The Seredipitious Case of the Dog at the Bins

The blow dryer allowed Kit a moment of respite from her ever twirling thoughts. The old sweater, the jeans - comfort personified - wrapped her up and made her remember she had some pumpkin spice tea in the cupboard from last Autumn. It was still August, and it was still muggy outside, but for whatever reason, her apartment stayed cold. That was nice if she'd just come back from a jog around the park but after battling rain storms and conspiratorial car doors, she just wanted to be warm. Maybe the fuzzy socks were a bit over-doing, but they made her smile.

While the water boiled, she clicked on the TV and the light next to her couch and sat down to go through the mail.

Kit rolled her eyes to the ceiling and sighed, loudly, at the fan. The mail. She'd forgotten to drive around and check it.

A quick peek out the window showed that the rain had stopped but it still looked pretty ominous, like at any minute the sky would roar and another downpour would threaten to wash her away. The kettle whistled and she poured it over the tea bag, adding a bit of sugar. She pulled on her rain-boots, grabbed her mail box key and her umbrella and went out to the mailboxes. They were behind her building, across from the garbage bins which made for a lovely smell in mid-Summer. After the rain, it wasn't so bad, and she was glad to see that the river in the walkways had dwindled to a creek.

Rounding the corner, she heard thunder again and gripped her umbrella, determined not to drop it – or her keys – in any puddles. Just as she opened up her mailbox, she noticed something moving over by the bins.

“If that's a rat …”

Kit peered around the mailboxes and smiled. It wasn't a rat; it was a dog. A scrappy little dog, filthy and muddy, poking about in the overflow. It stopped snuffling in a cardboard box and looked at her.

“Hey little guy.” Kit closed her box, locked it. “What are you doing out here?”

She walked slowly towards him. He had no collar and was covered in dirt. He sat, watching her, head cocked to one side as if listening. She was no expert, but he appeared to be a terrier of some kind and might be black and brown underneath all that gunk.

“Where'd you come from? Are you lost?”

The little dog watched her kneel down and extend her hand. His tail started wagging and he trotted right up to her, forgoing the usual hand-sniffing and went right for the head butt. Kit laughed and scratched behind his ears, confirming the absence of a collar.

“Or did someone dump you off?”

He started panting, his little tail going back and forth like a furry windshield wiper.

“That's what I thought.”

A flash of lightening made her jump and the dog barked. She looked up at the sky and the clouds rolling overhead.

“I can't leave you out here.” She looked over her shoulder, towards the office, then at her watch.

“Alright, it's almost six. Mat the Rat leaves on the dot. Can you be quiet?”

The little dog turned a circle, wagged his tail and Kit laughed. She held a finger to her lips and motioned for the dog to follow her. Slowly they walked back to the mailboxes.

“Stay,” she whispered, and the dog did just that.

Kit peered around the boxes. The light in the office went off. She glanced at her watch: 6 on the nose. She watched the apartment manager walk to his car, parked, of course, where no water puddled, flick on his lights and drive away. The wind picked up and she saw the large blue and yellow banner whip: COMING SOON! ANOTHER LUXURY CONDO BY LEXINGTON CONSTRUCTION.

“Come on,” she motioned and the dog followed.

She hoped the wind ripped the banner in half. She hoped it blew into the office and stuck on the door so Mat the Rat couldn't get in on Monday because he surely wasn't going to be there over the weekend.

Just as she opened the door the rain began to fall again, in buckets. The little dog followed her inside and sat on the tile right at the door.

“You're a smart little guy.” She said, bending down to pet his head. “And you're filthy.” She stood up. “If you want to stay here tonight, you've got to let me bathe you.”

He barked.

“And you've got to keep quiet. If I'm caught with a dog I'll get fined five hundred bucks.” Kit looked around then decided that the raincoat would do to carry the muddy dog to the bathroom. “Can I pick you up?” She wrapped the raincoat around him and scooped him up. He wriggled a little but let her carry him to the bathroom. Her whole front was wet by the time she got him down and she tossed the raincoat into the sink.

“You aren't afraid of water are you?” She turned on the tap and checked the temperature before stopping the drain.

The dog put his paws up on the side of the tub to watch the water.

“Do you prefer,” Kit reached over and grabbed two bottles of bath gel, “pomegranate peach or vanilla coconut?”

He sniffed both bottles, licked the first one.

“OK. Pomegranate peach it is!” She giggled.

Kit turned off the water and picked the little guy up, putting him gently in the tub. He paddled around, licked the water, shook and spread mud all over the tile.

Kit laughed, “Whoa, hold on!”

He stood still, wagging his tail and occasionally lapping at the bubbles that the gel created. She scrubbed him as clean as she could and let the water out while pouring clean, warm water over him, careful not to get any in his ears or eyes.

He was a pretty little dog with wiry hair, black and brown with a bit of white on his toes and the tip of his tail. He let her dry him off then shook himself the rest of the way.

“Thanks to you, I've got to go change again. Come on.” She gathered up the towels and her raincoat, tossed them into the closet where her laundry basket sat and went into her bedroom.

While Kit changed, the dog sniffed around her bookshelves, around the hem of the coverlet, and at the chair that sat in the corner. He nosed at her purse and shoulder bag then wandered to her bedside table and sniffed underneath before walking in a circle and lying down.

“You really are a good little dog,” Kit smiled as she ran her fingers through her hair and pulled on a pair of dry socks. “Are you hungry?”

He wagged his tail and yapped, quietly.

“Alright. I'm not sure what I've got. No dog food here. Oh! I made burgers the other day. I think I have a few left. You want some hamburger? Come on.”

He followed her to the kitchen. Kit pulled the tea bag from her now cold tea and stuck the mug in the microwave. While the tea heated, she pulled two of the burgers from the fridge and the lasagna from the freezer. Tea in hand, she heated up the burgers then put her frozen meal in and turned the microwave back on. She hated using it so much, but she was hungry and so was the dog and she rationalized that a little bit of radiation wasn't all that bad.

She cut the burgers into small pieces for the dog, making sure it wasn't too hot.

“Here you go, little guy.” She put it down and he went to it. “Hey! Slow down. You don't want get sick.” She knelt beside him and stroked his back. “Probably haven't had a good meal in a while, have you?” Kit checked the clock on her stove. It was after 7. “I tell you what. If you don't mind burgers again for breakfast, I'll go out in the morning and get some stuff for you, OK?” She liked the way his stiff fur felt. And it was nice to have someone besides herself to talk to for a change. She sniffed that thought away. “I can't keep you. I'll have to find you a home.”

He looked up from his plate licking.

“I'm sorry. But I can't afford the pet deposit.” She laughed. “I can't afford this place, well, not anymore. They're jacking up the rent to pay for these stupid renovations and then they're 'granting' current tenants a 'discounted' first six months' rent in the NEW IMPROVED HERITAGE GREEN LOFTS.”

He licked his mouth.

She took the plate and put it in the dishwasher. “I mean, I guess it would be fine if I could afford the new rent but I can't and I don't want to be 'gently relocated' until our apartments can be converted. I just -” she paused. “I don't know what I want.” She pulled out a bowl and filled it with water. The dog lapped it up, getting water all over the floor.

“You're a mess, you know that?” She smiled and wiped it up.

He licked his mouth and jumped when the microwave dinged.

“Whoops, sorry boy. That's my dinner. Come on.”

She took the tea and the lasagna and went into the den. The TV was still on. Public Television. Something about digging in Egypt. The dog jumped up on the couch, curled up and laid down next to her. He sniffed towards her plate a couple of times but left it alone. After a few minutes he went to sleep.

__________________________________________

This is an excerpt from a longer work.
Please do not copy this or share in any form, on any media.
Thank you x

Before

Years ago, before thoughts of fame or fortune ever entered my vocabulary, there was a little blue house. I was at the far corner of the yard, shrouded in trees and covered in pine needles. I was fastidious about keeping the porch swept. We had a little stove and shelves. We cooked meals and held tea. All our friends were there. Sometimes, we’d switch off and one of us would live on the back porch and we’d visit each other. But my favorite place was the little blue house.

Before I wanted anything more, I wanted to live in that little blue house. It existed in an enchanted wood, you see, that blocked out all reality. The traffic on the road nearby was hushed. No one could see you with the curtains drawn. Little blue curtains with tiny flowers. I had a bag packed, filled with books and paper. I’d sit in the little blue house and write stories or read about far away places. I was a history professor (or maybe it was English?) and after teaching I’d return to the little blue house in the trees.

Before I was afraid of what other people thought. Before I was swept away with talks of stardom, the little blue house was my only siren’s call. Everything we played there came true. The monsters, the fairies, the friends. The animals talked and the cakes were the best. The tea was always perfectly steeped and the porch forever needed sweeping.

Before I was afraid of being left behind, before I was afraid of doing the leaving, the little blue house was the jewel in my crown. We’d dare each other to creep down after dark. We’d put jars of lightening bugs on the shelf to eerily light the small room. We’d hang jump ropes from the ceiling beams and I’d swing from them when no one was watching.

Before it became a chicken coop and I mucked it out the week my Dad died, it was our haven. Our place of rest. We were just average people living life to the fullest. I was an English professor (or maybe it was history) and my sister was a fashion designer. But we lived in the little blue house and there was always tea and cake. And the trees blew in a nice soft breeze and no matter what it would always be there and everything we played was inscribed in stone and somewhere, someday it would all be real.

The Solace of Books

I find comfort in books. Not just in the reading of them but in the general atmosphere surrounding them. Every weekend, my husband and I got to the bookstore nearest out house just to wander. Sometimes we get tea or coffee. Sometimes we buy a magazine. Sometimes we bring a new tome home. But usually, it’s just us, wandering the stacks, looking at things we’ve maybe looked at a hundred times before, flipping through decorating books or just noticing what’s new in the gift department. We know one of the booksellers (OK, more than one) and we always chat with her a bit before rummaging on. Oddly enough, when it gets too much, when the foot traffic is too chaotic (it is attached to a mall after all), I go and hide in the horror section. For some reason, it’s usually the least populated area.

I recently wrote on my Substack about two of my absolute favorite books to read this time of year. Not only are they exquisitely written, the language conjuring up magical realms and more familiar settings, they are just a comfort to be with. Perhaps it’s because I’ve read them so many times. It’s like visiting an old friend who I haven’t seen in a long time. I curl up, open the covers, and I’m reintroduced to my favorite characters. I’m reminded of why I love these fictional people so much and why I’m willing, year after year, to re-immerse myself in their battles, challenges, worlds and woes. I may even have a bit of a crush on one of the characters (and I’ll keep that little tidbit for another episode of Books & Balderdash. Oh yeah. We’ll definitely talk more about fictional crushes. I’ve got a whole POST planned for that topic!)

The physical presence of books comforts me. I seek solace in their arms. I am surrounded by books in my workspace and have counted 105 that I have not read yet. That’s not all of them. Just a large chunk of them. Why do I have them if I haven’t read them yet? Easy. Surrounding myself with bound paper and ink, the smell, the atmosphere, the very tremulous air changes and I feel like I’m in the presence of so many friends. Even having not cracked the spine of most of them, they offer themselves up as a warm blanket, solace for my easily overwhelmed soul.

What about you? Do you just read for the story? Read because someone suggested it? Read because it’s the Next Big Thing touted on social media? Read because you love it? Avoid it because you hate it and reminds you too much of school? Do you surround yourself with books or do you pass them along once you’re done. And the big one, the telling confession : do you buy books, like me, because you just like having them around?

It’s called collecting by the way and suggests you’re a connoisseur.

Happy Friday, my friends and thanks for stopping by.

Jen xo

Little Wings

Flutterings, calling, again. They’re in the back of the closet this time. I hear them rummaging among old boots and hand-me-up sweaters. Their voices are muffled but I’ll listen. Over the din of “WHAT’S NEW” and “WHY DOES IT FEEL LIKE I’M SCREAMING INTO THE VOID” I’ll give them purchase. I always do.

Another story.

Another thought.

An idea that suggests taking it to "another level” (whatever that means).

Little wings behind a curtain of creation, asking - no - begging me to begin again.

We’re here, they say, remember me? That story you put on the shelf years ago and take down occasionally to dust off and remind yourself that it doesn’t really matter if you have a reader base yet. Sorry “publishing standards” but just because I don’t have 10K followers on social doesn’t mean my work isn’t worth it.

Sounds like I’m complaining. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just menopausal.

But maybe I’m voicing the same complaint I’ve seen in some very, very, very small circles.

Small circles meaning myself and already there writers:

I write.

I don’t market. I don’t sell water to drowning men. I cannot be found on every platform. Quite frankly, no one cares what I have to say on Threads. If it’s not said here, I’m talking out loud to the Void. We have quite the rapport.

The Void likes my taste in music.

Here’s the question:

Do you think writers need a BIG PLATFORM before they’re publishable? Do you think the publishing world should take into consideration the fact that actual writing - creating good work - is more important than telling you what I ate for breakfast, the fact my cat threw up on the afghan (again) or that “here’s 10 new EXCITING publishing opportunities!!!!!!!!”

How about a writer that just … I dunno … writes? How about someone who’s dedicated to language, story, to the intricacies of plot and character. What about someone who maybe doesn’t have a toe on every platform but has a body of work that’s ready for the eyes of someone who can let them fly.

Little wings.

That’s all I’m asking.

Not a jumbo jet.

I don’t need a rocket ship to the moon.

Little wings will get you there.

It takes longer for a sparrow to migrate than it does for a vulture to soar.

The Meaning of Moment

Composition encapsulates the meaning of a moment. Whether poetry or prose, words can conjure years later what memory has let fall to dust. Words can help utter emotion, penned when spoken isn’t capable or when there’s a glitch between thought and tongue. Someone else may have said it better and so borrowing we become sonnets, capturing our heart’s breath along the tip of another’s pen.

Prose is easier for me. I’m not beholden to a formula. There is no structure save the page. I can write outside the lines or if I wish I can construct my margins to fit three words each. Form and function are outside of bounds and I am allowed to run amok without fear of meter or rhyme.

Poetry - ah, that strange, unconquerable muse - remains a mystery. Long I ignored it, thought it the guise of angels, considered it the gift of a chosen few. Or merely a means to be angry, to spout out spiteful diatribe from a coffee shop stage without any more provocation than, “I was born but didn’t ask how dare you give me life!”

Until I married a poet and allowed his interest to spark in me a curiosity that led to a volume of forgotten lore. I uncovered poets who spoke familiar, that weren’t ranting and raving except against the dying of the light. The spoke of whale days and wild lives. Somehow, silver tongued, they sang down the moon and there was a class that required a different form every day for a week and somehow - some miracle! - my poems would wrap around the iambic pentameter, the abcbacdc and I was amazed, astonished and a little bit ashamed.

How do they know? I wondered. The words. How can they see that I have to end my piece with the same line I started. And how can they fall, just so, that at the end, it circumnavigates the stars and lands, delicately, on the petals of thought with finished sentence?

Magic. The only answer. Poetry and prose are spells both written and spoken that conjure images, divine plots and introduce characters. They meander about in the mindscape of readers, having been freed from the confines of the author’s dreams. They then become wild things, images we can’t control. How dare you put that thought in my head? How dare you make me care about fictional lives that, once closed, shouldn’t interrupt my day to day being and yet I find myself confounded, attached at the hip, drunk on the “what ifs?” that continue after The End.

To you fear the thoughts you think? Put them on paper or screen. Are you weighted down by grief or buoyed by joy? Set them in serifs. What about anger? What about love? What about lust, catastrophe, revenge? What about passion, what about pain? What of the glory of the wonder of the bud on the first Spring branch? How do we sear it on the membrane behind the eyes? How do we share what dreams may come? We sit, we sift, we gather up our many stones and begin to plunk them - one by one - onto the smooth waters of our medium.

Composition encapsulates the meaning of a moment. Whether poetry or prose, words can conjure years later what memory has let fall to dust. Words can help utter emotion, penned when spoken isn’t capable or when there’s a glitch between thought and tongue. Someone else may have said it better and so borrowing we become sonnets, capturing our heart’s breath along the tip of another’s pen.