FOUND ON THE ROAD


A credit card, the biggest beneficiary of the ...
A credit card, the biggest beneficiary of the Marquette Bank decision (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

June 27, 2013

They’re everywhere —  story ideas, that is.

It all started when Russet and I found a credit card on the sidewalk.  Around the corner, in a clump of trees,waved a hank of jet-black hair with a white streak.

Uh-oh. Poor guy never had a chance. Must’ve been rolled for his card, scalped and strung up in a tree. I picked up the card and pocketed it, intending to call the owner or at least keep it safe.

Wait till the perp finds out I  gave his stolen bounty back to the unlucky stiff.   * Rubbing hands together * Hee-hee.  That oughta fix his little red wagon.

Yeah, I know — I’m weird. Goes with being a writer.

Just the other day, I found something gold in the grass —  a tube of mascara. Scattered nearby,  a mirrored eyeshadow compact and brushes along with the zippered pouch. Two days later, in the middle of a vacant lot, I found yet another make-up kit.

Now, folks,  I ask you –:would any woman in her right mind let go of her pricey make-up  unless it got knocked out of her hands?  I think not. I’m calling it foul play.

Even my iPod gets me in trouble. On Monday, an Abba song, “Man After Midnight” whispered  another story idea in my ears, causing me to speed-walk home to record it on my laptop. The next day, the synopsis of a romantic fantasy  based on  a 1989 dream I had  formed inside my twisted brain.

Keep in mind, I’m already four-years pregnant with a bouncing-baby WIP —  work-in-progress. I don’t need one more “kid”, just yet.

So, there you have it.  Story ideas are everywhere: on the sidewalks, in vacant lots, hanging from trees, on iPods, in  dreams, drainage ditches….

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BORN TO RUN


November 29, 2011

One minute, I’m walking Russet on her leash around the block. The next, I discover — whoops! —  no dog on the end of that  leash! Where on earth did she go?

Remembering what happened to her six weeks ago, I was heartsick. Emotional angst aside, the little critter has almost run me into the poorhouse with twice-weekly bandage changes and antibiotics for the first three weeks and once-weekly checkups for the second three weeks.

I slapped my forehead in frustration.

Oh, no! I cannot go through this, again!

On October 13, my little Finnish Spitz/Spitfire  slipped through the kitchen door, which must have blown partially ajar by the wind, and out to the garage. When I opened the garage, not expecting her to be there, she fled the house, heading toward Allen Avenue, a racetrack for those seeking shortcuts from Arbrook Boulevard to Mayfield Road.  At the time she got hit, my little dog made out like a fat cat– escaping with only a skinned leg and broken toe.  After dosing her with antibiotics and  carting her to the vet twice a week for bandage changes for the first four weeks, and then checking in once a week for two weeks after that, I thought she had learned her lesson. Apparently, dogs don’t make that connection.

Last week, when she slipped her leash, at least her size 25 e-collar slowed her down enough for my neighbor to nab her until I could hook her up again and haul her back to the house.

Once more fleet of foot and  collar-free, Russet wasn’t so easy to apprehend.  Although she slowed down enough to check out someone else’s dog, she took out running when she saw me, leash in hand.  So,  I stopped, hoping she would do the same.  Only when another neighbor apprehended her was I able to hook her leash back on and walk her back to the house.

This morning, I had not planned to get out today. It was my day off. Yet, after this new scare,  I headed straight to Petsmart with Russet’s current halter and leash to seek advice.

At first, I thought Russet ran because she was a “rescue” dog.  Now, I know better.  Only two weeks ago, my fiance posted  a YouTube video entitled “An Unexpected Friendship”  on my Facebook page.  The star of the video? A dog who could be Russet’s twin.

“Watch this video, babe,” Von urged. “When you see it, you’ll totally get it. This breed is wired to run!”

Still, what am I going to do about Russet?  Since the end of March, she’s been my baby-girl. Anyone  hearing about even some of her  stunts   — wetting on the carpet, chewing up several leashes, and running away — would gently encourage me to find another home for her. But I’m not ready to give up.  I also see her when she’s sleeping sweetly on the pillow beside my bed. Or cuddling up around my feet.  Or flapping those sparkling, coffee-brown puppy-dog eyes on me.

A Petsmart employee suggested a little one-on-one training, using a retractable leash and some irresistable treats to train Russet to come to me. Sounds like a plan.  Still,  I’m interested in what you think. Have you ever had a dog like Russet? If so, how did you handle this doggie dilemma?