Amie Flanagan and Vincent, the One Eared Dog

                                                             Vincent Van Gogh

Mom said she got him seconds before he was to be euthanized. Apparently, saving this older German Shepherd was a massive group effort for many different organizations. However, we did it. I had yet to meet the dog and I wondered how I would like him. The shelter had named the dog Vincent. I wanted him named something else.   

The dog approached me shyly when I got home and I petted him. I’m not really a dog person, but he had the kindest brown eyes. The real miracle occurred when my dad got home. We waited for him to hit the roof. My dad petted the dog and went to sit down. The dog went and sat down next to dad. 

Later that night Vincent had to go to the bathroom. He didn’t know to come and get either my dad or I. Instead, he just took a dump in the living room. The smell was so horrendous it woke me up from a dead sleep. I sat up and knew my dad would tell me the dog would have to go back.  

I took the dog outside and put him in the old dog pen that is about five feet high, grabbed a shovel, and cleaned up the dog’s mess. I realized the poor thing had hookworm. Afterwards I went back and was almost halfway asleep when I heard him.  

“Woof.”

 

I stood up and went to the backdoor where Vincent now waited to go inside. I was in awe that he cleared a five-foot fence. I let him in and Vincent found my parents bedroom. He curled up at the foot of my dad’s bed.  

 

While he was in the shelter, Vincent had developed a horrible ear infection. Dad made the decision to have the ear amputated. Mom started to call him Vincent Van Gogh.

 

Over the next few years the dog had proven to become my dad's best friend. He would follow my dad everywhere. We thought the dog might’ve belonged to an older person or may have been a retired service dog. Vincent didn’t like fireworks, and God forbid if he didn’t like somebody. Vincent was a gentle and unusual dog in the sense that he had a calm personality. He was always afraid we would leave him behind, but we never did.


About Amie Flanagan:

Amie

 

  Amie Flanagan attends Savannah College of Art and Design, where she’s in the process of obtaining a M.A. in Cinema Studies and a M.F.A. in Writing. She is a contributing editor to the blog Curvy Moi  and her website Keys To The Page is dedicated to writers. Amie attended Kennesaw State University where she earned her B.S. in Communication with a focus in Journalism. She interned at the Juvenile Justice Information Exchange with the Center for Sustainable Journalism at Kennesaw State University and at EUE/Screen Gems Studio in Atlanta, Georgia. She has interviewed many authors, actors, musicians, screenwriters, and politicians while at Kennesaw State Universities Owl Radio (click here to see list) . Amie loves to read. Here’s a list of her favorite books. She also loves to write.  Check out her portfolio.


About Keys To The Page:

Visit web

 

 KeysTo The Page is a website that helps encourage writers to be the best they can be. Exercises and Examples help writers form their craft. There are also quick references on the page for writers, screenwriters, and playwrights. This page also posts news, and interesting things that will be sure to help the budding author and contains basic facts, recommended reading, basic reviews, interviews, and special event coverage to help create a strong mastery of the art of writing.

 

 

 

And then there are the cats . . .

 

 

 Amie and Skippy

 

We won't say how many . . .  but here's a hint, let's count from 1 to 7.

Links:

Keys To The Page Web

FaceBook

Twitter   @amieflanagan

Pinterest

Google+

 

Amie and Charlie

Author Roy Dimond with Mickey and Lou

Mickey on the couch that we cut the legs off when he got old.

 

Lou with her kind eyes

 

 

Barbara, thank you so much for providing me with the opportunity to share a story on your exciting new blog. I swear that every word here is the absolute truth. This all happened… to me.     Roy Dimond

I was on a date with a young woman whom I found most attractive. It was early in the relationship and I was on my best behavior, trying mightily to impress her. We were walking beside a four-lane highway holding hands and chatting -- when I saw it -- and without even realizing it my shoulder pressed against the young lady nudging her out into traffic. I was halfway into the oncoming traffic; hands holding her so tight our knuckles were turning white before I realized what I was doing.

By the time we meandered between honking cars and had made it to the other side of the street without dying, I knew she was the woman I would marry. Anyone who would follow me into traffic, help me stop four lanes of cars, with no explanation other than my shoulder slowly guiding us, well she was the woman for me.

Now you may ask, what would cause a perfectly sane man to drag his date out into traffic. I had spotted a dog. A black dog to be specific. Probably a lab, but to me all black dogs were hounds spawned from some biblical beast and a threat. Why? Because of what happened to me when I was 6 years old.

It was a beautiful summer day and I was throwing a tennis ball against the house. I will always remember that day when the ball went into our open garage door. I trotted into the darkness and waited for my eyes to adjust before finding my ball. I remember it so clearly, partially because it was such a beautiful summer day with summer clouds and bright summer sun, and so dark in the depths of the garage. When I turned around to leave, three of the biggest, blackest, most vicious dogs I have ever seen or ever hope to see -- hounds from hell -- cornered me in that dark garage for who knows how long. A day, a year, it seemed longer, but most likely it was about ten minutes. But ten minutes of hell is a lifetime to a six-year-old boy. They snarled and their back legs quivered in attack mode anytime I moved. With hackles up they kept me cornered until thankfully my mom came looking for me. She was Super Woman that summer afternoon. Beating them off with the handle of a broom. They jumped our fence and the pack was never seen in our neighborhood again.

That is why, despite trying to impress my future wife, I crossed to the other side of the street… I had to, at any cost… loss of dignity and thus loss of future wife, run over by car, cause a multiple car pile up, it didn’t matter. It was a black dog and it was on my side of the sidewalk. This is what my life was like whenever I saw a dog, especially a black dog… until…

One day, my now happily married wife, and yes it was that same loyal woman who married me, came home and announced, “We are getting a dog.”

“No we aren’t.”

“Yes, we are.”

“NO we are NOT.”

As with most arguments between my wife and me, it went back and forth like this until I finally put my foot down and insisted, “Yes darling, you are right, we are getting a dog.” I take great pride in that I win most of the family arguments, even if it takes me some time to see the correctness of my position.

So we went to meet the beast -- the enemy -- the spawn of Satan. En route, I admit to some mild complaining, but not, as my wife has expanded over the years when telling the story, to sniveling and whining like a five-year-old girl. That NEVER happened… anyway… back to my story…

We showed up at the country home where a dozen dogs roamed about terrorizing all other life forms. Sure it looked like play to the untrained eye, but I knew they were actually exercising their skills of trickery, rolling on the ground exposing their bellies for a pat only to rip and tear the hand that offered nothing but kindness. I watched them run and frolic until their tongues hung out. No doubt these were cardiovascular drills training them to chase down humans and to attack as a pack. Ruthless beasts.

While standing in the middle of their drills of death, I heard my wife.  “Here, this is the one I wanted to show you… he’s perfect.” She picked up the puppy and held it close.

I thought to myself, what guile… tricking her into bringing her face close so he could rip a hunk of flesh right from her cheek. But no… he licked her. Little bugger must be waiting for his canine teeth.

At least he was white and a lab; they do have a nice face… I was weakening. Then it happened…

I took a step closer and almost fell flat on my face. Down at my feet was the cutest… err… I mean the most deadly looking beast… it was a lab… curled around my ankles so if I moved I would fall allowing the other hounds to eat the flesh off my bones. Worse of all… yep… it was black. Yes, yes, it was the runt of the litter, but it was black… and it had me in its grip and it was NOT letting go.

Still clutching the white lab puppy to her chest, my wife laughed so hard that tears streamed down her face… she had a cruel streak in her.  My knees were locked, paralyzed with fear. The dog owner chuckled, “I can’t do a better selling job than that.”

Unfortunately my wife agreed. “We have to have both of them.”

“No, we do not.”

“Yes, we are.”

“NO we are absolutely NOT.”

I, of course, eventually saw the error of my ways and won the argument… by paying the dog owner for two Labrador puppies.

By the time we got home it was raining hard and we had not one, but two dogs romping about the basement. We agreed that the white lab would be named Mickey. He was all boy and handsome as handsome can be – Mickey Mantle.

The girl dog we named Lou and she was tiny, tiny, tiny, so naturally she was already bossing around her bigger brother.

I put down my car keys and closed the garage door, and before I could stop him, Mickey had picked up my keys in his mouth and sprinted into the back yard. For two hours in the pouring rain I searched for my keys, and by the way neither mutt even offered to come out into the downpour to help look.  After locating them, I marched inside soaked to the skin. I yelled at Mickey, “Bad dog! You don’t ever take my keys again.” Please remember, it was my first hour, ever, with the enemy and I did not understand the terms of our agreement yet.  His head cocked from side to side clearly confused by my tirade. My bemused wife offered me a towel, but then it happened. In that moment, the enemy became a part of my family. I yelled one last time at Mickey, “BAD DOG” when in the corner of my eye I saw little Lou faint -- she toppled over, legs in the air, unconscious.

It was then that I realized she wasn’t a beast, but as sensitive a creature that has ever walked the earth. Better than man and kinder and wiser as well. I coaxed her back to consciousness and realized that I could never raise my voice in my house ever again. That included shouts of joy over a sports event, as that would mean twenty minutes of what we came to call “Love Talk” -- twenty minutes of kind words so that precious Lou knew she was safe and loved.

I also learned that I was not allowed to do sit ups because that caused dear nurse Lou to run to my side and closely monitor me. If I continued my sit-ups, she would put a paw on my chest to pin me to the ground. If I persisted, she would spread eagle on top of me.  I would be laughing so hard I was forced to stop.

In time, as the puppies grew into healthy dogs, my fear vanished and for that I am ever grateful for being wise enough to demand that we bring home both dogs. At least that’s how I remember it.

In his old age, Mickey began having seizures and Lou would always come and tell us minutes before they happened. Somehow she knew and would try to pin her much bigger brother to the ground thus giving us warning so we could put him into his safe bed where he couldn’t hurt himself.

On Lou’s final day she passed peacefully while giving me her paw. That night, Mickey went to bed alone for the first time in his life.  After my wife and I went to bed, he let out the most mournful howl imaginable. We cried and climbed out of bed and went down stairs to sleep with him.  He never recovered from that loss and followed Lou one year later, but at least he never had to sleep alone.

Now when a black dog comes walking along the sidewalk, I don’t cross over, but am the first to greet it.  Every time, I am reminded of my Mickey and my Lou and miss them -- I would have it no other way.

Book Excerpt:

Mickey with his bowl... good story In Saving Our Pennys about him saving his bowl from a storm.

This is a segment from a book I co-authored with my good friend Jeff Leitch. It is a story about an individual who is struggling with his day-to-day life and the journey he takes to find joy and happiness. It is called, Saving Our Pennys.

 

In the book, we shared a couple of stories about Mickey {we call him Lab}. Although he has a small part in the book, he is very fundamental to the tale and everything we shared is true. I hope you enjoy…

 

Available on Amazon

     When I finally arrive at the end of the driveway, Lab frantically dashes out to share all the day’s events with me. One of the peculiarities of this rather peculiar dog is that wherever he goes he carries his food bowl in his mouth. No one has ever taught him this, but my kids attribute it to the Boy Scout in him. “Always be prepared,” as one never knows when food might arrive. At this point in our greeting ritual, he usually does me the honor of dropping his bowl and taking my hand to guide me around the yard. It is his way of showing me what happened during his day.

     However, just before he is able to do this, there is a bright light followed by an ear-splitting crack of thunder. I am nearly hit in the head, not by the lightening, but by Lab’s bowl as it flies into the air. In the millisecond it takes me to realize what is happening, a tail disappears through the dog door. I run after him as cold wet drops begin to splatter the ground. Inside, whimpering comes from a dog that has no bowl. My consoling does no good as he paces.

     Despite the thunder, his courage wins the day, and I have never been so proud of him. I open the door and at warp speed he races out, ears pinned back, crying in fear during the entire frantic dash. Without breaking stride he scoops up his bowl and, trying to bleed off speed, forces his head to aim toward the house while his back legs skid out from under him. This makes his circle route as small as the laws of physics allow. I open the door just slightly wider than his terror-filled eyes. Focusing on his destination with one mighty leap through the opening, he slides across the floor and with a loud grunt bashes into the wall on the other side of the room. With his bowl tightly gripped in canine teeth, he has made it! A finer display of courage I have never seen.

     I congratulate and then console him, as thunder shatters our moment. We share unimaginable trust as he allows me to pry the just saved bowl from his jaws and place it beside his blanket. Still panting, he sprawls next to it. I lie beside him and pat his head, muttering, “Good boy. Good dog.” Despite the thunder, we are both thankful: he for his bowl and me for my dog.

 

About The Authors Of Saving Our Pennys.

 

Roy

 

Roy has visited three times on my Book Talk Blog. You can click on each book title and visit the post. Saving Our Pennys, The Rubicon Effect, and The Singing Bowl.

 

Roy Dimond lives with his wife in Pender Harbour, a small fishing village on the Sunshine Coast of British Columbia, Canada. Locals call it "Penderdise." In his first life, Roy had the honor of helping at risk children and their families. In his second life, he pursues his love of travel and writing. Having explored four continents from Cuzco to Kyoto, Santorini to Tsumago, his wanderings have all found a way into his stories. Roy's first book The Singing Bowl and is now in a Second Edition. His second novel is called, The Rubicon Effect.  Saving Our Pennys is his third book, and first work of non-fiction.

Jeff

Jeff Leitch lives with his family in Maple Ridge, a proud community at the base of the majestic GoldenEarsMountain in British Columbia, Canada. Honoured to be a teacher in his native Coquitlam, British Columbia, Jeff’s passions include his wife Linda, and their three kids, Amanda, Matthew and Adam, “all his families” and friends, and the great stories they share. You can find him at any sporting venue, or live theatre, with coffee in hand, cheering and coaching those who display courage and dare to chase greatness. Along with writing occasional articles for local papers, Jeff’s current restlessness has him dreaming of many more novels, while writing at least one musical hit as he goes beyond the three chords he knows on his acoustic guitar.

 

About the Book:

Ever been overwhelmed by the everyday burdens of life? And yet, everyone else turns to you for support and guidance. You see a person sitting next to you laughing, enjoying life. How did they get there?  

The universe seldom takes the straight path. Seeing someone filled with simple joy can often provide the opportunity for a profound experience. Our long journey is often twisted with depression, angst, dread... But IF we have the energy to keep our eyes open, then solutions may appear in the strangest of places.  

Mentors are everywhere, waiting patiently... IF we look for them. Heroes take many forms, one may be the small child laughing on a swing and another may be the old man smiling contentedly beside you on a bus, or perhaps even the people who look to you for help and guidance. Is it possible to help someone else while helping yourself?

Links:

Author Website         Facebook         Goodreads     Buy On Amazon                                                                             

 

 

 

Author Michael W. Paul Remembers "Rowser" in "The Bridge Over Cedar Creek"

    

 

Rowser after I had given him a summer 'do' with a pair of scissors.  If you read my book, the photo is of the baggage scooter that Frank helped fix that resulted in a trip to Colorado and a life changing event.

 

Excerpt from "The Bridge Over Cedar Creek"

My two closest personal friends were Buster and Jimmy.  We were thrown together more by circumstance than choice.  My best friend was a clear choice. I first met him one late afternoon, when my Mother pulled a box out from under a bed in a stranger’s house somewhere in the city of Miami.  A close friend of my Mother's, who I lovingly referred to as "Aunt Lyda", though not related to me, thought that a small boy with no siblings should at the very least have a dog.  When I first looked into the darkened and not-very-good-smelling box, I saw five or six tiny rodent-like animals squirreling around in a mass of dampened cut newspaper and soggy cardboard, squeaking like mice.  Several I was told were taken, but there were a few remaining to claim. 
 
     I had a dog briefly while living with my stepfather, but without permission while he was working in the backyard on a gate, I took my friend for a walk without a leash and soon ran home to inform my Mother and her several party guests that he had been "run over" by a speeding car. The last I saw of him was his tiny little blond corpse in a trash can by the street.

     Of the three remaining pups, two lay quietly together while the third, which I was told was the runt of the litter, attacked me with his tiny pink-and- purple tongue, as if radar homing in on a target.  He shook all over, and his little rat like tail vibrated with the frequency of a radio signal.  He seemed to wink at me (as if to say), "I'm your guy!  Chose me, and I will never let you down".

    The choice was clear, although he was half the size of the others and looked like a dirty mop and smelled worse.  His nose was black. His eyes, although barely open, were the deepest liquid brown I had ever seen, almost as deep as my own.  His coloring was black, interspersed with dark brown fading to a rust color, and his tail, though almost bare, curled over his tiny back.  He was truly a mongrel. My Mother referred to him as a Heinz fifty-seven varieties.  As I gently picked him up my Mother said, “No, not that one Son. I don't think he will even survive.  He is the runt.  You will be disappointed if you chose him.  What about this little girl curled up here, or maybe her sister?  They are precious."

      It was settled.  I knew instantly which pup I wanted.  I was just six, but if you wanted to know my opinion, all you had to do was ask.  The runt would be coming home with me; no other would do.  All I needed was a name.  What will I name this potential champion? I thought. As I looked over and saw my Aunt Lyda's huge smile I knew I had selected the right one.  My Mother commented, "Don't worry about a name yet, Son, he cannot come home today.  He is too young to leave his Mother, because he has not been weaned.”

     That was the first time I had ever heard that word, and it became a word I forever associated with disappointment.  The tiny, almost helpless little critter was warm and soft in my hands.  He wet all over my hand and wiggled like a newly dug night crawler.  He was the puppy I wanted, and nothing would do but that I have him.  I don't think I had ever wanted something so badly.  I put him back in the box gently as the breeder slid it back under the bed.  I could see him clearly in my mind and knew we would be friends forever and ever and ever.

    Weeks passed and I asked every day, "Is this the day?  Is this the day? Can we go get him?  Can we?"  I wrote my Father and asked his thoughts on an appropriate name.  When the day finally arrived, my Mother was sure I would be disappointed in the name I had chosen, because she was certain that one of the remaining females would be the only live puppy, and the name I had chosen certainly did not sound very feminine.  The breeder had promised her that she would save a puppy for me.  When the woman pulled the box out from under the bed, there was only one pup remaining.  Rowser was four times his original size, had a bushy tail and a long nose, and looked every bit the part of the shepherd-chow mix that he was.  He had to be the most beautiful dog I had ever seen.  Sergeant Preston's dog, King, paled in comparison. 

     We took him home, and over the years he became the neighborhood dog and love of the entire community.  If anyone wanted to find me, they only had to find my "shadow".  He followed me to school and slept under the portable classroom all day for years until some "do-gooder" threatened to call the dog pound. 

     Rowser slept outside the Circle Theater Saturday mornings and often had to endure a double feature.  He would raise his head off his paws every time a child opened the door, and the ticket taker always had a large bowl of water for him. 

     One time he was left in front of a drug store while I thoughtlessly exited the back door, not thinking of him until well after dark.  When my Mother and I drove up, we watched briefly from a distance as he raised and lowered his head every time the door opened in the dark.

     Since my Mother was working from home at the time, he was banished from the school yard, much to the chagrin of many of the teachers and my classmates, she was able to restrain him until after I left for school.   She would keep him locked on the back porch.  Somehow he had the good sense to wait until three o'clock, but when his internal clock told him to go fetch me and "carry me home", off he went.  He would meet me at the school gate, his bushy tail going a mile a minute.  His entire body would shake and then he would roll over to have his tummy scratched.

    When we slept together in a tent, appropriately called a "pup tent", I would come home smelling like the underside of a car and wet dog.  He would allow me to use him as a pillow until he sensed I was asleep and breathing deeply.  He would follow me the fifteen miles I rode my bicycle to reach my horse Smokey, until his paws were bloody and raw.  He would dive in the many barrow ditches along the roadside and keep coming with his pink- and-purple tongue waving like a tattered red-and-purple Confederate battle flag in the wind.  He would slide down the school slide and swim with me at Bare Ass beach.  He had his picture published in the local newspaper riding in the front of my Truckster scooter with his ears blown straight back and pinned against his head.  He was hit by two cars, a school bus, and a pickup truck, but was never seriously injured.  Once he was smacked so hard that his intestinal sac broke somewhere in his bowels, causing him to smell like flatulence for days, but he didn't even whimper.  He finally learned to cross at the crossing lights and would always look both ways before he scampered across the street.  There were no leash laws in the fifties, so he ran free all of the time except when sleeping on the screen porch, where he created a long black line six inches off the floor from wall to wall from his seldom- washed body.  On hot days Mrs. Ramsay chased him lovingly out of her cool, wet flower bed hundreds of times, only to have him return and start digging before she closed the back door.  The Headmaster of the Catholic Church School across the street allowed his two Doberman Pinchers to attack him and soon learned that the vocabulary of a preteen boy could be quite colorful, and that the Doberman was not nearly the dog a determined runt chow was in an honest fight....one ran, and the other whimpered and jumped back in the car.

     Rowser was my dearest friend, my closest confident, and the most loyal little brother a small boy could ever have had.  I knew he would always be waiting for me.  He would always be at the back door with his head resting on his paws, looking forward to the next adventure....

 

 

Available on Amazon and Kindle

 

   The Bridge (Over Cedar Creek), constructed during a distant summer over a small Colorado stream by a boy and two curmudgeonly old men, serves as a metaphor for timeless life lessons learned and the beginning of the boys coming of age. Although fiction, the book is taken from real events and some real people. Others are composites taken solely from the imagination of the writer and distant memories. Written in the vernacular of the time, the characters come to life with the help of the authors vivid description. The reader can feel the cool breeze off the river, smell the scent of pine and see the brilliance of the sequined mountain night sky.

 

Meet the Author:

 

Michael W. Paul and Katie

 

 

Katie loves the beach. She was adopted about seven years ago when she was thought to be about three years old.

 

Michael Paul is a lifelong dreamer, a lover of learning and new experiences. In this, his first book, he tells of a boy awakening and beginning his ascent into manhood with the guidance of a wise and thoughtful adult. He lives in Buford, Georgia with his wife of forty seven years, his faithful rescue dog Katie and a Cat.                                                      

Links: Goodreads,    Buy The Book Amazon and Kindle,  Author Facebook Page

Cary Robinson and The Dudley Files

 

 

 

 

Award Winning Dog Comedy Mystery Novels:
The Dudley Files: Sold Out Without The Holdout
 Burp Gun Bandit: Book II of The Dudley Files
Midwest Book Award Winner
Readers Favorite International Award Finalist

Available on Amazon and the author's website.

 

 

 

Book Plots:

 

The Dudley Files: Sold Out Without The Holdout -  Available on Amazon

 

A young man nicknamed Careless by his friends (although he claims to have no friends) is coerced, then seduced, into a life partnership with a big golden-colored hound dog named Dudley (not that there's anything wrong with that). Once Dudley is rescued from the SPCA, their man/dog bromance brings together one's peculiar appreciation for seemingly obscure details with the other's supremely talented schnoz. Their warehouse loft neighbors-a sharp-tongued beautiful blonde named E.D. (who has no interest in Careless, but not for a lack of trying on his part) and Sarge (a stammering throwback from the '60s)-join the pair when road-raged, redneck friend, Birk, learns of a mystery involving their favorite country western singer.

 

Against the backdrop of the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo, Careless continues to be thoroughly slobbered on by day and spooned every night by the large hound dog (not that there's anything wrong with that either). Careless is a fictional character concocted by Dudley, the hound dog, who swears the story is true… well, mostly true.

Burp Gun Bandit: Book II of The Dudley Files -  Available on Amazon

Book II of The Dudley Files, an award winning Dog Comedy Mystery Novel, brings back Dudley, the golden-colored hound dog, with his life partner, Careless, E.D., a blonde beautiful, sassy upstairs neighbor, Sarge, an idiot savant throwback from the '60's, and Birk, their redneck friend with road rage, as they solve the disappearance of a pet miniature donkey named Eddie in The Texas Hill Country and a diabloical mystery surrounding an old World War II rifle that some may say takes on a supernatural flair.

Golden Hound Press Logo

 

 

The real story on Dudley: 

We were at the end of the aisle next to a window with light streaming in. We were about to leave. As Birk and I turned to leave I suddenly felt a warm feeling come over me and felt like I was being watched. This was very strange and when I looked around, I saw in the very last dog run a large, skinny, fawn colored dog. He had a big head and the most beautiful brown, expressive eyes I had ever seen. He was a large dog but he was quite skinny and I wondered if the SPCA volunteers were feeding him properly. It hadn’t hit me yet but we were going to meet each other and fall in love. I kept walking with Birk and we were going to leave but something made me look back at that last cage with the sunlight just beaming into it. It was almost as if the sunlight was glowing. Then I noticed that the dog had pressed himself very tightly up against the dog run chain link gate. His coat was shimmering in the sunlight. He wasn’t carrying on like the other hooligan dogs that were making all kind of noises. He just pressed himself up against the chain link gate, stayed silent, and stared me right in the eyes with his big, brown, beautiful eyes. At that point I had not noticed it but my feet had stopped moving and something was pulling me back to him. Birk walked on ahead and kept our conversation lively but some kind of force or power starting pulling me back to this dog and I was compelled to follow it. I don’t really know if there is such a thing as divine intervention but this was probably as close as I would ever come to noticing it. 

            Instinctively, I reached down with both hands and starting rubbing the dogs back as I stuck my fingers though the chain link gate. He had very short, fawn colored hair. It was somewhat coarse and yet soft to the touch. It was also very shiny, almost like gold. I could tell that it made him feel good and I realized that all he wanted was for me to come over and pet him. He just wanted to be touched by me and was acting beautifully. I could also tell that once I started rubbing him that his whole body began to relax almost as if a big sigh was coming out of him. No barking or jumping. It didn’t take but ten seconds for me to fall in love with him. I looked at the manila card that was fastened to his chain link gate. It read, Name:  Dudley, Breed:  Boxer, Great Dane mix. Eats dry food and is good with children and other dogs. Primarily kept outside and loves people, likes to play, and ride in car. Loves to snuggle and is very friendly. On the card it was also written that he was between six and eight months old.

Well, Birk was still walking ahead chatting with me even though I hadn’t been there for the last several minutes. I wondered just how long it would take him to figure out that I wasn’t walking right along side of him. Apparently it didn’t take that long because I saw him starting to walk back towards me with a perplexed look on his face. While rubbing Dudley through the chain link gate I looked at Birk and then shifted my gaze back down to Dudley who hadn’t broken eye contact with me since the moment I laid eyes on him.

Even though this was much different, I didn’t want a repeat of what happened with Bubba. Bubba was okay but he was definitely no Dudley and he was now in the past. I looked back at Birk as he nodded his approval, then looked back at Dudley as he nodded his approval so I snatched his manila card off of the cage so that no one would be able to take him away from me. It was a weird feeling because I had cared for other animals before but this was different. It was as if the acceptance of the forces of the universe were flowing through us or I guess it could have just been a bad case of gas but either way I wasn’t letting Dudley out of my sight. I was exhilarated, anxious, and downright scared but I knew it was the right thing to do. I felt really good about it and I could tell by the look on Birk’s face that he was in agreement but still, he would test me.

Birk said, “I’m sure he’s a fine animal and if you really want to adopt him then that’s fine Careless but the SPCA receives tons of dogs in here every day and this isn’t something that you should rush into. Maybe we should think about it and come back tomorrow.” At that point I was clutching Dudley’s manila card so tightly in my hand that no one except perhaps God would be able to pry it from my kung fu grip. I firmly told Birk, “Dudley’s not an animal, he’s my friend and I’m not leaving here without him!” With one hand on Dudley’s back and the other squeezing the manila card I stood there and stared Birk down in defiance. He finally shook his head up and down and acknowledged that Dudley was the one. A young couple walked by and stopped to look at Dudley. They looked nice enough and I’m sure they were very deserving of a great pet. Dudley then growled somewhat under his breath and I said to them, “He’s taken, move along, nothing to see here!” I said it in the nicest way possible but forcefully enough so that they got the point. They just frowned a little bit and Dudley helped them along their way with a series of low growls which they seemed to not appreciate at all. I must admit that I was laughing a bit inside along with my new best friend, Dudley. Once they had completely passed by he became passive again and looked at me as if I were the only person or thing in the room. I’m pretty certain that he only had eyes for me and wouldn’t be happy until I brought him home with me.

 
This is the beginning of Chapter 8 of Book I of The Dudley Files. Other than a few small embellishments, it’ exactly how I met Dudley. 

Fast forward ten years and his lifetime of great times and being a cherished member of the family, I lost him to cancer. Needless to say, I was devastated. I’ve had plenty of dogs and still do, but this one hit me hard. As my therapy, I decided to jot down all the funny things he used to do (and there were quite a few, as he was a real character). Later, I was in the shower and it hit me:  I would try to write a dog comedy mystery novel about Dudley, so everyone could get to know him. I had no formal training but did it anyway.  

One thousand hardback copies and ebooks later, it turned out Dudley had a following and they wanted more Dudley Files books. Book II drew 170 well wishers at the signing and now I’m writing Book III.  

Now I donate all my proceeds to local animal shelters because I think Dudley would have liked that. It’s given me a new purpose. A quote from Book II:  It was a natural progression to my obsession. 

And so it is.

About the Author and The Dudley Files:

 

Author Cary Robinson

 

Cary Robinson is an author and dog rescue advocate.

 

Cary Robinson typed up this funny dog mystery novel for Dudley because much like his driving, Dudley's typing stinks. Dudley started off with very little in life. After an extended stay in the executive suite at The SPCA, he found his life partner, not that there's anything wrong with that. He became famous after solving a mystery during The Houston Livestock Show & Rodeo but still goes to work every day and even takes phone calls. Please be warned, his phone skills are lacking. This is a classic American tail of wags to riches. Dudley is a great Texan!

 

"Here's my favorite picture of my boy, Dudley. I think of myself as his Dr. Watson. I write stories about his exploits."

 

 

The late Dudley. His exploits live on.

 

 

 

"The new dogs: Medina & L.E. I rescued Medina from the Kerrville City pound eight years ago. I had to get her away from all those Kerrverts. She was slated for death that morning. I found L.E. on the street two years ago. She was almost dead. They get along really well together."

 

 

Links:

 

Author's Website Golden Hound Press 

 

Buy The Books: Author's Web

 

Amazon Books for Sale and Author's Page

 

Author's Blog

 

Animal Adoption

 

Facebook

 

Contact The Author

 

Twitter @DudleyFiles

 

 

 

 

Every Dog Has A Soul. Every Soul Has A Purpose. Purpose Is What Defines Us. 

Golden Hound Press