Summer

So, I hate summer time. I know it sounds awful, but I do. It's so damned hot. Give me spring or fall, but keep your fucking summer. I don't want it.

I find myself very irritable lately, and with that comes this feel of dripping, nasty sarcasm in my writings. I don't like the tone, so I'm not getting very much done, production wise. Not many words get kept. I can't even manage to keep that tone out of a shared project between me and another writer. And it is completely unsuited for that particular work. So, little worth keeping in the last two - four weeks.

So, why am I irritable? I dunno. Worries, commitments [familial and otherwise], stress. It's nothing out of the norm. If you've followed my blog for a while, you might remember me talking about the long silences.

This is the long silence.

I've written only two or three new stories since The beginning of July, which isn't a lot for me. I'm usually more prolific. I've gotten some work done on the "Sister" project, but that's slow moving. Rewrites are, from what I hear.

Mostly though, it's my kids. It's not that they're bad kids, because they aren't. They're just normal kids. But they're home all the time and that means distractions. Distractions and writing don't mix well.

Especially those distractions that come in the form of: "Mom! Come and look, it's so frigging cool. I just chopped a snake in half and it's still trying to bite me! And there are baby ones crawling out of the bottom half. Bro, grab that shovel and kill those little fuc... uhh... I mean... boogers."

Oh yes, that happened.

Now, I'm a country kinda chick and have no problems with snakes if they are minding their own business. But my children and snakes that are still trying to bite? Oh but no. Nope, no way, not happening. I live 30 minutes from the nearest hospital. I'd have a dead kid if one of them got bitten by something like a copper head or a cotton mouth moccasin.

Anyhow, summer is moving along and trying to work itself to fall. I'll be ready for the cooler temperatures, and my kids are already ready to go back to school (although they would never admit it). They miss their friends that they don't get to see and what not.

About a Boy...

His name is Captain Jackson Pharaoh, Jax for short (I do not claim responsibility for that name. I blame the kids. They wanted to name him Jack Sparrow of Caribbean fame, but I objected strenuously. I prevailed, but, as you can see, just barely) . He sails the world of under-birdcage for now, in a huge home made terrarium, complete with a pond for his wading pleasure.

He is my turtle.

Now I know that you, little readers, did not know of my precious Jax. I've been saving him, see. I love animals of all types; my dogs, Sarrow and Chancey, are very near and dear to me, my cats, Mufasa and White Chocolate, are simply a joy, the bird not so much a joy (he's a mean ass, Gemini is), the fish are... well, fish. They just swim there in the corner and act fish-like.

Ah, but Jax. Jax is a little love.

See, when I was 6, my daddy brought me a turtle. And I have a way with the little critters. I can't explain it... turtles just like me. I can pick up any turtle I see, wild or in a pet store, and be petting its head within a minute. I shit you not. Anyhow, that particular turtle my father brought to me was a female, whom I named Georgia. She was the best frigging pet in the world. She'd stretch out her neck and rub her little beak on my cheeks, she'd sit with me and watch TV. I could let Georgia loose in the house to run around and play, and she always came to find me after she'd gotten her tired on. Then she'd follow me around until I put her back in the terrarium to sleep.

Eventually, I let Georgia go. I didn't want to, but I had to. I'd kept her for two years and it started to feel wrong to keep her for reasons I didn't understand. Even back then, I had a sense of it being wrong.

Oh, but Georgia came back. In fact, she came back every fucking year until I was 15 years old. I'd be walking to the bus stop and there she'd be, beside the road, boogieing her little hard-shell ass back to the house. It was funny, because when she saw me, she'd start running towards me. Every time. It was like she missed me.

Turtles are highly intelligent, believe it or not. Especially the North American Box Turtle, of the Eastern variety, not the ornate kind thank you so very much, and I firmly believe that Georgia understood that I loved her very much, in a turtle-like kind of reasoning, of course. Why would she come back year after year if she didn't get it at least a little bit?

But of course, Jax is not Georgia. I'm getting to him, I promise.

Anyhow, one year Georgia didn't come back. I was heart-broken when July came around and still no orange and black shell came boogieing up the street for a visit.

Zip forward several years, seven to be exact, and all three of my children are going out of the toddler stage. I am twenty-two, my youngest child is three.

And my husband brings home a tiny little Box Turtle he'd found at work. The poor thing was so light--positively hollow--and she was barely more than a baby in turtledom. He brought the little girl home for our children.

But she, like Georgia, was mine from the minute we met. And she, also like Georgia, attached to me just as much as I did her. Her name was Serafina.

Now, you may be asking how in blue-fuck did I know the gender of the turtles. No, there are no pink and blue ribbons tied to their ankles, they don't wear skirts or lipstick. A box turtle can be sexed by their eye color. Red eyes means male, brown/amber means female. Not rocket science, huh?

Anyhow, I didn't keep Serafina for very long. She became depressed (yes, turtles get depressed) and her stress levels went through the roof. My kids were just too young, see. They wanted to constantly hold/play/run around waving the turtle in the air. And for a very young turtle who has had no taming or handling, it's extremely stressful.

Zip forward another few years. I'm walking down the road with my husband and, lo and behold, a box turtle scooting its way alongside the street, just like Georgia used to do but no where near as quickly. My husband likes to poke fun at me over my turtle obsession (I have a jade turtle necklace I will share the story about one day, but not today) and told me: "Go get it, baby. Maybe it's your Georgia reincarnated." I almost hated him for that because I still miss Georgia. But see, he knows how turtles take to me. He saw it with Serafina and a couple other females I'd picked up, but never kept, throughout the years.

Anyhow, I go over and take a quick gander at the turtle and it draws up into its shell. The great thing about box turtles is that they can close their shell entirely, unlike others of the same species. It makes them unique in turtledom, you know?

Anyway, I start talking to it. (Yes, I talk to turtles. So what?) I ask it what it's doing, so close to the road like that. Don't it know it could get hurt? After all, a great big truck is heavy enough to crack even as good a shell as this one.

My husband behind me chuckles and laughs, as he so often does at my antics.

But the shell opens up and a little head pokes out. I don't know if it's the way I talk to them or what, but I've always been able to talk a turtle into coming out for a pow-wow. True, I do all the talking, even the incredible box turtle isn't much of a conversationalist, but they respond to my voice.

Anyhow, I am delighted to see a bright pair of red eyes looking at me. A boy! It's my very first boy turtle and I couldn't be more thrilled.

See, I don't keep the females because they need to lay eggs. Box turtles are getting rarer and rarer all the time, and a female turtle can produce many offspring throughout her twenty-five year lifespan. So, I don't keep female turtles. Turtledom needs the eggs and baby turtles to keep Turtledom alive and going. Without turtles, there would be no Turtledom of the wild. I didn't know why I felt bad for keeping Georgia when I was a child, but as I grew up, I understood my feelings of guilt.

After a second or two, I reach down to pick up this red-eyed miracle in a shell and he doesn't draw in. And as I go back to my husband's side, I'm already scratching the top of this boy turtle's head. Minutes later, I'm rubbing under his chin and he's loving it.

My husband says (on that day) that I'm the only person he knows that can find, pick up, and begin petting a turtle within minutes. Sometimes even tame turtles draw up and away from people they don't know.

As I said, I have a way with the critters.

So, Captain Jackson Pharaoh comes home with me. I build him a temporary terrarium until I can make the turtle alcove outside habitable again.

I still have my Turtledom sign. It goes up when the outdoor alcove is reopened.

Jax is a great turtle. He's moody, and can be grumpy if he hasn't had a little tomato or strawberry every week, but he's an awesome pet. He climbs all over me, all over his little area with its rocks and logs. He loves to soak in his little pond and I swear, I can almost hear him purring when I rub his chin (not literally, but turtles are so expressive! You can see that if he could purr when I rub his chin, he would). His claws get sharp every once in a while, but they wear down on the rocks in his little area soon enough.

Who knows? Now that I have a boy turtle, maybe I'll find another girl turtle someday to bring home and give him a friend. And if we have baby turtles, then I can release them at proper age and help replenish some of the box turtle populace.

I love them so much, these turtles. It's sad to see their numbers dwindle. Destruction of their natural habitats, roadways, and of course, their natural predators, have their way with these little creatures. But in my Turtledom, the babies would be safe from predators and other dangers, at least until they are old enough to make it on their own. And it very much mimics their natural habitat, with their natural foods of slugs, worms and other creepy-crawlies, as well as the tasty treats of melon, strawberry and tomato I buy for them.

So, that's my about a boy. About my little love, my turtle Jax. In my own life, there have been many pets. Turtles will always be welcome at my house, in Turtledom. I have a strange and wondrous love for these reptiles that I can't explain. But we get it, the turtles and me. Isn't that the only thing that matters?

Peace & Love
~Effie

Funny Things About a Note from the Teacher

So, no blog post yesterday, so you get the extra one on Tuesday and this one too. I think scheduling blog time helps keep me posting regularly. I always work better with a deadline. I was just very worn yesterday and I was a bit busy too. Hence, today's post.

So anyway, my daughter, who is eight-going-on-nine as she makes sure I know every time age is a topic of discussion (as if I had forgotten somehow when exactly it was I gave birth to her), and who is also in the third grade, has received a funny note from her teacher.

Being in third grade is apparently a big deal. This is the grade where cursive writing is required for all school-work. Cursive, my daughter mastered quickly. She writes with a very fine hand that is much better than mine is now. In time, her penmanship will be beautiful. (I love hand written things and pretty writing is so nice to see. You can tell a lot about a person by their handwriting.)

However, my daughter's handwriting is very small. Not tiny, you don't need a magnifying glass to see it. I can read it just fine. I might have to put my glasses on. Sometimes, I don't even have to.

The other day, in my daughter's backpack, attached to one of her spelling tests, was a little post it note. The test had quite a few answers marked as missed and the teacher had spelled the word out correctly beside it. The original grade was an F. Needless to say, the note got stickied to the table while I looked at the strangely graded spelling test. Some (not all) of the wrong answers had been marked through and counted correct, bringing her grade up to a nice, comfortable D.

Now what gets me, is the child can spell... verbally. But when she writes words out, sometimes she spells them phonetically. We're working on that aspect and she's picking it up slowly. I hate the phonetic system the schools use.

Anyway (see how I ramble? I apologize.), daughter and I talk a while about the D and how she can improve. We go through the words, she spells them to me and then writes them out a few times each. We've gotten reading down to an art, much like her penmanship, and now spelling is suffering.

While daughter is writing, I read the sticky note.

--Savannah,

You must write a little larger. I can't see this. Old Teacher!! (this was underlined) If it would be better - you may print!

After months of having answers counted wrong if printed (encouraging the use of cursive, in other words), this struck me very funny. My poor kid.

I told her she needed to write her words slightly bigger and she laughed. I asked what was funny.

She said, very good naturedly and without even a hint of temper at having gotten a bad grade for writing too small: "Mom, I DID write bigger for that test. Mrs. Such and such is just blind!"

Oh my darling child. I love her so.

Peace & Love
~Effie

Good will and good wishes

To every one of every faith, Happy Holidays, whatever you may celebrate. May next year be fruitful and good. Enjoy your families, revel in love and be merry for this is a season of joy. Let all matters go and love one another because love is a universal language. One that will never die.

Peace & Love, to every one...

~E

Snow falls and Good People...

It snowed here yesterday. I had an adventure. Busy stuff.

I went Christmas shopping, for though I am an Atheist, I still celebrate holidays for my own reasons. Christmas is, for me, a time of charity and being with family, for appreciation of the year passed by. My children and husband are not Atheists, I do not impose my belief systems on them, and this celebration of togetherness gives us good holidays. So anyway, I was in the middle of my final bits of Christmas shopping. It had started snowing a little when I got there, nothing big... what we folks in West Virginia call "a snowflake an acre".

I shopped for about an hour and was heading from one part of the store to the next, from toys to clothes as it were, and passed by the entry doors.

Holy sheep shit, there was three inches of snow out there! I hurried through the rest of my shopping and checked out. We headed home.

Now, I live a good 30-45 minutes from the nearest city. I live in the country and the small towns nearby are lucky to have a gas station. So shopping days are hours long trips. I left the store at about 4:00 p.m.

Our little car crept through the snow and slush covered roads, through bumper to bumper traffic, slipping this way and that. Between the city and my house, there are five mountains to crest. Oh yeah. Fun.

We start up the first mountain, and at the steepest part our little car started spinning. And not moving.

Now, I'm a strong willed, strong minded woman. But I'm not possessed of much physical strength. I can carry an arm load of wood or a fifty pound bag of potatoes, but beyond that... that's what guys are for.

We were stuck, with a line of traffic behind us. So, I got out and started pushing the car. My husband was with me and he got out to push too. We got to the top and hopped in the car.

Got stuck on the second mountain, we pushed it uphill again. We were barely getting the car to go. I'm pushing with all I have, cars trying to pass by us on roads now covered with six inches of snow. Snow and ice pelting into my face, me with no gloves and my jacket hood full of ice. My husband is to my left. I slide and hit my head and shoulder on the back hatch (the shoulder has a nicely sore bruise for my troubles). Then, someone is at my right and he says, "We'll get you up to the top. I'll help." I look over at him and a teenage boy, couldn't be more than 13-15 years old, in nothing but a sweatshirt hoodie, starts helping push the car. Once it got going good, I told him to go back to his car and get warm, with my thanks. He nodded and lagged behind. Crested the top, on we go.

Third one, stuck again. I got out and started pushing. (My brother was driving us in his car. I can't drive and my car needs an alternator. My husband's car needs a windshield and back glass, thanks to some vandalism. Doesn't something like that always happen near the holidays?) The car takes off faster than we expected and we couldn't catch up. Knowing my brother would wait at the top of the hill for us, we start walking.

An SUV stops in the middle of traffic and asks if we need a ride to catch up with our car. They saw us pushing it, knew we'd been left behind. The hill still had better than half a mile to the top and they say we'll freeze. We accept, more than grateful, because I was freezing, wet, my fingers and feet going numb. They drive us up to the top and offer to follow us through the next few mountains--they were going the same direction we are. We say thank you and go to our own vehicle with them following behind.

Ass holes abound and pass the people following us. With no four wheel drive, we have to keep moving just to keep moving. We start up the next mountain and get stuck, yet again. Damn it!

We get out, start pushing again. A man pulls to the side and helps my husband push from the back while I push from the open passenger door. A volunteer fire department worker turns on his emergency lights and also helps push from the back. This is the next to last hill. Only one to go; if we can just get over this one, we're home free. The snow is up to seven inches.

We get going again, and faster this time. My husband, the man helping him push and the fireman all fall back, but we can't stop. It's not too far from the top. I get in and at the little knoll just before the crest of the hill, we slide again. And I'm the only one to push the car.

Knowing it's a front wheel drive, I open the passenger door and start pushing. It was slow going, I'm only one small woman, but I got it up to the top. By this time, I'm shaking all over and even with the heater on full blast, I can't get warm. We wait for my husband to catch up and on we go. My brother says fuck this and takes the next hill, which has a nice flat and straight stretch before the ascent, at high speed for nearly eight inches of snow. This time, we don't have to push.

We finally get to our little one lane road and start in. But where we live, in a little valley between two huge mountains, we get drifts from both sides. There's over a foot of snow in front of us and it flies up over the windshield. We can't see. The little car won't make it. We can't get any further than maybe 50 feet from the turn off. We're stuck and no amount of pushing would make the car go.

Neighbors come by in their big truck and offer to help us get the car to the side where it wouldn't get hit by other drivers, and to take us and our things home.

What should have been a thirty to forty minute drive turned out to be more than 5 hours. We didn't get home until nearly ten o'clock. It was an adventure, but I don't want another like it in the near future.

But for those who helped us out, you have my gratitude. There are still good people in the world. I knew not a single one of those that helped us, but they helped anyway. They didn't have to. Four people who were strangers to me, thought enough of me and my family to help when they didn't have to. They deserve to be told about. These are a rare type of people in today's society. Out of hundreds of vehicles that passed us, only those four bothered. There should be more people like these in the world.

Hopefully, someone will read this and decide to be.

Peace & Love, y'all
~E

Children Are Marvels (A pondering of boys and their antics)

Trouble is unavoidable most times; it always seems to find one at some point or another.

What about my children? All we can do with our kids is hope they listen, but let me say I make it hard for them to avoid knowing what they do. I make a point to show my kids what they are doing to someone else when they act selfishly. I'll tell my sons to look at their sister, who is crying over some silly spat between them... and then I ask them how angry they would be if someone else made her cry that way. Then I ask them what gives them the right to make her cry that way. I'm not going to coddle my children into yet another bunch of self-indulgent nothings. I don't just require that they grow up. I require that they grow up right. It doesn't matter. Let them be hurt by their actions. Let them know the consequences. Point them right to it and say "Stand up and take what you get."

I'm not talking about punishments. Those are more for atonement than anything. They have to know what the hell it is that makes it wrong, not just that it is! I'm talking about teaching responsibility and a sense of right and wrong. And how my boys make me ponder how the hell I can make a lesson out of some of the fantastic crap they do.

As mothers, parents in general, it's so easy to say, "Not my child." Oh man, I've wanted to. I've wanted to not believe something my son has done at school, trust me. A food fight in the middle of the office, with another little girl's project (made out of cake!!) was something I'd have never dreamed I would be getting a call from the principal about. I was dumbfounded, I mean... I could see either of my boys getting into a fight. A fist-fight. But a food fight baffled me. I never thought my child, at the age of 10, would throw food when he was already in detention in the first place.

I wanted to say No way. I think I even asked the principal if she was kidding me.

So my son was suspended from school. He did chores throughout the day and made up his classwork. I made him write an essay about respecting others (destroying another kid's project, which counted as 5 grades, was unreal.). I wondered what made him think that would possibly be an okay thing to do.

Then I thought about it. It was fun at the time. Daring. He's 10. He could be doing worse things than throwing a cake.

But no matter how hard I tried to justify it, it came back to the same thing. My boy was out of line and I didn't go easy on him. I made his life miserable with grounding for two solid weeks and didn't let up. He didn't talk once on the phone, he didn't have his DS or his computer or his ipod shuffle. A 10 year old's version of hell, according to him.

Still, a week before Thanksgiving, the boy tries to piss on two other kids.

So am I doing something wrong? I start to doubt my methods.

But it's consistency. It's sticking to my guns. So, another grounding with extra chores for the entire week. Lecture... yawn. The kid ain't listening, y'all.

So I'm tripping. My son's behavior is progressively worse, I'm out of my head trying to find what will work for him.

But like my personality, my rules, and just good morals in general, are set in stone.

I fully believe in there being shame involved in consequences.

I hear people say, "You shouldn't shame your child, it'll damage their self image."

You got to be kidding me. If my child causes hurt in another, I am ashamed of them. So much used to depend on a good family name and now that it doesn't, what is it? What have we gained from cutting shame out of how we raise kids? They should be ashamed of themselves for even behaving that way.

A world without shame will be a scary motherfucking place. You watch and see.

I'd rather teach my child to be shameful of wrongs done and actually be sorry when they do so... than raise men and women that will never be sorry for anything they do in their whole lives. There is so much hurt going around already, I want my kids to be remorseful when they add more. I want them to give a damn about others. I do.

I dunno about other people, but I don't think compassion is a bad trait for anyone. If I can instill this in my kids, I'll die a happy woman someday. If I manage to make my three kids into caring, humble people, aware of their own self worth without giving up their sense of right and wrong... I'll even throw a party when I go.

So I ask my son, "What's going on with you? You're acting like a hellion."

His universal answer is always "I dunno."

Yay me. Another battle won, y'all! I'm getting somewhere--he's not shrugging and rolling his eyes anymore.

Me: Why are you trying to pee on people?

Him: I wasn't.

Me: You were caught with your doodle in your hand and aiming, son, I don't think it was a mistake.

Him: I was just goofing around.

Hmm...

Pause for reaction y'all. Epiphany forthcoming.

I'm over reacting, maybe. He was goofing around with a couple friends. He still shouldn't do it, but my kid isn't losing his mind. He's just getting into mischief.

Him: They put some on my shirt, Mom. It's gross.

And the boy opens his mouth!

See, he wasn't goofing around. He was actually going to urinate on those two boys. As if, by some mysterious thing, balance would be restored by him pissing on them.

For fuck's sake. How am I supposed to point out to him what pissing on someone would do to the ones on the receiving end? I mean, I'm not going to invite him to do so just to teach him what he needs to learn?

This is one of those wonderful times I just have to let it ride with punishment. You got to pick your battles too.

I totally got off track and have no idea what I was talking about, so I'm done. But yeah... there you go.

Peace & Love, y'all
~E.

Should I or Shouldn't I?

I've had a couple of people tell me "you really shouldn't say this or that on your blog in that way" for different reasons. To that, I say...

I am who I am and I will not pander to anyone for anything. I like me, for the most part. I'm not hard to get along with, I'm not snide or rude. I'm sarcastic and firm in my opinions, but that doesn't mean I feel others should see only my side. I'm comfortable with the fact that some people will not agree with me.

One comment here on my blog, said by a friend with only my best interest at heart, said I shouldn't say something because it might make me seem hard to work with. Well, I'm not hard to work with if people are reasonable. And talking about a personal thing (not even with someone in the writing field as it were) that bothered me, and would bother anyone in that situation, shouldn't effect how an editor or publisher should see me. If that one, tiny bit out of everything else on here is a deal breaker, then so be it.

I am who I am.

Why must we pander to others to be considered easy going? I am a passionate person by nature and can't help my own sense of self from coming through if one gets to know me. I don't--and won't--revise myself to make others see me as what they want. My personality is set in stone. Sorry.

So here's the question. Do we, as people, feel so much that approval means success that we have become a lying bunch of pseudo-selves to gain what? Money? Who needs money, really? There's nothing in this world we can't do without, except food and water--and really, if we weren't such a big bunch of pussies, we could get those without the assistance of modern convenience. What are we so afraid of? That this one, or that one won't "approve"?

Fuh-uuh-uh-uuck that.

Does that make me hard to get along with? No.

Does it make me a better person? I'd like to think so. Especially when people think you have to be "this" way to make sure your ass doesn't end up in a sling.

But, but... Daddy! The sling is just so much fun!!!

Peace & Love, y'all
~E.

When Just Rescue isn't Enough

Here's another insight to my life that my readership may not know. I'm a big dog lover. I love dogs of all kinds. St. Bernard's are my favorite breed, but the ones that really hold my heart like no other are pit bulls.

I have a four-year-old male pit named Sarrow. He's red and white, red-nosed and too gentle to bite at flies. He's been in my family since he was three weeks old, and been a complete joy from the moment we brought him home. He's a beautiful dog, weighing in right at 70 lbs. A good weight for a medium sized pit. He might be a tiny bit fat. I can't help it, I have to spoil him.

That's him above, in his play area outside.

Today, though, my heart was broken. I met a beautiful little girl pit named Chancey. She is only three-years-old, tawny and white. She seems gentle and has taken right up with my children, my husband and I.

Chancey, though, hasn't had such a happy life. For a long time, she was left on a mountain top with no food or sufficient water. She received no human love or attention--no one even lived at the place where they left her chained, outside, with no dog house or cover. She's full grown, as tall as my Sarrow, but poor Chancey can't weigh but 25-30 pounds. Every bone she has shows through her skin. She has no muscle mass, no fat stored on her body. She literally is skin and bone. The pads of her paws hang from her feet, even the joints of her toes knob through the skin and fur. I nearly cried when I saw her in the condition she is in. Her neck and legs have abrasions from being chained for so long with no slack to play on. Can you see the difference in the sheer size of these two dogs? Can you?

Well, what could I do? I brought her home with me. When a friend of mine and my husband's called and said he knew where a neglected female pit had been left, I had no idea how bad it was. I've seen neglected and abused dogs, rescued my fair share, and I've never, ever seen a dog this thin. My friend wanted to keep her himself, but he knew he couldn't afford to feed her. So he called me. And now, my family has grown yet again. Do I mind? Hell no, I don't mind. If I could, I'd rescue every animal I see that suffers neglect and abuse. I'd take them all.(And I'll post new pics of her once she's healthy again. This one doesn't show how ghastly it looks up close, but you know)

But it makes me wonder if rescuing is enough. There are times, as is the case with sweet, gentle Chancey, that it's never going to be enough. Will she always wait until she's alone to eat, so that nothing can take her precious food away? Will she always ache for attention, as I can see in her liquid green eyes that she aches now? When I held her, loved on her, she just leaned on me--like her frail frame could barely stand without my support. Her tail flicked back and forth with each stroke of my hand on her head, but it never reached a full wag. She just didn't have the energy. And when I took my hand away, I saw her lean under it, trying to make the gentle touches stay. She has missed being loved.

She will not miss it again.

I can't keep every dog. I know that. This will make my third amid a veritble menagerie of pets. Turtles, frogs, fish, birds, cats and dogs. I have some of every one of those animals. I can't take on all the abused dogs I see. Though I'm a horror writer, my heart is so big that if I could afford it, I'd give every one of them a home and the special attention they need. Because no one else will. Especially for a pit bull.

These dogs have been given a stigma that nothing but caring and understanding will out-do. These animals want only to be loved, like any other breed. They are not fierce killers, but gentle darlings who are forced to kill by the bastards who use and abuse their awesome strength. If they will not kill, they are left to starve, as Chancey was.

So next time, dear readers, you see a thin dog with sad eyes--stop. Take a chance, as I've done with this sweet girl Chancey. You may get a trusted friend... and you may instantly become a saving grace in a life that, before you, had no meaning beyond the three feet of chain that held it down.

There. I'm fairly certain I've destroyed my hardened image, but I don't care. Sometimes, it's good to be soft too. To love. Chancey has a chance now, and that is all that matters.

Peace & Love, y'all
~E.