Dogtown

The Cache

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The Cache

By the time we reached the bridge, we’d forgotten what we were searching for.

The location was new to us, a stretch of road off the highway about two miles farther than the GPS had directed us to go. We hadn’t crossed any bridges, where the cache was supposed to be, so we just kept going until we reached one. This wasn’t our first cache of the day; we had logged two others and given up on another when we agreed our choice of footwear wasn’t going to cut it. There was still an hour till dark and we were in the area, so we set out to find the next one on the list. The website had labeled it “Over the Bridge,” or something equally innocuous. We began calling it “the road that goes nowhere.”

We should have turned around, taken the U-turn the GPS kept shouting that we take. But the road eventually gave in and led us to not one but two bridges, the rusted monster our mother later remembered crossing years ago and its much newer, safer sibling. We parked on the shoulder and strode over the latter, wary of traffic and snakes. And after about ten minutes of peering into cracks and rolling over stones with the toes of our shoes, it was clear we weren’t going to find anything before the mosquitoes found us. With a collective sigh, we clamored back into the car and headed for home.

It didn’t occur to us until the next day that we’d had two other options. “Over the Bridge” was, as we’ve come to expect, a misleading title. The cache could’ve just as easily been placed in the shallow creek below or on the shaky bridge beside the road. Amusingly, we cross that stretch of road almost every day now. We mention it and point but none of us care enough to risk breaking a leg or having one bitten off by a gator just for a Tic-Tac and a scribble on a piece of paper. If we did manage to find it, we’d probably take it with us and lose it in a sea of junk. So for now, the cache remains safely out of our reach.

It’s also entirely possible we had the wrong bridge. But that doesn’t entertain us half as much.

2012: A Review

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My resolutions going into the year were simple enough. I intended to switch hosts and revamp the site, which I did. I wanted to read at least 50 books, a goal I’ve set every year for as long as I can remember but never reached. This year was no different, but I did manage to finish 34 which is a personal best. I wanted to write everyday and push out a novella; didn’t happen, but I spent more time fleshing out The Novel and I had two short stories published. Not bad.

The largest chunk of the year was spent searching and negotiating and packing. Yup, we’re moving house. Back to Dogtown proper but in a (hopefully) better location than before. While the circumstances are still crummy, this time we have some wiggle room and we’ll be bringing a few new family members along for the ride.

Someone stole our mailbox then someone else put up a brand new one in the span of an afternoon. That, or they backed into it and did the right thing by replacing it. But the first scenario’s funnier.

I released a small collection of poetry in late 2011 and earlier this year it received its first review. I had to save it, it made me smile.

Oh wow. This book stinks. Its all about blood and killing. If you get it, read it and you will agree. It was NOT for kids. Saying it is intense. You shouldn’t waste your money on things evn if they are free like this one. Instead read harry potter or percy jackson. VERY interesting. Even though they arent like this one, they are for kids. This is a book for adults and not saying it is bad on everything. It is really good to do song writing. I tryed it and this author is good.

“Duval Street” made Ellen Datlow’s honorable mentions list for 2011. I cut out caffeine. I set up Adam Cesare’s shiny new blog. I wrote pirate/ninja smut which surprised me by doubling as back story for one of my favorite characters. I squeed with Mercedes M. Yardley over her book. However brief, Tawny Kitaen started following me on Twitter.

So where to go in 2013? I want to finish 50 books by the end of the year, for real this time. Finish The Novel. I want to write at least 5 short stories (hey, that’s a leap for me!) and see them all published. I want to blog more often, say, twice a month at least. Find a writing group and stick with it. Join SFWA, HWA, or both. Start journaling again. I want to save $1,000 and pay off my credit cards. I want to paint something, even if I have to use a stencil. And I want to finish a meal in public without retching from the nerves.

To fresh starts and new beginnings. Happy New Year’s, all of you.

Sucking back on nature’s cough syrup

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I‘ve been sick for what feels like an eternity. We all have. When I was in school, I stayed sick. I was so used to it that when the coughing spells and sinus infections magically stopped1, I kind of freaked out. Being able to take a deep breath without gasping was foreign to me. But since we moved out of the shithole2 four years ago, my allergies are making up for it big time. The grass here is toxic; even the dogs break out in hives. There’s ten times as much pollen which means I spend all spring weeping from one eye, and the carpet – at least in one place – sports the ruin of one of my exceptionally heavy nose bleeds.

I wish this was just a bout of heinous allergies but oh, no, we’ve most definitely contracted the cold from hell.

I read once that honeysuckle was an excellent cough remedy. Last year, I tossed some into a glass bottle with apple cider vinegar, pushed it to the back of a cabinet and forgot all about it. I pulled it out the other day and curiosity got the better of me. I popped the top. I didn’t taste it, but the stench was enough to make me wretch. I still haven’t tossed it out, don’t ask me why.

Next time, I’ll try it with honey.


The honeysuckle’s chokehold on our fence.

1 I dropped out at 16. As a result, I got very little exposure to anything past my mailbox. Amazing what that does for one’s sinuses (assuming you clean your house which, ironically, we rarely did; I’m shocked the mold didn’t kill us).
2 My name for what’s also known as “the other house,” where we lived happily for the first two of ten years. Then things went to shit. The last couple of years, we had neither air nor heat nor running water.

My Earliest Memory, or the Time Abe Lincoln Lost His Marbles

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My earliest memory is of wee me, about 6 months old, tumbling over the collapsible rail of my crib and landing on my head. This would happen again many times, enough to warrant a pile of stuffed animals being strategically placed at my bedside to cushion my fall. I learned that if I held onto the railing and swayed (I’m sure I was mimicking the animated monkeys I had seen swinging from branch to branch on early morning cartoons), the side would drop and out I’d spill. But the first time I wasn’t prepared, so I knocked myself silly and shrieked as if I’d fallen onto a bed of nails rather than the floor. My mom rushed in wearing the satin blue nightgown she always wore in those days, scooped me up and carried me into the living room, still a blubbering mess. What followed is most likely a series of events that over time my mind has molded into one, but for the sake of a good story we’ll say this is how it happened.

The TV was on. I want to say we were watching a Saturday Night Live skit but for the life of me I haven’t been able to find a clip online. A young couple, the jock boyfriend and the pretty blonde with her hair pulled into a ponytail, stood looking up at the Lincoln Memorial. They turned to leave when the statue lifted one hand then the other before rising from his seat, glowering down at them like an angry god. Naturally, they screamed and ran away. But they weren’t quite fast enough. I don’t remember what happened to the guy, only that he died first. The girl must not have been very bright because she just stood there aghast. Abe reached down and made a fist and then he was holding her up to his face. She screamed one last time before her head disappeared in his enormous maw. He spit it out – close-up shot of her head rolling across the ground – and the audience went wild with laughter as he shuffled away to wreak havoc on the Washington Monument.

Now, this did nothing to soothe my cries. I’m fairly certain I puked.

Sometime before dawn, I heard a woman’s scream followed by a crash. I opened my eyes and stared at the window on the other side of the room. I didn’t move. If I had been capable, I would’ve pulled the blanket over my head and cried myself back to sleep. Instead I was forced to watch through the dingy glass as a pair of legs, stone white and as big around as tree trunks, strode past and out of sight. Something downstairs shattered. A chair or other wooden object was dragged or pushed across the floor, punctuated by audible wibbling. I knew then Lincoln had forced his way into the building.


Let’s be real, you’d have shit your pants.

It turns out that a drunk had broken into the apartment below us. Besides smashing a window and frightening the female half of the couple who lived there by exposing himself (it’s my understanding that this was the same drunk who spent nights singing in the street, sometimes clothed but most often not, sometimes with a guitar and other times with a harmonica), no real harm was done. So what the hell had I seen moving past my window at the height of the ruckus?

Maybe my mom had spiked my formula to lull me to sleep. Maybe it was the first of many hypnagogic hallucinations to come. But I saw something, something that looked an awful lot like a large marble statue’s large, stiff marble legs.

You tell me.

Crisis at Cedarhill

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Dear Friends,

It is with a sad and heavy heart that I must tell you what is going on here at Cedarhill. On Sunday night, February 5, someone broke into the sanctuary. They turned the felv cats in with our 150 uninfected cats. They were found that way the next morning. Rags were stuffed down the toilet to plug it up. A pair of Michelle’s boots were stolen. All fingers pointed toward a former employee. She worked for us a couple of weeks then asked to be admitted to Willowbrook Psychiatric Center. She turned out not to be very stable.

I’ve had to order a whole new set of 90-keyed alike master locks. The cheapest I could find was $18.00 apiece. I am sure that this person had gotten herself a master lock key to the current set of locks. We are currently on high vigil. We have locked the felv/fiv house, the senior house and the big cat house. We are locking the front gate with a chain and pad lock. In our twenty-five years, I have never felt so threatened.

Now, for the tragic news. We were not sure what happened to Oscar. He started to throw up last Sunday night on February 5 and refused to eat. The vet came out Monday and drew blood which was sent to MSU. We gave him fluids, B-12 and a huge dose of vitamins. The next day we got his blood work back and he had tested positive for salmonella and he died that night. We have been feeding the same beef and chicken and knew that was not the cause. Lady, who lived with Oscar, cries and moans all of the time. It just breaks your heat. Oscar, the plumber, is gone forever. Rest in peace, Oscar.

The following week Sonya, another tiger, started showing severe neurological regression. She could hardly walk. We carried her to MSU and we had every imaginable test run on her. From x-rays, spinal tap, spinal milligram and the result they came back with was 96% cancer in her blood work, and she tested positive for Canine Distemper probably carried by raccoons in this area. She was euthanized by MSU on February 16. The staff and I are still in shock.

If that was not enough, Phoebe our 15-year old blind tiger, on February 23, started having severe seizures and passed away a few hours later. Her little body is at MSU for a necropsy. I’m so used to having Phoebe in my back yard that the emptiness is unbearable. She was quite the talker. She was 5 months old when we rescured her and was 15 years old when she died.

For the animals,
C. Kay McElroy & Michelle Cranford

I’m angry. I’m hurt. In the 15+ years I’ve known about Cedarhill, nothing like this has happened. I don’t presume to know what happened to poor Sonya and Phoebe – the timing just sucks. But I don’t think it’s far-fetched to assume Oscar was poisoned. I looked forward to picking up their newsletter each month to read about his shenanigans. It made me smile. Now he’s gone.

I donated $50. It won’t bring any of them back, but it may help with medical costs or locks and keys. It’s not much but it’s something. It’s all I could think to do. You can read more about the sanctuary and all that they do at http://www.cedarhillanimalsanctuary.org. They were featured on Animal Planet’s Must Love Cats in February of last year, which you can view below.

I hope they find whoever is responsible. I hope the guilt consumes her and devours her from the inside out.

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