GOODBYE BATTY

I had to have my dog put down yesterday. It's not the first time I've faced this. I've loved three dogs in my life before but there was something special about Batty. I fear I'll carry the sadness at his loss for a very long time.

He was born on 19th August 2003 and came to us in January 2004. I wasn't sure about having him at the time. We'd lost our previous family dog Spider, a sassi white staffordshire bull terrier, three months earlier and it just seemed disrespectful to replace her so soon.

 She was very much my husband's dog. I loved her of course but we never got really close. She loved him and I was a poor substitute.

When she died there was an emptiness in the house. The kids missed her. My husband  missed his evening's walk with her and the way she would faithfully wait, untethered, as he popped into the shop; the way she would pine for him whenever he left the house without her.

 The hole she left in our family motivated my other half to want another dog as soon as possible and when he saw a white boxer for sale in the local paper, he was determined to check him out and an hour later a gawky, clumsy, bouncy five month old whirlwind dragged my other half into the house and headed straight for me.

He stood on his hind legs with his front legs hugged around me and then he laid his head on my shoulder. I was suckered.

There were times when that special Batty hug was a comfort like no other living animal could give. My husband never bonded with him quite and in truth, he came too soon after the loss of Spider the Staffy which is why my other half couldn't love him quite the same but I adored him immediately. 

 Batty came to us with the name Bruno. I suppose because he was a boxer but he was more of a lover than a fighter and it didn't really suit him. During a fun mock boxing match with my other half, he remarked how Bruno fought like a Battyboy and the name stuck. He was certainly in touch with his feminine side. We still used Bruno when he was in trouble or when he needed the authoritarian voice. 

 Batty was just a huge mass of energy and he did everything with gusto. My other half had been used to walking Spider who would toddle along at his side off the lead. When Batty was first unleashed, my other half chased him for hours before he could get him back. 

 Batty was also sociable to other dogs but he irritated the life out of some by wanting to play and tease until they'd turn on him and then he'd gallop off like a horse.  There was a pond on the common where he walked. One day he hurtled towards it. We watched in horror as he sank in the middle but suddenly Batty bounced out of the water like he'd landed on a coiled spring and then took off with us chasing him again . I trained him to come back by taking cocktail sausages on the walk and rewarding him each time he returned. 

 His last owners wanted rid of him because he was destructive and had eaten through a settee. He was spoiled rotten there and they couldn't cope with him because he thought he owned the house. My other half has always been great with dogs because he treats them like dogs, not children, with respect, and lets them know who's boss and where the boundaries lie. 

 He chased Batty out of the house in anger one morning when we got up and found he had literally chewed the plaster off the kitchen wall down to the brick. Batty hid behind a bush in the garden and wouldn't come out for anyone but me and then I got one of those cuddles again. Perhaps he needed them too. 

 When we took him to the vet's for his jabs, we were told that as a white boxer he had a very short life span and would probably not live longer than 8 to 10 years. He was three and in his prime when we were approached about breeding him with a friend's female boxer. 

 We'd been told that if he mated he would calm down and it seemed a great idea to have one of his puppies from the litter. He was such a lovely dog that I wanted to be sure that his genes would continue and if we couldn't have him for long, then at least we'd have part of him for a bit longer.

 Toad was born at the end of August 2006 and came to us at six weeks old. Batty took him under his wing immediately and they became very close. Batty didn't have to prove he was top dog, Toad was happy to follow his lead.

They became inseparable. They slept together, walked together, ate together, drank together. When Batty stayed over at another Boxer bitch's house to mate, Toad was inconsolable. I wondered then if anything ever happened to Batty how Toad would cope. That night he paced and panted constantly and sat facing the door - waiting. He went loopy when Batty came home the next day.

The second litter of puppies Batty fathered were like mini clones of him and Toad. If only I could have kept them both too but at least I have their photo if I'll never know how they get on with their new owners and Toad and Batty were quite enough of a handful - except when they slept.

Was Batty ill then? It was only last year. We have no idea when he got prostate cancer. Dogs never complain and he never showed us he had a problem until last week when he suddenly stopped eating.

We wondered what the problem was but at first we didn't take it too seriously. He'd gone off his food before but usually when we changed brand of dog food. He was drinking water but when he still refused food the next day, and turned away from his favourite treats like bacon, sausages and cake, we began to worry a lot.

Our village vet is only open three days a week so Batty had been off his food for four days before we could get him in.  He went downhill rapidly. We had one sleepless night  wondering if he'd make it. The news when it came was the worst. The vet wanted to put him down there and then but my other half wanted to bring him home one last time so we could all say our final goodbye.

The last two days of his life were full of pain. He slept, drank water and puked continually when he didn't sleep. Toad paced the house for two nights whimpering as Batty lay there almost lifeless. It was pitiful. I wished he'd been put out of misery rather than coming home to say goodbye. That was for our benefit and not his and we shouldn't have put through that extra day. My last memory of him is the smile he gave me as I helped my other half lift  him into the car for the last visit to the vet.

 He didn't move as he lay on the back seat but seemed focussed on the scenery as  it flashed past the window as the car moved. He was a bit of a dreamer. There were  many times on holiday and in walks in the countryside when he would just sit and gaze out as if he was taking in the view.

His last breath was a sigh of relief . It was a comfort to hear. His time  had come and he was ready to go. Whether he and Toad had The Big Conversation in their own way during those last two nights can't be known but Toad seems to have accepted that Batty, his dad, is never coming back. He hasn't fretted, paced or whined at all but he is a much quieter and calmer dog now that Batty has gone.

Perhaps he's finally grown up. I'm dreading the thought that his time might be as short as Batty's  and now I know why boxer dogs are so energetic. They have so much life to cram into such a brief time on earth.

 Batty may have been here for just less than nine years but he will live with me and in my heart for lifetime and I am comforted to know that he gave us Toad who has his same gentle soul. He has lived in his dad's shadow since coming to our house and now is his time. I want to make sure that the years he has left will be the best of his life.

MISSING INSPECTOR MONTALBANO

I happened upon the Inspector Montalbano series quite by accident and I'm so glad I did because it's the best thing I've seen on TV for ages.

 I confess that the weekly dose of Sicilian sunshine was very uplifting during the grey and dreary Spring English weather with the prospect of yet another summer wash out on the horizon minus the handful of scorching days that are so rare this side of Europe.

 As much as the lush scenery, clear skies, yellow sunshine, golden sands, and Italian architecture was an attraction so too was the melodic Italian language that I love to hear, but struggle to understand, and the likeable characters despite their gentle machismo and sexism.

 Montalbano, played by Luca Zingaretti, is the sort of detective you want to deal with in real life should you fall under suspicion but you wouldn't want him as a boyfriend given the way he treats his girlfriend Livia. He once left her sitting in the car for two hours because he forgot she was there, and he even stole away back home from a weekend trip leaving her alone after failing to tell her they were only there because he was investigating something.

 He is fair, perceptive and just in his dealings. He doesn't always get his man - or woman - and sometimes just walks away, or deals out instant penalties after making a moral judgment about whether something is right or wrong outside of the confines of law.

 His side kick Mimi Augello played by Cesare Bocci always has women troubles and despite his sexism and belief that all women will fall for his charm, I still like him because his weakness for women is his Archilles Heel, his dealings with them often leaves him with egg on his face, and he always ends up going home to his long suffering fiance Bella - the sort of Italian woman you wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of.

 Most people can't help but be drawn to Caterella, the well meaning, incompetent, comic relief who appears in a fluster all of the time and anxious to impress the Inspector.

 He appears to be mentally challenged but everyone in this series has their strong points and for Caterella - the jester - it is his expertise in computers and his enthusiasm that makes him such a valuable, if somewhat annoying, member of the team.

 I like the fact that Montalbano uses his brain and clues in the old fashioned way to solve the crime rather than the polished and clinical approach of something like CSI where close up shots of science in action as DNA, or some other vital piece of evidence is magnified under a microscope to indicate who dunnit .

 Fazio, the God fearing younger member of the team and moral guide, is loyal, honest and hardworking and trusts his boss's judgement even when he strays over the line of legality.

 I have no idea when or if Inspector Montalbano will return to British screens with BBC Four but until then I do at least have a a whole collection of books to discover.

 Meanwhile, I'll be thinking about my own trip to an Italian seaside town this year when I hope to visit my Italian mother's family in Cecina Mare, Tuscany, where the sea is just as clear as Montalbano's fictional town of Vigata, the sun shines as brightly, and the community including my relatives and ancestors are as old as the town itself.

 Watching the series took me a little closer to my favourite place every week and now it's ended, Saturday nights are not quite the same.

GETTING THERE - SLOWLY

The 90 minute drama I've been working on is almost completed but now the time has come to stand away from it for a while to think about what more it needs.

I sent it out to one agent last year who rejected it and then I put it away for ages to think about how I could ensure it had more impact and that "squelch" effect which is designed to make the viewer laugh, cry, or hide in fear.

When I looked at it again, I found there were far too many irrelevant scenes that seemed to be saying the same thing over and over without moving it forward and it was slower than a dragged foot so the pace needed to be stepped up a lot.

I think what that first finished draft showed me was who my characters were and what I learned was that, in the main, they are foul. It is a story about absent fathers, inadequate mothers, drugs, child abuse and murder but I can't help thinking that such a dark tale is perhaps not the right one to send out as a calling card to agents or as a script to production companies with a view to development.

The rewrites that have kept me busy over this last month have ensured that it does now move faster, the plot and sub-plot are more streamlined and focused, it does engage the viewer and the bad characters do get the retribution they deserve but I feel it is lacking in redemption. Maybe it also needs some comic touches to lift the reader from the depths of depravity that some of these characters live in.

I think there are also some bits of dialogue that could be more realistic so as much as I wanted to be able to send it out for consideration again after this latest marathon rewrite, I really don't think it is quite ready yet and now more time away from it is needed to approach it with fresh eyes and a fresh mind.

I am also working on other scripts including one that is far more lighthearted but that has not progressed as far as this troublesome 90 minute drama which aims to show how the old working class has become corrupted by the break down of normal family life and the easy availability of drugs.

STORY THEFT.

(Image from HERE)

Oh dear. Writer Liz Fielding reports that someone has stolen her story which is not good news for those of us who are new to fiction writing and trying to find our feet.

It's hard enough to know where to pitch work and a it's a real slog in making contacts without having the fear that better known writers could actually rip off your work and present it as their own before you've even managed to get a foot in any publishing door either online or in print.

It seems it happens quite frequently but the Womagwriter's blog gives some hints and links on copyright HERE which might help if you suspect that a story of yours has been stolen.

Maybe I'll hold off from publishing more of my short stories up here until my fiction work begins to make more of an impact out there which seems a shame because while it's posted up here, I know at least that someone will get to read it.

Meanwhile, I'm busy rewriting my 90 minute script which isn't up here. I'm hoping to send that out to agents by the end of next week and then get back on with the 2000 words or more a day needed to push my crime novel along which has slowly begun to take shape even though the lion's share of the work still needs to be done.

At the risk of stolen ideas, I'll keep to myself for now what it's about.

FINGERS CROSSED

I've never entered a writing contest before but a friend told me about a 100 word Readers' Digest competition and so I thought I'd have a go.

The standard is high, judging from last year's entries, but I enjoyed the challenge.

Those who have read some of my fiction - below and in older posts - will know I'm more comfortable writing about 2000 words. Telling a tale with a point in just 100 with a clear beginning, middle and end was probably one of the hardest things I've ever done but I did it.

Whether my entry wins or loses, gets spiked or selected, I still claim success after achieving something I've never done before.

My fingers are metaphorically crossed as I await the Readers' Digest results. Meanwhile, I'll forget all about it and move on.

BACK IN THE WRITE MIND

I can't remember where I got this ScreenwritingU video from but it has some invaluable information on how to make an impact with a script within the first three pages to attract the attention of producers.

I'll be working to the rules for a script that just needs a bit of a tweak which I'll be sending out in the new year and it's great to be writing again after suffering a massive block during the last couple of months.

My former tutor said there is no such thing as writer's block and suddenly not being able to write was more about a loss of confidence than about a loss of talent. I've never had it before. It meant that whatever idea I came up with, I scrapped, or backed away from, and even looking at anything I'm working on filled me with horror.

It's been hell but suddenly this week the ability to write, the excitement of writing, and to know what I'm writing about has returned. It's a huge relief and great to be back inside my characters' world looking at ways of making them tell the stories in my head.

My next challenge is to try and write a fictional short story of 100 words with a competition in mind. I've picked up some tips from HERE and HERE but I'm sceptical of entering either linked competitions if a fee is involved.

DISCONNECTED

Susie tumbled out of bed as the phone rang. Sleep hadn't quite disappeared and her head was in a fog. Clarity pushed through crashed dreams to focus on the fact that Poppy hated it when she left the answer phone to pick up. Susie rang her yesterday, trying to connect, just to say hello, keep in touch, but Poppy didn't pick up. Funny how it seemed OK for Poppy to ignore Susie's calls but Susie got a rollocking whenever she left the answer phone to filter out who she should call back.

Despite her protestations, Susie felt sure Poppy was secretly pleased at getting a recorded message rather than her mum. It got harder to know what to talk about since Poppy left their home town for a job as a health visitor 300 miles away. They couldn't have become more different in just three years. Poppy, it seemed, wasn't particularly interested in what Susie had to chat about anymore but Susie felt she had to try and make some sort of effort or they would drift even further apart.

She paused before picking up. Did she really want to speak to Poppy now, half asleep and imperfect? She'd say something wrong. She always did but mostly never realised it. Just being herself seemed to offend Poppy these days. Yes, she was bitter at the lack of contact but she didn't know how to make it stop. The more Poppy stayed away, the more Susie nagged her about it, the more Poppy didn't want to come home at all.

Susie felt she was losing her daughter and soon she'd be out of Poppy's life without trace if she didn't try to bridge that divide that widened each and every time they came into contact with each other. Susie could acknowledge it was 50/50 but Poppy never tried. She just stormed off as soon as Susie broached any subject that Poppy didn't want to hear about.

A flash of memory shot through and cleared the last of the sleep haze as Susie rubbed her eyes and in the whisper of a moment she felt Poppy's soft black hair snuggled into her neck in the intimacy they shared as mother and child. Things were easy then. Poppy needed her mum and loved her. Susie was the centre of Poppy's world. Now Susie felt like she was a nuisance just because she was there and wanted desperately to see Poppy who appeared to make any excuse she could not to visit.

Susie lifted the receiver to her ear. It wasn't Poppy. Her throat felt like the bottom of a bird cage, her voice sounded like an old 33 and third scratched vinyl copy of a Billie Holliday song on a shaky old gramaphone.

"You haven't just got up, have you?"

It was Mary, her sister.

Susie cleared her throat : "Yes, so what? I thought you were Poppy or I wouldn't have got up and answered the phone. And anyway, I've no reason to get up early. It just makes the day longer.

"Well, Poppy just called me to say she's coming home. She left about an hour ago so I reckon she'll arrive in another couple of hours - probably 3pm-ish."

Susie felt that pain again. Like a twisted knife in her chest - the pain that only Poppy made her feel.

"So how come she never called me?"

"She said she tried - the answering machine was on. You know how much she hates it."

Susie looked at the phone. The light on the answering machine flickered in alert that someone had called.

"Ah. I never heard it."

"You should stop smoking that crap Sue and then you'd have a clearer head, and Poppy wouldn't worry so much about coming to see you. I mean imagine if..."

"...that's just an excuse."

"Well she is a leading health worker who hates smoking never mind the added risk of that stuff that you insist on using despite what she thinks. It would hardly do her career any good if she was at your house and you got busted."

"I won't and she knows it. It's something I've done for years - why should she make it a problem now? She should stand by me instead of always having a go at me about it. It's not like I haven't always done it. It's me - who I am."

"Look, kid yourself all you want but try not to upset Poppy when she comes. You know, instead of having a go at her for not coming home more often why not try just enjoying the time you've got together. And make sure that you're hash is out of sight."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I always do anyway," Susie said but her heart felt chewed and she swallowed hard. Her throat was still dry. She needed a drink.

She put the receiver down and wandered into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

"Fat chance of this going well," she thought to herself. No matter how hard she tried, or what she did, it seemed she and Poppy were genetically predisposed to fall out. Last time it was about her refusal to quit smoking. The time before because she had a political view on smoking. The time before that because Susie smoked weed and Poppy didn't approve. And the time before that because Poppy insisted staying with her dad and his new woman.

Suddenly, Susie didn't want Poppy to come home but she knew she'd have to put aside her fears, not talk of the things that interested her, stay off any subject about smoking and dad, especially, and crack on and get ready to be the perfect host. She'd stick to polite and banal - safe ground but not the place she wanted to be - not with the daughter she hoped would be a lifelong friend.

Susie sighed, hugged her dressing gown around her and moved towards the bedroom. She picked up her stash tin from the dressing table and checked her plants under the window. Growing marijuana was her hobby and smoking it was something she'd done for the last 40 years. She'd just plucked and dried a very nice piece of African herb which she sprinkled into a cigarette paper and topped it with tobacco - again home grown, Susie's additional new hobby. She liked growing her own. Poppy wouldn't be interested. She hated smoking full stop and that was something Susie would be unable to do during her visit. In short, she couldn't be herself and that was all she knew.

She sat back in a bedroom chair and inhaled deeply and felt more relaxed with each draw. Some of her friends that she started smoking with in her teens had matured and given up. Poppy always said Susie needed to grow up and give up but she had little else in life these days to extract so much pleasure from and it was about self-medication after all. When she was down, sad, angry, tired she smoked. When Neil left her for Julie she smoked for 48 hours without a break and then sank into the sleep of the dead. The only way to numb the pain.

The alternative was to be like her own mother who she watched go downhill rapidly in a physical and mental sense after doctors turned her into a prescription drug addict. To help her quit smoking they said. She lost her mum then and never got her back. She died a quivering and sweating wreck after a fall took her to hospital and they cut her NHS drugs off dead to make her go through cold turkey. She didn't survive the experience. Susie swore she wouldn't be like that. If she had a problem with hash, if it led to financial instability, or a mental breakdown, then she would give it up but she felt no need to abandon something that gave her so much pleasure and so much comfort even if it was illegal.

Some of Susie's friends still smoked weed and only one seemed to have developed some sort of psychosis but then she was a bit of a nutter before she started anyway. Susie hadn't seen her for years. Best avoided she thought as she inhaled the last of her spliff and crushed it out in the ashtray.

Poppy's visit now loomed like a dark cloud full of thunder and Susie felt an urge to run, to get out of the house and just not be in when Poppy arrived, but instead she stepped into the shower to wash away the stench of the smoke that her daughter hated so much