Losing Maya

 

*Spoiler Alert!* I found her again. But not without significant emotional trauma….

Just over a week ago, I took my darling girl, Miss Maya Angelou Murphy, pictured above, on a hike in the Cienega Canyon Preserve. It’s a wild area out in the hills southwest of where we live, and I’ve hiked there often with her. We both love it. She gets to sniff wild creatures on the wind and in the brush, and I get to watch for hawks, deer, coyotes, and other wild creatures.

On this particular morning, we’d gone less than a mile before looking up to see a very young bobcat playing in the trail about forty yards ahead of us. At the sound of my laugh, the big kitten bounded off into the sage and sunflowers, and a moment later we crept past that spot, Maya with her nostrils flaring, me with my phone out, camera app on, hoping to see it again. No such luck. We walked on.

"Mom! What was that big kitty thing?!?"

The morning was bright and already heating up at 8:00, and the trail we had traveled in the past had become extremely overgrown, so I was just making up my mind to turn around and head home when Maya began limping. She’d picked up a sticker in her left front paw.

This presented a problem. While it is no longer much of a struggle for me to touch her feet (to check them after a hike or to clip her nails) when she’s in her crate, she is still too wary to let me touch her paws or legs while we are out hiking. We obviously couldn’t go on, though, so I made her sit, and when she was calm, I reached down to check her paw. She panicked, jumped backward, and slipped right out of her collar. Then I panicked, telling her “Maya! Wait!” a bit too sharply. But she stopped. (Good girl!) Hands shaking, I grabbed her scruff, holding it tightly with one hand as I slid the collar back on with the other. I walked her forward, and in the tussle, the sticker had apparently been dislodged, as she was walking without limping. Whew. Safe. Or so I thought.

We turned to go home.

On a previous visit to the preserve, I had dropped Maya’s leash when we were about a half mile from the trailhead, and she had done beautifully, trotting ahead at times, but always stopping when I gave her the “wait” command. On this day, when we were still three quarters of a mile out, I decided to try that training again, but instead of dropping the leash in the dirt, I unhooked it. She trotted along beside me in the trail, never going ahead, just being with me. It was glorious. Until it wasn’t.

Because we’d seen the bobcat, and because the day was warm, my gaze alternated constantly between the trail up ahead (for coyotes or critters), the trail beneath our feet (in case of rattlesnakes), and checking to make sure Maya was beside me. We’d gone a quarter mile when I looked out, looked down, looked to my side—and she was gone.

I stopped and turned. She’d taken a side path, a single-track coyote trail that led toward a steep ridge, and those crazy long legs of hers were trotting as fast as she could stride. She was already thirty yards ahead of me. Panicking again, I called her loudly: “Maya! WAIT!” To no avail.

Here’s the thing about feral dogs: You can’t chase them. In Maya’s first life, the one she spent in two successive, awful rescues, they handled her by chasing her—out of her kennel, then back in. When she sees anyone behind her on our walks, she immediately becomes anxious and strains on the leash, trying to run.

In this situation, I had to pursue her, but I knew I couldn’t run. I walked as fast as I could, repeatedly calling her. She ran up a hill so steep, I questioned whether I could get up it—but I did. I had to. As I topped the ridge, I saw her, now fifty yards ahead, still trotting. She disappeared down a slope, and all I could do was follow, hoping she didn’t leave the trail.

She didn’t. As I reached the bottom of the downhill slope, I could see her topping the next hill. On we went in that fashion, with me losing, then gaining sight of her, willing myself to breathe deep, save my oxygen and strength.

I topped a hill, and there she was, exhausted, lying in the shade under some brush.

“Maya! Wait!” I snapped. And she was off and running again.

I slowed my walk, thinking, as the sun rose higher and I realized I’d brought no water with me, I might have to follow her all the way to the far end of the preserve, which was three miles along the ridgeline—and a block from Interstate 10.

“Breathe, Kay,” I told myself. “What would Cesar Millan do?”

Well, he would adjust his energy, stay calm, and not utter a word.

I did these things, as best I could, topped another ridge—and there she was again, lying in the dirt, panting. I stood in the trail, breathing and sweating and hoping, not saying a word. Slowly she rose to her feet. I didn’t move. She walked toward me. Quietly, calmly, I said, “Maya, come,” and I turned toward home. She followed, right at my heels. After a moment, she moved beside me on the trail. Ever so slowly and gently, I reached out a hand and took her collar, stopped, and snapped on the leash.

When I knew I had her, I sank to my knees in the trail and sobbed. If she’d been lost in those hills, she would not have survived. The coyotes would have made a quick meal of her.

How I found her--without the leash, of course.

The long walk back in the hot sun, descending those steep hills on shaky legs, took an agonizingly long time. Maya was overheated and kept trying to lie down in every little bit of shade she found. I would have carried her—all thirty pounds—but on those treacherous descents, it would have been too dangerous. If I’d sprained or broken an ankle, our day would have gone from bad to really quite awfully terrible.

Friends, I believe I have learned more from the mistakes I’ve made with my dogs than all the YouTube videos and episodes of The Dog Whisperer (or Cesar’s other many shows) I’ve ever watched. How did I fail Maya? By not realizing that, while I had quickly moved on after the sticker-in-the-paw episode, she had not yet shaken it off—how I’d grabbed her, speaking sharply and holding the back of her neck. The trust of a feral dog is always tenuous. With Thomas, it still is, even after nearly ten years. Yes, we have our sweet moments when I brush him or clip his nails or simply sit and rub his belly, and he is blissfully happy. But then I might do something he sees as threatening—slap a mosquito or pick up my guitar or print out a document—and suddenly he is terrified, running through the house and seeking safety somewhere away from me.

That’s what Maya was doing, seeking a safe place to hide. Eventually, she came to see that she could run forever—or she could choose to trust me again. Boy howdy, did I get lucky this time.

Training feral dogs is not for the faint of heart or for those with little patience. The journey is often two steps forward, five steps back. The Universe gave Maya back to me. I will be much, much more careful with her in the future.

Contemplating the long walk back to the car.

How Books Are Made, Part II

 

In my previous post, I talked about the creativity that goes into the making of a book. But I didn’t talk about the practical side of bringing that creative spark into fruition (if you’ll allow the mixed metaphor there).

It’s one thing to have an idea for a book. It’s an entirely different matter to spend hours at a keyboard (or with pen or pencil and paper), day after day, week after week, month after month until that original idea has been fleshed out into a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end, hopefully containing some tension and conflict throughout, and a resolution that satisfies the reader—plus maybe, just maybe, giving readers something to “take away,” a lesson to ruminate upon or a miniscule bit of wisdom that might, in the tiniest way, influence their choices for the better. One hopes.

When I began the Dragon Singer Series, I was still teaching, so my writing time—after being away from home all day, then returning to walk an anxious, troubled dog, and feed the cats, and eat dinner, and watch the news, and maybe toss in a load of laundry—was limited. In addition to that, I began Fey Girl, the first book, in pencil, writing in a composition book that my granddaughter, Ellie, had given me. I wanted to channel my inner ten-year-old, and I remembered writing some stories in a composition book when I was that age—some of my first! And so I began.

The process was interrupted often. Given my schedule (rising at 4:00a.m. to get to the gym before work or to ride my bike to work and arrive at 6:45), I was tired by early evening. Things happened. I had house guests. I came down with pneumonia a few times. I struggled through winter depression.

Finally, in June of 2016, I retired from teaching. In that summer, I sold a house, bought a house, moved 40 miles east—and slept as often as I felt like it. Then, at long last, I joyfully returned to my writing life in earnest.

As soon as Fey Girl was finished, I began writing the second book, making steady progress and finishing it within a year. The third book took less than a year. The fourth, even less than that. While I was working on Book Two, my dear friends John and Lisa Durham introduced me to John’s niece, Annie Katz, a writer and novelist and earth mother who became my best and truest critique partner. We began exchanging projects, giving each other feedback, and engaging in long phone conversations about the best way to publish. She is all about independent publishing. Another friend believes one is not a “professional” writer until one has been published by a traditional publisher. (Well, I’ve done that, so….)

In a nutshell, here’s the difference:

A traditional publisher takes the author’s manuscript and has a team of printing experts design an interior (choosing the type of font, the type of paper—weight and color, the margin size, the spacing between lines, as so forth). Another team of experts designs the cover. (Will the title be larger than the author’s name? Yes, if it’s a first-time author, no, if the author is Stephen King. What will the balance of text-to-graphics be? What colors will work best?) While this process is happening, the publisher may decide—based on “marketability”—to change the book’s title. Or add a subtitle. Or edit—or delete—some of the content. But hey, when the book is finally ready (one to two years after acceptance), it will be released across the country simultaneously, available online but also on bookstore shelves, all at once, all on the same day.

An indie author can’t do this, since the big bookstore chains (well, I guess there’s only one left, isn’t there?) will not carry (unless asked by customers) independent authors on their shelves. Nor do indie authors have the opportunity to list their books in the lovely, slick catalogs that publishers send out to bookstores.

However—independent authors have full control over every aspect of how their books are published, from interior design to cover design, and we even determine the list price.

This is why I made the choice to publish the Dragon Singer Series independently. The more I spoke to Annie Katz and others (including my buddy, writer/actor/director/funny guy Tim Chizmar), the more reluctant I became to give up creative control. I had a vision for these books, and I couldn’t bear the thought of being told, “We’ve decided to add/subtract/edit…” or whatever a marketing department might choose for MY books. (For the purpose of brevity, I will not include all the struggles I had to this end with the publishers of my first and second books. If you’re curious, just ask in the comments below. But… boy howdy….)

Of course, in making that crucial decision to self-publish, this also means that the entire process rests in the hands of the writer (unless one chooses to outsource the work, which is possible, but also expensive).

The only thing I didn’t do was create the illustration and design for the covers. (Thank you, artist-designer Allie Myers!) Everything else—fonts, font size, paper, margins, interior design—that’s all me. And believe me, it’s not a matter of “select all” on MSWord and typing in a few choices. There is a lot to very carefully complete. Plus don’t even get me started on how the format of an “ebook” differs from the format of a paperback. Good grief!

So, yeah, even though the fourth and final book in the Dragon Singer Series was completed months ago, it has taken me quite a number of weeks to find an illustrator and work on the interior design.

Finally, though, the first book is finished, and I am so, so proud of it! Allie’s cover is beautiful, and I am satisfied that my young (and older) readers will feel comfortable with my choices for the interior design—if they’re even paying attention. Maybe they’ll just immerse themselves in the story and keep turning those pretty white pages….

Fey Girl, Book One in the Dragon Singer Series, is set to be released at 12:01a.m. on Tuesday, October 17. Please celebrate with me on that day! If you get crazy (or extraordinarily kind) and decide to read the first book, just know that Allie and I are already working hard to get the second book ready for publication. This one should be easier than the first; I kinda know what I’m doing now. Kinda….

Back cover of Fey Girl

How Books Are Made, Part I

 

"Hiccup" and "Toothless" from How to Train Your Dragon

It starts with a spark of creativity, a tiny seed of an idea that begins to take root and grow in a writer’s brain. At first, it’s easy to ignore the tender little seedling trying to find purchase in a place already teeming with ideas. Those initial ideas definitely get overshadowed by projects that have already made it from brain to keyboard (or yellow pad or sketchbook, in my case). I can pretty much guarantee that the majority of working writers have at least a dozen ideas growing in addition to the three or four projects they’re working on. I do.

Take this post, for instance. The initial idea formed about a month ago. In that time, I have jotted notes for the next blog post (and the one after that), finished and submitted three poems for publication, revised and submitted an essay for publication, worked my tail off to format a book for publication (more on that in the next post), and written countless journal pages. That’s just the physical work I’ve put in. The extra ideas that haven’t been harvested yet? They’re still growing in my brain. Some of them are really getting out of control in there….

It still amazes me to think how my published books came into being. In the 1970’s, I was teaching Lamaze childbirth classes, and my students felt the available books were too technical. I was freelancing at the time, miraculously getting published on a regular basis, and they suggested I write a book with all the information I dispensed in class, posed in less clinical terms than others had used. I gave it some thought (and growth time), and two years later my first book was published.

When I began researching, at my mother’s request, the alleged crimes of her grandmother, I knew eventually I had enough material for a pretty compelling memoir. Many years later (when Mom would finally allow it), The Tainted Legacy of Bertha Gifford came into fruition.

The Dogs Who Saved Me came about during a long summer afternoon spent organizing photographs. I had so many pictures of the various dogs I have companioned with, I realized there were enough to make an album of just dogs alone, and as I leafed through the finished project, considering all their incredible stories, I knew I wanted to record them. That book took two years to write.

This next book—the one that I am just weeks away from seeing released on Amazon—did not begin as a book idea or even a writing project. It began as a song. No. It began with a cat that looked like a dragon. Or more accurately, a dragon that looked like a cat. Here is that story:

When I moved waaaay up to a cabin in the mountains, I took two black cats with me: Old guy Boo Radley and newly adopted Sugar Plum (aka “Sug”). Sadly, in my second year on the mountain, Boo died. Where Sug had previously bonded with Boo, now she began to bond with me in earnest. And it was cold in the winter months, so she would come to the loft at night, jump on the bed, and I would hold the blanket up for her to climb under and snuggle down. Often, in the depth of darkness and quiet only a mountain retreat can offer, I would sing to her. In the beginning, I sang her “Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ral” and other sweet Irish songs I had learned as a child.

Then several things happened in succession. My dear friend and fellow author Michael Welker (Blockbuster Blueprint) suggested I watch the animated feature How to Train Your Dragon, mostly because he thought I’d love the soundtrack, which I did. (Loved the film, too; ya gotta love a rescued critter/underdog/unlikely love story/unlikely hero movie.) Sometime in the ensuing days, I walked into the main room of the cabin to find little Sug face to face at the French doors with an enormous black bear. Sug was standing her ground, back arched, fur and tail puffed to maximum bigness, and hissing as she bared her teeth. She looked, in that moment, for all the world like a tiny dragon. Later that night, as we hunkered down in bed, I began to hum a random tune I’d come up with. Suddenly there were words for it:

Dragon song is an old one

Sing the tale told so long

Dragon song is an old one

Old one, sing the dragon song.

At some point before this, I had attended a writers group meeting in which the guest speaker had noted, in suggesting ways to market one’s books, that the creation of a series (rather than a stand-alone novel) brings readers back looking for the next chapter in the saga. I had dismissed the idea at first. (Writing a series—keeping every detail of every character and plot point clear and correct throughout all the books—is much more challenging than writing a single, all-encompassing story.)

But that night, singing this new song to my tiny cat who apparently had the spirit of a dragon abiding within her, a seed was planted.

Hard to believe that seed began to take root over a decade ago. Well, the original idea became a book. (More on how that happened in the next post.) Originally, I had decided just three books—a compact trilogy—would do nicely. (No way would I attempt an on-going series, given all the other projects I want to tackle.) But as I worked on the second book, I realized that the four seasons had become a theme, so that now there are four books in what will be, when they are published, the Dragon Singer series. The books are written for a middle-grade audience. Which means, I suppose, that any avid reader over the age of say, eight, who loves cats and good dogs and dragons and music will probably enjoy them.

Did I mention that the first one is nearly ready for release in a matter of weeks, if not days? Watch this space!