S. Kay Murphy's Blog, page 3

Remembering Harry

HarryCauley—author Bridie and Finn and the memoir, Speaking of Cats,recipient of the Writers Guild of America Award and the W.H. Smith Fresh Talentaward in England, staff writer on Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman and several CarolBurnett specials—died yesterday. He was 93.

Inrecent years, as I have mentioned Harry to friends, I’ve been asked how I cameto know him. I get it. The question suggests no disrespect to me, I know, but…How did I, from the very small reclusive sanctuary I have created for myself,brush shoulders with someone who lived and worked and partied in Hollywood?Well, I’ll tell you.

Acouple decades and change ago, a handful of other writers and I used to meetbi-monthly at the Barnes & Noble in Rancho Cucamonga. Sometimes the PRperson for the store would tell us, “I have a guest speaker for you,” and wewould be introduced to someone who was there to promote a book. I will neverforget the night we met Harry. He was there to talk about Bridie and Finn,the rich, heartfelt novel he wrote—his first, written when he was sixty-fiveand had retired from writing teleplays.

WhatHarry said that night continues to resonate with me. I still have it in anotebook: “Writing is the loneliest profession there is.” He went on toelaborate on how difficult it is to sit alone in a quiet place—how intimidatingit is to face the blank computer screen, the blinking cursor—and begin tocompose a work of fiction entirely from scratch. Boy howdy.

Harryhad no idea who I was that night, of course, and we didn’t really speak, otherthan my sincere thank you as he was leaving. But fast forward a decade, and ourdear mutual friend, Peggy Jackson—PR person for Borders Books at the time—was havinglunch with me and another friend in Claremont, California.

“Kay, I loved your memoir about your dogs,” Peggy said. “You remember Harry Cauley? He’s written a memoir,Speaking of Cats. You would love it.”

Idid read and love Speaking of Cats. So I reviewed it on Amazon. AndPeggy emailed Harry to tell him. And Harry emailed me to thank me for thereview. (What a classy guy!) And so it began, Harry and I exchanging emailsabout books and writing and our love of cats and dogs and gardening.

Harrylived in Cherry Valley, which is where I had planned to retire. When the timecame, I ended up in Calimesa, but I was 15 minutes away from his house, and ouremails became phone calls and visits. By then, his health was beginning todecline, and, although he was still driving himself around town, heoccasionally needed help getting to appointments that were a freeway journeyaway. When I drove him, he bought me lunch. Oh, the laughter over thoselunches! This man had 80 years’ worth of stories! About mowing Albert Einstein’slawn (because Harry was born in Princeton, New Jersey, and “the Einsteins”lived down the street). About his stint in the army (“I tap danced my waythrough the Korean War”—and he meant that literally). About his plays beingperformed on Broadway. About the produce he would bring to rehearsals becausehe had a vegetable garden and he loved sharing with his friends. Aboutcelebrities—the truly nice ones (Carol Burnett), the “bitches” and the “s.o.b.s.”

Harrygave me unsolicited advice nearly once a week—how to train my dog (because henever understood why Thomas wasn’t friendly), how to grow vegetables (as if Ihadn’t been doing that for decades), why I should stop looking for love from aman (sigh), how to make soup (as I was making a pot of soup). And I listened,whether I needed the advice or not. Because you don’t get as old as Harrywithout becoming a deep repository of wisdom and truth.

Thepandemic separated us. I didn’t see him for many months, though I left homemadebread and cookies at his doorstep as often as I could. Fortunately, just monthsbefore the lockdown, I drove Harry up to Living Free Animal Sanctuary inIdyllwild where he adopted a beautiful black cat named Asher. Asher was hisonly companion during all the months he was shut in, and we both often remarkedon the phone that Harry had selected “the perfect cat” from the dozens hevisited with that day.

Asherand Harry were separated when Harry went into assisted living a couple yearsago. Please don’t be sad for him; the “perfect cat” continues to be the perfectcompanion for another human who needed him as much as Harry did.

Andnow Harry has left his physical shell and gone on to rejoin all the dearfriends and family members he has lost in nine decades. He lived anextraordinary life, and he accomplished extraordinary things. Bravo, Harry.Bravo.

This is Winter

 

This is my peach tree, pruned and bare. Every night and every morning before dawn, in our forays into the yard for Maya's last potty, I stand on the walkway and stare at this tree (when I'm not staring at the stars), willing her to once again leaf out, then blossom, then bear fruit. "Stay strong, Peachtree," I tell her. But I know I'm really saying it to myself.

In her gorgeous memoir, A Circle of Quiet, Madeleine L'Engle writes of keeping herself from the darkness of depression by surrounding herself with "candles," as she calls them--those small artifacts in our lives that bring us the light of joy--books, songs, dogs, cats, tall trees, wild creatures, sometimes certain people.... This is my list, not hers. Like a squirrel gathering acorns in the fall, I gather these things around me to prepare for Winter's long nights, the lack of sunshine and warmth, the fleeting sense that everything else has died and death is inevitable and why not sooner than later? That last thought becomes more fleeting as the years pass. The light of my "candles" helps extinguish it.

Winter isn't always dark. When not obscured by clouds, the sun's rays are present, albeit slanted, so that the sun shines at us instead of on us. It isn't hot, but on some days, boy howdy, it is bright. I live for these days, for long hikes with friends in cool temperatures, so I can experience this bliss:

And because some trees are bare... and the slant of the sun is what it is... we are gifted (if we walk through a woodsy canyon early) with sights such as this:

Which brings to mind a few brief lines from Emily Dickinson:

There's a certain Slant of light,/ Winter Afternoons - 

The poet feels this slant of light "oppresses," but, all due respect to Miss Emily, for me, it blesses.

And Winter, my dear friends, is only twelve weeks long. I know. It seems to drag on, doesn't it? Much like the dog days of August....

What else is there to do but be grateful in these brief weeks? For books and songs and good dogs and zany cats and the sudden sight of deer grazing in a meadow or a bobcat trotting shiftily across our path or a surprise letter in the box from a much-loved friend and the sweetness of an orange and the satisfying sip of pure Ceylon tea and the comfort of flannel against chilled skin and the brilliance of stars after a storm. I could go on. You make your own list, okay? Let's meet back here next December to compare notes.

Leftovers

 

Thereare two stuffies that belonged to Sgt. Thomas Tibbs within easy reach under mybed (Blue Bunny and Fuzzy Dog). I see them every day, and every day I tellmyself, “I’ll pull those out and do something with them… tomorrow.”

Thom’scollar and leash still hang on the hook (which I installed seven years ago forthat very purpose) just inside the door to the laundry room.

Thereare three carrots in a plastic bag in the crisper of my refrigerator that havebeen there for a month now. I need to get those out, too. Maybe take them to mysister’s horse. Because what’s the point of peeling and chopping up a carrot ifyour best boy isn’t there to share it with you?

That’swhy there’s a half of a bag of popcorn sitting on top of the fridge. I’m sureit’s stale by now. I’d open a bag and sit down to watch TV, and before long Thomaswould come trotting out to the living room, those impossibly soft ears up, thetip of his right ear flopping over. “Is there popcorn?” He could only have afew pieces, so I’d try to eat as much as I could before he appeared, so I couldtoss him a couple then make a big show of putting it away. “All gone, buddy. Allgone. Sorry.”

Thereare two plastic containers of very special dog treats—the ones Thomas could eatthat didn’t upset his very sensitive digestive system—sitting on the counter bythe pet food cupboard. Maya doesn’t care for them (because we are bothfortunate in that she can eat whatever she wants). How long will they sit therebefore I can bring myself to do something with them?

Aweek ago, while cleaning the kitchen, I moved all of Thom’s meds from thekitchen counter and put them on the highest shelf in the pet food cupboard.Why? I don’t know. By the time Maya needs any of them, they’ll be expired. But…you never know.

Myprofile pictures on Google, Twitter, and Instagram are pictures of Thomas. Myprofile picture on Amazon is a photo of me hugging Thom’s neck. When… how… do Ichange those?

My little Ford Ranger--good old "Cloud"--is filled with Thom's floofy hairs. Everywhere. Between the seats, under the seats. There are even some behind the clear plastic dash cover. How the heck they crept in there, I'll never know. I've been saying for years that I would sell the truck when Thomas didn't need it anymore. But... sigh.... With it will go a thousand memories--mostly good, driving him around in it while he stared out the back window, curious about the world that he was too frightened to view walking in daylight. Some bad ones involving vet visits for a bad ear or his bad belly or his bad shoulder. Or shots. No more shots, Thom. No more terror heading into the vet's office.

Atleast for the foreseeable future, every day that I make a piece of peanutbutter toast for breakfast will be a sad one. Because that’s how I finally gotTommy to take a treat from me. Every morning before work I would open the backslider and try to coax him inside with pieces of toast. At first, I’d lay asmall piece of crust on the floor. But he was too wary to step over thethreshold to get it. He’d crane his neck as far as he could, snatch it up, thenrun off to the yard to gulp it down. Finally one day, he put a foot in. Overtime, I moved the pieces closer to me in the kitchen. He would look at me, lookat the toast, and look back again, wondering if he could trust me. I ignoredhim and drank my tea. Someone suggested adding peanut butter to the toast.Total game changer. One day I looked up, and he was all the way in the house,waiting by the kitchen counter for another bite of deliciousness.

Seeinghim learn to trust was everything. Having him be comfortable living in thehouse took another year or so. But peanut butter toast started the process. Andit became a special time of sharing for us.

Inrecent years, I would put a piece of bread in the toaster, and before long Iwould hear his limping, old guy gait as he trotted slowly to the kitchen, thosegoofy ears asking the question: “Is there toast? And can it please have peanutbutter? Please?”

That’swhat I had for breakfast this morning. Peanut butter toast. Cheers, Tommy.Someday all of this will get… not easier, but perhaps a bit less challenging.And you, my sweet good boy—and all of your good successes—will never beforgotten.

 

Prey Drive

 

She's definitely still watching for dangerous, snarling dogs.

First,before I palaver on about prey drive in dogs, I want to express how grateful Iam for the many friends who reached out to me last week when I had Stevie theWillful Dog here. It was an impossible situation, and extremely stressful.Beyond that, Maya, Jenny the Cat, and I were still grieving the loss of our biganchor, Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. Then the emergency situation with Stevie arose, andwe were thrown into chaos for a number of days. If you called, sent a text,messaged me on Facebook, or simply commented with kind words when I posted abouthaving to rehome her, thank you. I appreciate your caring and support more thanI can say.

Next:Please don’t worry about that cute (and sassy) little lass. Stevie has moved onto a home with stellar humans who have great pack leadership skills (and nokitties, now or in the future) where she will be loved for the duration of herlife. Happy ending!

Asfor my pack: Stevie wouldn’t work because she has a very high prey drive. Anumber of people have asked me what that is, so here is a brief explanation:

Puppies,kittens, coyotes, bobcats, lions, tigers, and other predatory animals are bornwith the instinctive drive to chase smaller moving animals that scurry or fly.Thus, you can attach just about anything (including a paper wad) to a longstring, drag it across the floor in front of a tiny kitten, and be entertainedendlessly by the little fluff ball’s stalking, jumping, and attacking.

Inthe same way, if you roll a ball in front of a puppy, chances are the puppywill at least follow it, though dogs have been domesticated to the extent thatsome puppies will just sit and watch the ball roll, not really engaged beyondcuriosity. Other puppies, however, will somehow know that balls are for chasing,and a few puppies will be convinced from a very young age that balls are forchasing and killing.

Whena dog is young, this behavior can be encouraged (“Get it! Get it! Good boy!”)or discouraged (“Good job getting the ball. Now drop it.”) Dogs, like children,learn during play. If you give a toy to a dog with strong prey drive, thencheer the dog on while it growls and shakes its head from side to side, you areencouraging the same behavior that coyotes and wolves use to kill their prey.That rapid head shake snaps the neck of the rabbit or squirrel—or small dog. Orcat.

WhenI went to meet Stevie at the shelter, I was able to see her interact withseveral other dogs, big and small, and she was good (although a bitoverbearing, due to her lack of manners) with all of them. But that particularshelter does not “cat test” (which means taking the dog into an enclosure withcats to see if there is “interest” of a predatory nature), so I knew I wouldhave to be cautious when introducing Stevie to Jenny the Cat.

Goodthing I kept her on a leash. Her response was to lunge forward, stand on herhind legs, snarling and barking, trying to reach Jenny where she sat on my dresser.Yikes. I closed off the hallway with a gate so Stevie couldn’t get to Jenny,and the next day, after Stevie had some time to adjust to the house, we triedagain. Same result. And later? Same result.

Yes,over time and with training, I could have extinguished the behavior in Stevie.But until that time, I would not have been able to trust her in the house alonewith the cat. Which would have meant that Jenny—who claims the house, the yard,the patio, and the front porch as her domain—would have to be locked away inthe bedroom for the weeks or months this correction would have taken.

Thatwas not acceptable for either one of us.

Inaddition to all that, the entire point of bringing in a new dog is so that Mayawill have another anchor, another big sibling to help her feel safer and moreconfident in the scary, peoply world. Maya found Stevie, with her need to jumpand play, and her lack of good manners, as irritating as an annoying littlesister.

Mygoal in getting Stevie out of the shelter was to right a wrong that had beendone to her. In the end, that goal was met when Stevie was embraced by thefolks who will now take over her training and care. Win-win. And when dogs win,my world is a happier place.

How Maya is Grieving

 

Maya Angelou Murphy

Anumber of people have asked how Maya and Jenny the Cat have been doing sinceThomas left us. Both feel his absence, for sure, and I have no doubt that theysense my sadness as well. Consequently, Jenny has slept with me every nightsince our last day with him. I believe cats sense when humans are ill, andshe interprets my sadness as a state of being unwell. (Purrl, before her, couldalso sense when I was physically ill or deeply sad, and she would crawl underthe covers in those times and place her body against mine, purring as a mothercat would do with kittens—even though Purrl never had any of her own.)

Mayais another story altogether. Thomas, it seems, was her assumed body guard. WhenThom could still go for walks, I would sometimes walk them together around theblock, and Maya would actually be happy and excited on the leash. (In case you’reunaware, unless we’re hiking, Maya hates going for walks—because it’s just “toopeoply” out there.) In the morning, with Thomas here, Maya would run into andthrough the kitchen, then tear through the living room, looking for things toplay with, hopping and wagging her tail and barking if I didn’t get herbreakfast ready fast enough. It was hilarious and entertaining every morning.

Atthe time of this writing, Thomas has been gone for two weeks and two days, and for two weeks and two days, Mayahas gone right back to the safety of her bed after we come back in from theback yard. No running through the house. No hopping. No playing. She looks forhim in the kitchen, and when she sees he isn’t there, she simply retreats tothe den and curls up again.

Thismakes me very, very sad for her. She had come so far, but seems to bewithdrawing again. I’m giving her extra love, of course, and simply going tosit with her often. But she has lost her rock, her anchor. (It’s probably agood thing she doesn’t realize that looking to Thomas for protection would belike Dorothy looking to the Cowardly Lion to do the same.)

Assome of you know, months before I lost Thom, I had begun looking for a dogcompanion for Maya, a confident dog that would help her continue to recover andmake her feel safe on walks, perhaps draw her out to interact with me more. AndI wanted to get a new dog settled into my pack before Thomas left us, so thathis passing would be easier on Maya. Alas, that did not happen. But, to thatend….

<Spoileralert: Big Announcement ahead>

OnFriday, I adopted a dog. Before you go thinking that I rushed out to my nearestshelter and impulsively grabbed a sweet dog to comfort me in my grief, let meassure you it did not happen that way. Like, at all. This dog’s story—and I doknow the entire back story—is so complex and complicated that names will bechanged to keep the guilty from being publicly shamed, and I won’t even be ableto share all of it here. But in my next post, I’ll give you an update on my newlittle girl, Stevie (not her original name), and I’ll tell you as much as Ican. (If you want the full story after that, you’ll have to call me and besworn to lifelong secrecy.)

Fornow, I can tell you this: Despite everything that has happened to her in recentweeks, Stevie is filled with joy and enthusiasm. Her tail never stops wagging.She loves everyone she meets—people, dogs (cats, I hope). She’s got sass andspirit (thus her name; that’s “Stevie” from Schitt’s Creek, not Stevie Nicks,though she would do for a namesake, too).

That’sall I know for now because she isn’t even home yet. She’s still in dog jail. I can’tpick her up until her spay surgery, and that can’t happen until Tuesday becauseof the holiday. Oh my dragons! Hasn’t this dog endured enough?? But wait—you don’tknow that part of the story yet. More to come, but let me conclude by sharingone more thing.

Youmay be thinking that I’m all excited about bringing a new dog home. The truthis, I am 20% excited and 80% terrified. New situations and changes in routineare very difficult for me, to say the least. I function much better when thingsare the same, day after day—calm, steady, predictable. This is part of mymental health journey, and though I am aware of it, that doesn’t make newsituations any easier. I know. You’re thinking, “New dog! Yay!” and I’m overhere wringing my hands and worrying about whether my new girl will chase Jennyor pee on the carpeting or somehow (heaven help us) escape the yard. But I feltexactly this way when I brought Maya home. Well, no, with Maya I was 10%excited, 90% terrified. OK, maybe 5% excited. Really. Same with Thomas. Andlook what became of that.

Soif you call to get the whole scoop on Stevie and I sound flustered, justreassure me that the sun will rise the next day, Jenny will come out from underthe bed eventually, and Stevie will add another dimension of joy to this homethat has been far too quiet without the tip-tapping of Thomas’s feet on thefloor. Stay tuned. Here we go…. And may the New Year bring a new dimension ofjoy to your life as well (preferably a rescue dog, but that’s just my own biasspeaking).

Celebrating Sgt. Thomas Tibbs

 

My sweet boy died on Friday. I started crying Thursday, midday, during my phone call to schedule an appointment with Lap of Love Veterinary Hospice, and didn't stop fully until.... Well, that hasn't happened yet, but at least I'm having long moments without tears. Not right now, though. Right now I'm crying.

Of course I've known for months this day was coming; his health issues were worsening, his arthritis pain becoming more and more difficult to manage. He wasn't comfortable... but he was still enjoying treats and cuddles, so he lived with discomfort, and I lived with anticipatory grief... a lot of anticipatory grief....

So I'm trying to let that go, now, and just celebrate his life. My god, the boy started out (at intake with Upland shelter) looking like this:

He was six years old, covered with mange, and starving. The shelter had him from June to January, treating his medical issues and trying to get him to engage with humans. Then I brought him home. At first, he was frightened of everything, even the cats. Except his bunny. He loved his bunny.

In the first couple of years, he spent a lot of time curled in a ball--much like Maya did when I brought her home. His recovery was very gradual.

I walked him every day, sang to him every night, and showered him with love. Finally, after five months, he wagged his tail at me. Two years in, he finally let me give him a belly rub. After I retired in 2016, he began to love other things--riding in my truck, going for hikes... and Purrl.

And of course, in recent years, Lamb Chop.

To me, he was a miracle. Ten years ago, he hated being touched, had no idea how to play with toys, and there was absolutely no joy in his life. While he never did learn how to play with toys, he did love chasing treats, and he gradually came to accept then welcome pets and ear scratches and back rubs. Oh, how he loved back rubs. And, up until his last days, his big tail wagged every day.

What a gift he was! My hiking buddy, my emotional support dog, my daily validation that love is indeed powerful. In fact, I learned more about true, unconditional love from Thomas than I have words for here. 

Thom's story is amazing, so of course I'm going to write a book about him. I started taking notes for that project last year. I will begin writing the book in early spring. I hope it honors him--and all those folks it took to get him out of the horrific situation he was in and safely into a shelter where kind volunteers never gave up on him. Bravo to them. And bravo to Thomas for overcoming so many fears. Good boy, Thom.

Friendship Circle

 

My new desk buddy

I started to say that it all began with Friendship Circle, but it didn’t. Notquite. Well, sort of.

Itbegan when I moved to my current residence in a senior community. Ella, myneighbor, was quick to introduce herself. Having served on the city council andin various volunteer positions in her community, she was cordial and welcomingand diplomatic. Ella invited me to join her for a luncheon hosted by theFriendship Circle group here in the park. I realized too late that this was apotluck, but Ella assured me that as her guest, I wasn’t required to bringanything—actually, no one is required—and that I could consider doing so if Ichose to attend again in the future, which I did.

Twoof the first people I met that day were Ursula and Bob Thomas. I don’t believeI’ve ever met two kinder people in my life. Maybe. But…. Bob and Ursula areextraordinary people, warm, kind, intelligent, empathetic—and each one has agreat sense of humor. While I did not continue being involved with FriendshipCircle after the first few months, I have continued my friendship with theThomases.

Boband Ursula like to walk early in the morning, as I do, so there are times whenwe will see each other at 5:30a.m. (yes, it’s still dark), and we’ll stand inthe road and have a chat for ten minutes or so. It was during one of thesemorning chats that they mentioned their daughter, Shanon, had written a picturebook for children. The book, complete with cover design and illustrations, wasready for publication, but Shanon wasn’t sure which route in publishing shewanted to pursue. I offered to help her decide, and I encouraged her parents togive her my number.

WhenShanon called, I knew right away we were kindred spirits. Like her parents, sheis warm and kind and empathetic. She is also very generous; her sole purpose inmaking her book available to the public is to encourage young readers to bekind, to look for opportunities to show empathy. The book, Clara’s Scarf, islovely and sweet (and is available on Amazon).

Fastforward several months, and there I am, looking for an illustrator for my Dragon Singer Series. The search was not going well (that may be a profoundunderstatement), and it occurred to me to talk to Shanon about the illustratorshe used for Clara’s Scarf.

Andthat’s how I met (via email) Allie Myers. I know I keep saying this, but it’slike Allie is reading my mind. When I explain roughly what I want on a cover,she asks, “But what are the kids’ personalities like?” And bingo—she produces asketch that somehow depicts everything I was feeling when I wrote the scene.

Ihave been grateful for Allie’s amazing artistry, and for my connection toShanon, and my continuing friendship with Ursula and Bob. (What amazing parentsthey must have been to produce such a talented and wonderful kid!!) Then lastweek Shanon happened to be in town, and Ursula called to see if the two of themcould stop by. When they did, Shanon gifted me with the sweet little whitedragon pictured at the top of this post. He’s my new desk companion. Friendship!What an inspiration!

Maythe circle be unbroken, and may it continue to expand as those within it reachout a hand to others.

Losing Maya

 

*SpoilerAlert!* I found her again. But not without significant emotional trauma….

Justover a week ago, I took my darling girl, Miss Maya Angelou Murphy, pictured above, on ahike in the Cienega Canyon Preserve. It’s a wild area out in the hillssouthwest of where we live, and I’ve hiked there often with her. We both loveit. She gets to sniff wild creatures on the wind and in the brush, and I get towatch for hawks, deer, coyotes, and other wild creatures.

Onthis particular morning, we’d gone less than a mile before looking up to see avery young bobcat playing in the trail about forty yards ahead of us. At thesound of my laugh, the big kitten bounded off into the sage and sunflowers, anda moment later we crept past that spot, Maya with her nostrils flaring, me withmy phone out, camera app on, hoping to see it again. No such luck. We walkedon.

"Mom! What was that big kitty thing?!?"

Themorning was bright and already heating up at 8:00, and the trail we hadtraveled in the past had become extremely overgrown, so I was just making up mymind to turn around and head home when Maya began limping. She’d picked up asticker in her left front paw.

Thispresented a problem. While it is no longer much of a struggle for me to touchher feet (to check them after a hike or to clip her nails) when she’s in her crate, she is still too wary to let me touch her paws or legs while we are outhiking. We obviously couldn’t go on, though, so I made her sit, and when she wascalm, I reached down to check her paw. She panicked, jumped backward, and slippedright out of her collar. Then I panicked, telling her “Maya! Wait!” a bit toosharply. But she stopped. (Good girl!) Hands shaking, I grabbed her scruff,holding it tightly with one hand as I slid the collar back on with the other. Iwalked her forward, and in the tussle, the sticker had apparently beendislodged, as she was walking without limping. Whew. Safe. Or so I thought.

Weturned to go home.

Ona previous visit to the preserve, I had dropped Maya’s leash when we were abouta half mile from the trailhead, and she had done beautifully, trotting ahead attimes, but always stopping when I gave her the “wait” command. On this day, whenwe were still three quarters of a mile out, I decided to try that trainingagain, but instead of dropping the leash in the dirt, I unhooked it. She trottedalong beside me in the trail, never going ahead, just being with me. It wasglorious. Until it wasn’t.

Becausewe’d seen the bobcat, and because the day was warm, my gaze alternated constantlybetween the trail up ahead (for coyotes or critters), the trail beneath our feet (in case ofrattlesnakes), and checking to make sure Maya was beside me. We’d gone a quartermile when I looked out, looked down, looked to my side—and she was gone.

Istopped and turned. She’d taken a side path, a single-track coyote trail thatled toward a steep ridge, and those crazy long legs of hers were trotting asfast as she could stride. She was already thirty yards ahead of me. Panickingagain, I called her loudly: “Maya! WAIT!” To no avail.

Here’sthe thing about feral dogs: You can’t chase them. In Maya’s first life, the oneshe spent in two successive, awful rescues, they handled her by chasing her—outof her kennel, then back in. When she sees anyone behind her on our walks, sheimmediately becomes anxious and strains on the leash, trying to run.

Inthis situation, I had to pursue her, but I knew I couldn’t run. I walked asfast as I could, repeatedly calling her. She ran up a hill so steep, I questionedwhether I could get up it—but I did. I had to. As I topped the ridge, I sawher, now fifty yards ahead, still trotting. She disappeared down a slope, andall I could do was follow, hoping she didn’t leave the trail.

Shedidn’t. As I reached the bottom of the downhill slope, I could see her toppingthe next hill. On we went in that fashion, with me losing, then gaining sightof her, willing myself to breathe deep, save my oxygen and strength.

Itopped a hill, and there she was, exhausted, lying in the shade under somebrush.

“Maya!Wait!” I snapped. And she was off and running again.

Islowed my walk, thinking, as the sun rose higher and I realized I’d brought nowater with me, I might have to follow her all the way to thefar end of the preserve, which was three miles along the ridgeline—and a blockfrom Interstate 10.

“Breathe,Kay,” I told myself. “What would Cesar Millan do?”

Well,he would adjust his energy, stay calm, and not utter a word.

Idid these things, as best I could, topped another ridge—and there she was again,lying in the dirt, panting. I stood in the trail, breathing and sweating andhoping, not saying a word. Slowly she rose to her feet. I didn’t move. Shewalked toward me. Quietly, calmly, I said, “Maya, come,” and I turned towardhome. She followed, right at my heels. After a moment, she moved beside me onthe trail. Ever so slowly and gently, I reached out a hand and took her collar, stopped, andsnapped on the leash.

WhenI knew I had her, I sank to my knees in the trail and sobbed. If she’d beenlost in those hills, she would not have survived. The coyotes would havemade a quick meal of her.

How I found her--without the leash, of course.

Thelong walk back in the hot sun, descending those steep hills on shaky legs, tookan agonizingly long time. Maya was overheated and kept trying to lie down inevery little bit of shade she found. I would have carried her—all thirty pounds—buton those treacherous descents, it would have been too dangerous. If I’dsprained or broken an ankle, our day would have gone from bad to really quiteawfully terrible.

Friends,I believe I have learned more from the mistakes I’ve made with my dogs than allthe YouTube videos and episodes of The Dog Whisperer (or Cesar’s other manyshows) I’ve ever watched. How did I fail Maya? By not realizing that, while I hadquickly moved on after the sticker-in-the-paw episode, she had not yet shakenit off—how I’d grabbed her, speaking sharply and holding the back of her neck.The trust of a feral dog is always tenuous. With Thomas, it still is, evenafter nearly ten years. Yes, we have our sweet moments when I brush him or cliphis nails or simply sit and rub his belly, and he is blissfully happy. But thenI might do something he sees as threatening—slap a mosquito or pick up myguitar or print out a document—and suddenly he is terrified, running through thehouse and seeking safety somewhere away from me.

That’swhat Maya was doing, seeking a safe place to hide. Eventually, she came to seethat she could run forever—or she could choose to trust me again. Boy howdy,did I get lucky this time.

Trainingferal dogs is not for the faint of heart or for those with little patience. Thejourney is often two steps forward, five steps back. The Universe gave Mayaback to me. I will be much, much more careful with her in the future.

Contemplating the long walk back to the car.

How Books Are Made, Part II

 

Inmy previous post, I talked about the creativity that goes into themaking of a book. But I didn’t talk about the practical side of bringing thatcreative spark into fruition (if you’ll allow the mixed metaphor there).

It’sone thing to have an idea for a book. It’s an entirely different matter tospend hours at a keyboard (or with pen or pencil and paper), day after day,week after week, month after month until that original idea has been fleshedout into a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end, hopefully containingsome tension and conflict throughout, and a resolution that satisfies thereader—plus maybe, just maybe, giving readers something to “take away,” alesson to ruminate upon or a miniscule bit of wisdom that might, in the tiniestway, influence their choices for the better. One hopes.

WhenI began the Dragon Singer Series, I was still teaching, so my writingtime—after being away from home all day, then returning to walk an anxious,troubled dog, and feed the cats, and eat dinner, and watch the news, and maybetoss in a load of laundry—was limited. In addition to that, I began Fey Girl,the first book, in pencil, writing in a composition book that my granddaughter,Ellie, had given me. I wanted to channel my inner ten-year-old, and Iremembered writing some stories in a composition book when I was that age—some ofmy first! And so I began.

Theprocess was interrupted often. Given my schedule (rising at 4:00a.m. to get tothe gym before work or to ride my bike to work and arrive at 6:45), I was tiredby early evening. Things happened. I had house guests. I came down withpneumonia a few times. I struggled through winter depression.

Finally,in June of 2016, I retired from teaching. In that summer, I sold a house,bought a house, moved 40 miles east—and slept as often as I felt like it. Then,at long last, I joyfully returned to my writing life in earnest.

Assoon as Fey Girl was finished, I began writing the second book, makingsteady progress and finishing it within a year. The third book took less than ayear. The fourth, even less than that. While I was working on Book Two, my dearfriends John and Lisa Durham introduced me to John’s niece, Annie Katz, awriter and novelist and earth mother who became my best and truest critiquepartner. We began exchanging projects, giving each other feedback, and engagingin long phone conversations about the best way to publish. She is all about independentpublishing. Another friend believes one is not a “professional” writer untilone has been published by a traditional publisher. (Well, I’ve done that, so….)

Ina nutshell, here’s the difference:

Atraditional publisher takes the author’s manuscript and has a team of printingexperts design an interior (choosing the type of font, the type of paper—weightand color, the margin size, the spacing between lines, as so forth). Anotherteam of experts designs the cover. (Will the title be larger than the author’sname? Yes, if it’s a first-time author, no, if the author is Stephen King. Whatwill the balance of text-to-graphics be? What colors will work best?) While thisprocess is happening, the publisher may decide—based on “marketability”—to changethe book’s title. Or add a subtitle. Or edit—or delete—some of the content. Buthey, when the book is finally ready (one to two years after acceptance), itwill be released across the country simultaneously, available online but alsoon bookstore shelves, all at once, all on the same day.

Anindie author can’t do this, since the big bookstore chains (well, I guess there’sonly one left, isn’t there?) will not carry (unless asked by customers)independent authors on their shelves. Nor do indie authors have the opportunityto list their books in the lovely, slick catalogs that publishers send out tobookstores.

However—independentauthors have full control over every aspect of how their books are published,from interior design to cover design, and we even determine the list price.

Thisis why I made the choice to publish the Dragon Singer Seriesindependently. The more I spoke to Annie Katz and others (including my buddy,writer/actor/director/funny guy Tim Chizmar), the more reluctant I became togive up creative control. I had a vision for these books, and I couldn’t bearthe thought of being told, “We’ve decided to add/subtract/edit…” or whatever amarketing department might choose for MY books. (For the purpose of brevity, Iwill not include all the struggles I had to this end with the publishers of myfirst and second books. If you’re curious, just ask in the comments below. But…boy howdy….)

Ofcourse, in making that crucial decision to self-publish, this also means thatthe entire process rests in the hands of the writer (unless one chooses tooutsource the work, which is possible, but also expensive).

Theonly thing I didn’t do was create the illustration and design for the covers.(Thank you, artist-designer Allie Myers!) Everything else—fonts, font size,paper, margins, interior design—that’s all me. And believe me, it’s not amatter of “select all” on MSWord and typing in a few choices. There is a lot tovery carefully complete. Plus don’t even get me started on how the format of an“ebook” differs from the format of a paperback. Good grief!

So,yeah, even though the fourth and final book in the Dragon Singer Serieswas completed months ago, it has taken me quite a number of weeks to find anillustrator and work on the interior design.

Finally,though, the first book is finished, and I am so, so proud of it! Allie’s coveris beautiful, and I am satisfied that my young (and older) readers will feelcomfortable with my choices for the interior design—if they’re even payingattention. Maybe they’ll just immerse themselves in the story and keep turningthose pretty white pages….

FeyGirl,Book One in the Dragon Singer Series, is set to be released at 12:01a.m.on Tuesday, October 17. Please celebrate with me on that day! If you get crazy(or extraordinarily kind) and decide to read the first book, just know thatAllie and I are already working hard to get the second book ready forpublication. This one should be easier than the first; I kinda know what I’mdoing now. Kinda….

Back cover of Fey Girl

How Books Are Made, Part I

 

"Hiccup" and "Toothless" from How to Train Your Dragon

Itstarts with a spark of creativity, a tiny seed of an idea that begins to takeroot and grow in a writer’s brain. At first, it’s easy to ignore the tenderlittle seedling trying to find purchase in a place already teeming with ideas.Those initial ideas definitely get overshadowed by projects that have alreadymade it from brain to keyboard (or yellow pad or sketchbook, in my case). I canpretty much guarantee that the majority of working writers have at least adozen ideas growing in addition to the three or four projects they’re workingon. I do.

Takethis post, for instance. The initial idea formed about a month ago. In thattime, I have jotted notes for the next blog post (and the one after that),finished and submitted three poems for publication, revised and submitted anessay for publication, worked my tail off to format a book for publication(more on that in the next post), and written countless journal pages. That’sjust the physical work I’ve put in. The extra ideas that haven’t been harvestedyet? They’re still growing in my brain. Some of them are really getting out ofcontrol in there….

Itstill amazes me to think how my published books came into being. In the 1970’s,I was teaching Lamaze childbirth classes, and my students felt the availablebooks were too technical. I was freelancing at the time, miraculously gettingpublished on a regular basis, and they suggested I write a book with all theinformation I dispensed in class, posed in less clinical terms than others hadused. I gave it some thought (and growth time), and two years later my firstbook was published.

WhenI began researching, at my mother’s request, the alleged crimes of hergrandmother, I knew eventually I had enough material for a pretty compellingmemoir. Many years later (when Mom would finally allow it), The Tainted Legacy of Bertha Gifford came into fruition.

The Dogs Who Saved Me came about during a long summer afternoon spentorganizing photographs. I had so many pictures of the various dogs I havecompanioned with, I realized there were enough to make an album of just dogsalone, and as I leafed through the finished project, considering all theirincredible stories, I knew I wanted to record them. That book took two years towrite.

Thisnext book—the one that I am just weeks away from seeing released on Amazon—didnot begin as a book idea or even a writing project. It began as a song. No. Itbegan with a cat that looked like a dragon. Or more accurately, a dragon thatlooked like a cat. Here is that story:

WhenI moved waaaay up to a cabin in the mountains, I took two black cats with me:Old guy Boo Radley and newly adopted Sugar Plum (aka “Sug”). Sadly, in mysecond year on the mountain, Boo died. Where Sug had previously bonded withBoo, now she began to bond with me in earnest. And it was cold in the wintermonths, so she would come to the loft at night, jump on the bed, and I wouldhold the blanket up for her to climb under and snuggle down. Often, in thedepth of darkness and quiet only a mountain retreat can offer, I would sing toher. In the beginning, I sang her “Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ral” and other sweet Irishsongs I had learned as a child.

Thenseveral things happened in succession. My dear friend and fellow author MichaelWelker (Blockbuster Blueprint) suggested I watch the animated featureHow to Train Your Dragon, mostly because he thought I’d love the soundtrack,which I did. (Loved the film, too; ya gotta love a rescuedcritter/underdog/unlikely love story/unlikely hero movie.) Sometime in theensuing days, I walked into the main room of the cabin to find little Sug faceto face at the French doors with an enormous black bear. Sug was standing herground, back arched, fur and tail puffed to maximum bigness, and hissing as shebared her teeth. She looked, in that moment, for all the world like a tinydragon. Later that night, as we hunkered down in bed, I began to hum a randomtune I’d come up with. Suddenly there were words for it:

Dragonsong is an old one

Singthe tale told so long

Dragonsong is an old one

Oldone, sing the dragon song.

Atsome point before this, I had attended a writers group meeting in which theguest speaker had noted, in suggesting ways to market one’s books, that thecreation of a series (rather than a stand-alone novel) brings readers backlooking for the next chapter in the saga. I had dismissed the idea at first.(Writing a series—keeping every detail of every character and plot point clearand correct throughout all the books—is much more challenging than writing asingle, all-encompassing story.)

Butthat night, singing this new song to my tiny cat who apparently had the spiritof a dragon abiding within her, a seed was planted.

Hardto believe that seed began to take root over a decade ago. Well, the originalidea became a book. (More on how that happened in the next post.)Originally, I had decided just three books—a compact trilogy—would do nicely.(No way would I attempt an on-going series, given all the other projects I wantto tackle.) But as I worked on the second book, I realized that the fourseasons had become a theme, so that now there are four books in what will be,when they are published, the Dragon Singer series. The books are writtenfor a middle-grade audience. Which means, I suppose, that any avid reader overthe age of say, eight, who loves cats and good dogs and dragons and music willprobably enjoy them.

DidI mention that the first one is nearly ready for release in a matter of weeks,if not days? Watch this space!