Dog Day Afternoons

I've been thinking of memories and how they lie dormant until something resurrects them, sometimes like a butterfly emerging from the pupa stage, other times like Dracula rising from the grave.

A snatch of music can transports me back to people, places, experiences. 

A glimpse of a movie on tv recalls which cinema I first saw it. And who I was with.

A photograph I've taken drops me instantly back to that day. 

That has been happening a lot lately, because I've been digitising old 35 mm negatives, mostly shots of dogs and cats that have long crossed that rainbow bridge. It's good to see these old pets again, especially as they are generally young and active in the shots. Age has not withered them. These images are moments of time frozen in ink on photographic paper, now immortalised in pixels and bytes of data.

Why am I telling you this?

It's really just an excuse to run some dog pics!

 These are all of Charlie, a bearded collie. I've had a number of dogs over the years, even more cats, and they were all special. My regular reader (she's a lovely person, enjoys a boiled sweet) knows that currently I have Mickey as a companion and he is very much my world, along with Tom the cat.

But Charlie...ah, Charlie.

He was the kind of dog that people smiled at in the street. There was just something about him that made them respond.

My wife found him one day tied to a park bench in a helluva state. His coat was matted, his claws were so long he was walking on the heels of his pads. She took him home and he was named Charlie because he was a bit of a tramp.

Charlie knew a good thing when he saw it and soon made himself at home. And he was a great dog. He loved the car, loved to go on trips. When it was time for me to pick my wife up from her office, he would do a little dance in the hallway because he knew he was coming too. He would sit in the back seat, looking through the windscreen, swaying with the corners.

He even went camping with us and I remember one day in Ullapool in the Scottish highlands when we wondered why people were walking past the back of our tent and giggling. It turned out he was lying inside, his nose and eyes poking out from under it and watching the world going by. 

It's never easy when a pet leaves you and Charlie was a particular wrench. He grew gradually weaker, less active, not nearly as perky. He faded away. And then, one day, he simply breathed once more and was gone. 

He was buried in the corner of a garden I no longer own and I often wonder if the new owners ever see a cheeky, lovable face peering at them through the grass. 

My wife died three years ago and I like to think that somewhere Charlie was waiting for her, along with all the other dogs and cats that have gone before. Young again. Smiling as he is the picture. Perhaps doing a little dance as he anticipates a trip somewhere. 

Possession is nine tenths of the dog

Today I wrote an entire piece about the situation in Ukraine, because that is quite rightly preoccupying many of us. 

However, I've pulled it. There are people far better qualified than me who can comment. There are people far less qualified than me who are commenting, mostly on social media where a host of experts lie in wait to display their vast knowledge on any given subject be it global affairs, pandemics or movies. And books.

So let me divert you for a little while from the pressures and worries of the world stage, power-mad politicians and empire building.

Let me instead tell you about Mickey.

Now, as my regular reader will know (as long as she has taken her medication), Mickey is my dog. That's him above.

He was a rescue, originally from Bosnia, and he ended up with me after he had been returned to the rescue centre in Scotland three times. I was known at the centre and they were aware that I was more likely to persevere with him. And that's what I did so now he is, mostly, a good boy.

I say mostly because as you read this I may well be at the vet with him for the second time in four days. 

Don't worry, there's nothing wrong with him - he's merely going to get his booster injection. And no, he did not give his permission, in fact he was never consulted on this, for frankly it is for his own good and other dogs.

That doesn't mean he likes it.

Oh no, not in the slightest.

Mickey may be a good boy, he may be very loving, but in the vet's surgery he turns into Cujo. I don't mean the rabid dog of the movie but the rabid and also probably possessed hound of Stephen King's book. 

We were there last Thursday. He walked into the surgery quite the thing. He said hello to the receptionist. He allowed the vet to give him biscuits. He let her talk to him. He walked around the room to let her see how he moved.

But the trouble began when she pulled out her stethoscope.

Yes, her stethoscope.

He wouldn't let her near him with it. I tried holding him but he snarled and gave her the kind of look that would put a bad guy in an Italian western to shame. 

We decided going straight to the injection portion of the visit was the best way forward. Also, a muzzle was deemed wise.

I put it on him. He allowed it. Wasn't happy, but it went on.

That was as far as his goodwill went.

Whenever the vet approached him with the hypo he went bananas. There was barking, there were snarls, there was the kind of writhing you see in exorcist movies. If he'd had pea soup I'm sure it would have flown.

I tried to hold him, first this way, then that. At one point I was crushed against the wall, hanging onto his harness as if I was a rodeo rider and he was the bucking bronco. And I contemplated making that first b an f. A rear approach was attempted but rebuffed.

In the end we gave up and a new appointment was set for Monday morning. And this time he would be sedated.

I am writing this on Sunday evening. He is to get two pills tonight and another two tomorrow morning. I don't know how he will react, if they will work or even if he will let me administer them in the first place.

You see, he was listening to the conversation and sometimes I think he understands every word he hears.

He's looking at me as I type. He knows I'm writing about him. I can tell by the look in his eyes. I don't like that look.

Somebody send Max Von Sydow...

The Long Goodbyes

 

This is a photo of my grandson, John Crockett, with Mayzie, the dog he received for his birthday. And if ever a boy and a dog were meant for each other! John is in Rhode Island in graduate school now, and two weeks ago the family laid Mayzie to rest. 

Next week my youngest daughter and her family will say goodbye to Dakota, another well-beloved dog who has so many ailments that she leads a miserable existence and the vet said it's time to consider her quality of life. 

The response to a pet's death is pure grief, even if we know it's coming. Because the love they give us is so pure, I think. A dog hears our troubles without judging. Dogs seem to know when we are down and need a little extra attention. They are a barometer for our moods and simply commiserate without trying to cheer us up. 

My favorite dog was a little Shih-Tzu named Brandy Noel. The daughters got her for Christmas one year, but eventually they went to college and Brandy became my dog and the inspiration for the ridiculously spoiled Tosca who is in all of my mysteries. I was grief stricken when I had to say goodbye to Brandy. 

I've heard that one of the big taboos for writers is killing off a dog or pet that has been a constant in a series. We can kill anyone else, grandparents, all sorts of relations, close friends — but not the dog.

I wonder how many Type M’ers have pets that are their writing companions? How many integrate pets into their series? 

Can you think of series that wouldn't be the same without the dog? 

There's a reason why I'm not including cats in this blog. Cats really don't need us. Nor do they much care how our day is going. Dogs do. 

Tribute to Lilly, My Writing Buddy

 The Covid-19 pandemic, apocalyptic wildfires in the west, horrific hurricanes hitting the Gulf Coast states, lawmakers and citizens denying science and refusing to keep themselves safe by simply wearing a facemask.   

Then Ruth Bader Ginsburg passed away on Friday.

Bad week. Bad week, for sure.

Made worse when we picked up the cremated remains of our shih-tzu Lilly on Saturday. 

She was about fourteen years old and had been with us for about seven. She was a rescue, so we didn’t know much about her life before she came to be part of the family.  Stacy, the wonderful woman who brought us Lilly, told us that she thought Lilly had been kept in a crate for long periods of time.  As a result, her back legs were a little wonky and not particularly strong. Sometimes she’d get tired on a long walk and just lay down in the grass.  

Good advice for all of us, I think.  When life gets to be too much, go outside, and lay down in the grass.

Lilly loved being in my office, a finished room over the garage, sleeping on the love seat next to my desk, or snoozing among my many notebooks on the floor, while I’d write.  I liked looking over at her, watching her breathe, and somehow the world felt like it was okay.

And if I got up from my desk to go downstairs for a cup of coffee, she’d spot me when I returned,  flip over on her back, and insist on having her tummy rubbed.  

We should always make time for tummy rubs.

In the evening, that’s when Cindy and I would watch television and Lilly would snooze until I went downstairs for something.  God help me if I came upstairs without bringing her some treats.  Inevitably, I had to go back downstairs to fetch them or she’d give me the stink eye until I did.

We should always make time for treats. 

Quick story about how much we love our dogs.  About five years ago during a freak February ice storm (we live on the coast of North Carolina) my wife Cindy was getting ready to take Lilly out for her final walk of the night.

Being the good husband, I told her, “No, honey.  It’s still sleeting, let me do it.”  And she did.

I carried Lilly out into the cold dark night, ice pellets bouncing off my hat, down the driveway, and across the street to the corner, where all the neighborhood dogs seem have been at one time or another.  I set Lilly down and waited, listening to the ice hit the road and the tree limbs in the darkness above me.

There was a sudden noise that sounded like a cannon shot.  Without thinking, I put my arm up over my head.

The next thing I knew, I was on the ground and Lilly was looking genuinely confused but unscathed.  

That’s when I realized that I’d been hit by a falling tree limb and my right arm no longer seemed to work.  We both got back to the house and an ambulance took me to the hospital where it was judged that my arm was broken.

The story about the ice storm was on the front page of our hometown newspaper, noting that there had been one serious injury as a result, telling the world about my dog walking mishap.

On Thursday I went into surgery and while I was there, my assistant where I worked fielded calls from people who had read the story.  She’d tell them that I was fine and undergoing surgery.

Every single one of them said, “Yeah, that’s good news about Tom.  But how’s Lilly?”

She was fine.  I broke the fall of the tree limb with my body.  It appeared I was expendable, but everyone loves dogs, and Lilly was well known in our neighborhood. 

Not having her here has left a huge hole in our lives.  The house feels empty.  Lilly was our friend and protector of our home.  We never once have had a squirrel inside the house.  

She was also my writing buddy and right now while I’m sitting at my desk with my laptop in front of me, I wish I could turn to her, give her a tummy rub, and get her some treats. 

Never Hurt a Dog

In the last two John Rebus mysteries written by Ian Rankin, a new recurring character was introduced by the name of Brillo.  A homeless bit of scruff, the curmudgeonly retired detective reluctantly brings the dog into his home.  The book where Brillo makes his first appearance is appropriately named Even Dogs in the Wild. 

In all three of my mysteries, Geneva Chase, my lead character, has a dog named Tucker.  “My Yorkshire terrier, was little more than two bright, shiny eyes tucked into a ball of brown and gray fur.”   For Genie, Tucker is family.  In the beginning, it was the only family Genie had.  Tucker is friendly, loving, playful, and his tail is always wagging.

Tucker is based on a real dog we had for about eleven years until he passed away about four years ago.

The real life Tucker didn't cotton to me much.  He was my wife’s dog and he was extremely protective. Thinking back on it, Tucker didn’t like any men at all.  I don’t know why, I’m not a pet psychologist. Don't get me wrong, I loved the little guy. He just didn’t always make it easy.

Dogs and cats can be instrumental in showing what kind of person a character is.  Geneva Chase drinks too much, makes bad life decisions, and is a hot mess, but she loves her dog and it’s obvious that Tucker loves her back. Deep down, Genie is a sweet lady.

In the very first episode of House of Cards, Congressman Frank Underwood leaves his Washington D.C. flat and observes his neighbor’s dog as it’s struck by a car.  He comforts the dog while addressing the audience.  And then he calmly strangles the animal.  From the outset, you know that this is not a nice guy.

A pet can help set a scene.  In Random Road, Genie lives in an apartment close to the waterfront.  “Tucker likes it because we’re a short walk to the docks. We can be on the waterfront in about seven minutes. Pleasure boats are tied alongside oyster trawlers and the ferry.  There’s the sound of the waves gently slapping against their bows and there’s the smell of the sea in the air and saltwater.  When I let him off his leash during the day, Tucker likes running back and forth on the wooden docks, terrorizing the gulls, who rise up reluctantly into the air and scream shrill epithets at the little dog while wheeling in slow circles, a few yards above his head.”

A pet can help describe a person’s state of mind.  Also in Random Road, a sad Genie Chase has just returned home.  “The depressing weather was lifting and pockets of sunshine struggled to find their way around the dark clouds.  I drove home in a fog, numb and exhausted.  When I got to my apartment, I picked up Tucker and held him so tight he must have thought I meant to crush him. He needed to be walked so I took him down to the waterfront where Kevin and I had been the first night we were together.  That was so long ago and it felt so lonely.”

Circling back around to Ian Rankin, at a recent conference, someone asked him if he regretted anything that he’d ever written.  His answer, “In one of my books, I killed a cat.”  He shook his head.  “I’ve never heard the end of it.”

My long suffering wife has read the drafts of my books where I’ve killed off countless numbers of people in the nastiest ways.  She thinks that’s okay.  Her one admonishment to me is, “Never hurt a dog.”

When Tucker passed away, we waited a few months and then reached out to a friend who rescues dogs to help us locate another fur baby.  She brought over a shit-tzu named Lilly.  She’s a little bit older and when she came into our house, while she was quietly claiming some of Tucker’s old toys as her own, I couldn’t help but notice she was already a little gray.

My heart melted. I’m a little gray. Ah, hell, I’m a lot gray.

We don’t know how old Lilly is but we’ve had her about four years now and she’s family.  She’s a sweetie who has earned a place in a book I have yet to write.