We Do Have A One-Way Ride...

Ro and Cliff

Besides the usual historic tours, engagements, weddings, birthdays and anniversaries, the company I work for, Carriage For Hire, also provides the final ride for horse enthusiasts— their funeral.


Tony, waiting for this gig to begin.

Several years ago, when Tony's original owner passed on, we provided the hearse for his services.

Last week, Tony's dad's brother, (so Tony's human Uncle) expired, and we were asked to participate.

Unlike carriage rides downtown, providing the hearse involves hauling both the horse and the conveyance offsite, usually to a location close to the cemetery, and transferring the coffin from a modern hearse to the 1840's Cunningham. A while back I wrote a blog about needing to "do" a funeral for research for a scene I was contemplating, because in order to bring the emotion and ambiance to the written word I prefer to experience some things first hand. So, when I found out that a funeral was booked close to my house, I asked Ro if I could assist.



Since the mortuary was located quite a distance from the internment, the plan was to meet up with the funeral procession along the route. Ro and Cliff found a gravel parking lot large enough to accommodate the stock trailer, unloaded both Tony and the hearse, and waited to intercept the departed about a quarter mile from the final destination.



Circa 1840's Cunningham Hearse

"Wait", here, is the operative word. Because you just can't rush a dead guy.

While the three of us killed time, we were approached twice by random strangers asking about our plans. The first person got out of his car and started asking questions about the provenance of the hearse. He seemed quite knowledgeable about varieties of horse drawn funerary vehicles, and we had a pleasant conversation with him. The second man was more interested in who died.



Warming up in the parking lot

While standing around waiting to rendezvous with the procession, we watched as a silver hearse drove by, and tried to flag it down. When they did not immediately flip a u-turn, Ro called dispatch and advised that they'd missed us. A few minutes later she was informed that it had been a different funeral procession, and our customer was still enroute.



Ro and Tony, waiting for our passenger to arrive

Whew!

The correct deceased finally showed up, and the transfer process began. It was good for me to be there in person and observe, because if I am ever called on to work a funeral, on the job training is not necessarily the best way to go.

While Cliff assisted the pall bearers in guiding the beautiful natural light pine casket onto the rollers and into the hearse, Ro stood by Tony's head and held him steady; having a horse decide to walk off while loading a body into the back can be a Very. Bad. Thing.

Next it was determined that no one from the family wanted to ride up top with the driver (Cliff). This is an option offered to a representative of the deceased. Some do it, some decline. So Ro climbed up and rode shotgun with Cliff and I stopped traffic on the busy road so they could make a left out of the parking lot, then I kept traffic stopped while the balance of the funeral procession joined in.

I drove down to the cemetery in Ro's car, and walked across the grounds, meeting up with them in time for the pall bearers to remove the casket and proceed to the plot.

The thing about arriving in a horse drawn hearse it this: Most often it is because the deceased had some connection with horses. Whether it was that his family once owned the animal hauling the hearse, or the person loved horses, it represents an aspect of their life. Many of those in attendance took photos of their loved one's unconventional arrival, and several people wanted to pet Tony. One gentleman asked if the horse was Tony or Tom (Tony's equine brother and team mate, who passed long ago.)

After the beloved was removed, we headed back to the parking lot to pack up. On the return trip, Ro drove her car and I rode up top with Cliff. And let me tell you, it's high up there.



The Cunningham's interior

Now, anybody that knows me, also knows that I, upon learning that someone has an unusual occupation, will ask a series of questions that typically encompass the same theme.

And since the ride back took about 15 minutes, and because Cliff's done a lot of funerals, I had the opportunity to interview him about some of his experiences.

Note: The questions and answers are not verbatim. It's just a recap of our conversation;

SD: What is the weirdest thing that ever happened?

Cliff: We did a funeral where we used the buckboard instead of the hearse. Getting the casket in was difficult and it kept rolling backwards, which loosened the wheel nuts. When we finally got the casket in, we started forward, one of the wheels fell off and we dumped the casket. So we had to hurry up, lift the buckboard, put the wheel back on, tighten all the nuts and reload the casket.

SD: What was the funniest thing?

Cliff: The deceased's brother rode up top with me and kept cracking jokes the whole time. I laughed so hard that the hearse was weaving all over the road. The carriage company owner was driving behind us in her car and said it looked like I was driving drunk.

SD: And the saddest?

Cliff: A little girl 9 or 10, died in a freak accident. Her coffin was so tiny back there; it was like putting a match box in a car trunk. Very tragic.

SD: And the most memorable?

Cliff: We were in a small town out by Spanish Fork. The procession went from one end of town to the other; it was quite a distance and most of the mourners walked behind the hearse, which is customary. Little old Grandma rode up top with me and after a while I asked if she wanted to drive. She was delighted and drove the hearse for a little while, but as we got closer to the cemetery she handed back the lines and said, "Here, there are a lot of people walking around. I don't want to run any of them over, I've already killed several people that way you know…"



(And this is how it all goes back into the trailer:)







First in goes the hearse



Then...




In goes Tony



and...smoosh!

(I'd like to thank Ro and Cliff for allowing me to tag along. It was definitely a memorable experience.)

Will Walk For Donation…

It's that time of year again. Time for our annual Beg-A-Thon to support No More Homeless Pets in Utah.

Our family has been supporting Strut Your Mutt and No More Homeless Pets In Utah since we moved to Salt Lake in 2003. So you could say that the annual Strut Your Mutt is near and dear to our hearts. As was Cowboy, our Border Collie and member of our family for 14 wonderful years. Cowboy passed away this last March, so this year we are walking in his honor.



We're also bringing the new used dog, Luna, who we adopted from Pet Samaritans. This will be the first of many Strut Your Mutts to come for her. Unless, of course, she eats someone's Chihuahua. Then her SYM career will be over pretty quick.




Sammie Two Chews, resident Pomeranian, will also be joining us, but in her stroller. Sammie has luxated patellas and it's difficult for her to walk long distances, so she'll be pushed along the route. Plus Sammie doesn't like other dogs, so anything that puts a barrier between her and the rest of the common canine rabble is just fine and dandy. And she, like me, is a little on the lazy side, so any time someone else can do the work is good with her.

Because of the current economic downturn, shelters in this country have seen a rise in the number of animals surrendered. Owners find themselves in dire financial circumstances and have to tighten their budgets, which many times means the family pet is the first thing to be jettisoned. Fortunately, shelters have also seen a rise in adoptions. However, shelters still have to house, feed, spay/neuter and administer any medical treatment to the animals while they await their forever families to adopt them, and that's expensive.

So I show up here once a year and ask anyone out there with a few spare bucks to make a donation to save a life. Okay, I show up here about twice a week, but I only ask for money once a year. So that's what I'm doing. If you are looking for a good, tax deductible organization to make a donation to, go here and donate securely online. The animals thank you, and so do I.

And, because I am in fact shameless, I'll just add these pictures of cute dogs to make you feel just a little bit guilty…

We, The PeTA

This from my friend and fellow carriage driver, Christina, who works in Philadelphia:

As many of you know, there was a carriage accident in Philadelphia, on Monday, April 19th at approximately 9:30 AM. It is believed that a car driven by Thomas Gordon of Claymont, DE was stopped behind a line of five carriages stopped at a red light at 6th and Race Sts. Eyewitnesses report that Gordon was honking at the rear carriage driven by Jane Stansbury, 23, and revving his engine. He is reported to have tapped her rear wheels a couple times with his bumper, then when the light changed, he accelerated through the line of carriages, colliding with her carriage, and pushing it into several other carriages. One carriage, driven by Brian Lafler, 52, was overturned. Thomas Gordon continued to accelerate, pushing Jane's carriage across the intersection, colliding with a fire hydrant and eventually coming to rest on the fence in front of the College of Physicians. Jane was ejected from the carriage. Brian Lafler and Jane Stansbury remain in Jefferson Hospital's ICU, Brian with severe head and facial injuries and Jane with spinal injuries. Another carriage driver, Kym Moak, is out of work for several weeks with a sprained knee.

All horses involved escaped injury beyond a couple of superficial cuts.

Two nasty carriage accidents in the same week, one in Atlanta where two douche bags were drag racing, and another in Philadelphia, has brought PeTA to the forefront of the news again. Why? Because whenever there is any type of incident involving carriage horses they gleefully circle like vultures, ready to invade the city where the incident has occurred, waving their anti-equestrienne posters in the horse's faces.(Which, by the way, horses do not like.)

As one would expect, the radical animal rights activists are already planning on exploiting this tragedy to further their radical agenda (which ultimately is to ban horse-drawn carriages in Philadelphia, and beyond, and eventually to BAN the use of horses for any sort of activity other than pasture puff... if that).

If working horses are banned in Philadelphia, they will of course be at risk for neglect and slaughter once they are re-homed, since NO company can afford to keep 20 working horses as "pets" in the city for the rest of their natural lives.

They try to bully the mayor or city council into banning horse drawn carriages (there is a standard letter; we got one when Jim decided to test his boundaries and ran for half a block…) and occasionally swoop down to do a little protesting so they get some face time on the news.

The National Park Service cannot prevent the animal activists from coming to the park and standing in our stands, waving banners and pictures of the accident mere feet from the carriage drivers, all of whom are still understandably upset, shocked, sad, and angry as a result of this "accident"/attack. However, the National Park Service MUST allow counter protesters equal access and opportunity to voice their SUPPORT for the carriage horses and the carriage drivers.

Same old tired crap. You know, the morning after the Atlanta incident a car here in Salt Lake blew a stop sign and plowed into another one, sending three people to the hospital. Did PeTA show up or send a strongly worded letter to Ralph Becker cautioning him about the dangers to people from cars? No. Why? Because PeTA doesn't care about people.

PeTA cares about money. And every time there is an incident they can use it to get free publicity and ask for money to help save the poor carriage horses. And considering their "success rate" with seized or surrendered animals, I think our horses would say, "Thank you, NO."

PeTA likes to talk about Animal Rights. Guess what, animals don't have "rights", any more than your couch or your bicycle have "rights". And you know what? You don't want animals to have "rights", and here's why:

Because the second the laws of our land give animals "rights" (and to be fair and equitable, they would have to apply across the board, not just for animals that are cute and cuddly, but the ones we set traps for and consider dangerous or a nuisance, too) some asshole will decide to make money by suing you on behalf of your animal.

Thinking of getting Fluffykins spayed? LAWSUIT! You are depriving her of her reproductive rights. Does Mr. Tomcat have a disease which is curable but will bankrupt your family if you pursue treatment so you're opting to put him down and end his suffering? LAWSUIT! You are depriving him of his right to live. You found out that your toddler has developed a life threatening allergy to your pot bellied pig Petunia? Better not even think of shipping Petunia off to the petting zoo (which RARAs would have you to believe is the ultimate in cruelty, Petunia being exploited by forcing her to take food from people and get petted and her picture taken! Horrors!)

Now, I'm against animal cruelty. Beating, burning, torturing, starving an animal is cruelty. Giving an animal a job is not abusive or cruel. As caretakers, I believe that we owe it to our furbabies to make sure they have proper care, food, housing and attention. And as the steward of my pets, it is my responsibility when they do something either destructive or dangerous to other animals or humans. That's why if your dog bites the UPS guy, he sues you, not your dog.

Please, if you can in any way come out on Saturday in Philadelphia (or can encourage others to attend) to protest peacefully in support of horses and in support of carriage drivers, the time is now to make your support known. These ghoulish activists are giddy with glee that such a tragedy has befallen us, and intend to use it to their advantage.

And why, you've probably wondered, is the "e" in PeTA so small? Because it stands for ethical.

Please Don't Eat The Tulips!

When the children of Luna's foster mom confided to Mr. Slave Driver that "she eats everything" they weren't kidding. Not that it matters, much. So far Luna's kill count includes a pair of flip-flops, a piece of PVC that holds up the Tiki-Torches, numerous toys, and my tulips.

Not the bulbs, mind you, which are toxic, just the flowers.


The flip-flops belonged to The Kid, and she had been warned. "Do not leave your shit lying around!" I'm trying not to set this dog up to fail, so everything I could think of that might be a problem had, I thought (foolishly) been addressed. The fact that Luna drags huge hunks of wood destined for the fireplace from the woodpile into the middle of the yard to chew is not much of an issue— after all they're just going to be burned anyway, right? Maybe she feels the need for a more fibrous diet. So there is no need for them to look all pretty and shit. But the tulips, well, it's not like I can put them up high or anything. I know I'm going to have to fence off my strawberry patch, but I didn't think I'd have to do anything drastic with the tulips.

I also have a plethora of raspberry bushes. So many that I often get tired of picking them half way through the season and just let them rot on the vine. I'm lazy like that. Every couple of years I go out and do a slash and burn, pruning them back to stubs. It's a Neolithic way of gardening, but I'm not into horticulture enough to care. Plus the stickers on those bastards hurt. And, apparently, they snag a lot of dog hair. So much so that it looks a little like we're growing a hybrid form of cotton out back.






Also, we're going through toys like KFC goes through chickens. There used to be two boxes of dog toys in the house. Now, every toy that was in one of the dog toy boxes is out in the yard. Once removed to the yard, covertly, they are systematically destroyed. Every toy is first given a squeaker-ectomy. Then, after a bit more torture, for the stuffed ones the coup-de-grâce, a doggie style Hari-Kari is performed. It looks like Gettysburg for Care Bears out there, people. I kid you not.

The plastic toys are chewed into small pieces. But in a very precise manner. Luna begins at one end (usually the end that once housed a squeaker) and shreds it into small bites, not swallowing but discarding the plastic in the grass. I suppose I should be thankful for her not eating them; I hate trying to recognize stuff when it's wrapped in a package of dog crap.

Several years ago I was enjoying an adult beverage while floating in my pool. The Kid, whose chore it was to pick up the dog messes in the yard, was cleaning up when she came across a pile with two bright orange pieces of foam rubber, intact, in one of the piles.

The Kid: "Mom, Cowboy ate your earplugs!"

Slave Driver: "Uh, okay…"

Pause.

The Kid: "Do you want them back?"

Slave Driver: "No, I'm good."

Readin' Writin', And 'Rithmetic

I'm currently in Park City, Utah, for my RWA chapter's annual retreat. It's supposed to be all about having time to write, write, write. So far I've attended a URWA board meeting, a workshop, a critique group, sat in the hot tub, wrote out checks to reimburse people for expenses, missed seeing a moose, and watched while a couple of the ladies used Tarot cards to do a character profile. In an hour we will have our Paul Sheldon ceremony, which is something that is hard to explain and really, 1) it's a writer thing, and 2) you have to be there. Plus it's a little weird, but so are we.

Anyway…

I've done a little bit of writing. I bought a program called "Snowflake", which is supposed to assist with character development, plot outline, and once filled in will essentially give you an almost submission ready synopsis.

Let me tell you, if the only thing I get out of it is a synopsis, it was well worth the $40 bucks.

I've worked on the first chapter for book 3 (book 2 is temporarily on hold, half finished because it's a sequel to book 1, which is currently with an agent. I figured that if the agent doesn't like book 1 why work on book 2?) This is the same agent who asked me for a synopsis for an idea I pitched, off of the top of my head, mind you, which will end up being a Romantic Suspense, and, best of all, she will be staying in our room this fall at our conference. So, since she will be my our captive guest, I will be able to force my manuscript on her while I've got her tied up inquire if she is interested in seeing the full MS while she is here, and pitch it to her yet once again, just in case she's forgotten it.

So, that's where I am. Doing some reading, a little writing, and of course, arithmetic.

Lights! Camera! Nike!

Charlie all dressed and ready to visit Park City for his movie role. I hope they're filming in "wide screen". they'll need it to get all of his butt in the shot...


I've probably mentioned this before, but besides carriage rides around town, weddings, engagements, and the odd specialty like the Pirate Gig Ro and I did last August, the company I work for occasionally is hired out for movie shoots.




Hardrock being upstaged by a smiling, happy-to-be-alive Harley in the background.

One night last week they filmed up at the local amusement park, Lagoon. This past Saturday they had to load and drive up to Park City for the same film. Hardrock and Coco, part time stable employees (ie whenever they need someone to do something goofy, and they have to be boys, as opposed to asking Ro and I) were part of the shoot. Hardrock got the horses ready



No, it's not snowing, there wasn't enough light apparently.

and then changed into his costume. Here he is, in all his western splendor (it's not a western but it is a historical so there are period costumes involved.)

Hardrock, head to toe

And he looks pretty good, considering he's driving the vehicles and being a stuntman. But he did sneak a little "modern guy" into the mix.

I hope they don't shoot any close-ups of his feet…

Just Another Post About Mostly Nothing

The new used dog, Luna, likes to smile a lot



She also has a freaky floppy double dew claw. It's really weird looking. Plus it means there is one more nail to trim.

Apparently water provided in a small, Pomeranian size bowl tastes much better than water from a larger, Great Pyrenees size bowl. That is, according to Luna. How do I know this? Because instead of drinking from the big bowl in the hallway, Luna prefers to continuously empty Sammie's water bowl in the bedroom.

Who knew?

I was supposed to work last Monday with MBA, but because the weather-persons predicted a huge snowstorm, we were called off. And it did snow, but it did not nearly become the cataclysmic blizzard of epic proportions that the prognosticators warned us of. Still, I was glad not to be in the middle of it trying to sell carriage rides. I know futility when I see it, and that would have been a huge waste of my time.

The tourist season is in its pre-vacation phase right now, and those folks wanting to miss the Memorial to Labor Day crowds will be visiting Salt Lake and, specifically Temple Square, soon. Across the street from where we stage the flagship store for Deseret Books opened last weekend. It is in almost the same spot where once there was a Borders Bookstore. We really liked the Borders. Not because, while out some pleasant evening one of us would suddenly feel the urge to ask another driver to hold our horse and cross South Temple to peruse the current list of best sellers and purchase a riveting novel to read while standing around waiting for a ride. But because on the second floor of Borders there was a small café with a barista willing to craft for you a delicious cup of coffee or a frothy hot chocolate. This was a lifesaver when we would be cold, tired, thirsty or bored and be in dire need of something to perk us up.



This was what the building looked like last spring.

Deseret Books doesn't offer amenities like coffee. They might, however, have a water fountain.



Deseret Book's flagship store.



Also across the street a new, fine dining establishment is opening. Now, this is something that we are interested in because, as I have often lamented, there really is no place for us to get a bite to eat besides the drive-thru of Carl Jr's, and I'm not a huge Carl Jr's fan, so I've never taken a carriage through there. I have, however, gone to the Applebee's at The Gateway Mall and utilized their Phone Ahead/Pick up spot. It's nice because the server brings your order right up to your vehicle, runs your credit card, and hands you your food, piping hot, complete with silverware. It’s a little tricky trying to cut up a sirloin while piloting a carriage, but hey, if you’re hungry enough, you manage.



The new restaurant location last spring.

So soon this new, classy restaurant will open and I'm sure, knowing our penchant for eating, we'll wear a horse poop littered path from our staging area through the crosswalk and into their lobby, leaving a scent that, without a doubt, will prove what big fans we are.



What the restaurant's location looks like now.

Unless, of course, there's a dress code, and they won't let us in the door. Of course, if fancy is what they require, I do have a tuxedo jacket. But I'll still smell like horse.

(The rest of these photos are for the benefit of those drivers who no longer work in Salt Lake. Because inquiring minds want to know.)



Progress of the 32 story condo building at the corner of South Temple and West Temple. It looks good, and we'll be happy when they start to fill it with people.



The skybridge across Main Street.

The Agony And The Ecstasy

Mr. Slave Driver is in heaven.

Okay, not literally. It's not like he died or anything. But he is in a constant state of euphoria. He loves, loves, loves his new dog, Luna, and couldn’t be more pleased with her.

Yeah, she pulls on the leash some, and she digs in the yard a little. But otherwise, she is smart, (he already has her trained to wait while he pours her food in her bowl, and wait still until he tells her, "Okay." Then she gets to eat.)

But she really is a joy, for us, and everything is fantastic… With one exception: Sammie Two Chews absolutely, unequivocally, and without one shred of doubt, hates her. Now, I know that my little dog has a, well, a little dog complex. She is suspicious of other dogs, and avoids them at all costs. When she was a puppy, because she's a Pom, I wanted to make sure she was socialized with people because we had had a problem with another dog not allowing anyone but family around. So I took her everywhere there were people. Soccer games, 4-H, AWANAS, you name it, that dog was exposed to people. The only dog she was exposed to was Cowboy. And all he ever did was stare at her. Now, the new dog, Luna, well, here you go:

So the things we thought were going to be a challenge (chewing issues, digging issues, I caught her sneaking out the dog door with one of my shoes...) will be nothing compared to getting Sammie to accept her.

Teaching A New Dog Old Tricks

Excitement reigns supreme in the Slave Driver household. We have applied for and were approved to adopt a new member into our family. She's a beautiful girl, only 12 months old, of central Asian descent, desperately in need of a forever home.

What's that you say? A baby? Are you insinuating that we are adopting a human baby? Uck! Not a snowballs chance in Hell. It's a puppy. Kind of. A very LARGE puppy. A Great Pyrenees puppy.

(They don't call 'em "Great" for nuthin', ya know.)

The placement choice for the foster mom boiled down to a lady in Colorado or us. Being locals, we won. YAY! Us!

We went to visit the dog last Monday. As we entered the house we were surrounded by wagging tails and lapping tongues. The foster mom already has a Border collie and an Australian Shepherd. She told us the Pyr's story:

Apparently an 18 year old girl had her puppy in an apartment in the same town we live in. Foster Mom Ruth saw an ad for the dog on one of the local classified web sites and called about purchasing her. Except Ruth's husband wanted an Irish Wolfhound, not a Great Pyrenees. So Ruth didn't purchase her. The next thing Ruth knew, the dog was in the shelter. Ruth made a deal with Mr. Ruth; let her foster the dog until a suitable family to adopt could be found, and after that Mr. Ruth could get his Irish Wolfhound.

Now, as I'm sure you can relate, a dog which when full grown that will top out at over 100 pounds is not necessarily the best choice for an apartment unless you can spend several hours a day exercising it. And I don't know about you, but when I was 18, I had way better things to do then running a mini-marathon every day.

So this beautiful girl greeted us with a huge smile. She's the most laid back puppy I've ever encountered; friendly with strangers, cool around other dogs (which was a concern because Sammie Two Chews, resident Pomeranian is only ten pounds and a bit suspicious of other canines), doesn’t bark her fool head off (unlike the five dogs our neighbors keep locked in their yard with no attention what so ever all damn day long), walks well on a leash, is highly intelligent, and is generally a good citizen.

At least, that's what we were told.

Mr. Slave Driver, whose turn it is to choose a new dog, had to sleep on his decision, because he wanted a Bernese Mountain dog, Newfoundland, or a Leonberger. None of which are in abundance on rescue sites. In fact the only thing this dog and those dogs have in common is "Big." But he decided that she would be a fabulous addition to our family, so he called the next morning and told Ruth that we would be happy to adopt the dog.

On Tuesday evening, Ruth brought the pup to our house to inspect our yard (is it fenced? Is the fencing tall enough that the dog cannot jump it? Is it free of holes that the dog can squeeze under?) And we passed with flying colors. We've been dog people long enough that we know all the tricks.

And I mean all the tricks. So while the foster family extolled the pup's virtues, they also omitted some of the negative aspects of her personality. And there always are, it's just a matter of being forewarned is forearmed:

Her healing and leash skills are not what one would consider good. In fact, "Walks well on a leash" is inaccurate; "Drags you around to where she wants to go" is more appropriate. And while I sat in the living room and consoled Ruth, because clearly she adores this dog and is only releasing her because of the deal she made with Mr. Ruth, Mr. Slave Driver spent time out in the yard with the pup and Ruth's daughters, whom he pimped for information.

Thus he found out the following:

She eats everything. Everything.

She steals food off of the counters/plates/anything she can reach.

If there is a hole, she will exit through it and run off.

They told us that the dog occasionally likes to dig, but Mr. Slave Driver observed that the dog showed no interest until the children began digging in the sandy area of the yard (the Swimming Pool corner) and the dog followed suit. So he believes it is a child instigated behavior, along with her unwillingness to retrieve. She will fetch, but then the kids chase her around, which she finds a barrel of fun, and thus there is no compulsion to return the object to the handler to throw it again.

Both of these issues are easily solved, and The Kid (ours) is a teenager and therefore has no interest in chasing a dog around the yard because, frankly, it’s too much work. She will, however, throw a toy that has been returned.

So we have our work cut out for us over the next year. We're used to well behaved dogs that are trusted to remain in our house while we are absent and not destroy everything they can reach. And we know how to train this behavior into them, because over the years we have had unruly, annoying, destructive animals and have turned them around to be model citizens.

Of course, we will also have to modify our own behavior so as not to set this dog up to fail. We need to:

Keep all the trash cans empty or off of the floor.

Make sure food is pushed waaay back on the counter tops.

Keep a steady hand on the leash.

Never leave an outside door open or unattended.

Put down the lid on the toilet seat.

So, here's to teaching old dogs new tricks, and new dogs old tricks.

Changing Sh*t Into Sugar…

In case you haven't noticed, I'm a writer. As such, I belong to several writing organizations. Occasionally, some of these groups have contests. Once in a while (and for tax purposes) I enter them. I don't ever expect to win. There are a lot of people out there who spend hours, days, sometimes, crafting the subtle nuances in a paragraph. Not me. I'm more of a "What you see is what you get," kind of a girl. When it comes to me bleeding on the page, I write directly from the gut. I know I'm not creating great literature that will be utilized in the educational curriculum to mold the minds of young scholars for ages to come; but my stories have interesting and flawed characters that people identify with and want to follow their exploits. But I also believe in being true to the characters I create. In that vein my characters, like people in real life, occasionally use language that conservative readers consider to be very bad words. Words like "F*ck."

(Note: I have been trying to change the spelling of certain words on my blog so the People Who Run The Internet don't mistakenly flag my site as porn. I do, however, do it in such a way that you still know what word it is I'm writing.)

Now, I personally believe that there are much more damaging words in the English language then f*ck. The "N" word, to me, is way more damaging to our society then f*ck. In fact, any ethnic, racial, or sexually oriented word or slang word aimed at a person in an attempt to demean or disenfranchise them are very bad words. Conversely, I also do not believe in censorship. So if a person makes a statement about how they do not like or appreciate a (fill in hurtful very bad word here to indicate a specific group of people), although I do not agree with what they say, I believe in their right to say it. And besides, allowing everyone freedom of speech also helps us identify individuals in society that we might want to avoid. Or at least not friend them on Facebook.

So, here is the deal; I want to enter my novel into a contest. You are required to submit the first three chapters. However, in reading the rules and regulations of this contest, I ran across the following qualifier:

Submissions that do not follow the guidelines or are in poor taste (pornography and profanity) will be disqualified and the entry fee forfeited.

Now, as I said earlier, my characters tend to swear a bit. In fact, I went thought the first three chapters and noted use of the following words;

Crap- once (and before you hurt yourself with an eyeroll, understand that I live in an ultra conservative state where a large portion of the population do not watch "R" rated movies. I'm not talking "NC-17" here, I'm talking "R".)

Bo*bs- twice. (See above statement)

"Damn"- once.

"Sh*t"-is articulated on three occasions.


And of course the mother of all swearwords, "F*ck", is utilized in the dialogue six times. Six. That equates to twice a chapter.

Now, don't think of an elephant.

Haha, you just pictured one, didn't you? So, should I be true to my characters and submit my entry, knowing that as soon as someone encounters that first F*ck, they'll bounce my entry, keep my fee, and I'll be secretly blackballed from any further contests sponsored by this group? Or, should I stifle my voice, change "Sh*t" into "Sugar" and "F*ck" into "Fudge" knowing that each time the reader judge runs across those words they'll know, subconsciously, what I meant to say? (Don't think of an elephant.)

My other choice, besides not entering, which I feel denies me my right as a dues paying member who was not required to adhere to any particular set of guidelines upon joining, (unlike, say, a well known organization that disallows girls, gays, and atheists,) is to enter it as is, get bounced, sue them for denying me my rights protected under the First Amendment, and end up wallowing in a court system that is already overburdened by frivolous lawsuits because we live in a litigious society just so I can make a point?


I'm thinkin', "F*ck that."

Spring Ahead, Fall Far Behind…

I've signed up to work again and thank Bob for Ro who reminded me that LDS Spring Conference is the weekend of April 3 and 4th, which is also Easter weekend. I almost signed up to work that weekend too, but then she whispered, "Conference…Conference…" and my brain kicked into gear and I said, "Never mind!" with the appropriate amount of panic because I almost messed up.

None of that really has anything to do with me other then the fact that 1) I hate to work conference because the annoying protestors make me want to slug someone and 2) I'm not religious so I'll be skiing on Easter Sunday, providing the weather is nice… Apparently holidays like "President's Day" are big skiing draws, but things like "Easter" and "Thanksgiving" people prefer to spend inside with their extended families. Well, we don't have any extended family here, and we like to spend our holidays on top of the mountain. That's our spiritual experience, thank you very much. And we like it like that.

One year, in Missouri, we spent Easter having a bar-b-cue and shearing sheep. It was a beautiful day, and we all got sunburned. It was one of the most memorable Easters I think I've ever had. In 2008 The Kid and I spent Easter morning at Angel's Rest, the pet cemetery located in Best Friends Animal Sanctuary in Kanab, UT. It was sunny and warm, with a light breeze that coaxed the wind chimes into a soft and delicate concert. We were surrounded by the headstones of pets loved so much by their owners you could feel it. That was a great Easter, too.

The chaotic clusterf*ck of a mess of epic proportions construction downtown continues to progress. Main Street has been closed for a few days and will be closed until this coming Saturday (just in time for Young Women's Conference Saturday evening…) because the controversial Sky Bridge linking both sides of City Creek Center, the mall and residential complex which has been the reason for the chaotic clusterf*ck of a mess of epic proportions construction, has to be installed.

Many people have been against the Sky Bridge for various reasons and it will be interesting to see how the horses react. Horses like Charlie and Jerry typically have an attitude of "Hey! Look, they put up a big shady thing just for me, yay!" While individuals like Cletus and Tony take a more suspicious approach; "Wait just one minute…THAT wasn't there before… Is it gonna EAT me?" So driving each horse under it will be an experience, I'm sure. But all of our guys take stuff like that in stride, and have been so very good during the unending eons of wreckage and upheaval years of construction. I'll take photos tonight so I can post them for your viewing pleasure. In some of the backgrounds of previous photos you can see some of the buildings in progress. The condos they've constructed right across the street from where we stage are almost ready to be sold, thus filling the mall with people before the actual "Mall" is even open yet. That'll be fun for the occupants I'm sure (snort) and think how lucky they are… to have Carriage Drivers as neighbors.

I, Too Am A Trophy, Um, Something…

I met a real life trophy wife this weekend. I've heard stories of them, and there seem to be quite a few on TV these days, but until this weekend, like many of the folk who stare in wonder at our carriage horses, I'd never seen a "real one."

I recognized her species almost immediately: she wore a beautiful, delicate and expensive looking dress, large fake boobs, flawless makeup, diamond everything, some kind of shoe that I'm sure did not come from Payless, and had a plethora of yoga muscles. In the ladies room, a modern day watering hole where we women tend to gather, I waited patiently for an empty stall while she schooled her young, mirror images of her finely groomed self, in the art of primping and presentation. She couldn’t have been over five foot tall and maybe weighed 100 pounds soaking wet, but she was discussing her $42.00 control top panty hose—

Cue the sound of an automobile coming to a swerving, screeching, crashing halt:

Hold. The. Phone.

Like a deer in headlights, I was stunned. Immobile. Shocked into a stillness I usually cannot ever achieve.

Did she just say she paid FORTY-TWO DOLLARS FOR A. PAIR. OF. NYLONS???

When I finally recovered my senses, I looked this stick of a tiny thing over again.

Slave Driver then stares off into an imaginary horizon (being that she's in the bathroom and is surrounded by cinderblock walls it takes more than a little imagination to do so) and wonders WTF would someone who is as big around as her entire thigh needs control top panty hose…

And who in their right mind pays $42.00 for them?

Snort.

Me? I wish L'Eggs would come up with a Control-top Burka I could shimmy into (after being liberally spritzed down with Pam for lubrication purposes) to make everything look thinner, but I find that I usually just end up looking like a sausage. And if I ever did spend that kind of cashola for nylons (which, BTW, I usually immediately and irreversibly jam my thumbnail through, causing a HUGE run, which, due to their super tight control top features, usually causes an extra lump of cellulite of pop out, thus changing the sausage look to one more like a stunted Calamari)

Where was I?

Oh yeah, if I ever put out that kind of serious cash for panty hose I'd better get a lap dance, a pony, and my car waxed out of the deal.

But, you see, that's what makes me a trophy wife also. Well, at least to my husband. See, what I may lack in high, tight boobs, a tanned, toned body and pearly white teeth so big they could pass for Chicklets I make up for in being frugal, subjectively hardworking, and not at all interested in name brands, trends, or Vogue magazine. Instead of going to a studio and doing Pilates, I mow the lawn. Instead of making reservations, I make dinner. I can fix my own car heater switch, rewire lights on horse and boat trailers, and am versed in reviving muddy suede chaps by washing them with Murphy's Oil Soap and tons & tons of fabric softener then laying them flat (away from any heat source) to dry.

Plus, and I suspect one of two reasons why he hasn't traded me in for a younger, toned and polished model, I make Mr. Slave Driver laugh. A lot.

The second reason is my muscles are the kind you get from lifting heavy things repeatedly. So he knows that if confronted with a thin, delicate sweet young replacement thang, I could easily snap her neck, thus handily elimination the competition.

Wherever You Go, There You Are

Sunset in Southern Utah



First, I'd like to congratulate Doree, the winner of the Winner! Winner! Chicken Dinner! Contest. Doree received a copy of Ignite Your Passion eBook. Thank you to all the folks who entered and I hope you keep entering contests and win big. Maybe next time you'll win a car or a luxury vacation. Not here, mind you, but somewhere…

We traveled to Buckeye, Arizona last weekend for my cousin's wedding. My cousin is considerably younger than me by about 25 years, so he's always been more like a nephew then a cousin. His family used to live in Ellwood City, Pennsylvania but they moved to Arizona a few years back so, along with my Mom in Tucson, they live closer to us than anyone else in our combined families.





Kanab, Utah

We drove. Driving 1200 miles over the course of 6 days sucks, especially when 1) you go through long stretches of landscape that is blah, 2) there is a bored teenager in the car who is missing Prom because of the trip and 3) your back hurts from sitting in the car for hours at a time. But I don't like to fly and we brought our travel trailer to stay in while in Buckeye so there you go.




The Palm golf course in Goodyear, AZ.

The wedding venue was a golf course, and it was beautiful. And it was great to see everyone. Now I have to catch up on all the things that fell to the wayside while I was gone. But here are a few pictures to amuse you until I write again.



My brother has taken dance lessons, so he decided to teach The Kid how to dance. The problem with the women in our family is we always try to lead.

The Kid and her dad during the Daddy/Daughter dance. Yes, that is blue in her hair. She has a fabulous GPA, doesn't drink or do drugs, is employed and generally is a good kid. One learns to pick one's battles... Plus, ironically, it matched the wedding colors.


My uncle and his daughter during the Daddy/Daughter dance.




We brought Sammie Two Chews along because she travels well. She sits on the arms rest between the front seats in her bed. The thing she found most annoying was there were all these great new people she wanted to say "Hi" to at the RV parks we stayed at, but they all had dogs with them. Sammie loves people, she hates dogs. So she was very frustrated. And by the time we arrived home, She.Was.Done.

The One Left Behind

We've been coping with our grief over here this week. Fourteen years with the same guy, suddenly he's gone, it leaves a big hole in your life. I find myself doing things that I became accustomed to doing to accommodate an elderly pet whose vision, hearing, and spatial concepts have been compromised as the years have taken their toll. I used to have to make sure the power cord for my laptop was either up higher then my knees, or way lower. Of course, that was no guarantee that he wouldn't catch it on his toenails.

Sammie Two Chews is the lone dog in the house now. She has been looking for her Big Guy to no avail. To show her displeasure she's pee'd on the carpet twice and pooped in the living room once. To add insult to injury, last week she also needed her annual shots, had her teeth cleaned, nails trimmed and I brushed the heck out of her because she's blowing her coat and was looking kinda ratty. So now she's in hiding under the bed, wondering, I'm sure, what new torture awaits. So I've been trying to do things she enjoys, like allowing her on the bed to cuddle, taking her for extra walks and rides in the car, which she likes a lot. I've also been sneaking her treats from the table, for which I get disapproving looks, but I don't care.

I'll be on the road this week on a trip to Buckeye, Arizona for my cousin's wedding, so blogging might be sporadic. The Winner! Winner! Chicken Dinner! Contest is in its last week, so if you haven't entered, go here and do so.

And thank you for the sympathetic emails and comments. Cowboy was the most awesome dog. We miss him terribly, and the place in the hallway he called his own is a big empty spot, a mirror image of the one in my heart.

Border Collies don't go to Heaven, they just herd in Another's pasture for a time.

Half of my heart has left me today,

"It's for the best" won't make the ache go away.

It's useless to say you're at rest, this I know,

You don't know anything other than "go",

Somewhere in a pasture you've cornered a Ram,

Or you're herding a foal back to its dam,

And make sure that the cats stay out of the yard,

For you work is fun, doing nothing is hard.

Your hearing and sight will again be restored.

You'll no longer sigh to show us you're bored.

Along the way you'll find you a boy,

Who will chase you and pet you and throw you a toy.

Ginger will be there, waiting for you,

Stormy, Bandit, and Tasha-Bear, too.

And once I arrive and reunite with my Pack,

We'll grab all the toys, and find our way back,

And go 'round again on this earthly plane,

Young and vibrant as pups, free of old age and pain.

And together the World to our will we'll make bend,

My buddy, my partner, my Cowboy, my friend.




Brown Dirt Cowboy

2/12/1996 -∞- 3/2/2010

I love you, buddy.
You'll always be in charge.