Wake up, Everybody! (and hold your ears)
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Tag Archives: dogs
The three-legged way of looking at life
The Great Gatsby stands and walks toward me. I back up and wonder where his slingshot is. “We won’t bother with a real handshake,” he says. “Just give me the damn hooch, and we’ll call it a deal.”
I hand over the Mason jar. He unscrews the lid and takes a big gulp.
“Damn, this is the Real McCoy.” He takes another swig. “Why’s your dog got three legs?”
I tell him. Three years ago, Daddy took Choppers into town. Choppers wasn’t full grown yet, so he didn’t think twice about biting the tire of a delivery truck filled with sacks of grain. When he got run over, Doc Dennis took off one of his back legs. A month later, when he acted normal again, I’d asked Daddy why Choppers had the guts to forget losing something so important as a leg. “Because, Jellybean, he got used to the change.” Daddy had pointed to his temple. “He adapted. Choppers knew that, even with three legs, he still had plenty of life to live and enjoy.”
“I don’t think he remembers it’s missing,” I tell Frank.
“Wish humans could do the same,” he says. “Speaking of, why’d your Mama leave?”
I look away and stare into the thicket. I’d rather talk about Choppers.
“Aunt Sissy left me too. By dying. ’Yes sir, that’s my baby, No sir, don’t mean maybe yes, sir, that’s my Baby now,’” he sings.
Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket (1928)
photo credit
Remembering and thinking of my sweet Lizzie
My charcoal sketch of Lizzie and me.
Missing my chocolate boy
It was two years ago today and I still miss my sweet chocolate boy. I named him Luther Martin, after Martin Luther King Jr. A hard name to live up to. But, in my mind, he did.
Even as a puppy, he tried to retrieve my eight-year-old daughter out of the pool.
He loved cantaloupe. He knew he was loved.
And when the new “kids” came around, he accepted them, too. 
We took him to our homestead in the Texas Hill Country where you can look far into the distance. I didn’t know it would be his last time. But Luther knew.
Because he stared at the sunset, then into the darkness.
Two years ago yesterday, he celebrated his last Christmas with the family. He ate a full plate of “Christmas”.
Two years ago today, as Luther lay on a pallet at the vet’s office, I fed him two McDonald’s cheeseburgers so he could rise up and meet his sunset.
And so, he did.
RAW Journal Kernels – Dog?
Just for fun …
‘Righting’ Disturbing Childhood Incidents in our Novels.
Simple, really. Life experiences affect the way you write. And, as authors, you have the power to change, modify and/or right the pains you may have endured when younger.
Sometimes, when writing, you don’t even expect a terrifying childhood event to pop into your consciousness. Especially if that incident has nothing to do with the story’s plot line. But memories pop in, don’t they? When that happens, your fingers peck down on the keys and type a different scenario, a different outcome.
I won’t go into the gory details. But I’d like to share a disturbing memory.
It’s my fault. That’s what I thought as a ten-year old.
Me with Buffy
After my friend discovered our missing eighteen-year-old Cocker Spaniel dead in the creek, she gave me a new puppy for my birthday, part Lab, part Beagle.
‘Buffy,’ named after the girl in 60’s show, Family Affair, was still young–two, I believe. I let her come with me across the quiet residential street to play with neighborhood friends. She was so happy before she ran in front of a parked car. The driver didn’t see her. (To this day, I accuse him of speeding, especially when he was driving past a group of kids playing in a front yard.)
Not disclosing the images still in my mind, my dad called me from the vet clinic. “Carolyn,” he said, his voice choking with tears. “Since she’s your dog, you have a decision to make. She can live with three legs or we can put her to sleep.”
Back then, I had never seen a dog with three legs. My young, limited brain had to make a choice. Guilty Carolyn said, “Every time I look at her, I’ll remember my mistake.” Compassion Carolyn said, “I don’t want her to suffer.”
“Put her to sleep,” I whispered into the phone, because I didn’t have the life experience to tell me otherwise.
Later in life, when I had children, I sat in the living room in our new house, my five-year old daughter next to me on our sofa. As we watched my baby-grand piano being set up, she said, “Mommy, why does it only have three legs.”
Spontaneously, I said, “Because, sometimes, that’s all you need.”
Then, I thought of Buffy.
Now, fifty years later, I’ve met many three-legged dogs.
In my latest novel, Distilling Lies, the plot line doesn’t require a dog. Even so, Emma June has one.
Page 283:
Beating ourselves up kept us from moving forward. When Choppers lost his leg, my guilt stungso much I could barely look at him. Then I realized his sadness hadnothing to do with losing a limb but from my lack of attention. He wanted me to love him regardless of how many legs he had.
And there is was, a theme relevant to my novel. The new outcome put a different kind of smile on my face. Buffy (Choppers) is happy with three legs.
One way or another, aren’t we all three-legged dogs doing the best we can?
Traveling Mercies (Anne Lamott),
Carolyn
Writing to heal- http://www.apa.org/monitor/jun02/writing.aspx via @APA
How to Turn Traumatic Experiences Into Fuel For Your Writing https://shar.es/1Efxfr via @sharethis
A Depression? Again?
I didn’t know Cono early on. I was born seven years later. But when he held me that first day, I learned right away that he was someone like me, the one from the litter who fought their way up. Slow, steady and watchful, the slow days of winter and the long days of summer kept us both hopeful that our family would have a few more dollars in their pocket. But that was back in the 30’s. And you’re telling me it’s happening again? Shoot, we thought we were all done with scratching in the dirt for something to eat. A’course, Cono and I don’t have to worry none about that anymore. We’re together in the great beyond looking down on you good folks. He’s sitting on a soft recliner cloud right now and he’s yellling over to me, “Pooch, tell ’em it’ll work out jest fine. No Hill for a Stepper.”
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 