Wildflowers Press

I’m listening to Zach Bryan’s new album, The Great American Bar Scene. His opening poem, Lucky Enough, sets the tone… “If I”m lucky enough, I’ll tell the truth every chance I get…’Cause smiles faked to appease another is worth ten regrets.”

Prophetic and poetic. I’m pulled back to my computer wanting to write my truths – the good, the bad and the ugly.  

I had to take a few days off to recover from a nasty dog bite.  Both hands.  She didn’t mean to chomp on me – her sister was the target.  I got in the way.  I was lucky she didn’t use the full force she could have when clamping down.  Now I’m on antibiotics and soaking my hands in Epsom salts.  One finger is still a bit dodgy but everything else is healing up nicely.

I’m often asked why I like this dog. How can I continue to live with her when she’s put me in the Emergency Room, twice. I can’t explain it. She’s not a bad dog. She’s instinctive and despite months of training, she sees red when the pecking order is questioned. But she doesn’t question my role as Alpha. It’s when the other dogs in the house challenge her. This is how wild canids and your average pack of family dogs respond to a challenge in the hierarchy. It’s hard to comprehend on a human level – but truthfully, humans aren’t that different. We’re more subtle. We mask our true intentions with a smile and a quick stab in the back.

I understand Josie’s need for dominance among the canines in our house. And there are a lot of them. Her breed (pitt) and behavior are linked to the ancient wolf DNA coursing through her. Even our naked, hairless terrier, Jelly Bean (about as far from canus lupus as there ever was) shows signs of wolf-like proclivities – from circling the spot in bed where she wants to lay down.

I spend a lot of time around dogs because we have six. I am aware of the pack dynamics, and even with that knowledge, accidents happen. And that’s how I’d describe my most recent episode. The incident occurred when four of the six were gathered around my feet, while I worked at my computer, ignoring them. My mistake. Josie didn’t go after me. She went after Clementine. And then Oliver and Tater joined the fray. My left hand ended up in Josie’s mouth as I tried to pull her off Clem. The fingers on my right hand got chewed on by someone else as the fight escalated. Thankfully I got Josie pulled off. She listened when I yelled to stop. And believe me, she didn’t want to. Everyone paused. Enough of a pause for me to gain control and drag Josie back to her crate.

It was scary, I won’t lie. I nearly hyperventilated afterwards, as I dripped blood all over the house. I grabbed a wad of paper towels, wrapped my hands, hopped in my car and headed the nearest Emergency Room – 25 minutes away in Covington.  I called John on the way in and he met me there a few hours later. Thankfully my hands weren’t as bad as they could have been. John thinks Josie showed restraint. He’s not wrong. She has the jaw strength to crush bone. But she didn’t – even as I kept my hand in her mouth, afraid to wrench it out – for fear of doing more damage. She crunched down a couple times before letting go. She knew I wasn’t the one she wanted to bite. That’s why I forgive her.

Animal instinct is hard to tamp down. Those instincts have evolved for a reason. I respect her strength and power and I know when I yell at her, she’ll listen. I just need to keep my hands away from her mouth. She’s smart and a cuddler. And there aren’t many people who’d put up with her. But I will.

For now I’m grateful I can get back to writing and return to the normal activities I take for granted, like doing dishes and washing my hair.  

July in Louisiana blisters.  And all the rain that’s threatened to fall, has missed us.  When Beryl curls back around this way, we’ll get the outer bands.  We need it. Twenty miles away in any direction, the state has seen lots of rainfall.  For whatever reason, Folsom hasn’t seen much.  I water my garden daily.  

I’m grateful we aren’t in another drought like last summer.  Louisiana and drought are incompatible… unnatural and apocalyptic.  A year ago I worried our well would dry up.  It didn’t but our pond became a mudflat.  

To celebrate writing again, I ponder the things I take for granted:  rainwater, working hands, soulful music, dog kisses, and good stories.  

I live in a place where there’s no shortage of water… until last summer.  The grass died – bone dry and crunchy. Plants burnt black, crumbled to ash.  A dearth of bird song and desert echoes hung in the air.  Giant pines and oaks having withstood decades of hurricane force winds and Mother Nature’s stormy wrath, died for lack of water.  A few remain – arms wide, giant naked skeletons.

But this year, we experienced spring and not the excruciating dive into deep summer we sometimes feel in late May.  Early spring brought wood thrush and Carolina wren songs, crickets thrummed in the tall grass, accompanied by the buzz of bumblebees in synchrony with the delicate lilting of Swallowtail wings – a symphonic soundscape in my upland piney-woods backyard.  The unforgiving wasps and heat may keep me from lingering too long by the flowerbeds, but the verdant land, keeps me staring out the windows.  

My soundscape is often interrupted by dog barks.  My attention distracted by the mundane – cleaning dog messes, feeding, watering, meeting the electrician or appliance technician, pulling weeds, planting, cooking, wildlife rescue, grocery shopping, checking in with the kids, laundry, hauling garbage and compost… there’s always something to keep me from writing.  But still I squeeze it in when I can.  

A beautiful wood thrush crashed into our window this morning. Josie attempted to terminate the delicate creature, but we wrested it from her powerful jaws. Now she’s recouping quietly in small carrier, with a bowl of water. She’s a pretty thing, warm brown feathers, a bright white eye-ring, and a white breast covered in brown spots. Wood thrush songs are some of the most beautiful out there. I rarely see these secretive birds, as they keep to the forest cover and blend in well with their dappled camouflage. I’m sorry this one’s hurt, but grateful to be able to observe her up close.

I received another rejection a few days ago.  My submission wasn’t great and it didn’t exactly fit the suggested theme.  I wrote it quickly – not taking the time to edit and shape it properly.  I focused on an old theme – a worn-out theme – Covid.  We’re all sick of Covid.  Although I’m disappointed, I’m not entirely surprised.  Back to the drawing board.  Back to researching new submission or writing contest opportunities. 

Although the daily chores are a grind, especially with a bum hand, I still feel a deep love for the writing process – even faced with rejection or criticism.  When I worked with my developmental editor on my novel, I appreciated the challenges she presented.  It was intimidating and terrifying to reshape and rewrite something I’d spent four years crafting.  Each meeting with her was an epiphany – a new way to understand what I’d written and how I could do it better.  I’m grateful to Asata for her attention to detail and her big picture view to help shape my novel into what it is today.  The themes are the same and the characters haven’t changed, mostly.  But the storytelling is tighter, easier to comprehend. It’s something I’m proud of.  And soon it will be out in the world.

That’s why I write.  To create stories that resonate with others – to remind us of the things we hold dear. It’s also a creative outlet – to keep my mind from spinning out of control and ultimately exploding.

After my recent rejection, I found another submission opportunity.  The theme was a photograph – a picture of a rope, frayed in the middle.  

I interpreted the theme to be “By a Thread” – and so I wrote this.  

Let me know what you think.  In the meantime, I’ll keep my hounds from killing each other in this blistering heat.  I’ll relish dog kisses, swims in the pool and dancing in the rain – when it comes.

~ Cathy Schieffelin

If the Wind Blows,

Ride It

~ Arabic Proverb

Sand invaded every crevice, orifice, and nostril despite Nahla’s elaborate headscarf.  She and Olive were led to the starting line.  They stood amidst snorting brown mountains, groaning and grunting, their two-toed feet stamping the soft sand track.  Slobber and snot foamed from thick lips, as tails flicked biting sandflies.  Competing jockeys, festooned in neon racing colors, clucked to their mounts, ruddy cheeks bulging with wads of khat.  Nahla chewed the bitter leaves once to show she could be “one of the boys.”  They laughed when she vomited in the dirt… clearly a novice. 

Despite her blunder, no one suspected her true identity.  Women were not permitted to race in this ancient of Arabian events. With her covered head, dirt-smeared features and slight frame, she was indistinguishable from the other young riders.  Salim’s Races were renowned.  Competition was stiff among the cocky young men from nearby villages, hoping to win the purse.

Nahla cared for her family’s caravan – all twelve animals.  Olive was one of their newer dromedaries – a dowry offering when her elder sister married.   Like her name, Olive was small, dark and salty.  No one could tame the feral creature.  Her brothers considered her a dangerous nuisance.  Nahla recognized the fire in her eyes and the advantage of her small size – agile and fearless.  Just like Nahla.  

She practiced in the wee hours of the morning, to keep her family from harping about her involvement in something so unsuited for women.  Camel training and racing were considered men’s work.  Nahla disagreed as her brothers had no affinity for the animals.  They didn’t care for the races and were unlikely to appear at Salim’s.

***

The Intilaq (start) was imminent. Nahla flexed her calves, squeezing her legs into the animal’s side.  Gripping the reins, she rose out of the weathered saddle and whispered in Olive’s soft ear, “Yallah!” as the gates rose to start the race.

Olive lurched forward, amidst the dusty throng.  Bellowing and roaring, her competitors jockeyed for position. Nahla kept her focus between Olive’s ears.  There’d be a race to take the lead. That wasn’t her strategy.  In a ten kilometer race, stamina was necessary.  She watched the young men whip their battered steeds mercilessly.  

She settled in for the kilometers perched over Olive’s neck – keeping weight off as much as possible.  Olive loped with grace, stretching further with every stride.  

As they came to the final distance marker, many of the early front-runners fell back, their mounts heaving, as great gobs of sandy snot smacked the track.  

Olive and Nahla, synchronous and buoyant…as if on water…  floated across golden sand dunes. 

In the last stretch, Nahla relaxed and eased Olive into a softer lope.  

As the finish-line loomed, she slowed Olive further and gave her the cue they’d practiced each morning.

Olive staggered into the finish, limping, as Yusuf swept past taking the prize by a thread for first place.

Eyes cast downward, Nahla and Olive glided homeward…

A sly smile reached her salt and sand crusted eyes.

Ala-tul. 

Copyright 2024 Cathy Schieffelin

Thank you for reading. Enjoy the Dog Days however you’re able.

~ Cathy Schieffelin