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Overview
Stormie’s Joy is a collection of short stories about the animals that have come into my life and blessed me with that special kind of magic found only in the nonhuman inhabitants of our earth. Some of these creatures graced my life for too short a time, and were gone before I had a chance to thank them. Others have become treasured friends and trusted confidantes. All have touched my soul.
Stormie’s Joy cuts through the dripping darkness of a past gone wrong to the forgiving light of redemption. A no-holds-barred honesty trumps finesse in the telling of these stories, particularly those having to do with animal abuse or negligence, as I believe that poetry and eloquence are neither mandates nor substitutes for truth.
Written with joy, humor and sensitivity, these are the stories of the animals—their heroics, their jive, their heart—and my adventures and misadventures with them. Whether accompanying a friend to transport a new puppy home from the breeder or caring for another friend’s beloved family pet that has reached the end of her years, I feel humbled and privileged to have been a part of their lives. And I know for certain that I have come away a better person for having known them.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781643970158 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | BHC Press |
| Publication date: | 11/14/2019 |
| Pages: | 192 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.56(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Truth: bugs scare the pants off me, in particular, those bugs larger than a small pea and that skitter around faster than I can blink.
Enter Baxter, a young black Lab mix with a huge heart and more loose screws than the Cadbury bunny has marshmallow eggs. When I met Baxter, he lived in a beautiful New Jersey lake community house with Bea, a sweet, long-haired Dachshund, and Betty, a paranoid (not without cause) cat. Also, a colony of cave crickets that plotted against me. You scoff, but I kid you not! Just when I'd think it was safe to relax my vigilance, I'd see one lurking in the shadows of a potted plant or maybe one creeping out from behind the bathroom sink. Oy! Between Baxter and Bea chasing Betty around the house and the crickets terrorizing me at every turn, the Zen-like therapy I sought on the woods-ensconced deck often dissolved into frenzied chaos.
But Baxter with his 40 pounds of kinetic energy, insatiable demand for attention, and loopy personality made for laugh-filled assignments which were therapeutic in and of themselves. Once was a time when, had anyone asked me, I'd have described Baxter in anthropomorphic terms as a dog into himself, oblivious of everything around him except for that which directly impacted his world. How wrong I would have been in that assessment!
I remember one raucous chase scene that ended with Betty fleeing to the basement from the dogs who could not fit through the "cat door" leading down the stairs. The cave crickets hung out in force in the basement, so I avoided that part of the house as much as possible. But I knew of sliding doors to the outside world down there, and I felt sorry for Betty who sought escape from the in-house craziness. So, with all my senses on high alert for any sign of those infernal crickets, I descended the basement stairs. Whew! No crickets. Betty stood by the sliding doors, and I hurried over to let her out.
And then I saw it! The plotting cave crickets had called out their big guns. On the white curtain, just inches from the door handle, sat a black spider the likes of which I'd never seen in my life. With a body larger than a quarter and its curved legs close to an inch in length, the creature looked like something out of a Stephen King novel. I froze. I heard the sound of my heart jackhammering in my chest, or maybe it was the silence of my heart not beating at all.
As I stood there facing off with that frightful candidate for the lead role in Arachnophobia 117, Baxter materialized beside me. (I must have left the upstairs door open so I could make a quick getaway from a sniper cricket if necessary.) Baxter waited beside me, not chasing Betty, but looking up at me as if to say, "It's okay, Stormie. I'm here. I'll protect you." And somehow, with him there, I rediscovered the muscles in my legs and inched toward the door. Baxter inched with me. Betty waited by the door. The menacing spider crouched on the curtain and was decent enough not to move as I reached my hand forward to push the curtain aside ever so gently and ever so slowly. And it did not move when I slid the door open for Betty and then reclosed it letting the curtain fall back into place.
I backed away from the door, and Baxter, sensing the crisis had passed, bolted up the stairs. By the time I reached the top of the stairs, Baxter had reverted to his normal ebullient self and bounced around like a cork in a wind-whipped ocean when he saw me heading for his bag of bacon treats. He seemed to have no memory of his recent heroics, or perhaps he just accepted the role of protecting common humans from creatures that go bump in the night as part and parcel of his job.
To this day, I don't know why or how Baxter suppressed his natural exuberance and egocentric mentality long enough to "rescue" me. Maybe, like I've read in so many stories about dogs, he heard the changes in my heartbeat, and when push came to inevitable shove, he responded to his canine legendary instinct to protect.
Baxter and his family moved to Maryland a few years later — to the shores of another lake. Crickets and spiders may live there, too. But if Baxter is on duty, the perimeter is secure, and all his family safe.
How I came to know Baxter and company is a story in and of itself. When the price of gas soared through the roof in the mid-2000s, I joined the masses who refused to pay $4.00 a gallon and opted for commuting to work by train. I overheard one chatty passenger who waited for the morning train with us express a need for a pet sitter. I hadn't done a lot of pet sitting at the time, much less begun a business, but I had toyed with the idea of leaving the corporate rat race and caring for animals full time. So, while not the most gregarious of individuals, I summoned all my courage, sat across from the woman when we boarded the train, and squeaked, "I hear you need someone to care for your animals. I'll do it." Her immediate response, "You will?" Then began a conversation in which Viki told me that she and her husband, George, planned to attend the New Orleans Jazz festival in a couple of months and needed someone to care for their two dogs, a Dachshund (Bea), an old Golden Retriever (Bogey), and a cat (Betty). We scheduled a meet and greet, during which George told me he would pay me $50 a day to care for their animals. I had had no idea how much to charge, and George's offer sounded more than fair to me for the opportunity to love three animals. I accepted the assignment. This would be my first "paid" assignment from which others would develop, and my eventual business, "Stormie's Joy," would emerge.
Viki and George called upon me to pet sit several times, and then I received the sad news that Bogey had been put to sleep. They had since acquired a black Lab puppy, Baxter. Baxter was frightened to death of me when I arrived to care for him the first time at his by then empty-of-humans house. He hid behind the drapes shaking and quaking, and when I attempted to coax him out, he dashed past me and up the stairs to take root under Viki and George's bed. Nothing I did could entice him to leave his safe place, and when I put a little peanut butter on the tip of a broomstick and slid it under the bed in hopes of convincing him that I was a friend, he shocked me by attacking it and leaving teeth marks in the wood. At one point, he even defecated under the bed. This dog was terrified.
I formulated a plan. I would take Bea for a walk (the panacea for almost all dysfunctional behaviors) and call my friend, Alice, to act as my partner in crime. Baxter might follow us out, in which case, Alice could maybe get a leash on him. It was a cinch he wouldn't let me do it. Sure enough, as Alice, Bea and I left the house leaving the front door wide open, Baxter slunk out behind us and allowed Alice to leash him while eyeing me with suspicion, giving every indication that I was a must to avoid. The four of us continued our walk, during which Baxter allowed me to hold his leash and pet him without him tucking his tail too far between his legs. By the time we returned home, Baxter appeared to have forgotten whatever it was that had freaked him out about me and accepted a bacon treat from my hand.
My relationship with Baxter continued to improve after the initial hiccup to the point that he and Bea both slept on the bed with me from that first night on. And after a couple of days, when we walked through the woods across the street from his house, I could unleash him and watch him bound off through the trees and up and over the rocks. He never went far, always stayed within sight of me, and always came to me when I whistled for him. In short, he was a happy dog who loved life for what it was, and I was sad when he, Bea and Betty and their humans moved to Maryland.
About creepy crawlies, I remember a time while I cared for two cats and two dogs in Montville. Once, after completing my normal morning routine, I emerged from the downstairs guestroom into the large family room to see Fred and Gene, the two cats, fascinated by something on the carpet. Of course, I had to look and saw with a sinking heart a large black spider (not of the same caliber as the one Baxter and I had taken on, but larger than the normal little gray ones that hang out in corners presenting a danger to no one). I fought my knee-jerk reaction to freeze on the spot. Instead, after watching Fred and Gene torment the spider, my natural aversion to seeing any living creature suffer trumped my trembling, and I began to think about how to release the spider to the outdoors. The first step involved containment and protection from two very intrigued cats. One of the cocktail glasses on a nearby table looked like a perfect and safe means to accomplish step one, so marshaling every ounce of courage I had, I very carefully and very slowly upended a glass over the spider. Next, I located a sheet of paper with a CD attached to it in Debbie's dance studio and slid the whole thing under the glass and under the spider. And then I carried the entire rig out through the garage, lifted the glass from the paper, and nudged the spider into the bushes. Spent the rest of the day feeling super accomplished and puffed up. I mean, I had vanquished the fearsome beastie lurking outside my bedroom door and had called for help from no one. Had I been at home when I saw it, and had I handled the situation with the same aplomb, I would have indulged in a well-deserved glass of Chocolate Amore sooner, rather than later, in the day.
But my complacency was short lived. On the last day of my assignment while in the middle of packing, I saw another one of those spiders. Before I could catch my breath and reconstruct the spider-removal device that had worked so well a few days earlier, the creature had crawled under a sofa, not to be seen by me again that day. The sight of the second spider unnerved me more than the first. One lone menacing spider scared me. The thought of two or more such creatures downright petrified me — to the point that I included in my assignment summation to Debbie and Phil a request that they hire an exterminator. I just didn't see myself cohabitating with a clutter of spiders.
CHAPTER 2I met the handsome tuba-playing aficionado, Roger, in September 1980 when we were both working toward our BS in Psychology and happened to enroll in the same night class, "Theories of Personality." While we never dated per se, we developed a close friendship, engaged in long philosophical discussions, rode our bicycles together, and threw a football around. Well, he threw a football; I tried to catch it and attempted to throw it back. Never could get the hang of getting the ball to spiral.
I met Steve on a cold Mischief Night in 1981 after merging my new (to me) 200 cc Honda Twinstar into rush-hour traffic. Steve, too, was on a motorcycle — an adult-sized motorcycle — and I just tucked in behind him and hoped he wasn't laughing too hard at the motorized roller skate following in his wake. A short while later, he pulled over to the side of the road and motioned for me to do the same. I did so, expecting him to criticize me for something stupid or dangerous I had done while behind him, or maybe to express annoyance that an obvious greenhorn had slid in behind him. Instead, what followed was a short conversation, an exchange of telephone numbers, and the first serious and meaningful romantic relationship of my life.
With the addition of Steve into my life, my relationship with Roger shifted. A trio of sorts took shape, and it worked well. We would sometimes ride our motorcycles together or hang out over dinner. One time, Steve and Roger engaged in a kamikaze racquetball match incorporating a super ball (one of those hard, crazy, high-bouncing balls) and motorcycle helmets to protect against further damage to their brains. Our times together were somewhat superficial but lots of fun.
Four years happened in a blink during which time, Roger moved away to parts unknown, and Steve and I broke up but remained friends. Sometime later, Steve married and moved to Virginia with his family, two master's degrees and a doctorate to teach college students about environmental protection.
Two years ago in 2016, I found Roger again (after maybe thirty years) through the miracle of Facebook. He had married and lived with his family in Michigan where they devoted large slices of their lives to rescuing greyhounds and cats. Kudos to Roger and his wife, Denise! We chatted a bit online, and one day, my cell phone rang indicating a number I didn't recognize. I make it a practice to not answer such numbers, because I hate telemarketing and robocalls. But this time, a little voice told me to answer the call. It was Roger, and we talked for almost four hours doing our best to cram decades past into our conversation until our phone batteries died. One of the best four hours I'd spent in a long time.
Roger and I continued to pop into each other's lives now and again through Facebook. Sometimes he'd forward recordings of concerts to me in which he'd performed with his tuba. Phenomenal things, those concerts.
One day, I received a text from Roger saying he and his wife had been invited to Scotland for his best friend's wedding and asking if I would I be willing to drive to Michigan to care for his animals. He offered generous compensation, and I'd have agreed to his terms in a heartbeat had I not been committed to another client during the time he needed me. Sigh! How cool it would have been to see Roger again and to meet Denise. And how wonderful it would have been for me to have had the chance to play with greyhounds for the first time.
Later, I couldn't help laughing to myself when thinking I'd had the chance to take my small business national. But life throws all kinds of opportunities and curve balls at us. Who knows? One day, the universe may toss a high fly in my direction, and I'll catch it and find myself en route to Michigan embarking on a brand-new adventure and creating future glory days of my own — like those in Bruce Springsteen's song!
CHAPTER 3Steve and I hit it off at light speed after our initial meeting on mischief night. He could talk about anything, and our conversations challenged me to think, a quality I find very sexy. Sometimes in response to my questions, Steve would spiel on about Einstein's theory of relativity while I sat there mesmerized without understanding a word of what he said but fascinated by the concept. My eyes glazed over a lot, and my mind stretched when listening to Steve talk, never pompous or arrogant in what he said. Just so far over my head.
He invited me to spend our first Thanksgiving together with his brother Dick and family in Virginia. Some hesitation on my part. Feared I would be a boring traveling companion. But Steve would have none of it, and away we went. And a happy Thanksgiving it was.
LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT
While cruising around Virginia on Thanksgiving Saturday and checking out some beautiful countryside, Steve and I saw a billboard advertising Evergreen Arabians. I had had it in mind for a while to buy a Morgan, but "Let's go see the Arabians." So, ignoring the billboard's specification, "By Appointment Only," we drove out through horse country to the farm in Leesburg, Virginia and rang the doorbell.
The owners whose names I don't remember were gracious beyond words to the two of us and showed us around their sprawling idyllic estate, the spotless airy barn, and paddock after paddock of beautiful dappled yearlings, which were worlds beyond my range of expertise. No way was I in the market for a horse that needed to be trained from square one, even if I could afford such an animal. But we "oohed" and "ahhed" over the yearlings, thanked the couple for their time, and prepared to leave.
And, then, on the far side of another paddock, I saw a lone beautiful chestnut-colored horse that looked older than the yearlings. I stopped, pointed to the horse, and asked, "What about that one?"
I was told he was a four-year old gelding who was green broke and one of the sweetest horses they had. His name was Evergreen Flame, and he was for sale. We lured Flame over to the fence where we stood with handfuls of sweet feed. I fell in love. Not only was he a gorgeous copper color and as sweet as described, but he was small at 14'2" — a large pony. Perfect for pint-sized me.
In response to my request to ride him, a saddle and bridle materialized. I watched as Flame offered no resistance to either piece of equipment, and with a leg up, I was off. Yes, he was green broke and a bit of a handful for a relative novice like myself, but his gait was the smoothest I'd ever experienced. And unlike many horses, he didn't take advantage of my meager riding ability. We formed some kind of immediate and intangible bond, and I think he figured we could teach each other and learn together.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Stormie's Joy"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Stormie Conway.
Excerpted by permission of BHC Press.
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