Kate Harrington

Attachments

I’ve always been attached to home—no matter where home is. Sophie has her own attachments.

The rule at the park is: All dogs must be leashed. I got in trouble once when meeting a neighbor with his two dogs. In order to keep from tangling leashes while the three sniffed and swapped ends, I released Sophie. Unfortunately, just then another neighbor crossed the street with her own small dog. Sophie was distracted from her greetings and there were growls before I grabbed her. The woman got very upset with me.

When I met her again some months later, she apologized. She’d been upset about losing a pet in an encounter with a loose dog.

In spite of the general leash law, and the park rule, every morning two or three dog owners gather at the corner of the park opposite from the school bus stop to toss balls. If I spot any other unrestrained dogs, I leave the park, but these pets have eyes and hearts only for running, catching, and returning with their balls for their next run.

Usually there are only two: Holly, a black standard poodle and smaller Hita (short for Hijita, meaning Daughter) a friendly, spotted, mixed breed. The poodle wants everyone to join the game. She drops her ball near me, hoping I’ll throw it—which I do, though my tosses are rather feeble. Sophie used to bark at Holly as if a threat, but no longer.

A cold and crisp day is just what gives Sophie lots of energy. She’s ready to play. These mornings she bounces around wanting to run, not after balls but after the other dogs. On this particular morning, I looked around. No one in sight. The school bus had left. Perfect. I released her. But after Sophie sniffed at Hita, she returned to my side and sat.

Her body language was so clear! No thanks. I don’t want to be disconnected. She never wants to appear as a “Lost Dog” on a flyer.

This morning, we circled the park from the other direction. Holly caught her ball and turned back. Sophie took off after; she doesn’t run very far or very fast but I wasn’t ready to dash with her, so dropped the leash. Sophie continued on, dragging it until she ran out of steam, then stopped.

Responding to fears can keep us safe, but often a fear is something we need to push through. By writing and not publishing, I found myself in a gray gloom. When I decided to explore self-publishing, I discovered a renewed enthusiasm, and my world enlarged. There’s such a thing as keeping ourselves too safe.

Sophie’s always watching for the next dog or person she can befriend.

Nothing was ever accomplished by remaining insular. Living in New Mexico with our mix of native Americans, hispanics, and every other race, creed, and gender, my vote goes for the acceptance of differences, for immigrant rights, for expedited entry of refugees, and for automatic citizenship of every child raised in this country.

To both of us, home is home. Everyone needs and deserves a place where they can feel safe

Facing Fears

I was thinking about Fear this morning. Partly because the heroine (in my current revision work) has to face her fear as she moves into the story’s climax. Partly because I’m discovering that ignoring my own fears stifles creativity.

Too much of this year I spent in the doldrums, unable to move. I overate and watched too many videos with a cloud of not-quite-but-almost depression hanging over my head. The worst part was trying to justify a two-mile walk for morning tea with no projects to work on.

When I decided I had to self-publish three middle grade/tween science fiction novels, I experienced a burst of enthusiasm and energy. That energy led to tackling the work at hand.

But, unsure how to begin a self-publishing project, that idea lapsed into the background. And sure enough, the doldrums returned, bringing all my momentum to a halt.

Self-publishing terrifies me. The biggest part is self-exposure, rather like my first library job. I discovered being professional meant I’d have to make phone calls. Well, I can always quit, I told myself. But I didn’t. It’s the same now. I can always quit. Or—

Or I can stick to my goal, every day reminding myself fear doesn’t have to be in charge.

Sophie is a good role model—up to a point. While my fears are invisible, hers are not.

Some threats, such as a vehicle nearing her spot on the sidewalk, cause her to shy away. Perfectly reasonable reaction. However, if it’s not coming at her, like the noisy trucks currently clearing sewer lines outside the house, she announces loudly that they don’t belong there! Scram!

If a bicycle or skateboard or dog takes her by surprise, she’ll lunge. I doubt if she intends to bite, but she makes clear she wants them to back off. Well, I don’t exactly lunge at my fears, but Sophie’s absolutely correct about facing them head-on.

Sophie’s reluctance/refusal to go out into wind and rain comes closest to my kind of fear. This fall, I made her a coat to provide a little armor against some particularly violent weather.

For me, talking to people in the know provides its own kind of armor. Lois, for instance, tells me launching the first book is the scariest, and after that it gets easy. (I hope so.)

Meanwhile, I’m taking baby steps towards that goal. This lets me set deadlines for other work, knowing I’ll have wind in my sails to carry it through. Staying aware, not letting my fears go underground, can and shall move me forward.

Third Time’s—Another Harness?

Sophie and I are serious creatures, aware we’re a couple small blips in the big world. That doesn’t mean we don’t react—to bullies and threats—real or imagined.

We’re also obstinate where we believe we’re right. On walks, only one of us gets to be right. We have our stand-offs. Some days she wants to go one way, and I want the other. Or I come to the end of the leash, only to find her stopped in her tracks staring at me until I return to her side, then she proceeds again nicely. I wish I knew what she’s thinking.

Speaking of obstinacy, I remember the morning Mom tried to put me in a dress for pre-school and I said, “no.” Even then, when Mom asked, I couldn’t tell her why. My best guess is she had told me I was getting too big for it, and I had crossed it off my list of possible clothes. Beware what you say to your kids!

Anyway, back to the previous blog’s discussion of harnesses. Sophie did not like her second harness any better than the first. So we took her shopping—again—and paid twice as much for harness number three.

This one goes on her for the morning walk and comes off after her evening outing. It seems to be a keeper. She might still play hard-to-get but if she wants to walk, she’ll lower her head to help me put it on.

Just like my preschool dress, Sophie can’t explain to us what was wrong with the other two. So long as she willingly wears this latest one, we’re all happy.

On Leaving our Comfort Zones

Twice now the vet has ordered us not to use a collar on Sophie. Wearing a collar is safe! Collars only come off at bathtime. And that harness feels so strange.

She is currently fitted with her second—hated—harness. This morning she opted to not take a walk at all rather than put it on.

But life without walks is dull. Sophie has to put up with that harness just to have fun, so first she plays games with us—showing she’s interested—until she finally chooses to go on an exciting smelly walk rather than sniff the same old yard.

Like Sophie, I prefer security. Writing is safe when I’m immersed in worlds of my own making. I’ve even learned to be okay with sending out queries to agents, since nothing scary has ever yet resulted.

But there comes a day when nothing works the way it used to. Writers’ block is hitting your head against a brick wall rather than admit there’s something wrong in the direction your work is going. Right now I’m facing a different kind of block—that of having created a wealth of writings going nowhere.

I’m drowning in five and a half novels, all clamoring for attention. It’s time to put on a new harness. It’s time to set one of them free into the world.

I’ve decided to self-publish the first of my three science fiction novels (for middle-grade to young teenager.) With that decision, my life got a little brighter, even though it also increased in complications.

First is the learning curve to self-publishing. Then, the manuscript requires a read-through and lots of little changes, including finding that particular misspelled word I was told of, but which word?

Every novel has a shape of its own, sometimes a fast-rising triangle to the story’s climax, sometimes a deep valley with, the reader hopes, a way back to a solid foundation. So do our lives have shapes. My life has been a series of plateaus, with dips in-between. I’ve been sliding downhill for too long.

One writing workshop I attended included this particularly useful piece of wisdom:

You don’t lose creativity when you get older but you need to learn how to take risks.

It’s time to take risks again. Harnesses, whether for work or for walks, can constrict. But sometimes that’s what it takes to regain enthusiasm. If Sophie can turn that harness into a game, maybe I can too.

Doggie Body-Language

A few months back, we attended an evening class on Dog Body Language. I wish I had taken notes.

A dog goes through a whole sequence of actions warning off whoever (dog or person) has intruded in their space. Afterwards, they shake off their tension, returning to relaxed muscles clearly visible in facial and body expressions if you know what you’re looking for. I’m not at all sure I do. Plus, the video clips showing dog attitude shifts happened so quickly that if you’re not watching, you’ll miss them. Except . . .

There are exceptions—those dogs under the influence of medication or over-the-top stresses who made their signals long ago and never shook them off, remaining in an unhealthy state of high-alert.

fear of dogs

I’m afraid of loose dogs, especially unfamiliar ones.

When I was a teen, I sometimes substituted for my sister’s paper route. I wore the double-sided bag containing the flat newspapers. At one particular house with a loose barking dog. I would take off the newpaper bag and hold it in front of my legs. One time, the boy living there grabbed the dog, looking at me with disgust.

Was the dog playing? I didn’t know, then or now.

When in graduate school, I walked to class past a large wolf hound tied up in a front yard. It lay quietly and I, assuming it was friendly, told the dog hello and went on my way. Until the day, feeling sorry for its lonely state, I thought to give it a pat. I stepped toward it. It lunged, tearing my coat.

Fortunately, it arrived at the end of its rope before it got to me. That dog must have been on constant high alert, poor thing.

Ever since, when encountering loose dogs, I walk the other way, or cross to the other side of the street. No class is going to change my reactions.

dogs at play

Our main interest in attending the class was to discover what Sophie might be telling us, and what she might be telling other dogs.

We learned about rocking-horse gait, that bounding run of a dog at play. I love to see Sophie run like that. Relaxed dogs will curve their bodies, whether in a side-ways curve, or resting on elbows in open invitation to play.

Dogs feel threatened if a larger dog looms over them. When they get acquainted, it’s best to approach from the side. As they swap ends to sniff, we— attached to their leashes—are supposed to circle along with our dogs.

Sophie distrusts puppies—maybe because they haven’t learned dog manners yet.

observations

The other day, returning from Sophie’s walk, a pit-bull mix and owner approached on the other side of the street. The pit-bull stared at Sophie and pulled on his leash. Sophie barked ferociously in response.

Before we reached the end of the block, another pair came along. This large setter kept her gaze forward, paying no attention to us. Sophie barked totally differently, much friendlier. She seemed to be saying: I like you. Come over and say hello. Maybe we can play.

On Feeling Lost

I felt lost this morning. That Where do I go from here? at the end of a big project. It’s over. There’ll be more to do, but nothing to match that satisfaction of everything falling into place.

I’m not a newcomer to being physically lost. My first experience was in Kindergarten. Told to walk home with the Jones boys (twins), I was sure they were going the wrong way. They turned left. I turned right and marched about three blocks the wrong way. Mom found me in front of the Methodist Church.

A few years later, I discovered why I get lost. After picking up our toys, we kids could go enjoy the “Saturday Morning Matinee”: Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy, or some other western hero. We ran downhill and turned right. Mid-block was the theater. Invariably, following the triumphant cowboy finish, I’d leave the theater and turn right—toward the familiar view—only to realize that I’d added two extra blocks to my gallop for home.

I thought of that this morning, walking Sophie. She often brings me to a halt with her sniffing. I looked back down the street at the winter-bare trees hanging over the park. To not get lost, it’s important to look back the way we came.

I’m most often looking ahead toward the next project. Maybe that’s why I still haven’t tackled sorting all those photographs.

So what’s the answer to mourning the loss of a fictional world? It’ll take some effort, but I have to return to the physical world. Get outside and prune the apricot tree, set out more seed trays to sprout, clear out some closets, clean the house. Post more blogs. Maybe even sort those photos.

Until a new goal appears on the horizon, and I forget to look back—again.

Staying Grounded equals Coming Home

apology to readers

Two siblings told me recently I should continue blogging. When I revise, I go deep into my stories and they take over my world. These last few months I’ve been simultaneously revising two manuscripts. Now I’m down to one, but it still takes something of an earthquake to jar me out of that preoccupation. A mini-earthquake, anyway.

Valentines day tumble

I really didn’t want to get out of bed, but if I don’t take my walk early, it’s too late. Sophie demands her own walk. I get involved in writing. Later, I tell myself I’m too tired, or don’t want to leave my book, or whatever.

So while walking, I was engrossed in being tired, hungry, and wishing I was there already; I looked at some construction across the street; my toe caught and down I went—making a five-point landing: hands, knees, chin.

I rolled over and sat a moment, grateful for gloves that had protected my hands, and heavy jeans that protected my knees. And especially for the many appointments with OsteoStrong, in maintaining and improving my bone density. Later, judging from the evidence, my first contact with the road was my right ring finger—a blood blister on its tip.

I got to my feet. Go home? No tea or breakfast ready there—nor the Valentine cookie intended for my love. So I walked carefully the rest of the way.

stay grounded!

Several years ago I learned the importance of staying grounded, especially when taking a walk. That day, I saw the uplifted sidewalk ahead of me, but my thoughts were far far away. I fell and broke my little finger.

Lesson learned: maintain attention on my body, especially my feet. But just to be sure I would remember, a second lesson arrived the day my cast was to come off.

Taz had been unwell. While mopping up one accident, I stepped into another. Turning too quickly on the wet floor, I went down. No harm done—but the second fall underscored, highlighted, and impressed the importance of always being aware of the ground beneath me.

For years, after miles and miles of walking, of feeling the ground under my feet, of thinking any thoughts, even fantastical ones, so long as that awareness held, on annual doctor visits, I could answer proudly, “No recent falls.”

Let this be my renewed lesson for the next many years. Avoid wishful thinking and negative thoughts. Be mindful of my true feelings.

Staying grounded is a way of coming home.

Ghost Dog

Taz was our first experience with a Llasa Apso. He left this world three years before Sophie came to our house to stay. Very similar in appearance, both dogs displayed friendly Llasa personalities.

But beyond that, Taz was Sophie’s opposite. Where Sophie is hesitant, Taz was bold, unrestrained, and impulsive, prone to dashing into the street for whatever reason. If ignored by a visitor, Sophie will give up, but Taz always insisted on his right to be acknowledged. In fact, one time he attacked my shoe because I didn’t let him out the door to greet a person on our porch.

Taz’s favorite spot was on the back of the loveseat, where he could keep an eye on the neighborhood. If I failed to raise the blinds, he’d let me know toute de suite. We shared Taz with our neighbors, Fran and Bill, across the street. On his days over there, he occupied a similar lookout.

Besides halving the bills, sharing Taz meant any time either family traveled, he’d still be at home. And Taz knew his job was to occupy and guard two houses. He happily crossed back and forth (with escort, of course). He’d probably have been equally happy to own three or four houses! He had a big heart.

We originally split the week, half there, half here. However, when Bill had his accident with a bandsaw, Taz’s schedule changed so that he could spend days comforting Bill. He returned to us for nights and morning walks.

I liked the new arrangement a lot, free to come and go without worrying about being gone too many hours at a stretch. And also, because in the night I could trust Taz’s senses to tell me whether I was lying awake due to some imagined sound or if it was really real.

Bill and Fran moved to be closer to their kids, so the sharing arrangement was no longer possible when Sophie came to stay.

The first time Sophie entered our house, she hopped up onto Taz’s loveseat, but only as far as the armrest. She likes to be high enough but not too high. The one time I placed her on the back to look out the window, she leaped down in a panic.

Does she know something we don’t?

Is Taz’s ghost still with us?

Putting Down Roots

ComingHome

I’ve always felt a need to be rooted in a solid house on solid ground. As a too-serious kid, when our family took long summer road trips, I’d grow anxious to be back home if we were gone too long.

On those trips, the closer we got to home, the more concerned I grew because—as everyone knows—Most accidents happen close to home. So if Dad was driving into the night, I’d try to stay awake to make sure we arrived. Silly, right?

As young newlyweds, we moved to Texas for my husband’s job. Only when we arrived and had rented a little duplex could I finally relax. I had roots again.

Now let us leap over years and several more moves and a new marriage. It was when Dad was dying, and I went to be with my mother, that I discovered roots are not always a place—or maybe I mean, roots are not simply a place.

The weeks away from home after Dad’s death dragged. I kept telling myself everything was fine. I was in my childhood home. Mom needed me. The date was set for Dad’s memorial service. After that I could go home.

Wayne called to tell me when his flight would arrive. Some tightness inside that I hadn’t even recognized loosened into tears and gratitude. Wayne was coming!

He was my roots. He was my home.

Sophie’s House–training

IMG_0964 (1)

I’m Sophie.

At first, I felt lost at Wayne and Kate’s house. The food they gave me smelled just like that glass-room-place. I stuck up my nose and refused to eat—until they made it taste like chicken.

Their yard didn’t smell right, either. I couldn’t find any place to leave a message so I held it. In the house, I chose a room they never used. When they couldn’t see me, I left a message. Then I hurried away.

She scrubbed away my message. I know she wasn’t happy with me, but Wayne always told me, “You’re a good doggie.”

We went on walks, I smelled other dog messages. Sometimes I left my own reply, and sometimes I held it because I didn’t know the dogs in this place. When nothing outside smelled right, I left new messages on the same rug as before.

I tried so hard to be good. I was afraid they’d take me back to that glass-room place. Being nervous meant I couldn’t pay attention to what they told me. I kept on making mistakes. Kate says we are alike. She makes mistakes when she tries too hard, too.

In the mornings, Wayne gave me a treat for going outside to the back yard. When I left a message, he gave me another treat. He always said, “Good girl.”

The backyard smells all right now. I go out often, but unless I need to leave a message right away, I wait for Wayne. I like the treats, and giving me treats makes him happy.

Kate says we are alike. She lets Wayne bring her chocolate for birthdays and Christmases and Valentines because it make him happy. And she likes the chocolate.