The posts from Charlotte, Rick, and Donis over the past week struck a chord. I have to admit that as much as I love Fergus, my Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, who turned one year old on October 2, and Penelope, my Maine Coon, who I adopted this past spring, I sometimes feel like a frazzled mother of toddlers. Last week, I actually heard myself warning Fergus, who bounces and zooms through life, to "Stop chasing your sister!" At which point both dog and cat stopped dead and turned to stare at me. Were they wondering about that "sister" thing? Or confused by my tone because they had been playing when Penelope ran with Fergus on her tail. Obviously, they were puzzled.
In fact, they both spend a lot of time looking at me while I carry on conversations with them about whatever is going on. I am the leader of their pack. Penelope stares at me with a feline's unblinking gaze or meows if she would like to have her face and chin stroked. Fergus tilts his head, as if he understands what I am saying. But, according to an article I read, that has more to do with his floppy ears and orientating to hear better than being an expression of his intelligence. He is certainly not listening for further instructions. The word "No" means nothing to him when he is chewing on an electric wire and about to send himself up in a puff of smoke or running with my reading glasses in his mouth, stopping at a distance to watch me go for his "training treats" to pay his ransom demand. He needs training -- training in obedience, schooling on not ignoring the commands that he knows but only deems to follow when it suits him. We are going to an obedience class as soon as I can find one that isn't already at capacity with other people who have puppies acquired during the pandemic. In the meantime, strangers pause to tell me how "adorable" he is and he greets them like long-lost friends. "Everyone loves Fergus," the owner of his doggie daycare told me.
I have returned late to pets ("companion animals"). For much of my adult life after college and beyond, I had no animals in my life. Then I bought a house and almost accidentally adopted Harry because I saw that the local shelter had a Maine Coon, and I wanted to see one of the big cats that I had written into my book, The Red Queen Dies. The cat in the book was there for a reason. The cat, who had only a walk-on-scene, held the secret to the mystery.
In that same book, Hannah McCabe, my Albany police detective, and her partner, Mike Baxter, run into her first partner, now retired, while visiting the University at Albany campus. As in real-life, the university mascot is a Great Dane, and McCabe's ex-partner has one in tow and reminds her again about adopting a puppy. At the end of the book, she brings home a huge puppy that is such a mix of various breeds that both her father and her brother, from whom she has been estranged, are in awe. Discussing names for the puppy gives them a warm, family, moment. At the end of the second book, What the Fly Saw, another character sees the dog and suggests a name -- and shares an important moment of rapport with McCabe. My animals are in my books because they move the plots along and reveal something about the characters. Why else would a black cat have attended a seance in the same book? Would I be that campy for the fun of it?
George, a yellow Labador mix, debuted in A Dead Man's Honor, the second book in my Lizzie Stuart series, and became a continuing character. I didn't consciously think about adding a dog to the series. It was one of those moments when something happened -- Lizzie arrived at John Quinn's house and discovered he had a dog. A dog he had rescued from the side of the highway and had not intended to keep. But he had, and his bashfulness in talking about being a softie when it came to a stray dog gave Lizzie a glimpse of another side of the former military police officer, ex-homicide cop. George becomes the victim of a crime in Old Murders. He survives and recovers, but the incident is a turning point in the book.
In Forty Acres and a Soggy Grave, George is left at home, but he manages to "skunk up" Quinn's beloved Bronco before Lizzie and Quinn leave for a weekend visit with Quinn's friends. Thanks to George's pursuit of a skunk, Quinn is driving Lizzie's Ford Escort when they are in an auto accident soon after arriving on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. The accident launches the subplot involving migrant laborers.
So far, no animals have appeared in the flesh in my 1939 historical thriller. But the senator's housekeeper has reported that his niece, Evelyn, has gone out riding. She has a conversation with the niece's suitor about Evelyn's outrage about the death of a horse during the making of a western movie (a true story). Since several of the characters are going to Saratoga, undoubtedly a race horse will have a role. Evelyn's suitor owns a plantation in Georgia. Is he the kind of man who has a dog that walks by his side? I don't know yet. If he doesn't, is it because of something that happened when he was a child? Something that helped to shape his character?
I have an aunt who doesn't like cats. She will probably never come to visit me with Penelope and Fergus in residence. I have a feeling there is a story somewhere in that. In the meantime, my first Jo Radcliffe novel, set in 1949, will be about the murder of a mean-tempered village storeowner who claimed the dog of a homeless World War II veteran bit him.
