it, if I had that extra $1.35 per year I'd probably be able to find the Funny Little Stories again.)

Okay, there might just be a Funny Little Story about the HoodieFootie that Bill gave me for Valentine's and which I've worn constantly since. Except at work.

So. Here I am. I am not funny. This blog is not going to be what it was. Maybe if I write consistently again once in a while a Funny Little Story might come gasping to the surface for air and then I'll let you know that it did.

I don't know what I'll write about, but don't expect much. I don't want to disappoint.

hug your hounds

The Many Benefits of Having Laurie as My Friend

Minnesooooooooota Laurie, that is. She just happens to be a talented photographer, as well as a kind, caring, understanding, funny, advice giving, dog training, always ready for a laugh or a hug friend. Oh I could go on forever but here's what I'm talking about today!


First, here's Laurie in a photo that her sister took. Laurie's on the left, then goofy me, then Laurie's 89 year old dad with whom I'm a little bit in love, watch out Bill! then Crystal who went with me to Minnesota (and to Sweden a couple of years ago if she looks familiar) and who was trying to snag Mr. Erickson with her blond hair and blue eyes and I had MY green eyes on her yes I did!

I digressed.

So, Laurie is this fantastic photographer. I get awesome show photos.


(Okay, if you look carefully, I'm trying to be a real pro by tossing the liver and catching it. But notice how the liver is bouncing off my wrist and will soon hit the ground? Yeah, I'm cool!!!)



Lindy Loo looking glamorous!

But then there are the candids. Oh my heart! Absolute TREASURES, and there are tons more. It's impossible to choose which to share so I just randomly picked some.



Sweet essence of Sam I Am

Mia - Oh breath-taking!

Swede William and Sam - pure art

More art - Lindy Loo in the sunshine

But then...

there's the risk ... well, remember how your mother told you if you made a face it might stick like that forever?

Oh boy!!!

LAURIE!!!!!

I sure am lucky. And she did formal portraits, too. Wait til you see them!!!

hug your friends and your hounds

How to Walk Dogs Backwards

Stella asked how we manage to walk three dogs, backwards, while filming, as seen in the video on the previous post.

It's easy. I am a marvellous dog trainer. I wish I could share my secrets with you, but really it is an inborn talent. A gift. Like charisma, this can't be taught or learned, it just is.

the end-
Patience

Who's training whom????

[Sam I Am here. I've distracted the Dear Servant momentarily. (No great challenge there, bless her heart. As the humans say in these parts. It translates into: the woman hasn't got a single bone to chew on.) We let her think that she has some magical gift of whatever she was talking about. It makes her feel good about herself, and honestly she has so little to feel good about that every little bit helps.

Here is the real scoop. The Elders tell me that in the Olden Times they all walked together in fields and woods full of every sort of delectable vermin. They speak of fox, groundhogs, bunnies, evil squirrellies, and something magical called deer. Of course the Elders knew that the Servant was crippled, blind, and senseless, so they would allow her to tether herself to them so she wouldn't get lost. As clumsy as she was, even back in her relative youth, more often than not she would land with an 'ooph' on her bouncy belly whenever the vermin were sighted.

A large, gelatinous, human anchor. Screaming obscenities with her face in the mud. (Makes me giggle just a little bit to think of it. Silly human.)

Here and now we walk in this city. No fields, unless she drives us to the Kennel Club. No fox, no groundhogs, no magical deer. (I sure would like to chase one of those one day; they sound great!) Plenty of Evil City Squirrellies who show no respect, Evil C.A.T.s who are V.I.L.E., loose dogs who are danger-danger-dangerous, and lots of cars and trucks.

She doesn't walk us all at once any more. She makes us take Turns. I get two turns because I have taken my Great Uncle Giacomino's place and she can't stand to be away from me for a minute and a half. When it's not our Turn we wait in our Dog Room and get a biscuit and howl our heads off to let her know how stinky not-our- Turns are.

It's taken us eight years, but we finally trained her. She used to (close your ears, Dogs, this is for the humans only) jerk on our necks and froth at the mouth and yell something which made no sense like nonobaddogs or some such unintelligible nonsense. Of course we payed absolutely NO attention to this demonstration of human stupidity; we barked louder and pulled harder. REALLY! I mean. She's not a bad human, but, sigh, she is a human.

One day she had a treat in her pocket. We were dutifully alerting her to the danger of a horrid, rabid, stinkypoopbutt C.A.T. at the top of our lungs and she was getting ready to behave badly. I said, "Hey Idiot Servant! You have treats in your pocket. They might be more interesting than that ol' stinkypoopbutt C.A.T."

She didn't get it (no surprise) so I bumped her pocket with my wonderful long skinny nose.

HELLO!!! LIGHTBULB!!! The human thinks she has a GREAT IDEA!!! Don't you just love them? So now our walks are a treat a minute. We don't pull her? We get a treat. We don't bark our heads off? We get more treats. Treats treats treats!!!

Yah, life is good. We can still bark our heads off at anything we want when we're in our Yard. Unless she's near the Flying Object Of Doom (she calls it the plastic watering can). Then we just run to her instead, and... GET TREATS!!! They are so easy to train if you are consistent and get on their level.


goose your humans-

Sam I Am]

Back Again

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.