I had another blog subject planned for today. In fact, I wrote it last night, thinking I’d get a jump on today. But did that happen? Noooo. I came into my office around 6, made coffee, drank a cup while I sorted through emails, paperwork, and to-do lists, then went back to the pot for a second cup. I was in mid-pour when something else came to mind for the blog, so now I’m back at the keyboard….
Ya see, the story is this— I’m on a death-grip deadline for a manuscript. It’s due on December 15th. Now, I’m figuring the only way I’m going to meet that deadline is if I receive some serious intervention—like from Moses. If I could just get him to wave that staff of his over these blank pages, maybe the crap would part and make way for some decent prose.
Working under the pressure of a deadline is tough enough, but when you add life’s little nits into the mix, like eating, sleeping, and going to the bathroom, writing can feel downright laborious. And heaven help us if, during this time crunch, some real crap gets thrown our way—you know, the stuff that happens in life that leaves you feeling anesthetized—then writing goes from laborious to impossible.
Unfortunately, I got a dose of that Monday night.
I got home relatively early, planning to grab a sandwich and lock myself in my home office so I could write the night away. That didn’t happen. It couldn’t happen—not when I pulled into my driveway and discovered my two beautiful, 150 pound Rottweilers dead.
Both had been shot in the head.
It took me a while before I could collect myself—lots of crying, then just the stupor of shock—and gather clues. From the size of the entry and exit wounds, I knew a .22 caliber long had been used and that the shots were fired from a distance. There was no blood spatter evidence that indicated movement after the shooting, which meant the dogs were literally dropped with one shot each. That kind of precision from the distance I estimated could have only been managed with a scope.
The police were called, of course, but the bottom line is the chances that they’ll ever find the asshole or holes who killed my beauties are slim to none. I live in a small town, in the country, were hunters often traipse through the eighty acres of open field behind my home in search of rabbits and squirrel. Tracking spent bullet casings would be an act of futility because there are casings EVERYWHERE in that field. (That acreage doesn’t belong to me, so I was never able to post a NO TRESPASSING sign along its boundaries. The only thing I could do was put a fence around my own property so my pets would have a safe zone—or what I thought would be a safe zone.)
Anyway, there was to be no writing that night. I spent five hours, digging graves for Rajah (the female) and Axle (the male), and by the time they were laid to rest and I had patted down the last scoop of dirt, I was too numb inside to think. The only thing that would move through my mind with any clarity was a vision of my friends…how excited they’d get when they saw me, how those nubby tails would wag so hard, half their body shook.
They’re still very much on my mind today, much more so than this book, which brings me back to ground zero….where the hell is Moses when you need him?