Story of a Dog

I have, of course, explained Ophelia before. (The word explained is appropriate here, as you know if you've ever met my dog.) But as it is the beginning of April, and I celebrate Ophelia's birthday on April Fool's Day, I thought it might be a good time to dedicate a post to my canine best friend.

Also because she is FIVE now, and I can't quite wrap my mind around that.

I found Ophie during the summer of 2007, which was my last year to work at New Life Ranch, a summer camp in Colcord, Oklahoma. This was the summer before my senior year in college, and my friends and I had already signed a lease to rent a house with a back yard. I was hoping to adopt a dog anyway, though I had rather a different idea of what I wanted.

My doggy daydreams looked something like this:

Elegant. Fierce. Intelligent. Beautiful. I wanted a dog who would be the perfect wolfish companion I had visualized through my entire childhood reading dog-centric books.

This dream dog would be stunning. A dog I could go anywhere with, who would obey a mere look from my eyes and who would shadow me with the perfect balance of grace and personality.

I did not expect this:

Of course, this is an adult Ophie, an Ophie that commonly bears a striking resemblance to Hyperbole and a Half's Simple Dog. (If you've never read the Simple Dog post, do it now. And I mean NOW.)

She didn't come to me looking like this. She came to me sodden and flea-bitten, wormy and filthy and utterly pitiful.

I was the Canteen Manager that summer (distributing sugary snacks to already overly-hyperactive children) and was spending my morning doing some menial paperwork in the office when one of the counselors burst inside, agitated and quite beside herself.

"There's a dog following my cabin around!" she said. "Can you come help?"

Why, of course I could! I followed after her, trying to master my excitement. It was a German Shepherd puppy, I just knew it. The Heavens had intervened, and were about to provide me with my canine soulmate--a gorgeous creature, better than any dog I had ever imagined.

I was only half right. She wasn't remotely gorgeous. She was about the size of a Jack Russel Terrier, and she looked as though she'd been swimming in the creek--which I quickly learned was exactly what she had been doing. She had floundered her way across the wide, murky creek from lands unknown; probably the farmland across from the ranch's property, from which dumped, mistreated and abandon dogs frequently wandered into camp. But this soggy little pup was desperate for some attention, and when I picked her up to stop her following after the bemused cabin of girls, something unexpected happened.

She picked me.

I however, did not yet pick her.

A kindly member of the equine staff, noting that the puppy was rather taken with me, removed her from camp to have her de-wormed and given her shots. She then delivered the animal back to me, inquiring whether I planned to keep her. I still didn't know. This creature was nothing like my dream dog; I didn't even know what she was. But I also didn't know how I could turn her away.

The rest is, of course, history. I did not turn her away. I christened her Ophelia Jane Shirley, and hid her from the camp's executive director for the remainder of the summer, sneaking around with my secret and feeling wonderfully like the protagonist in Shiloh. At the end of camp I brought her with me to Shawnee, and she's been my constant companion ever since.

The answer to what kind of dog she is remains, "Hell if I know," though we have often suspected she has possum and coyote in her blood, as well as the vet's guess, Catahoula Leopard dog. I am personally inclined to think she's from outer space, especially now that I'm addicted to Doctor Who. And though Ophelia is nothing like the dog I thought I wanted--she is rarely elegant, fierce only when it's inappropriate to be so, possibly belongs in special ed, and too cross-eyed to ever be considered beautiful--she is perfect for me. She is absolutely the dog I needed, even if she's not the one I thought I wanted. And I hope that these ludicrous, hilarious, exasperating, wonderful five years are followed by many more, during which my eternal toddler continues to follow Peter Pan's example... and never grows up.

Small Ophie, laying with my brother in a hammock. She would destroy it in a panicked frenzy if we tried this now.

Giving a shifty look.

The "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good" face.

Eating a Christmas bone.

Happy and cross-eyed.

What about you? Have you ever fallen unexpectedly in love with an animal you didn't think you wanted?

Manuscripts Are Like Children

Happy Thursday to you!

I am pleased to say that last week's begging and pleading worked out very well. The readers who volunteered to take SUNCHILD to their bosoms and thump all the hiccups and burps from her tender little frame were more plentiful and talented than I could have ever hoped. It delights me to know that she is in such capable hands.

Of course, she is only in those hands because I have at long last relinquished her from my own. Which brings me to the point I'd like to discuss (on the metaphor I've already started, because it works pretty well): What do you do with yourself when your baby goes into the world for the first time?

Now, I've never given birth to a human child before. I haven't given birth to an animal child either, although I've found myself in the position of mothering two different baby-beasts in my adult life.  But I have now conceived, carried, birthed, and nursed five full novels into maturity, two of which (and now three) have left me to go striding out across the wide world to seek their fortunes.

I confess this loss to have a strange effect on me.

The first thing that happens once I tie up all the fragmented ends of a young manuscript--brush its hair, you know, and tidy its outfit and wash its face--and send it off into someone else's care is that I feel a miraculous sense of relief. The thing is done! I think to myself, breathing my first deep breath of freedom and standing up from my computer to see if my numb limbs still function properly. I can do anything I want! I can watch a movie! I can eat a sandwich! I can change out of my ratty t-shirt and go out on the town!

But the moment this sense of possibility breaks over me with all its brilliant rays, I remember the list that has been accumulating for months as I have inched, slothlike, toward this stage of manuscript near-completion. The list includes things like, "Pay rent" and "Buy dog food" and "Wash your hair," and it goes on for pages and pages--which are of course scattered over my entire apartment, on various scraps of trash or folded post-its, and which could not all be located even if I had the motivation to try. So my raptures are extinguished as quickly as they ignited, and I merely replace one ratty t-shirt with another and set to finding and carrying out the list.

By the time the list has been reasonably reduced, though, I find that something strange has happened to me. I no longer have the urge to watch a movie or make a sandwich. My desire to wear something socially acceptable and go out in public has vanished. I can think of only one thing I truly want to do: Write.

This stage of the process is called MANUSCRIPT WITHDRAWAL. During this stage, a writer experiences selective memory loss with regard to the manuscript they have released into the wild: they can no longer recall the feeling of murderous frustration they experienced when gazing upon that stubborn section that refused to comply to their wishes; they have no memory whatsoever of the grueling headache that plagued them during their last week of revisions; most remarkably of all, they cannot imagine what would have possessed them to daydream of time spent away from the project, when the only thing worth doing in the world was--and IS--spending time on that manuscript!

I have felt symptoms of this illness coming on in the last few days, usually manifested in periods spent staring listlessly at my desk, wondering if I should do something, but not knowing what that something might be. And I know how it goes. Before long, I'll delude myself into thinking I want that annoying, time-devouring child back.

Which of course I do. 

But I still had better not waste this precious time I have now. So. What do YOU do while you take breaks from manuscripts? Start another project? Take some intentional time away from writing? Fuel yourself into productivity by means of bribery, threats, or coercion?

And if you have no manuscript, but you have other kinds of babies (humans, animals, chia-pets, etc.), how do you get some healthy distance from them, and refresh yourself while you are apart?

I want to know.

Three Things Thursday: The Pet Edition

Amie McCracken at i AM alive hosts a weekly funfest called Three Things Thursday, in which she and everyone fabulous that she knows posts three things about themselves on a certain topic.

(I'm sneakily lumping myself into the category of Fabulous People that Amie Knows. Bahaha.)

Today's theme is three things about the pets you've had. I hope you'll go on over and participate, because this is a fun subject.

1.) My first "My Very Own" pet was a beagle named Maggie. She was my eighth birthday present, and I thought she summed up everything that was good and beautiful in the world. (I should add here that I was unreasonably obsessed with dogs as a child. As in, I had a sweatshirt featuring a picture of every well-known breed which I wore every day, as well as pink shoelaces that read, I ♥ MY BEAGLE.) Maggie was the protagonist of every story I wrote between the ages of eight and twelve--believe me, there were a lot--and she lived until I was twenty-two.

2.) I once had a hermit crab named Janie. Her story is a tragedy. She was a dear little crab, and so cooperative and resilient that she suffered a family road-trip all the way to Florida and back. But not long after said road-trip, Janie molted. And since the crab she shared a tank with was somewhat unfriendly, I assumed the worst: I thought he'd ripped her limb from limb. Carefully, tearfully, I placed her in a ziplock baggie and buried her outside. Several months later, though, I found the severed limbs of the murderous crab... and he was the only one in the tank. Upon closer inspection of these "severed limbs," I discovered that they were merely shed skins. I realized then that I was the murderer.

3.) My current pets are, I think, extraterrestrials. That isn't to say that I'm not weird myself, but Ophelia and Severus require new measuring techniques to gauge their strangeness. Let me explain.

Ophelia was a stray, which might account for her tendency to eat things that aren't meant to be gobbled down. Like zinc tablets, and quilts, and my favorite purses, and bottles of paint. However, being a stray does not explain her love of swinging a heavy combination bike-lock around in circles like some kind of deadly lasso, or her tendency to approach the water-dish at a run and plunge both feet into the water rather than her mouth. Nor, in fact, does it shed light on her penchant for affectionate (and painful) wrist-bites, or her desire to be draped over person's neck like a mink stole. I could go on, but I'll spare you.

Severus's weirdness probably goes back to the fact that I got him for Ophelia. (Like I said, I have no shortage of weirdness, myself.) But he was confused from the start because, not only was he being raised by a dog, but his name kept changing. Because for some reason, I just couldn't stop calling him Catten. (As in, not quite a cat, not really a kitten anymore...) So now he is Severus sometimes, and Catten most of the time. And his way of dealing with this identity-crisis is to sit around on his back with his legs splayed like an exhibitionist, or in the worst-case-scenario, to fall one story from my balcony and land in a holly bush. Or, as you can see, to be a total ham for the camera.

Now that you know more than you ever wanted to know about my pets, I hope you'll go visit Amie and participate yourself! Or, if you feel so inclined, I'd love to see your weird pet stories in the comments.

(Also, the Mockingjay discussion is still open, so feel free to join in if you've read the book.)

Happy Thursday!