Quiet for too long

I have not written anything in weeks. I have been working 7 days a week about 65 hours, so thats my excuse. I have had to stop going to my writing group, and because of that, havent had my weekly reminder to post here. I have been writing, however, in the small bits of free time I have. I had a dream that spawned about 15 pages so far. So here's a chapter of it, not the first, but the most recent chapter. I think it says enough about the story that it can stand alone. Enjoy

            Jake rested his forehead against the horses shoulder and sighed.

            “I’m a fucking idiot,” he admitted. The horse snorted and angled her head so she could look at him. He resumed brushing her and she leaned into his efforts contentedly.

            “You’d think that after two years I’d be able to have a simple conversation, but no,” he snorted. “The only thing that comes to mind is to ask her about her sexual preferences. And I know that’s not something people just talk about the first time they meat. Unless of course that someone is a pleasure slave whose time you just purchased and you care absolutely nothing about them and never bothered to talk to at all.” He often ranted to the horses after making sure no one else was around. They were the only beings he could talk with freely. Even Karl, whom he was devoted to, could not be trusted with his real thoughts and feelings.

            “She seems like a nice person,” Jake continued, moving to the other side of the pretty buckskin mare. “I mean, I think she liked me. I don’t know how to tell. Women like me for my body. They’ve never cared about who I am. How do you tell if a woman likes you for who you are and not just how quickly you can get her to orgasm?”

            Gypsy snorted and tossed her head in answer.

            “I don’t know either,” he agreed, finding a particular spot that needed scratching. “I fucked up so bad. I wanted to just be normal. I should be able to walk up to someone, look at them, and shake their hand, right? Why was it so hard? Hard, hell, impossible. And Karl was so disappointed in me. I hate that I let him down. I didn’t want to. I don’t want to be like this. I don’t. What if Karl thinks I’m not trying? What if he sends me away?” He hid his face against the mare’s warm neck. She leaned against him. “I don’t want to be like this anymore,” he said as he felt the first tear fall. “I just wanted to talk to her. I just wanted to be able to walk up and welcome her. I want her to like me, not the body that slavers bred to please, but the real me. But I don’t even know who that is. I’m barely a person at all.”

            He blinked away his tears angrily, wiping at the few that escaped. “I wish I could do it over again. I wish I could walk up to her and welcome her like I should have. I should have looked her in the eyes and told her she was more beautiful than Karl’s description. I should have told her that her voice made me want to drop to my knees and trust her completely.” He sighed, running his fingers through the horses tangled mane. “But I didn’t do that. I stared at the dirt and ran off to hide with the horses, as usual.”

            A sound caught his attention. He straightened from where he was curled against the horse and saw Kaylee standing at the stall door. Mortification was a living thing in his chest and be ducked back behind the horse involuntarily.

            “I’m sorry, Jake,” she said, too gently. “I know I shouldn’t have eavesdropped. Uncle sent me to fetch you for lunch, and I heard you talking as I came in.”

            Jake felt more tears escaping his eyes and pressed himself firmly against the horse. He wanted to tell her to go away, but couldn’t find his voice.

            “Jake?” she took a step closer. “I was going to let you know I was here, but then I heard what you were saying. And, well, I figured the only way I’d get to hear what you really wanted to say was to listen to you tell my horse.”

            Jake struggled to control his breathing. He cleared his throat and said, “I’ll be along in a minute for lunch. No need to linger, miss.”

            She snorted. “No need my ass. Come out from around that horse and talk to me.”

            Her tone was commanding, and he obeyed unconsciously. He stepped from behind the horse to face her. He kept his eyes on the floor of the stall. He knew it was obvious he’d been crying. He realized he was standing in the open and darted back behind the horse again.

            “Come on, Jake, this is excruciating,” she said. “I just want to be your friend, that’s all. I know your history. I can’t possibly imagine what life is like for you. What can I do to help you relax?”

            He grunted. “Nothing, miss. I’m fine.”

            “Bullshit.”

            Hearing her use profanity brought a smile to his face. None of the aristocratic bitches he’d known would ever swear. Kaylee swore with familiarity and comfort. He liked her.

            “I’m sorry I’m like this,” he admitted. “I know Karl is angry with me.”

            “Uncle is a blockhead,” she dismissed it. “He doesn’t know how to help you, so he yells at you because that’s what he does when he’s frustrated.”

            “I don’t like yelling,” he admitted, taking one step out from behind the horse. “It makes me sick, literally, when I disappoint him.”

            “Will you please come out and talk to me without the horse in the way?” she asked. “You were just saying how you wanted to go back and redo our first meeting. Here’s your chance.”

            Her tone was gentle, not an order. He reminded himself that he was a free man and not a slave. He did not have to listen to her. He wanted to listen to her, though, which made all the difference. He squared his broad shoulders and stepped around the mare. He couldn’t look at her face, but he was at least standing in front of her.

            “That’s better,” she said. “You have beautiful eyes.”

            “I was bred to look like this,” he shrugged.

            “Does that make your eyes any less your own?”

            He cocked his head. “What?”

            “Just because some assholes created a selective breeding program doesn’t mean they own the parts they shaped. Those are your hands, right? Your arms, your legs. They are no less yours because someone did their best to make them a certain way.”

            He felt the truth pour from his mouth before he could stop it, “A slave does not own its body.”

            “You are not a slave.”

            “I was.”

            She made a sound that forced his eyes to look at her face. She was crying. The shock was enough to keep him from dropping his gaze back down.

            “I hate what was done to you,” she said, with a passion that moved him. She actually cared. She wasn’t just standing on a political soap box trying to curry favor. She was crying because of what had happened to him. She cared. She didn’t even know him and she cared.

            “Slavery is an abomination,” she snapped. “A human being is not property. No person should be born into a world where they are an object. A commodity.”

            He took a step toward her. “Miss, you can not cry for all of us. You do not contain enough tears.”

            She wiped at her eyes. “What are you, a poet?” she snapped.

            “Your uncle says that I am.”

            She snorted. “What do you say?”

            He tried to find an honest answer. “I was trained as a pleasure slave. Part of that training was using pleasing words. I think I have a talent for it.”

            She smiled. “A talent wasted on the horses, I bet.”

            He sighed. “Probably. But I like to think they enjoy my sonnets and ranting.”

            She wiped her face clear of tears. “So you write poetry?” she asked.

            “I can’t write, miss,” he shook his head. “Karl is teaching me, but he is a very busy man and I don’t want to take up any of his free time lately.”

            “Well, I’m not busy and I’ll be here. I could teach you. You’d have to look at me from time to time, though.”

            He smiled and managed a quick look at her face. “You really are more beautiful than Karl described.”

            She snorted a laugh. “I see they taught you flattery. You don’t need to try so hard, Jake. I know I’m no prize.”

            He frowned, her self-criticism giving him the strength to really look at her face. “Who says you aren’t beautiful?” he asked.

            “I’m thirty five and unmarried,” she rolled her eyes. “A lot of people.”

            “A lot of people are blind.”

            She blushed. “Please, you really don’t have to be so nice about it. I know I’m not ugly, but I’m no great beauty. As a former pleasure slave for the aristos, I’m sure you’ve seen far more beautiful women than most.”

            Jake flinched at the reminder of the women who used him. She must have realized what she said and began to apologize, but he held up a hand to stop her.

            “I was what I was,” he shrugged, forcing the pain into the past where it belonged. “None of those women were beautiful.”

            “Oh, come on, Jake,” she sighed. “I’ve seen them. I grew up among them as the ugly duckling.”

            “Real beauty cannot be painted on,” Jake said, taking a step toward her and forcing himself to meet her eyes. “No one who buys another person, who uses them as the aristos used me, could ever be beautiful. True beauty comes from who you are, not how you look. You are by far the most beautiful woman I have ever met.”

            Her mouth fell open and it made him smile. Her insecurity made him feel more comfortable around her. He hadn’t developed his own personality enough to handle overly aggressive pushy people. Kaylee struck him as a woman who knew how to fake it, but under the surface, she was just like him.

            She was still staring at him. She took a deep breath and frowned. “You are definitely a poet, prone to exaggeration.”

            He shrugged and returned his attention to the mare for a moment.

            “I’m too tall,” she objected.

            “You’re not that tall.”

            “Says the giant.”

            He pressed a kiss against the mare’s cheek and offered her some apple slices from the bag in his pocket. He stroked her nose and turned to see Kaylee staring at him.

            “What?” he asked.

            “That horse doesn’t like men. She bites.”

            He glanced at the mare who was nuzzling his hip for more apples.

            “I’m not like most men,” he shrugged. The comment made Kaylee smile, but Jake wasn’t sure exactly why.

A little serious musing

I didn't know this writing exercise was going to take such a serious turn, but my mind goes where it wants. I have a number of wonderful people in my life with special needs. They brighten my life in a way there is no way to measure. There are a lot of different kinds of people in the world. I wish more people realized that the diversity is a blessing, and not something to slide your eyes over like you can't see.


 All she ever wanted was to be like everyone else. But she wasn't. The word 'normal' had never applied to her. She could pretend, but she wanted to be a big girl and big girls didn’t pretend.

            She was a superhero. She had the power of invisibility. She liked to the dress the part, just to test how far her powers really went. She wore a cape made of an old curtain. Her mother sewed stars on it. She wished she had the power to fly so she could touch the stars, but they were outside of her grasp.

            She would go with her mother to the store and help with the groceries. She always wondered why no one thought it was weird that the groceries were floating. She was invisible after all. But still, no matter what she did with the box of Cheerios or the bag of apples, no one seemed to notice.

            Sometimes her superpowers stopped working. People would stare at her, then, and she hated that. She wanted to yell, “What are you staring at? Why don’t you just say hello?” but she knew it wasn’t polite. So she waited until she turned invisible again.

            She loved her dog, Sophie. Sophie could always see her, even when she was invisible. Sophie never stared at her or made her feel bad because she didn’t look like everyone else. Sophie loved her and played with her and treated her like she was normal. Sometimes, when she was alone with Sophie, she would forget, if only for a short time, that she wasn’t normal.

            She went to school but the other children didn’t see her. Sometimes her superpowers went away and the other kids would stare but look away when she tried to talk to them. The teachers tried to help, but sometimes even they couldn’t see her.

            It was hard being a superhero. But being the invisible girl was better than being the girl with a disability. If she couldn’t be normal, she would be super. It seemed only fair.

Cat Yoga

My experience from yesterday inspired the following:

A translation of yoga for cat owners:

·         Clear a space and roll out your mat: Attempt to clear the cat hair, give it up as hopeless, unroll the mat and spend the next two minutes shooing the cats off it and trying to smudge out the scratch marks with your toes

·         Begin cross legged and close your eyes: Kick at the cats swarming around your legs to make room for your butt. Spend the entire time you are supposed to center your breathing shoving the cats out of your lap

·         Interlock your fingers and lower your face to your hands: Poke yourself in the eye as your cats knock your elbows attempting to get pets

·         Stand up and extend your hands over your head, then slowly swan dive and touch your fingers to the mat: Choke on your cats tails as they jump and rub against your face, delighted that you are bending over to pay attention to them

·         Put your hands behind your back and interlace your fingers, lifting them up and overhead: You no longer have hands to push the cats away from your face, so suffocation becomes a real issue

·         Slowly step back to an upper push-up position: You are again at eye level with the cats, but have the advantage of trying to use one hand to swat at them while supporting your weight on the other

·         Assume chair pose (which was invented by Satan), raise your arms over your head: The cats swat at your prone ass in search of the chair you are sitting on

·         Turn your right foot out and your left foot at a 45 degree angle, raise your arms and bend your leg to a right angle into Warrior 2: Attempt to maintain your balance while the cats vigorously rub against your legs, upset that you are no longer bent double to play with them

·         Move into child’s pose and take a minute to manage your breaths: Crouch on the floor and choke on cat hair while the cats jump onto your back and lie down for a nap

·         Move into table position (on knees and hands) lift your left arm and hold it out while raising your right leg, point your toes to the ceiling: The cats finally see their opening and attack your precariously balanced body, resulting with you sprawled on your side gasping for air and cursing

·         To end our yoga practice, move in Corpse pose, lay back, close your eyes and contemplate your practice, thank your body for what it accomplished, etc: Lay down and suffocate as your cats climb onto your face and chest, and convince you to lock them in another room the next time to try to do yoga

Writing exercise

Since getting a job I've been slacking about posting something every other week. I am going to get back on track with this. So today I'll do another writing exercise. I got out my dice with the images and roll them out. So I'm going to make a story out of the images I got in the order they came in.
IMAGES:
Shooting star
House
Open book
Skydiver with Parachute
Scale
Rainbow
Plane
Hand
Footprint

One night, I saw a shooting star. I was sitting in my house, enjoying a good book. I looked out the window when I noticed the light from the star, and saw a man falling from the sky. He pulled a cord and the parachute shot out. I watched him floating down toward my back yard. I weighed my options. Should I go out and find out what this strange man was doing falling from the sky into my yard? How normal could he be if he was doing that? He was obviously crazy, which made sense. I attracted crazy men. It was a curse. I always dreamed that I'd meet a nice normal guy, but those were as rare as rainbows and pots of gold. So I might as well go out and at least see if the guy was attractive. Crazy could be fun. I headed outside, turning on the light as I went onto the porch. I looked up at the sky, searching for the telltale lights of the plane my lawn resident must have jumped from. I didn't see anything. Apparently, men were just falling from the sky now. I'm sure stranger things have happened. I couldn't see him around the billowing parachute. My first glimpse of him was his hand as he pushed the parachute down, out of his way. I looked him over. Any irritation I had about his arrival vanished. A man that good looking could drive his truck through the wall of my house and I wouldn't mind as long as I got laid. A quiet gentle landing in my yard was nothing. I glanced up to see if there were any more attractive men drifting my way. No luck, but at least I had the one. A thought occurred to me. What if he was an alien? He was so good looking I figured I could overlook that too. As long as the anatomy was compatible, I was game. He smiled at me. "I'm sorry, Miss. I know this looks weird, but I can explain." He took a few steps toward me. I noticed that he left footprints. I decided that aliens wouldn't have left footprints. I'm not sure my brain was working that well seeing as it was drowning in lust hormones. I couldn't wait to hear his explanation, though I didn't care what it was. He didn't have a ring on his finger, and he landed in my yard. I closed my eyes and imagined a rainbow that ended at my house. Maybe my luck had finally changed.

Seth

I'm not sure what to say about Seth. Saying he was a good dog is too basic. He was loving. He was stubborn, and too smart for his own good. He was a lunkhead. He was crazy and lovable and constantly breaking things and himself. He was one of a kind. I guess saying that he was a good dog sums it up.

We had Seth for nine years. He once pulled all the muscles in his neck playing tug-of-war. He skidded on ice and impaled himself on a tree, needing stitches. He ate a bag of weed (we never were sure where he found it) and his high was misdiagnosed as anti-freeze poisoning, leading my mother on a night of hellish misinformation, driving, and money. He had a severe anxiety disorder requiring Prozac. He once ate a fabric kennel in one sitting. He let himself out of dogg-day-care via the front door and escaped out into Gardner for a few hours of fun. He had the nastiest smelling farts, and loved to burrow under the covers and let one go. At two AM he went to the top of the stairs, dropped a ball down them, and chased it; repeatedly, until stopped. I miss him.

Seth was a therapy dog. My mother used him primarily with her child clients. He did so much good for them. He was someone to hold, to play with, to cry on. He could keep all their secrets. He was good at his job, keeping his crazy antics for his off-duty hours, mostly. So many people benefited from his big floppy ears and stubby wagging tail.

Seth was my shadow whenever I was visiting. Shadow is the wrong word though, because he wasn't just behind me, but underfoot and on top. Despite being about 90 lbs, he decided he was a lap dog. He would crawl up on top of me, jabbing his bony elbows into tender places, and flop down in odd positions for the duration of a movie. While normally he slept with my mother, whenever I visited, he would sleep with me. And I indulged him. I'd let him crawl under the covers and he would lay along my side, sometimes sharing my pillow. He'd wake me up first thing, wanting to play and go for a walk. He's lick my face and paw at me until I got up and tackled him. We'd wrestle on the bed until he beat me, and we'd go get breakfast and go for a walk. Visiting my mother is going to be strange for a while. I'll have the whole bed to myself. I don't want that much space.

Whenever I first arrived at the house, Seth would run circles, literally bouncing off of furniture. He would eventually settled with me, and begin to talk. He would make a variety of sounds, whines, barks, whimpers, chirps, grunts, everything, and tell me what I'd missed since the last time I saw him. He only did that with me. Sometimes he would talk for five minutes or so until he was content that I understood him.

There are a million things in my mother's house that will make me cry now. The orange plastic balls that he adored with frightening intensity. The blanket he would chew on when he was stressed. His kennel. The hollow bones filled with peanut butter. The big yellow plastic egg shaped ball that made him lose his mind. His dog bowl. The weimeraner calendar on the wall.

He won't be waiting for me at the door when I visit. He won't greet me with five minutes of stories told in dog sound. He won't be there to fart under the covers and try and blame me. His big nose won't wake me up again. I won't get to run my fingers over his velvet soft ears. But I can see him whenever I want. I just have to close my eyes and think about how lucky I was to know him, and he's there. The goofy dog who never realized how big he was. The biggest drama queen I've ever known. There is no greater gift than the unconditional love of an animal. His love will stay with me, and everyone who knew him.

Poem

After digging up trees and doing yardwork this afternoon, I am not feeling particularly creative. So I'm cheating. Here's a poem I wrote a while ago. It's not about me. It actually fits really well with the main character of the novel I am working on right now. I might try and incorporate it somehow.

Love Me if You Dare

I am like water,

No matter how hard you try

I will always find a way to escape you,

Even though you need me to survive.

It’s not that I want to leave you,

But it is what I am,

I slip through cracks a drop at a time,

Spreading myself thinner and thinner,

Making the need to escape and reform greater and greater.

And if you manage to stop the leaks,

Block every hole and line every seam,

I will turn into vapor and fade away.

To have me you must chase me,

Let me dance over your skin,

Linger while I can,

But know I will go away again.

Loving me will be a forever chase,

With no real reward,

Because when you grasp at water,

It slides through your fingers.

How to begin...

This is the first chapter of my romance novel set on the Cape. It's been rewritten three or four times, but I am finally happy with it. Hope you enjoy

Chapter 1

            I lugged my laundry up the basement steps and through the kitchen. My two hundred pound mutant sheepdog, Mop, stood in my way while I juggled the basket and tried to open the back door. I noticed a pair of Scooby Doo boxers had found their way into my laundry. Two days of living with James and I felt like I had known him for weeks. He reminded me of my brothers.

            I managed to get the back door open and stepped out onto the tufts of crab grass that made up the back yard. A stockade fence bordered the space and allowed me to sunbathe topless when the mood struck me. The clothesline was strung between two trees in the yard. I tried to hang my laundry until it was too cold. There was nothing like the smell of line dried clothes despite the fact that it made jeans stiff enough to walk on their own. Seeing as it was only mid-September, I would be using the line for a while longer.

            I set my basket on the ground, wincing as my bare feet found a rock. The pair of cut-off sweatpants that ended just below my knees had slipped down to expose the top of my butt. I was out of clean underwear, hence the laundry. I was wearing my ratty uncomfortable bra with a tank top over it. There was a built in bra in the shirt but the flimsy elastic didn’t have the strength to hold up my C luggage. Between the shirt and the old bra my breasts were behaving somewhat.

            Mop lazily loped after a squirrel while I hung my clothes on the line. I made sure to hang jeans and shirts on the front string so I could hide my underwear on the next one. I had fashion sense only slightly better than that of an adolescent boy, but I had a pension for sexy underwear. I wanted to keep said underwear out of James’s view. He had enough ideas in his head without me giving him pretty pictures.

            I hung everything but the underwear when Mop started barking. I told him to shut up. He shifted his head in my direction and his eyes caught on my laundry. He loped over and stuck his head into my basket. He pulled his head out and grinned at me, a lacy pink thong hanging out of his mouth.

            “Damnit, Mop. Drop it!” I ordered.

            Sensing a great game in the making, the lunatic dog bounced away from me. I gave chase. He was old, how fast could he really go? He ran in tight circles around me, panting happily and staying just out of reach.

            “I’m going to skin you and make you into a rug,” I yelled at his fluffy butt as he evaded my grasp. I lunged for him, lost my balance when I missed and slipped onto my ass. I produced a creative string of profanity that died suddenly when I noticed the pair of work boots that were planted about two inches from my bare feet. I looked up at the gigantic man who was standing over me. He was a wall of broad chest and thick arms wrapped in a t-shirt and worn jeans. I felt like an unlucky quarterback about to be clobbered by a runaway tackle.

            Mop had noticed the man standing there and bounced over. He barked his greeting, dropping my lacy pink thong onto the man’s boots. I glared at the dog.

            “You are so dead,” I muttered.

            I looked up at the man again. Maybe it was the fact that I was sitting on the ground that made him look so big. His body was impressive, but I realized who he was when I looked at his face. He was a bigger, bolder version of James. His brown hair wasn’t styled and he let it grow long enough to brush the collar of his shirt. His eyes were green instead of blue but the shape of them was the same. He wore a full beard that was neatly trimmed and only made him look more primal. I swallowed hard.

            “Problem with your dog, M’am?” he said. His voice sent a stab of pure lust through me. It was deep and thick, two words that came to mind along with associated nasty thoughts. James adjusted his drawl to the situation. He toned it down to blend in, and blasted it when he was flirting. His brother, who had to be the man standing over me, was obviously not the kind of man to play those kinds of games. His voice was pure Georgia and was far too close to a caress than a voice should have been.

            I snatched the lacy pink panties off of his boot and held them behind my back as I scrambled to my feet. I knew I was blushing like an idiot and my long brown hair had fallen out of its clip while I chased Mop. I went to push my hair back forgetting about the thong in my hand. I quickly returned my hand behind my back but his eyes had caught on the pink.

            “Hi,” I said as brightly as I could. “You must be Zach.”

            “Zachary Cutter, M’am.” He offered his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Bodel.” He mispronounced my name. I’d heard a variety of attempts at it, but he was the first to pronounce it Bod-el.

            “It’s Bodel, actually. And I prefer Bo.”

            “Sorry, M’am.”

            I sighed, hating being called M’am. It’d taken me several reminders to get James to stop doing so, but I had a bad feeling Zach wouldn’t abandon his manners as easily.

            “Try it,” I suggested.

            He raised a dark eyebrow in question.

            “Say Bo.”

            He looked down at me, crossing his arms. Now that I was standing I couldn’t pretend that he only seemed big. I was five six but he was about a foot taller. I was used to big guys but he was the first one who had ever made me feel small. He was the only one who had ever made me feel feminine.

            “James said you were a handful,” Zach said.

            I couldn’t stop myself. I looked down at my breasts that were on display in the low cut tank top. “I’m two.”

            He didn’t smile. This was definitely not going as smoothly as I hoped.

            I put on my waitress smile and blasted the charm. “I didn’t realize you were going to be here today. James said you weren’t gonna get here till tomorrow.”

            “I got an earlier flight.”

            He wasn’t giving me much to go on. He looked at me with a mix of befuddlement and distaste. James had warned me that Zach could come off as abrasive and cold. I hadn’t thought he was serious. How could two brothers be so completely different? I needed him to like me. If I couldn’t find a way to appease him, he’d tell me to pack my stuff and sell the house out from under me. Recently inherited or not, it was still his house to do with as he pleased.

            I blasted the charm again, though I’d always been more comfortable with sarcasm than courtesy. “Well, welcome to Cape Cod. I have to finish hanging the laundry, but I was going to make James some lunch before I headed to work. Are you hungry?”

            He looked at me a minute the way most people would look at a jigsaw puzzle. I liked the color of his eyes. They were a shade of dark green I had never seen before. For a man with no sense of humor he was still extremely attractive. It was a shame.

            “You don’t need to trouble yourself,” he said.

            “It’s no trouble. I’m making food anyway.”

            “Alright. I’d appreciate a meal, thank you M’am.”

            “My name is Bo.”

            The corner of his mouth turned up the slightest bit. I was sure I could pry a smile from him if I put my mind to it.

            “Say it,” I suggested.

            He raised an eyebrow at me.

            “Will it kill you to say my name?”

            “No, M’am.”

            I glared at him and reached out to poke him in his barrel chest. It wasn’t until after I had done so that I realized I was still holding the pink thong. I whirled around to hide my blush, but not before I saw him smile. I muttered some profanity and finished hanging the laundry. I hung the pink thong on the front line prominently displayed against a white t-shirt. If I was going to make an ass of myself I was going to do it big.

Dear Blue Chair

While meeting with my writing group today, one of them mentioned a writing exercise she did for a class she is taking. So I felt inspired to do something similar. Here is a Dear John letter to an old piece of furniture.

Dear Blue Chair,
You came into our lives already well used, but still in your prime. Kyle fell instantly in love with you, spending evenings in your upholstered embrace. Your generous arms were a welcome hug after a long day, and the ottoman was nice enough to support Kyles long legs.

The cats loved you, and I'm sorry about how they expressed their affection. When you came to us, you were a bit worn, but over-all, intact. Now every edge and corner is scratched to tatters. I don't know why they chose you and never scratched any of the other furniture. It was unfair of them, and we should have intervened sooner. But it didn't make us love you any less. Not even when there was that ominous crack from the ottoman that time and it started sagging in the middle.

Every person I know and love has sat on you. They all realized the danger as soon as they rested their rump on your jean-colored cushion. You were so comfortable, you drew everyone in. I always warned them it was nearly impossible to get up again, but you were just too tempting.

There was that two week stretch when I was so sick I couldn't sleep in bed. You and I had a great time. You didn't mind when I coughed all night and helped me get comfortable so I could sleep. I was kinda sad when I was well enough to go back to the bed. Don't tell the bed I said anything, though.

So I've come to the reason for this letter. My heart breaks as I tell you that you can no longer be in our living room. Please don't hate the new couch. Just like you, it was free and used. You have a lot in common. But the new couch is big enough for Kyle to lie down, which is an amazing thing for a tall guy like him. I know he could do that with you too, but no one could sit with him. Oh, I know we tried a few times, me jammed against your arm, awkwardly curled on top of Kyle, one leg braced on the floor to keep my position. It's not your fault. You are a chair. You can't be something that you are not. And we needed more seating for the living room.

But we still love you, Blue Chair. We can't bear to part with you. We don't care that you are old and that the cats have shredded your edges. We don't care that your cushions are crushed and slightly stained on both sides. You are still beautiful to us. So we moved you into the upstairs room. It seems a cold thing to do. I know we don't use that room much, and you don't get to see us anymore. But that's why I set up the puzzle table in there. You know how much I love puzzles. I come in and play some music, work on the puzzle, and hang out with you. I know it's not the same, but I hope you are happy.

Someday, your room will be the babies room. We'll have to take out the futon and the boxes of unorganized stuff we keep saying we'll organize someday. But you'll stay. There will be a crib and a baby. And we'll be up all night again, needing a very comfortable chair to sit in. So for now, I know it's a little lonely up there, but you haven't been forgotten.

Tobi

I was hesitant to post this, but was encouraged to by those who read it. So here is the story of Tobi.

            How do I say goodbye to my best friend when he can’t understand words? I stroke my hands over his thick wiry fur and hope that he isn’t afraid of my crying. I run my hands over him as he cuddles in my lap, watching his ears flatten and spring back up with each pass of my hand. I hold him while he falls asleep, and I think about my dog.

            I was a teenager, probably fifteen. I went with my step-mother, Lucy, to pick out a puppy. She wanted a girl puppy, but the moment I saw him I knew he was the one. He was a little furry black, gray, and reddish thing, with big dark brown eyes and perfect expressive ears. I never even looked at the other three puppies. I reached down and picked him up. I held him close and told Lucy that this was our dog, and his name was Tobi. An hour later, she finally agreed with me.

            Tobi was a happy puppy that grew into a happy dog. He loved everyone and everything. He let children pull his tail and poke his eyes and never so much as growled. He ran up to every dog he met with enthusiasm and welcome. He would curl up and sleep with my cats and never dream of chasing them. He didn’t chew on furniture or pee or poop in the house. I swear that dog would even wipe his feet before he came in. And when we got another puppy, he accepted Max with affection.

            As a terrier, Tobi took it upon himself to defend our home from the scourge of chipmunks and squirrels. He once ripped the gutter off of the house perusing a chipmunk, then proceeded to bite it so hard he cinched it closed. He once spent four hours crouched by a wood pile waiting for the chipmunk to emerge. Unlike some dogs, he did catch a few. I felt bad for the little guys, but Tobi was always so proud of himself. It was his job and he was good at it. He’d stick out his little chest and wag his tail and I could swear he had a sense of rightness, of purpose.

            He was terrified of thunder and fireworks. He would pace around shaking uncontrollably, inconsolable even if he was held and coddled. I can’t count the number of times we wandered the streets around our home, yelling his name, after someone lit off fireworks and he ran through the electric fence. Looking for a black dog in the dark is an adventure.

            Tobi changed colors throughout his life. None of us understand how or why. As a puppy he was mostly black with a smattering of tan and red. In the middle of his life, he had an odd pattern of reddish tiger stripes along his back. As he grew old, he came mostly black and gray. And at the end, he had turned into a grizzled little old man.

            I live in a duplex with my husband. My father and step-mother live on the other side. So even though I moved out on my own when Tobi was only a few years old, I always felt like he was my dog. And when I moved back into my childhood home after college and a few apartments, I felt like I got to have my dog back even though he really lived with my parents. He would scratch on my front door and patiently wait for me to come and let him in. He’d roll around on my rugs because my parents’ side is wood floors. He would cuddle with my cats and curl up and sleep by my feet. He would stay for hours, then quietly wander to the door and I would escort him back next door. He spent a few nights with us, and whenever there was a thunderstorm or fireworks. For some reason, he must have felt safer on my side of the house. Toward the end, Lucy said that in her house he would pace and keep asking to go out but not go. She would bring him over to me and he’d scratch a little nest in the carpet next to me and sleep like he didn’t have a care in the world.

            Lucy came to my side of the house on a Monday morning. I knew something was wrong. Tobi had been very lethargic, and was throwing up and having accidents in the house. He was fifteen years old, and I wasn’t surprised by the news, but it hurt just the same. The vet said that his kidneys were failing. They said that with dialysis and diet, they might be able to expend his life by a few weeks. I knew as Lucy told me that we weren’t going to do that. We had lost another dog to a horrible disease called Lepto Sperosis. Poor little Peanut died of kidney failure. I remember how she looked with her little legs shaved and bruised from the IV. I knew we weren’t going to put Tobi through that. It was the kinder thing to put him down now, while he was still wagging his tail and smiling with his eyes.

            On Tuesday morning, I got up and brushed my teeth as if it were a normal morning. The appointment at the vet was at 10:30. It was 10. Lucy opened my front door and called upstairs that she had to work, so she moved the appointment to 3:30. She left before I could say anything. I hated that it was postponed. Waiting was worse than anything. I hadn’t let myself go see Tobi since finding out, knowing I would start sobbing. But my Dad was home alone next door with the dog, and I couldn’t leave him like that.

            I went next door and said hi to my Dad, but I wasn’t really seeing him. All I saw was Tobi, lying on the floor. He struggled to his feet, which had become very hard for him in the past few days. He waddled over to me, his tail wagging so hard his whole body swayed back and forth. I sat on the floor and pulled him into my lap. I didn’t cry. My Dad is afraid of tears, and I knew this was hard enough for him already. So I kept up a steady talk about nothing with him, and patted my dog. He looked up at me with his big brown eyes, and I swear that he knew. Maybe I was merely projecting, but he had this calm look in his eyes like he knew it would be over soon and he wouldn’t be in pain anymore.

            I hated the fact that my Dad was sitting with nothing to do all day. I love my father. He is a good man, a hard working man. But he is uncomfortable expressing emotions. He does not hug me often or come visit my side of the house. He expresses his love with actions. If I ever came home crying, he would quickly move into the garage. He never learned how to comfort me. I accept that about him. And I knew that when he was upset, the best thing for him was to have something to do.

            My Dad doesn’t like animals. He once beheaded a groundhog with a shovel. But Tobi did what I never thought any dog could do. My Dad really loved Tobi, and not in the distant way he had loved the other dogs. The other dogs had been Lucy’s pets. Tobi was the first one he appeared to think of as his as well. He is not a man to cry or to hold the dog he is about to lose. So I asked him if he could do an oil change on my truck. It seems an odd request, but I know my Dad, and when he is powerless to save something, its better to give him something productive and helpful to do. So I gave Tobi a final pat and went back to my side of the house.

            At 3:15, Lucy knocked on my door. She had Tobi on the leash and my Dad was already in the car. But Lucy was shaking and already crying and she said she couldn’t do it. So I nodded and took the leash. I picked up Tobi and I brought him over to her so she could say goodbye. I carried him to the car and settled him on my lap.

            My Dad drove and we talked about my job and the coming job search, about the weather and football. I held Tobi against me, and he looked around at the world passing by with his usual doggy-smile on his face. The vet is only a five minute drive, but it felt longer. I set him on the ground and he walked up to the vet, sniffing and acting interested and happy. He peed on some snow, and as he always did, kicked a little snow and dirt behind him afterward.

            He didn’t want to go inside, so I picked him up and carried him in. There was a great dane mutt and a golden retriever in front of us. The couple with the golden retriever unwitting set me off crying when they looked over at tail-wagging-Tobi and said “He’s doing fine.” My Dad muttered ‘Well, not really’ and I gave up trying not to cry. I sat on the floor and petted him to distract myself. I was now the center of a lot of unwanted attention as the six people in the waiting room realized why we were there. Luckily, someone came and told us we could wait in a back room. Tobi didn’t want to leave the other dogs, so I had to carry him.

            It was a nice room, with a small couch, and the examination table. I sat on the couch with Tobi on my lap. I didn’t want to put him down and was relieved when he settled down without any interest in exploring the room. Dad and I tried to fill the sadness with small talk. The vet came in. I know him from the times I’ve brought in my cats. He is a very nice man, and is wonderful with Tobi. My Dad has been pacing the room, unable to sit still. He does not know what to do with himself. I’m glad I’m there to hold Tobi.

            The vet tells us that he is going to give Tobi some of the sedative to calm him. It will basically lull him to sleep so that when the actual injection comes, he won’t be afraid. It takes about ten minutes. I hold Tobi while the vet injects him. He doesn’t like it and I can tell it hurts. But he doesn’t growl. He just twists his head around so he can look at what the vet is doing. He had to inject him twice, trying to find a less sensitive spot for the second one. Tobi never growled, and wagged his tail when the vet patted his head.

            Dad and I were left alone with Tobi. Finally, Dad sat on the bench beside me. Tobi was curled on my lap, and his little nose overlapped onto my Dad’s thigh. My Dad patted his head. We told him he was a good boy, and I told him that he wasn’t going to hurt anymore. I couldn’t stop crying. I didn’t make any sound while I cried. It was just a steady stream of tears that soaked his fur. Dad and I talked about nothing for those ten minutes. Tobi relaxed in my lap, and I could feel every bit of tension leave his body. He slowly closed his eyes. I couldn’t see them because he was facing my Dad, but Dad told me they were closed. I ran my hands over him and kept talking. If he had to die, at least it was this way. He got to gently fall asleep on my lap, with my Dad gently patting his head from time to time, listening to the familiar sounds of us talking.

            After ten minutes, the vet and his assistant came in. I knew it was time. Tobi was asleep. He wasn’t even aware of me standing and laying him down on the table. He looked very small and old, but peaceful. They gave him the last injection while I stroked his ears. I cried so much that there was a puddle on the floor. My Dad stood behind me, quietly. It took only a few seconds, and the vet told us he was gone.

            The vet assistant handed me some Kleenex. It was a simple gesture, but one that meant a lot. They were both very comforting without making me feel worse. They let me grieve and told me how sorry they were without being too intrusive. The vet asked if we wanted to take a few minutes with Tobi, but he was already gone. Dad is a man of action, and I know how hard it was for him to just watch while Tobi died. So we thanked the vet, and headed out. My tears were gone by the time we were outside. I felt almost free. My Dad stopped in front of me and turned around, opening his arms. I slid into the hug, and he thanked me for coming with him. He said he couldn’t have done it alone.

            We talked about happy things on the way home. We worried about how Max, the other dog, was going to do without Tobi. We worried about Lucy, who was not coping with losing Tobi very well. I hoped she wouldn’t regret not coming with us to the vet. I think she made the right decision for her.

            While it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, I’m glad I was there. I’m glad that my happy wonderful little dog lived a great life. I feel blessed that I was there to hold him. To make him feel safe and loved, while he fell asleep for the last time. I burst into tears as soon as I shut my front door behind me. And I’ve cried a lot since. But I know that we did the right thing. That I couldn’t have asked for a better end for my little man. Rest in peace Tobius No Jinx Jalbert. Thank you for being my dog.

Cleaning the House with Cats

Cleaning the house is a chore that becomes a lot more enjoyable if you have cats. My seven pound orange fluffball, Physgig, is convinced that the vacuum is a horrible demon that is going to destroy the world. While being terrified of it, she is also convinced that she is the only creature in the world that can destroy it. She watches it, hiding behind objects far smaller than herself (her logic is staggering). When the timing is right, she lunges in and attacks with viciousness and ferocity, immediately followed by a hasty scrambling retreat. I end up with extremely clean rugs because I spent extra time tormenting the cat. Sylvanas, my overweight gray cat, also hates the vacuum, but she has the good sense to grudgingly head upstairs away from it. She does deign to glare at me as if she intended to set me on fire before her departure, which is considerate of her, really. The black cat, Echo, doesn't move unless I actually touch her with the vacuum, in which case, she hits the ceiling. I only do so when I am feeling particularly evil.

The other wonderful part of house cleaning with cats is mopping the floors. Oh, the fun you can have. A little soap and water on the wood and linoleum goes a long way. Physgig has large fluffy feet and slides on the floor at the best of times, especially because she is usually running full-speed under the impression she is on fire (she is just orange an easily confused). Add wet floor, and the moment her foot touches it she freaks out, legs splaying out as she tries desperately to get away from the wet. Echo and Sylvanas find high dry places and glare at me. They have Physgig to warn them when the floor is wet. Despite both being fat and tuna addicts, not even tuna could lure them onto a wet floor. Sylvanas is far too dignified to engage in that nonsense, and Echo is too lazy.

So my house is clean now. All three cats are curled up sleeping in their favorite places. It took me hours to clean today, but because of them, it didn't feel long at all.

Dreams

I'm struggling a bit to write anything at the moment. This week, I found out the job I love and excel at, is ending due to federal budget cuts. I didn't do anything wrong, in fact I have done extremely well. But it doesn't matter. I am a contractor, and there is no money to pay me anymore. So as of next month I am unemployed. And due to the nature of my job, the financial situation that lead to my layoff also means that there are no other jobs in my field to apply to. Unless I want to move to AK, or Idaho, WA, or other far off places. I am a homebody with a large family I live very close to. I have no interest in traipsing around the country chasing jobs when what I want to do is stay home and chase kids. Not that I want to be a stay-at-home-Mom, exactly. But my passion has always been writing, which I can do from home. So I am taking this lay-off as a sign that I need to stop being so passive about my writing and really put energy into getting published. So on that note, I'll try and write something here that doesn't devolve into an angry rant.

They say that if you give someone a fish they will eat for a day, but if you teach someone to fish, they will eat for a lifetime. But what if there aren't any fish? What if you know how to catch one, but there just aren't any to get? Well, I guess if that's the case, then you need to learn how to catch birds. But what if there are no birds? Well, learn to trap rabbits. Eventually you'll end up trying to catch the wind, but that is the nature of dreams. Dreams are tricky things and its hard not to give up on them. And even when you get them, often its not exactly what you expected. Nothing is real in a dream, so trying to bring those desires into reality creates little glitches. My dream is to be a writer, a happy wife, and mother. That's it. I don't need fancy things or a big house or exotic vacations. It sounds like a simple dream, but the reality is so far from simple. The road to getting published is a minefield littered with thousands of rejections that threaten to tare your dream to pieces. Everything I write is a piece of myself that I send out into the world. It isn't easy being so stretched, having so much of myself unprotected. I want to gather myself up, hold it in. It's safer that way. But I can't have my dream if I don't let it get ratted up by reality. It won't be what it started as. Reality will rip it, fill it with holes and wrinkles. But if I really try, maybe my dream will survive the damage and fully become real. It'll be beaten and not so beautiful, but it'll be real. And that's worth fighting for.

Stream of consciousness

I figure I'll just to a stream of consciousness thing today. Streaming in a madness of swirling emotions that are so confused they have lost meaning. Not thinking back. No corrections. Just let it come and pass through you. Words on my fingers, stuck like maple syrup and not coming all the way free. I stick my fingers in my mouth and enjoy the sweetness. Words on the tongue. Words on the keyboard. Words on the screen. All of them me. I stopped for a minute. Distracted by Netflix. It happens. The perpetual soundtrack of my house. Silence is alien. Makes me uncomfortable. I need noise, sound, music, anything. Silence lets me hear the things the cats break, the odd little sounds of the heaters, the settling of the house. It lets me hear my thoughts. They get so loud I can't think. So I set up my distractions and calm my mind, so I can get one thing at a time on my mind. Not sure what more there is today. Guess thats good.