I’m usually a fairly happy person. That’s a given. But today I’m more than that. I’m stunned. I’m thrilled. I’m deeply entangled in one of those please-don’t-wake-me-up-from-this-lovely-dream states. And if it weren’t so hot outside, I might even dance a jig all the way to the White House and back. [Okay...it was a nice thought, Folks, but there's really no need to grab the cameras. I'm waaaay too old to handle a marathon like that! ;)]

So, what’s up with all this ectasy? Well…it seems that the Gleesome Threesome - Kristin Madden, M.R. Sellars and I - received big honors at the 12th Annual COVR [Coalition of Visionary Resources] Awards held at the International New Age Trade Show in Denver last weekend. And the only thing better would’ve been if we’d all been there together to celebrate!

Just so you know, though…there was a celebration in Denver - and one that probably exceeded the style in which we’re accustomed - compliments of Joyce and Laurie of Sisters of the Earth & Sea, and Jacki and Patty of Coventry Creations.

Okay…I’m too excited to type right now. So, I’ll just let you read the press release from our publisher, WillowTree Press!

Hugs!

Dorothy [who's off to find her dancing shoes!]

============================================
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

June 29, 2009 Contact: Wendy O’Brien, WillowTree Press Author Promotions Group Email: promo_dept@willowtreepress.com

BIG THINGS COME IN SMALL PACKAGES
WillowTree Press Makes A Splash At The 2009 COVR Awards

Three WillowTree Press authors, Kristin Madden, Dorothy Morrison and M. R. Sellars, placed as finalists in the 12th annual COVR Visionary Awards, presented by the Coalition Of Visionary Resources. On June 27 at INATS West, the winners were announced, and once again a book by WillowTree Press brought home a coveted COVR award.

Lucinda’s Web, by Dorothy Morrison took the COVR for best visionary fiction. Madden and Sellars both brought home equally as coveted finalist certificates, earning all three books the right to display the 2009 COVR Awards winner and finalist logos respectively. For a smaller press to place so well in the awards is an honor and is due to our fantastic authors.

Congratulations Dorothy, Kristin, and M. R.!

Kristin Madden’s Magick, Mystery, & Medicine: Advanced Shamanic Healing, 2009 COVR AWARD FINALIST!

Dorothy Morrison’s debut novel, Lucinda’s Web, 2009 COVR AWARD WINNER!

M. R. Sellars’ 9th novel in the RGI series, Blood Moon: A Rowan Gant Investigation, 2009 COVR AWARD FINALIST!

* * *

Kristin Madden is a teacher, homeschooling mom, wildlife rehabilitator, and the Dean of Ardantane’s School of Shamanic Studies. She is also the author of several titles on Pagan Homeschooling and Shamanism. Magick, Mystery, and Medicine is her first book with WillowTree Press.

Dorothy Morrison is the author of numerous best selling books on paganism, ranging from Everyday Magic: Spells and Rituals for Modern Living to The Craft: A Witches Book of Shadows. Lucinda’s Web is her second book with WillowTree Press.

M. R. Sellars is an active member of the HWA (Horror Writers Assn) who considers himself just a “guy with a lot of nightmares and a word processing program.” WillowTree Press has been publishing his best selling Rowan Gant series of paranormal thrillers since 2000.

Blood. We all know that it’s pretty important stuff for any number of reasons, but mostly because the rest of the world went to great lengths to make sure we understood its value. Our parents reminded us that blood was thicker than water and that bandaids were necessary to keep all our good red blood from running out.  Our friends introduced us to the rituals of “blood brothering,” and society informed us that rewards were earned through blood, sweat and tears, and that bleeding hearts often had fools for masters.  And if that weren’t enough, our British neighbors got in on the act, too, with colorful phrases like “bloody hell” and all sorts of other vermillion-tinged conversational precursors.

But that wasn’t all.  We entered the realm of high school biology class and discovered blood typing.  Some of us wound up in college anatomy and physiology classes and learned about the venal highway systems in the human body.  And as we got older, we came to understand the importance of blood transfusions and blood drives, and the dangers of diseases carried through the blood.

So to say that I’ve been fairly well educated when it comes to that lovely sanguine substance was a safe assumption.  In fact, I was pretty sure there was very little I didn’t know about good blood, bad blood, and everything in between.

At least, until a couple of days ago.

You see, I discovered that my blood growls.  Literally.  Not just a little, mind you.  It’s a full-blown, mean, hateful, vicious, snarling, scare-the-shit-out-of-the-Wicked-Witch, I’ll-chew-you-up-and-spit-you-out sort of growl.  It’s downright nasty, and enough to leave the world’s militia shaking in their boots.  Hell…it damned near even scared me!

So how did I come by this interesting discovery?  Well…I’m getting to that.

A few days ago, my doctor - the one I usually don’t think has the sense the Gods gave a goose - became concerned about some swelling in my feet and legs.  I thought I needed a script for some water pills.  She thought not.  Instead, she much preferred to send me for a sonogram to rule out blood clots.  So…off I went, referral in hand, to the radiology department of the local hospital.

It was an interesting test - they use a little tool to mash your veins flat and release them to monitor blood flow - and fortunately, no blood clots were found.  But in the process, I was actually able to hear the blood rush back into my veins.  And from the noise that it made, it was obvious both to me and to the tech that it was really pissed off.

“That’s some pretty stout stuff you’ve got there,” she remarked.  “I’ve never heard such a racket.  Not in all the years I’ve been doing this.”

Who knew?

I guess I shouldn’t be too hard on my doctor.  For even though she hasn’t been able to find a single thing wrong with me no matter how many tests she orders or how many times I tell her that I’m perfectly healthy, she has inadvertantly been able to diagnose something that’s baffled folks for more than fifty years.  Simply put, that tiny spark of wickedness within me is NOT my fault.  It’s in my blood.  At my very core.  And there’s nothing that I or anyone else can do about it.

I only wish my mother had been around to witness it!

Contrary to popular belief, I  really am still alive, Folks!  It’s just that life here has been rather busy of late.  Well, okay…that’s putting it mildly.  I’ve actually felt like I’ve been caught up in a tornado the likes of which Dorothy Gayle of Kansas has never seen.  At least, I don’t have to worry about a house falling on my sister!  LOL!

That said, there are a couple of things I wanted to let you know about.  To start with, the first products in the new Coventry Creations‘ Dorothy Morrison Utterly Wicked and Everyday Magic spell kit lines are now available for sale.  And since these all have to do with relieving stress and drama, and freeing up cash flow clogs, I’m really excited about them.  So excited, in fact, that I’m calling them “The Magical Pracititioner’s Economic Stimulus Package” - ESP for short - and have devised a Summer sale around them.  To check them out and shop the sale, click here.  You’ll be glad you did! 

The other thing is that I wanted to give you a heads’ up about a casting call.  That’s right…a casting call.  A friend of mine who’s an independent television producer is looking for magical practitioners for a possible show.   And while I’m not at liberty to discuss the exact program details just yet, I can tell you that it won’t be one of those fiascos like “Mad, Mad, Mad House.”  Instead, it will show magical practitioners in a positive light and entail using magic to help folks and resolve problems. 

So…for those of you who are interested, I’ve included the casting call below:

“Casting Call: Looking for magickal practioners of all backgrounds for new docu-format reality program for national cable broadcast. This program will highlight how magickal practice is used to help people or resolve situations. Practitioners of Witchcraft, Wicca, Voudon, Hoodoo, Rootwork, etc are needed. Travel may be required, but all expenses paid and compensation included. BIG personalities and all levels of experience are needed. An already established group functioning as above is particularly welcome. Please email me directly at khaydn@gmail.com with photo and brief description of your background/area of practice.”

Okay…I’ll now return you to your regularly scheduled lives - geeze, I wonder if  there really is such a thing!  LOL! - and get back to work. 

Wishing you all a fabulous day!

Dorothy…

My spell kits have obviously “arrived.”  How do I know?  Because folks are starting to rag on them.  Not just to their neighbors, mind you.  No siree.  They’re ragging on them all over the internet.

Now, a normal person might be pissed off.  They might even go as far as to send a poison pen email right to the person who started this shit - an email threatening legal action and fueled by enough venom to cause their computer to explode.  But I guess I’m not normal.  Instead, I’m really amused.

You see…my spell kits and I somehow wound up being the subject of a blog entitled, “And In Uniquely Stupid News Today…”   And the joke is on person who authored that blog.  Unfortunately, she not only failed miserably both in research and in preventing others from buying my spell kits, but in proving to the world how much more “knowledgeable” she is than the rest of us.  In fact,  I’m almost compelled to send her a very nice thank-you note - coupled with a lovely floral delivery to soften the blow. 

I realize that further explanation is necessary here.  But before I get to that, you probably ought to read what I’m so tickled over:

Sunday, November 30, 2008

And In Uniquely Stupid News Today…

Dorothy Morrison has gotten into the action, with a full line of half-baked spell kits, most of which are exceedingly dangerous, and all of which have next to nothing to do with Hoodoo or Voodoo.

Thats right, kids! For the low low price of $12.00 you can invoke Elegba to ” achieve great results when using His kit for matters involving luck, success, protection and truth.”

If he doesn’t eat you first.

Diasporic gods are really tricky to work with. They don’t enjoy being pulled from a table of correspondence at your whim (like any deity does). They like their worship to follow precise patterns, have precise offerings, and initiated (or at the very least respectful) followers. When any of these are missing, they are more than happy to let you know. And they don’t give second chances unless they really, really like you.

While some experienced root workers give friends or clients instructions on how to work with a particular god or saint (usually for a VERY specific reason), it is at the behest of their patron saint/diety.

Well, at least her spell kits come with pennies. Charged and blessed pennies. You guys know my take on buying charged objects.

If you had any magical talent, you would be charging it yourself. If you had the ability to charge it yourself, you could feel whether or not it had been charged. That being said, most charged objects are fraudulent.

Nothing against Ms. Morrison, its really just another symptom of the glut in the New Age market. Serving up all the McMagic you can chew!!!!!

Giggle with me at the Marie Laveau and Oya invocation kits, and let us dream of better days!

-Carmin (a.k.a Madame Curare)

So…exactly why am I so amused?  Well…for one thing, when anybody prefaces a statement with “…nothing against XYZ,” one of two things is happening:  it’s either an effort to cover the ass, or an effort in assuaging personal guilt before going on to state exactly what one DOES have against XYZ.  And it’s especially amusing to me that even after using my kits as the subject matter of “uniquely stupid news” and putting my name in the same sentence as “New Age market,” as well as the same paragraph as “McMagic,” she doesn’t have the gumption to own what she means and just admit that she’s got something against me.

Another thing that makes me chuckle is her assumption that I know nothing of the Orisha, that I don’t belong to one of the deities for which the spell kits are named, and that I have no relationship whatsoever with the spirit of Marie Laveau.  Neither does it occur to her that I didn’t put these spell kits together singlehandedly and without thought to safety,  nor without the help of others who happen to belong to the other deities in question - even though it’s clear that they come from Coventry Creations, a firm comprised solely of magical practitioners.

Suffice it to say that I doubt seriously that Elegba is going to have us for lunch - or anyone else, for that matter. 

There’s more.  If she’d checked to see whether the pennies in question were charged before she typed…well…I should probably tell her there’s egg on her face.  But I think I’ll just let it drip for a while.  [Okay, I'll admit it:  Having my integrity questioned is not high on my list of fun things to experience.  Besides...a little egg never hurt anybody.  ;)]

But the thing that amused me the most is that in her best effort to prevent folks from buying my spell kits, she’s managed  just the opposite.  From the date that blog was published and began to pop up all over the internet, spell kit sales went through the roof.  But that’s not all.  Folks who used the kits successfully began to blog about them as well.  [Apparently, one woman even won the thousand dollar black-out at bingo three times in a row.]  It’s gotten to the point that neither I nor my retailers can keep those little goodies in stock.

So…it looks like I really do owe the author of that blog a huge vote of thanks not only for acting as if my spell kits were a rip off, but for the backhanded manner in which she insinuated my stupidity - both things for which I never dreamed I’d be grateful.

Hmmm…I’m off to see about wiring some flowers. 

I have a new doctor.  Not that I’m really sick or anything.  In fact, I’ve only been truly sick twice in the last ten years.  And other than the constant battle I’ve waged with my weight for the last 53 years, I’m probably healthier than anyone I know.

So why do I have a new doctor?  Because their was a minor glitch with my colon cancer screening, and I couldn’t get the necessary colonoscopy here without a doctor’s referral.  And since I didn’t already have a doctor, the insurance company found me one.  Plain and simple.

This is how I discovered why people die from disease.  Even when they’ve got a referral, they can’t get in to see a physician.  Appointments are booked way in advance.  Months in advance.  And even though I knew before Thanksgiving that I needed to make tracks to the doctor’s office, I couldn’t get in until January.  [Damned good thing I wasn't on my last leg - or I'd have had no leg at all!]

At any rate, my appointment was at 4:30 in the afternoon.  I read four trash rags cover to cover, went for two walks and smoked more cigarettes than I care to admit.  Two hours later, I still hadn’t been seen.  Finally - at 7:00p.m. - I was shown to an examining room.  And after being poked, prodded and questioned for the next hour, I was given the referral for the colonoscopy - and just for good measure, an appointment for March 9th for a complete physical.  A physical that included not eating a bite for 12 hours before the appointment.  [The appointment was for 10:30a.m., so how bad could that be?  Right?]

But on to the colonoscopy - something that, even with a referral, I couldn’t get scheduled until the end of February.  For those of you who’ve never had one, you don’t know what you’re missing.  Just forget about all the crap you’ve heard, and the fact that you could qualify as a poster child for Roto-Rooter.  None of that’s important.  What is important is that they dope you up with a mixture of Versed and Demerol - the former of which gives you temporary amnesia, and the latter of which makes you feel like you’re floating on clouds.  It’s truly great stuff; in fact, the only things I remember about the procedure at all were the jokes being flung back and forth  - and that the recovery room nurse brought me coffee instead of the “required” apple juice.

Yeah…the procedure, itself, is a walk in the park.  It’s the prep that’ll kill you.  You see, I had absolutely no intention of swallowing all that liquid chalk.  So instead, I opted for pills.  Little did I know that I’d have to swallow 32 of them - the first 20 between 6:00 and 7:00 the night before, and the last 12 at 4:00 in the morning.  And if that wasn’t bad enough, the damnable things were big enough to choke a horse.  It gets worse.  To add insult to injury, I had to be on a CLEAR liquid diet for 24 hours before the procedure.  [I guess they figured that anyone who'd swallowed 32 pills didn't need to eat.]  So all I was allowed to ingest was chicken broth, white tea, and ginger ale.  That’s right…no coffee.  [Bonafide coffee-holic that I am, though, I found the loophole.  I just got up two hours early so I'd have time to drink a pot before the 24 hours began.  ;)]

It was probably the most miserable, most undignified 24 hours I’ve ever lived through.  Suffice it to say that I finally just grabbed my pillow and spent the night in the bathroom with my head in my lap.  [Too bad the Versed couldn't make me forget that, too!]

But back to my new doctor…during the first appointment, she’d decided that my blood pressure - something that’s always been relatively low was a bit on the high side.  [Hmmm...wonder if that had anything to do with having to wait for three and a half hours?]  She’d decided that my cholesterol was a little high and that I should cut out sugar.  [I seldom eat sugar unless I'm touring, and I haven't even started this year.]  And for whatever reason, she decided I needed an EKG, which she administered.

So…two months later, I’m in for my physical.  [The wait was only 3 hours this time.]  She draws more blood.  She decides my heart is skipping a beat and orders another EKG, this time with a rhythm strip.  She gives me a tetanus shot since it’s been fifteen years since my last one.  There’s a pap smear involved.  She wants my eyes checked, a bone density test  performed, and a mammogram administered.  She decides I need Vitamin D with Calcium - three tablets a day - some sort of upper abdominal test performed, and gives me referrals for all.  But that’s not all.  She also refers me to a dermatologist to get a mole in my ear checked out. 

Is she for real???  [I guess she must be since her handwriting's so bad I can't read it - and they tell me that's the test of a real doctor.  ;)]  Doesn’t she realize I have work to do and books to write, and don’t have time to be running from doctor’s office to doctor’s office?

Apparently not. 

So…for the next few months, that’s exactly what this extremely healthy, hardly-ever-sick-and-have-no-need-of-a-regular-doctor woman will be doing:  Taking up all the doctor’s appointments needed by really sick people. 

Damn…I hope nobody dies on account of it!  Sigh!

Hugs!

Dorothy…

Lack of professionalism is one of my pet peeves.  So is a complete disregard for time.  Add those to a complete and utter lack of common courtesy and consideration for other people, and what you’ve got is a very disgruntled Dorothy.  In all actuality, though, I’m not even sure that term covers it.  I’m still in a state of shock.

Most of you already know that I had an awful time trying to find a trainer for Dixie once the PetSmart classes didn’t work out.  In mid-February, I found one and emailed her.  There was no response.  I called and left a message.  Still nothing.  After several attempts, I finally got her on the phone and set up an appointment. I thought everything was fine.

It wasn’t.  The next day, she called back and announced that she just didn’t have the time to handle another client.  But to her credit, she handled the situation so I wouldn’t be left in the lurch.  She called her business partner and made arrangements for her to tend to Dixie’s training instead.  I really didn’t  care as long as we got the help we needed, so I was good with that.

That didn’t work out either.  The woman was supposed to call me the next day, but never did.  Fortunately, the first trainer got wind of the situation and emailed me - not only with a hundred apologies, but several other referrals.  [It seems that her partner was going through a rough patch and just couldn't see her way fit to handle another client either.]  So, armed with the list, I checked each website until I found what I thought would be a good match.  The private class curriculum was exactly was I was looking for - and best of all, she was only 40 minutes away.

I waited until noon on Sunday to give the woman a call.  Her husband picked up the phone instead, and announced that she was still in bed.  [Okay…so he's a good husband who knows the benefit of letting his wife sleep in.  There's nothing wrong with that.]  He took my name and number, and promised that she’d give me a call that afternoon.  She didn’t. 

I gave it three days, called back, and got her husband on the phone again.  Only this time, I was at least able to speak with her.  She went on and on about how she couldn’t possibly see us until the end of March.  Her son was coming in and she wanted to visit with him.  At that point, I should’ve just called it quits and found another solution - the woman was obviously out of her mind if she thought I was going to give Dixie six more weeks to tear up the house - but I didn’t.  Instead, I played my trump card.  I told her how our new dog had chewed through a cigarette lighter and damned near blown up the house.  I waited.  There was a pregnant pause.  And after a couple of heartbeats, she agreed to see us on Friday, March 6^th.

The day finally came and we got there early.  There was another client ahead of us, so we waited in the car.  Not just for a few minutes, mind you, but for nearly an hour past our scheduled time.  If I said I wasn’t aggravated, I’d be lying.  But when we finally got into our first lesson, all that annoyance disappeared.  Dixie actually did make some progress that evening, and I managed to convince myself that the wait was worthwhile.  So at the end of the lesson, we scheduled her next appointment for two weeks later - an  appointment that was for last Friday at 12:30p.m.

During the time since the last lesson, Dixie really did learn some things.  She learned to lie down on command, and she pretty much got the “leave it” and “drop it” commands down as well.  That was all good stuff.  But what I really needed her to learn as well was to walk politely on the leash  since I have a bad back, and get into her crate without a bunch of trouble.  [When she weighed only 50 pounds, I could just pick her up and put her in.  But once she got bigger, I simply couldn't manage that.  Instead, I was having to take her with me on errand runs - and I knew that it would eventually be too hot for her to stay in the car.]

But I digress.  Last Saturday was “Girls Day Out” - a monthly date I keep with my dear friends Z [who's also my personal assistant] and Michelle [who owns Pets on the Potomac, the doggie spa where Dixie stays if Mark and I are out of town].  So, both women arrive at the house, and it wasn’t long before I was bemoaning the fact that I couldn’t get Dixie in her crate.  Michelle gives me a funny look and announces that it’s because I’m “too nice.”  And while I’m nearly doubled over with laughter at the remark - honestly, Folks…I’ve been called a lot of things in my lifetime, but “too nice” has never been one of them - she grabs Dixie by the collar, leads her toward the crate and says, “kennel up.”  And Dixie, my horribly stubborn dog who HATES authority, doesn’t give her any static.  She just wags her tail, gets in the crate and lies down.

What’s up with that?!

I couldn’t believe my eyes.  In fact, I had to try it a few times myself to make sure it wasn’t a fluke.  After all the trouble she’d given me.  After all the drama.   After all the guilt.  Hell…after having to actually take her with me to doctor’s appointments and all kinds of other places she  had no business going.  After giving up my freedom to leave the house alone because Dixie couldn’t be left to her own devices without fear of absolute destruction.  And all it took to get my life back was a firm “kennel up?!”

Mother of God!  I was thrilled beyond belief.  Five seconds was all it took to solve a problem that I - along with two other trainers - had been trying to fix for over two months.  I simply couldn’t get over it.  At that point, I knew one thing for sure:  Michelle was the person who needed to train Dixie.  She’d offered to work with her a little - yeah…I’ve got great friends! - but between running her own business and all the other stuff going on in her life, I just didn’t know if she’d really have the time.  [The last thing I wanted to do was impose upon her.]

So…last Friday, Dixie and I kept our 12:30 appointment with the trainer.  We drove the forty minutes and got there five minutes early.  We waited.   And waited.  And waited some more.  And finally…at five minutes to one…a man comes strolling down the hill toward us.  He introduces himself as the trainer’s son, says his mother had an emergency and completely forgot about our appointment.  That she’ll give me a call later and, of course, be happy to give us a free session.

I’m not holding my breath - and she’d best not, either.  The fact of the matter is that life happens.  It’s a given.  And anyone can have an emergency.  But responsible and considerate folks call and reschedule.  They send you an email of explanation.  At worst, they have someone else do it for them or leave a note on the door for you.  But she did none of those things.  And even worse, I realized that she was there all the time.  Yep…when I drove out of the training center, both her vehicle and her husband’s were sitting in their driveway.

So what’s the deal?  I’ll tell you what:  It’s entitlement issues at play.  It’s not that folks don’t know any better.  It’s not that their mothers didn’t teach them any manners.  It’s that they mistake empowerment for entitlement.  And as such, they not only think they’re entitled to treat others any way they please, but that those they treat poorly have no choice but to put up with it.

The fact of the matter is that no one’s entitled to anything they did not earn.  And I can promise you that even though the woman in question can choose to act anyway she wants, she will never - no matter what she does in this life - earn the right to treat others rudely, especially not those who are paying two dollars a minute for her time.  Moreover, I don’t have to put up with it.  And I won’t.  [Yep…this time she's screwed with the wrong person.]

After mulling it over a bit, I think the trainer needs some training.  And depending upon how I feel when I wake up tomorrow, I may just enroll her in the “Dorothy Morrison Program.”  Wonder how she’ll feel about that?!

Friday is my lucky day.  [I was, after all, born on one.]  But because my personal number is “4,” certain Fridays - those with dates that add up to that number; i.e., the 4th, 13th, 22nd and 31st - are luckier for me than others.   This has rung true for over five decades with nary a hitch, and I’ve always looked forward to these particular days with great joy and anticipation - for the fact of the matter is that something wondrous and exciting has never failed to come my way with their dawning.

Until last Friday.  Friday the thirteenth.  The day that Someone’s fingers did the walking and blindly dialed a wrong number.  

It all started out innocently enough.  I was sitting on the sofa sipping my coffee while Dixie - who was curled up beside me - was crunching away on her bone.  Well…destroying her bone was more like it.  It was one of those rawhide contraptions she likes to untwist and rip to shreds.  But that’s okay since those are the sort of toys designed specifically for that type of destruction.

Anyway…everything was going along splendidly until I realized that she not only had the bone clenched between her jaws, but the end of the couch cushion as well.  So I did what I normally do when she’s got something she shouldn’t.  I removed it from her mouth, gave her a good scolding, and replaced the item with something she could have.  This time, though, I was too late.  She’d already managed to rip through the upholstery piping and leave a small hole in the adjacent fabric.  Okay…so I wasn’t thrilled about it, but it wasn’t the end of the world.  I flipped the cushion over and figured I could reweave the fabric later.  End of problem.

What I didn’t realize, of course, was that the day’s problems were just begining - problems that continued an hour later at the nail salon.  Apparently, my regular nail tech had a family emergency, and I got shuffled off on someone I didn’t know.  For anyone else, this probably wouldn’t have been a big deal.  But since I’m a licensed nail tech and have been since 1984, I’m very persnickety about my nails.  What’s more, I know when I’m getting a shoddy job.  So to say that I was just a bit nervous about this was a complete understatement - and if I’d had any sense, I’d have just rescheduled.

The problem was, though, that my nails needed attention then.  I’d already put it off for a couple of weeks and it was the only day I  had an extra half hour to get the job  done.   Not that the day’s schedule wasn’t tight.  I had just enough time to get through the appointment before rushing off to Dulles airport to pick up my niece and goddess-daughter, Beth, whom I hadn’t seen in over a decade.  So…I sat down and smiled at the tech - only to be cross-questioned.

“You had a 10:45 appointment yesterday,” she said matter-of-factly.
“No.”
“Yes you did. You were in here yesterday.”
“No.”
“You weren’t in here yesterday?”
“No. I wasn’t,” I responded rather tersely.

Now to start with, I don’t like to be cross-questioned.  [I'm way too old for that.]  But to be cross-questioned in a condescending manner regarding my whereabouts - as if I’m a child telling the whopper of the century - and by someone young enough to be my grand-daughter was just a little much.  And before it was said and done, it was all I could do to keep my hands on the table where they couldn’t land me in jail.  In retrospect, though, I probably should’ve just given in to my primal instincts and whipped her scrawny ass up and down Main Street.  Why?  Because I’m absolutely certain that what she did to my nails was a Class A felony, and any bodily harm I might’ve caused her would’ve been forgiven as self-defense.

At any rate, I left the salon - my nails looked like hell, but I added them to the “fix later” list - and made it to the airport without a problem.  I collected Beth and her luggage, and we settled in at the Applebee’s in my old neighborhood to catch up over a nice, relaxing lunch.  Things were looking up.  I even managed to convince myself that the trip to her hotel in Washington DC -  honestly, Folks, I’d rather sit in a bed of  red ants than have to drive in downtown DC - was going to be a cake walk.  And by the time we strolled out to my car, all was well in my world again.

WRONG!!!

I grabbed my trusty TomTom to plug in the hotel address only to discover that it had died.  It wasn’t that it wouldn’t turn on.  There was plenty of juice.  It was just that the screen had gone black.  I hit the reset button.  Nothing.  I unplugged and replugged.  Nothing.  I let out a stream of curse words nasty enough to make a Marine Corps drill sergeant blush.  And when that didn’t work,  I knew we were screwed.

The fact of the matter is that neither of us knew where we were going.  We had no directions and no way to get any.  There was no one to call and no one’s laptop to borrow.  And so…I did what any other pissed off menopausal woman in her fifties would do:  I made an executive decision.  That’s right, Folks.  I drove straight over to Staples and bought a new TomTom.

Turning over the three hundred bucks was the easy part.  Getting into the box, however, was not.  There we were, out in the car, with my niece trying to pry open the plastic container.  It should’ve been easy enough, as it was one of those containers that was designed to just pull apart.  But that wasn’t the case with this one.  It was as if someone had welded the damned thing together at the edges - and no amount of prying or pulling or tugging would make them budge.

Scissors or a pocket knife would’ve been an ideal solution had we had them.  Taking the item back inside and getting one of the employees to open it would’ve been ideal, too - something Beth had already offered to do - but at that point, I was right at the edge of livid pissed.  And there was no way I was going to let a plastic box kick my ass!  So I fished around in the console and came up with an old church-key can opener.  [It worked - and I still have the remnants of shattered plastic all over my car as proof.  ;)]

Liberating the device from its packaging should’ve been the end of the story.  But not on this particular day.  No…I couldn’t get the damned thing to stick to the windshield.  And once I did, the new gps system absolutely refused to locate Washington DC, the District of Columbia, or any other location even remotely connected to our nation’s capitol.  [Instead, it insisted on taking us to Washington state.]  And once I finally got it to cooperate - I still have no idea how I managed that - it insisted that there were no addresses available for Pennsylvania Avenue, the street on which the hotel was located.  [Gotta wonder if Homeland Security is responsible for that malfunction.  ;)]

So now we had to decide whether the hotel was on Pennsylvania Avenue northwest or southeast.  Knowing that southeast DC isn’t generally the most lovely of its locations, I opted for northwest.  And how did this brand-spanking-new-and-improved-smarter-than-the-average-human-being respond?  By announcing that there was no such address on that street!  If we’d like to venture onto its southeastern counterpart, however, it would gladly accomodate us.

I took a deep breath - at that point, other than to rip my face off and scare everyone around us, it was my only option - and asked Beth to call her husband, Greg.  You see, he’s a border patrol officer who was on business in the area.  He’d been staying at the hotel.  And it only seemed logical that he’d know on which end of Pennsylvania Avenue he’d been living.  Unfortunately, though, his response was not at all what I’d expected.  It started with something like “what difference does it make” and went downhill from there.  The only saving grace was his mention that the hotel was a couple of blocks from the White House - a little comment that finally put us on the right track in the right direction.

So Beth and I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking everything was fine.  And it would’ve been, too, had it not been for the kind and gracious afterthought that caused Greg to call back.  He said that because the hotel was on the corner of 14th and Pennsylvania, we could avoid some of the DC traffic if we’d turn left off of Constitution onto 14th.  So I ignored the TomTom’s instruction to turn left on 15th - even though DC is filled with one-way streets, and that particular one offered 3 left turn lanes.  I continued on Constitution right up to 14th only to be denied the option to make the necessary turn.  Not that it was a one-way street, mind you.  It wasn’t.  Not that it was always and irrevocably illegal to turn left there.  That wasn’t the case, either.  Instead, it was only against the law to turn left onto 14th during a particular time of the day and - you guessed it! - we’d arrived at the intersection right at the peak of illegality.

Okay…so after everything else that had transpired that day, making the turn at 12th and dealing with the minor traffic jams wasn’t that big an issue.  We arrived at the hotel without incident.  A couple of lovely doormen even opened our car doors for us. 

“Checking in?” one of them queried.
“No,” I replied, “only dropping off.”
“Not checking in?”
“Only dropping off, thank you.”
“These ladies are checking in,” the one said to the other. “Take their bags and I’ll…”
Now I was getting aggravated. “I am NOT checking in,” I responded through clenched teeth. “I’m only…”
“Are you sure you’re not checking…”
“NOOOOOOO!!!” 

I screamed it loud enough for everyone within a three block radius to turn and stare in my direction.  What’s more, they did - and I didn’t care.  The ludicrous questioning at the nail salon that morning had been bad enough.  Still and all, I could cut that rude and sloppy nail tech a little slack.  She hadn’t been born in this country and English was obviously her second language.  These fellows, though, were an entirely different story.  English was  their first language; moreover, I was speaking it - succinctly and loudly - and in five-cent words that even a complete moron could understand.

Whether they were complete morons or not is still up for debate.  But one thing is for sure:  “NO” is, indeed, part of the universal language, and when spoken loudly and fiercely enough, everyone gets it.  They did.  There was no more questioning.  No more aggravation.  Not a single word escaped those errant pairs of lips as I hugged Beth goodbye and got directions out of DC from Greg.

And as I made my way home - this time, Greg’s directions were perfect - a happy and interesting thought crossed my mind:  It was still my lucky day.  I was, after all, heading home - that wonderfully safe sanctuary where a man who absolutely adored me was undoubtedly waiting with supper on the stove.  And nobody else I know is as lucky as that!

So…what happens when you slap a rebel-related moniker on a dog?  You get a rebellious dog, that’s what.  But the fact of the matter is that it never occurred to me that Mark would actually decide to name our dog, Dixie.  There were so many other great names to choose from:  Sophie, Isabelle, and Ebony, just to name a few.  But instead, he chose the one name I never thought he would - and now, we’re paying for it.  Literally.

Not that I’m surprised.  You see, the word “Dixie” actually refers to money; more specifically the ten-dollar bills that were labeled “dix” - it’s the French word for “ten” - and once privately issued by banks in Louisiana.  Folks in the South called them “dixies,” and that’s how New Orleans and the other  areas heavily populated by the Cajuns became known as Dixieland.  [Of course, with the Civil War - and Jeremiah Dixon and his role in placing the Mason-Dixon Line - other states were eventually added to the mix and became the area we know as Dixieland today.]  So the fact that Dixie’s wound up costing us a ton of money kind of goes with the territory. 

Even so, who’d have thought that one dog could be so expensive?  I’m willing to bet the handful of nickels I’ve got left that her net worth currently supercedes the price of all the rice and tea in China put together.  Add that to the replacement value of the British monarchy’s jewel collection, and you’ve got some idea of what she’s cost in the two months we’ve had her.  So let’s talk about that a little - and we’ll get to the rebellious part another day.

First, there was her adoption fee and the donation we willingly gave to Happy Labs Rescue.  [They're a great organization and do everything out of pocket.]  Then there was the inital trip to the vet.  [Apparently, she wasn't given her puppy shots in the proper time sequence, so they all had to be repeated.]  A week later, there was another visit with the vet - this time, under emergency circumstances.  [She was so sick I thought she had a bowel obstruction.  Turns out that it was just a nasty case of giardia.  But even so, it still required seeing the doctor.]   And three weeks ago, we were back there again - this time to get treatment for demodectic mange.  [Okay...so it's not contagious to humans or other animals, but the six week medication treatment is a royal pain to administer.  It's not very tasty, she doesn't want that nasty stuff in her mouth, and trying to hold her while aligning the syringe and making sure that at least ninety percent of the medication hits its mark is more trouble than trying to give a cat a pill.]  And that was only the beginning.

There were also trips to PetSmart for toys -  LOTS of toys.  Honest to Gods, Folks…Dixie should be on the guerilla squad for toy testing.  She loves to play, but she plays hard.  And there’s not a toy on the face of this Earth that she can’t tear up in less than twenty-four hours - not even those labeled as “3X Tougher” or “indestructable.”  And since she was definitely lacking in manners - a fifty pound eight month old pup with no training whatsoever can be downright destructive - I enrolled her in the PetSmart eight week  beginner’s obedience course.  I thought it was the right thing to do.  In fact, I thought it was part of responsible “pet-parenting.”

In retrospect, I should’ve thought longer and asked more questions before plopping down our money.  Hell…I should’ve just turned off the computer, forgot about writing for a living, and set about training her myself.  Why?  Because that’s pretty much what happened anyway.  And if I’d done it at the onset, I wouldn’t have had to pay cold, hard cash for the privilege.

  Yeah…that obedience class at PetSmart was a complete waste of our Sunday afternoons.  What’s more, it was a doggie free-for-all.  [Imagine eight unruly dogs, all barking and yipping and tangled up in each others' leashes, noise so loud that you can't hear yourself think, and a trainer who has no clue how to get it under control.]  In fact, all Dixie learned in the first three classes was the “watch me” command.  And to be perfectly honest, I didn’t give a rat’s ass if she watched me or not.  I did, however, care if she obliterated everything we owned.  And watching me obviously wasn’t going to prevent that. 

But I digress.  From the second Mark decided that “Dixie” was a good fit for our new baby, there was hell to pay.  And, silly me…I never saw it coming.  First, she brought us one of Mark’s slippers.  Awww…what a SMART dog, we thought.  She wants to go out. WRONG!  Instead, she wanted to explore the slipper’s construction…with her mouth.  And that, Folks, was the beginning of the end of life as we knew it.

Yes…Dixie is quite the explorer.  But that’s not all.  She’s fond of a bargain, and LOVES the yard sale game.  [How do I know?  Because she's repeatedly stolen the knick-knacks from my book shelves with absolutely no intention of returning them.]  She likes luxury and has good taste.  [She hadn't even been here 24 hours before she relieved my ears of their diamond studs.   Fortunately, I was able to wrench them from her grasp - but not five minutes later, she liberated one of my gold hoops.  And before I could fish it out of her mouth, she'd already turned it into a mangled mess barely fit for melt-down.]  I discovered that she likes to read.  [She must since the cover of every copy of  National Geographic and Garden & Gun in our house is tattered; in fact, I even caught her with the Style section of the Washington Post the other day!]  She’s also well on her way to a Master Gardener’s certification.  [Last Thursday she was running through the house with my watering can in her mouth, happily swinging it by the handle.  Damn...I wish I'd gotten a picture of that!]  And if that’s not enough, she knows how to dress.  [Yep...she borrowed my favorite designer loafers a few days ago and restructured them to suit herself.  And when she was done, they didn't resemble anything even remotely connected to footwear!]

Okay…so Dixie is a Taurus - her birthday is exactly one week after mine - and I can’t help but believe that learning to “watch me” has contributed largely to our problems.  She does, after all, seem to love everything I have and want it for her very own - even Mark!  As aggravating as that can be - I’ve spent the last eight weeks of my life playing the “This-is-Dixie’s-this-is-NOT-Dixie’s” game and relocating our stuff to higher spaces - I can live with that. 

It’s the smoking at which I draw the line.

Smoking?

Dixie?

Yes!

You see, our girl has suddenly developed a penchant for paper products.  But not just any paper products, mind you - instead, she’s developed a love affair with our cigarettes.  Whole packs of them!  I, of course, thought that was easily handled.  All we had to do was remember to take them with us when we went from room to room. End of problem.  Or so I thought. 

Last Sunday, though, a different but related problem reared its ugly head.  It was one of those catch up days for me.  I had a jillion emails in my inbox, taxes to do, bank statements to balance, and a ton of other stuff I hadn’t been able to handle while chasing our errant pup.  So Mark offered to watch her while I got it all done.  Everything was going along great until - BOOM! - something exploded.  Literally.  I hit the living room at a dead run, nearly colliding with Mark .  And what did we find?

The remnants of an orange disposable lighter scattered all over the carpet.

You see, Dixie isn’t just slick…she’s a quick.  And in the split second it took for Mark to put a pan in the oven, she’d plopped those velvety paws of hers on the bar, stretched her neck to its full capacity, and plucked a lighter right out of its storage container.  Then she’d set about the process of chewing it to shreds.   [In all fairness, it wasn't Mark's fault.  Her rawhide chew was right by her mouth, so he thought that was what she was nibbling on.]

Fortunately, she wasn’t hurt.  But we were absolutely terrified by the fact that she could’ve been.  If only she’d been terrified as well, that might have been the end of it.  But she wasn’t.  Not even a little.  And before we could move the lighters to safer ground, she was already up on the counter trying to liberate another.

Well that spurred us right into action…again.  I found a trainer.  A good one.  And at this point, I don’t even care that she’s expensive or that it might take the rest of our lives to finish paying her off.  After all…I have it on good authority that Dixie - pain in the ass that she is - is worth it!

Stay tuned for the next installment:  The Battle at Fort Morrison!

Hugs!

Dorothy…

Dixieland - 2nd Installment…

I should’ve know that things were going to go awry the second I got off the phone with the folks at Happy Labs Rescue.  For starters, we had trouble deciding on a meeting place.  We discussed this place and that, and after much debate, we finally settled on Columbus, OH.   Then I had trouble finding a hotel room for the night - since it was an eight-hour drive, I’d decided to go in a day early - and the search took better than two hours.   But the second I had a confirmation number in hand, the weather went to hell in a handbasket.   And to top it off, the friend who was supposed to make the drive with me didn’t get my message until AFTER I hit the road.  [AT&T really oughta do something about their sloppy voice mail delivery service!]

The only thing that didn’t go wrong was Mark’s attitude.  He told me to do whatever I had to do to collect our new baby, and not to give it a second thought.  What’s more, he meant it.  [Gotta love a man like that!  ;)]

Still…anyone with two brain cells to rub together would’ve waited to pick her up until the collection of blizzards and ice storms had passed.  It wouldn’t have been any big deal.  She was already safe and sound, and the rescue folks were more than willing to hang onto her for me.  But no…I couldn’t wait - obviously, the two brain cells I had left had no intention of becoming friendly - and something trivial like the weather certainly wasn’t going to deter me. 

As ridiculous as that sounds, though, there was a  particular reason I was in such a hurry.  You see, my dear friend, Pam, is a ghost-whisperer.  Not just any ghost-whisperer, mind you…but the real deal.  And a few months earlier - right out of the blue - she’d delivered a message for me from Sadie:  She was happy, healthy, ready to come back again; all we had to do was find her.  And because of all the clues connected with Ruby - in case you missed them, they’re outlined in my last blog - there was no doubt in my mind that this particular dog was my Sadie reborn.   So, you can see why I wasn’t about to waste any time in picking her up and bringing her home.

With that in mind, I packed the car and took off for Ohio.  The first few hours went fine.  I drove through a few snow flurries but nothing very serious.  It wasn’t until I got to the Allegheny Mountains that things got really scary - try driving 30 0r 40 miles with a windshield encased in a half-inch of mud-splattered ice in 9 degree weather that renders the wipers useless with no way to turn around - but after a lot of praying and cursing and wishing my Mama hadn’t raised a fool, I made it through.  And before dark that night, I was sitting in a comfy bed, eating a Chipotle bowl, and thinking happy thoughts about what the morrow would bring.

The only thing that even attempted to mar my happiness was the fact that, although Mark had been extremely supportive and patient with me through this whole ordeal - somebody really oughta name a church after him -  he had some weird ideas about what we should name our new dog.  [Ruby was definitely a temporary name, as keeping it would only bring to mind constant thoughts of the slut Kenny Rogers made famous - and I just wasn't going there.  ;)]  So I gave him a quick call, and offered him what I thought was a solid list of appropriate names from which to choose.  There were only two caveats:  He couldn’t vary from the list, and he couldn’t choose a name until he’d met her.

That handled, I slept like a baby and was ready and waiting when Mike’s van pulled into the hotel parking lot. 

To say that I wasn’t prepared for what awaited me is putting it mildly.  But before we get too far, perhaps I should explain what I was expecting:  A large, gorgeous, energetic, overgrown puppy.  And that, she was.  What I wasn’t expecting was the sheer boundlessness of her energy.  [Folks...this dog could've run the Iditarod in a single day without even panting!]   She pulled me through the hotel lobby like I was a rag doll on skis.  And when we got to the room, she nabbed the toys I’d  brought, and alternated between tossing them in the air and catching them, and throwing them across the room and chasing them as she leapt from one bed to the other.  I’d never seen such a high-spirited dog - and trust me…I’ve seen a LOT!

Fact was, I’d intended to take Mike to breakfast that morning, and had even gone as far as to make arrangements with the hotel staff to leave the pup in the room while I did just that.  But after seeing the extent of her energy levels, and watching her eye the television cables that ran along the lower portion of the wall, I decided that leaving her to her own devices - even for a minute - was an even worse idea than driving through an ice storm.   So I made a nice donation to the rescue organization, and tossed Mike a twenty with instructions to have breakfast on me.  Then I set about deciding whether I should leave her in the room while I loaded the car - or load her first.  [Loading her first won out - though I have to admit that visions of that torn up car scene in Hooch flitted through my mind as I hurriedly got my gear and tossed it in the car, too.]

The car was fine.  So was the dog.  As a matter of fact, she settled right down and went to sleep less than five minutes down the road.  And to top it off, we only stopped twice for potty breaks during the whole eight hour drive.  By the time we pulled into the driveway, in fact, I’d even managed to convince myself that the pup’s overly-exuberant behavior that morning was just the result of newly found freedom.

That was a short-lived notion.

This absolutely gorgeous pup jumped out of the car, drug me up the sidewalk, and bounded through the front door.  Then she leapt straight up - just like a stealth bomber - right into the middle of the coffee table…and cleared the couch.  Our mouths flew open in disbelief.  Mark and I looked at each other.  And his remark?  Short and to the point.  “Oh,” was all he said. 

Before the end of the evening, the two of them were rough-housing on the living room floor, playing like unruly children.  “We’ll call her Dixie,” he said. 

 And even though Mark had played by the rules - Dixie was definitely one of the names on my list - his choice couldn’t have been a worse mistake.  The way to promote a calming atmosphere for a hyperactive dog, after all, is NOT to name her for an area of the country that’s famous for the Rebel Yell!

Stay tuned, Folks…the saga of Dixie, the rebel pup, has just begun.  The next installment - Dixieland Jazz - is due in a couple of days. 

Hugs!

Dorothy…

For the last ten years or so, I’ve had a good life.  A wonderful life.  A life that most folks only dream about.  It includes Mark - my remarkable husband who cooks and cleans and loves me just the way I am, faults and all.  It includes travel to far away places, and lots of interesting people.  And with fifteen books and a tarot deck on the market, it also includes a successful writing career.  It truly is the stuff that dreams are made of and I couldn’t ask for anything more perfect.

Unfortunately, though, I forgot one very important thing.  Dreams eventually end.  We wake up and reality slaps us in the face.  And on January 9th, 2009, that’s exactly what happened to me.  Life as I knew it ceased to exist.

So what the hell happened?  A femme fatale, that’s what:  An exquisite creature with silky blue black hair, dark sultry eyes, and the longest legs you’ve ever seen.  A fearless sort, she knows what she wants and doesn’t think twice about taking it.  She makes no apologies.  She laughs at the possibility of punishment.   And even when she appears to be sitting quietly just staring off into space, even a fool can tell that’s not the case.  No… that devious mind of hers is working,  not only devising and plotting the next plan of attack, but already counting the spoils.  She’s a terror of the worst kind.  The sort of woman who makes you laugh and cry all at the same time.  The kind who, with a simple bat of her lashes, can cajole you into giving her your most prized possession even though you know full well she’ll just rip it to shreds and toss it aside to show you she can.  

Her name is Dixie.  And Gods help me…I invited her into our home.

Now before rumors start to fly, let me assure you that my marriage is secure.  But Mark and I are definitely in a world of trouble.   You see…Dixie - home-wrecker extraordinaire - is the newest member of our family:   A gorgeous, almost 10-month-old black lab puppy with no manners, no fear, and no shame.

It all started on January 2nd, the day we’d scheduled to begin our search for a new set of paws.  For the next 3 days we searched constantly, leaving the house at 8:00a.m. and often, not returning until six.  We went to 27 shelters and put over 350 miles on the car.  We even found a leopard catahoula that Mark liked and filled out the application, only to find that someone had beat us to her. 

Now most folks wouldn’t have let that deter them one bit.  They’d have just gone on to the next shelter and kept on looking.   I, on the other hand, am not most folks.  I took that time to have a delayed reaction to Sadie’s passing and chose to have a mini-meltdown.  I cried.  I sobbed until my body ached.  I threw a wall-eyed hissy fit.  I decided that the shelter search was over and that I’d never - not as long as I still drew breath in my body - set foot in one again.  And then…I pulled myself together and went online to look for a dog. 

My husband thought I’d lost my mind.  “You’re not really going to adopt a dog without even seeing it up close and personal, are you?” he demanded. 

“I might,” I retorted.  The “might” part was a bald-faced lie and we both knew it.  There was no doubt in either of our minds that it was exactly what I intended to do, and that nothing - not earthquakes nor tsunamis nor the Ancients, Themselves - could make me change my mind.  Besides…I had some very specific criteria for this new addition to our family.  I wanted some answers before I fell in love again.  And because I’m one of those people who wants to take in every animal in the world home with me, I also needed to find a sense of detachment to make a good decision -  the sort of impersonal detachment that only the internet can provide.

And so the search started anew.  I checked the local ads on Craig’s list.  I looked at pictures and sent emails loaded with questions.  I put in an application for a puppy at a rescue organization that was less than 30 miles away from us, but withdrew it when I discovered that a dozen other folks were also interested in her.  Then I expanded the search, checking labrador retriever rescues across the United States.  Several  thousand photographs, a jilion questions and more than a dozen phone calls later, I found a dog that looked right.  So I spent two hours filling out that application and hoped for the best.

But the search for a new dog all but consumed me.  [I was obsessed, all right, but that's much too mild a word for what was happening to me.]  I didn’t care about eating or sleeping or even balancing the bank statement.  [There's obviously something wrong with any Taurus female who tosses that in the "we'll worry about that tomorrow" pile.]  Suddenly, there was nothing more important to me than having a new set of paws to love and cherish.  So instead of waiting to hear back about my adoption application, I just kept searching.

And then…it happened.  I found the right dog.  The photograph looked exactly like Sadie did at that age, and was taken at the exact age as Sadie  when I adopted her.  What’s more, the photograph had been snapped the day she arrived at the rescue - the day after Sadie had raced across the rainbow bridge.  And if that wasn’t enough to convince me, the rescue folks had temporarily named her “Ruby” - as in ruby red slippers.    So I did what anyone else in my position would do:  I zipped off an email to ask whether she was still available and whether they did out of state adoptions.  And when I got an almost immediate and affirmative response, I spent several more hours filling out the very detailed adoption application and sent it back.

Life was good again in my world.  At least until I began to check out the Happy Labs Rescue site more thoroughly.  There it was in bold capital letters.  Letters so large that even Ray Charles could’ve seen it:  WE DO NOT ADOPT TO PEOPLE WITHOUT FENCED YARDS!  And then to add insult to injury, I got a note from the folks at the rescue informing me that they didn’t adopt to a specific list of states - one of which just happened to be Virginia - and that if I still qualified, to feel free to fill out the attached application.

At that point, anyone with two brain cells to rub together probably would’ve just thrown up her hands and called it quits.  But not I.  Oh, no!  Instead, I convinced myself that the new email and attached application was nothing more than a matter of too many chiefs at the rescue organization, and that one hand didn’t know what the other was doing.  And because I’d now seen the fence requirement, I took some time to plead our case.  I begged those folks not to deny our application simply on the grounds of location and apartment living.  Truth be told, I did more than beg…for the first time in my 53 years, I actually groveled.  And then I finished up by telling them to let me know immediately if they couldn’t see fit to bend their policies a bit to ensure that one of their animals got a great home, because after everything I’d been through of late, I couldn’t bear one more disappointment.  I proof-read the letter and sent it off, and again, I hoped for the best.

I waited.  I waited some more.  I re-read the letter, and satisfied that I’d given it my best shot, gave it another couple of hours.  Still, there was no response.  And that’s when I realized that - once again - I’d beens the butt of some cosmic joke played by the Ancients.  [Geeze...sometimes I wonder if I'm the only person on this planet that actually amuses Them!]  You see, the new letter with the location requirements had come from Lucky Labs Rescue - but that wasn’t where “Ruby” was at all.  No siree.  She was at a different place entirely:  Happy Labs Rescue!

Now my buddy, M.R. Sellars would probably have you believe that I screwed up because I’m old and decrepit - and to be perfectly honest, it’s an excuse I’m rather fond of as well.    [Who, after all, can argue with something like that?!  Or chastise you for an error after such an excuse rolls off your tongue?    Chuckle!]   But this time was different.  To my credit, it was a very easy mistake to make.  Both rescue organizations were in Indiana.  Both had a comcast email address.  And both adoption applications were exactly the same.

So now that this exercise in patience had morphed into some ridiculous comedy of errors - a comedy of errors in which I’d suddenly become the star - I decided to suck it up and go for broke.  I refused to worry about the fact that Lucky Labs Rescue in Indiana was frantically searching their roster of foster homes for a dog named Ruby and wondering what had happened to her.  I didn’t bother with writing them back and admitting to my mistake.  Instead, I did what anyone else in my position would do.  I simply edited the letter, cut out the stuff about our location, and addressed it to the proper organization.  And after a quick but fervent plea to the Ancients to stop screwing with me, I sent that well-traveled email flying off into cyberspace one more time.

Whether the Ancients finally realized They’d driven me way past the brink of insanity - by this time, I was  well on the road to straight jacket city - or They just decided to take pity on me is anybody’s guess.  But this time, everything went off like clockwork.  The letter arrived at its proper destination.  And not five minutes after hitting the send button,  I got a call from Mike at Happy Labs.  They’d decided to let us adopt  that lovely little girl despite the fact that we lacked a fenced-in yard.  Why?  Because they could tell that we not only wanted and needed her, but were the best possible family for her.  And aside from all that…she was “so laid back.”

Of course, it was those last three words that colored my expectations.  I probably should’ve asked more questions.  probably should’ve asked them to define that phrase.  [For the love of the Gods, Folks!  If they think she's laid back, I cringe to think what they consider "feisty" or "unruly!"]  Hell…I probably should’ve just continued to beg the Ancients not to screw with me again, instead of thanking Them profusely for arranging my good luck.  But I didn’t do any of those things.  No…not I.  Instead, I went on about my merry way, smiling and laughing and making arrangements to drive to Columbus, Ohio to pick up our little femme fatale - all the while casting a blind eye to the interesting set of clouds that was gathering overhead.

There’s more to this story, Folks - a lot more - but it’s way too long and involved to tell in just one blog.  So…stay tuned.  The next installment is due out in a couple of days, and you definitely won’t want to miss it. 

Hugs!

Dorothy…