PROSE

Dearest Kathleen,


Not only have you been my salvation, but also my inspiration. Because of your historical, “A Rose In Winter,” I was moved to write romance novels of my own.
Every poetic word on every suspenseful page is embedded in my heart and engraved in my mind. Your descriptions are scenically wonderful and your love romps are truly stirring. But you leave me hungry . . . hungry for the heroes in these tales.
Where are these men with the topaz colored or amber hued eyes and the sardonic smiles, who throw their heads back with hearty laughter . . . rake their fingers through their thick, unruly hair, and who’s temples throb with their controlled anger?
Where are these men who clench their jaws patiently to pain, withstand whippings in silence at the hands of their enemies, and who would die for the woman they love?
I find myself looking everywhere!
In line at the market last week, for example, I began to wonder if the handsome young man ahead of me had ripples of muscles beneath his shirt. I fantasized about him becoming bronzed and sweaty in the summer. As I watched him carefully bag his eggs, I wondered if he caressed instead of grabbed. And when he bent down to retrieve some change he dropped, I imagined the flesh of his thighs being taut and firm.
I left the market breathless.
Your romantic lore has left me spoiled, I’m afraid. Coping with life’s realities have become a bore.
Am I going insane?
What I’d like to know is . . . where are these men?
Have you ever really met one?
By chance do you fashion your characters from real life acquaintances?
If so, tell me quickly where I might find Christopher Seaton who is really Lord Saxton, or Rourke Beaucamp, or Sir Tyrone Rycliffe. These heroes have embraced my heart and infiltrated my dreams.
Have I lost it?
Have I crossed over into some other dimension?
I find myself wanting to be the long haired, auburn beauty to swell his loins. I want to demurely glance up with almond shaped aqua or azure eyes, hooded with thick, long lashes. I want to drive his senses to the limits of his desires with my heaving bosom and the pouting gesture of my full, ripe, pink parted lips.
And then I want to test his gentlemanly control by innocently keeping him at bay with my headstrong, stubborn pioneer values and moral will to uphold my independence and untarnished virtue.
I want to dramatically push the wispy tendrils of hair that escape from the braided curls that hang to my tiny waist, from my tear stained face, with long, slender fingers.
I want to leave him haunted by the memory of my lavender, jasmine, or heather scented skin; throughout the fiery battles he fights and the painful wounds he endures.
I want to be called Synnovea, or Aisly, or Ariel, or Jillyalondra.
I want to be kidnapped and nearly ravaged by pirates, so my hero can save my honor in the nick of time and beat my captors to a pulp.
Am I asking for too much?
I mean, you depict this behavior as natural, common, everyday living experiences.
Your adventures have left me unsatisfied and wanting of more passion and conviction. Today’s relationships are weak . . . unimaginative . . . unfulfilling . . . empty. I want more!
I’m tired of cleaning toilets! I’m tired of cooking hamburgers 100 exciting ways!
I want to go to a cotillion dressed in lace and satin, with a cameo pinned at my neck and a gold locket hanging by my heart. I want to be invited for a moonlight carriage ride by the lake. I want kisses from searing lips. I want to be enfolded into his muscular embrace. I want to be engulfed by his presence. I want him to toss with fever and call out my name. I want him to ache with love for me . . . drink in my every move . . . taste my sweetened flesh . . . and bring him to his knees.
Am I asking for too much?
I have gone insane!
Yes . . . yes . . . I truly and most definitely believe that I have.
And you’ve driven me there with your Lords and Ladies, Dukes and Duchesses, Counts and Countesses; with your castles, tea parties, magnolia fields and Scottish moors. With your full moons, swift stallions, dark forests, underground caves, foggy burial grounds, misty beaches and second story verandas. And all I can say is . . . . DON’T STOP!
Oh, please . . . please . . . DON’T STOP!
Go on, and on, and on!
Because I love it! ILOVE IT ALL!


Captively Yours,
Roberta C.M. DeCaprio


(Notation:) I actually sent this letter to Kathleen E. Woodiwiss…known better as the Queen of Romance, and she answered me with a letter of her own, dated September 27, 1993. I cannot divulge the contents of the letter without Kathleen’s permission . . . but I will say it was one of the most uplifting and encouraging letters I’ve ever received in accordance to my writing endeavors. Thanks Kathleen!

The summer night breeze gently rustled through the lacey bedroom curtains.
August crickets sang their melody, outdone only by the cries of pain emanating from the room to the back of the house.
The house my grandparents owned.
The house my parents shared.
My mother was giving birth to me in her bedroom, the room where she played the 78 records of Como and Sinatra; the room where she wrote her dreams down in her diary; the room that she now slept in with her husband . . . my father.
*~*
Great grandmother, the midwife, saw complications.
A breech birth.
There was too much blood.
Too much pain.
She had delivered 499 babies in the years she practiced.
All the mothers did well, all the babies were unscathed.
Tonight her favorite grandchild was giving birth to the 500th; the last of the elderly woman’s career and the first to break the perfect record.
Why this birth?
No . . . not this birth!
*~*
My aunt, only ten at the time, sat in the parlor.
She sunk down frightened within the confines of the large arm chair; skinny legs crossed.
Her black and white saddle shoed feet nervously swung, keeping rhythm with the rapid beat of her heart.
She studied his face . . . her sister’s husband . . . the young man who moved into her home after the wedding.
The big wedding just a year before where she was a flower girl; she wore lavender.
Her brother-in-law looked sacred, even a shade of green. She watched him pace back and forth in front of her.
Did he know he was wearing the carpet thin?
*~*
My father drew on the Salem light.
It had been the tenth one in an hour.
Smoke filled his lungs.
He coughed, paced, coughed again.
He wasn’t allowed in the room . . . the women who came to help wouldn’t let him in, though he tried each time his wife screamed.
He was part of this too. Why was he being excluded?
*~*
I looked around the room, though I don’t remember.
That is what I was told.
I didn’t cry, didn’t take a breath until it was coaxed from me by a smack to the behind.
I don’t remember this either.
It’s just as well.
There’d be enough to remember, enough to deal with.
This was only the beginning . . . my beginning . . . the start of me learning to overcome a physical disability, as well as society and the way it perceived me.
I almost didn’t get that chance.
*~*
One doctor thought he had the answer.
Institutionalize!
The word is bone chilling.
It means the beginning of the end.
It’s where the unproductive live.
It’s where they die.
And that’s where Doctor Doom wanted to send me; before he knew I had an engaging smile, before he heard the clear way I spoke, before he saw my sense of humor.
He didn’t take the time to hear me sing, understand my heart, respect my intelligence.
This child can be thrown away, is dispensable, doesn’t matter.
My parents could always have another, one that works.
But they wanted me.
Thank God!
*~*
I loved the summer.
Summer was orange popsicles sold at the corner store.
Caroga Lake and hamburgers cooked on a grill.
School was out; drive-in theaters were in.
The endless aroma of bug spray and suntan lotion fermented your flesh.
It was when I sat on the front porch and watched the neighbor children ride bikes and jump rope.
Dreaming . . . never stopped dreaming.
Wishing . . . always wishing . . . for friends.
For Fun.
For a life.
The pony tailed girls in short sets and sneakers hardly felt their summer fun would be enhanced by sitting on a front porch with a playmate that was unable to walk.
I had to sell them something interesting.
Have a hook by which to haul them in.
*~*
“If life deals you a bunch of lemons, make lemonade,” my grandmother would say.
Make lemonade, make lemonade!
How was I to make lemonade?
The same as the lemon, I imagined.
I asked myself, what exactly was lemonade?
It is the strength of the lemon, its inner core . . . the positive side of something sour.
The bitter juice is made sweet by combining sugar. It then becomes refreshing.
If you ask anyone about lemonade, most times a wonderful memory will surface . . . good times with friends and family; moments to savor, childhood.
What sweet combination would enhance my strength?
What was my inner core?
The answer echoed from the deepest part of my soul.
My writing!
*~*
Paper doll puppets were born, as well as scripts for the characters to act out.
All wanted a part, a character.
It was the hook, the lemonade.
Bikes were no longer ridden, but thrown across my front lawn while their owners helped create beside me at a card table.
The ends of jump ropes were tied to trees.
They became the rods for the stage curtain that rose everyday at 2:00pm for the play of the day.
Admission was a nickel; which bought many orange popsicles, and laughter, and friendships.
*~*
In the grand scheme of things, generally life is cruel; certainly it isn’t fair . . . and much harder when you’re slower, take longer, look different.
I was the Velcro for tricks, jokes, malicious laughter.
Reading, writing, and arithmetic had a whole new meaning to someone struggling with a walking disability. School was a definite challenge in much more than an academic way.
Overcoming stigmas was next.
Handicap people are smart, pretty, do like to have fun.
We’re not weird, gross, or void of feelings.
We do know better.
We want what everyone else wants.
Learn this . . . understand this . . . and then be my friend!
Another hook was needed.
Make lemonade!
*~*
Again my writing brought me equality.
Poetry . . . the high school girls loved those rhymes.
I composed them . . . they sent them to their boyfriends.
I composed them . . . the boyfriends sent them back.
Again I had friends.
*~*
High School Graduation.
Winning Sesqui-Centennial Queen for my town.
Learning to drive.
Working as a secretary.
Marriage.
Giving birth to two children.
Owning a home.
Volunteering as a Chaplain’s aide.
Divorce.
Re-marriage
Going back to school.
Grandchildren.
Having my work published.
I’ve done it all.
It wasn’t easy.
Society said I couldn’t.
What did “they” know!
I kept the faith, never lost hope, dwelled on my strengths.
I wasn’t afraid to dream.
Always tried.
It worked.
I’m having a life.
*~*
One day I’d like to write Doctor Doom a letter . . . tell him who I am, what I’ve accomplished; what he would have destroyed with his ignorance.
He’s probably dead by now.
I hope he died of remorse for all the souls he condemned; for all the children he thought would be unproductive because they lived with a different circumstance.
But he didn’t know.
Someone should have told him.
All you have to do is . . .
Make lemonade!

ARTICLES

In the 50’s and 60’s, Saturday morning’s television time slot was filled with such heroes as Lassie, Superman and The Lone Ranger. Great feats of unselfish honor were displayed by these characters, while we sat in awe at the edge of our seats, our corn flakes growing soggy in the milk. Heroes we dreamt of being like and included in the fantasy of our playtime. Characters we admired for the lessons they taught and the goodness they brought forth from the immense power t hey had over evil.
One Saturday, not long ago, I sat with a cup of coffee in hand, watching my children become absorbed in a television show. The heroes they urged on to victory were robots with green arms and silver chests. They took the enemy with red laser beams that sprang forth from cold, unfeeling eyes, and made their get-away through the deep, vast darkness of space.
“What is this show?” I asked my twelve year old son.
“Transformers,” he said, not taking his eyes from the television screen.
“Which are the good guys and which are the bad?” I frowned confused. “They all look the same to me.”
“The good guys can transform themselves into rockets or race cars,” he explained.
“Don’t they have any people in this show,” I asked.
“Who needs people,” he said annoyed. “Robots and computers do the job better.”
My heart was suddenly filled with sadness . . . and a sad fact it was indeed, that the children of today should only have scary looking trashcans with eyes for heroes. It was then I realized it was my moral duty as a good parent to show my children the true meaning of heroism and justice.

The next evening I scanned the T.V. Guide for the listings of such shows as Lassie and Superman. Having cable service gave a wide variety of station selections, and soon my quest was fulfilled. I gathered my son and daughter together in the family room and announced to them that tonight we were going to watch a show that was one of my all time favorites.
My six year old daughter cuddled up to me on the couch just as Lassie appeared on the television screen, with her silky, thick coat and beautifully groomed tail. Suddenly I was filled with memories of my childhood.
While the network station paused for a commercial break, I turned with undying love for that dog and smiled at my children. “Isn’t Lassie great,” I said, charged with nostalgia. “That dog is so smart.”
“Yeah, the dog’s OK, but the kid’s a stupid jerk,” my son said.
“How can you think that about Timmy?” I asked shocked. “He’s just a small, sweet, blonde haired boy who never answers back his mother.”
“He’s a stupid jerk,” my son repeated. “He gets into trouble and depends on a dog to save him.”
“Can we get a pig, mom?” my daughter chimed in.
I frowned. “Why on earth would you want a pig?”
“Because Timmy has a pig and it looks like fun,” she said.
“Can we turn the channel now, mom?” my son asked disgusted. “Red Dawn’s on H.B.O.”
“No!” I shouted annoyed. “I want to finish Lassie. Anyway, “I concluded eagerly, “at the end of the program she raises a paw up, as if she were waving goodbye.”
“Oh, sick! Who cares, mom?” my son groaned. “The whole show is stupid.”
“The pig’s OK,” my daughter added cheerfully.

Well, Lassie bombed . . . but my hopes weren’t shattered yet. The following night I gathered my crew together to watch Superman. I was convinced they’d like this show. Superman had more action in the script . . . more fantasy . . . more bad guys.
When the handsome, muscular and heroic figure of Superman flashed across the television screen, I sighed deeply with admiration for the courageous crime fighter. As I child I’d often dream of flying through the clouds locked in his strong embrace.
When Superman saved Lois Lane from the clutches of the evil scientist, I turned to my children, excited for his victory. “Isn’t he handsome . . . isn’t he just the best?”
“He’s stupid too,” my son said unenthused. “He doesn’t know how to use his powers.”
“What do you mean; he doesn’t know how to use his powers?” I replied outraged. “He got the bad guys, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, but he should have melted them with his X-ray vision,” he said. “This way all they’ll do is serve some time in jail.”
“Well, Superman isn’t sadistic. He doesn’t kill people to make peace. He’s got values and he’s honorable,” I said in Superman’s defense.
“Think about it, mom,” he said frustrated. “Soon the bad guys will be out on good behavior and then back bothering Lois again.”
“I wish I were Lois,” my daughter added. “She gets to fly with Superman.”
“This show is stupid,” my son mumbled and turned the channel to M.T.V.

I had just about given up when a friend told me that reruns of The Lone Ranger appeared early on Sunday mornings.
“They might enjoy him,” she said, trying to encourage me. “He’s got a horse, and a gun. All kids like horses and guns.”
So, early on Sunday morning I woke the children. They stumbled blindly with their blankets and pillows to the family room, and flopped sleepily down onto the carpet.
“What is it this time?” my son grunted miserably, pushing aside a tousled piece of hair from his eyes.
“The Lone Ranger,” I said excited. “You’ll like him. He has a decent looking horse, a set of shiny guns with pearled handles, and an Indian friend named Tonto.”
My son yawned unenthused and settled back to watch the show.
There he was, dressed in his white glory, wearing a black mask that mysteriously hid his true identity. I burst with pride as I watched the lone lawman ride his horse fearlessly to catch the outlaws.
“Isn’t he brave,” I said at last.
“He’s a wimp,” my son mumbled sleepily.
“How dare you call The Lone Ranger a wimp,” I snapped. “He made the streets of the old west safe for women to walk upon. He saved the ranchers from being swindled by cattle rustlers. He lived off the land. How does all this make him wimpy?”
“All he uses is a stupid pair of hand guns,” my son said. “M-60’s are more effective. Rambo would cream this guy!”
“Rambo’s a messy fighter,” I countered. “He leaves too much blood and death behind.”
“Yeah,” my son said sadistically. “He’s totally awesome.”
“I like Rambo’s long hair and muscles,” my daughter noted dreamily from her corner of the couch.
“I give up,” I said disgusted, and settled myself down to enjoy the end of the show.
Once again fond memories filled me when the farmer turned to the sheriff and asked, “Who was that masked man?”
A tiny tear formed in the corner of my eye when I watched him ride out of sight with a hearty “Hi Ho Silver Away!”
I looked quickly at my children, hoping to capture some favorable reaction, only to discover them sound asleep. I sighed deeply and brushed the tear from my eye.
“Oh well,” I whispered to myself. “What do kids know?”

SHORT STORY

Fritz lay in the corner of his cell and opened his eyes slowly. The door of the next cell was being unlocked and the man with the big boots removed Angus, the beagle.
“What’s going on?” Fritz asked Herbie, the wired haired terrier who shared his cell.
“Old Angus just lost,” Herbie mumbled.
“Just lost what?” Fritz asked, stretching his hind legs.
“His right to live,” Herbie stated flatly.
Fritz moved closer to Herbie. “You mean they’re gonna . . . he’s gonna be . . .”
“That’s right, kid,” Herbie interrupted. “Old Angus has been here a long time. When you’re here too long without being adopted by a human, you lose your right to live.”
Fritz could feel his heart beat faster. “But how can that happen?” Tears glistened in his huge brown eyes. “I mean, what right does a human have to decide our right to live or die? Old Angus is a good soul, would make any human a good friend.”
“No doubt, kid. But no one is gonna know that now.” Herbie yawned. “No, it’s too late for old Angus.”
“How can you be so calm,” Fritz snapped.
“What can I do . . . what can any of us do?” Herbie asked, his wild hair sticking up all over his body.
“I don’t know,” Fritz said, licking his jaws with one swipe of his long, pink tongue. “But we can’t just let this continue.” Fritz’s eyes widened with horror. “After all, tomorrow it could be one of us.”
“All we can hope for is that someone will adopt us,” Herbie said, rolling onto his side. “The next time a human comes to the cell door, act real friendly and cute. Wag your tail, whine pathetically, make those big, baby browns sad and lonely looking,” he explained. “The really fall for that stuff, especially the females. It’s every dog for himself, kid.”
Fritz lay down in his corner and looked over at Angus’ cell, now empty and quiet. Sadly he wondered if it was all over yet for poor, old Angus. A big lump formed in Fritz’s throat and tears fell from his eyes.
“It’s just not right,” he whispered to himself.

~*~

The next day the man with the big boots opened the hall door. Fritz’s swallowed hard, his heart racing as he waited in terror.
“Relax,” whispered Herbie. “He’s got people with him.” Herbie locked eyes with Fritz. “Remember what I told you . . . act as adorable as you can . . . for the life of you.”
Fritz jumped up on the door of his cell, wagged his tail then moaned and whined the saddest anyone ever heard.
The man walked over to the cell across from Fritz, where Dobie, a shaggy haired sheep dog was doing his best to get noticed. But the woman walked over to Fritz.
“Oh, honey, look at this little white dog,” the woman said in a high pitched voice.
The shrill sound made Fritz’s ears hurt, and he cocked his head sideways to relieve the pain.
“Oh, how sweet,” the woman shrieked. “He acts as though he understands what I’m saying.” She smiled at the man in the boots. “I want this one.”
“You did it kid,” Herbie said.
The cell door was unlocked and Fritz was removed. The man with the big boots placed him in the woman’s arms. Fritz sighed with relief, feeling happy and safe. He gave the woman a big lick across the face and she squealed delighted.
“That’s the way, kid,” Herbie said. “Good luck.”
Fritz cast a quick glance at Herbie. “You’ll be next to get a home,” he said, suddenly worried for Herbie’s fate.
“It better be soon, kid,” Herbie answered before he lie back in the corner of the cell and fell asleep.

~*~

Fritz’s new family seemed nice enough, although at times he felt they were totally oblivious to his needs and feelings. The human’s were always out for long periods at a time. Fritz would get very lonely in the big, strange house all alone. Often he would run out of water or have to do his business. He knew it was wrong to lose control inside the house, so he would try his best to hold out as long as he could. But sometimes he couldn’t help it. He was always very considerate not to soil the carpet though, and only relieved himself in one corner of the kitchen. There was always a consequence to pay when this happened. Fritz knew the procedure well.
The man would always come home first. Fritz would run to greet him, wagging his tail and jumping excitedly up and down. The man would bend down and scratch Fritz behind the ears, pat his rump and sometimes if Fritz rolled onto his back, he’d get a belly rub too. Then the man would discover the mess, and things would change.
The man would grab Fritz roughly by the scruff of the neck and drag him to where the mess was. Repeatedly Fritz’s nose would be pushed into the smelly stuff, and the man would shout, “Bad dog, bad dog!” Then Fritz would get a sharp slap across the bridge of his snout, and one on his behind before he was dragged outside to the yard and tied to a pole.
“Why am I bad?” Fritz sulked. “If you came home on time to let me outside, I wouldn’t have had to make a mess.”

~*~

One day the humans Fritz lived with left the door to where they slept open. Fritz, being very bored, lonely and curious, decided to wander into the room to have a look. Two green eyes peered at him from atop the bed. Fritz growled and jumped onto the bed. Slowly he crept closer to the large form lounging luxuriously against the pillows. As he neared the intruder he discovered it to be a large orange cat with glassy green eyes. He didn’t like the way those eyes stared at him, or the nerve of the thing lying on the master’s bed.
“Get off this bed!” Fritz shouted.
The intruder remained silent, its icy gaze never faltering.
“Get off the bed,” Fritz demanded. “Leave this room now!”
Still the intruder showed no fear and kept its place on the bed.
“Very well then, you had your chance,” Fritz warned, and lunged at the orange cat.
To his surprise, the cat didn’t fight back. Its soft, flimsy body was shredded to pieces with just a few bites. And instead of the red liquid, that a good fight usually produces, there were mounds of white, foamy material littering the bed. As confused as Fritz was, he did not stop until nothing was left of the intruder but its green eyes.
“My humans will be pleased that I saved them from this creature,” Fritz mumbled proudly.
But when the people came home they were not pleased at all.
The woman went into the bedroom first, and when she saw what had happened, she screamed. This brought the man quickly to her side. After surveying the damage, he stormed out of the room, found the newspaper, rolled it up and came after Fritz with a vengeance.
Fritz yelped as each blow stung his backside with pain.
“You stupid mutt,” the man shouted. “From now on it’s outside for you.”
“But it’s so cold, honey,” the woman sobbed, holding pieces of the intruder.
“Not for a dog,” the man said, attaching a leash to Fritz’s collar. “His fur will keep him warm enough.”
Fritz was then angrily dragged outside and tied to a pole, where he was left with no food or water, to endure the wind that chilled him to the bone. He could see the humans through the window, eating and drinking by the warm fire that blazed in the fireplace. His stomach groaned from hunger and he licked his jaws with the thought of food. He ate chunks of snow to wet his dry throat, but it did little to fill his empty belly.
The ground was cold and damp, and his feet began to grow numb. For hours he alternated between standing, sitting and lying, so no one area of his body would freeze. Snow began to fall, the cold, wet flakes melting on his fur. Fritz began to howl.
It was then that the woman, wrapped warmly in a coat and boots upon her feet, came trudging through the snow to get Fritz. He could hardly walk, his paws were so numb, but he made every effort to keep up with her. She gave him food and water, and placed his dog bed by the fire. Fritz never made a sound the rest of the evening, or move from the warmth of the fire. His spirits were low, his heart sad, and his mind confused. He just didn’t understand why he had been punished for protecting the house from an intruder.

~*~

The following days weren’t much better. Everyday the man brought Fritz outside and tied him to the same pole. He was given food and water, but the food went fast and often the water froze.
The man never got back to the house until late in the day. By that time, Fritz’s little body was frozen to the bone. He was so tired he could barely eat his dinner without collapsing. Each night he soaked up the warmth from the fire, for he knew come the morning he’d be back outside and forced to endure the cold.
The woman would pat his head now and then, but there was never any real display of affection from his owners. The humans seemed put out by their commitment to Fritz, only doing for him their moral duty. Basically, they ignored him, and certainly didn’t acknowledge him as part of the family. Their actions left Fritz very sad and lonely, and soon he decided that the humans he lived with didn’t have the time to be his friends or cared about having an animal around.

~*~

The next day, as he sat tied to the pole; Fritz began to chew at the leash. In no time the material frayed and Fritz was free. He began to run. He didn’t have any idea where he was running off to; he just knew he was free. Fritz ran and ran. But soon he was surrounded by the night and grew hungry and thirsty.
There was no woman to give him his supper and no fireplace to keep him warm. And because he had run without watching where he was going, he was totally lost and on his own.
Just as Fritz was about to sit and howl, he was approached by a skinny, black dog with matted hair and a scared snout.
“You look hungry, pal,” the stranger said.
“I am,” Fritz said sadly.
“Follow me, I know a great place,” said the black dog confidently.
Fritz ‘s new friend’s name was Willie, and he seemed to know his way around. He brought Fritz behind a restaurant, and there they both raided the trash cans for their supper.
Fritz slept under the porch of an abandoned house with Willie by day, and helped himself to supper behind the restaurant by night. The porch provided shelter from the wind and snow, and there was usually enough discarded food to fill both their bellies.
Things were actually going pretty smooth . . . until the night the restaurant owner tired of cleaning up the mess made by stray, hungry dogs and called the authorities. It wasn’t long after that Fritz and Willie were caught and taken into custody.

~*~

Fritz remembered well the place to where he was taken. The man in the big boots put him and Willie into a cell and securely locked the door behind them.
“Hey, kid,” a familiar voice called from a cell across from Fritz’s. “I hardly recognized you.”
“Herbie,” Fritz shouted excitedly. “How’ve you been?”
“Oh, about the same . . . I get my meals on time, fresh water, dry place to sleep . . . can’t complain,” Herbie said in his nonchalant way. “Boy, you look a sight. How’d you get so dirty?”
“Street living,” Fritz said. “The humans who adopted me really didn’t have time for a pet, so one day I left. I was doing okay for myself too, until I was caught.”
“Yeah, well, they’ll get you sooner or later,” Herbie said.
Suddenly Fritz realized Herbie was occupying Angus’ old cell. “Herbie,” Fritz said frightened. “Are you next?”
“It looks that way, kid,” Herbie said sadly.
Fritz and Herbie had a few days to talk and joke, but one day the man in the big boots came, unlocked Herbie’s cell door and took him away. That was the last Fritz saw of Herbie.

~*~

The sun was shining bright the morning Fritz was moved to the cell across the way. He prayed the humans he had left would come for him . . . but they never did. A few days later the man with the big boots came for Fritz.
Fritz began to cry as he slowly walked beside the man. He was then placed on a hard, cold table. The leash was removed, and he was muzzled.
“Sorry, pooch,” the man with the big boots said. “I always hate dong this, but its part of my job.” He patted Fritz on the head. “You’ve been here a long time and no one’s claimed you.” The man sighed heavily. “We’re just so overcrowded.”
Fritz looked up into the man’s sad, kind eyes.
“People should take better care of their pets,” the man said, shaking his head sadly. “The world is in one big rush, my little friend. No one has the time anymore to care about anything but themselves . . . and the almighty dollar. It’s always the voiceless creatures that lose,” he said softly, as he injected something cold into Fritz’s behind.
Soon Fritz felt very tired. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t move. Then it became impossible to keep his eyes opened.
“I guess I’ll just sleep a while,” Fritz thought.
Suddenly everything around him just stopped, and the rest was silence.

(Author’s Note: Owning a pet is as big a commitment as rearing a child, and one that should be taken as seriously. I urge pet owners to surgically fix their dogs and cats. This responsible action will eliminate the many unwanted puppies and kittens abandoned and destroyed each year at the shelters. And when deciding a pet might be nice to add to the family dynamics, consider the older and mixed breeds desperately waiting for a home. Such animals have had their shots, are house and litter trained, and finished with the baby stage of tearing everything apart. Many rewards will abound by adopting a stray, abandoned animal . . . the biggest one . . . saving its life.)