Apparently, it’s all about the dog

Carolyn J. Rose

   

When I wrote NO SUBSTITUTE FOR MURDER I thought of it as a single story, a standalone. Many readers, however, let me know they saw it as the beginning of a series. They liked the characters, they liked the voice, but most of all they liked Cheese Puff, the protagonist’s entitled dog.

Readers got in touch to suggest things that could happen to the ten-pound orange mutt. Those ideas got into my head. They grew. And more stories emerged.

Before I knew it, Cheese Puff, although neutered, fell in love with a long-legged Golden Retriever named Lola. He acquired a number of outfits, including formalwear. He went on shopping excursions, to plays and movies, and out to gourmet dinners with Mrs. Ballantine and members of the Cheese Puff Care and Comfort Committee. He was even kidnapped by a drug dealer.

In the latest book, NO SUBSTITUTE FOR MISTAKES, someone starts a cat-bashing blog in his name, his life is threatened, and he tangles with a rogue duck. To his chagrin, a cat comes to the rescue.

I’m grateful to Bubba, the pound puppy we took in 15 years ago this month, for providing the inspiration for Cheese Puff. She’s given me unconditional love, plenty of attitude, and constant reminders that it’s not all about me. “Small dogs,” Dr. Blair Ferguson told me when we took Bubba to his veterinary clinic for her shots, “rise each morning with one thought in mind—I will bend you to my will.”

Boy, did he nail it. But, I have to admit, there’s a certain freedom to knowing I’m not in charge.

  

 Bubba won’t be with us   much longer, but she’ll live on as long as Cheese Puff has adventures.

A Hole in the Water

Carolyn J. Rose

 Every day that I can, I hit the pool for deep-water exercise. Sometimes I run and jog on my own. Sometimes I take a class. Sometimes I chat with others while we work out. Sometimes—usually when I’m stuck on a plot problem and want to concentrate—I paste on my I-want-to-be-alone face and attempt to avoid distractions.

Because I stick to a schedule, I run into the “usual suspects,” swimmers who are sticking to their schedules. Some come for the social aspects—generally they talk more than they exercise. Others are more concerned about the physical benefits—they work as hard as they’re able. Some are preparing for surgery or recovering from it, trying to improve or retain flexibility, or hoping to trim flab and build core muscles.

Sometimes I introduce myself. Sometimes they do. Almost always first names only. Sometimes we remain nameless. I think of them as the man with the fierce butterfly stroke, the woman who never stops talking, the man who rests after every lap, the woman who comes with her sister, the man who always has a tan, the woman who either hasn’t read or doesn’t care about the notice asking us to refrain from wearing perfume.

There are some swimmers whose routines have overlapped mine for a dozen years. There are some who come for only a few months as part of recommended physical therapy. There are others who get a new work schedule, move, or head south for the winter. There are even a few who want more than the public facility offers and leave to join a club.

And there are still others who don’t return because they can’t. Because their health has failed. Or worse.

Those are the ones who leave a hole in the water.

Those are the ones who make me painfully aware of mortality.

Those are the ones who make me wonder how many more days of swimming I’ll have before I leave a hole of my own.

That Guy

By Mike Nettleton

 At some time or another, we’ve all encountered “that guy.” And, because I’m an equal opportunity ranter, let me point out “that guy” is often a woman. You know who I’m talking about, right?

“That guy” is always perched on the last weight machine at the gym. The one you need to complete your workout before heading for a soothing and well-deserved shower. He sits staring into space, as if trying to puzzle out how he arrived there and what he intends to do next. His eyes meet yours and he nods, then continues his existential questioning. A minute passes, two, three, stretching now into five. Dripping with sweat, with your brain shrieking “please God, strike me dead on the spot,” you consider asking him if he’s going to actually move the weights from their resting position, but finally give up, towel off, and slink away to find hot water. 

Later, defying all odds, you encounter “that guy” again at the supermarket. Or, perhaps it’s a different “that guy” wearing the disguise of a 50 something heavy- set woman who’s standing behind her cart in the soup and rice aisle as you turn the corner and try to enter. Spotting you, she immediately swivels her cart to the diagonal, bends at the waist and finds fascination with a row of chicken stock on the lowest shelf. “That guy’s” (gal’s?) rear end bobs up and down, to and fro, hither and yon to punctuate his (her) efforts. The aisle couldn’t be any more blocked if someone had backed a semi with two trailers in, shut down the engine, pulled out the keys and left the building. If there was a shower in the store, you’d be toweling off and heading for it now. Later, you cross paths with “that guy” in the 10 items or less checkout. He’s pushing through two crammed carts while burying the clerk in a waterfall of expired coupons and trying to cash a 4-party out of state check.

The most dangerous place to encounter “that guy” is behind the wheel of an automobile. “That guy” is the one in the left lane, driving 15 miles-per-hour under the speed limit while the right lane is clogged with a tightly-packed never ending stream of cars. “That guy” has a lifelong love affair with his left turn signal, employing it several dozen streets before turning left, turning right, or going straight through the intersection. 

It pays to be alert when spotting “that guy” approaching a stop sign on the cross street just ahead of you. Your “that guy” Spidey sense will tingle. You’ll glance again to see “that guy” (again a random sexual assignment), texting, singing at the top of his lungs while demonstrating “jazz hands,” blow drying his hair, eating a meatball sub, or examining the polish on her (his?) toenails. Worst case scenario: “that guy” will be involved in all of these behaviors simultaneously. There’s not a chance in hell “that guy” will even consider his brake pedal as he careens across in front of you.

“That guy” is the one who camped his monster SUV cattywhumpus across two slots in the crowded shopping center parking lot. “That guy” is nearly as dangerous in the role of pedestrian, ducking out from behind a parked car to skitter across the street in front of you, then scowling when you have to go into a screeching skid to avoid turning him into a flesh and blood hood ornament.

“That guy” can also be a telemarketer who tries to convince you he’s a close personal friend while phonetically stumbling through  your last name, rendering it unrecognizable.

“That guy” walks her drooling mega-dog through the neighborhood, sauntering away from the steaming mega-load the beast has dumped on the street. “That guy” fires up his lawn mower at 6AM on the only morning you can sleep in. “That guy” never lets facts get in the way of his own loudly-expressed opinion.

Here’s the most sobering thing about the whole “that guy” phenomenon. At some time or another, in the eyes of other people, all of us will take a turn being “that guy.”

Oops, time to go. I just noticed my left turn signal’s been on all the way through this blog.

But won't my morning donut get lonely?

Mike Nettleton 

 

 When my doctor turned to me with a serious-you're-not-going-to-like-what-I'm-about-to say expression on his face I could feel my heart race. The blood test. Did they find some rogue white cells? A deadly virus? A mutant gene that would turn me into a wart hog?

"Michael," he starts. 

Uh-oh, definitely not good. When my mother called me that it would be time to duck and cover. I felt myself shudder.

"It would be best for your health if you gave up caffeine."

This is not bad news in the same league with "I think you should get your affairs in order," but still...

"Hello, my name is Mike and I'm a coffee-holic." What started as a way to stay awake all night cramming for finals in classes I barely knew the location of, had accelerated into a two pot a day habit. I blame my 40-plus year radio career, mostly as a morning man. After all, it wouldn't do to have your wake-up guy go face down on the control board halfway through a sentence, right? 

Quitting a life-long habit cold turkey could present a major challenge. But, I was game to try. After all, I'd left all my other vices behind. I gave up smoking, both tobacco and pot. I've cured myself of habitual overeating. (Although I still go into occasional anaconda mode.) Irresponsible sex with supermodels? A thing of the past. Driving my Ferrari 150mph with the top down? I'm a Prius guy now. (Note: One habit I haven't kicked is a hyperactive fantasy life.)

The Pacific Northwest has to be one of the hardest places in the world to quit caffeine. After all, the running joke is, that the only place left to build a Starbucks is inside another Starbucks. You can buy a 5$ skinny white chocolate mocha, extra foam without getting out of your car at any one of the hundreds of they-multiply-like-rabbits drive up jitter-juice stands.

They all have cute/catchy names like Brewed Awakenings, Espresso What or Bean There, Done That.  

Recently a new concept coffee stand has opened called Bikini Baristas. Here, an attractive (and buxom) young woman in a swimsuit that would make a cartoon character's eyes boing out of his head on springs will deliver your steaming hot caffeine fix. She almost always has to bend from the waist to hand it over. 

I don't know this first-hand of course, only from a report filed by our team of correspondent. He apparently stopped in when he felt the need for a little pick-me-up on the way across the river for some family entertainment at Hooters.

This information stimulated an idea for a sure-fire can't-fail business. Imagine a roadside drive-up coffee vendor called Booty Brew. We may have a city code issue with the visuals on the signage, but we'll worry about that later. 

The baristas would deliver your double shot, half-soy caramel cappuccino to pounding electro-funk, sliding and twirling suggestively down a gleaming metal pole to deliver the fragrant 20 ounce ambrosia to your window. 

Or, for the ladies, Chippen-ccino. A hunky guy with major 6-pack abs would dance your drink to the window to the tune of "It's Raining Men." Instead of putting your money in the till, he'd let you stuff it down... Well you get the idea.

"If it's any consolation," my doctor brings me out of my reverie/pity fest. You can drink a daily cup of de-caf.

De-caf? De-caf? One cup? That's like handing an 8 ounce near-beer to an alcoholic. Why, if I pull up to the window and order a de-caf skinny white hazelnut mocha, hold the whip, my barista might laugh so hard she'd fall off her pole.

Where’s that fairy godmother?

Carolyn J. Rose

If you were raised on Disney movies like I was, maybe you know the feeling. You’re cleaning up the kitchen or doing the laundry and you find yourself wishing you could get a little help—not from your husband or kids or roommates, but from some adorable animated mice and birds. You pause, sponge in hand, imagining their cheerful songs or chirps, marveling that they’d know exactly how you want things folded and which dishes go on which shelves.

Then the sponge grows cold, water drips down your arm, and you’re back to reality. Back to scrubbing and sweeping and mopping. Back to washing and drying and putting away. Back to the round of chores necessary to keep things up to standards—whatever those standards may be and whoever may have established them.

If you asked me when I was a child whether I believed forest creatures would help around the house, I would have scoffed at the idea. I knew what make-believe was. I knew those cute little birds and animals were the product of imagination and art and film.

If you asked me that question now, I’d still scoff. But the scoffing would have a dollop of wishing it could be so, and another dollop of wishing I’d never seen those tiny helpers. Knowing they aren’t real makes drudgery more tedious and burdensome.

I think a glass slipper would be uncomfortable. I don’t want to go to a ball. I don’t care if I never meet a prince. But I wouldn’t mind making the acquaintance of a fairy godmother and a few helpful forest creatures.