Terrier Terror, page 22
Baxter opened the door, and we both went inside Gus’s cage. “Hey there, Gus,” Baxter said. Gus happily pranced between us, pausing and stretching as we gave him a vigorous rub down. I did a doubletake at his collar and straightened.
“There’s some sort of a little pouch on his collar,” I said.
“Huh. That’s kind of interesting,” Baxter said. “Maybe it’s got his nametag in there. I just hope it doesn’t mean someone already put a hold on him.”
“Yikes. I sure hope not.”
“I know. The dog feels like he’s ours, doesn’t he?”
“He sure does.” I gave the pouch a little tug, and it came right off. “It’s fastened with Velcro.” I opened the little flap. I saw something sparkling and took it out. It was a diamond ring. I stared at the ring, dumbfounded.
I glanced over at Baxter. He was down on one knee.
I looked toward the gate. The entire staff was now standing behind us, along with a few people I didn’t know, who probably just happened to be here, looking for dogs to adopt themselves.
“How did you do this?” I asked Baxter. I started weeping uncontrollably. “Who puts a ring on a dog at a Humane Society?”
“Me. Because you were right. I knew the moment I saw Gus that he was meant for us. Just like I knew the moment I saw you, that you were meant for me. Marry me, Allie Babcock. Please. I will be the best husband I can possibly be for the rest of our lives.”
“Yes,” I said.
Baxter hopped to his feet and helped me to rise. He wrapped his arms around me in a deep embrace and gave me the most wonderful kiss of my life, amidst the cheers of the gathered crowd.
Everything sank in at once. I had it all. Finally. Everything I’d ever wanted. It had been worth every minute of the wait.
Note from Allie Babcock
Leslie O’Kane is a dog lover, a certified decorator, a tennis player (though she has a caustic relationship with the net), and a hula-hoop dancer (but keeps bruising herself).
Although Leslie has been a published author for more than 20 years, she has issues with self-promotion and is in a 12-step program to overcome her fear of newsletters, blogs, and publicizing her books through social media.
Please help me push Leslie onto the next step by visiting LeslieOKane.com and signing up for her New Book Alert or sending her an email at LesOKane@aol.com, and, if you are so inclined, “like” her Facebook page, Leslie O’Kane Books.
Lastly, if you enjoyed this book, please write a review; apparently such things help authors to sell books and encourage them to write more. If you send a copy of your review to her email she will send you a deeply felt personal thank you.
You can find these books at book retailers of your choice, or at my website, LeslieOKane.com. As a bonus, the first chapter of How My Book Club Got Arrested follows.
HOW MY BOOK CLUB GOT ARRESTED!
Chapter 1
Having a Ball...
“Move the catsup bottle, and scoot your chairs closer together,” Susan, our book club leader, instructed from the iPad screen at the far end of our restaurant table. “I can’t see Abby.”
“I’ll just lean in front of Leslie whenever I have anything to say,” Abby Preston suggested, rising enough to do exactly that and waving at Susan’s screen image. I took a deep breath and blew on her wispy, sandy-brown hair. Laughing, Abby said, “Cut that out,” and sat back down. After a few moments of adjusting our chairs, the computer, and the catsup, Susan said, “Let’s begin.”
“You sound like we’re commencing a deposition,” Jane Henderson teased. (Jane’s a lawyer.)
“Well, she is wearing a robe,” I said.
Kate Ryan chuckled. (She’s kindhearted and laughs at everyone’s jokes.)
“We can call her ‘Judge Susan,’” Abby said.
“I’m a little nervous,” Susan replied. “It feels weird talking to a screen.”
Yesterday morning, Susan Tyler had fallen off her bike at CU Boulder—where she is a professor in American history—while trying to avoid a squirrel on the path. She saved the squirrel, but broke her ankle. Susan was forced to stay home from our group road trip.
Susan grinned. “Okay, Boobs, what’s the first thing that hit you as you read Wilder’s book?”
“This was my first time reading Laura Ingalls Wilder,” I said (jumping right in per usual), “and I was really impressed. I thought it was great when Laura said how disappointed she was that Pa had missed shooting the bear that was trying to eat their pig. And that she loved bear meat. If ever there was a statement about how much times have changed in America, that had to be it.”
The waitress did a double take as she passed our table. I gave her a sheepish smile. She’d cleared our plates a few minutes earlier. It was eleven thirty a.m., and this diner in Burlington, Colorado, was less than a third full. I’m sure it was strange to see four thirtyish-looking women jammed shoulder-to-shoulder at one corner of their table, talking at a mini-iPad at the opposite corner. (FYI: Not counting my daughter, Alicia, Kate Ryan is our youngest member at forty-six. The operative word in the previous sentence was “looking.” Plus the suffix “ish.” And possibly an iamb of poetic license.)
“I liked how Mary got to play with the pig’s bladder like a balloon,” Kate said. “I loved reading this book again. Wilder’s language is just so soothing. It makes me want to cuddle with a child in front of a fireplace and read it aloud.”
“So that’s two possible activities for us to engage in before we reach Branson,” I said. “Provided we can find a store that sells pig bladders. I’m certainly happy to volunteer to fill the role of the child being read to.”
“I don’t remember anything about a bear and a pig in the book,” Jane said. She was a striking-looking woman—tall, athletic, with long, wavy auburn hair—but today her blue eyes lacked their sparkle; she looked like she had a headache. “I must have missed that section when I was speed-reading. I thought the writing was terrible.”
“I found her writing style utterly charming,” I replied, surprised at Jane’s reaction. We typically agreed about the quality of the writing in books, if not the book’s plot, characters, theme, and overall quality.
“Oh, dear,” Kate said to Jane. “Maybe it was just the childlike tone that didn’t appeal to you.”
“No...I really think it was the crappy writing.”
“So, who was your favorite character?” Susan asked, after glancing down at her notes. (Well-organized people are such a blessing to those of us who can never as much as find the same dedicated loose-leaf notebook twice in a row.) Instead of giving any of us the chance to answer, Susan launched into a lecture about Ma and Pa Ingalls’ relationship.
We are the Second Saturday of the Month Book Club, also known as: the Boobs. Nine months ago, in September of last year, Susan had made a typo in our group email. Since then, we would occasionally say something like: “Are we missing any Boobs today?” which led to silly responses such as: “Left boob’s here, though she seems a little flat today.” I continue to suspect that my fellow Boobs were eager to do anything and everything to cheer me up in the wake of my husband’s death, last August. He’d been only 57. I was devastated. We’d had a highly imperfect marriage that worked almost perfectly for us. I wasn’t even sure that Susan’s “Boob” in the email was unintentional; a deliberate typo a mere month after my loss was in keeping with the wonderful way our club ebbed and flowed. We were well aware of one another’s faults, but we were fiercely loyal. In one of our less-than-sober moments at our annual Christmas party, we’d declared our motto to be: Don’t mess with the Boobs, because we’ve got each other’s backs! There were six of us in the club, counting my adult daughter, who’d joined us seven or eight years ago when she was still in high school. Now that she’d moved to Branson, Missouri, she—rather than Susan—had been the member who attended our meetings via telecommunication.
Our only rules were that the host of that month’s meeting led the discussion, which consisted of asking us a couple of book-related questions about the storyline and characters. From there, we’d discuss the book, as well as our childhoods, recipes, jobs, Zumba, spouses, vacations, movies, stain removal, politics, racism, life philosophies, North Korea, God, hair, sports, cavities, gum, plastic wrap, and mascara, which would organically lead us back into an analysis of the author’s writing style, and sometimes into my pet rant—new-age writers who refrain from using punctuation. That discussion would then delve into taxi drivers, Uber, grocery stores, insurance rates, allergies, swimsuits, wealth distribution, child rearing, Adele, and coconut oil, then into the reminder about the upcoming month’s book club. Finally, while Susan (typically) kicked off our thank-yous to this month’s host, Jane would learn, as if for the first time, which book and which hostess was scheduled for next month. Abby, in turn, would promise she’d start reading tomorrow and would complete next month’s book. Kate would say something sweet and reassuring along the lines that there was no need to apologize, even though (in a typical meeting): 1) Jane vehemently disapproved of our next book choice, 2) Abby had gotten sidetracked from reading last month by the burbling in her condo’s plumbing, 3) Kate and Alicia (my daughter) hadn’t talked as much as Jane, Susan, or I, and 4) I had eaten more than my fair share of the snacks.
Getting back to today’s meeting, however, Susan’s current treatise on Ma and Pa had dabbled its toe into the changing role of women’s rights and marital relationships in modern times, but then hopscotched into how moved she’d been upon seeing the actual fiddle that Pa played the first time she’d visited the Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum in Mansfield, Missouri (our final destination on our road trip). Susan suddenly broke off and said, “Whoa. I’ve been rattling endlessly, haven’t I? Is the computer still on, or did I break its little speaker?”
“We’re still listening,” I replied.
“Excellent points, Susan,” Kate said. “It’s enlightening to hear about husbands and wives relationship from a historical perspective. You’re just such an asset in our group.” (Kate Ryan is from Kansas, teaches fourth grade, and is a joy to be around. She’s also beautiful and has an amazing singing voice. If this book was fictional, I’d never have chosen her to appear within these pages, because she doesn’t have any interesting character flaws.)
“I wonder what blind-people’s dreams look like,” Abby said.
Jane and I exchanged grins. We enjoyed playing hide-and-seek with Abby’s non-sequiturs.
“You’re thinking of Mary, Laura’s blind sister?” Jane asked. “She wasn’t blind at birth, so I’m sure her dreams are probably like anyone else’s.”
“But what about Stevie Wonder?”
“He wasn’t in Little House in the Big Woods,” I quipped. “Stevie makes his first appearance in the Little House book six, doesn’t he?”
“Little House in the Big Woods?” Jane repeated as if confused, while Abby, speaking over Jane’s voice, said, “Stevie Wonder was blind at birth. So does he dream about people like we do? With regular faces? Or are their features all blurry?”
“He probably hears lots of music in his dreams,” Kate said.
“I kind of like the thought of Stevie lying in bed, hearing ‘Isn’t She Lovely?’ as he sleeps,” Abby said wistfully.
“All of us are sighted,” Susan said, “so we can’t answer that question. Somebody who was born blind but gained sight later in life could probably answer.”
“Let’s get back to Laura Ingalls,” I said. “My favorite character is—”
“I’m going to ask Siri,” Abby said.
I put my hand on top of her purse to block access to her cellphone. “Let’s get her input later. Siri isn’t a Boob.” (I’m sorry to say that I can get snarky sometimes, and “Let’s ask Siri,” is one of my least-favorite phrases. That is, unless I’m driving and need directions, or I’ve been drinking and am in a jovial mood.) “My favorite character is Laura,” I persisted. “It’s just so interesting to see how loving and happy about household chores she is, without all of the luxuries and time-savers we have now. She did slap Mary for bragging about her blond hair, though. At the same time, I wonder how accurate her story really is. She started writing the books in her middle age, and she’s only four or five in the first book.”
“She’s four?” Jane asked. “Geez. No wonder none of you are making any sense. I read the wrong book. I thought we were supposed to read the first book in the series.”
“We were. Didn’t you read my email?” Susan said, her voice a little testy. “The note in which I reminded all of us to read Little House in the Big Woods?”
“‘Fraid not. Mea Culpa. I just assumed the first book was: ‘The First Four Years,’ because of its title. Naturally, I thought that meant the first four years of her life.”
“The title refers to the first four years of Laura’s marriage to Almonzo,” Susan said.
(I resisted my urge to joke that I thought she’d married Stevie Wonder.)
“My favorite character is Michael Landon,” Abby said. “Or his character, rather. What a cutie he is! His big smile. His gorgeous hair.” She sighed as if picturing the actor in front of her.
From the computer screen, Susan was forcing herself not to comment. When Susan committed herself not to say what was on her mind, her mouth became a straight line as she bit both of her lips.
“It was so touching when Mary went blind and everyone was sick,” Abby continued. “She had to drag herself across the room to fetch her parents a cup of water.”
“That didn’t actually happen until book five or so of the series,” Kate said. “On the Shore of Silver Lake.”
“She went blind on the shore of a lake?” Abby asked earnestly. “I thought it was scarlet fever.”
“That’s the name of the book.”
“It’s named Scarlet Fever?” (Authors note: Abby was much spacier than normal. That said, none of us were pleased with how goofy we sounded when we read our conversation on these pages; we typically get into intelligent, thought-provoking discussions. Months later, after much discussion, our agreed-upon excuse for this particular conversation is: reviewing a children’s book put us into juvenile mindsets. On the off chance that we are, in fact, a bunch of nitwits, we also agreed to never again record our future meetings.)
Jane started fidgeting—simultaneously stirring her soda with a straw and rocking in her seat.
“Did you read the book, Abby?” Susan asked. “Not counting watching old episodes of Little House on the Prairie?”
She shook her head. “I ran out of time. I’d forgotten how we’d switched mid-month to Little House, from the book about the invisible light.”
“All the Light We Cannot See,” Jane grumbled. “That one, I read.”
“It was fun to read a children’s book for a change,” Kate interjected. “I hope we choose to do this again sometime.”
When Kate changes topics suddenly, she is sensing hostility. I glanced at the screen and saw that Susan’s mouth was once again a lipless line.
“Do your students read the Little House books?” I asked Kate.
“Yes, although early readers can start on them in second or third grade.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Abby interrupted, “but I need to go check on Red again.” (Red’s her dog.)
“Do you still have the car keys?” Kate asked.
“Sure do. Thanks,” Abby answered.
“Hang on a sec,” Jane said. “I think I left my wallet in the car.” She swept up her Coach bag from the back of her chair and strode toward Abby. “But don’t let us hold up the discussion.”
She and Abby rounded the corner, chatting quietly. Jane’s abrupt departure worried me. Had I been talking too much? Or offended Jane somehow? I knew Kate or Susan couldn’t be to blame. Most likely, this was mere paranoia on my part. With my husband’s death and my daughter’s recent long-distance move, my book club was my family; I shuddered at the thought of anything jeopardizing our group.
“How much longer will your leg be in the cast?” Kate asked Susan.
“At least two months.”
“Are you in pain?” I asked.
“Not at all. I’m on OxyContin. Thanks to the drugs, it barely even bothers me that only the three of us read the book. And that I won’t get the chance to see the Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum with you.”
“I’ll make it up to you as best I can,” I said. “I’ll not only give you a copy of the printout from the Pocket Stenographer (not the app’s real name) so you can read what we talked about, but we’ll schedule another Facetime session when we’re in Mansfield. I’ll carry my iPad with me, facing out, the whole time we’re in the museum.”
Susan beamed at me. “That’s so sweet. Thank you, Leslie.”
“Plus, I’ll text you whenever I think of how much I wish you were with us,” Kate offered. “Actually, every tenth time. Otherwise, I’d be texting constantly.”
Susan was getting choked up, and my kneejerk reaction to emotional moments is to reach for a laugh. “We’ll have to insist that you sing ‘A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall’ while you’re driving then, Kate. It’ll be unpleasant, but safer than texting while you’re behind the wheel.” (The operative word this time was reach; I’m aware my remark wasn’t funny. Kate chuckled anyway, rather than letting me ruminate about my lame comment.)
“I get emotional easily while I’m on such strong pain killers,” Susan said, wiping her eyes. “Tell you what. Instead of texting me when you miss me, how about if you both text me when you see something that reminds you of a book we’ve read recently? That would be really fun for me.”
“Great idea,” I said, while Kate, too, expressed her enthusiasm. “Also, Susan, I might have already mentioned this, but even though they don’t allow audio recordings at her theater, Alicia told me she thinks she can get permission for me to record a song or two of her and Kurt’s performances.”
