Slice of Life # 1

             Today I had a snow day. A gift from the gods. A much-needed break from my routine.

          One of the things I got to do (since I wasn't slaving over a hot smartboard) was play two long games of fetch with Radar. My dog loves to race after a ball--over and over. Leaping into the air for it, chasing it across the yard, running circles around a tree--he's thrilled. All I have to do is put on my coat and head towards the kitchen door and Radar's so excited, he's whirling in circles.

          What if we got ecstatic over such a simple thing? What if we were willing to show our excitement... so that others could share in our joy?

           I think I've linked this video before, but it shows exactly why I'm drawn to golden retrievers...

(I'm taking part in the Slice of Life Challenge. This blog is where it all began.)

It's a Dog's World

         Maybe James Brown had it all wrong. Maybe it's not a man's world. Maybe, instead, it's a dog's world...

      Our dog Radar leads quite a cushy life. Since he rarely sits still long enough to get his picture taken, I've chosen a few Google images to show you what kind of activities he fills his day with.

    As soon as we leave, Radar hops up on the bed, stretches out, and takes a nap. Or several naps.

    When there's snow on the ground, Radar loves to romp and burrow in the snow. He comes in with snow all over him, including his nose.

     When there is a dog show on, my husband and Radar enjoy watching TV. Or a horse show. Or the show Swamp People. The two of them have fun watching any of those shows together...

        Whenever there's a hose on or rain has fallen, there's puddles of water... which means mud. Some dogs hate to go outside in the rain. Not Radar. He loves getting wet and muddy... and he loves tracking that mud all over the house once his fun is done.

      Along with taking many naps, Radar eats many treats throughout the day.

      So, while my husband I toil and sweat during the week to provide for this furball, Radar enjoys a life he's become accustomed to: a life of leisure.

      What do you do to spoil your cat or dog? Please share in the comments.

Born Free

        Well, I'm more than old enough to remember the movie "Born Free" when it debuted, but that movie is not what this post is about. (However, I can even sing part of the song, but since I'm fond of anyone who takes the time to read my meanderings, I'll refrain.)

        Yesterday a friend and I drove to Wheaton--a rural town that's in the middle of puppymill country. Four and a half hours each way. (Missouri is the overachiever of states. We're the top meth state and the top puppymill state. At least I think we still can claim those trophies.) We were headed to pick up two puppymill golden retrievers whose "birthday" was 4/12/15--they day they were reborn as family pets.

         On Saturday, the day before, I watched Radar gallop around like a crazy boy--more like a colt than a canine. At least once a day I say, "Up," and he jumps up a little to help me lift him into my lap so we can snuggle. (I know, I know. A dog who weighs almost 80 pounds is not a lap puppy. I just can't help myself.) He has such fun running with the dogs in the house behind us. He so enjoys playing with his squeak ball. And I wondered...

         What if the Amish or other heartless puppymill people got a hold of Radar's mom? If they had, once Radar was born, he might be lived out his life in a run or a cage, with very little human contact. He would not have ever known the thrill of running with Teddy, the shih tzu behind us. He wouldn't get to go for long walks in the park. He wouldn't be invited onto the bed to cuddle. (Actually, most of the time we don't invite him--he just jumps up and makes himself at home.)

             Radar, Ruthie and the no-name-yet puppy (rescued yesterday) are lucky dogs indeed.

           

        

Everything (Okay, SOME Things) I know, I Learned From a Puppy

        Our house is no longer a quiet, peaceful place. Four new paws patter and clatter across our floors. My husband and I already had two senior dogs, but a puppy changes things completely...


       Here are some things I've already learned in the very short time (24 hours) we've had Radar:

• It's a good thing to chew on bark. Radar--no matter how I try to divert him in a variety of ways--loves to get a piece of bark/a stick/a hunk of sod and chew on it. I pick him up and move him to another part of the yard, but he keeps returning to get his "prize" (or a different one--after all, there's an endless supply of things to slobber on in the backyard).

       If I had the same amount of persistence as that little dog, perhaps I'd be a best-selling novelist by now. (And if I chewed on bark instead of chocolate, I'd be skinny and successful!)


 

• Get rid of the bad stuff. How many times a day can a puppy pee and poo? Yesterday, the count was 1,237. I'm hoping for a few less times today.

       Of course, as writers, the "bad stuff" we have to get rid of is self-doubt. Negativity. That internal editor that cuts us down. Evacuate that sh**. Now.

• Naps (and breaks) are good things. After spending time tormenting the older, cranky dogs and checking the food bowls and floors for stray pieces of food and trying to tear up the rug and gnawing on the furniture and checking for stray bits of food and knocking over the trashcan...it's time to take a break. A short nap is all it takes to recharge and reenergize.

       When we're immersed in a writing project--whether it's a short piece or a novel-long manuscript--we have to step away. Relax. Do something different. And then get back to it...


        Now I'm off to play with the puppy ... (And if Blogger was cooperative, I would be including a couple of photos. Maybe it will get less persnickety later on.)








 

2 Winners and a Welcome

        The furry, puppy-breath part first. In a couple of days we will be welcoming a chewing-peeing-yipping machine into our fold. Here is a picture of Radar. He's coming to our house on Wednesday.

         And after spending hours and hours creating the entries, I was ready to draw two winning names.

      (The names on the left were for the copy of The Harsh and the Heart. The names on the right were for the We Will Survive anthology.)

      And the winners are:

Pat H.--We Will Survive

Donna--The Harsh and the Heart

       Ladies, if you email me your home address, I will send your book to you. (My email address is at the top of my blog.)
      

A Thief...Now a Liar...And a Call for Submissions

            Many years ago I stole a dog. I was wearing my son's hoodie and my husband's hiking boots as a disguise.

           Actually, I tried to steal it, but that night--of all nights--the beagle had been allowed into the owner's house. The next morning, my friend had to serve as dog-nabber. To find out why were stealing the dog or if we succeeded, or if this post is being written by me in prison as I serve my term for committing a felony, you'll have to buy a copy of Not Your Mother's Book...On Dogs published by the folks at Publishing Syndicate.

           Last night during the WWWP writing critique session, I shared a story about a big fat lie I told...for the sake of a dog. I'm hoping that in the near future, Chicken Soup snaps it up.

This is our dog, Foley. He was not stolen nor did we have to tell a lie
to get him. (In his mouth is "Disgusto-Ball," his favorite ball. This was the
ball he found in a neighbor's yard when he was in his first foster home,
and he's quite attached to it, despite it being torn up and...disgusting.)

         If we're writers, we use our life experiences and we relive them as we try to move people. If telling stories and creating poems is not our thing, we keep our memories alive when we share them with our family and friends or we look at photographs from the past.

        What is something you've done that borders on dishonesty?

        And hey! Chicken Soup is looking for "Home Sweet Home" stories. The deadline is November. Fellow writers--get crackin'.     

The Inside Secrets

       If you were inside my house last night, with all the firecrackers going off, you would have been welcome by Foley, our hospitable Golden Retriever. Always the charming host, he would have paced around you...endlessly. If you spent the night, he would have scratched at your bedroom door to get in, and then would have scratched on the door to get out...over and over and over.

      Foley is storm-/firecracker/rustle-of-leaves phobic. He paces and pants and isn't comfortable anywhere when thunder or fireworks disturb the airwaves ...unless he's drugged. We avoided the dispensation of the doggie downers last night--but tonight, it may be a different story. 

     Of course, my neighbors have cleared all the furniture out of their house so they can fill it with firecrackers the holiday is over, my neighbors obviously do not have a calendar and have no knowledge it is now no longer the 4th of July, so I'm sure tonight will be just as noisy as last night quiet.

       How did you celebrate the holiday? What are your hopes for the United States? America is a wonderful country but it's far from perfect.

      And hey, speaking of perfection...If you're in the moooood to read some perfect advice about writing, go have some coffee with your muffin. My guest post was inspired after reading James Lipton's memoir. (He's the host of Inside the Actor's Studio.)




      Check it out. You might find something of substance there...

 

Why We Need Friends

      Two things happened recently that made me realize--for the millionth time this month--how important friends are.

      I was reading a post by Linda O'Connell. She mentioned thinking her father worked for the WCC. Immediately, it brought to mind a summer I worked for the YCC, and shazam! I had a story to tell that had been buried for several decades.

      Writers need each other. We can't write in a vacuum. We need our friends' eyes, we need our friends' feedback, we need our friends' shoulders...

Linda O'Connell, St. Louis' Chicken Soup Queen

     And then a few weeks ago, our dumb-as-dirt-but-sweet-as-sugar Golden Retriever had made a mess of himself with his tongue. Some hotspots meant Foley would have to wear the "cone of shame," and he did...until Lisa Ricard Claro suggested a Boo Boo Loon. It keeps the dog from getting to stitches/hotspots but does not obstruct their view or hinder their hearing. (It also serves as a pillow when they sleep.) My husband, who spares no expense when it comes to Prince Foley, ordered a Boo Boo Loon for him; our dog is much happier now.

     "Thank god you came along, Lisa," barked Foley.

 

     What was something a friend of yours did for you recently?

  

Gone to the Dogs or Thirteen Naked Blondes

      Love a Golden Rescue, a group of all-volunteers who rescue unwanted Goldens and Golden mixes, has a gorgeous calendar for sale. The colors and the scenery are breathtaking.

      All 13 of the dogs featured were once throw-away dogs...dogs who were once in puppy mills as breeding machines, dogs who were abandoned, dogs who were unwanted. Now, they are well-loved members of their family.

      You may go to Love a Golden to order your calendar. Or, you may shave $2 off your purchase price, and send me a check (made out to Love a Golden Rescue) for $10, and I'll pop for the postage. Email me at sroslawski(at)yahoo(dot)com and I'll send you my snail mail address.

       The whole price goes directly to the dogs. Our photographer (who is one of Purina's main photographers) donated his services, the graphic artist who designed the calendar donated her services, and the printing was covered by the calendar dogs' owners. (They bid for a page in the calendar.)

      They would make a wonderful Christmas present (don't be afraid to order more than one) and is for such a marvelous cause...

      How many calendars would you like? 

Goldens and Medals and Dreams, Oh My!

           Yesterday I took a personal day off work (something I've only done one other time in the last 13 years of working for my school district). It was the Golden Retriever Club National Specialty (AKA the national Golden thingy), and yesterday they hosted the "Rescue Parade." Fifty rescued Goldens were being highlighted, and our Foley was one of them.

           I was prepared for the variety of Goldens. Some were small, some were lanky, some had a big head (one was brain-damaged) and one even had a missing leg. I was prepared for all the swirls of golden-colored dog hair whirling around the floor of Purina. (Purina's clean-up crew probably worked overtime each evening; many sweaters could be knit with the hair that was shed.) What I was not prepared for was my emotional response.

         Seeing the people who came specifically to view the rescue parade--they cheered and clapped and thanked us individually for what we did--was heartwarming. The event began with a bagpiper, then each dog's story was read as the dog was paraded around the ring. Each dog received a medal that was placed around its neck--hung from a plaid ribbon--and the bagpiper finished up the parade.

        We waited in line before we got our cue. We waited until the real champions' events broke for lunch. And we all looked up and down the row of dogs who were loved and cherished and cared for. But not one of these canines would ever win a ribbon in this kind of competition.

          One of us made the comment, "We each have a #1 dog." Someone else replied, "And to think they're all 'throw away' dogs." He was right. Every one of those dogs had been discarded by someone...left for dead...abandoned.

         What accomplishment or steadfastly-held dream are you proud of these days? Or What kind of competition would your dog or cat win? (Foley would win the couch potato trophy, for sure!) Or How does your past (as a writer, an artist, a human) impact your future?

Carry Yourself Like a Champion

      In less than a week, our dog Foley will be prancing around Purina's huge arena. It's the national Golden Retriever show, and when he makes his entrance, all eyes will be on him glazed over; they will be impressed aghast, because Foley does not look like the typical, show-quality Golden Retriever. So, even though it is only the "Rescue Parade," it seems our pooch will get a rosette to commemorate the occasion, and for one brief moment, he will run with the thoroughbred dogs.

      Once in a while, we've captured Foley looking like the typical Golden--head up, eyes alert, and posed in the perfect stance. Those times always involve a ball held out of the camera's view, because the only thing our dog loves is playing fetch. More than eating. More than taking a walk. Hurtling after a ball is his passion.

        As writers, we have to carry ourselves like dog show champs. We have to fluff and primp up our drafts, and prance from critique session to critique session, making sure our confidence is always intact. We have to keep whispering subliminal messages to ourselves, to ensure we don't get battered or beaten by critics and rejection.

       What kind of champion canine is your dog? What do they excel at?

or

       What kinds of things do you tell yourself to keep yourself on the writing path?
     

Foley: A Guest Blogger

             My mom is swamped this weekend.  She is working on finishing report cards, and today, she has a board meeting for Love a Golden. (Love a Golden is the dog rescue group that saved me.  Before I was rescued, I was running the fields, I had to find my own food, and I was scared to death of storms but I had nowhere to feel safe---I spent all my days and nights outside.)

             Since Mom is so busy, she asked me if I would write a post today.  (It's slow going, because my paws are so big, so sometimes they hit several keys at once, and I have to erase and begin again.)  My day is usually spent napping on the couch in between sessions of playing fetch, so I figured, I have the time...

This is a photo of me as I contemplate where I will take my next nap...
In the hall?  On the futon? By the door?  So many decisions...

                 I admit, I have an easy life.  I get fed two meals every day and even though I eat the same thing every day, I don't complain.  It's pretty tasty stuff!  During the sweltering summer months, I suck up the air conditioning right along with Annie, the senior citizen I live with, and my mom and dad. When the snow piles up, no worries.  I can go outside and play in the drifts if I choose, but otherwise, I curl up on the couch where it's cozy and warm.



This is Annie. (I figured I might as well include a picture of her,
since she was nice enough--two years ago---to agree and share her home with me.)
Her eyes are really cloudy.  Mom and Dad say that she has something that sounds like "cadillacs..."

                 There's only one bad thing about living here:  the squirrels are quite wily.  They scamper around the yard in the early morning, and when they hear the back door open, they race for the trees and the fence. As fast as I run, I can never catch one.  Before I was rescued, I had to catch squirrels and rabbits for my meals.  It's been a long time since I've had a snack with four legs...



                                       

This is a picture of Love a Golden's booth at a dog rescue event.  Humans bake dog treats and spend their free time selling things so there is money to rescue more dogs.  Look them up at http://www.loveagolden.com/. (That's our president. She doesn't get any money for all the work she does, just like all the other unpaid "workers." I give them a rating of "four paws out of four.")

               
             I only do one thing that makes my family look at me in mean ways.  I love to chew. Sofa pillows. Shoes. (Only my mom's shoes. My dad says his are too stinky, too smelly to even tempt a dog!) Any paper within my reach.  Bags of bread. (I not only eat the bread, but I tear and rip the plastic wrapper until bits of it are strewn all over the floor.)  Now the house looks a little different.  All the pillows are put away, the bedroom doors are closed while us two dogs are alone during the day, and Mom does a final "security check" before she leaves in the morning. Shoes? Put away, check. Bread on top of the microwave or way back up against the wall on the table? Check.  Doors closed so they "click" shut? Check.  Any mail or papers or magazines or books set up out of reach? Check.

               I know what you're going to say.  I've tried.  I've tried to blame Annie on the mischief I make. (Hey, before you look aghast, she's deaf, so she wouldn't be able to hear Mom and Dad admonish her and she's also forgetful, so her shame would pass in an instant...)  The two-leggers are not buying my scam. They know that nothing ever got chewed up before I came along, so I can never escape the well-deserved reputation of being the Chewinator.

This is one of my "pin up" photos.  The girl dogs love me in this tantalizing pose,
but I have no interest in them.  (The vet made sure of that when I got rescued.)
At my side is one of my two favorite things. This one is "red ball." My other
favorite thing is "purple ball." I used to also have "disgusto ball" but my dad threw it too hard,
and it went into the neighbor's yard and since it looks like a jungle back there, no more "disgusto ball..."

                I suppose this is a long enough post. I hope my mom is happy with it.  She had this idea when one of her blogging friends Lisa Ricard Claro had her two grand-cats write a post!  Yuck! Cats!  They make me even more crazy than squirrels!