FICTIONAL DOGS DON’T SHED

What’s a dog lover who doesn’t own a pet to do? The reason I don’t currently own a pet is simple: I live in a high-rise condo. If I owned a dog the doormen in my building would be seeing a lot more of me in the early mornings in my pajama bottoms, with bedhead, than I’m comfortable with. When a dog’s gotta go, it can’t always wait till you change out of your PJs or run a comb through your hair. And I lack a backyard, so I don’t have the luxury of simply opening a door to let the dog out.

All my life, I’ve owned a dog at one time or another and hope to again. I have fond memories of my dearly departed pets. The most recent of which was my Westie, Heidi, who was my little white shadow but who had a problem with other dogs. When I took her on walks, I would often find myself explaining to other dog owners whose pooch had been roundly rebuffed with a show of teeth, “She’s not a dog person.” Mysteriously, she was a cat person. She died, at the age of eleven, curled up in her bed with her best friend and pet sitter’s kitty.

The smartest dog I ever owned was a mixed-breed named Ivan. A cross between a Samoyed and a German shepherd, he looked like an exceptionally hairy wolf that had been through a car wash. His fur was so thick he slept on the porch even in the winter months to stay cool. He was also clever as a monkey. When I took him on walks in our neighborhood park, he’d have a blast going on the slide in the children’s playground, having mastered the trick of climbing its ladder. He taught himself to open doors by turning the door handle with his paws. Once when I couldn’t find a loaf of bread I was sure I hadn’t eaten, I later discovered the empty bread wrapper behind the living room sofa. Somehow Ivan had climbed onto the kitchen counter without knocking anything over, opened and closed the breadbox in extracting its contents and hid the bread wrapper after he’d eaten the loaf. The guilty look on his face after I discovered the theft told the story.

I long ago decided if I couldn’t always own a dog, I could always own the fictional variety. In my novel WOMAN IN RED, the border collie Shep is one of its most memorable characters. The opening scene of Chapter One starts with Shep waiting at the ferry landing on my fictional island in the Pacific Northwest. His owner, the grandfather of my hero, Colin, recently passed away while he was off island and Shep keeps expecting him to return. Every day, rain or shine, he’s there to meet the afternoon ferry his owner would be on if he were still alive. You can guess how the story progresses. Colin, of course, adopts Shep. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

When I had the idea of making the heroine of my work-in-progress a police sketch artist with a canine sidekick, my mixed-breed Ivan came to mind. His name is Ranger. He’s three years old, a cross between a Samoyed and a German shepherd, and smart as a whip. A certified therapy dog, he can also sense when someone is anxious or depressed, or ill before they know it sometimes. Like in the opening chapters when he barks to alert his owner that she’s about to faint.

I can’t wait for you to meet Ranger. And if you give him a home on your bookshelves I promise he won’t shed or chew your slippers or bark at the mailman. He’s very well-behaved. You’ll hardly know he’s there.