Shadow on my Heart

Poor Pasha. He does not know yet that his furry little butt was just placed on some nasty lists of three infamous Goodreads trolls, along with all my other books. It is not his fault that his author uses “condescending” words—such as perhaps “unpublished” as I clearly labelled one of my novellas that nevertheless got shelved under “do-not-read.” Duh!

As far as authors go, I am a nobody but I do write real books with big words, alas almost no sex, but in complete sentences. Few sales here and there, and no controversial discussions anywhere about any subject on any site. So, how did these admirable gatekeepers zero in on me? I haven’t the faintest idea. E tu, Brute? Or maybe they hate "the other Borgs," the ones from outer space.

At least, I found that I am in good company. Many others had to endure their pranks condoned by the GR site. Besides, I trust that the overwhelming “To-Be-Read” listings will wipe out this sorry shadow on my writer’s heart. I am thankful for my readers and supporters.

And, if it is still true that “any publicity is good publicity,” I should even be grateful to these misguided individuals as well. This old gal could use a little controversy; it keeps the juices flowing.

Celebrating Good Samaritans

The Rescue of these puppies prompted me to share my poem with you.

My Arkansas

*

Forests clad in emerald shrouds

An endless sky dotted with cotton-candy clouds

A darling house that I just bought

This is the Arkansas I sought.

Lumber trucks clamor for strong nerves

A yelping puppy tossed; not what it deserves.

Trash and litter does abound

This is the Arkansas I found.

Life’s multi-layered quilts are evident

from ev’ry distant corner of this land.

Where people kindly rescue dogs and cats,

And women still wear gorgeous hats.

Where gardens bloom by masters’ grace,

And peace pervades this quiet place.

This, too, I found—and happily I vow,

That is my Arkansas right now.

(Excerpt from Moments of the Heart)



Do Not Try This At Home

I usually write about my and other people's pets. However, this should not encourage anyone to keep this one at home as a pet. The following is from my short stories and poetry book: Moments of the Heart.

THE OLD SEAL

Fat-sleeked bodies glisten, fins thrash blackening the water until only the old bull is left on his solitary rock; a deposed king without subjects.

The seals had stayed on this island until the brief summer day relieved the arctic night from its long guard. Here, they had fished the bays without fear of being pierced by storm-driven floes. But on this day, they are to return to the far North to bear the offspring of their new ruler.

The old seal watches until they disappear. For uncounted seasons, he had led his herd unchallenged, reining in the impatient, encouraging the weak, beckoning the disheartened.

He attempts to heave his aching bulk toward the water. His wounds are deep and he longs for the icy spray to numb his pain.

Not since his early years had he been defeated as the herd’s leader. The younger bulls had never before attempted to challenge him. Secretly, patiently, they had waited for them to grow strong; and for him to grow old, and nearsighted, and weak. They attacked in the late morning while the females were sunning. His indignant, angry bellows had echoed over the island, then turned into grunts coarsened by blinding pain. One after the other, the cows had left his side to seek favor with the new ruler who impregnated the still wintry air with heady barks of victory.

A streaming mass of raw burning wounds, the old seal can no longer support himself on his frayed fins. Flat on his fat-rippled belly, he wriggles toward the shore, leaving a trail of darkening blood. He must reach the water before nightfall before frost will sink its murderous teeth into his exposed flesh. Red fog shrouds his sight as he heaves himself toward a drop of jutting rock that lies between him and the water. Over the millennia of their predestined journeys the tumbling herds had chiseled smooth slides toward the ocean. The old seal catches a glimpse of white froth and leaps with habitual faith and his remaining strength toward the savaging edge as razor gravel tears through him. Unconsciousness cloaks his senses.  The incoming tide halted his fall.

Crystals of white spray shudder on his pelt. The faint throb of life still pulses through the old seal’s heart. As the next wave crashes over him it carries him into the sea; he is home.

Punctuality

It is Saturday, and I am celebrating Punctuality for our Friday Blog Hop.

I have never been late for anything. Planes, trains, dates or work. Except once: Working in Vienna (Austria, that is), my roommate and I had been solving the problems of the world the prior evening - with a little too much sweet Red Currant Wine (don't EVER do that!). Instead of phoning in sick (which I was), I frantically hopped onto a streetcar and tore into the office where the receptionist happily told me: "The 'Herr Generaldirector' (CEO) is waiting for you." I am sure the elegant man didn't believe my stuttered excuse that I was at the dentist, and ultimately transferred me to the States (I sometimes wonder if that was his punishment--just joking because I am still here forty years later).

I still live by the clock especially to wake up. My alarm goes off at 5 A.M. That purring in my ear and those cold noses in my face are impossible to ignore.

Pasha and Lilliput waiting for the clock to strike 5 AM.

Celebrating the Stars

It's Friday and I need something to celebrate. Maybe I should mention that my new novella Shadow Sanctuary received its first 5-star review.

What does that have to do with my "animal blog?" First, that's the one I am using for our hopping (through the blogs, that is), and--come to think of it--there are two cats in that novella; one domesticated--the other wild. How is that for an excuse to brag?


I hope you'll also check out my previous post about "Authors and their Tootsies." (There is a theme that runneth through this blog...don't you know?)



Authors and Their Tootsies

Before you get the wrong idea about the title, this picture is of

Author Lee Hanson with Toots,

her “grand-pet.” The darling dog is the star of her daughter’s family.

Lucky Lee has another shining star on her hands: Julie O’Hara, her intrepid body language expert in the highly successful Julie O’Hara Mystery Series. Speaking of stars, all three novels are rated four and five stars on Amazon. Here’s an inside tip… the author’s favorite is book two, Swan Song, about a beautiful young woman who turns up dead one morning in a swan boat on Lake Eola, smack in the middle of a jewel-like park in Downtown Orlando. You’ll never guess who did it…

Check it out here:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0040JI3P6

* * *

PS:  There is another Tootsie in my Pasha’s life:

She is the one occupying the middle of the back cover of his book (print version).

And while she does not belong to an author, her adoring human is that other most appreciated ingredient in an author’s life: an avid Reader.

Sweet Tootsie (Another Shelter Rescue and one of Pasha's Buddies)

 

Celebrating - Another Book Done

 Today, I celebrate that I not only finished and published this Novella -- but that I finally could decide on a title and a cover (having mucked about with it for quite some time).



It's Out. It's Done. On to the next (book 3 of my "serious" Legends of the Winged Scarab).

http://www.amazon.com/Inge-H.-Borg/e/B006QYQKUS – Amazon

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/505050 -  Smashwords

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/c/inge-h.-borg - Barnes & Noble

Sorry for the "shameless" self-promotion -- but how else are you going to find it (of course, you'll want to read this Contemporary Woman's story of finding ....what most of us are or were looking for).

Celebrating the Small Things

It must be Friday: Blog-Hop day. And today,

I celebrate that I played hooky--from the gym!

I am usually quite diligent about this. Up at six, at the gym at seven. Contortionist until eight. Except, if it rains, or if I'd rather have my yoghurt right after I wake up, or if Pasha is lying on me. Then I simply don't have the heart to disturb him.

You just have to love this face! It's the best excuse I can think of.

Authors and Their Angels

Russell Blake basks in the Mexican sun and surely has a Tequila once in a while.

He is also a very successful suspense writer; a rough and burly guy, I imagine from looking at his author-photograph. At least, his action/adventure-laden books reflect just that.

I became aware of him because he is also generous in sharing insights and writing/marketing advice with other (mostly less read, aka less-successful, writers). I was doubly surprised when I looked at his blog and found a “Pet Wall,” where he encourages others to post (truly amazing) pictures of their pets (you have to take a look at them--naturally, Pasha is there too). That led to my discovering that he wrote a book about his very own dog, “Lobo, an Angel with Fur.”

Well, that man may appear rough and burly (sigh), but I knew then that he also had a great heart. I asked him to share the love of his dog here with my animal friends (make sure you have a hanky close-by).

In Memory of Lobo – by Russell Blake

Lobo’s trademark “We Are Not Amused” look.



When I first laid eyes on Lobo he was a little fur ball, perhaps 6-7 weeks old, at a shelter in Mazatlan, Mexico, where I hang my hat. It was love at first sight for us both. I’ve never before, or since, been suddenly struck by such a powerful emotion, and yet on one late-summer day, in hundred degree heat, without warning or precedence, it washed over me like a tsunami. He owned my heart from that moment.

I adopted him, and we shared adventures and joy, until when he was fifteen months old, he was diagnosed with a rare, rapidly-growing form of terminal cancer.

That marked what I think of as the second phase of our life together. Lobo went through several rounds of chemo, and against all odds and the best guesses of specialists and the medical literature, went into remission. The experience changed us both, and we lived every day from that point on as if it was our last – which wasn’t a bad bet, given that his life expectancy from that point was one year.

Lobo ever vigilant, waiting for unsuspecting workers to walk by so he can bark at them.

At 15 months old, on his Christmas day, 2006 walk. It was this photo that gave me the inspiration for the book title. With the back-lighting from the setting sun, he looked like an apparition – an angel, if you will.

Five and a half years after I adopted him, Lobo slipped gently from this world, taking a large part of me with him. Two years after his passing, I still miss him more than words can describe.

Lobo was a remarkable spirit who touched and affected everyone he came into contact with, a survivor who beat all the odds, brave beyond measure with a stoic courage that humbled me. Lobo taught me the meaning of unconditional love – a gift for which I’m eternally grateful. An Angel With Fur is his story, a rollercoaster of laughs and tears that honors his memory and memorializes his truly remarkable life.

* * *

Thank you, Russell, for sharing your joy--and your sorrow--with us.

* * *

Don’t miss to check out Russell’s great blog:

http://RussellBlake.com

And the link to his book:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005SIU54A

And if you don’t believe my first impression, here is his author page

http://www.amazon.com/Russell-Blake/e/B005OKCOLE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

To Prove my Point

We found out his name is Duke. Sometimes he wears a collar, sometimes he doesn’t. We do have a leash law—but Duke doesn’t care (and apparently neither do his owners who live just outside the city limits).There are complaints (his occasional gift packages are not entirely appreciated), but Duke is a wily one and so far he has steadily evaded the town’s animal control officer and his trap.

He is not a stray. But there is a little neighborhood dog that he simply adores. Because of that, he runs away from home, crosses the highway, crashes through the woods, and then lies patiently on the neighbor’s hot or cold driveway waiting for his little friend to be walked.

At first, I would run back into the house whenever I spied the large dog. Now, however, I find a sturdy oak stick from my kindling pile and Duke turns into a big goofy puppy.

Most of us have accepted him though we do worry about his road crossings. When it's hot, that dog has so many fresh water bowls to choose from that he must be quite giddy at the end of the day. Once I got to know him, I found that Duke is a really nice dog (although his jaw is something to behold and respect).