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Faces of Deception

2012-02-14T22:02:00.000-08:00

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Chapter 1: False Accusations?

“I know it was you, Montgomery. So help me if I find out that I’m right.” Carmine slammed his fist on the counter hard enough to cause the dusty cash register to bounce.

The shop had that musty odor that signified a professional cleaning crew had never stepped foot on premises.

“Boss, I’m telling you. It wasn’t me. Why would I steal from you? Huh? Tell me that. I’ve been working here too long for me to take anything from you and Donovan. I swear! You have my word.”

“Who else would've done it? The mice?” He raised his voice, causing his face to turn lobster-red and his eyes to transform into tiny slits. “Oh, I know. Maybe a mouse gently opened the front door without any signs of forced entry—perhaps they had an imaginary key—and stole money right out of the cash register and then quietly walked out. Sure! That makes tons of sense. Why didn’t I think of that earlier? Then, that same rodent came back again and again, and not only stole money, but almost every expensive tool that we own. Is that what happened, Montgomery? You lanky lowlife!”

“No, I—I don’t know what happened. But, I’ll find out for you. I promise, I would never do anything like that. It wasn’t me.”

“Oh, well thank goodness we cleared that up. That’s great!” Carmine was infamous for being facetious. “You have a week to find out who is responsible. I’ll break your legs if I find out it was you. Don’t test me. You know I will.”

Ordinarily, Montgomery was an arrogant one. He looked like he belonged in a ’50s street gang, with his black hair slicked back and his smokes rolled up in his T-shirt. But he had the skills of a good plumber when he wasn’t high on cocaine, and that was the only reason he kept his job.

He was a little intimidated as Carmine’s veins pulsed on his forehead. They resembled bulging egg sacks that might hatch little aliens from them any minute. “If it was you, you better run and run far. I’ve taken enough of your horseshit throughout the years, but this is my breaking point. Do you hear me?” He threw a coffee can filled with nails at Montgomery’s head, purposely missing him by a quarter of an inch. “Next time, I’ll aim directly for your head and I won’t miss. That, I can assure you. Donovan is going through the videotapes and if I see your sorry ass on there, you’re dead.”

“You’re wrong, boss. It wasn’t me. I don’t know what I can do to prove it to ya, but I’m telling you, you’re wrong!”

“Fantastic. Then I’ll hire you back on Monday and maybe even apologize, but something tells me I won’t be doing any of that! If it was you, you won’t need a job where you’re going. Take my advice and watch your back, son. You’d better learn how to grow eyes in the back of your head. Now get the hell out of here.”

Carmine, the co-owner of South Side Plumbing for which Montgomery worked, always came across as though he'd been served vinegar with a side of lemons as his morning’s breakfast, even when not accusing his employees of stealing. It was rare to see a smile on his face, and if you did, it was most likely because he had a piece of food lodged between his yellowing teeth.

And though functional and sometimes even profitable, the plumbing business was just a facade.

Once, Carmine had actually made a modest living as a rookie plumber, who only dabbled in the drug scene every once in a while. But as with many drug users, his priorities in life shifted, turning his life of dabbling into a dependency.

Unable to handle the day-to-day responsibility of reporting to a higher authority, he partnered with Donovan, another drug user, though not yet an addict, to start their own company, though it was really a front. He needed to report his income somehow, even though a fraction of it came from dealing drugs. While the front of the shop looked normal, the backroom would be heaven to any drug addict lucky enough to stumble upon it. Upon first glance, it resembled a disorganized office. A wooden table covered with invoices stood in the middle of the room, the wood chipping off of both sides. Two metal chairs sat on either side of it, the kind that hurt to sit in after only a few minutes. To the left were a few shelves that held supplies—paper towels, pens, invoices, clipboards, and a few stray tools. What couldn’t be seen without closer inspection were fireproof safes that were carefully hidden underneath the floorboards or neatly tucked in the walls behind secret wooden panels. These safes housed scrupulously-measured bags of cocaine separated by grams, along with marijuana, methamphetamine, ecstasy, oxycodone, and a myriad of other drugs.

As Montgomery walked out of the shop, Carmine shouted something behind him, no doubt some type of threat. But the door slammed before he could hear it. Montgomery knew Carmine would stop at nothing to get revenge—he’d done it before.

In the beginning of their joint venture, Donovan kept Carmine on his toes. Carmine and Donovan both worked full-time, but once Carmine’s social use became more of an everyday necessity, his work ethic became only a vague memory. Donovan knew Carmine had a problem when he started using drugs more than he sold them. His violent temper was often piqued when he couldn’t get his hands on a quick fix.

Though Donovan dabbled as well, he was at least able to exercise some self-control. He didn't depend upon drugs to get through his daily routine. Carmine, on the other hand, seemed to be losing his common sense with each passing day, so it was no wonder that he'd flown off the handle when his money disappeared, and then later that week when his tools vanished as well.

A rumor had it that Carmine had injured people for less than theft, though it was a rumor Montgomery believed with all of his heart.

Montgomery knew that if Donovan caught anything suspicious on the security tapes, Carmine would make good on his promise. He only hoped Donovan, known for his levelheadedness, would step in and talk some sense into his uncontrollable partner.

Chapter 2:’Til Death Do Us Part

Tonight was going to be a superb evening for Montgomery. He and his friends had scored a deal on some cocaine and were having a party at Shelby’s house. He and Shelby had started dating—if you could call it that—a few months prior. Their dates consisted of getting high on whatever drugs fell into their possession.

All of the cool people were going to be there. Artie, their main source, hinted that he was bringing along some ecstasy as well, and there was no way that Montgomery was missing it.

Just like Carmine and Donovan, Montgomery also frequented the drug scene. It hadn't gotten to the point where his incessant need for drugs surpassed his ability to hold down a job, but he was definitely traveling steadily on the path toward addiction, similar to his parents. He used his upbringing as an excuse to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

His father, Brian Allen Vendora, was a raging alcoholic who had never encountered a bottle he didn’t like. There was no way in hell he could ever hold down a job, and he frequently took out his frustrations on his wife, as well as Montgomery, and his older brother, Lewis.

His parents fought day in and day out. It wasn’t just tiny squabbles—their fights made televised boxing look like a sophisticated night at the ballet. Even as his mother’s face met the end of his father’s fist again and again, she clung to the old-fashioned theory that she should never leave, no matter how unbearable her life became.

Perhaps she couldn’t leave. Her suitcases were occasionally packed and lined up by the doorway, but somehow, some way, Mr. Vendora always discovered that his wife was planning on going on a permanent vacation—without him. And when he did, Mrs. Vendora wouldn’t be seen for days on end.

He saw his actions as punishment for her indecent behavior, and after a while, she succumbed to the old cliché—if you can’t beat him, join him. She started to indulge in more and more liquid meals herself. The two of them found solace in sharing a bottle of bourbon whiskey. From a distance, one might assume that Cupid had arranged the perfect match.

But Montgomery knew his mother drank to expedite her inevitable death, having decided it was impossible to make a clean getaway during in life. He questioned her poor choices and wondered why she never sought help.

Plus, the more inebriated that she became, the less she cared when her husband beat their kids to a pulp. During her sober days, she’d step in and take the brunt to protect her children, but that came to a halt when the tipped bottle became more important.

By the time Montgomery was fourteen, he had begun to scout out places where he could sleep overnight, especially during his parents’ drinking binges. They were usually too far gone to notice him leave, and by the time morning rolled around, he always returned with his parents none the wiser.

The next year, his father’s abuse landed his brother Lewis in the hospital, with bruises covering a good portion of his face and body. Once Lewis recovered, both boys left home to stay with friends. Lewis found a job first and then helped Montgomery get hired.

As bad as their childhoods were, once they were on their own, they were both surprisingly responsible. They found a small one-bedroom apartment on the south side of town, which they shared and split the rent. Lewis gave the bedroom to Montgomery, while he slept in the center of the tiny living room.

Lewis worked hard to pick up the pieces of his life, consciously refraining from alcohol and drugs. But Montgomery eventually gave in to his own self-pity and spent his free time drinking and partying like there was no tomorrow. He told Lewis that he had “earned that right.” It was only a matter of time before he began to experiment with marijuana, and then graduated to a few lines of cocaine here and there. After two years on his own, Montgomery was experimenting with heroin and any other street drugs he could get his hands on. It was a wonder that he was still able to keep a job, but he knew that in order to get his hands on drugs, he needed to work.

One night, after a full day of partying, Montgomery stumbled into the apartment that he shared with Lewis, breaking a lamp and waking his brother in the process. When Lewis told him that he had had enough and demanded that Montgomery get his life together, Montgomery began screaming in a petulant rage. He took a swing at Lewis, missed, and fell face down on the floor.

That was the end of the proverbial rope for Lewis. While he didn’t want to be responsible for tying the noose, he didn’t want to be an enabler, either. He had lived his entire childhood witnessing alcoholism and abuse. He didn't want to stand by to see his brother spiral out of control.

Left with no other choice, he packed his brother’s bags and gave him until the end of the week to get out, hoping it would be the motivation that his brother needed to get his life in order.

Unfortunately, it had the adverse effect, because Montgomery, then age seventeen, left the next morning without saying a word. From that point on, he rented rooms from people, lived with strangers that he met on the street, and sometimes, his home was nothing more than a cardboard box or a rusty, cold bench in the middle of a vacant park. He hadn’t seen his brother since.

He never regretted his choice to cut ties —or at least he never let on if he did—and never tried to contact Lewis again. When he acquired employment with Carmine three years later, he admitted that he considered his brother dead.

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Elizabeth Parker- Author of Finally Home, Final Journey, My Dog Does That!, Bark Out Loud!, Unwanted Dreams, Phobia, Evil's Door and Faces of Deception

Motivational Quotes: Bark Out Loud!

2011-10-31T20:22:00.000-07:00

There's a new book on the market; this one's a little different than my usual. Not quite a thriller and not entirely a dog-lovers book. Come to think of it, it's not even a combination of the two. It is a very quaint book of quotes. If you are in the mood for some uplifting words of encouragement, look no further. There's some quotes on dogs, inspiration, motivation and even some on frustration! If words aren't what you are looking for, there are some pretty pictures to catch your eye.
As with all of my books, I donate a portion of the proceeds to animal rescue, however, with "Bark Out Loud!" I am donating 100% of the profits to animal rescue organizations. This book is for them.

A smiling dog can mean the difference between an ordinary moment and one to treasure.

There's no greater feeling than rescuing an animal. You know what they say "The best things in life are free."

Happiness is hearing your dog's greeting as you walk in the door.

Have you hugged your pet today?

Somebody thinks you are incredible...they probably just haven't told you yet.

Tolerance and patience are acquired traits. They need to be practiced and perfected and definitely won’t happen overnight.

Often, the reason that you make mistakes is to learn from them and teach someone else.

Available on Amazon.com,Kindle and Nook!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Parker

Imagination

2011-09-23T15:25:00.000-07:00

Whenever I’m reading a story, especially one that grabs my attention, I always have to wonder where the author conjured up the spooky ideas that send chills crawling up your spine.

Usually the type of genre that interests me has to have a storyline where at least eighty-five percent of the events that take place can actually happen in real life in order for me to relate. I’m not much into science-fiction, although I don’t mind a little touch of that or supernatural thrown into the mix. Some of my favorite books have had a force out of this world mixed in with reality.

I suppose that is why when I am writing a novel, it always is about events that actually can occur—even if the ideas are far-fetched. There have been moments in each of my thrillers when I’ve actually scared myself quite a bit.

In Unwanted Dreams, I was more bothered by the fact that in reality, there have been too many cases to count where a body was found lying in a ditch or hidden in the desert. Bringing that aspect to life in my book got me thinking about just how twisted these scenarios really can be! Zach was put into a lifestyle that some may call survival, while others just call him a murderer. Either way, he’s a character you can love to hate.

With Phobia, though I had a lot of fun writing this book, it did make me think twice about putting your trust in total strangers. I have to imagine that not everyone is as goodhearted as we would like them to be. You never know who you are going to run into or what their motive is. Sociopaths are likable on the outside until you get to know them intimately. I got the chills when I realized just how possible it was to be in Matt Brewer’s shoes!

Evil’s Door was sick in its own right, as I wondered if it were feasible for two malicious-minded individuals to find each other. Of course, most of my books have at least one dog in them (with the exception of Phobia), so this one wasn’t any different. I enjoyed playing on the stereotype that most big dogs are vicious. Those of us who have owned them or have loved them know differently! Though Ryan was terrified of dogs, his real horrors only began when he got hired at his first job. Some old buildings have a history for which some doors should never be opened. If walls could speak, I’d have to imagine they’d sound similar to the voice in Evil’s Door.

Which type of books interest you? Do you need to relate to your characters in order to enjoy the book, or can you throw yourself into the plot of the story and follow it wherever it takes you?

Elizabeth Parker
Author of:
Finally Home: Lessons on Life from a Free-Spirited Dog
Final Journey: Buddys' Book
My Dog Does That!
Unwanted Dreams
Phobia
Evil's Door
...stay tuned for new thriller!!
Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Parker

My Dog Does That!

2011-07-18T09:21:00.000-07:00

Description:

A humorous, cheery, feel-good book about what all dog-lovers have in common: dogs and the reasons that we love them. Some days they make us laugh, some days they make us crazy, but one thing is for certain; they do some interesting things that non dog-lovers wouldn't understand.

Do you ever feel a bit awkward due to the stunts that your dog has pulled? Do you ever feel as if you are the only one whose dog embarrasses them at not-so-convenient times? How about those wonderfully sweet and tender moments that you so badly want to brag about, but are afraid others may not understand? If so, you're not alone!
We dog-lovers can all relate to the everyday occurrences when it comes to our furry friends because our dogs do that too!

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Introduction: My Dog Does That!

Dogs have a way of being completely unique in some aspects, yet ironically similar in others. Their expressions and mannerisms can be so irresistible, it’s no wonder we want to share their “tails” with others!

As dog owners, we’ve all experienced the occasional embarrassing oh-my-dog, I can’t believe he/she just did that type moments. The type of moments that occur during the most inopportune of times, or while trying to impress a certain guest, or my personal favorite, right after you boast the words, “Oh, my dog would never do that,” only to have them prove you wrong right then and there.

There are also the types of moments that grab a hold of your heart and make you realize exactly why you are a dog-lover. There are stories you could tell and coincidences that no one would believe. No one but a fellow dog-lover, that is.

The nature of this book is about all of those moments, for when you look around the room and say, “Now, how am I going to explain this one without people thinking I have completely lost my mind?”

Now you don’t have to. You’ll see. You’re not alone. We dog-lovers know where you are coming from and we know you’re telling the truth. Do you want to know why?

Because My Dog Does That!

Chapter 1 Why Dogs?

Is there anything greater than the consistent love that we get from a dog? Is there anything more honest? What’s not to love?

I’ve had various discussions at one time or another during my life and the same type of question has come up quite a few times. Perhaps you have been asked a similar variety of questions under the same premise:

“Why do you love dogs so much? I just don’t understand the concept. What’s so great about them?”

In the beginning, I might have exhausted myself trying to explain it once or twice and then after a while, I realized it is just something that you cannot fully explain. There are no words that could accurately describe the love of a dog. For it to be fully understood, it has to be experienced.

As I sit here typing on my laptop, I look around and see the three personalities that I speak of the most: my dogs.

There’s no doubt. I am one hundred percent a dog person. For those of you who share my enthusiasm, you are more than likely familiar with that phrase. For those of you who are not, you are probably saying “a what?”

Let me explain.

For me, it’s all about the dogs and always has been ever since I can remember. It is a quiet, or maybe not so quiet, obsession that stems from, oh, I don’t know, the beauty of their innocence. Or, perhaps it is the sheer innocence of their beauty.

See, they don’t realize that they are beautiful and adorable. A mirror means nothing to them. They have no idea how breathtaking they are. Yet, they are gorgeous in so many ways, both inside and out. All this without ever having to fix their hair!

Which circles me back to canine innocence.

Even the most mischievous of dogs are innocent in their own specific way. There are those that may misbehave more than others and then there are some that do not get the proper medical treatment or training that is required, but that is not their fault.

More often than not, the owner is the one to blame.

So, when people ask me, why dogs? It is so many things and it is nothing at all. To explain each one’s individual personality is worth a book in itself, but once you fall in love with your first pup…it all becomes crystal clear. No explanation is necessary.

It doesn’t matter that you have to vacuum up dog hair every day, or wake up according to their breakfast schedule or try to speak their language to decipher why they are whining for no apparent reason.

Does any of this sound familiar to you? We do it simply because we love them. For any and all of the work involved in owning a dog, their reciprocation of love and companionship makes it all worthwhile.

Their unconditional love outweighs any of the tribulations you may go through. They admire you no matter what you look like, act like or feel like. They find excitement in anything you say and look to you as though what you said was the most logical and the most incredible sound they have ever heard.

So my answer has since been shortened to this and I think it sums it up perfectly; “What’s not to love?"

Available on Kindle and Nook

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Parker

Excerpt from "Unwanted Dreams"

2011-06-30T10:18:00.000-07:00

As you may or may not know, "Unwanted Dreams" was written with bits and pieces from actual dreams (or nightmares) that I have had. This particular dream I found to be interesting, chilling and spooky, all in one. It is taken from a part of the book where Amber is telling Tiffany about it.

"For many years, my mom has had this beautiful figurine placed in close proximity to the kitchen telephone. It is as odd as it is beautiful. To describe it is somewhat difficult, but I will certainly give it a try.
The figurine is about the size of one’s hand. In the center is an Asian type fabric made of pinkish silk. The silk is embroidered with flowers in the center, taking the shape of a delicate bow. From the center, stretching outward on both sides, are four dark black silhouettes. They are velvety to the touch. No one has ever really asked what the figurine was, nor has anyone ever cared. Not until now.
You and I were in the woods outside of the house. As you know, there has never been anything outside that was considered dangerous or poisonous, which is why I was so shocked upon first glance. It was approaching toward us quicker and appeared more frightening than I could have imagined.
There, in the woods was my own nemesis; a HUGE, black, hairy, creepy tarantula. It must have easily been the size of my hand, though even in my dream I didn’t stick around to find out. Its eyes, as they were fixated upon us, displayed a vengeance, as it seemed to have some private aspiration to capture us in one of its vicious webs. You know how I am genuinely afraid of a tiny house spider, I felt the adrenalin and fear run through my veins right after seeing this creature. I ran like my life depended upon it. I ran into the house to tell my mom what we had seen in her yard. You were following closely behind."
So, my mom was at the neighbor’s house and our only two choices were the obvious; wait to warn her or just call her. I decided just to call her and tell her. As I reached for the telephone, as I had done a thousand times, I only then noticed that the well-known peculiar figurine was not there…well, not entirely there.
All that was left in its place was the stand on which to hold it. I stood in awe studying this vacancy, as it had never to my knowledge been empty before. As I stood studying it, I was distracted by something that caused me to freeze in horror.
There on the wall was something I closely recognized, but did not want to believe was in front of me. It was just as I had remembered it. It was just as huge, just as scary, but somehow more confident and at ease. This in itself is what caused me to feel even less at ease and with zero confidence whatsoever.
There, on the wall, climbed the notoriously feared tarantula. Into its stand it crawled and stretched its legs outward on both sides; four dark black silhouettes. It enclosed its body within its own web; an intricate pink, delicate, beautiful bow handcrafted by none other than the creepy crawler itself.
At the precise moment, my mom walked into the house."

Unwanted Dreams is now on sale on Kindle, Nook or on Amazon.com in paperback.
It is also on sale as part of a collection with "Phobia" for only $4.49!
Copyrighted Material 2010 Elizabeth Parker

Excerpt from "Finally Home"

2011-06-13T16:04:00.000-07:00

Just a quick list to consider when adopting a pup. This is taken from my book "Finally Home." Though pups are adorable, sweet and loyal...they do have some other qualities that might not be so endearing. A dog is not disposable, so deliberate carefully, as it is a big decision and not something to be taken lightly! As sweet and innocent as they may look, some may be mischievous!

1. Puppies get big. Make sure you have the adequate space to handle your dog’s expected size.
2. Dogs bark. I have actually heard of people returning or abandoning dogs because they bark. Really? Is this not common knowledge?
3. Dogs drool.
4. Dogs sometimes do not have manners.
5. They may have an accident on your rug. They may also have one if they get excited.
6. They may jump on the furniture.
7. They shed.
8. They do have waste that needs to be disposed of…by you.
9. They may have behavioral issues that you have to deal with.
10. Vet bills may get very high.
11. Some dogs need very expensive food, as their stomach can’t handle regular food.
12. They may live to be eighteen!!
13. Dogs chew things. Sometimes it is things that they should not chew.
14. Dogs steal.
15. Dogs need to be groomed.
16. They may get sick at inopportune moments.
17. They may counter surf. This means they may steal things of importance off of your counter.
18. It IS a lot of work.
19. Some DO need to be exercised constantly, depending on the breed.
20. There are many other surprises that are too numerous to list.

Hope this helps if you're looking to adopt a pup!

Copyrighted Material 2010 Elizabeth Parker

Preview for Evil's Door

2011-05-30T09:37:00.000-07:00

Copyrighted Elizabeth Parker 2011

Chapter 1 - The Legend of Helga

Under the barren branches of the enormous trees, the street was just starting to become visible once again, and the snow from the series of relentless snowstorms had finally begun to melt. It was almost possible to walk a full block without slipping on the white powder that covered hidden sheets of black ice.
The crimson rays of the winter sun were doing their best to shine, giving a sense of false hope that heat would soon blanket the solid ground.
Ryan hurried home from school, kicking scattered debris and sand all around him, his fingers stiff and freezing from the frigid February air. Without fail, he took the same route and encountered the same humdrum routine each and every day.
As he departed the school grounds, he headed East on Willow Street, and passed the identical school bus that transported the portentous teenagers back to their homes. Like clockwork, he could count on them to exercise their immaturity by making obnoxious faces through the filthy, elongated windows.
He then cut through the path as a shortcut to Belladonna Drive, the same path that his overbearing parents forbade him to tread through. As always, he picked up the pace as he passed the dwelling that everybody feared, otherwise known as the supposed witch’s haunted house.
In truth, it had never actually been proven that the woman was a witch or that the house was even haunted for that matter. Ever since he was young, however, walking this identical route, no one in their right mind would be brave enough to simply take a leisurely stroll past her house.
This myth not only pertained to young children, but to ostensibly logical adults, as well.
As they approached ten feet of its horrid appearance, their slow stride increased to a rapid sprint, until they were a good enough distance past it. Once it was deemed safe, they continued at their regular snail’s pace.
Though probably a rumor that a silly imaginative boy conjured up, the story stuck with Ryan and almost every other student that traveled this road home.
Now, as a mature senior in high school, Ryan tried to act cool and courageous as he strode past, not exactly running, but picking up the pace just enough to coincide with his increased heartbeat.
The dilapidated house in itself was an eyesore. Its exterior shutters were painted slate blue, the kind of opaque color you would find coating the inner walls of an abandoned building.
In the front yard stood a wooden, garden-variety archway, painted chalk-white with wood chipping off every inch of its unstable structure.
The archway itself was covered with pale green vines that crawled over a generous portion of its sides. Topping off the appalling structure was an indistinguishable plant that clearly succumbed to its demise well before its expected age.
In the summertime, when grass was expected to be a vivacious shade of hunter green on Long Island, hers was nothing but a thin layer of crackling hay. A faded rust-colored shed leaned against the crumbling fence, both ready to collapse to the ground at any given moment.
As for the supposed witch, whom kids nicknamed Helga, some stated that she merely possessed the same qualities of a normal, cranky old lady. Though, she wasn't that old, to children and most high school students, she was beyond ancient.
She was grand in stature, probably close to 5'9 weighing about 230 pounds. Her hair was always dyed onyx black and pulled back in a tight bun with tiny curls framing the front of her face.
Some days she could be seen wearing granny glasses, but that was only once in a while. When you were close enough to see her eyes, they appeared ice blue, the kind of eyes that could kill you with one piercing glance.
One of them was a glass eye. No one knew how that came about and no one dared to ask.
Her face was not yet abundant with wrinkles, however, a generous portion of crow's feet surrounded her darkened eyes. A repulsive scar that looked as though it never fully healed crossed just underneath her chin, adding to the wickedness of her unique appearance.
Granted she was not pretty by any sense of the word, but in truth, that had never been considered enough to constitute anyone as a witch.
Each household in the neighborhood had at least one family member who could recite a story that they had heard, and could also supply witnesses that could back it up.
Those who had tried to befriend her were only met with hostility, which then caused them to back off.
It was safe to say that she had no friends, and no one questioned why.
Some claimed to have witnessed her partake in evil activities, while several declare that she has been known to cast various spells.
As rumor has it, once she focused her evil eyes upon a much scouted-out individual, horrendous tragedies were declared to have plagued that very person.
The growing list of embellished stories was seemingly endless.

Chapter 2- Life Cut Short
Jimmy Garia was a typical ten year-old boy, sweet, innocent and outwardly invincible. He had a wide variety of friends in their close-knit neighborhood, and none of them were ever permitted to wander off on their own, under any circumstances.
For the most part, the kids on the block obeyed their parents' strict rules and without fail, did whatever they were told.
On an average day, a clan of nine and ten year-old boys could be found playing their little-league version of baseball, football or hockey in the vicinity of the quiet street. Their parents made sure to keep watch from the kitchen window or from a lounge chair strategically positioned on the front lawn.
Though that was considered their normal routine, one Saturday morning things were a little different. The regular clan of kids was not available to play. Since Jimmy and his friend were temporarily alone, and boys will be boys, they decided to explore just a little.
Being adventurous as young children frequently are, when they were certain no one was looking, they meandered off of their street. They were confident that they would return back before anybody noticed, and it would be well worth the risk. Once they made the turn around the corner, they hustled onto the prohibited road, keeping a close lookout for anyone that might follow them.
Their parents had always cautioned them to stay off of the street due to the congested traffic, claiming that they did not want them to risk crossing the road, but the two boys believed otherwise.
The real reason was that their mistrustful parents were afraid that their innocent children would venture past Helga's house and pay awful consequences.
To Jimmy and his best friend Jared, this was one opportunity they did not dare pass up. They were three houses away from Helga's and were curious to see what all of the hype was about.
Both kids tip-toed up to it, as if that would make them invisible. At first, they simply stared at the shambled roof, as well as other sections of the diminished dwelling.
Not fully believing the diabolical stories they had heard, they were somewhat hesitant, but were also having an exhilarant time.
They couldn't wait to brag to their friends about how they escaped their customary tranquil block and freed themselves to visit the notorious witch.
A bit nervous that they would get into trouble with their parents, they wanted to make this visit rather fast, but also categorically memorable.
While building up a good portion of adrenalin and fear based on the circulating rumors, they psyched themselves up to be brave and do something outrageous.
After gathering the courage, their plan took a shocking turn for the worse, and neither one would have been able to predict the grievous events that ensued.
Through neighborhood chatter, it had been said that on an adolescent dare from Jared, Jimmy snuck onto the witch's private property in an attempt to only cross the boundary that separated the road from her driveway.
Just lingering by her house was enough to get “oohs” and “ahhs” from the neighborhood boys once they got wind of the story.
Jared watched from the curb as Helga stormed out of her house the moment his friend’s foot crossed over the invisible threshold and onto her property. Unable to even warn his friend, he froze still, terrified at what she might do next.
She allegedly stared at Jimmy with a seething glare for what seemed like a full five minutes, though in actuality, it was probably no more than thirty seconds.
Upon being noticed, little Jimmy was so frightened that once he convinced his legs to move, he started to run and tripped over his own feet. Once he scrambled back up, he darted off of her property as fast as his little legs could take him. Without looking to see if the coast was clear, he bolted directly off of her driveway and right into oncoming traffic.
A cherry-red sports car was approaching from the opposite direction, with the vibrating thump of rap music blasting from its speakers. Though the driver did try his best to bring the vehicle to a stop, there was no possible way that he could do so in time.
The deathly pitch of squealing brakes could be heard from blocks away, and for a moment it looked like he was close to avoiding disaster, but unfortunately, it was just too late.
In a flash, Jimmy's young body was hit with such impact, and there was nothing the driver could do.
Jared was left feeling helpless. He watched as his friend’s body tumbled underneath the screeching tires, the unmistakable sound of flesh getting caught between the road and the car's undercarriage.
Crash! Thud! Clunk!
His agonizing scream lasted all of five seconds, until his unfinished life was literally squeezed out of him.
When Jared couldn’t bring himself to watch his best friend die any longer, he turned away in a horrified stupor, only to find Helga staring at the scene with a self-satisfied expression. He screamed for her to help, but she just nodded smugly and slipped back into her humble abode.
Jared was bombarded with an influx of emotions, not knowing what he should do, but terrified that Helga would try to kill him, as well. He was ultimately convinced that this was all part of her pernicious plan.
He was old enough to know that his friend was dead. There was no way that he survived that awful crash.
The driver wept as he got out of his car, screaming on the top of his lungs at the horrid devastation he had caused.
No one questioned who had called the cops, but before Jared could run back to his house and get his parents, the ambulances and police cars were there with their bright lights flashing and their sirens blaring.
Jared ran up to the medics begging them to help his friend, even though deep in his heart, he knew it was pointless. The EMT’s rushed over to Jimmy, while the cops walked over to the driver who was sitting on the curb.
He was in a state of shock, with his head pushed down into his crossed arms and his body slumped over his wobbly legs.
Helga watched the entire scene from her kitchen window. Jared caught eyes with her and she slowly shook her head, before walking out of sight.

Evil's Door

2011-03-31T16:39:00.000-07:00

Childhood rumors are often prevalent in a family-oriented community. Some may boast that they have seen a UFO flying overhead while others claim to have witnessed a ghost soaring through the trees. Regardless of how outrageous they are, these stories are so believable that they trickle down from sibling to sibling, friend to friend; creating a neighborhood buzz that lingers for years.

Ryan Sheffield’s neighborhood was no different. Though no one would admit it, adults and children alike were freaked out by the eccentric woman who lived in the ghastly corner house, but aside from that, his world as he knew it was an ordinary one.

Bizarre situations did not surface until Ryan began working at his very first job. To his peers and superiors, it was just a traditional office. To Ryan, it was much more than that after a series of inexplicable occurrences haunted his every conscious moment.

Through a bit of intense research, he uncovered the building’s gruesome history and was led down its horrifying path. He opened the door to a hell he did not want to live in and tried his best to avoid the evil that surrounded him. The truth revealed itself to him in more ways than one; a truth he was better off not knowing and one that could essentially end his life.

Available June 1, 2011 on Amazon.com, Kindle.com, Nook and other online retailers.

New Book on the Horizon

2011-01-26T20:25:00.000-08:00

January 20, 2011

Writing: What happens when you get a plethora of ideas floating around in your head with no way of getting them out fast enough.

You could argue and say to get a mini-recorder and that might work for the spur-of-the- moment flash-flood type sentences, but the problem with that is when you are trying to catch a few zzz’s, the most perfect line often pops into your head. It’s rhythmical, catchy, flows like a smooth running stream and is the one missing puzzle piece that you were looking for to complete your chapter.

Of course, if you don’t get up and write it down right at that precise moment, you spend the rest of the night tossing and turning, trying to remember verbatim what it was that you thought of and by morning, that perfect line is nothing more than a few meaningless words, that don’t even make an iota of sense. Not to mention, waking up the next day feeling extremely exhausted.
That being said, I have started working on two books, both with completely different characters and plots. Due to the fact that I two separate ideas going, you would have thought it made it easier for me to write, right? Nope! It completely plagued me with writer’s block for a few months. I have finally made a very conscious decision to focus on only one.

Focus: Now there’s a word that is difficult to do. When writing you can’t just force ideas to come into your head. You have to relax, put your mind at ease, open up the flood gates so to speak and let them flow right in. I’ve found it’s impossible to focus on two things at once, I mean really focus on them without getting stuck.

Luckily, I’ve gotten past the small hump and am continuing on book one. I’ve even got a title. Well, that’s kind of a lie. I have about fifteen titles.

But the good news is I put the second book on the back burner.
Stay tuned. I’ll post more on my progress and expect to have it finished and on sale at amazon.com by June 1, 2011. Check back for the title, a description and a lot more updates!

Preview for Phobia!

2010-12-15T16:25:00.000-08:00

Copyrighted Material

Description:
Growing up with phobias that have terrified him his entire life, Matt Brewer had finally made the decision to go to counseling, seeking help once and for all.
He entrusted his emotions in the hands of strangers and depended on them to help conquer his fear. What he did not count on was having his fears become a distinct reality, leaving him fighting for his life and the lives of those around him, including his girlfriend whom he intended to marry.
Tortured and bound, he comes face to face with evil with no one to hear his screams. Time is of the essence and it’s a literal race against the clock in order to make it out alive.

Copyrighted © 2010 Elizabeth Parker

Introduction

What does it take for fears to surface and then, to disappear? When do you know to draw the line between paranoia and reality?
Horror movies have instilled the terrorizing fear into our minds that upon entering our own dark, vacant house, we find that we are not alone, after all.
We expect the sharp pitched shrills of violins and bone-chilling organ music to begin its eerie melody as we approach something as mundane as the shower, only to see its curtain sway and a sharp blade swing in your direction.
Better yet, the feeling of someone lurking in the hallway as you're nestled in bed is enough to terrorize even the sanest person.
This fear, for the most part, is far-fetched and unrealistic.
For me, however, it became a harsh reality.

Chapter 1-Monsters

Do you remember when you were a child and feared that there were monsters lurking underneath the bed? If you were lucky, you had a loving mom or dad (or both) who would playfully crawl under the box spring just to prove you wrong.
All the while, you sat curled up in the blankets, clutching your favorite teddy bear, tears streaming down your cheeks, hoping that your parents' face would soon surface above the bed and that they would be safe.
Once they had risen above the mattress, they would greet you with a big smile and even bigger hug, proclaiming that you were out of harm's way and no monster would ever live anywhere close to your bed.
This would then be followed by a magical bedtime story, leaving you to dream of most likely a house full of awesome toys and an even bigger one used solely for storing tons of candy.
That's more or less how it happened for me, except that when my parents were too busy to pacify my fears, I took matters into my own hands and conjured up a fool-proof plan for the next bout of monster-under-the-bed horrors.
Unfortunately for me, I had been terrified of monsters since the age when I was able to just pronounce the word "monster." My brother and I used to sneak into the family room while our parents slept and sit through hours upon hours of scary movies that we were ordinarily forbidden to watch. Those same horrifying flicks made a fearful, unforgettable impression on me.
In my mind, while I was thoroughly convinced that an evil ogre was taking permanent residence under the bed, they would never be bold enough to hide in my closet. I figured I could create a little emergency kit and leave it stored in my closet, should I ever have to hide from the wicked creature.
I spent the better part of one of my days clearing out a small portion on the lower left-hand corner of the four by four foot room, making sure to move my clothes so that they were squished on one side and empty on the other.
It was ample space so that a scrawny, seven-year old like me could comfortably lie down, in the event that I would be forced to stay in there a while.
I also set aside a tiny cushion with some old blankets and a small throw pillow for my head. Should I have to hide long enough, it was absolutely necessary to take my favorite stuffed animal and lastly, Dad's flashlight, the one to be used for our camping trips that we still had yet to take.
This worked out well the first few times I tried it. I initially intended for this to be my little secret hideaway, but on one occasion when my older brother, Ben, and I were getting along, I told him of my clever, clandestine shelter. I was beaming with pride and he seemed to be quite impressed with my intelligent Boy Scout planning.
Ben was three years my senior. While it may not seem like he was that much older, at age seven, he was the one I always looked up to. We fought all of the time, however, I knew that he loved me and I loved him just the same. When push came to shove, we would watch out for each other, especially if it meant avoiding punishment from our parents.
Ben had some behavioral issues and his main claim to fame was his ingenious pranks. Sometimes they were hysterically funny and other times not so much. His intentions were never evil, though at times the results were questionable to say the least.
He was way too smart for his own good and doctors labeled him as moderately hyperactive. He needed to be doing something at all times, with his mind constantly needing stimulation. I on the other hand, was quite content thumbing through my run of the mill picture books and playing with my vast collection of metal toy trucks.
I could be amused for hours, pretending I was in charge of the dump truck or perhaps I was the burly construction worker who operated the crane on all of the big rigs. On some days, I preferred to be a fire marshal or policeman. My parents even bought me a badge that I would proudly display on my shirt on such days.
Ben would offer to sit with me for maybe three whole minutes before he got distracted and wandered off.
One day, while hiding from the monsters, I became so comfortable on my provisional bed in the closet that my fear managed to escape me and the small throw pillow coaxed me into a deep, fantasy-filled sleep.
I did not even hear my mother calling me to let me know dinner would be ready in thirty minutes and to get cleaned up, but apparently my loving brother heard loud and clear.
Knowing where I would most likely be hiding, my brother snuck into my bedroom, noticed the light seeping out from underneath the closet door and quietly opened it.
Seeing that I was fast asleep, he ventured down to the garage, climbed on top of a workbench, reached into my dad's forbidden tool box and grabbed some heavy-duty construction glue.
Once again, he snuck back into my room and gently opened the closet door, gluing the inner portion side of the door to the frame of the closet. I would like to believe that Ben did not really know the impact of his actions. I would also like to assume that Ben did not realize the intense strength of that glue or the expedient drying time, because by the time I woke up thirty minutes later to my mother calling me, I heard Ben laughing in the background and I jumped up from my powerful nap.
I pounced up, trying to shake the cobwebs from my dreaming state, but as I turned the knob on the closet door to get out, I pushed the door so hard that I nearly broke my arm. I attempted to nudge the closet open as I normally would have, not expecting there to be any resistance but sure enough, the door would not budge, not even a little bit. I used a little more force the second time, thinking my mother was going to be furious that I was hiding, and even angrier that I was late for dinner, but it still would not open.
Tonight was the one night my father was coming home later than usual, and my mother was a bit stressed out trying to juggle the entire household on her own, without any help to keep track of her two mischievous children.
The first thought that penetrated my brain was that the terrifying monster under my bed had possessed a superior intelligence than me. He must have entered the closet from some bizarre dimension, perhaps one that only ill-omened monsters had the ability to see and even weirder capability to move through without any effort.
This raised the terror and adrenalin level even more, as I started to kick the door full force and screech at the top of my lungs.
My mother's footsteps charging up the stairs rang through my ears and the fast, heavy thumping matched the desperate pounding of my own heart.
I heard her voice shouting for me and I bellowed back as she pulled on the door from the outside. "Matthew, let go of the door knob." She must have thought I was playing, though I was positive my voice was brimming with desperation. Through exasperated breaths, I tried to tell her, "I am not touching the door knob. Help me mom! Get me out of here. Mom, please help me!" My cries started off in my normal voice and made their way to a fanatical, high-pitched octave.
The back of my throat started to feel parched and it dawned on me that I had nothing to drink for at least the better part of the day.
To make matters more frightening, my trusty flashlight had been lit the entire time during my nap, and unfortunately, the batteries were not brand new. I was not smart enough to preserve battery power, nor did I know such a thing was necessary. The light start to flicker and then soon enough, the only illumination I had simply died.
I sat in complete darkness, only taking solace in a small beam of natural light that was trickling in from underneath the door.
I heard the sound of my mother's voice, but only between my own screams as now I was utterly terrified. "Mom, help me! The monsters! MOM, get me out. They are going to kill me! I can't breathe! Get Dad. Help me!"
I expected the door would be open in no time, but now both she and Ben were trying with all of their might and it would not budge, not even an inch. As we jiggled the doorknob, we felt it turn, but the massive piece of wood attached was not going anywhere! My mother's voice was laced with panic and I could tell Ben was crying.
My father was not expected home from work for another two hours. After an hour of trying, my brother finally had to 'fess up to his impetuous crime, which helped eliminate the fear that monsters were involved in this travesty, but there was still nothing they could do to get me out of this confined dungeon.
My heart was about to thump its way right out of my heaving chest and I could not breathe. The walls were closing in on me and the air was becoming denser with each passing minute. I had trouble catching my breath and could actually hear myself trying to inhale or exhale.
The more I made an attempt to breathe, the more my heart's erratic pulsing seemed to get in the way. As I clutched at my throat, I could actually hear the drumming of my heart echoing through my ears. Every ounce of clothing seemed to prohibit me from breathing even further and felt as if it were getting tighter and tighter.
I started to remove my clothes so that all I had on were my short little socks and my masculine Spiderman underwear.
My scalp was dripping with sweat and my hair was fully matted. My eyes were burning from crying and my throat raw and dry from my frenzied howls.
The faint light that offered me a glimpse of life from the windows in the room was quickly fading out, as it was getting later in the evening and the sun had begun its nightly descent. The glow from the blue, kid-size lamp in my room was proving itself useless as it was not lending anything in terms of comfort.
Downstairs, the aroma of my mother’s delectable cooking was permeating throughout the house, but that was soon masked by the smoky odor of something burning.
At that very instant, my mother became maniacal as she proclaimed in labored breaths that during this entire debacle, she had managed to leave the stove on!
There was more shrieking and lots of cursing. I couldn't tell if it was from her or me this time and I heard more hammering footsteps scurrying down the stairs to the smoldering kitchen. "Ben, get the fire extinguisher. QUICKLY! Get it now!"
I could only imagine that there were flames encompassing the first floor of our modest little fortress that we called home.
Ben never knew where anything was in our house and was the least organized person that I knew. I heard him frantically whining, "I don't know where it is? Where is it Mom?!"
The smoke fumes were now finding their way into my tiny, cramped space, which at this point, I imagined would double as my coffin, burying me alive in its vicious inferno, leaving burnt ashes as the only proof of my diminutive existence.
I tried wailing some more as if the loudness of my trembling voice would somehow create a miraculous fury that forced the door to open, but even that theory could not be tested, as there was no sign of sound in my voice box.
I was teeter-tottering on passing out, but did not relent and kept kicking in the door, still with no luck. Apparently my seven-year old legs didn't possess the muscle needed to knock down the enormous piece of wood attached by strong metal hinges.
It didn't help that my mother insisted the closets be made of oak. My father had suggested we get regular closet doors like the rest of the world, but my mother had some crazed obsession with the type of wood our closets and doors should consist of and somehow won that particular argument.
Nothing but silence rang through my ears for what seemed like an eternity, but might have just been ten minutes, as I could not determine how long I had been locked away during this ordeal.
Finally, once again my mother's affectionate voice was getting closer. I thought for sure here was where she would apologize and tell me goodbye. The house was burning down, and she had to leave without me.
"Matthew, Mommy's here now. Dad will be here within the hour. Just stay calm. It's all okay now."
My mouth opened, but no words would come out. Pure terror had taken over my body and all I wanted to do was escape. I needed to get out and suddenly needed to run. The walls were closing in and my heart was racing faster with each passing minute. There was a loud panting sound that seemed to originate from the increasingly shrinking walls, but then I realized it was me gasping for just one last deep breath.
I was only seeing shadows and thought for sure I would never be able to focus again. I couldn’t be sure if the dark figures I saw hanging from the rod in the closet were my clothes or some masked man waiting to kill me.
The outfit I was wearing was drenched on the floor and I couldn't even find my stuffed animal to share the last few minutes of my pathetic, short life. My legs felt rubbery. I envisioned them to be shaking like Jello and could not hold myself up. The air was being stolen from me minute by mind-torturing minute.
It was then that everything finally went black.

Chapter 2-Saved

I assumed that my father must have driven at one hundred miles per hour to get home earlier than expected. Normally, when he walks through the door after a long day at work, my mother already has dinner on the table.
She greets him with a small peck on the cheek and then he gives both my brother and me a big bear hug, mumbling something about how he's going to get us and starts chasing us around the living room. This is usually accompanied with him making growling noises and roaring like an oversized bear with my brother and me screaming as if it were real.
My mother was usually laughing in the background, dressed in a flowered apron covering her clothes, while holding a potholder or a spoon, complaining that we were going to ruin our appetites for dinner and that we should calm down.
I never understood how running would ruin our craving for food, but I never bothered to stop and ask. Mom had her own way of thinking and usually we all just let her win. Sometimes it was easier to pick our battles wisely.
Tonight things were different. Though I was upstairs, and locked in a four by four foot chamber, I was brought out of my fear-induced coma by my father's deep, familiar voice, not threatening to chase us, but what sounded like him making grave threats to my brother. On top of his barking, I heard my brother bawling in the background.
Dad finally burst into the bedroom after his thunderous screaming at my brother brought me back to consciousness. Had I not been on the cusp of death, I might have even felt badly for Ben. His punishment might actually equal the intense turmoil that I had to endure.
I heard every word loud and clear. "Let me understand this properly. You did what?! You GLUED the door shut? What the hell is wrong with you? What in the world were you possibly thinking? Did you think it was actually funny to glue a door shut? What did you think was going to happen? It’s glue! Of course the door does not open. What were you doing in my tool box in the first place? Didn't I tell you to NEVER go in there? Don’t you get it? This is IT! Go to your room. I don't want to see you for a month. Out of my sight!"
When he was angry, he was notorious for speaking in short, yet formidable fragments.
Then, as if a switch had been turned on, his voice softened to that of the Dad I recognized as he said, "Matthew? I'm coming, son. You'll be out of there in no time."
I heard the garage door slam shut and then open again. That was followed by some swift running up the stairs, the kind where you skip two steps at a time, and my father's authoritative voice echoing though the door again. "It's okay, honey. I gotcha. Give me two minutes."
Some kind of a tool engaged the top portion of the door. I'd find out later it was a flathead screwdriver removing the hinges. I then heard something fall onto the carpet as some light glimmered through the top of the door. There was then another thud on the floor and a bit more light.
Finally the door opened in the opposite direction that it normally did, still attached by the glue on the left hand side where the handle was. I sat there, half-naked, dazed, pathetic, drenched in sweat and tears, alive and crying, facing my mom and dad.
Both parents extended their arms toward me and embraced me in an airtight hug, something that I normally might welcome, but the fact that I still couldn't breathe did not make this enjoyable one bit.
Once they had released their crippling hold on me, my breathing, though still labored, was getting closer and closer to its normal rhythm. Between the crying, screaming and panicking, I developed a dry, hacking cough and could not stop. After a few hours, a pitcher full of water and some tender love and care, I was pretty much back to normal.
That traumatic experience not only taught me to never hide in the closet again, but supplied me with two more phobias in addition to monster-phobia. One was a severe case of claustrophobia- the intense fear of being confined to small places and nyctophobia- the fear of the dark.
As I got older, I outgrew the monster-phobia, but could not shake the other two no matter how I tried to ignore them and use wishful thinking to will them away.
They stuck with me through my teenage years and well into my thirties. They sometimes left my side, leaving me to think that I had conquered all, but they always came back with a vengeance and are here with me now.
I have kept this journal throughout most of my adult life, expressing my innermost thoughts and most heartfelt emotions. I had always felt better once my feelings were put down on paper. It was a great release for me. It was never to see the light of day; however, since I am faced with a situation beyond my wildest dreams, I will try to give you as many details as I can.
You see, most recently, I have developed yet one more fear. I believe the correct term for this is Necrophobia, or more commonly known as the fear of death, (not to be confused with necrophilia, which is the obsession of having sex with dead people).
Necrophobia is probably the most realistic of all of them for me, because if you are actually reading this now, then I am most likely, in fact, dead.

Visit http://www.elizabethparkerbooks.com/ for more details or to order a paperback copy, visit Amazon.com, Or Kindle.com and now on Nook!

Preview for Final Journey: Buddys' Book

2010-12-14T15:05:00.000-08:00

After the publication of "Finally Home," Buddy was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Once the unthinkable happened and Buddy's precious life was cut short, his family was left heartbroken and devastated.
At the same time, in another state, poor economic conditions forced another family to give up their golden retriever.
As fate would have it, his name...was Buddy.
While they were mourning the loss of their beloved dog, another dog was mourning the loss of his treasured family.
Brought together by misfortune, they entered each other's lives to help put back together the pieces of their broken hearts.
This story is for both Buddys, producing the subtitle "Buddys' Book."

Copyrighted © 2010 Elizabeth Parker
Prologue:
The First Day without My Buddy--Prologue by my husband, Michael

This is a story about a gallantly brave, smart, and incredibly loyal and most loving Golden Retriever. For those of you who first looked at this title and were interested, chances are, you are a dog lover at the least. But this is more than a dog story. It’s about the most unlikely, yet most beautiful friendship that has ever existed.
This is an old question, an adage, really, that asks about a broken heart, or a heart that has never been opened. Is it truly better to have loved and lost? From the first person perspective, there is no doubt, for at this time, the loss has not even occurred, but the thought of my best friend passing on is nearly more that I can bear.
How many times have you been hurt, in a day, month or even a lifetime? Did you ever notice that watching a sad movie with a soundtrack that rips the tears from your eyes and makes you shake uncontrollably, brings back feelings of loss? And yet afterwards, maybe even a fond memory or two comes back, and the one feeling that surpasses all is relief?
Let’s face it; life expectancy in itself is a pretty morbid thought, right? So, humans are born, grow, learn about the past, look toward the future, experience regret about the past, and fear the future as it slowly (for the most part) ticks away. There are dogs I know personally, who contemplate the same, only their thought process goes in theory seven times quicker than ours, or at least that’s the latest, approximate calculation used. Therefore, to use round numbers, my eleven-year old Golden should have been collecting his social security benefits, after a productive life of stealing and relocating footwear throughout wherever he decided was appropriate at that moment in time.
Commitment is a strange word that strikes fear into the hearts of many, and mostly men. Of course, a thirty-something male is usually more concerned about making a form of long term commitment to another human, instead of a dog. But, in learning about the availability of a one and a half year old, purebred male Golden Retriever, I was anxious to meet Buddy in a neighboring town of a friend through a friend through a friend kind of connection. The fact that Buddy had already been through three homes in his short life, and had nearly as many names, didn’t discourage me.
Dogs are interesting, and extremely intelligent individuals. Probably the most important word in that sentence is individuals, for each is indeed his own personality. There is a lot of discussion regarding a dog’s ability to adapt its own outlook to mirror that of its owner. When was the last time you heard about a human able to do the same of its dog? The beauty of a dog and most animals, is purity, for a dog cannot lie or hide its feelings, like too many humans can and are often forced to, for a multitude of bad reasons.
Buddy bolt forth like a lightning rod when I first met him in the basement of his previous owners, and toppled me over despite my initial and well thought out plan to get low to the ground in a squatting position. As this seventy-five pound bundle of Golden hair shot toward me, there was an instant bond, the way most stories are told about meeting their infant children for the first time. I knew the previous owners were caring for Buddy in the way most at least feed their goldfish, but that this dog had not experienced love in the sense of the way it was intended. So, wrestling Buddy to the ground, I buried my face into his broad chest, I gave him his first raspberry, a big loud one that stopped him from writhing for the briefest of moments and got my first Buddy look of surprise, the one that so frequently comes when I catch him off guard, with that puzzled look of “Dad?”
Buddy had found his family.
As time passes and we spend it with the people we want to surround ourselves with, a gradual understanding occurs. It is the lifelong balance and sometimes struggle for what some have called power, and not in the recently retired Fidel Castro dictator style of the word. Rather, it is trying to figure out where the pieces fit into the puzzle of life, putting the best organization together to get the most out of every minute, conscious or not, writing the best novel, or reading it, to the highest level of the simplest enjoyment.
And so it is with all, co-existing at a moment in time, if it’s two strangers smiling at an airport, an interaction between doctor and patient, fare and cab driver, black and white, yin and yang, balance in every sense of the word.
In their most canine of abilities, dogs look to a pack leader, sometimes referred to as the alpha, the one who will make the best decisions to ensure the well being of the entire family. Buddy was his own alpha, demanding (and receiving) attention when he wanted, but always underneath, the most lovingly, tender, and grateful creature.
Grateful? Have you ever seen the way a dog can turn from terror to timid in a moment when a scratch behind an ear is administered, or the morning goop from the eyes is cleared? Yes, it’s similar to a diaper change, I guess, but it doesn’t require anyone to teach it how to eat, even from a plate and doesn’t need utensils to get the job done. Don’t think for a minute that I am reducing the pleasure that potty-training can bring when your three-year old can point to the toilet and exclaim with a smile “Doo-doo!”
Love exists in so many forms. Appreciation is kind of that back seat driver to Love, he’s the one who says, you need me to get to Love, and it’s a one way street with many potholes along the way, not to mention construction, bad drivers and rush hour. But the purest of love is a bond between a human and a dog. There, it’s done. If you disagree, you can go back to the in-flight movie, which means I’ve probably got your attention for at least another hour, since your headset jack is probably broken, or you’ve seen Million Dollar Baby for the third time already.
Of course, to get to Appreciation Avenue to find your way to Love Street, you must first take Respect Boulevard. It took a long time to locate the on ramp to Respect, however Buddy and I got there, and not without our own share of wrong turns and traffic violations. Mutual respect between any two individuals is the toughest and most important achievement in any successful relationship. With Buddy and I, it sometimes took yelling (not effective), punishment (banishment to what amounted to a very comfortable crate was hardly tough love) and complete and utter exhaustion from both of our sides (the ultimately humbling experience).
And yet when I look forward to the future that I am so scared of, it is without my Buddy that I am most fearful of. Can you be soul mates with an animal? Does it make sense? I saw my son getting older, a little slower, a little less energetic, and I felt saddened. The likelihood of outliving him was great, but will I truly live and love again, this purest of creatures, this uninhibited and generous heart? I spent as much time with him as I could, not so much as to beat the clock which is unbeatable, but to try to show him that I appreciate him. You don’t have to stay on Love Street, you know, sometimes it’s a good idea to window shop along Appreciation Avenue, too. And yes, take your time to turn off on to Memory Lane; it’s perfectly fine to visit the past, but just don’t live there, the rent is astronomical, and then you really do become a creature of habit.
If you have a dog, give it some extra attention, not just today, but at least once every day. Tell him or her that you love them and show it. Life goes on, with families, children and work, but be sure to balance your life and make sure those who have been loyal and stood by your side even when you haven’t smelled the best should be rewarded with a rawhide chew stick once in a while. Don’t you treat yourself, maybe more often than you should?
If you don’t have a dog and recognize that you don’t have the time, consider volunteering or getting together a fundraising effort. OK, maybe that’s just too much, then write a small check, or pet the next dog you meet. You see, he’ll get it. And maybe you will, too.
When my Buddy looks down upon me, and I know he will be looking down from Above, wherever that may be, I know he will smile, because his memory will always be with me, and when I see another Golden to remind me of him, it will always be the best of memories and a smile to last a lifetime. And maybe, just maybe, he’ll have a shoe in his mouth.
When somebody dies, a cloud turns into an angel and flies up to tell God to put another flower on a pillow. A bird gives the message back to the world and sings a silent prayer that makes the rain cry. People disappear, but they never really go away. The spirits up there put the sun to bed, wake up the grass, and spin the Earth in dizzy circles. Sometimes you can see them dancing in a cloud during the daytime when they're supposed to be sleeping. They paint the rainbows and the sunsets and make waves splash and tug at the tide. They toss shooting stars and listen to wishes. And when they sing wind-songs, they whisper to us, "Don't miss me too much. The view is nice and I'm doing just fine."

Chapter 1-Buddy's Golden Years

The relationship between an older dog and their human family members is one that cannot be emulated.

When my husband and I had first met Buddy, neither of us knew that he would make such a profound and positive difference in our lives.
At first glance, he was a typical, healthy puppy, full of boundless energy, living to eat, play, poop and sleep, not necessarily in that order. Wild with adrenalin, this crazed dog would be ready for almost anything, usually involving theft and some type of endless chase.
During the years that followed, we learned that he was much more than that. He was definitely a puppy in every sense of the word, but he also was a free-thinking, methodical, mischievous, calculating, high-strung, and for the most part, a comedic dog.
In the humanized sense, you might go as far as to call him a juvenile delinquent.
As he approached his senior years, he was still crazy, but smarter, excitable yet tamer, and definitely mischievous, but with the purest and most innocent heart.
His wild antics started from the day we adopted him and rarely did he ever take a break. I would swear that this dog would privately stay awake at night thinking of interesting ways to do something naughty and then send everyone on a wild goose chase the following day.
If dogs could read, I envisioned him sitting in the parlor, under a book lamp, reading a manuscript titled something like "How to Drive Your Human Parents Crazy in Ten Days or Less." In doggy world, it would have been a best seller.
From stealing and hiding footwear, to opening secured purses and knapsacks only to rummage through them and pick out a prized item, to breaking into the neighbors' houses, not once, not twice, not three times, but FOUR times with three different neighbors in two different states, he definitely gave us a run for our money.
Although, he was given to us for free, so I guess we had no right to ever complain about him!
It was safe to say that Buddy had always been more than a handful, but as we grew to know him better, a certain transition took place right under our noses.
We went from being frustrated with him, to learning to understand him, to looking forward to seeing him after a long day, and before we knew it, we soon realized the fact that he was not just an ordinary dog. We were definitely hooked.
He had some distinctive qualities that would classify him as one of a kind. Since he thrived on massive chaos, typical training techniques would not apply.
Life was not always easy with him, as we had to make many adjustments, including the type of people we had over our house to visit and limited drives that we took with the dogs. We also had to make sure that our house was without any garbage pails or other attention-grabbing items that might be considered desirable to him within his reach.
In addition, a healthy portion of energy was necessary for us to chase him down busy streets when he escaped, along with the ability to make up endless excuses for when he chose to do something annoying that threw our tight schedule way off. In the beginning, he was notorious for chewing twigs in the backyard while running around for an hour, making us late for work or other essential appointments. By the time we were done getting the twig particles out of his mouth, we were already exhausted.
Those minor concessions were well worth it; however, as coming home to that cheerful golden retriever smile and hearing his adorable "Buddy bark" was something that we had grown accustomed to and it made us grin from ear to ear, even before we opened the door.
Just his mannerisms alone were enough to make us laugh. As with many dogs, he did aim to please and often wanted to make us proud.
He found little things to do in order to get our approval and sometimes, though he tried, the result might not have always been what we had hoped for.
One of those "things" happened while I was getting ready for work one day. There was a spider crawling on the rug and since spiders are one of the things that I am not generally too fond of, I started to carry on like a child, screaming and searching for an object for which to kill it. The spider wasn't small either; it might not have been the size of a tarantula, but it was large enough to see clearly from the other side of the spacious room.
Buddy, not knowing what I expected of him, saw the spider, heard me screaming and prancing around and he quickly came to my aid. He promptly tilted his face downward, stuck out his tongue, bared his teeth a bit and lifted the spider up into his mouth. He was so proud of himself and displayed that golden pride as he stood regally in the center of the room.
Little did he know that this attempt of chivalry would just make me more disgusted and horrified. It was at that precise moment when I cringed and screamed "Buddy, no, drop it!"
His face portrayed an expression of mass confusion as he tried to undo his attempt at helping me. He promptly spit out the spider and watched as it crawled away, probably now only on six creepy legs, instead of eight.
In what I interpreted to be his annoyance with my blatant instability, he started barking at me and jumping around in a circle as I gathered some courage and killed the deadly critter, (the spider, not Buddy).
Buddy was "yelling" at me the entire time until I finally gave him his deserved praise for his courageousness. I still remember his face as he spit out that spider. If he could talk he would have asked me, "just what the hell is it that you want me to do?!"
His expressive eyes spoke more than words ever could.
He was always a funny dog. When we traveled, we had dog sitters stay at the house to watch him and we would call them every day just to hear their interpretation of Buddy's antics. We were kind enough to give them instructions regarding the major issues with Buddy, but some things they had to find out on their own.
I had to laugh when one of our friends watched him and claimed that Buddy growled when he stopped petting him. We weren't surprised, as it was something he was notorious for doing. When we were home, however, we did not let him get his way.
It was never a vicious growl; it was more of an "I want more love" growl. It would normally be accompanied by a frenzied wag of the tail and probably a little intensified whine here and there. He was more than relentless and would not stop until we gave in.
It was those specific times when I loved to tease him and ignore him until he actually got up and demanded attention, the terrible mom that I am.
He would pop up from wherever he was sitting and start pawing at me to play with him, followed by a frantic hunt for something impressive to steal if I did not give in.
With Buddy, there was a five second rule and if you did not make an attempt to play with him within the allotted time, he would find a way to force you to chase him. We had always known that once he grew impatient and left the room, he would come back in with some forbidden article dangling out of his mouth. We just never knew what it was going to be.
He was never one to take no for an answer, which is why if someone was not a dog-lover, there was no way they could be a guest in our house!
I'm pretty sure that they always thought we were exaggerating about Buddy's strong and obsessive "retriever instincts." More often than not, whenever we used a dog- sitter, they would disregard Buddy's fascination with stealing and carelessly leave their personal items in his line of vision.
This was a no-no.
It always resulted in a frantic chase throughout the house in a feeble attempt to retrieve their cell phone, house keys, wallet, money, eyeglasses or anything else Buddy perceived to be of utmost value.
He would eventually give them up, fully slobbered on, only to grab the next desirable thing that got in his line of sight, while the poor unsuspecting soul would be concentrating on wiping the drool off of the first item.
It was safe to say, if that person was ever daring enough to dog-sit again, they would keep their possessions high and way out of Buddy's sight. We never had to tell them twice once they learned their exciting lesson on surviving days with Buddy.
Some dogs were happy just to be petted and loved for a few minutes, but that was not going to be sufficient enough when it came to Buddy.
He required much more than that.
He needed mental stimulation, ample playtime, wrestling, walking and then most importantly, some quality cuddle time.
The occasional obligatory pat on the head that I have observed some people try to get away with, just did not work with him.
Brandi was there to keep him in line, initiating her own playtime with him, and this was great for him as far as exercise and love went, but his incessant need for attention from his human family and friends superseded any other needs that this dog would want, aside from maybe food and water.
That might be the reason when he finally went to sleep at night that he loved to snuggle right next to us with blankets draped around him, while Brandi and Toffee preferred not to be bothered at all.
Brandi was happy to cuddle for a few short minutes before venturing off to her private corner by herself, whereas Toffee would sporadically come to cuddle throughout the night. It was almost as if they would rotate shifts, however Buddy was happiest when lying next to us and would stay there until we decided to move.
Especially during the colder months, Buddy would curl up in a ball making sure that at least part of his body was close to you and more often than not, he would position himself so that he could nestle his head right below our chin.
While somewhat uncomfortable at times, we never had the heart to turn him away. I had never witnessed a dog with so much fur stay under the covers for the entire night. It was where he felt safe regardless of the fact that he was a little warm.
His bizarre behavior is what led me to write my first book to be seen by the public eye, "Finally Home." I was able to fully detail his antics and thoroughly enjoyed writing it, as he sat by my side the entire time while I dug deep in my subconscious for all of the amusing episodes that we had the luxury to endure.
As I took a long, scenic stroll along memory lane, I marveled at how well we all adjusted and how we grew to not only tolerate him, but to love him more than life. Due to the constant havoc that he had caused during the first few years, loving him was something that we had never expected.
How is it possible that such a problem child could make two people fall in love with him?
I laughed as I wrote each paragraph and shook my head at what a lovable menace he was. It was hard to believe that by the time I wrote that book, we had already survived living with Buddy for over nine years, after adopting him at a year and a half.
After its publication, sales were starting to pick up here and there. As a new author, I was trying to promote it the best that I could and had begun distributing it in a few stores in town. It was a fun, exciting and uncertain time as I did not know what to expect.
The book was appropriately nicknamed "The Buddy Book" whenever anyone referred to it. Rarely did I hear anyone address it by its actual title, but still, things were going well. Even I was guilty of referring to it by its nickname after a while.
I was learning a lot about the complex world of publishing, promoting, advertising, publicity, book sales, book signings, book websites, social networking and other book-related events that I never cared about or even knew existed.
Buddy was up to his usual tricks, never stopping for a moment and continually hiding our belongings in various places throughout the house. We rarely knew what he had up his invisible doggy sleeves next.
Living with Buddy was always an adventure, one that we grew to love and appreciate.
Some things that he did were predicable, for instance, each morning, his customized alarm clock, consisting of his signature bark/howl woke us up without missing a beat.
Then again, some things were not so expected, such as him scoping our cluttered desks for something to steal when there was nothing worthy enough in his line of immediate vision.
In his senior years, he seemed to have a persistent desire to tear up our utility or other important bills for us. While it appeared to be a great idea on the surface, I'm not sure the collections agencies would believe us if we told them the common elementary school excuse that "our dog ate it!"
Almost approaching his eleventh birthday, he still had the energy of a two-year old puppy and did not show any signs of slowing down. We thought for sure he was fit as a fiddle, as he was still a little firecracker.
When owning a dog, you always worry about them getting sick or hurt. One of the major concerns with owning a large breed dog is that they are prone to getting hip dysplasia, which is known to have crippling effects or cause lameness in their limbs.
To do our part in preventing it, we made sure we walked him almost every single day. We had definitely succeeded, as his legs, hips and joints seemed to be in top-notch condition. His legs did not have an ounce of fat on them and seemed to be all muscle.
We still went on our long hikes, without him hesitating or wanting to take a break. It was on these walks that he would act as the camp tour guide, running up ahead of everyone to check out the scenery and anything that would be of interest.
We were amazed that he would go "off-roading" without us, trekking up the hillsides, climbing the rocks and running up and down the turbulent terrain, only to be completely fine and never winded.
Every once in a while he would turn around to look back at us to make sure we were still in his line of sight, before he would continue to run up ahead. Watching his ears flop up and down and his tail wag nonstop was the highlight of our hikes. It was the motivation we needed on lazy days when all we felt like doing was relaxing in front of the television.
Toffee and Brandi, his younger fur-sisters, would try to keep up but after a while, even they had to slow down the pace.
It was awesome because never once did he show any signs of arthritis or pain in any of his legs or joints. His legs felt solid and his energy level remained at a record high.
Brandi and he would still play-fight every day and Buddy would always try his best to win. We almost felt badly for him. You would think that after knowing his sister for so long, he would succumb to the fact that she would outmaneuver him and tire him out within minutes. She had some signature moves which included her ability to save up her energy until Buddy grew weary, and then she would give it her all.
I actually have a video of a younger Buddy stumbling like he was drunk after getting “beat” by Brandi. Though defeated, he would always try again later once he got his energy back. She was ready for him and taught him a lesson each and every time.
It was fun to watch and you could tell they were having a ball and were still as close as ever. They were like two peas in a pod and Toffee, who got nervous when they played, would sit on the sidelines and whine, waiting for it to all be over. She was never one for play-fighting; instead she preferred a calm and structured environment. At times when she was feeling a bit daring, she would run in the middle of their play-fight, grab the toy that they were "fighting over" and run back to the sidelines, hoping never to be noticed.
Once the playing was done for the day, the three of them would relax in the house, in whatever room we were in, enjoying the comforts of their safe and happy family.
Each dog had their own unique personality, with their own insecurities, hang-ups, quirks and temperament, yet they got along beautifully and each knew their rank amongst their pack. For the most part, they loved being together and if they needed a break they would simply venture off into another room.
It was a wonderful relationship and they were what made our small family complete.

To order visit: http://www.elizabethparkerbooks.com/, Amazon.com, kindle.com and on Nook!

Finally Home Free Preview!

2010-08-19T10:28:00.000-07:00

Available on Amazon.com, kindle. com or click here to order on createspace.com!
Copyrighted © 2010 Elizabeth Parker
Introduction

“…My first encounter with Buddy was at a festive New Year’s Eve party. I was dressed in my best outfit purchased specifically for this occasion while enjoying a delicious, freshly-mixed cocktail of vodka, cranberry and lots of ice. While involved in typical party conversation, I did not focus on anything else in the room around me, nor did I think it was necessary. I have to admit I did see him out of the corner of my eye, but it was just too late. I didn’t think he would actually do it, but there it was-that look in his eye and all too satisfying smirk on his face. There was absolutely nothing I could do. I tried to move out of the way, but it all happened way too fast. I went from standing up enjoying a drink and remarkable conversation, to having my mid-section pummeled by this giant ball of fur. He already had my free hand in his mouth pulling me down, tail wagging one hundred miles per hour and I was now wearing my delicious drink on my brand new clothes. Before I could gain my composure, Buddy was already off to the next victim…”
-- (coworker, upon first meeting Buddy)
There is a time in everyone’s life when they have been emotionally inspired or amazed by something that was completely unexpected. Sometimes it is so touching, that they want to share their experience with the world and tell their story.
This particular story is about a precious heart along with a free-spirited little boy who owns that heart. This little boy has expressive brown eyes, a beautiful smile, and golden-brown coat that he never takes off. He also has a huge pinkish-brown nose and four very fast legs. His name is Buddy. He answers to that…when he wants to.

Chapter 1-Summer of ‘99

Each plan in life is derived from a single idea. Some ideas start in the least expected of places during the least likely of times. When an idea snowballs and takes on a life of its own; that is when it becomes a reality.

It is safe to say that it all started when I was employed at a sunglass manufacturer as an Electronic Data Interchange Specialist. This is just a sophisticated title for someone who monitors the electronic transactions between the manufacturer and retail stores. It was a pleasurable job, one where you did not need to dress in uncomfortable business attire and though the salary was not great, it was somewhat respectable.
The people were fun, the bosses were friendly, the office was clean, and for the most part, it was a fairly decent job. It was here where I met my husband, Michael; we began dating approximately two years after I started my employment there in the summer of 1999. It was the typical story of two goofy twenty-something year olds with the same wise-ass mentality, sharing many of the same principles, views on life and, in Michael’s words (or pick-up line), we were both half-orphans. He had lost his Mom to breast cancer when he was at the tender age of four. I had lost my Dad to a job-related illness shortly after I had turned nine years old.
In the year 2000, after working at this company for three years, I decided to make a drastic change and start looking for a new occupation. Although I loved the job and the line of work I was in, rumors were circulating that our office was in the midst of closing down. I figured I had better be prepared and search for something just in case.
After reading the classifieds and modifying my resumé and cover letter over fifty times, I was offered a job as an assistant producer for a popular local news station’s weekend program. Even though the decision was a bit intimidating at first, I had reluctantly given my resignation letter to my previous employer, said my good-bye’s and started my journey on a new career path.
As luck would have it, just as I had begun to get acclimated and understand all aspects of the job including the software, technology, procedures, office politics, etc., I received news that this job was closing its doors, as well!
Needless to say, I was beginning to get a bit of a complex. I noticed a pattern and figured this time it would be wise to conduct some extensive research before moving on to my next area of employment.
After sitting at my computer and sifting through tons of verbose ads offering employment in various fields, I submitted my resumé to what I felt was going to be a respectable and a stable employer. I researched the company on the Internet, carefully read through their complex website and thought I had plenty of concrete detail to support my belief.
They had been in business for over twenty years and had multiple offices scattered throughout the country. I did not see any obvious red flags waving in my direction.
Needless to say, after interviewing with half of the knowledgeable staff in the technology department and making numerous visits to their office, I was finally offered the job. I was scheduled to start a little later that summer and looked forward to it. It was about time!
It was during these various job transitions that Michael and I were growing a bit closer in our relationship and discussing the possibility of living together. I was still residing at my mother’s house, however, and he had owned his own home.
After some lengthy conversations, we had also started toying with the idea of adopting a dog, more specifically a golden retriever. We had both fallen in love with their friendly, amusing temperament. For the most part, we would just take quick browses through puppy stores only to walk out a few minutes later. We were, after all, only toying with the idea. We were not even living together yet, so we were uncertain if were ready for the unmistakable sound of padded feet running through the house and through our lives.
During that same time period, a coworker of mine was making conversation and coincidentally asked me if I knew anyone who would be interested in adopting a dog. I wanted to raise my hand, jump up and down and scream out “Yes, me!” I managed to refrain from making a spectacle of myself, but instead tried to act cool without displaying too much enthusiasm. Of course, I couldn’t leave without trying to find out some information about the dog. The questions that followed and their relative answers could tell the entire story. “What type of dog is it?” “Ah, how old?” “Hmm, why are they getting rid of it?” “Boy or girl?” “Does it bite?” “Is it housebroken?” “Hey…what is the dog’s name?”
He was not certain of the specifics at that precise moment in time and probably did not realize that he was talking to an obsessed dog fanatic. He advised me that he would make it a point to speak to his friend and find out more detailed information. He also offered to describe a brief reenactment of his first encounter with this dog at a party his friends had thrown, (quoted in the introduction of this book). Incidentally, I figured he was exaggerating.
I got a surge of excitement about the idea and then quickly calmed myself down, meandered back to my desk, and tried to keep my mind focused on work. I did not think much more of it until I went home later that evening.
That night during dinner, I spoke to my future husband and casually mentioned the conversation that I had with my coworker, with no real intention of going to meet this dog. I did have my coworker’s phone number just in case, but didn't think we would entertain the idea as we already had so much going on in our lives already.
After discussing it for a while, we weighed the pros and cons and figured out a solution for each possible obstacle that we could think of. We reviewed our budget, our future together, dog sitters, work schedules, hours the dog would be left alone and many other topics regarding responsible dog ownership. After a couple of hours, we made a decision.
“Why not?” We agreed. Let’s just find out more about him. We figured there was no harm in just inquiring about the dog without making any real commitment.
After we cleaned the dishes and returned them to their allotted sections of the cupboard, we called my coworker that very night. As it turned out, he was going to be visiting this same friend’s house anyway, and we would be able to get all of the answers that we needed about the dog. We were still in the research stage and had no concrete plans of adopting until we knew more. A healthy dog could live as long as eighteen years or sometimes even longer, and it is definitely a strong commitment.
We called anyhow and asked all of the relevant questions. We discovered it was a purebred golden retriever. Coincidentally, this was the exact breed we were seeking.
Both my cousin and a friend of ours had owned this type of puppy, and we absolutely loved it. From both parties, we knew that the breed was best known for their well-behaved and goofy temperament, in addition to their beautiful, golden coat and communicative eyes.
This particular one was about a year and a half and was a male. He was up to date on his shots, neutered, housebroken and did not bite. “His name…is Buddy.”
Buddy. We had to see him even just to play with him for a little while. Why would anyone give him up? That was the nagging question. There had to be something else going on. This opportunity was too good to be true. No one in their right mind would voluntarily give up a beautiful, young and healthy golden retriever. After speaking with the dog’s owner, we made plans to go see him over the upcoming weekend.
That Sunday morning, we woke up early and stopped for some breakfast at the town diner down the block before making our way to the dog owner’s home in Long Island. As we drove down the tree-lined cul-de-sac, we pulled up to a beautiful, large Victorian house and parked our car at the bottom of the circular driveway.
Two young children greeted us at the door, and their mom trailed promptly behind them. We introduced ourselves and explained that we were there to meet the pup. The mother seemed friendly enough as she led us down the stairs to the secluded basement. We would soon find out that this was Buddy’s only room.
As we descended, we immediately noticed Buddy. He was utterly breathtaking, and it was easy to fall in love instantly. He was in the corner by himself quietly minding his own business and chewing on his slimy rawhide bone. That is until his ears perked up and he looked toward the stairs with his adorable eyes to notice us walking toward him.
Have you ever been in the ocean when the waves were so high you could not keep afloat, and it seemed like every time you caught your breath…another wave came to knock you over? If so, this is the best way I could describe Buddy’s initial reaction to us.
With his rawhide bone dangling out of his mouth, he started barking as soon as he caught eyes with us, ran and jumped on us like he had never seen people before. For those of you who are familiar with that golden retriever smile, it was broader than I had ever seen. He kept tossing the bone up in the air a little bit, not quite letting go, but not quite wanting to hold it. He was indecisive about whether he should keep his bone or bark…so balancing the bone between his teeth, he did both. He was absolutely overjoyed.
We still could not comprehend why these people were getting rid of this bundle of love. His fluffy tail was wagging a million miles per hour and he was completely in his element. All this dog wanted to do was love and be loved. It was written all over his furry face. He was absolutely beautiful.
He developed this incredible tone in his voice that was not quite a cry, not truly a bark, but something in between. With his bone still in his mouth, he uttered a noise I had never heard before, which would soon become known as his trademark “Buddy-bark.”
To describe it would be somewhat ridiculous, and I am certain that spell check will not like it, but I will certainly give it a whirl. It sounded something like “a woo woo woo woooo wooooooooooo,” the last "woo" carrying a somewhat higher, more intense, uneven pitch than the others.
As the owner struggled to control Buddy, she attached his chewed up leather leash to his collar and began to give us some background on him. We could immediately tell that she was desperate to find him a home and that she had no control over this dog whatsoever.
She explained that they had tried to surrender him to Golden Retriever Rescue, but there was an extremely long waiting list and there was no room yet for Buddy. She was already his second…and then his third owner.
His first owner had given him up because he was way too big for a small apartment. The current owners admitted that they had also given him up to someone who promptly returned him a day later. They regretted that they could not handle him and exclaimed “good luck!”
If we did decide to adopt him, we would essentially be his fourth owners. “If” being the operative word. If we did not take him, they were going to have to surrender him to a shelter. They were running out of choices.
The owners did the right thing by trying to find him a good home, but unfortunately had no luck in their search. People had come to meet him and were immediately turned off by his neurotic mannerisms and excessive barking. He was getting too difficult to manage, and they were ready to give him up. It was the usual sad unwanted puppy story; his time was essentially running out.
Different shelters follow different rules, but there are some kill shelters that give the dog a certain period of time until they get adopted. If they exceed that limitation, they are put to sleep. There are just too many stray dogs and not enough facilities or financial means to accommodate all of them.
We needed to uncover what the catch was. He must have been vicious, and they were just not telling us. Or, perhaps he had some extreme medical condition in which they did not want to disclose to us. He appeared to be healthy and seemed like a normal, yet overly energetic year and half old pup. He did not act ferocious, although some dogs do tend to show their true temperament under different circumstances.
We asked some more specific questions, such as how he was with kids, dogs, men, women, etc. To all questions, she answered pretty much the same thing. “He was fine, never had a vicious episode, just a bit hyper.”
We inquired about his behavior while he was on walks and how he acted in the car. She answered that she did not know as they never got the chance to take him for either.
He was let out in their backyard, but did not have the ability to run around at all to stretch his legs because there was no fence around the yard. On an average day, he was walked back there on a leash to do his business and then was immediately put back in the lonely and dark basement.
After questioning her on the personality of this dog and wondering what his main issues were, we were still not seeing the entire picture. We pressed on a little more to solve the mystery. He was definitely an excitable dog, but we figured it was only because he was happy to see new people.
She simply explained that they were giving him up because she and her husband worked long hours. It was difficult to entertain this dog after a long work day. In addition, he chewed a lot and jumped a lot. “He jumps on the kids. He jumps on company. He knows his commands but does not obey them. He eats a variety of things that he should not be eating.”
She recalled how they came across him eating the children’s building blocks, crayons and other objects for which they could not properly identify. He was a little wild and a lot out of control, so they had him on medication to calm him down…sort of like a puppy Prozac. He was a year and a half, still more or less a puppy.
The puzzle was slowly beginning to get pieced together. A puppy locked in the basement for twelve, lonely hours each day without any chance to run free had unreleased energy. Hmm, wouldn’t you have acted the same way?
We were there long enough to take notice in their futile attempt at training techniques. When he jumped, they gave him a treat to get him down. When he mouthed us or anything else, they gave him a treat to remove his mouth.
We recognized an immediate pattern. The owners did what they thought was right in getting Buddy to behave. What they did not count on was that this dog was highly intelligent and realized exactly what to do to get a treat. Knowing this, he did the things he got rewarded for doing; good or bad. Many unsuspecting owners might have done the same thing. It is a common mistake, and it happens all too often. You can’t fault someone if they are not used to dealing with an incredibly smart dog. The problem is that when training an intelligent dog, they will easily learn how to manipulate any situation to get precisely whatever it is that they want.
The hard truth is that a dog acts the way that it does because it was actually trained to behave in that manner. Most people cannot accept this fact, but it is true. If you had a dog since it was a puppy, you are the only master, aside from its birth mother, that the dog has ever known.
Unquestionably, this was the case with Buddy. He associated committing these bad behaviors with getting some yummy doggy treats! He was not necessarily a “bad” dog. He was just doing what he learned and interpreted in his little, intelligent mind to be “good” things.
After a few more enjoyable moments of sitting on the cold floor with this charming, playful pup, we thanked the couple for allowing us to visit with Buddy and went on our way.
Covered head to toe in dog hair and a good portion of doggy drool, we walked up the stairs and out of the house into the frigid December air. Buddy was still jumping and clinging to us on our way out, and we could still hear his desperate barking as the door closed behind us. I was thinking “No way.” There was no feasible way we would be able to accommodate the needs of this crazy, disobedient dog. I was already onto my next thought of what to do for the remainder of the day, not even thinking that adopting him was a remote possibility.
When we reached the bottom of the driveway, I playfully posed the question to Michael. I just wanted to gauge his reaction and wholeheartedly expected him to laugh. “So, what do you think?” His answer, however, was the complete opposite of what I was expecting. “Absolutely, let’s adopt him.”
When I heard his response, I got a bit lightheaded and immediately started to have a lack of confidence in my dog training ability. To say I was stunned is an understatement. I never predicted that to be his answer and still just looked at Michael to try and determine if he was serious. Why was he even joking like this?
I love all dogs, regardless of the breed, but Michael had never owned a dog. I thought this one would be a complete turn off. I envisioned Michael’s “starter dog” to be somewhat calm, well-behaved and easy to manage. Instead, his reply was “Let’s call them first thing tomorrow to let them know we will adopt him.”
While I was undoubtedly thrilled with the idea, I still had my concerns about handling such a crazed animal. Growing up, we had many family dogs, but I was the youngest in the family and never spent time training them. They just always seemed well-behaved. I usually just spent time playing with them and never questioned it. This would be my first real test at responsibility, and we would have to figure out how to train him. He would not just “magically” become obedient. Was I up for the proposed challenge? Was Michael?
Still in awe and feeling mixed emotions consisting of both joy and trepidation, I made the phone call once we got home rather than waiting until the next morning. With an obvious tremble in my voice, I let them know that we would happily adopt Buddy. Little did I know that one phone call would be the one to change our lives.
We made plans to pick him up on Thursday evening after work. I could not ascertain why, but I was nervous all week and could not wait to get him. I felt like I was expecting a baby, albeit an eighty pound baby with lots of fur, but a baby nonetheless. I was also extremely happy. I don’t think I had slept at all that week!
I recall that I had stopped at a local pet store prior to his adoption and walked up and down the aisles in a cosmic daze. Without knowing what he liked, I picked up a small bag of food, a variety of treats, stuffed animals and various squeaky toys of different shapes and sizes. I could not concentrate in anticipation of adopting this crazed pup.
We cleaned the entire house and doggy-proofed it the best that we could. We had it all meticulously planned out. Michael, his niece and I were going to take two cars. Michael would drive his home with the crate and all of Buddy’s belongings. Michael’s niece and I were to drive home with Buddy. We would then have a few quality hours to spend with him during the night.
What do they say about the best thought out plans?
Chapter 2-Thursday December 21st, 2000
The shortest day of the year. The official Winter Solstice. The longest drive home. The day Michael and I officially became insane.

That evening, we arrived at Buddy's house, and to our surprise, his actual owners were not home. Instead, one of their relatives was there waiting for us. She was very kind and gave us all of Buddy’s toys, food, treats, blankets and his crate at no charge. She went over his feeding schedule with us as well as the commands that he knew. She showed us his veterinary papers proving he was up to date with all of his shots and gave us some other papers, including the name of his breeder, his first owner, the toys he likes and other random information. This dog probably cost them close to $1,000 (if not more), but yet they were giving him away for free, along with all of his belongings.
We asked if she would like us to wait for the owners and their kids to come home so that they could officially say goodbye to him. Her answer was pretty firm, “No, Buddy probably would not even recognize them to say goodbye.” We just stared at her for a minute or two in disbelief. We then caught on and understood. This family was just happy to let him go. We found it a bit disheartening that his own family would not say goodbye, not even the kids, and our hearts immediately went out to him. We had said our brief goodbyes to the woman, received some hand-written instructions, a few more veterinary papers…and Buddy.
I do commend them for their sincere effort in searching for a home for him and making sure his health was not neglected in the interim. Some people have been known to dump their unwanted dog in some remote area, left by themselves to fend for food, shelter and protection, or even worse. At least these owners ensured that his required veterinary visits were followed.
As we ascended the basement stairs en route to the car, Buddy did not seem to have a care that he was leaving. He hopped the steps two at a time, all of the while, panting, tugging on the leash and wagging his fluffy tail. This all seemed to be a good time to him…or maybe he just knew something that we did not.
We loaded all of his belongings in Michael's car and put Buddy in the back seat of my own. I had owned many dogs growing up so I was quite used to driving with them as a passenger. This was not going to be any different, or at least that is what I had thought. I never seriously contemplated it until I actually made my first attempt to drive.
I had driven approximately fifteen feet when I was forced to stop my car right there in the middle of the road without any warning. Michael stopped next to me in his car and was looking at me, curious to find out what in the world would cause me to just stop like that.
That is, until he noticed the eighty pound dog with his paws wrapped securely around my neck from the back. I simply could not move. The only choice I had was to stop. I could not even turn the steering wheel.
Buddy was so excited that he was jumping back and forth from the back seat into the front seat onto our laps, and he wrapped his two front paws around my neck giving me the biggest bear hug he could muster. Lesson learned: Do not ever doubt the strength of golden retrievers.
With that, once we peeled Buddy’s huge paws from my neck, we had to resort to an unplanned, but very necessary Plan B.
Michael had to park his car on the side of the road and come into the back seat of mine to control Buddy. This is where we learned that the words “control” and “Buddy” were never to be used in the same sentence again. It simply would never work out that way. These were only the first few of many lessons learned by owning an overly rambunctious, highly intelligent eighty pound golden retriever. I was slowly starting to understand the very reason it was not easy to place this dog in any sane home. I suppose people that were in their right minds recognized that this overexcited dog was insane!
That was our initial thought as well. Our second thought was, “Hey, let’s just put him back in their yard and take off. They will notice he is there some time tonight, and they can go back to the tedious job of finding him a home.”
We sat there and stared at each other, trying to read each other’s thoughts, while dreadfully listening to Buddy’s exhilarated panting as he jumped from seat to seat, from person to person. After ridiculously toying with the idea, we decided against it. Though, make no mistake, we still had our doubts.
The ride home was not enjoyable one bit. Emotions were flying high consisting of anxiety, lack of common sense, dread and a severe sense of regret. We lived about twenty to thirty minutes from Bud’s old home. Typically, on an average day after rush hour, you could jump on the expressway and drive about 55-60 mph. I think I broke every traffic law that night and made it home in exactly twelve minutes.
The last thing I remember about that wearisome car ride was that my soon to be husband was literally wearing Buddy as a fur hat. He had managed to climb up, balancing himself between the rear window and the top of Michael’s head, so that the only thing I was able to see in my rearview mirror was this pup’s enormous body. I could barely make out Michael underneath all of that golden fur. The only evidence that he was still back there was the occasional sound of him yelling “drive faster!”
The single possible chance of making it home alive was based on giving Buddy treats, following the destructive pattern that had been the foundation for his bad behavior. We fed him an entire jar of treats in those seemingly-long twelve minutes. I truly believe that Buddy was merely testing us to see how long it would take for us to emotionally break down like his previous owners had done.
It was an exhausting night to say the least. We still had to drive back and get Buddy’s crate. There was no way we were able to let this pup roam free at his leisure during his first night. I had picked the short straw and ventured back out into the cold December night to get his crate, while Michael and his niece made their first courageous attempt at training Bud.

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Unwanted Dreams Free Preview!

2010-06-11T06:43:00.001-07:00

Looking for a preview of Unwanted Dreams? Please see below for first two chapters. Enjoy!

Copyrighted © 2010 Elizabeth Parker

PART I

FIRST COMES LOVE,
THEN COMES MARRIAGE…

Chapter 1

Fate is ultimately defined as the preconceived notion that our future has already been determined.
Regardless of the precautionary steps we take to avoid misfortune, our lives cannot be altered and what was meant to be will be, whether it is a chance meeting or being at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Sometimes our destiny is fruitful and welcomed. Other times, a series of catastrophic events that impinge upon one unsuspecting person could easily produce a domino effect, distressing the lives of strangers and distorting the future forever.

March 1990

They were considered the perfect couple. They were young, smart, good-looking, and well on their way to having the ideal life.
It hadn’t always been that way. Actually, it had been quite the opposite. Alexandra, more commonly known as Alex, was always a shy girl. Though naturally beautiful, she lacked the presumed confidence that was typical to accompany that beauty. Her parents thought she would never date, no less find someone as wonderful and personable as Jack.
Jack, on the other hand, was always outgoing, charming and confident in his appearance, manners and the way in which he spoke. He always had a firm handshake and would look you straight in the eye upon first meeting you.
There’s nothing worse than initially meeting someone and having them shake hands like a dead fish, or having them look at the ceiling as they say hello. Alex's father always preached that those were the type of people you had to watch out for. If they couldn't look you in the eye, they were more than likely hiding something.
Whether speaking about the weather, sports or idle chitchat, Jack’s singsong conversations always possessed a polished luster to them that made you want to stick around to talk a little more. The inflection of his words made it seem as though what he said was the most interesting thing said all day, perhaps all week.
Prior to getting together as a couple, Alexandra and Jack frequented the local bars and dance clubs separately with their own friends, as most twenty-something year olds do. It was here where they started taking some slight notice in each other. At first, it was just some shy, flirty glances, then some acknowledgement, then some lingering eye contact. It eventually went on so that they would occasionally say hello to each other, but that was about the extent of their meaningful dialogue.
After a few months of their initial encounter, it was actually Alexandra who made the first move in starting a conversation. They were both hanging out at the Seaside Manor, a high-end bar/restaurant that was known for its beautiful and stylish décor, mostly of elegant cherry-wood or black lacquer. Every weekend night, a popular local band is chosen to play, ensuring there will be a large crowd and even larger profit.
Alex was about to leave, as she noticed Jack leaning against the cherry-wood bar ordering a drink from the attractive bartender.
She felt a bit courageous and walked over to where Jack was standing. As she got a bit closer, she stalled, pretending to take notice in the framed abstract art positioned on the wall, each one carefully placed in perfect proportion.
When she recovered her nerve, she walked over and extended her hand to introduce herself. She feared he would say something rude and turn her away, leaving her to stand there looking like a complete fool. To her surprise, he did the exact opposite.
He had the most beautiful, friendly, light brown eyes. They shined as he spoke, and when he smiled, they seemed to have lit up the room. He reached for her hand to shake it with his right hand and with such gentleness, covered the top of her hand with his left.
If there was such a thing as sparks flying, followed by love at first sight, Alex believed she had just experienced them both within a matter of a few timeless seconds. She was mesmerized by his good looks and intrigued by both his intelligence and perfect manners.
They stood at the corner of the bar, barely noticing the enormous crowd encompassing them, or the blaring, loud music that screamed while they spoke. When they finally did look at the time, they couldn’t believe that they had been standing there for almost three hours. It was now ten past midnight and Alex had to get home.
Her heart wanted to stay and talk all night, but she knew that her parents would be worried sick about her. With a great deal of regret, she made it known that she had to go, but not before offering her phone number on the back of an unused napkin in hopes that Jack would call.
Upon saying goodbye, Alex surprised both Jack and herself when she swiftly leaned in for a good-night kiss that seemed to have lasted forever. She pulled away almost as quickly and as she ran to her car, realized she regretted it, at least somewhat. She was certain that this newly-discovered forward nature of hers would deter Jack from ever calling.
When she got home, Alex gently knocked on her parents' bedroom door to let them know she was safe and sound. She slipped into her own room and rested her head on the inviting, fluffy pillow. Though not at all drunk, it felt as if the room was spinning. She fell asleep hoping upon hope that Jack would call as he had promised and dreamt about him for what seemed like the entire night.

Chapter 2

The morning sun was barely rising, and the fog had seemed to lift, promising a beautiful spring day on the sandy shores of Long Island. Though the skies above illuminated the day with brilliance, the mood in the air was somber and dismal. The police had no concrete leads. The killing seemed random, yet so perfectly staged. It was as if the killer had wanted this victim to be found or at least did not go to any great lengths to try and conceal it.
The estimated time of death was around one a.m. and they surmised that the victim must have known his assassin. There was no struggle, no contact; just a gunshot wound to the chest. Clean, simple and effective. No witnesses had come forth claiming to see anything or even hear anything out of the ordinary. It was like there was not one person within earshot of this killing, which seemed almost impossible since it was a fully-developed neighborhood with occupied houses only a few feet away.
No weapon was found, just the fatal bullet that entered this victim’s heart. It was indeed a male; estimated age of twenty-eight years old, seemingly otherwise well-groomed and healthy, aside from the gaping hole going through the middle of his body. He had nothing on his person that indicated who he was, where he was from or why he was the target of a horrific shooting.
No one had yet been reported missing, but it had only been approximately eight hours since the murder took place. Someone would have to step forward, claiming this young man as their friend, son, brother, boyfriend, co-worker or just even an acquaintance would suffice.
The reporters were swarming the area like bees drawn to honey, as it was not a common thing for a murder to take place in such an affluent area. Police cars, emergency vehicles and news vans with extended cameras attached to large poles were saturating the crime scene, as well as the adjoining blocks. Yellow caution tape blocked off any entrances to the area so that local bystanders would not be subjected to seeing the horror that took place only yards from where their children played ball in the park.
This upscale portion of Long Island was typically a good, safe area; the kind that you hope to live in, raise your kids and, with any luck, eventually enjoy retirement. There was always the occasional robbery or domestic violence phone call, but nothing that ever stood out and definitely nothing that reached the news to this level. They never had to answer a call from someone who had found a body hidden in a makeshift grave.
The Suffolk police were going to be thoroughly questioned and they had better come up with an answer sooner than later. The public was sure to go haywire within a few short hours. How could a possible local man be murdered in such a prestigious area? This was not acceptable and would not be tolerated. Not in this town. The locals were starting to get closer to the crime scene, huddled together trying to see if any of their neighbors had acquired the inside scoop.
Once they made a positive ID on this unfortunate man, they would have more luck in putting together the clues and finishing the puzzle. The problem was that there was no identification on him. No license, no wallet, no identifying features to give this poor soul a proper name. All they had to go on was a few footprints and a somewhat old wrist watch.
Usually the dead can speak, only not in a language most people would understand. There are sometimes subtle clues that tell a sad and grim story, helping to properly bury the victim and with any luck, convict the appropriate suspect.
If the victim or suspect had no prior records, chances are there would be no fingerprints on file to match those found on the watch. From this point on, it was just a tedious, prolonged game of wait and see.

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