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So says the Cowardly Lion in Oz when he sings about all the things he'd do if only he had courage. Courage is essential to success. I don't mean the kind of courage that helps you walk down a dark street at midnight or climb a ladder to clean gutters; I'm referring to a subtler kind of courage. It's the courage to try new things and be persistent when the going gets tough. It's the kind of courage that we have as children that often gets lost as we age: the courage to metaphorically stumble, fall, then get up and try again.
By the time we reach our middle years, we're supposed to know what we're doing, be accomplished in our various endeavors, be teachers rather than risk-taking learners. For anyone in the arts, however, there is no such luxury. (Except, of course, for the uber commercially successful who can get away with cranking out formulaic garbage.) Being creative means always striving to do something new, taking the risk that someone's reaction to your work might be, "That sucks."
That kind of criticism isn't constructive, and it's hard to hear. Sometimes, too, a particular criticism isn't even accurate. But more often than not, feedback from a respected source is true and valuable, and if you listen, you learn. When I offer a piece of writing, either a story or just a blog post, for critique, I really do want to know what people think. Being able to take criticism well has taken me a long time, but I've realized it is an essential part of maturing as a writer. I want to know what doesn't work because that is how I'll learn. I may not always agree, but I'll always listen. And if I ever become so commercially successful that I can crank out garbage, I'll still listen--all the way to the bank.
So until I'm made King (or Queen) of the Forest, may the great and wonderful Wizard grant me the courage to write, rewrite and rewrite again, and to be persistent as I follow my own yellow brick road.
Do I really need to say comments are welcome?
Friday, November 13, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Rejection
Okay, that story I was writing when I almost burned down the house didn't even make the online postings in the Trib ghost story competition. I carefully followed the rules--under 700 words, and set in the Chicago area. I'm pissed, because frankly I thought it was pretty good. So I'm posting it here. Since I'm now in that major funk all writers experience when their efforts are so cavalierly treated by the world, I'd really appreciate comments--even (especially) if you think it sucks. Maybe I'll learn something.
Happy Halloween.
Work kept me occupied, but the commute became a problem: I dreaded time at home. The logical escape was household chores, so late on Halloween afternoon, I decided to clean the gutters. Never acrophobic, scaling a ladder to the roof-line of a three-story house did not distress me. I clambered up the rungs with the energy of a man half my age, and began the messy but necessary task of clearing dead leaves and debris. Leaning far out to my left as I reached around a dormer window, I was concentrating on my work, so I did not see, until too late, the waxen face grinning viciously at the window.
Now I, too, await the autumn twilight when we souls, no longer within our corporeal selves, try to find our way home.
Happy Halloween.
Returning
With the dogs gone, Marissa changed. My sweet wife, who had disliked reading newspapers because she thought they were too depressing, became obsessed with morbid stories. Every day, she walked to the Village Market to buy a paper. She studied accident reports, murders, and death notices. At dinner, instead of her usual cheery conversations about Garden Club or a new recipe, she would recite the grim statistics of the dead. In less than a week, she lost weight, her hair hung in dull wisps, and her face took on an unhealthy pallor. I began to avoid her company.I know now that it is true: in the late autumn when the leaves are burnt gold and the skies deepen, when sunlight slants acutely in the afternoon and fades to the obsidian evening, the veil, that amorphous distance between two worlds, grows thin. For me to accept this had not been easy.
As a toxicologist for Abbott Laboratories, I was not by nature or habit given to flights of fancy. Research and rational thought, preferably expressed in scientific terms dictated reality for me. My wife, Marissa, was far more imaginative. Indeed, it was her effervescent personality that enchanted me when we first met, and her cheerful attitude was often just the tonic I needed when work or the word in general depressed me.
Two years ago, we decided to move from the large house where we had raised our children to something smaller. We chose a charming little Victorian in Lake Bluff. The realtor had shown us through the octogenarian house on a bright Saturday morning in September. Her nervous little admission that the previous owners believed the place was haunted amused my wife, but carried absolutely no weight with me. The house, recently remodeled, suited our needs perfectly. It meant a much shorter commute to my North Chicago office. There was a fenced-in yard for our two dogs, and Marissa was delighted by the third-floor view of Lake Michigan. We moved in on October 19th.
It was the dogs who knew first. Watson and Crick--two pleasant, well-behaved golden retrievers--had been part of our family for nine years. Even before our children grew up and moved away from home, the dogs had been slightly spoiled. They ate their home-cooked dog meals when we ate our dinner and slept at the foot of our bed every night.
The first night in the new house, both dogs whined about climbing the stairs. I was all for leaving them in the kitchen, but Marissa wouldn't hear of it. I carried Crick up the stairs. Reluctantly, Watson followed behind. But the night didn't go well. Twice, they woke us barking their fool heads off. At three in the morning, Watson began frantically scratching the bedroom door, destroying paint and woodwork, while Crick set about howling in a way that made my blood run cold. They bolted down the stairs the minute I opened the bedroom door. Later, I noticed that one of them had, uncharacteristically, urinated on the carpet. They spent the rest of the night outside. Fro days, rain or shine, they refused to set foot in the house so that we had to take them to stay indefinitely with our daughter.
As a toxicologist for Abbott Laboratories, I was not by nature or habit given to flights of fancy. Research and rational thought, preferably expressed in scientific terms dictated reality for me. My wife, Marissa, was far more imaginative. Indeed, it was her effervescent personality that enchanted me when we first met, and her cheerful attitude was often just the tonic I needed when work or the word in general depressed me.
Two years ago, we decided to move from the large house where we had raised our children to something smaller. We chose a charming little Victorian in Lake Bluff. The realtor had shown us through the octogenarian house on a bright Saturday morning in September. Her nervous little admission that the previous owners believed the place was haunted amused my wife, but carried absolutely no weight with me. The house, recently remodeled, suited our needs perfectly. It meant a much shorter commute to my North Chicago office. There was a fenced-in yard for our two dogs, and Marissa was delighted by the third-floor view of Lake Michigan. We moved in on October 19th.
It was the dogs who knew first. Watson and Crick--two pleasant, well-behaved golden retrievers--had been part of our family for nine years. Even before our children grew up and moved away from home, the dogs had been slightly spoiled. They ate their home-cooked dog meals when we ate our dinner and slept at the foot of our bed every night.
The first night in the new house, both dogs whined about climbing the stairs. I was all for leaving them in the kitchen, but Marissa wouldn't hear of it. I carried Crick up the stairs. Reluctantly, Watson followed behind. But the night didn't go well. Twice, they woke us barking their fool heads off. At three in the morning, Watson began frantically scratching the bedroom door, destroying paint and woodwork, while Crick set about howling in a way that made my blood run cold. They bolted down the stairs the minute I opened the bedroom door. Later, I noticed that one of them had, uncharacteristically, urinated on the carpet. They spent the rest of the night outside. Fro days, rain or shine, they refused to set foot in the house so that we had to take them to stay indefinitely with our daughter.
Work kept me occupied, but the commute became a problem: I dreaded time at home. The logical escape was household chores, so late on Halloween afternoon, I decided to clean the gutters. Never acrophobic, scaling a ladder to the roof-line of a three-story house did not distress me. I clambered up the rungs with the energy of a man half my age, and began the messy but necessary task of clearing dead leaves and debris. Leaning far out to my left as I reached around a dormer window, I was concentrating on my work, so I did not see, until too late, the waxen face grinning viciously at the window.
Now I, too, await the autumn twilight when we souls, no longer within our corporeal selves, try to find our way home.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Writing Can Be Dangerous
Last Wednesday was, without doubt, the quintessential autumn day. The misty rains of early morning stopped in time for me and Woki to walk to the Lake where the sun was just burning through the clouds enough to make the trees glow in all their brilliant splendor. The streets truly were paved with gold. No sooner had we returned home than I set out again, this time for a run along other roads where the ravines looked like Aladdin's cave of treasure. An hour later, back home again, I dutifully sat down to write. Immersed in a new short story ("Returning"), I took breaks only to refill the tea mug and make a few quick preparations for dinner. At 2:30, when I still had enough time before my first student of the day, I impulsively decided to squeeze in another walk--I'd been working hard.
Ah, it was so lovely! As Woki and I walked along, I congratulated myself on my efficiency. I had done my household chores, written steadily for several hours, and could continue to ponder my story as I enjoyed the lovely weather. Was the tone right? Had I created convincing characters? Did the end come too abruptly?
Twenty-five minutes later, walking up the driveway, I heard a funny sound. It got louder on the deck, and louder still as I came in the back porch. Frantically, I fumbled with the key when I simultaneously realized that the buzzing noise was our smoke detector and I had walked off and left Woki's chicken livers boiling on the stove.
Burnt chicken liver smells really, really bad. Angry gray smoke was wafting through the entire house. I grabbed the pan off the stove and carried the noxious mess to the backyard. Since I gave no more thought to grabbing that pan handle than I had to leaving the house without checking the stove, I was very lucky that the pan had been top quality. Past tense. The thing was absolutely black. Any lesser piece of equipment would likely have started a nasty fire. I repeat--I was very lucky.
I learned some valuable lessons: First,if I am caught up in Fictionland, I should never multi-task with anything involving fire or water. Second, things can go terribly wrong on a beautiful day, which creates a certain tension that is much more pleasant to read about than to experience in real life. Third, all life experiences are fodder for stories. I may use some of this at some point, but relax, Julie Powell, I won't be attempting a blog on cooking.
P.S. Ironically, that morning I had seen a news story advising people to check their smoke detectors. I know mine work. Please check yours.
Ah, it was so lovely! As Woki and I walked along, I congratulated myself on my efficiency. I had done my household chores, written steadily for several hours, and could continue to ponder my story as I enjoyed the lovely weather. Was the tone right? Had I created convincing characters? Did the end come too abruptly?
Twenty-five minutes later, walking up the driveway, I heard a funny sound. It got louder on the deck, and louder still as I came in the back porch. Frantically, I fumbled with the key when I simultaneously realized that the buzzing noise was our smoke detector and I had walked off and left Woki's chicken livers boiling on the stove.
Burnt chicken liver smells really, really bad. Angry gray smoke was wafting through the entire house. I grabbed the pan off the stove and carried the noxious mess to the backyard. Since I gave no more thought to grabbing that pan handle than I had to leaving the house without checking the stove, I was very lucky that the pan had been top quality. Past tense. The thing was absolutely black. Any lesser piece of equipment would likely have started a nasty fire. I repeat--I was very lucky.
I learned some valuable lessons: First,if I am caught up in Fictionland, I should never multi-task with anything involving fire or water. Second, things can go terribly wrong on a beautiful day, which creates a certain tension that is much more pleasant to read about than to experience in real life. Third, all life experiences are fodder for stories. I may use some of this at some point, but relax, Julie Powell, I won't be attempting a blog on cooking.
P.S. Ironically, that morning I had seen a news story advising people to check their smoke detectors. I know mine work. Please check yours.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Mothers & Daughters
In my newest short story (Skincare), Chrissie Sorensen finds a way to rebel against her mother, but ultimately her choice is more self-destructive than vengeful.
I've long recognized that an inordinate amount of my fiction writing is devoted to mother-daughter relationships. I'm also aware that, duh, this is because of my relationship with my mother.
Yeah, yeah, yawn. Here we go with another Mommy Dearest tale.
From my mother, I learned to make a decent bechamel sauce. I did not learn how to fix my hair, put on make-up, drive a car, or act like a mature adult. These were not things that she herself could do, ergo, she could not teach them to me.
Granted, I was a difficult child, and I remember more than once her shrieking at me, "I hope you have a daughter just like you someday."
I have three daughters. They are now all over 21. Raising them has been the joy of my life and, today as I look at these beautiful and accomplished women, I'm amazed that they were once the tiny girls I tucked into bed, read stories to, and whose boo-boos I could heal with a kiss. I really can't take credit for who they've become because try as I might, I have not always been up to the task of being "Mother." As they grew older, I lost the ability to give them answers, fix problems, or be a role model of perfect behavior and good decision making. I screw up. I do and say stupid things and continually expose myself to them as a deeply flawed human being. For that, I quite sincerely and publicly apologize. Being a better mother still ranks right up there with all the other things I wish I could give my girls.
Oscar Wilde once said something like: "Children often love their parents, but they rarely forgive them." Such is life. I can only hope that maybe through my stories, the girls and I and anyone else who reads them might take a step closer to understanding the webbed and intricate complexities of mothers and daughters.
I've long recognized that an inordinate amount of my fiction writing is devoted to mother-daughter relationships. I'm also aware that, duh, this is because of my relationship with my mother.
Yeah, yeah, yawn. Here we go with another Mommy Dearest tale.
From my mother, I learned to make a decent bechamel sauce. I did not learn how to fix my hair, put on make-up, drive a car, or act like a mature adult. These were not things that she herself could do, ergo, she could not teach them to me.
Granted, I was a difficult child, and I remember more than once her shrieking at me, "I hope you have a daughter just like you someday."
I have three daughters. They are now all over 21. Raising them has been the joy of my life and, today as I look at these beautiful and accomplished women, I'm amazed that they were once the tiny girls I tucked into bed, read stories to, and whose boo-boos I could heal with a kiss. I really can't take credit for who they've become because try as I might, I have not always been up to the task of being "Mother." As they grew older, I lost the ability to give them answers, fix problems, or be a role model of perfect behavior and good decision making. I screw up. I do and say stupid things and continually expose myself to them as a deeply flawed human being. For that, I quite sincerely and publicly apologize. Being a better mother still ranks right up there with all the other things I wish I could give my girls.
Oscar Wilde once said something like: "Children often love their parents, but they rarely forgive them." Such is life. I can only hope that maybe through my stories, the girls and I and anyone else who reads them might take a step closer to understanding the webbed and intricate complexities of mothers and daughters.
Monday, September 14, 2009
On Down the Road
Labor Day weekend, Woki and I met a very interesting person, Wendy Witchner. She, unlike Mariah, is absolutely non-fictional.
Wendy is a jeweler who was among the 200-plus artists exhibiting with the Deer Path Art League's Fair on the Square, and her unique and lovely work drew me and many others to her booth. As I perused the necklaces, bracelets, and earrings that she had crafted from silver, beads, and antique buttons, I listened while she chatted with her customers. She told us that she made her first jewelry at age twelve, that her mother had been a scuba diver on the West Coast back when that was an outrageous job for a woman, and that she herself had been a flight instructor in Alaska. Now, she lives with her dog, Allie, in a 26-foot motor home and travels from art show to art show all year long.
For the rest of the afternoon, I found myself thinking about the romance and difficulties of such a lifestyle. There is certainly a beguiling allure to being so self-contained: one's home and business always at hand, the comfortable companionship of a faithful dog at one's side, the ability to pick up and leave--or stay--in one spot on any whim of the soul or the weather.
I bet there could be a pretty cool "Adventures of Wendy in Wonderland" blog. Perhaps it could even be spun into a fictional series: each episode, Wendy pulls into a new town where she discovers trouble (someone else's), solves the problem (cleverly), and drives off into the sunset.
Ah, but there I go trying to take her to Fictionland. Wendy is a real person, working hard to make a living in the real world. While the notion of being free and unencumbered enough to have one's entire life contained in 26 portable feet is the stuff of fantasies, in reality it could also be the stuff of nightmares. What happens if the "car" breaks down or has a flat tire? What about bad storms? Wendy spends a lot of time in Florida where tornadoes treat RVs much as sharks treat tender swimmers. And financial security in the sunshine artists' community is oxymoronic.
Hers is a lifestyle that requires more courage than I could muster, even in my wildest dreams, but I really admire her spirit.
I went back to her booth and bought a bracelet of silver beads and snowflake obsidian. Wendy is many miles down the road by now, but the bracelet will be a reminder of the value of independence, and perhaps somewhere down my own road, one of my characters will find herself living in a 26-foot motor home.
Please visit the real Wendy at www.wendywitchner-jewelry.com
Wendy is a jeweler who was among the 200-plus artists exhibiting with the Deer Path Art League's Fair on the Square, and her unique and lovely work drew me and many others to her booth. As I perused the necklaces, bracelets, and earrings that she had crafted from silver, beads, and antique buttons, I listened while she chatted with her customers. She told us that she made her first jewelry at age twelve, that her mother had been a scuba diver on the West Coast back when that was an outrageous job for a woman, and that she herself had been a flight instructor in Alaska. Now, she lives with her dog, Allie, in a 26-foot motor home and travels from art show to art show all year long.
For the rest of the afternoon, I found myself thinking about the romance and difficulties of such a lifestyle. There is certainly a beguiling allure to being so self-contained: one's home and business always at hand, the comfortable companionship of a faithful dog at one's side, the ability to pick up and leave--or stay--in one spot on any whim of the soul or the weather.
I bet there could be a pretty cool "Adventures of Wendy in Wonderland" blog. Perhaps it could even be spun into a fictional series: each episode, Wendy pulls into a new town where she discovers trouble (someone else's), solves the problem (cleverly), and drives off into the sunset.
Ah, but there I go trying to take her to Fictionland. Wendy is a real person, working hard to make a living in the real world. While the notion of being free and unencumbered enough to have one's entire life contained in 26 portable feet is the stuff of fantasies, in reality it could also be the stuff of nightmares. What happens if the "car" breaks down or has a flat tire? What about bad storms? Wendy spends a lot of time in Florida where tornadoes treat RVs much as sharks treat tender swimmers. And financial security in the sunshine artists' community is oxymoronic.
Hers is a lifestyle that requires more courage than I could muster, even in my wildest dreams, but I really admire her spirit.
I went back to her booth and bought a bracelet of silver beads and snowflake obsidian. Wendy is many miles down the road by now, but the bracelet will be a reminder of the value of independence, and perhaps somewhere down my own road, one of my characters will find herself living in a 26-foot motor home.
Please visit the real Wendy at www.wendywitchner-jewelry.com
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Mariah Returns
A day or so ago, Woki and I were joined on our afternoon walk by Mariah Springer. (We had first encountered her a couple of weeks ago as she dashed past us on her way to the train.) As we walked along together this time, I learned quite a bit about her.
She lives in one of those really big houses near the Lake with her husband, Steve, and their ten-year-old son, Charlie. She and Steve both grew up in L.F., but he is eight years older than she, so they never knew each other as kids. They met when Mariah had just graduated from high school and they both happened to be at a Deer Path Gallery opening--Mariah's mother was showing some of her paintings, and Steve was there with his parents who had donated a significant sum of money to the Gallery.
Actually, Steve sounds like kind of a jerk. He's very controlling. The kind of guy that has to know her every move, which isn't too hard since Mariah doesn't even have a driver's license. Personally, I can't understand how anyone can get along without driving, but she said she walks to town almost every day, and if she has serious shopping to do, she takes the train into the city.
"What about groceries?" I asked.
Turns out, they have a housekeeper and a cook who take care of all that. They get deliveries from Sunset Foods twice a week, and anything Mariah wants, she just puts on a list for Carmella. (She's the housekeeper.)
So what does she do all day long?
She spends a lot of time in the dance studio they had built on the third floor. Mariah was going to be a professional ballerina before she married Steve. It's still her passion. Three times a week, Duncan DeMiro comes to the house to give her private lessons, which Steve doesn't mind because it is so obvious that Duncan is, in Steve's words, "gay as a Christmas pudding." Sometimes, Mariah sees Duncan as her only connection to the outside world....
So nobody's life is perfect. And there is a story here, which I plan to post on the Friends' Writers' Group blog as soon as it is up. Please keep checking here at Liminalesque to find out when that will be, and anyone interested in the Friends' Writers' Group (a.k.a. FWG) please email the group at LFL@att.net.
She lives in one of those really big houses near the Lake with her husband, Steve, and their ten-year-old son, Charlie. She and Steve both grew up in L.F., but he is eight years older than she, so they never knew each other as kids. They met when Mariah had just graduated from high school and they both happened to be at a Deer Path Gallery opening--Mariah's mother was showing some of her paintings, and Steve was there with his parents who had donated a significant sum of money to the Gallery.
Actually, Steve sounds like kind of a jerk. He's very controlling. The kind of guy that has to know her every move, which isn't too hard since Mariah doesn't even have a driver's license. Personally, I can't understand how anyone can get along without driving, but she said she walks to town almost every day, and if she has serious shopping to do, she takes the train into the city.
"What about groceries?" I asked.
Turns out, they have a housekeeper and a cook who take care of all that. They get deliveries from Sunset Foods twice a week, and anything Mariah wants, she just puts on a list for Carmella. (She's the housekeeper.)
So what does she do all day long?
She spends a lot of time in the dance studio they had built on the third floor. Mariah was going to be a professional ballerina before she married Steve. It's still her passion. Three times a week, Duncan DeMiro comes to the house to give her private lessons, which Steve doesn't mind because it is so obvious that Duncan is, in Steve's words, "gay as a Christmas pudding." Sometimes, Mariah sees Duncan as her only connection to the outside world....
So nobody's life is perfect. And there is a story here, which I plan to post on the Friends' Writers' Group blog as soon as it is up. Please keep checking here at Liminalesque to find out when that will be, and anyone interested in the Friends' Writers' Group (a.k.a. FWG) please email the group at LFL@att.net.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
The Angel of Death
Here is a story I wasn't going to post, but I must because my writing seems to be frozen until I exorcise the demon.
On July 31, Woody, my 19-year-old cat, was outside on our deck sunning himself in customary fashion. We always kept a close eye on the old boy because his health was failing, but being outside for a few hours each day was one of his greatest pleasures. (Another favorite pastime was parking himself in the middle of the room when my husband's band gathered for practice; Woody loved folk music.)
Unfortunately, around noon on that Friday, he wandered about ten feet from our property line onto the parking lot of the church next door. A woman who was at the church for business--someone who knew nothing of the neighborhood--saw Woody and thought he looked "distressed," so she put him in her car and drove him away. How did I learn this? I knew Woody was missing just before one o'clock and began looking everywhere for him. Someone at the church heard that a woman had taken a cat that she "found," and with further inquiries, I learned the woman's name. She had left no note or contact information other than her business card, but of course it was Friday afternoon and she wasn't in her office. After several more phone calls, someone remembered the woman said she lived in Lindenhurst. With her name, that information and the internet, I found a phone number and was able to reach Erin Nebel. When she answered her phone, I asked if she had taken a cat from L.F.
"Yes," she answered.
"That was my cat," I replied. "Where did you take him? How do I get him back?"
"You can't," she answered, "I took him to my vet and had him put down."
Needless to say, I was shocked and horrified. In the three weeks since that terrible day, I have tried to come to terms with what happened. Yes, I blame myself for not making Woody wear a collar. But the greater problem is someone who made an assumption that was so completely wrong and had irrevocable results. Woody was poorly, but he was robbed of his final days and of a peaceful death surrounded by people with whom he was familiar.
I have asked that both Ms. Nebel and the veterinary practice who performed the euthanasia make a donation to a No Kill shelter. I have also asked the veterinarians to review their policies regarding "strays." If they had given Woody even a few hours grace, this never would have happened. Finally, I ask that everyone out there consider a micro-chip implant for their animals. Woki had one put in the Monday after all this happened.
Perhaps now, after writing this, I can move on, but I won't forget.
On July 31, Woody, my 19-year-old cat, was outside on our deck sunning himself in customary fashion. We always kept a close eye on the old boy because his health was failing, but being outside for a few hours each day was one of his greatest pleasures. (Another favorite pastime was parking himself in the middle of the room when my husband's band gathered for practice; Woody loved folk music.)
Unfortunately, around noon on that Friday, he wandered about ten feet from our property line onto the parking lot of the church next door. A woman who was at the church for business--someone who knew nothing of the neighborhood--saw Woody and thought he looked "distressed," so she put him in her car and drove him away. How did I learn this? I knew Woody was missing just before one o'clock and began looking everywhere for him. Someone at the church heard that a woman had taken a cat that she "found," and with further inquiries, I learned the woman's name. She had left no note or contact information other than her business card, but of course it was Friday afternoon and she wasn't in her office. After several more phone calls, someone remembered the woman said she lived in Lindenhurst. With her name, that information and the internet, I found a phone number and was able to reach Erin Nebel. When she answered her phone, I asked if she had taken a cat from L.F.
"Yes," she answered.
"That was my cat," I replied. "Where did you take him? How do I get him back?"
"You can't," she answered, "I took him to my vet and had him put down."
Needless to say, I was shocked and horrified. In the three weeks since that terrible day, I have tried to come to terms with what happened. Yes, I blame myself for not making Woody wear a collar. But the greater problem is someone who made an assumption that was so completely wrong and had irrevocable results. Woody was poorly, but he was robbed of his final days and of a peaceful death surrounded by people with whom he was familiar.
I have asked that both Ms. Nebel and the veterinary practice who performed the euthanasia make a donation to a No Kill shelter. I have also asked the veterinarians to review their policies regarding "strays." If they had given Woody even a few hours grace, this never would have happened. Finally, I ask that everyone out there consider a micro-chip implant for their animals. Woki had one put in the Monday after all this happened.
Perhaps now, after writing this, I can move on, but I won't forget.
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