The Puppies are Coming!

This is that happened. Last year about this time there was a story in the news about a group of guys on a bachelor party weekend who found and subsequently rescued a bunch of puppies. I mentioned it to some of my writer friends.

Them: OMG, this should be a boxed set or a series or something.

Me: It should

One of them: So, are we getting this off the ground or what?

Me: You lead and I will follow.

Other friend: Dooo eeeet.

And so we made some plans for a group release and retired to our various writing caves to create our stories. One of them is already out, but mine follows on about a week and then the other five through the rest of the month. Click here to find the list so you can order them all, because who doesn’t love a man with a puppy?



Back in the jeans and shirt she’d started the day in, Marie left through the front door. Duffer had taken Will and the puppy to the pond. He wasn’t limping so chances were good that she’d done nothing more than hurt his feelings. She scanned the pond.

“Oh no!” She ran down the steps to the side of the pond. One duck. Two ducks. No third duck.

“What’s the matter?” Will asked.

“That fox killed another one of my ducks.” Marie chewed the inside of her lip.

“You have a problem with a fox?”

“After it got the last one, I had that house built for them so they could go directly from shelter into the water, but they didn’t learn.” She pointed to the little yellow and white trimmed house that extended over the water and had a fenced in area along the shore at the back.

My brother lives down the street from the town vet in the tiny town I was born in. She built her house on land that used to be the town airport. Don’t ask me why my tiny hometown needed an airport. I never could figure out how they landed anything with more horsepower than a lawn mower on that strip anyway. But, when the vet came to town she bought approximately one acre plot and built a house on it with a pond (and a paddock for her horse.) It didn’t go well for the ducks.





“Did she come from the city?”

“What city?” Steve asked.

“Any city. Nobody seems to know anything about her.” Will glanced at the vet’s office. It had been one of the original homes in Weaver’s Circle, dating back over a hundred and fifty years. She had to have come here for a reason. She had the whole world to choose from.

“I thought she was from New York.” Steve used a fork to strip the crispy skin off his chicken breast.

“Ask Chief Dan,” Rick said.

“Do you think he knows everybody in New York because he used to live there?”

“No, I thought he might recognize her accent.”

“She doesn’t have an accent.”

“Everybody has an accent, you just don’t hear yours because you’re used to it.”

“Two semesters of community college and you’re a linguist?”

This hits two of my pet peeves. One) if you’re from a place, you must know everybody from there. When I was living overseas I did know a woman from North East Ohio, but there were others and every time I would meet someone who knew one of them they would say, “Oh! You’re from Ohio! You must know X!” No, not necessarily. My two closest friends in the UAE were both from Illinois, opposite ends of the state. Another was from Missouri and a thrid originally from Texas, but she’d spent most of her professional life in Oklahoma. (I also knew people from Ireland, South Africa, New Zealand, Colorado, and Hawaii to name a few.) So no, I probably did not know people from my home state. And two) “I don’t have an accent. You have an accent.” Everybody has an accent, you just don’t hear yours because most if not all of the people around you have the same accent. I love accents. I had a friend from Yorkshire and one of the features of that accent is the lack of a native phoneme. I spent a lot of time trying to get her to say words that had that phoneme to hear her not say it. Yeah, I’m weird. I’m good with it.