Another one…

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I started writing another book.  One chapter led to another and to another until I’ve written 37,000 words in less than 2 weeks.  That’s what I do when I’m frustrated beyond my ability to express it:  I WRITE.

NaNoWriMo stars in November.  I’ll have 50,000 words written by then.  Why bother to do National Novel Writing Month when I’ve already written the novel?

This month is NOT going as planned. 

  • First, I lost my angel dog and nearly killed myself trying to find her.
  • Second, I fell out of bed…3 feet to the ground.
  • And…do you want to know what happened next?
I’ve lived on this sand hill for almost 30 years.  NEVER have I gotten stuck in the sand at the intersection one block off the highway. 
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A road in my neighborhood.

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Two of the dogs that had been living with us went back home when our neighbor was released from the hospital.  When our neighbor arrived home, he needed someone to live with him, and that “someone” was his 15 year old son — who wanted his dogs back.  The dogs seemed to be happy about being with their original human, too.
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Yesterday morning, I needed to go to work and finish a report.  I didn’t feel like going in and a little voice inside my head kept saying, “Stay home!” 
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As usual, I didn’t listen.
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As I was traveling toward the highway I looked to my right and saw a cloud of dust coming at me from the intersection.  There were 2 dogs running behind me with everything inside them!
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Dogs running with my better half

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People often go 50 – 60 mph around the curve on the highway that’s north of our house. The speed limit is 45 mph.  I stopped the car, and began to back up.  Too worried about hitting the dogs that were jumping on my car, it slipped and got stuck in the sand.
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I was standing next to my car, wondering, “How the hell did this happen?” when the two dogs started jumping all over me. 
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Remember; I was dressed for work, and in the next moment my work clothes were full of sand.  Not only was I pissed at being stuck, I was furious at two exuberant dogs.  Their boy came running toward me and said, “Just hit them!”
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“I don’t hit family,” I replied, as I smacked one of the dogs.  Not that I wanted to smack a dog, it’s just that he had no respect for a brand new $30 sweater and I was trying to push him away.  Actually, he smacked into my hand.  So why do I feel guilty?
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Their boy explained he was out for a walk with his dogs when they ran toward my car.  He said he’d do what he could to help me get to work.
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Their boy brought his dad’s truck over to see if he could get my car out of the sand.  He looked at the packed sand under the front of the car, and wondered, “How did this happen?”
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“I just asked that very same question,” I replied.
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He’ll be 16 in January.  He acts like he’s 22.  He got into his dad’s truck, and went to fetch my better half.
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It took over an hour to get my car freed from the sandpits of hell.  The “rope” (that looked more like a very long belt) snapped in half at the weight of my car.  Then, his dad’s truck couldn’t get traction in the sand when a bigger rope was used.  My better half went to get his jeep.  After all, no one knows how to do things better than him.  All you have to do is ask him and he’ll say, “Don’t help me!”
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He tried to pull the car out and the rope broke.  That’s when I asked him why he was trying to pull a car out that wasn’t running and was in park.
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I won’t repeat the words he said.  They’re not fit for the ears of anyone under the age of 100.
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I had to get behind the driver’s seat, put the car in reverse, and followed a teenager’s advice when he said, “GUN IT.”  Which I did.  The car lurched out of the sand pit.
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When I got to work, there was sand on the outside and the inside of my coffee cup, I had to pour the sand out of my shoes, and clean the sand off my seat.  But two dogs were inside my neighbor’s house instead of becoming vulture food — and at the end of the day, that’s what mattered.  
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Unfortunately, it did nothing to quell my frustration level.  Tonight, an ambulance took my neighbor away and the two dogs are living with us again.  Their boy’s dad might be dying, I can’t begin to explain why the home their boy was living in can’t take the dogs…  
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…and that is why I write.
Category : dogs, work, Writing
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