How about a NEW Christmas story?
Join Odin and many of the characters from the Waterwight trilogy as they rediscover a message that stands the test of time!
How about a NEW Christmas story?
Join Odin and many of the characters from the Waterwight trilogy as they rediscover a message that stands the test of time!
If you enjoyed this episode and others, please subscribe to Alligator Preserves on iTunes, Stitcher, or wherever you get your podcasts, and tell your friends about it! I’d love it if you “liked” the episodes you listen to, and I’d love it even more if you’d post a quick comment!
Please support Alligator Preserves on Patreon. You will be rewarded!
If you enjoyed this episode and others, please subscribe to Alligator Preserves on iTunes, Stitcher, or wherever you get your podcasts, and tell your friends about it! I’d love it if you “liked” the episodes you listen to, and I’d love it even more if you’d post a quick comment!
Please support Alligator Preserves on Patreon. You will be rewarded!
Who knew I’d love to write horror and other tales with bizarre, creepy, surreal elements? Well, I did love watching shows like The Twilight Zone(which first aired the year of my birth!) and Dark Shadows back when I was a youngster, so perhaps it makes perfect sense!
In any case, if you’re into those sorts of tales, you might enjoy listening to my latest two microfiction tales. Fitting an entire story into fewer than 250 words is a challenge, believe me, but a truly fun challenge–at least from my perspective!
Here they are:
If you enjoyed this episode and others, please subscribe to Alligator Preserves on iTunes, Stitcher, or wherever you get your podcasts, and tell your friends about it! I’d love it if you “liked” the episodes you listen to, and I’d love it even more if you’d post a quick comment!
Please support Alligator Preserves on Patreon. You will be rewarded!
Alligator Preserves Episode 72–“Lounge or Lunge“–includes a somewhat embarrassing confession, although I do wonder how many listeners out there might be able to relate!
Let me know! (and do check out my other episodes . . . #70 is a beautiful story of a home birth, #71 is a Veterans Day reflection from my West Point mentor, COL (Ret) Pat C. Hoy).
Routines, when performed with thoughtfulness, can rise to the level of ritual. In this episode, I share some special rituals and talk about how they’ve changed since our recent move.
If you enjoy my podcasts, you might enjoy my books!
If you enjoyed this episode and others, please subscribe to Alligator Preserves on iTunes, Stitcher, or wherever you get your podcasts, and tell your friends about it! I’d love it if you “liked” the episodes you listen to, and I’d love it even more if you’d post a quick comment!
Please support Alligator Preserves on Patreon. You will be rewarded!
Award-winning author Helen Starbuck writes romantic suspense mysteries and has a third book coming out soon! Visit with us as she shares writing tips and her experience with research, planning, marketing, and more!
If you enjoy my podcasts, you might enjoy my books!
If you enjoyed this episode and others, please subscribe to Alligator Preserves on iTunes, Stitcher, or wherever you get your podcasts, and tell your friends about it! I’d love it if you “liked” the episodes you listen to, and I’d love it even more if you’d post a quick comment!
Please support Alligator Preserves on Patreon. You will be rewarded!
Author Miriam Green’s important book–The Lost Kitchen: Reflections and Recipes from an Alzheimer’s Caregiver–combines memoir, recipes, and poetry associated with the author’s changed role as a caregiver for a mother with Alzheimer’s Disease.
If you enjoy my podcasts, you might enjoy my books!
If you enjoyed this episode and others, please subscribe to Alligator Preserves on iTunes, Stitcher, or wherever you get your podcasts, and tell your friends about it! I’d love it if you “liked” the episodes you listen to, and I’d love it even more if you’d post a quick comment!
Please support Alligator Preserves on Patreon. You will be rewarded!
Tears spring from my eyes when our realtor plants the FOR SALE sign in the front yard of our Leadville home, where we have lived for twelve years—longer than we’ve lived anywhere else. It surprises me; after all, I was ready to run away from here five years ago in search of warmer temps and more oxygen.
But I stayed, reacquainted myself with the brutal beauty of this mountain town, and Ranger entered our lives via my friend Stacy, who sent us a shelter photo of him that melted my heart.
Ranger knows something’s up. He whines whenever I carry another box out to the car. He clearly doesn’t like change, perhaps because there were too many changes in the first three years of his life before he was ours. Maybe he’s thinking that if things disappear from our home, he may be next.
“Don’t forget the dog!” My friend Carol says this to me when I take a break from packing to visit over tea. When Ranger looks at me, placing one paw on my lap, that’s exactly what his eyes are saying. Carol and I laugh. It’s easy to put words into our fur baby’s mouths.
“Don’t worry, I won’t forget you.” I rub his ears and he’s happy for the moment . . . until Carol leaves and I move the next box.
I take him to the new house and walk him around the property. He finds an acceptable place to leave his mark, and then we head down the road to check out our future morning walk routine. He walks slower lately, he’s only 8 ½ years old if we can believe the people at the shelter, and I worry about the disease that took our first German Shepherd, Guntar—Degenerative Myelopathy. Awful.
I also worry about the spiral staircase in the new house, but Carol finds a perfect child gate at a garage sale. He won’t have to do those stairs.
Ranger follows me wherever I go, reminding me of his presence when I’m distracted by what to put in which box and when I vacuum the carpets yet again before leaving the house for another trip south. The “don’t forget the dog” line becomes a comic refrain.
We bring him with us for our very first sleepover in the new house knowing Mike has an early morning meeting the next day. Ranger rides with me and doesn’t complain at all during the hour-long trip. Before offloading our vehicles, Mike takes him for another walk while I prep something for us to eat and set up Ranger’s new bed in our room. The child gate is up, but we don’t think he’ll even be tempted to climb the stairs.
He starts to whine almost as soon as we get in bed.
“Lie down,” I say, knowing he’s stressed by the newness of everything. I get up and sit by his bed, patting it encouragingly. Instead of lying down, however, he paces and appears to be trying to regurgitate something.
“Great,” says Mike. “What could he have gotten into?”
Ranger has behaved similarly several times over the past few years, and we’ve never been able to determine what he’s “gotten into.” A nasty old bone he’s hidden under the deck, maybe. And he always eventually settles down. This time, however, his distress escalates, and it’s very late at night.
I call our veterinarian, but there’s no emergency service. A kind friend provides the number for another ER vet, who calls back almost immediately. I explain Ranger’s symptoms and she tells me it sounds like gastric torsion. This would be worse than awful.
“But he’s done this before and been fine,” I tell her, and she explains that partial torsion can occur and resolve. The closest emergency surgery center is two hours away. If this doesn’t resolve, she tells me he likely wouldn’t make the trip anyway. She prepares me for what she believes is inevitable.
I tell Mike the news, and we both believe Ranger will bounce back as he always has.
“You get some sleep. I’ll stay with him.” It’s after midnight, and now I’m worried about Mike’s early morning travel. I close the bedroom door and bring a pillow out to lie by Ranger’s side.
He’s up and down and accepts my petting until he doesn’t. His panting increases, and although I don’t know if I should, I bring him water. He drinks a little bit and paces, and paces. He flops down by me, exhausted. I’m exhausted just listening to his panting.
At 1:15 a.m., he tries to stand, I try to help him, but our efforts are futile.
He falls against me, and I watch as he’s released from his agony.
***
Our first official act on our new property is to bury our beautiful dog. Our son Nick’s girlfriend, Kelly, helps me gather stones as Nick and Mike dig the grave in a circle of trees beyond our new garden. It rains lightly.
“He was a very good boy,” I say, and when it’s done, and I’ve cried again, I tell Mike I’m looking for the poetry in this unexpected change in our lives.
“That’d be some pretty fucked up poetry,” Mike says. Even in the worst of times, he can make me laugh.
But I feel it. There is a certain beauty and rhythm to endings aligning with new beginnings.
I remember telling Mike I wanted to do a silent retreat for my 60th birthday. Now I’m having trouble adapting to the sudden quietude. I’ve heard that silent retreats can be difficult.
***
It’s been one week since Ranger left us. He made sure we didn’t forget the dog.
We never will.
See also my first piece about Ranger: Don’t Get a Dog