We have always had dogs, ever since I was a child and then as soon as I moved out. We've had seven dogs so far. But, a few of them have stood out for something unusual and special. King was one of them.

I will never forget the first day I saw him. He was so sad. With a broken toe on his left front paw, he limped in and approached me. I was sitting on the floor and Chris brought him into my apartment.
He looked at me intensely, his eyes told a story. He had lost his beloved owner and been left outside for quite a while. I don't know what he ate or if he had water, but the first thing he wanted was love.
He laid his big head in my lap and my other female dog lay next to him. As if she understood.

I hugged him and gave him the attention he craved. He turned out to be one of the smartest, loving and most loyal dogs I have ever know. We took the dogs everywhere. Dustin and King were loved by everyone. They were so well trained they could walk down a major highway and stay at your side without a leash. King he was extra special. He could read people. He understood things a dog doesn't usually understand.

One day I had to take them both to the veterinarian for their yearly shots. As I pulled into the lot
I noticed only one other car there. A lady was exiting her car and had the back door open. When I let them out, King pulled out of my hand and ran over to the woman. I didn't expect it and was kinda shocked. He ran to the car, about fifteen or so feet from me. I noticed something on the ground as the woman grabbed her purse. All I could see was King grabbing onto what I realized was a toddler!
He had him by the rear end and it appeared he was dragging him.


I screamed his name and he ignored me. I screamed it louder and the woman yelled to leave him alone. So I thought King was actually hurting a child. I couldn't believe my eyes. I ran over and got to the other side of the car as King dropped his package. The woman ran and picked up her small child, she was crying and thanking me. Thanking me? She pointed to a ledge by the back of her car. There was a ten foot drop into a pool of water, and the fence around it was gone. Apparently, King had seen the child and ran over to pull him from the edge. His mother hadn't known the toddler climbed out.
She didn't now there was a drop off. All she knew was that my King, had saved her child. She offered to pay me, and then she wanted to buy him. I told her he was a family member and not ever for sale. She reported it to the local newspaper and they gave him an award.
Most valuable dog. Which I already knew he was.

That was how he was. He truly earned his name...

Do you sometimes feel you're shouting into the wind? How do you make yourself heard? Here are some excellent quotes. If these don't work, I suggest barking loudly as that gains a response from our dogs. Although, in their defense, once I get them calmed down the dogs make excellent listeners and hang on my every word as if it really matters. And that may be the key. Listening works best when it's reciprocal. With some individuals, that ain't ever gonna happen. Am I a good listener? Are you? Well, I can be...

"It’s a rare person who wants to hear what he doesn't want to hear." ~Dick Cavett

(Dogs don't want to hear what they don't want to hear either)

"Many a man would rather you heard his story than granted his request." ~ Phillip Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield

"Effective questioning brings insight, which fuels curiosity, which cultivates wisdom." ~ Chip Bell

"The most basic of all human needs is the need to understand and be understood. The best way to understand people is to listen to them." ~ Ralph Nichols

"Bore, n.: A person who talks when you wish him to listen." ~Ambrose Bierce

(Cats may not look like they're listening, but little gets by them. They are, however, easily bored.)

"The best time to hold your tongue is the time you feel you must say something or bust." ~ Josh Billings

"An actor’s a guy who if you ain’t talkin’ about him, ain’t listening." ~ Marlon Brando

"I’ll defend to the death your right to say that, but I never said I’d listen to it!" ~ Tom Galloway

"When people talk, listen completely. Most people never listen."~ Ernest Hemingway

(Ducks are friendly and very conversational)

Thus far, all of these insights are from men. In fact, almost the entire collection I found are male quotes. Perhaps men have a greater need to be heard, or maybe they lack the art of communication that comes more naturally to women. Here's a good one from the female perspective.

"I think the one lesson I have learned is that there is no substitute for paying attention." ~ Diane Sawyer

And another successful woman says:

"To learn through listening, practice it naively and actively. Naively means that you listen openly, ready to learn something, as opposed to listening defensively, ready to rebut. Listening actively means you acknowledge what you heard and act accordingly." ~Betsy Sanders, Former Senior Vice President & General Manager Nordstrom

***To truly be heard, you may need a good dog.
“All his life he tried to be a good person. Many times, however, he failed. For after all, he was only human. He wasn't a dog.”  ~Charles M. Schulz

Are you a dog or cat person, or are you like me, both.
Every morning after I take my shower I meet the greeting group, my dog BoBo, my dog Nibby, and my cat Skinny. It's just a queen size bed so the sight of two 80 lb German Shepherds and a Calico cat between them on it, makes me smile each time I see it. There is a ritual we go through. I dress and sit between the dogs on the bed as the cat sits in my lap. I have to use both hands to pet the dogs while the elbow rubs on the cat. We all talk to each other. I say hello to them and they each have their own way to return the hello to me. Skinny meows, she is a real talker and very bossy. Always telling me what to do. Feed me, pet me, let me out, and let me in, amongst a few. My favorite is as she sits in front of the refrigerator and begs for ham. She loves it. And would you believe there are no cat or dog foods make from ham. Sorry skinny.
Nibby although the younger dog has a deeper voice then BoBo. She kinda moans and talks with a woo woo sound. BoBo on the other hand has a high pitched whine. Together they sing for my attention. All together that is. And I whine too. Crazy I know, but we are all part of a pack I figure. So we all sing together. My neighbors must think I'm nuts. Well guilty as charged. They shoulda seen me in the early seventies. Gosh I miss those days. My mind thank God, survived it all.
Nibby is slim and still learning how to behave. BoBo has it down pat. She knows if she does what we want she gets lots of treats and hugs. I hug and kiss my pets and they grow up loving it.They are the most affectionate animals you will ever see. Excerpt for your own I'm sure.
Next we go to the kitchen where Skinny eats her Fancy Feast and the dogs get morning biscuits cause they eat their main meal at night. After that it's a run in the yard. Skinny has disappeared in the hedges and she never leaves my yard thank God. She came to me from my brother in law who passed away. He saved her from the streets. Now she is the Queen. BoBo was his dog, but she stayed so much with us when he was sick, she feels at home here. The dogs fear that paw swipe thing Skinny has down pat.
You'd be surprised to see two huge dogs back aside for a sauntering cat to pass by.
BoBo and Nibby run so fast and so loud it reminds me of race horses as they thunder down the track.
We had to replace the grass again. Hope this stuff lasts a bit longer then the last. It cost enough so it better.

BoBo, Chris, Nibby and Me at Christmas    

                                                                                                            Skinny who doesn't know she's a cat!

After all of that they greet my DH Chris. He doesn't get as much love and hugs as I do because he disciplines them. They love him, but they LOVE me! I'm mommy and I feed, them and give them their medicine, and comfort them when they hurt themselves, I stop the fights, and I am the holder of all dog and kitty treats. Lastly we watch Skinny as she rolls in her Catnip and gets very feisty. She puts on a show for us, chases the dogs and is the boss of them. Who wouldn't love to have pets that give you such unconditional love. They don't care if I don't look my best, they don't even notice. Haven't known that kinda love since my grandma died!
Then it's laptop time. With two dogs on my feet, (literally), and a cat that likes to walk on my keyboard, a cup of PGtips tea and I'm ready to write. Now if my Muse was only as easy as my pets I'd be on my way.
What do you and your pets do that makes your day with them special? Poor Chris, he doesn't know what he's missing.

I am sorry to be late posting this. But, I just got back from the Hospice hospital.
Hospice is a support group for those who are dying. They have a Hospice hospital here in West Palm Beach and it's almost like a motel room. You can stay over, come in at any time, or even bring your ill relatives dog to visit.
My husband and I have been dealing with his very sick brother. He is not that old, but has really abused his body to the point where his liver is at end stage. Four days ago, they handed us the names of funeral homes, told us to straiten his affairs and say goodbye.
Then I told his 96 year old aunt he was dying. She said don't worry, I am gonna pray for him. Now I was raised Catholic and I believe in God, there has to be something that made our universe. Well at least in my mind, it had to start somewhere. But I never believed prayer helped other then to comfort the prayer. She told her gazillion kids who had masses said and added their prayers.
Every day we visited him and he was barely aware, if at all, of what was going on. He was bleeding internally and over the course of a few days they had given him close to 30 pints of blood. They said he would bleed out because the liver produces clotting factor and he had none. Chris cried, I have never seen him do that.before. Even if his brother did drugs he still loves him. I could tell you things he's done that would curl your hair.
Well yesterday he was sitting up and eating a burger and fries. Huh?? I thought he'd be dead. They said no one comes back from a place that far gone. He cannot move his legs and they don't know why. But he asked for chocolate and is calling us every ten minutes. They told us he was stable and wouldn't get any better, when he became conscious. They were gonna feed him through a tube. But sent him a tray and I fed him. Yesterday he was eating by himself.
Now my point is this. There has to be some power in prayer, because for him to come back from deaths door and eat is a miracle. And miracles must have something to do with a higher power in my mind. So I am rethinking the prayer thing. Heck I might even go to church soon. I could use some help. I think I'm gonna call his aunt and tell her to pray for me too!Something happened that gave him more time. He is still very ill and they feel he might die, but now they are not sure it will be right away and we will have to put him in a rehab place eventually. Who knows he might go home someday and I can give him back his beautiful German Shepherd dog. Two dogs that big is really hard on me. You just never know. Where is God? In your heart always if you believe...
Miracles do happen don't they?!?!

My cousin, is the king of forwarding emails. This one got to me. It touched my heart and I'm glad for the dog.
Come on you can't resist a HEA, most of you are romance authors and most of you have a pet you love.

Get out the Kleenix tissues  and get ready for a special tale of a dog and his owners, new and old. And why he was left behind...

They told me the big black Lab's name was Reggie, as I looked at him lying in his pen.  The shelter was clean, no-kill, and the people really friendly. I'd only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open.  Everyone waves when you pass them on the street. But something was still missing as I attempted to settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog couldn't hurt.  Give me someone to talk to. And I had just seen Reggie's advertisement on the local news.  The shelter said they had received  numerous calls right after, but they said the people who had come down to see him just didn't look like "Lab people," whatever that meant.  They must've thought I did. But at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things, which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys almost all of which were brand new tennis balls, his dishes, and a sealed letter from his previous owner. See, Reggie and I didn't really hit it off when we got home  We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter told me to give him to adjust to his new home).  Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust, too.  Maybe we were too much alike. For some reason, his stuff (except for the tennis balls --- he wouldn't go anywhere without two stuffed in his mouth) got tossed in with all of my other unpacked boxes.  I guess I didn't really think he'd need all his old stuff, that I'd get him new things once he settled in.  But it became pretty clear pretty soon that he wasn't going to. I tried the normal commands the shelter told me he knew, ones like "sit" and "stay"  and "come" and "heel," and he'd follow them - when he felt like it.  He never really seemed to listen when I called his name --- sure, he'd look in my direction after the fourth or fifth time I said it, but then he'd just go back to doing whatever.  When I'd ask again, you could almost see him sigh and then grudgingly obey. This just wasn't going to work.  He chewed a couple shoes  and some unpacked boxes.  I was a little too stern with him and he resented it, I could tell. The friction got so bad that I couldn't wait for the two weeks to be up, and when it  was, I was in full-on search mode for my cell phone amid all of my unpacked stuff.  I remembered leaving it on the stack of boxes for the guest room, but I also mumbled, rather cynically, that the "damn dog probably hid it on me." Finally I found it, but before I could punch up the shelter's number, I also found his pad and other toys from the shelter...I tossed the pad in Reggie's direction and he snuffed it and wagged, some of the most enthusiasm I'd seen since bringing him home.  But then I called, "Hey, Reggie, you like that?   Come here and I'll give you a treat."  Instead, he sort of glanced in my direction --- maybe "glared" is more accurate --- and then gave a discontented sigh and flopped down.   With his back to me. Well, that's not going to do it either, I thought.  And I punched the shelter phone number. But I hung up when I saw the sealed envelope.  I had completely forgotten about that, too.  "Okay, Reggie,"  I said out loud, "let's see if your previous owner has any advice.". ____________ To Whoever Gets My Dog: Well, I  can't say that I'm happy you're reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggie's new owner. I'm not even happy writing it. If you're reading this, it means I just got back from my last car ride with my Lab after dropping him off at the shelter.  He knew something was different.  I have packed up his pad and toys before and set them by the back door before a trip, but this time...  it's like he knew something was wrong.  And something is  wrong...which is why I have to go to try to make it right. So let me tell you about my Lab in the hopes that it will help you bond with him and he with you. First, he loves tennis balls. The more the merrier.  Sometimes I think he's part squirrel, the way he hordes them.  He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there.  Hasn't done it yet.  Doesn't matter where you throw them, he'll bound after it, so be careful - really don't do it by any roads.  I made that mistake once, and it almost cost him dearly. Next, commands.  Maybe the shelter staff  already told you, but I'll go over them again:  Reggie knows the obvious ones  --- "sit," "stay," "come," "heel."  He knows hand signals: "back" to turn around and go back when you put your hand straight up; and "over" if you put your hand out right or left. "Shake" for  shaking water off, and "paw" for a high-five. He does "down" when he feels like lying down --- I  bet you could work on that with him some more.  He knows "ball" and "food" and "bone" and "treat" like nobody's business. I trained Reggie with small food treats.  Nothing opens his ears like little pieces of hot dog. Feeding schedule: twice a day, once about seven in the morning, and again at six in the evening. Regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand. He's up on his shots. Call the clinic on 9th Street and update his info with yours; they'll make sure to send you reminders for when he's due.  Be forewarned:  Reggie hates the vet.  Good luck getting him in the car --- I don't know how he knows  when it's time to go to the vet, but he knows. Finally, give him some time. I've never been married, so it's only been Reggie and me for his whole life.  He's gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can.  He sits well in the backseat, and he doesn't bark or complain.  He just loves to be around people, and me most especially. Which means that this transition is going to be hard, with him going to live with someone new. And that's why I need to share one more bit of info with you.... His name's not Reggie. I don't know what made me do it, but when I dropped him off at the  shelter, I told them his name was Reggie    He's a smart dog, he'll get used to it and will respond to it, of that I have no doubt.  But I just couldn't bear to give them his real name.  For me to do that, it seemed so final, that handing him over to the shelter was as good as me admitting that I'd never see him again.  And if I end up coming back, getting him, and tearing up this letter, it means everything's fine.  But if someone else is reading it, well .. well it means that his new owner should know his real name.  It'll help you bond with him.  Who knows, maybe you'll even notice a change in his demeanor if he's been giving you problems. His real name is "Tank". Because that is what I drive. Again, if you're reading this and you're from the area, maybe my name has been on the news.  I told the shelter that they couldn't make "Reggie" available for adoption until they received word from my company commander.  See, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I could've left Tank with ... and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq , that they make one phone... call the shelter... in the "event"  ... to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption.  Luckily, my colonel is a dog guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was headed.  He said he'd do it personally.  And if you're reading this, then he made good on his word. Well, this letter is getting downright depressing, even though, frankly, I'm just writing it for my dog.  I couldn't imagine if I was writing it for a wife and kids and family .. but still, Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family. And now I hope and pray that you make him part of your family and that he will adjust and come to love you the same way he loved me. That unconditional love from a dog is what I take with me to Iraq as an inspiration to do something selfless, to protect innocent people from those who would do terrible things .... and to keep those terrible people from coming over here.  If I have to give up Tank in order to do it, I am glad to have done so.  He is my example of service and of love. I hope I honored him by my service to my country and comrades. All right, that's enough. I deploy  this evening and have to drop this letter off at the shelter.  I don't think I'll say another good-bye to Tank, though.  I cried too much the first time.  Maybe I'll peek in on him and see if he finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth. Good luck with Tank.  Give him a good home, and give him an extra kiss goodnight -  every night - from me. Thank you, Paul Mallory ____________ I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope Sure I had heard of Paul Mallory, everyone in town knew him, even new people like me. Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago and posthumously earning the Silver Star when he gave his life to save three buddies. Flags had been at half-mast all summer. I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog. "Hey, Tank," I said quietly. The dog's head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright. "C'mere boy." He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor.  He sat  in front of me, his head tilted, searching for the name he hadn't heard in months. "Tank," I whispered. His tail swished. I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as a wave of contentment  just seemed to flood him. I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried my face into his scruff and hugged him. "It's me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old  pal gave you to me."  Tank reached up and licked my cheek.  "So whatdaya say we play some ball?"  His ears perked again. "Yeah?  Ball?  You like that? Ball?"  Tank tore from my hands and disappeared in the next room. And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.    I hope you enjoyed this!

 

This is exactly what Nibby looks like, hey it's better then Knuckles. That's what DH wanted to call her.

Recently my dog Junior had to be put to sleep. We have a wonderful Veterinarian, he cried right along with us.

I need a dog to hug so it didn't take long before we got Nibby. She is a German Shepherd dog and was born on May 20th. We got her when she was nine weeks old.

The very first day we brought her home she was nervous and afraid. She didn't even know what a dog toy was. She spent the night in my arms, shaking and looking all around. That night she slept in my bed, with a few dog chews and toys surrounding her.

In the morning there was a fantastic change in her. She got it! The toys were her's and the toybox was full!
Dog chews were for chewing and canned food was for dogs to eat. She'd never had anything but dry food and since she had diarrhea the doctor gave her special canned food. She went crazy. Life was fun!

Then her new cousin BoBo came over to visit. Soon they were running around like maniacs. It's funny how BoBo, who is full grown, plays so gentle, while little Nibby plays so rough. An adult dog just knows what a baby is and they exhausted each other. Out she went. Sound asleep.



So Nibby has grown quite a bit she is now three months old. I find little puffs of her cottony fur all over the place. Although there is a tiny patch of adult fur on the middle of her tail. So I can tell what her fur is going to end up like. Shiny!

I think she is pretty well house trained as she has never pooped inside and has peed inside for over a week.
How did I get so lucky? She only ate one old shoe and hasn't chewed on any furniture.or anything other then what she is supposed to. There are dog chews and toys everywhere. I put them away, she takes them out.
Very cute doggie.

Well at three months she is now pushing the limit. What can I get away with? What do you mean stay? What are you guys eating, gimme some! A lot of training will have to be done in the very near future.
Her sudden bursts of energy is amazing. Getting up to let her out is tiring. Yes, the DH who promised to help does not help at night. He'll pay for that!

Nibby has discovered how to bark when she wants my attention. She knows a lot of human phrases, Like do pee pee, thank goodness for that one. She knows what are you hungry means, go get the ball, sit, down and give me your  paw. The staying is intermittent and she needs work. She is such a handful, but when she lays her little head on my neck and puts her paws up to hug me. And wonders of wonders, her ears are up. Stay tuned for the further escapades of Nibby. Growing up for a puppy,
. I promise to take some real pictures for my next post about My New Puppy.

As a mom, I asked my daughter several times if Rob was "the one". They had been dating a while. Danielle assured me they hadn't had any official marriage talks, though I figured they must have been talking about "one day in the future". She promised to tell me FIRST if he proposed. I made threats of what I'd do to her if her friends learned before I did. I out-weight her by enough to squash her.

These are the details she gave me.

One fall evening she had worked and was late getting to Rob's condo. When she unlocked the door and walked into unexpected quiet, she saw him sprawled on his couch. As she neared him, she saw a tiny black bundle wearing a big red bow on his chest. The bundle and Rob awoke at the same time and both moved. OMIGOD, a puppy! He had brought home a puppy.

She babbled and cried as she took the puppy from his shoulder and hugged the squirming critter.

"Look at the note," Rob said. By now he was wide awake and she was too excited to pay attention to anything but the dog she had always wanted.

"Honey, there's a note," he said, pointing.

She managed to stop hugging long enough to see the envelope tied to the red bow around the little, furry neck. When she opened it she read "Will you marry us?"

She still cried and hugged the dog and nodded. (She thinks she nodded.)

"Look inside," he said.

She finally found a ring. (It's a boulder sized diamond.) She said a few more OMIGODs and kept crying.

"Well, will you?" he asked. He's patient but there are limits.

She said she finally said yes, but the details get sketchy there.

He had arranged for them to meet all their friends for supper at a restaurant so no one would hear the news first or last. She DID call her mama before they left, though.

Of course, the rest is history.

She didn't share many more details, but the three of them are married and are now four.

A year later "The Dog Ringbearer" got his own puppy, Reagan. My daughter got one of Gibbs' brothers from a later litter of their parents for Rob. Gibbs and Reagan, know better.

I hope you enjoy this short excerpt from my book. It will be in released in ebook format on 1/2/09 by The Wild Rose Press, and print on 3/27/09. Thanks Mary Ricksen


This time when she woke, she sat up with a
start. Her lungs ached and she felt disoriented. The
darkness of the room she found herself in impeded
her vision. Then it came to her. Had she really
jumped in the lake? Recalling the wooden pier she’d
walked to the end of before leaping in, the aged wood
rough with encrusted barnacles, confused her. When
she jumped in there was a quay, when she woke on
the shore, there was nothing.

Because the lake had a silted bottom and a
sharply rocked shore, they always wore their
sneakers in the water to protect their feet. Each
camp needed a pier, with railings and stairways to
guide you down to the water. Almost all of the trees
had been removed for better views of the lake.
Weeping willows replaced them, with white,
wrought-iron benches resting beneath and large,
lush lawns. Fields of corn swayed in the breezes
along the sides of the gravel roads leading to the
vacation homes on each part of the bay.
She knew that cars and motor homes, boats and
canoes, had filled the driveway areas. Water skis
and fishing poles leaned against sheds and pump
houses labored, when she went into the water, all of
these things were there. What happened to them?
All she’d seen when she woke the first time was
a wooded shoreline and nothing else. The trees had
been so dense that she couldn’t make out any
structures at all from her position on the beach. Had
she drifted to some more desolate area? Impossible,
there just weren’t any. Lakefront property was dear
in 1969, and almost every piece of property had a
structure on it.

Now, nothing but woods had surrounded her.
And the man. Who was he? She had no clue whose
bed she lay in now. Exhausted from her ordeal, she
fell into a deep slumber. All this had to be a result of
her tripping. Her last thought before she fell asleep
was that the alcohol would wear off, and when she
woke everything would be back to normal.

This time when she come around, she still didn’t
recognize anything, but her mind had cleared quite a
bit. Why was it so dark? She looked around her and
she saw that she lay in an immense bed with a soft,
down-filled mattress. She’d been in this room for
quite a long time. Judging by the darkness, it was
night. A small candle flickered on a finely crafted
end table. Her eyes adjusted to the low light, and she
searched around the room.

Next to the candle sat a beautiful porcelain
pitcher in its matching bowl. A mirror with a carved,
hardwood frame hung up high on the wall behind it,
on the rose-colored Fleur de Lis patterned paper. A
window, opened to the breeze, blew lace curtains
gently. It was early evening and no moonlight
brightened the shadows on this night. What
appeared to be a large braided rug lay on the
planked floor, between the bed and door. Several
needlepoint pieces covered the walls. As she sat
behind the closed hardwood door, her nervousness
amplified. Her heart started to thump.

What the hell? She knew this wasn’t still some
part of that nightmare trip she’d taken. It was too
real, the place too old-fashioned. She heard crickets
and saw lightning bugs twinkle outside the window.
A fly buzzed over her head and she listened to a
mosquito or two, droning in their search for the rich,
red blood beneath her skin.

She didn’t hear the blast of car horns, tire
sounds on pavement, or the grinding noise from
trucks changing gears as they flew up and down the
hilly countryside. It was so quiet, no music, no
talking, nothing. Then she heard a latch lift and
something large and furry jumped up onto the bed,
knocking the breath out of her.

Anxiety left her speechless as the light from the
open door spilled into the room and onto the bed she
lay in. The dog was next to her, warm and wild
smelling, doing her no harm. The large figure
approaching her now made her breathless, anxious.
She knew it was a man; his silhouette starkly
outlined by the light behind him.

When he reached the bed, he bent toward her,
only to pick up the tiny piece of candle still barely
burning. He lit a stained glass-covered lantern and
placed it on the bed stand beside it. Keealyn stared
into a pair of green eyes that reminded her of misty
mornings.

Clean-shaven, his thick, dark chestnut hair
flowed past the collar of his navy muslin shirt. It
opened halfway down the front, to reveal a smooth
muscular chest. Very tall, lean, and brawny, well defined
biceps, triceps, and pecs filled his shirt. He
had a slim waist and strong shoulders. His worn
blue jeans, held up with a handmade leather belt,
hung low on his hips. His skin seemed to glow in the
lamplight in a warm, bronzed tone.

He was gorgeous.

This is a picture of one of the characters in my book "Tripping Through Time". His name is Junior, and he is a German Shepherd now eight years old.

He plays a major role in my book, which takes place on the Lake Champlain Islands, in Vermont. The setting a beautiful place where I spent a good portion of my childhood. It is a time travel romance, where the heroine travels back from 1969 to 1869 to find love. There is everything from mountain lions to barnyard animals, and from Abenaki Indians to Irish immigrants. I don't have a final publish date, but I've been told by my editor it should be in ebook format sometime in October.

Who can resist a doggy face like that?

Up until a few weeks ago I had a female cardinal who wanted to get into my house. Every day for the last three years she comes to my window. She sits in the hedge which is about four feet away from the house. Then she repeatedly tries to fly into the window. This is not a bird flying and seeing a window and thinking it's an opening, it is a bird who wants to come in. Her mate, all bright red and preening, sits next to her in the hedge and waits while she flies gently into the window. Dozens and dozens of times every day. She wants in. I have one of those see through bird feeders in the adjoining window. She eats there and he eats there. And then she tries for an hour or so to get in, before they'd disappear. I haven't seen them in a few weeks. How long do cardinals live in the wild, I wonder?

My grandmother raised canaries. She would go to the 5 and 10, sit by the big cages and wait till she heard one sing. Then she would buy that bird. She always had cages of them all over her old Victorian house. And she was able to breed them with no problems.

For many years you couldn't find a canary after that. Those cages filled with birds were gone. It seems a fatal disease in birds killed most of them off. It went rampant in the birds brought into our country, so we stopped importing them. Now they are making a comeback, local breeders have brought back the bird with a vengeance, only mired by the ridiculous need to have unusual colors in canaries. I can't figure out why it matters to people. So much so that breeders feed dangerous chemicals to the bird to make it orange or red, whatever color people want. It's about the singing for me, I just would rather have an old fashioned green canary that wasn't damaged by coloring, but could sing like a crooner.

I always wonder why humans feel the need to improve upon nature. Inbreeding animals until their very worst traits predominate. My dog Junior has allergies. Now this one is new to me. He can't eat chicken, it gives him the green apple dog trots. Who ever heart of a dog who couldn't eat chicken. Well these days it's quite common. We won't even discuss his hips and the trouble he is already having at barely seven. Now I mention my dog, because he loves to listen to and watch the canary. I have a huge cage 4'by 4' by 2', the bird, Chippy, can fly around and get all the exercise he needs. He will sit near the bottom of the cage and eye to eye with the dog, sing with the dog. Well Junior kind of howls, but they both think they are singing together. Very cute.

We need our animal and bird companions. They fill our hearts with their adoration. Their love and their antics endear them to us. That wild cardinal will never know human devotion. But my critters, they are so spoiled, some people should have it so good. They are treated like the wonderful creatures they are to me.
Hey, I should have it that good.

I will tell you this my dog gives me better comfort than my husband, go figure.

Well ladies, if this post reaches the blog, I am in business. I can tell you all about how when the phone rings, Junior, (who has a very big voice), starts to bark. Now I have no idea why. It's really funny because he starts just before the phone rings.

I could tell you how I have finally trained my canary,(known for not being finger friendly), to hop onto my finger. Now it helps that he falls asleep in his food dish,(he thinks it's a nest), while singing to what he thinks is his mate, me. When he is sleeping in the food dish I stuck my finger near him, and he did it!

Maybe I could tell you how sad I was to find a dead cat in my pool. I cried for days, not understanding why he didn't just get out?

And yes it finally happened. My twenty year old dryer has been replaced. My husband could not fix it. Yeah! He wanted me to have a clothesline, but I balked.

Or maybe I'll tell you about the thrill I had on the 4th of July. One of my neighbors had a launcher and we saw fireworks as good as they get. Right from my front yard. Luckily it had rained that day and no fires started. But it was like a war zone. I could hear and see fireworks in every direction. And some gun fire thrown in for good measure.

And today my niece told me she loves me more than a zillion stars in the sky, now that's nice.

I can tell you about all kinds of things. And I think I will!

June Kinion is a South Carolina girl who moved to Georgia and has stayed. This transplant has a law degree and has sold millions of dollars of real estate and raised three children and a grandchild. Her humor speaks of her country raisin’ and her zest for life.

June has a beautiful rescue dog named Lou. Lou has a lot of lab in him and some bulldog from parents who got around. When June’s daughter gave Lou to her, she had her work cut out for her. The poor boy needed a firm and loving hand to help him overcome such fear he trembled and cowered from almost everyone. Now his coat shines and feels like black velvet. He lives the life of a king.

Lou isn’t spoiled, but when June first got him he wouldn’t eat, so she cooked chicken and rice for him to build him up. She still does. Lou, the wily critter, has found a loving human to own and train. In exchange, he guards his human and keeps her company. He leads the dog’s life and prospers in it.

Her daughter, Risa, is in California now, working for the National Park Service, uniform and all.

I read this email exchange and begged June to let me share it in her own words.


| The Dog and the Carrots

When you live with a dog who thinks or rather knows that he is a lord and master, you reach a stage when you must show him that he is wrong. I kept telling him that he was a dog and I was his mistress. He didn't listen or rather pretended to not understand, just like my children did when they were younger, now they just decide that I too old to be smart. My dear Lou is in the middle of letting me know that he will overcome.

A couple of weeks back, I decreed that he would learn to eat carrots as I had read in a doggy book they were good for him and not fattening. He likes to be called 'chubby' or hear 'my, but you are a fat dog.' Since he first came to live with me he has eaten only a handful of dry dog food and millions of pounds of chicken, de-boned and packed away in the freezer until he deems it is time to eat.

I found a place, that I refuse to name, that sells chicken legs and thighs cheap - 10 lbs at a time. After a while I learned to roast 20 lbs in my huge electric roaster, almost enough to last for a month, maybe. And so we have lived, with him thinking I am the world's greatest white hunter who brings home ever so much good food for him to eat --until the day I learned to cook carrots in the big roaster and mash them into his chick-chick.

Then he stopped eating one night and looked up at me and gave two buff buffs and marched into the other room. I looked down and there was a bit of orange carrot staring up at me. He did not come back to eat the remainder. The next night he took forever to eat his chick-chick as he was gently pushing back all the orange pieces. When he finished and all the carrots were in a pile on the side of the bowl. So much for him being healthy.

At present there are 20 lb's of chick-chick frozen with carrots in the fridge waiting until he decides to eat again. Keep tuned in as the battle continues.

(Posted by Mother Mary for Mary Ricksen)

We've had five dogs since the year 1973. Every one was special in its own way. Every one of them were smart. Dogs can pick up a cue from a person and read their faces better than some humans can. They're always there when you need them.

King was exactly what his name indicated, he was the King. He was a wise man stuck in a dog's body. I would tell him what to do and he would do it. From "go get your dish", to "gimmie a kiss", he obliged. He would greet people at the door. No matter where he was. At other people's houses he was very well behaved, so we took him everywhere. You could walk down the middle of a super highway with him next to you, and he'd not move more than a foot away. Heel, come, sit, whatever you asked of that dog he listened and complied.

One time he got into a bottle of medicine that a relative had left on the dresser. He never went into anything before. He'd never gone in the garbage, He'd never chewed anything up. He was so well behaved and that's why we were so shocked. He ate every bitter pill in that brown plastic bottle. Turns out it was a tranquilizer that he'd eaten. Sixty of them, and he got very stoned. So affected that he tripped over his own feet as he bumped around the room.

We took him to the emergency room. I have no idea what they did but it was costly and they gave him a shot of something telling us to go to our regular vet immediately. When the vets office saw him, they made us leave him, because they were afraid he might stop breathing. They told us the medication could take weeks to clear out of his system. So for three weeks, we called and waited. King got a little more balance back every day. But still they would not let us take him home.

After three weeks I went in to check on him. He greeted us at the front door. Us and everyone else who came there. Turned out that the staff at the vets loved him so much they didn't want to let him come home and leave them. He had the run of the place. I thought it was strange when they told me they weren't charging me.

So finally King came home. It took a few more weeks before he was back to normal. And we never left a pill container out again. Who knew he liked pills, the dog gave me such a hard time if I wanted to give him one.

So never leave your pills out, you just never know.


Posted by Mary Ricksen at

by Pamela Roller

Last month, I wrote about animal cruelty and included some disturbing photos, information and statistics. This month, I’d like to turn about and give you several heartwarming stories from people who simply adore their pets. Be sure to leave a comment with your own loving pet story. I'd love to read them!


The photo above is of our beagle and his boy.

Our family went to the SPCA one afternoon. Amidst the howling, barking, pacing, and pawing, there, crouched trembling in his cage, was a beagle. The card read, "Elvis. Male. Brought by owner."

He stared at us with soulful brown eyes. "Let's look at him," I said impulsively.

As soon as Elvis was brought into the inspection room, he made a beeline to me, then to our son. He steered clear of my husband. A jagged black scar ran up his back leg, and he had tiny black circular scars on his nose--the size of the end of a cigarette. He sniffed us, wagged his tail, and when we rose to look at a couple of other dogs, he must have decided to take us home because he ran straight to the door and looked back, eyes shining.

Four years later, Elvis is comfortable around men again. He doesn't crouch as often when we reach down to pet him or hug him, and he no longer hides when I flick the lighter to light the dinner candles. He's brought joy into our lives, loving us the way dogs do: just right.

Dan's story:
The hardest part of having dogs is saying goodbye. You know when you bring home a bouncing puppy that the dog will almost certainly pass away before you do, but you know that the years of joy are worth the inevitable sorrow. Kayla was our first purebred Belgian Tervuren and came into our home when she was almost three years old. She was bartered by the breeder to an Oregon cattle-rancher. She was destined to be a stock dog, but the rancher went bankrupt and Kayla went back to the breeder.

Kayla's next stop was a large show-dog kennel in Homestead, Florida. The owner had spaniels and Rottweilers and wanted a new breed. Not long after settling in to her second home, Hurricane Andrew blew most of Homestead into the Gulf of Mexico. Kayla was evacuated in time, along with the other dogs, but the kennel was destroyed and she was given up to a foster home.

Kayla was passed among a handful of Belgian Tervuren fanciers, each showing her a little bit, but none taking such a liking to her that they wanted to keep her. Her travels took her from Florida to Texas and back, and then eventually to Virginia. She was never abused or neglected, and nobody ever considered dumping her in a shelter, but nobody wanted to make her their own, either.

I was looking for my next dog for competition training when I met the owner of Kayla's sister. She casually mentioned that she knew of a Terv that needed a home. When I met Kayla something immediately clicked for both of us and I made the decision in an instant. Of course, a dog that has been passed around so much doesn't make close friends so quickly. It took many months for the two of us to truly bond. But when we did, great things started happening.

After finishing her breed championship we launched into a ten-year career of training competition. Obedience, tracking, agility, rally, lure coursing...we did it all. We traveled up and down the east coast together, celebrated success often and cried together occasionally. Kayla accumulated over thirty training titles in our decade of showing.

All of those titles were unimportant as I slumped against the wall of the examination room. I held Kayla in my lap, murmuring into her ear while the veterinarian prepared the syringe. I didn't think about the blue ribbons and the disqualifications, of the hotel bills and fast food breakfasts. What I thought about was our the bond we shared, the same bond that our two species have shared since the dawn of history. Two beings, working harmoniously together in a relationship like no other. As the vet kneeled on the floor, I told Kayla "Thank you" and said goodbye.


Alisa's story:
The farm around the corner from us had a sign that said, 'Golden Retriever Puppies for Sale'. The girls and Tim begged to go see them, just to 'look.' I gave in but said there was no way we were getting a puppy since Carly was still only 2.

Well, of course, they were the most adorable things I had ever seen. The one in the back with the green collar got my attention. He (or she, I wasn't sure) was very quiet and didn't jump and bark like the others did. The puppy looked right into my eyes and I just fell in love. We left and talked about it constantly. Finally, I agreed and said, 'OK, if we get that puppy, I get to name it since I will be doing all the work. If it's a boy, let's name him Cody and if it's a girl, Molly.'

The next morning, Tim went running. When he came home from his run, he had a very strange look on his face. He told me that he didn't really go running. He went back to the farm to look at that puppy in the green collar. He said, 'Alisa, we have got to get that puppy. It's meant for us.' He told me that the breeder had already named all the puppies and guess what, they named him Cody. Then the mother dog came over and Tim found out that her name was Molly. That afternoon, we brought Cody home.He is the most sweetest and calmest dog that we could have ever asked for. We love him!


Alleyne's story:
Years ago I had four Belgian Tervuren in my home. One neutered male was dominant aggressive. We'd been working for more than two years to get Deacon to accept that we were the alphas and that he could not discipline us with his teeth. Our other young male, Paladin, was easy going and good natured, never challenged anyone.

One night I was home alone, lying on the sofa. Paladin was across the room, on his back playing with our new puppy. Deacon was lying next to me on the floor. I reached down to pet him and he growled. He had a toy and I knew I couldn't let him get away with growling or all our work would have been undone, so I reached down to pick it up. Deacon bit down on my hand and sat up, carrying my hand with him.

I frantically tried to decide how to stop him from hurting me more seriously, but before I could do more than take a deep breath, Paladin leapt from his place across the room, cleared the coffee table, knocked Deacon off me and pinned him to the wall. Clasping my injured hand in my good one, I cheerfully called the dogs to go outside, which they did before I collapsed in shock. My husband arrived a few minutes later from work and rushed me to the hospital. The bites were deep but not my hand was not torn up.

We realized that night that I was pregnant with our daughter. I will always believe that Paladin saved me from being mauled. He watched over Tierney every day from the day she was born until he died two years ago at almost 16. He was a champion in dog shows, but more importantly he was my champion, which of course is what "paladin" means. Alleyne Dickens http://www.alleynedickens.com/ http://www.bonheurbelgians.com/

From my mom:
Our five-pound, two-year-old papillon, Corwin, gave us a surprise a few days ago. We were noticing the fur by a leg that had a knot in it. Joe was trying to straighten it out when Corwin used his tongue to water the area and then proceeded with his teeth to pull back and forth until the knot was straightened out. It amazed us both, but happily so.

From fellow ace blog writer Beth Trissel:
I’ve always had cats. Cats are an integral part of my world and our farm. Three reside indoors; Gabby, a lavender Oriental Shorthair, closely related to the Siamese and just as vocal, and her chestnut-colored son, Pookah, so named for the invisible creatures that steal things, and he does. We used to call him “the paw” because of the way he opens drawers or cabinets and pilfers whatever he likes, usually hair thingies. He and Gabby are mad over scrunchies, and colorful bands that hold hair in pony tails.

Pookah is a gorgeous cat and an excellent thief, but he sucks his tail. Not very manly. A kind woman living in Florida sent us Gabby years ago to comfort the children after the tragic death of their young cousin Matthew. Gabby came to us on a plane, an odd infant highly unlike the barn cats we were accustomed to.

At first we didn’t know what to think of this little gray monkey forever disappearing into the highest cabinets or crouching on the tops of doors and wardrobes. Nor did we understand her peculiar cry, but once we learned to know her, we were hooked. That’s how we came by Pookah, the big-eared kitten we kept from a litter of three after we had Gabby bred to a fancy Siamese, Cappuccino. He wasn’t manly either.

Then there’s Minnie Mae, the tabby kitten-cat my daughter Elise and I raised from early infancy after her stray, airhead mother inadvertently left Minnie Mae and her brother Cedric in our care. Minnie Mae was so tiny she barely spanned my palm and is still small for a grown cat. Cedric is a big boy and resides with son Cory on the other farm, but he’s a sissy too, and has a favorite blanket which he kneads obsessively, probably due to the trauma of being abandoned shortly after birth. He also sucks on it. His father is a tough old barn cat named Chester. Nothing sissy about Chester.

All three of our cats must content themselves with gazing out the window, tails twitching whenever they spy a bird. It’s touching how devoted they are to birds, and have often asked for a bird of their very own, “To hug it and squeeze it and call it George,” but I am not so gullible. I don’t know how common it is to have arguments with cats but Gabby and I argue all the time--Pookah, only when he is particularly put out with the accommodations here, and then he really howls.

Minnie Mae is a whimsical creature, with a funny series of purrs. Elise calls the chirrupy purr when she scampers across the room, her bouncing purr. Then there’s her inquiring purr, when she has a question, which is fairly often being a thoughtful, observant cat. Her excited purr hums forth when she greets us after a long absence, say overnight. She sleeps outside Dennis’ and my bedroom door and eagerly awaits the dawn.

When I was a child I listened repeatedly to a favorite record that I still have about the adventures of Dick Whittington and his cat. Dick would exclaim: “Here comes Ripple Dee Dee! Oh, cat, I love you very much.” And I do. All of them.

I went down to the dairy this morning and played with Zippy, the bouncy black kitten that has come into our lives. He’s about five or six weeks old and scampers around fearlessly like a streaking bullet. But also tolerates snuggling and is very sweet. His mother, Kate, a small calico barn cat, is affectionate though not overly. Until two days ago, Zippy and his shy as yet unnamed orange brother lived up in the loafing shed. That’s the building where dairy cows hang out and shoot pool, play cards or snack in the dining hall until they feel like ambling out to the meadow to soak up some rays and chew the cud.

The loafing shed is also like a hotel or all girl dorm with sleeping accommodations, wooden stalls filled with shavings, which they haggle over. The stalls all look pretty much the same to me, but apparently cows can discern the difference in quality. Maybe some command a better view of the barn or have plusher shavings. Only they know. It’s a great place for kittens as long as they don’t get stepped on.

The milking parlor is where the real action is, and the milk. Cats and kittens get free samples and snitch dog food and whatever else is tossed their way, in addition to the very important work of mousing. And now Zippy has graduated to the big league. What’s next? The old red barn.

Elise and I found a bedraggled black kitten in a shadowed corner of the old barn huddled beside an ancient water trough. Hay was stuck to its fur and its head slick in places from a calf’s sympathetic tongue. We carried the mewing puff ball down to the house and gave it a bath. Being mostly fur, it shrank considerably in the water and nearly disappeared.

After drying this soggy specimen of catdom, we bundled it up in an old towel and fed it the formula concocted by a local vet for orphan kittens: one cup whole milk, one teaspoon of vegetable oil, one egg yolk, whisk well and warm. This baby is old enough to lap and downed the lot I had poured into a shallow lid. We filled a canning jar with hot water, screwed the lid on tightly and tucked our swaddled charge beside the improvised water bottle back in the small closet in the laundry room. Assorted farm coats, jeans and shirts hang on hooks up above and brush our heads as we kneel to peer into this den-like place. There’s nothing dogs like better for a bed than a worn coat with that farm smell still clinging to it, cozily tucked back into this closet.

Cats prefer sunbeams but will make do. I’ve spent many hours on my knees helping to birth puppies, fuss over their care and tend kittens. Countless kittens and puppies, tiny terriers that could fit in a shoe box, medium size dogs and dogs that have grown too big but are still attached, have called this comforting space home. The narrow walls are gnawed and deeply grooved from the many inhabitants over the years. Every household should have such a place.

Fortunately, our dog, Mia (an animal shelter rescue) also likes her bed in the dining room because she can't be trusted to kitten-sit. The formula rapidly dwindles. Not only that, she’s afraid of kittens. Silly, silly Mia. The kitten does not yet have a name because if you name a creature that implies that it’s staying, which this one very well may be. Sometimes you just need a kitten.

Oddly, it would seem that Mia always wanted a kitten of her own after all. She follows the minute puff ball around the kitchen and hovers over it with a worried look. Actually, Mia generally looks worried. I suppose from earlier traumas before we took her in. She has never had a small furry friend though and even tries to play with the kitten as it bounds around the kitchen in great excitement over everything and anything.
My mother made the observation that kittens and other babies can utterly give themselves to play in a way that the rest of us can’t because we’ve had the “play” smacked out of us by life. Now and then, I think we should all play as unreservedly as possible.
Beth Trissel
http://www.bethtrissel.com/

So there you have it. Wonderful stories from people who love their pets. How about you? Have stories to share? Write back with your wonderful pet story in the comments section.

Thanks for reading!
Pam

Pamela Roller is the author of On Silent Wings, a sexy gothic historical romance set in Restoration England. Visit her website at http://www.pamelaroller.com/.©Pamela Roller