That Fuzzy Robe Always Gets Me Into Trouble

If you have been following my blog, then you may have read my experiences with my blue fuzzy robe. You know, the one that carries the high voltage and makes me look like a comet/wonder woman when I decide to try to fly away from scary ghosts in my house.

Every morning, I have the same routine. Wake up, tell Mooch to get out of the way, visit the bathroom (just checking the counters for dust…), then stagger out to the kitchen to start the coffee brewing, let Mooch out into the backyard, pour clean water into her bowl, heft the fifty pound bag of peanuts and dole out some yummies for the untotaled number of squirrels (friends of Hammy) that now wait at the back door for my morning rounds. This is a rather boring and predictable routine. Once I’ve fed the squirrels and the fish, I usually get the dishes out of the dishwasher and start putting them away. And I’m usually wearing my blue fuzzy robe, the one that electrocutes the crap out of me everytime I move, or even breathe. Still, it’s the only robe I own, so what can ya do, ay? (Alright already, surely I could go buy another robe that wouldn’t electrocute me, but I hate, I repeat HATE shopping for clothes. Out of the question.)

So, during this boring morning routine, I rarely see much of anything shocking or surprising in my backyard. Mooch usually barges out to the garage out there on the back forty to see if she can catch the mama raccoon sneaking her way into, or out of, the broken window. (Mama raccoon has a box of babies in our garage.) Normally, Mama Raccoon is waaaay too fast for Mooch, being as how Mooch is somewhat of a couch potato, she doesn’t have the conditioning of a wild animal. So it was with great alarm that I realized something odd was happening in my backyard. Plate poised to be placed in the cupboard, mid-yawn, I heard something that sounded like a cross between a squawk, a snarl, a bark, and a cry for help. I put the plate down, closed my mouth, made sure my blue fuzzy robe was tied tight, and raced for the sliding glass door, which stood open. Nearly tripping over Hammy, who was up on her haunches, hoping for another fifty pound bag of peanuts, I stumbled halfway across the porch and then stopped, mouth hanging open, my mind racing to try to figure out what the hell I was seeing.

Mooch had some very small, fuzzy animal clamped between her jaws and pinned to the ground. Said small, fuzzy animal was snarling like a wild beast, snapping, squirming, and pawing the ground. Mooch growled a warning. I was petrified. My God!! This could NOT be MY dog!!! My sweet, lovable dog who woke me nearly every night begging to climb in bed and snuggle. Not My sweet dog who had to get mama to fix her blankie, get the tic out of her bed, and help her when she was in trouble. No, this was not my Mooch. This was some primeval, primitive wolf creature that was determined to get the intruder out of HER territory. For the first time in her life, Mooch had captured something. And it did not look good.

“Mooooooooooooch!!” I screamed.

Hammy gazed up at me from her position two inches from my right pinky toe.

“Oh, my GOD!! Mooch has a baby raccoon. In her mouth,” I screeched.

I heard vague noises like my husband snoring in the bedroom. Why my bellowing didn’t get him out of bed was beyond me.

MY screech got Mooch’s attention. She looked up at me, lost her grip on the wild creature, and the chase was on. The critter squirmed away from the jaws of the big, white beast, and hauled ass. Well, as fast as its little ass could haul, anyway. Which wasn’t fast enough. I watched as the creature raced for the far side of the yard. Mooch was right behind it, her nose literally on the creature’s backside, just above the tail. Wait just a darn minute now!!! That was no raccoon. That was no wild creature at all. That was some weird, little fluffy froo-froo dog. In MY backyard!! Being chased by MY lovable, sweet hound.

“Oh My GOD!!!” I bellowed.

I quickly looked around. Surely, the owner of this dog would soon be vaulting over my fence to rescue the dog. And catch me standing there in my blue, fuzzy, electrifying robe, with forty squirrels all around me begging for peanuts.

Said dog was making some sort of frantic noise, a hoarse, rattly barkie sound that had an unusual rhythm to it. In fact, such a perfect rhythm, I could almost develop a RAP tune to it. But I digress….

Em…where was I? Oh, yes, absolutely true story. I hollered for Mooch to cease and desist, while the small dog chirped it’s way across the backyard, eyes wide and terrified, legs pumping hard. It seemed to be barking something like, “God help me!!! PLEEEEEASE!!! Why won’t someone help me!!!”

“Moooooooch!!! I screamed.

Having run out of yard and quickly approaching the wooden fence, the dog made a sharp U-turn and headed back the other way. Still chirping it’s plea for help, Mooch’s nose still on its backside.

“Mooooooooch!!! STOP!!!” I screamed.

Mooch obediently stopped and looked at me, a wide grin on her face, her sides heaving from the effort. The small dog ran and hid in the bushes behind the garage. After a few stern orders from me, Mooch came inside.

A few minutes later, I handed Rabbit a cup of coffee. “What was that racket outside?” He muttered. He still looked sleepy as he sipped his coffee.

“Oh, nothing much. Just Mooch tasting a small dog I’ve never seen before.”

Rabbit peered at me over the rim of his cup, one eyebrow lifted slightly in puzzlement. “Um…did you say tasting?”

“Yup. You’ll be interesting in knowing that our dog is quite territorial after all.”

I told him about the dog in Mooch’s mouth.

“You’re kidding me?” Rabbit said.

“Nope.”

“Well, she must not have been too serious. If it was in her mouth, she could have killed it at that moment.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

Rabbit glanced over at Mooch who was now perched happily on the bed, looking very pleased with herself. “Too weird,” he said. “I never thought Mooch would do anything like that.”

“Me either.”

“So, the dog wasn’t hurt?” Rabbit asked.

“Not that I could tell. No blood. Nothing broken. Just total terror.”

“Well, at least it wasn’t hurt.”

“Yeah, we should probably go look later on just to make sure. But I think it scooted under the back fence and took off.”

Rabbit sighed, took a sip of coffee, then looked at me. “Mornin’ Hun.”

I grinned. “Mornin’ Rabs. Just another day at the crazy house, huh?”

“Yup,” he agreed.

I started to get into bed to enjoy my coffee while we watched the morning news.

“Um…Hun…” Rabbit said.

I paused. “What?”

“Look down the hallway.”

I turned around and saw Q, Hammy the Squirrel’s biggest peanut rival standing at the other end of the hallway.

“Aw, shit!!!” I muttered. I got back out of bed and stalked down the hallway to shoo Q back outside. As I handed Q a peanut and scooted him back outside, I heard a cacophony of barking just down the road. Sounded like our new friend had stumbled into someone else’s yard and was getting the warning to leave.

P. S. For those of you who know my love of ghost hunting, here is a newly launched, interesting site to check out. The Zen Frog

Copyright 2009 C. D. Blizzard
Dog Attacks

Raccoon Poop ReMix

It seems that my dog Mooch has created a new birthday ritual for me. March 19th is my day to lay around in bed, read a good book, enjoy the sunshine, and basically, do nothing. Mooch had other plans. Just one hour before my birthday-cake-eating-festival-guests were to arrive, Mooch decided to find the biggest stash of raccoon poop she could, and…you guessed it…roll in it. Now, upon this momentous event, there were children playing in the streets, men were traipsing through the woods behind my home, a chainsaw was happily buzzing away, and birds were flitting through the yard, chasing beautiful butterflies through the wild flowers aka weeds. This idyllic neighborhood scene was shattered by the sound of a voice straight from hell shrieking at decibles beyond dog and human hearing. Despite this ear-shattering roar coming from…well…me, Mooch’s nose dipped down, her right shoulder dropped, and plop!!! Into the raccoon poop.

The initial shriek that came out of me was nothing compared to the bellow of outrage, curse words I’d never before spoken, and hyena-like screaming that followed. The chainsaw stopped. I heard the sound of men crashing through the underbrush in the woods behind my house, as they ran away from whatever alien/animal/demon was making the godawful sound. One glance around the yard and I realized all the birds and butterflies were gone, vanished in a flash.

Mooch seemed completely deaf to the supernatural wailings and vituperative demands that she STOP UPON PAIN OF DEATH!!! Instead, she casually got up, made three turns, and plopped down on her other side, just so that she could cover herself completely in raccoon poop. Clearly she wanted to assure herself that no patch of fur was missed.

My brain went into some sort of rage seizure and my larynx pushed itself beyond superhuman abilities as another shriek split the sky, causing the pine trees around me to shiver and drop needles and pollen. Powdered with this fine yellow dust, I ran toward my dog. I’m pretty sure my eye teeth had sharpened and lengthened. My husband had disappeared into the house. For a moment, I thought I heard our car crank over, but I wasn’t sure. I had been deafened by my own roar.

Throat burning with pain, I rushed my dog, who was smiling as she rolled around in raccoon poop. At some point, her hearing returned and she realized that some mad animal was rushing toward her, saliva dripping from its fangs, and demonic sounds coming from its throat. She hopped up and looked at me like, “What?”

My brain shimmied into overdrive and the rage built another wall of rage around the initial wall of rage. The neighborhood was eerily silent. It was just me…and the dog. I stopped in the middle of the yard. Mooch stood frozen over the raccoon poop. Her beautiful white coat had gone from silky clean to poop brown, and she now smelled like a cow farm. For a long time we stood staring at one another, sides heaving, teeth bared…well, mine were, anyway. And then I launched myself into action. Livid did not begin to describe what I was feeling as I ran inside, donned gloves, grabbed shampoo, towels, and raced for the door, trying to get to the garden hose before Mooch arrived on the porch. Too late. Mooch stood at the glass door. Hammy stood three feet behind her. Apparently, Hammy the Squirrel and Mooch, who was now my husband’s dog not mine, were the only two living creatures who were impervious to my bellowing roars. Hammy stood on her hind feet, hoping for a peanut. Mooch whined to get in the house.

“Never!” I screamed. “I will leave you out there to rot for eternity, you hear me, dog!”

Mooch cocked her head to one side. Her expressive face told me what she was thinking. “Oh, come on, ma! Let me in.”

I opened the door and aimed the barrel of the shampoo bottle at her. “Back up, hound, or I fire!”

Mooch backed up two paces. Hammy backed up two paces, but still remained upright, hoping for a peanut.

I dodged left. Mooch moved with me. I dodged right. Mooch moved with me. With alot of fancy footwork, I managed to get past her without her transferring raccoon poop to my clean pants, and lunged for the hose. Mooch was blasted with soap and water before she knew what hit her.

An hour later, my guests arrived and remarked on how clean the dog was, and how cute she was. “Oh, Moochie Poochie Poochie,” they crooned. “Such a good girl.”

I hunkered in a corner and snarled occasionally as I ate my birthday cake with my fingers. Rabbit tossed me a napkin and gave me furtive, worried glances now and then. I stared back at him, wondering if my teeth had returned to normal yet. I was pretty sure my eyes were still red and the horns that had sprouted on my head were still there. I grunted and continued eating my cake while the guests mingled and crooned over the dog.

Twenty-four hours later, the neighborhood is still eerily quiet. I casually wonder if the UFO hunters will come along and hunt down the bizarre creature reportedly roaming the neighborhood. An occasional snort could still be heard coming from somewhere deep inside my throat, and Rabbit had filed my teeth back down to a more human-looking appearance.

“Do you realize she did this last year on my birthday? Huh? Well, do ya, punk?” I muttered.

Rabbit took my shoulders gently in either hand and stared deep into my eyes. “Hun, is that you in there? Are you coming back now?”

Copyright 2009 C. D. Blizzard
http://www.cdblizzard.com
PROFILE, the novel by C. D. Blizzard: The mother of all thrillers.

Hun, Where’s My Butt?

“Rabs, can you help me put on my butt?”

I stood just inside his office, impatiently fidgeting with my shirttails.

Rabbit removed his fingers from his keyboard, started to turn around, hesitated briefly, then took a deep breath and turned, “What did you just say?”

I held out a pillow like contraption I had just made. “Help me put on my butt.”

He grinned. “What are you up to? Is this for Hick TV?”

“Yup. And…I know…it’s going to embarrass you, but…you are the one who started it.”

I waved Rabbit into our bedroom and patted my bottom, indicating that I wanted him to stuff my butt pillow down my pants.

“I didn’t start it. All I said was that I wanted to tape you doing your impressions.” He dutifully took the butt pillow and began stuffing.

“Yeah, the only problem is, I can’t do half those impressions very well anymore. Stuff it further down and squish it around so it’s even.”

Rabbit tugged on my underwear and tried to get the butt pillow settled into place. “Do I even want to know what the hell this is for?”

“Emma Jean. The crochety old lady. She has big boobs and a big, dimply butt.”

He grinned. “You’re a nut, but in a good way.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you smiling.”

He finished playing with my underwear and kissed my cheek.

I wiggled my new butt. “How does it look?”

“Like a big butt.”

I waddled to the mirror and looked at my backside. “Eeks!!! I think I did too good a job.”

He laughed. “Yeah, it looks pretty authentic.”

“It’s pulling my pants down.”

“So, how far into this Hick Television thing are you?” Rabbit asked.

“I don’t know. A ways. You can’t see it, though.”

“No?”

“Nope. It’s embarrassing.”

“You’re putting this on your blog, but I can’t see it because it’s embarrassing.”

“Well, you can see it when it’s done. But don’t watch me do it. I feel ridiculous.”

“I just stuffed a butt pillow down your pants and you feel ridiculous letting me watch you do your impressions.”

I grinned. “Hey, a man who helps his woman apply her butt…that’s love.”

“Yup.” He ruffled my hair. “I’m going back to work. Let me know if you need anymore help.”

I wagged my new, bigger butt. ” ‘K, hun. See ya in a few.”

As I walked out into the backyard, I peered around. “I hope the hell the neighbors don’t see me like this.”

Thank God for a high fence.

I hiked my butt around and prepared to go to work.

Copyright 2008 C. D. Blizzard
www.cdblizzard.com
To view videos Go To The Hick Television tab on the cdblizzard.com/blog.

How To Dispose Of A Trashcan

“How do you throw away a trashcan when the trash techs won’t pick it up?”

Rabbit chewed a piece of steak as he stared at me from across the dinner table.

“I mean…if you put it out there at the curb, no matter how beat up it looks, they just leave it there.”

Rabbit munched in silence.

“And if you write the word ‘TRASH’ on it, they look at it, laugh and say, ‘yeah, duh, we know it’s a trash can,’ and they leave it at the curb.”

Rabbit scooped up some mashed potatoes and munched in silence, his beautiful green eyes watching me as I spoke.

“And if you write ‘Please Take-Trash’ on the can, they look at it, laugh, and say, ‘yeah, duh, we know it’s trash and we know we’re supposed to take the trash, ‘cuz that’s what we’re paid to do,’ and they still leave the can at the curb.”

Rabbit scooped up some more mashed potatoes.  Meanwhile, Hamster the Squirrel, as seen on the video A Beggar’s Breakfast tried to climb up the metal frame of the sliding glass doors to get eye level with us so we could see him and give him peanuts.  I got up, went to the peanut bucket, opened the door, and handed Hamster a snack.  Then I went back to the dinner table and resumed my chat.

“So…if you write ‘Please Recycle’ on the can, the trash techs look at it and agree that it’s a message to everyone how important it is to recycle plastic, but they still leave the can at the curb.”

Hamster was again climbing up the frame of the sliding glass door, so I paused to go give him another peanut.  Annoyed with his antics, I decided to leave the door open and the lid off the peanut bucket so he could help himself.  Meanwhile, an entire pod of koi begged at the surface of the pond.

“Overfed brats,” I muttered.  “You’ve been fed already.  I’m not that senile.”

I went back to the table and sat down again.  “So, how do you throw away a trash can?”

“Well,” Rabbit said.  “You have two choices.”

“Yeah?”

“You can take it to the dump yourself.”

“Yuck.”

“Or…you could try cutting it in pieces with a chainsaw and putting it in the recycle bin.”

“Hmmm, I never thought of that.”

Rabbit munched in silence.

“Hey, does that mean I can have my chainsaw?”  That was an exciting idea, since I loved to destroy things with the chainsaw.  I’d been begging my husband to let me whack down the overgrown bamboo in our yard, but he’d stubbornly refused, citing that I was too much of a clutz not to pose a danger to myself while wielding anything sharper than toilet paper.

“No.”

“Damn,” I grumbled.

Mooch grumbled and wagged her tump.  Hamster scrambled around in the peanut bucket and helped himself to another treat.  Mooch grumbled again.

“You’re not getting my steak.  I’m not even done with my dinner,” I informed her. 

She grumbled.

“You’ll have to wait.”

Mooch grumbled, Rabbit munched, Hamster stole peanuts while I plotted ways to sneak my chainsaw out of the garage without Rabbit catching me.

Copyright 2008 C. D. Blizzard

www.cdblizzard.com

Just Like Riding A Bike

“You know….that phrase just like riding a bike…it’s supposed to mean that you never forget how to ride a bike.”

These were the words spoken by Rabbit that brought me out of my reverie concerning my next adventure into the unknown.  Unfortunately, I knew where he was going with this beginning.

“But in your case, it doesn’t seem to mean that, because it’s obvious you forgot how to ride a bike.”

I laid my notebook in my lap and glanced at Rabbit.  As usual, we were piled in bed for the evening, Rabbit with a sketchpad, me with my notepad, and Mooch…well…Mooch staring at both of us and waiting for someone to break out the snacks.

Rabbit was staring at the bruise on my right shin.

“I didn’t forget how to ride a bike.  You get on, you pedal, and you try to steer a straight line.  What’s not to remember?”

“Coordination, reflexes…oh, and try not to drive face first into a big, metal propane tank enclosure.”

“Hey, I tried to turn, but the turning radius of the bike was not what I expected,” I defended myself.

“Which means, you forgot how to ride a bike….”   He broke off and something about his expression let me know that his brain had kicked in and he was thinking of past events.  “Well…maybe…not.”

I stared, waiting.  Mooch waited, too, just not for the same reasons.

“I seem to recall now that you are the one who wrecked her bike as a little kid, hence the big scar on your right knee.”

“I could ride a bike then, too.”

“Hun, you were riding on the sidewalk in a straight line and just somehow miraculously fell over into the road.”

“So.  Stranger things have happened.”

“Yeah?  Aren’t you the one who tried to race down the road at breakneck speed, your foot slipped off the pedal, got stuck on the down-stroke, which dragged your toes across the pavement long enough for it to shave all but one toenail off, before you pitched into someone’s yard?”

“Yeah.  That was me.  I was a daredevil.”

“Devil maybe.  Dare?  That’s arguable.”

I sighed. 

“And aren’t you the one that convinced Kenny to tie the front of your bike to the back of his bike so he could tow you down the road?”

“Yeah,” I squeaked, sinking lower into the bed. 

“And didn’t you think that this rope would somehow make it possible for you to let go of the handlebars, while you put your feet up on the same handlebars and relaxed while Kenny pedaled away and towed you down the road?”

“It seemed like an innovative idea at the time,” I whimpered.

“So, you were totally unaware of the dynamics of that situation, the engineering impossibility, the—

“Hey, I was six, for chrissake.  I didn’t know anything about physics.”

Rabbit grinned.  “Just making a point….”  He frowned.  “I think.”

“Which is now not that I forgot how to ride a bike, but that I never knew how to ride a bike to begin with,” I quipped.

“Yup.”

“I know how to ride a bike,” I muttered as I picked up my notepad.

“Hun, in the past two months, you’ve wrecked your bike three times.”

“That’s not so bad…really.”

“You’ve only ridden your bike four times in the last two months.”

I shrugged.  “So, I’m clutzy.  You knew that before you married me.”

“Yup.”  He grinned.  “And you’re cute, and I love ya.”

“Love you, too.”

Mooch grumbled, letting us know that her patience was wearing thin and she wanted some snacks.  A string of slobber dripped from the side of her mouth.

“Don’t drool, dog,” I grumbled back at her.

She obediently licked her lips.

“So, weird,” Rabbit mused.  “She’s not a dog.  She’s something…but not a dog.”

“She looks like a dog right now, though.  Look at that slobber.  We better break out the snacks before it feels like a flood in here.”

Copyright 2008 C. D. Blizzard

www.cdblizzard.com

Can I Get That On Video?

“Sometimes I wonder what happened to my brain,” Rabbit said.

My mouth twitched into a smile.  I tried like hell not to grin at this golden opportunity, but it was impossible.  After all, how often do I get handed something like this?

“Gee, I wish I had that on video.”

“That didn’t come out right,” Rabbit mumbled.

We were bundled in bed for the evening, Rabbit reading a science magazine, while I happily blazed through a metaphysical, voodoo, mumbo-jumbo keeper of a tome.  Difficult as it was to stop reading this feast for my eyes, I laid my book aside and turned to look at my husband.

“Hun, if I go get my camera, would you repeat that for me?”

“No.”

“You’re never gonna let me put you on You Tube, huh?”

“No.”

“But, Rabs, this is the spice of life.  This is how intimate relationships are forged.  This is—

“Hun!”

“ ‘K.  Going back to my book now.”

After reading two lines, Rabbit sighed and said, “I was just thinking.”

“Well, you know how dangerous that can be,” I muttered.

“Not as dangerous as you thinking,” he quickly returned.

“Good one.”

“No, seriously….” Rabbit continued.  “When I was younger, I could actually hold a thought in my head.  Nowadays, I have a thought about something I want to do, or build, or invent, and then….later on….I try to remember what I was going to do and some of the details are missing.”

“Yeah.  I know what you mean.  I remember when my butt wasn’t dragging the floor.”

“It’s frustrating.”

“Aging sucks,” I agreed.  “The only good thing about aging is that you have a license to be silly…the excuse is always there…I’m old, what do you expect.”

Rabbit turned the page of his magazine.  I turned the page of my book.  Mooch yawned, stretched, and kicked my shin hard as she repositioned herself at the foot of the bed.  She was slowly inching her way toward the head of the bed, where she could rest her head on my pillow.  This was a feat she worked toward every night, until she had to go to her own bed at “lights out.”

I closed my book.  “Let’s go ghost hunting.”

“We’ve tried that.  Several times.  You keep giggling,” Rabbit reminded me.

“Do you think anyone will ever believe that we were at a haunted location?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“If you’d been screaming and running, they might believe it, but the giggling…that just doesn’t seem too ghostly.”

“I couldn’t help it.”

“Apparently.”

“It was just one of those things.”

“It also doesn’t help that you involved Mooch.  All she could do was stare at the camera, which she’s scared of.”

“Well, the place is haunted.”

“Yep.  For you, it’s apparently haunted by a dentist with laughing gas.”

“One day, I will catch that thing on tape.  You wait.”

“Just don’t involve Mooch next time.”

“But she likes to be with us.”

Rabbit nudged Mooch with his toe.  “One day I’m gonna catch you on tape doing your impressions.”

After a very long silence, Rabbit turned and looked at me.  I was staring into space, my mind a whir of ideas.  He knew that look all too well.  It was the look that usually precluded some sort of disastrous experiment or an idea of mine that goes ridiculously wrong.

“Oh, no,” he groaned.

I started to grin.

“Oh, no,” Rabbit repeated.

“You oughta know by now not to give me ideas.”

Another long silence.

“I wonder where I can get a Chupacabra costume.”  I glanced at Rabbit.  His nose was as close to the inner fold of his magazine as he could get it.

“You’re not reading that.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.  Know how I can tell?”

Rabbit peered at me.  “How?”

“Because you’re past forty and you can’t see print that close without your reading glasses.”

Rabbit sighed and moved the magazine away from his nose.  “I’m not wearing a Chupacabra outfit.”

“Who said anything about you wearing it?”  I glanced at Mooch. 

Rabbit groaned.

“Think of the opportunities.  Remember when you built the ufo and we floated it over the river, down the highway, and out over the ocean?”

“Yeah.”

I smiled.  “Those were the good ole days.  We’ve gotten boring in our old age.  We need to do something fun.”

“And how does Chupacabra factor into this?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but Rabbit interrupted me.  “Never mind.  I don’t want to know.  Just don’t get Mooch shot by some Chupacabra hunter.”

Copyright C. D. Blizzard 2008

www.cdblizzard.com 

A Good Thesaurus Would Have Viable Options For The Word F.A.R.T.

There’s a little known secret about my dog Mooch.  No, not the one about her zest for rolling in raccoon poop.  Nope, this is a completely different story.  Long ago, in a land far, far away, when Mooch was just three months old, she discovered something about herself, and the something she discovered was quite terrifying.  In fact, she’s been so traumatized by this event that she is to this very day still terrified of anything that remotely resembles such an occurrence as the one she experienced one ill-fated day in the safety and security of her own backyard.

Being just three months old, everything was new and exciting for Mooch.  She loved to go outside and sniff around the yard.  She especially loved all the critters she encountered, and she loved to smell the flowers blooming here and there.  One evening, as it was nearing dusk, Mooch had to go outside to potty.  This was not so unusual.  All she had to do was convince her guardian to get off the computer and open the back door.  Her guardian, which happened to be none other than the novelist C. D. Blizzard could sometimes be reluctant to comply, but a puppy that had to go potty was a very convincing reason to go outside.

Off we went, hurrying out into the cool dusky evening.  I stood and gazed at the sky while Mooch selected a poop zone.  Since she was a puppy, she hadn’t yet acquired her poop zone, so she pretty much just went anywhere.  I was rather embarrassed at being seen with a dog in a potty hunch, so I usually tried to look inconspicuous and otherwise occupied, as if I didn’t realize my dog was doing you-know-what in front of God and everyone.  But on this particular day, Mooch would make certain that I noticed.

I happened to take my gaze off the sky long enough to glance at my puppy to make sure she was okay.  Mooch was just settling into hunch mode and ready to do her work.  Except for one small problem.  As she was preparing to make you-know-whatie, a sound suddenly emanated from her rearend.  This was not like any sound she had ever heard before, not to mention that it was coming from her very own butt.  The sound startled her so that she twitched and turned her head, still in the potty hunch, to investigate.  When she saw that nothing was behind her, she scooted forward a few paces, still in the potty hunch, trying to put some distance between herself and the odd, scary sound.

Once again, she relaxed and settled into trying to make potty.  Oh, no!!! There it was again! That scary sound coming from her butt!  She flinched, jerked her head around to investigate, and with somewhat more urgency than before, she scooted forward about a yard, still in the potty hunch.  She looked at me as if I could save her from this scary sound.  I was too busy laughing my a** off to explain.  I could NOT believe my eyes, or my ears.  My dog was scared of her own flatulence.  I could see by the look on her face that she was truly terrified.

Giggling like a kid, I watched as my dog once again relaxed and tried to make potty.  This time, she glanced at her backside a few times, still in the potty hunch, just to reassure herself that nothing frightening was behind her, or hiding in her behind to jump out and scare her.  Again, she began the process, and again, her behind made that terrifying sound.  This time, she nearly jumped a foot off the ground, still in the potty hunch, ran forward as fast as she could go considering that she was still hunched over, ears flapping, face pinched into worried wrinkles, until she was halfway around the yard.  There, that ought to put some distance between herself and that scary, weird noise coming from behind her.  She twisted her head around and examined her butt as best she could, still in the potty hunch, and then set about making the most of her moment.  Too bad for her, the sound that had been tormenting her reared its ugly horn again.  Looking terrified, she yelped, and was sent scurrying forward a few yards, still in the potty hunch.   By this time, I was laughing so hard I was having some serious continence concerns of my own, as in I was about to pee in my pants I was laughing so hard.

As fast as she could, she made her potty business.  Once it was accomplished, she ran as fast as she could to the back door and begged to get inside before the butt monster came and ate her up.  When I could finally walk, I made my way to the door and managed to open it for her, but I was beset by hysterical laughter that kept me doubled over most of the way.

She looked up at me as though I had betrayed her in some way, and looking offended shoved past me to go inside.

“You’re not going to be a very good watch dog, are you?” I muttered as she went by.

And that was the day it began for Mooch.   The terror would occasionally rear up again over the years, only to send her scurrying from the room, wherever she happened to be, always looking backwards at her butt and never fully understanding why it made that weird, scary sound when she least expected it.  Soon, she was famous throughout the land as the dog who was terrified of her own flatulent emanations.

C. D. Blizzard is the author of the novels Blackwater,  Broken,  and Profile.

www.cdblizzard.com

Fans Ask, The Blizzard Answers

A reader asked: How do you write three books at the same time and keep it all straight in your head?

Are you kidding?  This is why I’m a blithering idiot, why I trip over things, walk into walls, hold conversations on three different topics simultaneously, and run red lights.  Most of the time, when I am working on a novel, I exist upstairs in my head twenty-four/seven.  This is not necessarily a good state to be in.  It makes one miss out on a lot in life.  For example, the sun sinking into the horizon and turning the sky into a beautiful painting, the bonding and revealing conversation you could have had with your best friend, the opportunity to have a romantic dinner with your spouse, and the dog rolling in raccoon poop.  Okay, well, that latter part might be okay to miss.  Writing is much harder than we make it appear.  Writing is a full bore, total commitment.  Once I begin a novel, my friends and family can expect me to become the worst hermit on the planet.  I might come out once in a great, great while, but my immediate goal is to finish the damn novel as fast as possible because there is usually another idea looming right behind it, or maybe a dozen ideas chasing me into insomnia.  I always think if I hurry up and finish the book I’m working on, I will get a reprieve and actually be able to hang loose and enjoy life for awhile.  This never seems to happen for me.

I’m currently working on five books at the same time.  Fortunately, these are all non-fiction.  I could never write three, or five, fiction books at the same time without screwing all of them up.  I’m good, but I’m not that good.  My brother once said, “My sister is the only person I’ve ever known who can watch television, listen to the radio, read a book, and have a conversation at the same time, and know exactly what is going on with each venue without missing a beat.”  This is not a blessing.  This is a curse.  It makes me feel over-driven, like an over-achieving dork, or something.  And it is exhausting.

Writing a novel in general is exhausting.  Holding all those characters, plot points, themes, conversations, and ideas in your head all the way to the end is tiring.  I take copious notes.  I’m always taking notes.  In the car, which is why Rabbit usually does the driving, while I’m cooking, while I’m cleaning, in the shower.  I’m always scribbling notes.  These notes are usually disjointed bits of information that I scribble out in partial pieces because if I write it all out in the complete thought I had, I might as well just go write the damn book.  This would mean that I would be writing for about twelve hours a day, and then some.  Trouble with these notes is, if I am taking notes on multiple books, and it takes me a year to get to one of these books, the notes are so disjointed by that time that I don’t know what the hell it means.  And…there is the growing problem of being able to read my own writing, which is getting more and more horrendous with each passing year.  This isn’t due to the aging process.  (I’m not that old…yet.)  Rather, it’s due to the fact that I am trying to write faster than my brain can think, which is scientifically impossible.  Still, I try.  I sometimes have to ask my husband what the odd scrawled symbol amongst my notes mean, to which he usually replies, “How am I supposed to know?”  Or, “It looks like a big circle with a jagged line hanging off one end.  Is that supposed to be a letter?  In our alphabet?”

Lotta help he is.

Now, some of my C. D. Blizzard fans know that I write under multiple pseudonyms.  More’s the pity.  For years, I tried desperately to hide the fact that I was a genre-jumper.  According to publishers, being a genre-jumper is the kiss of death and will cause fans to go into rages and be disappointed.  I haven’t found this to be so among the fans of mine who do know I am a closet genre-jumper.  So, when you read that I have written all these multitudes of novels, don’t expect to find them all under my maiden name of C. D. Blizzard.  Also, my C. D. Blizzard fans are shocked and amazed to read my blog and discover that I have a wicked, if not offbeat, goofy, cheesy, and downright stupid sense of humor.  Do not be fooled by my life lessons and humorous blogs.  C. D. Blizzard writes some very punch-you-in-the-gut fiction.  There is nothing mamby pamby about a C. D. Blizzard novel at all.  My C. D. Blizzard aspect only tackles the serious, the tough, the gutsy, the topics most publishers cringe at and most other writers won’t touch simply because most other writers are trying to get published.  You see, the publishing industry, for the most part, has nothing to do with having a voice, a message, or needing to say something.  Publishing is not about changing the world, for the better.  Publishing is about money…how much can a publisher make off you?  If your book does not fit into their paradigm of what is hot, readable, acceptable, and “safe”, a publisher won’t touch it with a ten-foot barge pole.  Unfortunately, I have not ever been able to squeeze myself into that tight little box the publishers want to shove most writers into.  Instead, I write what’s foremost in my head, and if it has a serious punch, so be it.  Sometimes the world needs a shake-up, wake-up call.

So, back to the question of how do I write more than one book at the same time and keep it all straight in my head?  I just do the best I can.

C. D. Blizzard is the author of the novels Blackwater, Broken, and Profile.

www.cdblizzard.com

Spontaneous Human Combustion

“Hun.”  If I thought this whispered endearment and a gentle nudge from my elbow would wake my husband, I was wrong.

“Hun.”  I tried again to nudge my husband awake.

Granted, I felt guilty for waking him in the middle of the night, but I was feeling weird, and I needed his emotional support.

“Rabbit,” I said, this time in a louder whisper.

Finally, this penetrated his brain.  He lifted his head off the pillow. “Wha?”

“Hun, I think I’m going to combust.”

His head remained motionless for a time, then he slowly turned to peer through the darkness at me.  “Did I just hear you correctly?”

“I don’t know, didja?”

“Hun, what the hell did you just say?”

“I think I’m going to burst into flame.”

My husband is a good man.  He didn’t laugh.  But even in the darkness I could see the frown of consternation knitting his gorgeous brow.

“For once, would you make some sense,” he calmly demanded.

“I feel hot, I mean…from the inside.  I’ve been laying here getting hotter and hotter and hotter, and it won’t go away.”

“Take the covers off,” he said, as he allowed his head to plop back down onto the pillow.  He was already sounding groggy again.

I put my hands on his shoulder and shook him.  “Don’t fall asleep.  I’m serious.  Something is wrong with me.”

“Your hot.  It’s Florida. Take the covers off, and see if you cool down.”

“I’ve been laying without covers for awhile now.  And I’m still getting hotter.  It’s a weird kind of hot, too.  Like it’s coming from the inside. I think I’m going to burst into flame.”

He lifted his head again.  “Hun, people don’t just burst into flame.”

“Yes, uh-huh, they do,” I said.  “Spontaneous human combustion.”

He sighed wearily.  “I’m not gonna let you watch TV anymore.  Now I know why your mother didn’t have a television in her house while you were growing up.”

I frowned. “Rabbit, I’m serious.  I am weird hot.”

“Turn the air conditioner down.”

“It’s on 76 degrees.  I should be comfortable.”

Rabbit sighed and sat up.  “Okay, let’s get this straight.  What exactly are you feeling?”

“Hot.”

“I know, but what about that is different than just being hot like from being outside in the hot weather?”

“I don’t know.  I feel like an internal furnace kicked on, and it just…feels weird.”

Rabbit reached out and took my hand.  “Whoa, you are hot.”

“Told you. See, I’m gonna combust, aren’t I?”

“No, Hun, you’re not going to combust.”

“I’ve been laying here thinking I’m gonna burst into flame and burn the house down.”

Rabbit snickered, then quickly squelched it.  I could see him trying hard not to laugh.

“This is serious.  People spontaneously burst into flame.  I wonder if this is how they feel right before it happens.”

“Hun, those people are smokers.  They fall asleep with a lit cigarette, the cigarette drops onto their clothes, and it catches them on fire.  That’s all.  You don’t have to worry.  You don’t smoke.  You don’t drink.  You’re not going to catch on fire.”

“I’m not?”

“No, Hun.”

“So, there’s nothing for me to worry about?”

“No, Hun.”

I sighed, somewhat relieved.  “Do you think you could put me out if I did suddenly combust?”

“I think I could put you out if you suddenly combusted, but you’re not suddenly going to combust.”

“Maybe we should put a fire extinguisher in the bedroom, just in case.”

Rabbit sighed.  “We don’t need a fire extinguisher, you aren’t going to burst into flame.”

I glared at him for not taking me seriously.  He quickly changed tactics.  “But…if it would make you feel better, I’ll put a fire extinguisher in the bedroom.”

“Thanks, Hun.”

“Can we go back to sleep now?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” 

Just as he was about to settle back down, I stopped him.  “Why am I so hot, though? Why does it feel so weird? I’ve noticed it before. It’s weird and scary and it doesn’t feel normal.”

My husband sat up and turned to face me, sitting cross-legged as he reached out and took my hands in his.  He looked at me earnestly for a long time, and with the expression of a man about to tell an awful truth, he began speaking, slowly, cautiously, gently.

“Hun, you’re forty-three years old.”

“So?”

“So…did it ever occur to you that you’re having a hot flash?”

I stared at him for a long time, my mouth open.  “No.”

He looked at me in silence.  “You know, for a damn good writer, you can be really silly sometimes.”

I giggled.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you are intelligent…more intelligent than most people I know, you can do literally anything you set your mind to, you can write better than most writers.  You have a doctorate degree….”

“Sh! Don’t tell anyone.”

“And,” he went on, ignoring me.  “You absorb information like a sponge, but…sometimes…you’re just silly.”

I giggled again.

“Would you have me any other way?”

“No. But you worry about silly things.”

“Like?”

He groaned.  “Like suddenly bursting into flame.  Who else do you know that worries about suddenly bursting into flame?”

“No one.”

“Exactly.”

“So, I need to go live in a cave somewhere and never watch television programs like that, or read science magazines.”

He nodded.  “Yep, that’s about the size of it.”

I giggled again.

“Now get some sleep.”  He leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead, then settled back down into bed.

“Love you, Rabbit,” I happily chimed as I rolled over and pressed my back against his.

“Love you too, Hun.”

After a few minutes of silence, just when Rabbit thought he was going to fall asleep, I said, “But that one guy they talked about had smoke rolling out of his arms and he didn’t have a lit cigarette, the smoke just started pour—  

“Hun,” Rabbit said in a warning tone.

“Okay, going to sleep now.  Going to sleep.  I promise.”

I tucked the blanket up under my chin.

“It’s just a normal old hot flash from normal menopause.”

“Fine,” I agreed.  “Fine.  Going to sleep now.”

“Good.”

“Good,” I agreed.

“Wake me if you need me,” Rabbit said, his voice already slurred with sleep.

“ ‘K,” I agreed.  I pressed closer to him.  “Thanks for talking to me, Rabbit.  See you in the morning.”

Rabbit grunted something unintelligible.  I checked my arms to make sure they weren’t smoldering. 

“Menopause?” I muttered to myself.

“Go to sleep,” Rabbit groaned.

“ ‘K. Going to sleep now.”

I closed my eyes and allowed myself to drift.  One more check to make sure no smoke was pouring out of my arms, and then I too fell asleep.

C. D. Blizzard is the author of the novels Blackwater, Broken, and Profile

www.cdblizzard.com

Strange Bedfellows Can Keep A Dog Awake At Night

2 am.  I became aware of something cold and eerie pressed against my left elbow.  I lay still for a time, trying to determine if this feeling was the ghost trying to get my toes, or if it was something more corporeal, such as…my dog’s nose.

“Oh, god,” I moaned.  I rolled over and peered into Mooch’s eyes, which were somewhat visible in the dim glow cast from the alarm clock.  “What now?”

Mooch stared back at me.

I listened intently for a moment, expecting to hear thunder in the distance.  No thunder.  No hooting neighbors.  No sound that might make Mooch scared.

“You can’t get in bed with me,” I told her.

She continued to stare at me over the edge of the bed, her lips perfectly draped over my favorite blanket.  I sighed.

“What’s up, dog?”

Mooch whimpered softly.

“I’m supposed to translate that?”  I rubbed my eyes wearily.  “You know, for the past eight years I haven’t had not one single good night’s sleep.  It’s no wonder I drag my a** through the day.”

Mooch grumbled, soft and low.

“Do you hafta barf?”  I queried.  (I think I’m the only person on the planet who owns a dog that is trained to go outside when she feels like she has to barf.)

Mooch pressed her chin into the mattress and remained silent. 

“Okay, you don’t gotta barf.  How about potty?  You gotta potty?”

Mooch stared at me in silence.

“Okay, you don’t hafta potty, either.  So, go to bed.”

Mooch obediently walked to the foot of the bed.  I watched as she stared at her bed.  Keeping an eye on the outer edge, she daintily climbed into her bed, but she didn’t settle down.  Instead, she crossed over to the other side, got out of her bed, and went to Rabbit’s side of the bed.  Rabbit was sound asleep.  She peered into his face, then pressed her chin into the mattress and waited.

I stared at her.  “Mooch, what’s up?  Go to bed.”

Mooch dutifully went to her bed.  She stared at the bed for a time and then reluctantly got in.  She squeezed herself into one corner of the bed, gazing periodically at one particular corner of the bed, then got up again and came to stand beside me.

“Is something in your bed?”

She woofed in affirmation, a sort of whisper-woof she’d been trained to use when she wasn’t supposed to wake Rabbit.

“Oh, god.  Did you pee in your bed?” I groaned.

Mooch stared at me.  “I didn’t pee in my bed, mom.”

I got up, grabbed the little flashlight I kept beside my bed, and went to investigate the condition of Mooch’s bed.  I saw nothing.

“There’s nothing there, Mooch.  Go to bed.”

Mooch whisper-woofed again, as if to say, “Give it another look, ma.”

Fully awake now, and thoroughly annoyed at having yet another night’s sleep wrecked beyond repair, I switched my flashlight back on and swept the beam over Mooch’s bed.  “There’s nothing.  Nada.  Just a few specks of dirt.”

Mooch gazed up into my face, then peered at one particular speck of dirt.  I followed her gaze.  Bending down, I intended to sweep a finger over the speck to show her that it was just a bit of dirt, when I realized the bit of dirt moved.  I peered closer.  Darned if it wasn’t a tick.

“That?” I demanded.  “You woke me up for that?”

Mooch woofed.  “Yeah, mom.  I don’t want that thing on me.”

I picked the tick off the bed and went down the hall to flush it down the toilet.  Back in the bedroom, I gave Mooch’s bed a thorough examination, and made sure no more critters lurked there.  I straightened her blanket.  She watched intently.

When I was finished, I patted her head.  “Better?”

She grinned, wagged her tump, and stepped into her bed.  “Thanks, mom.  I knew you’d fix it.”

“Yeah, yeah, mom fixes everything,” I muttered as I climbed back into bed.

Mooch settled down and sighed happily.  I stared at the ceiling, wide awake.  Just then Rabbit rolled over toward me, paddled his feet a few times, and accidentally scratched my ankle with his toenails.

Growling, I pulled my foot away.  I’d get the toenail clippers, but I didn’t want to scare dog and man in the middle of the night, so I left it alone.  Maybe I’d get some sleep…eventually.

Sighing, I tucked the blankets under my chin and settled in for a few hours of contemplating the ceiling.  If I were lucky, I’d see something exciting for a change, like a ghost.  A beam of light from a UFO parked outside the window.

Nah.  Most likely, I’d simply hear the neighbor down the street getting drunk and hooting like a redneck.  Just another sleepless night in Florida.

C. D. Blizzard is the author of the novels Blackwater, Broken, and Profile. 

www.cdblizzard.com