My Award Winning Dog (story)

I woke up today with a giant plastic funnel in my face. It’s been that way every day for a week now. The world’s neediest dog is suffering from allergies.

When the sneezy season hits for us humans, my dog Jewel suffers too. She gnaws at her itchy feet in hopes of relief. Our vet gave us the only thing that keeps her from chewing herself raw, a tall white collar of plastic that makes it impossible for her to get her teeth near her toes.

I feel bad for Jewel and her itchy feet. She’s not just a dog, she’s my buddy, my psychiatrist, and my writing muse. She even has a role in my novel-in-progress (as Ruby, a neurotic Springer spaniel–not much of a stretch, I know).

I wrote a little story last spring starring my dog called “Bark of the Town” that recently placed in it’s second writing contest. I plan to share the award with my funnel headed companion–a new handbag for me, a rawhide bone for her. One that she can chew on instead of her feet.

I’m spying on you!

I have a little pink journal that I keep in my car. The kids call it my “stalker notebook.” They’re right. I secretly watch people whenever I’m at the car wash or the drive-thru, even the pick-up line at the school. I am always on the lookout for inspiration for a future short story or novel. Sometimes I only pick up some scenery, but the best days–those ones that make me rush to my computer to type–are the days when I meet someone like Ed.

 

I spent the bulk of last Saturday in the stuffy conference room of a roadside motel attending Defensive Driving School. First, I need to explain. I wasn’t required by law to attend this class. It was by choice. I got my first photo speeding ticket last month and rather than pay a fine that could be calculated in multiple designer jeans (and an increase in my insurance rates), I opted to trade my lovely Saturday for the chance to be re-educated about Arizona driving laws. (There was a third option listed on my ticket, but it was only for people who were claiming NOT to be the person behind the wheel. In my DMV photo I’m laughing and gesturing with my hands–no doubt it’s me. At least I was having a good time, right?)

 

I took some notes in my little journal while people checked in at the front desk. With 75 other people in the class, I had plenty of raw material to spy on. I saw an elderly woman who claimed her public defender didn’t tell her she was “gonna hafta set here all day” an a guy with a really bizarre monkey tatoo, but when Ed spoke up from the back of the class, I knew I had a future character in the making. Ed is a truck driver. Ed does a lot of freeway driving and doesn’t have time to stop for lunch. Ed likes banannas.

 

Ed is a burly sixty-something guy who looks strangely athletic for a truck driver. He was the only one in the class that morning who had been caught doing something besides exceeding the speed limit or running a red light. Ed was there on a banana related matter. The peel to be exact. Ed walked us through his story with all the drama of a Law and Order episode.

First, he got hungry. Then he ate the banana he had in his lunch pail. Then he threw the banana peel out the window.

 

Yeah, out the window.

 

At high speed on the 101 Freeway in the over-populated and heavily driven city of Phoenix, Arizona, this guy tossed a banana peel out of his truck window and into traffic. Indignant that he had to spend the day with us REAL criminals, Ed went on to say that the only reason he got caught was because someone called the 1-800 number listed on his company truck.

  

Ed’s defense of his actions? “It was over 100 degrees that day! Do you know what my truck woudda smelled like if I left that peel in the cab?”(Picture him with his palms raised in a “what did I do?” pose)

 

I would like to thank Ed, and the many other real-life people who fill the pages of that pink notebook, for giving inspiration to the fictional characters I create. I’ll revisit more of these pages over the next few weeks as the last draft of my novel-in-progress winds down. I’m almost ready to send that manuscript out to agents and start the next one–perhaps something about a freeway accident caused by a flying banana peel.

Snakes Are Icky

Snakes are icky. So are scorpions, taranchulas, and havalinas, but when you live in the Sonoran desert, you have some creepy things in your back yard now and then. I’m prepared for the worst–I have a magnet on my fridge with the phone number of my local snake catcher. All of my friends know where to find their emergency snake information too. I’m hoping I never have to dial that number.

Though I haven’t had a slithering intruder on our property yet, I did get a call from friends with this question one evening, “Would you guys mind coming over for the cook-out about an hour later than we planned? There’s a diamondback wrapped around our barbeque right now so we’ll need to wait for James.”

 

 ”James,” I asked nervously?

 

“The snake guy.”

 

This couple was on a FIRST NAME basis with their snake catcher and seemed really calm about it! How many times had this guy been to their house, I wondered? Will I ever get so accustomed to living in the desert that I can be calm about a snake in my yard too?

 

No, probably not. In fact, I’m sure of it. I DO NOT want to meet James the snake guy. Ever. My fear of snake visits even produced this bit (now resting on the cutting-room floor) of my novel-in-progress:

 

            I kissed her cheek and touched the bracelet on her wrist. “I’m glad you like it, Honey.” I started to tell Cassie that I was thinking of becoming a jewelry designer, but Jack came back looking so strange it stopped my words. “What?” I asked him. “What’s wrong?”

            “It’s Ruby,” he said. We went to the door and looked out. Ruby was standing on her hind legs with her front paws stretched up. She looked like she was dancing. Hopping was more like it. “What’s she doing?” asked Jack.

            “I don’t know,” I said. We watched as Ruby hopped and barked, finally resting her front paws on the back fence. The large Palo Verde tree was directly above her. We followed Ruby’s eyes trying to see what she saw. My dog kept barking, willing us to get it for her.

            Jack saw it first, “Snake,” he said pointing. I put my hand on my stocmach.

            “Kids, stay in the house!” I yelled. I hurried out the door to the back yard and grabbed Ruby by the collar to hustle her in.

            Drew came into the kitchen, “What’s up with Ruby?”

            “Snake,” said Jack grinning. The boys loved this kind of thing. Drew joined him at the glass door smiling too.

            They boys looked excited, the dog barked like crazy, and I felt faint. Cassie, the one we can always count on in a crisis, went to the fridge and took off the “snake rescue” magnet I kept handy. It was a gift from our realtor.

               I loved everything about living in Phoenix except the snakes. It was bad enough that there were dangerous ones among the just plain icky, but the only way to get rid of them safely was to call a snake handler to come to your house. Both my boys had begged me to let them try to catch the last one. There was no way I would let them near it.

            The problem I have is that snake handlers are environmentally conscious, meaning they are obligated to relocate the snake within two miles of the place it was removed, keeping it within its natural environment. I pleaded with the last snake handler to just kill it. I couldn’t bear the thought of it coming back to my house. After all, two miles isn’t that far. But no, there is no snake death squad in the city. If you want it dead you have to kill it yourself. I wondered what kind of snake it was as I dialed.

           I turned to see the boys still watching from their spot with Ruby by their side. Her face pressed against the glass as she barked her warning. Good dog, I thought. I wondered about the family that lived approximately two miles from us. Would they be seeing a snake in their yard sometime soon? Or did they evict one just yesterday?