First, thank you to the latest reviewers of Fightball: Dying of Suck!
Thank you to Megan … WHY MUST I ALWAYS LIVE MY LIFE IN FEAR?
Snowflake Kisses … You can’t help but fall in love with this family … also laughter!
and an anonymous Amazon Reader who may be Liz — Liz, was that you? – who said … I laughed at something on every single page.
Bringing the total number of reviews to 31.
Which means I’m still working on getting to 50.
In other awesome news, Fightball: Dying of Suck is the featured book over on author Jen Ponce’s site. Jen describes herself thusly: Writer of kick ass women and oogy monsters. One-handed, ax-wielding zombie hunter/reader.
Which is pretty damn awesome.
HUGE gratitude to Jen for volunteering to share my book with her readers.
And now, a snippet of conversation as I pick up Jack the badly behaved terrier from the dog-boarding facility at which he stayed with Hazel the Weimaraner during our vacation.
Woman: I had to wash him. I’m not going to charge you for the wash, but there was no way I could send him home like that.
Woman: It was like he knew you were coming. He rolled in shit this morning.
Me: Thanks for washing him.
Woman: Intentionally. I watched him do it.
Me: He’s like that.
Woman: Every night, I had to chase him down and wrestle him into his crate for the evening. It was too cold to let him stay outside. Freezing temperatures. He had to come in where it was warm. Every night, he struggled.
Me: Sorry about that.
Woman: I thought you said he was used to being crated.
Me: He is.
Woman: He sure does bark a lot. I got lots of terriers around here, but he’s a special case.
Me: Mmm hmmm.
Woman: Generally, I let the dogs who are staying with me come in the house for a bit every afternoon to play with my dogs. Hazel was a perfect guest. Jack didn’t play nicely with the other dogs.
Me: Yeah, I thought that might be a problem. I believe I mentioned that might be a problem when I dropped him off.
Woman: So he didn’t get to come in the house to play after the first day.
Me: That’s fine. He can be a pain in the ass.
Woman: And the cedar bed you left for him is soaked with urine. SOAKED. No way for me to wash the cedar chips, so that’s a loss.
Me: I brought a garbage bag to carry it home.
Woman: So you’re used to him, huh?
Woman: He’s an odd little dog.
Me: He really is.
Jack comes flying into the kennel lobby and leaps into my arms, all damp and disheveled and barking incessantly.
I snuggle him close and whisper, “I missed you too, little man.”
He fart-barks a huge noisy cloud of stench against my body.
I missed you too.