Bitty is cute

Bitty is cute. She knows she is cute.

In fact, she is so cute that she believes everyone should fall to their knees, open their arms and worship her cuteness with hugs, kisses and chicken-flavored treats. And most of the time, people do just that.

However, Bitty met someone who didn't fall to his knees. In fact, he wouldn't even pick her up. He dared not to acknowledge her presence. It was, in fact, no one other than my own father.

This treatment confounds Bitty. As we celebrated Mom's birthday this weekend, Bitty decided to get to the root of this problem. She was determined to snuggle with my dad.

No pillow could stop Bitty. She tries an alternate route.

No matter! She'll go over the pillow. If she can climb a couch, she can climb a pillow. She is Bitty. Hear her roar.

Bitty is confounded as to how she wound up on the floor. Didn't she blink her big black eyes? Didn't she roll over to show her soft pink belly? She even flattened her ears and wagged her tail with her most pitiful expression. What was wrong with this man? Is he allergic to dogs? Is he scared of Chihuahuas? Is he immune to cuteness? Why doesn't he want to worship her like everyone else? This doesn't make sense.

Danielle adores Bitty.

The Blonde Duck adores Bitty. Bear is merely tolerable. He's not nearly as cute as I am, Bitty thinks to herself.

Ben adores Bitty.

Bitty decides this is too much adoration. She is not amused by the pink bag.

Even the birthday lady adores Bitty. Bitty isn't sure how she'll conquer the Blonde Duck's dad, but she knows she will. She's too cute. Her belly is too pink. Her eyes are too sweet. She's too tiny and delicate to be ignored.

Sooner or later, she'll have him. It's just a matter of time.

Until then, she'll sit right here and think. After all, she's cute.

Dear Princess

Princess in her favorite white shrug

Dear Princess,

For once in my life, words have failed me.

Many people will tell you that the death of a beloved pet is sad, but "just a bad part of life." To me, it is an injustice. It is pure heartache and sorrow.

You see, you weren't just a dog to me. You were my dog. Ever since I saw you prancing on the wooden porch out in the country, that sweet white streak down your nose, I knew you were mine. I would spend hours in the garage that winter with both you and Rascal curled in my lap, watching your tiny tummies rise and fall. You were always there to greet me in the laundry basket when Mom picked me up from high school. Later, you were always out to greet me from a night out. Your stubby tail would wave from the fence, your pink tongue flapping enthusiastically.

Of course, you lived up to your name. Walks were to be tolerated solely for my benefit. If you were tired, you'd simply plop down on the pavement and demand to be taken home. You would only wear pink and rhinestone collars and expected only the best of doggie treats. During breakfast and dinner, you whined and slobbered and shivered at the window. Since I was, and still am, a sucker, I'd sneak outside to feed you parts of my dinner. You took a great delight in being pulled around in the wagon in the backyard, and wanted to be carried whenever possible.

But the thing that kills me most about your untimely death, was that you were always there for me. And I wasn't for you. When I went off to college, you were still waiting at the gate whenever I pulled in the driveway. When I got married and moved down to San Antonio, you were always lying outside the patio windows watching my old room in hopes I might emerge. When I brought the new babies up to meet you, you were gracious enough not to mention Bitty looked like a Squirrel.

However, when you needed me most, I wasn't there for you.

Of course, people will tell me that's the way of things. Kids grow up and get married. They go to school. They move on. You're just a dog, not a child or a spouse.

But, you were my dog. No matter what I did or said, you loved me. Whether I forgot to feed you or dragged you on two mile walks in the hundred degree heat, you were always ready for kisses and snuggles. Even after I moved away, you wiggled just at the sight of my hand reaching down to pet you.

It wasn't right.

It wasn't fair.

And I only wish I could have scratched your belly one last time.

I love you, Princess. I hope you realized I loved you as much as you loved me. I just wish I had showed it better.

Love,

Miranda

In Alaska...

In Alaska, you can ride in a tiny plane....

You can search for belugas....

and you can have a snowfight in July.

In Alaska, you can ride down a mountain in a ski lift...

You can pick bugs out of your sister's hair...

and you can grin down a bear.

But the best thing to do in Alaska, by far....

is to stick your head out the side of a train going 40 miles per hour in fifty degree weather and sing to the otters in the middle of July.

Well, it's the best thing to do if you're me.

A nibble: Missing Wings 4

Dear Invisible Friends,

I need your advice.

As requested, I'm turning Missing Wings into a book. However, I need your help deciding what kind of book:

1) A traditional book sent to a traditional publisher or possibly an agent. Timeline: 6 months plus, depending on anyone picks it up or I get noticed through one of my other books.

2) I could do a book just for you, dear Invisible Friends! And you could help. Here's my idea: I could write the book and post various chunks for you to comment/ vote on, discuss plot ideas with you, etc. It would be like a book guided by you! However, once I do this, it could never be "professionally" published. I could print it on Lulu.com (check it out) and ya'll could buy it off my Web site (when I create it). However, if I give it an ISBN, it's like Allie said. Very few publishers will pick it up. It'll be considered a self-publish piece of crap, even though I would have it edited by a professional. I'm a magazine editor--it's not like I'd put my name on something that looked like I wiped my butt on it. But in the literary world, I'd be slightly above those crazy people that write novels at Starbucks and spend years writing the Great American Novel.

But publishers haven't exactly been noticing me anyway, so who the hell cares?

And as I always say--don't fence me in!

Here's the thing, dear Friends: I write because I have to. I write because I want to. Missing Wings was supposed to be a single blog entry and is now consuming my every thought. The book will probably end up being done (rough draft form) in a few months. So one way or the other, the book will be written. Whether five people see it or five thousand, I want to share it.

So my idea is, maybe we could work this out. Maybe with ya'lls help and support, I could fufill my dream of being published. I could create my own alterna-publishing universe, even if only a hundred people ever know my name and buy my stuff.

Or I could churn out hundreds of more query letters and read rejections. I've still got to send my stuff out on my dolphin book (more on that later) so I'm sure I'll have more of those soon.

Put your eyeballs back in! I'm finished rambling! Read part 4 of Missing Wings and leave your votes below! I need your help!

Biting-my-fingers-in-anxiousness-and-twitchingly-yours,

The Blonde Duck

Missing Wings, part 4

Bryant stared at Callie's pale, drawn face. She stared behind him, her eyes growing wider. Absently, her pale fingers drew the straps of her shirt back over her shoulders, hiding the pink marks that matched his.

“Didn’t you hear me?” She whirled around. Her whisper had the ferocity of a shout and chilled him to the bone. “Run!”

Grabbing the remainder of his hamburger, Bryant bolted out of the booth. He skidded across the floor and raced toward the door, nearly crashing into the kind waitress. “Sorry,” he gasped as he rammed his shoulder into the door. Spilling out on the sidewalk, he whipped his head around and blindly picked a direction to run. Meat and cheese flopped in his fingers as he scampered towards a grove of trees peeking out from the back of a building. He heard shouts behind him and a piercing scream, but didn’t dare stop. He only prayed the scream didn’t belong to Callie.

The second his feet reached the roots of the trees, he collapsed. His muscles were shaking with exertion and fear. Clutching the remainder of his hamburger to his chest, he panted and leaned against a tree. His throat burned and he longed for his Coke back at the diner.

Orange and amber streaked across the sky as the sun slipped beyond the horizon. Tears sprung to his eyes and he shoved the rest of the hamburger in his mouth. It was stupid to cry, he told himself. You’re a baby for crying. As soon as you get your wings, you can go back home. He chewed loudly, cursing himself for not telling his mother where he was going. He should have known he couldn’t find his wings in a few hours. Now he was alone, hungry, thirsty and would have police and Roach following him. All he had was a head full of unanswered questions and a jean pocket with $15 in it.

“Pity doesn’t suit you.” Bryant shut his eyes and groaned.

“If you’re another mysterious weirdo, I don’t want to talk to you,” he snarled. “I’ve had quite enough of that, thanks.” He braced himself for a reply. None came. Cautiously, he leaned away from the tree and looked around. There was no one in sight. The trees blew in the breeze and dust swirled at his feet. There was nothing but silence and the crust of his cheeseburger.

“Great,” he muttered. “I’m going crazy.”

“You’re not going crazy,” the voice said. Bryant’s eyes flew open. A tall man with golden hair, blue eyes and a white suit was perched on a dumpster in front of him. Against the wall of the grey building, he almost glowed.

“Oh God,” Bryant blurted out. The man raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow.

“I’m dead aren’t I?” Bryant moaned. “The hamburger meat was full of Mad Cow disease or salmonella or something like that.”

“And why would you think that?” The blond man was smiling.

“Because you’re the angel of death.” The blond man burst into laughter. Bryant’s cheeks flushed and he snarled, “This isn’t funny!”

“It is, really.” The man was laughing so hard tears streamed down his face. “If you knew what I am, to think I’m the angel of death…” He burst into giggles and kicked his white shoes against the dumpster.

“Listen, moron!” Bryant snapped. “What kind of nutjob walks around wearing a white suit and sitting on a dumpster at night? No one wears a white suit except Colonel Sanders and he’s dead.”

“A nutjob that you need to help you,” the man said, hopping off the dumpster. “Do you want to find your wings or not?”

“Duh,” Braynt said in a surly tone.

“I can see you’re going to be helpful,” the man muttered. “I can’t tell you anything until you find Callie. It’s imperative you two do this together.”

“Do what?” Bryant asked. “I barely know her. How do I know she’s not a freak or just trying to skin me?”

“She is what you are,” the man said, his blue eyes piercing Bryant’s. “It will take two to finish what one began.”

“You’re crazy,” Bryant said, turning around. He threw down the crust of his hamburger and started to stalk away.

“If you want to find your wings, this is the only way,” the man said. “Don’t you want the itching to stop? Don’t you want to know the answers to all your questions?” Bryant slowly turned on his heels. The man’s brilliant white teeth glowed in the dusk.

“Who are you?” Bryant said, looking at the man suspiciously. “Why do you look so familiar?”

The man smiled and opened his mouth to speak. He was interrupted by a scream. A familiar scream that set Bryant’s back burning with a fiery pain.

The Anonymous Moose

For those of you who don't know, the Land of the Flowered Bed is a imaginary land in the Pond where several stuffed animals, insects and ducks that live in a Spa (the bathroom) have fun adventures.












The main characters are Cookies the owl, the seals, Hairy the hedgehog and Pumble the bee.








But now we have a new critter that followed me home from Alaska: the Anonymous Moose. Her tale follows below....

The Anonymous Moose


After living in the Land of the Flowered Bed for months, Hairy thought he would be used to anything that strolled through the door.

He was wrong. Nothing could have prepared him for the creature that came looping through the door late one Friday morning. A shadow stretched across the floor and the seals scurried behind him.

“What is it?” Pumble asked, squinting into the distance.

“I’m not sure,” Hairy answered. The seals trembled behind his stubby legs. “It looks like a buffalo or something.”

“It’s too tall to be a buffalo,” Pumble argued.

“Perhaps a giraffe then?” Hairy patted the seals’ heads reassuringly, but they whimpered and cowered behind his knees.

“Giraffes don’t have horns,” Pumble countered.

“Perhaps it’s a elephant!” the first duck shouted from the Spa. As usual, they had been eavesdropping shamelessly.

“Maybe it’s a ox!” the second duck shouted.

“You know, I think I saw something like that on the Discovery Channel once,” the third duck murmured as she tapped her beak with her wing. Cookies walked up with a book tucked under his wing. He looked at Hairy and Pumble peering into the distance and the seals hiding their eyes with their flippers. Raising an eyebrow, he propped his glasses on his nose and gasped.

“Good heavens!” he cried. “There’s a moose coming towards us!”

“A moose!” Pumble shouted. “That’s what it is. A moose!”

“Why is a moose here?” Hairy pondered aloud. “Isn’t it too hot for him here? Where do they normally live?”

“Up north,” Cookies replied. “Why is a moose here?” The moose stopped in its path and looked around, its brow wrinkled.

“I don’t know,” Hairy replied. “I suppose I should go talk to it.” The seals shrieked and scurried behind Cookies. Hairy took a deep breath and crept toward to the moose. The moose was chewing on its lip as it looked around, an uncertain expression on its face.

Hairy straightened his vest and adjusted his top hat that he wore to welcome all animals. “Hello,” he called in a grand voice. “I’m Hairy, the mayor of the Land of the Flowered Bed. Welcome to our glorious home!”

The moose cocked its head. “Where am I?”

“The Land of the Flowered Bed,” Hairy repeated, peering at the moose. “Are you all right?”

“Well, I’m not sure,” the moose said. She rubbed a hoof against her nose and looked at the carpet, studying the fibers as though the answers were woven there.

“What’s your name?” Hairy asked. “Where are you from?”

“I’m not sure of that either,” the moose said.

“What are you sure of?” Hairy asked. The moose stuck out her tongue and furrowed her brow. Her head tilted and she mumbled something. “I’m sorry?” Hairy said, straining to hear.

“I’m not sure,” the moose repeated. “All I know is I tend to mumble and I’m perpetually confused. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I’m not sure how one can be perpetually confused. After all, if you know you’re confused then you can’t exactly be confused can you? Of course, I suppose that knowing you’re confused is better than being oblivious and confused.” Her voice trailed off to a whisper as she continued to mumble.

“Right,” Hairy said, a smile frozen on his face. He lead the moose to the others, who were openly gaping at her. “This is…the Anonymous Moose.” The moose smiled and waved her hoof. The other animals stared at her with open mouths.

“What do you mean, anonymous?” Cookies asked. “How is she anonymous?”

“Well, she seems to be a…bit confused,” Hairy said, struggling to be discreet.

“I’m perpetually confused and mumble,” the moose said brightly.

“Is she a moron?” Cookies cocked his head and the moose looked ashamed. The seals crept out behind Cookies legs and slid toward her slowly. One offered a leaf, and the moose took it in her mouth and began to munch loudly.

“Cookies!” Hairy snapped. “She’s not a moron. She’s simply suffering from a memory failure. She doesn’t know her name, where she comes from or why she’s here. It’s like she’s got…”

“Amnesia!” Pumble bellowed, waving his biscuit in excitement. “Just like Blaze lost her memory when Stephen crashed that plane into the ocean cliffs and she thought Jack was her husband…”

“Sorry.” Cookies rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Pumble watches a lot of soap operas.”
“Maybe she’s a spy!” the first duck shouted from the Spa.

“Maybe she’s a secret agent!” the second duck shouted.

“Aren’t those the same things?” the third duck asked.

“Maybe she’s in the witness protection program,” Pumble breathed, spewing crumbs with glee as his eyes lit up. “Or maybe she’s searching for a hidden treasure. Or maybe she worked for a secret government agency and they wiped her memory. Or an alien! She could be an alien!”

“With those fuzzy horns, it looks like she could be an alien,” Cookies muttered under his breath. Hairy elbowed him in the ribs. The moose continued to munch as the seals cooed reassuringly and brought her more leaves.

“Well, the first thing we must do is give you a name,” Hairy said. “What kind of name would you like?”

“A pretty one.” The moose slurped up a flower.

“If she’s from Alaska, names from her native state include Deniiagi, Nanook, Desna, Quannik, Lakota…”

Hairy tried not to giggle at the moose’s horrified expression. “What kinds of things do you like?” he asked.

“The usual,” the moose said. “Leaves, flowers, tasty plants…”

“She’s got that in common with the GLUG,” Hairy mumbled. “We could call you Mumbles! What do you think?”

“I think we might as well call her moron,” Cookies muttered. Hairy sighed and glared at him. Tapping his chin, he began to list names off the top of his head. “Mattie, Moss, Denali, Maggie, Daisy, Rose, Lilly, Sage, Hazel….”

“Wait,” the moose interrupted. “What was that name you said earlier?”

“Which one?” Hairy asked. “Moss, Daisy, Rose, Denali…”

“Denali…” the moose said, chewing on her lower lip. “Denali! Mount McKinley!”

“What the devil is she talking about?” Pumble grumbled.

“Miss Moose McKinley,” the moose said proudly, holding her head up. “That’s my name. Miss Moose McKinley.”

Hairy broke into a grin. “All right, Miss Moose McKinley,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder and leading her into the dining area. “Are you hungry? I’m sure you’re famished. We can get you some leaves, something to drink…”

“Some air conditioning,” Miss Moose Kinley said, fanning herself with her hoof. “It must be 70 degrees in here.”

As the seals bounded after them, Pumble looked at Cookies. “You know, we still don’t know where she’s from.”

“We’d have to travel up north to learn more about her,” Cookies said. They both looked at the door, than each other. A smile spread over their faces.

I'm back!

Did you miss me?

Of course you did. I missed you too. The vacation was wonderful for my creative spirit. I've got dozens of new ideas, new plans that shall be revealed in the next day or so and an invigoration of the soul. Alaska is one of the few places left that doesn't have a McDonald's and Best Buy on every corner. Instead, there are trees and lush mountains.

But you don't want to hear about my vacation. You'd rather see it for yourself, wouldn't you? Of course you do. Everyone likes looking at other people's vacation pictures.

Thursday morning, we flew out to Alaska where my Dad met us at the airport. He works for a company out of Alaska and had been there all week. When we got there, we hit downtown Anchorage.

After popping into a few shops, we had dinner by a river and looked for salmon.





Instead, we found a log that looked suspiciously like salmon but was....a log.







*Note: Due to the Nazi-anal-retentive-nutjob-airlines, we packed very light. Therefore, my only jacket was my pink fuzzy you'll see in most of the pictures. So don't be worried--I didn't wear the same clothes three days in a row.



Friday, we did all sorts of exciting things. We flew over Anchorage in one of the small Cessna planes that are really popular down there. Most of Alaska is unreachable by road, so most of the locals own or travel by planes.





The scenery was gorgeous.



My favorite part was that one of the mountains was called "The Sleeping Woman" by locals. The legend was that during the time of Giants, the woman's lover was killed in a war while she slept. The townspeople couldn't bear to wake her. She slept for hundreds of years, being blanketed by wildflowers in the summer and snow in the winter by the people until she became part of the mountain herself. Now, she sleeps until war is gone and peace reigns.

We also went to a town called Girdwood and rode up a mountain.

(This is the only picture I've ever seen where my Dad is smiling.)

This is where I found this little fellow.




You'll learn more about him Wednesday.




After a tasty lunch, we visited the Alaska animal conservatory. I chatted with the moose, giggled at the porcupine who was dancing instead of burrowing and inquired about the black bear's eating habits.





While the black bears were more interested in digging for worms, the buffalo were happy to talk to me. They wuffled as they ate.





After that, we stopped by a little tourist center that had the world's biggest chocolate fountain. A Iditorod racer was there with his dogs, so we stopped and chatted with him for awhile. Then we went to a museum, where Dad desperately tried to inject us with culture.





It didn't work.




The next day, we hopped a train that took us to Whittier, a town about two hours a way. While most people took photos of the scenery, I hopped to the back of the train and stuck my head out like a manic dog.






At least I was happy.






Other highlights of the trip included meeting Ben's father's buddy for lunch, dancing with a bear and visiting with a moose.

The moose was rather quiet.He was a nice bear...but two left feet.

Meanwhile, back in Shreveport, the city was trembling in fear at the new dictator that had invaded town.







While we dined on fresh fish and explored a new frontier, poor Ben's parents dealt with poo-smeared kitchen floors, shredded puppy pads and a terrorized Ace. The poor dog couldn't even have lunch without Bitty snarling at him and sending Bear to bite after him.

Fear me.

And Bitty would have had it no other way.

We had a fabulous time with my parents and sister and appreciate their generosity. And we greatly appreciate Ben's parents watching the spoiled Babies. I would say we'd go again next year, but....







I don't think she will allow it. Unless she comes too.

Just to keep you entertained....

I've been a princess....

A sunflower...

and a spaz.

I've tangoed....

I've spent most of my days in a daze....

And I've been accused of living in a bubble.

But one thing is for sure....

I found someone that thinks I'm as much of a princess as I do.