Sometimes, when we write, we find ourselves writing about things we don't know anything about. Sometimes, that's ok, and others it just isn't. Research is a necessary part of any writer's tool kit. But how much research is to much? I've always thought, that depends on what kind of writer you are. For me, I don't want to be the type that comes across as not knowing what the heck I'm talking about. For example, in my current WIP the people populating my story will have to use a variety of weaponry. I know almost NOTHING about weaponry. So when I decided to write this thing, I knew I'd need to research different types of weapons. Because if I don't know how my character should be using something, I can't write about it, and it won't be believable if I do. Simple right? No, not so much. I know other writer's who refuse to do the research, to spend the time to make their craft believable, and let me just say, it shows. The writing is flat, and makes me not want to continue reading despite how much I might like the characters. With that in mind, I started my adventure six months ago (roughly). It began with compound bows. When I was a child we were not allowed to play with power tools, or anything that might even remotely be considered a weapon. It was kind of a drag. But that aside, it limited me in a way (which is funny because now everyone of my family members are either hunters, own hand guns, or enjoy archery). The compound bow was awkward, and I found myself a little discouraged because aiming wasn't what I thought it would be. It didn't help that I caught it on my arm fairly frequently. Now, I considered myself fairly accurate with my hand and eye coordination. I used to team rope in high school, and rarely missed. However, I quickly learned that it just isn't the same thing. Which also disappointed me. I returned to shoot four additional times, but had similar results. The bow did one thing for me however, it made me want to try hand guns. I've always wanted to shoot hand guns. I like doing things that show me immediate results, and what's more in the moment and cool than venting frustration by putting holes in something? (No I'm not very girly, I don't enjoy shopping.) But I was extremely nervous because guns as a kid were a no-no. So, I signed up for a gun safety class. After the hour long (and very old) video was over, we went into the indoor range. My instructor was a nice lady, funny to be around, and she said if I fired single shot hitting the target she'd let me shoot more. Sweaty hands and awkward as all hell, I did. And I hit center of the bullseye. She said if I could hit anywhere near that again with my four shots I could keep shooting. I did, sending all four through my initial hole. She let me shoot however many I wanted after that. I'm not bragging in telling this story. I just think it's important to realize that in some cases you need to get out from behind your computer screen. Nothing compares to real life experience. In this case, I got to shoot two hundred rounds, and learned that I'm a damn good shot. (Ok a little bit of bragging there.) But if I hadn't done the research I would've never tried this, never found out I actually enjoy target shooting, and I certainly wouldn't own a fire arm. (In case your wondering I bought a beretta neos .22 lr .... less recoil for beginners...) I wouldn't have a funny story to tell, and I probably would've gone on writing about safety levers on guns that don't actually have safety levers. (Like the glock.) Which I now realize a lot of writer's do. My instructor got a kick out of why I wanted to shoot. She asked, and I told her research for a novel. Even just saying that bit helped my ego. That was the first time I admitted to anyone out loud, out side of a writer's group that I'm a writer. So anyway, yes.... do your research, but don't just do it behind your computer screen.
I find myself feeling a little bad tonight, and much like a forum stalker. You see when I joined the forum way back when, I was coming out of a creative writing course at a community college near by. I was prolific with my posting, and very stingy with sharing my writing. At the end of said class, my Professor told me he had no doubts that I would be published one day. I've heard that alot over the last few years, but sadly didn't think my writing good enough, or polished enough to share. Since then, I've been working on my craft. But I digress....back to the point. I rarely ask for help in real life, and am secretive at best about my writing. I'm my own worst critique as most of us are. But since re-emerging on the forum, I've found myself reaching out more to people I used to converse regularly with. People whose opinions I highly valued then. Which is what makes me feel a little bad. My struggling over the last few years with my writing, and the type of story teller I want to be was done else where, mostly in a real life writing group setting, in an effort to grow. It did help, and has made me get over some of my issues, but I have to remind myself alot lately that some writers here don't get that luxury. That some may not be ok with taking critique or giving it. But above all else, that some people I knew grew in different ways. Me asking for help is just something I'm going to get over. It's part of the learning curve. It doesn't make me a stalker for messaging someone to ask (no...it wasn't done repeatedly only once ) my subconscious just goes there because I don't want to come across as a pain in the keyboard. But regardless, it's ok.
I'd like to take a breath, and thank everyone who reads my craziness. Not just my shorts, or novel excerpts that I post here, but also this blog. Writing is a lonely endeavor under the best of circumstances. I've found especially in the beginning, or when you as a writer are most apt to second guess the things your putting out into the world. Sometimes we just need a pick me up, or to know that we're not the only ones out there struggling to get the ideas in our head, out onto a screen or paper. To that end, sometimes when I need that pick me up I cruise the forum, looking at the amount of views something I've posted has gotten. Does that mean that someone thought it was good, or read it all the way through? No, but it means that something about what ever it was I posted caught someones eye. Sometimes, that's enough. So thank you for clicking, even if you didn't stick the rant, or piece through to the end. Thank YOU for clicking, and maybe just maybe giving me the pick me up I needed to grow a little bit more with my writing today. Feel free to comment, on anything you like, or don't. After all, that's just part of the process. I'll do the same, because if we're not growing or evolving as writers, then what are we doing here?
The last two weeks have been jam packed with craziness for me. More so than usual. Finally this morning I had a moment to take a breath. It was in that breath I had an oh crap moment. It's October 7th, which means Nanowrimo is upon us. In August I promised myself I would have all my little fuzzy yellow duckies in a row, and be ready for Nano. I am not. Not only am I not ready, but I've realized my Mc is not ready. And of course all these realizations come at a week long work conference where I'm supposed to be soaking up valuable info to take back home with me. My attention is divided, my characters are screaming at me.... What is a writer to do?
I recently read a character development exercise where you get to know your character through two different approaches. The first being their dreams. This can unlock various items that can be repeated through your wip to establish symbolism, among other things. The second, being to imagine your character getting dressed, or going through their full morning routine. This will unlock habits, and give a deeper sense of your character. So I've decided to try both, but up first will be the dream. To begin the exercise you're instructed to start with a sentence such as, He/she is dreaming... or ______ is dreaming about.... (So basically you begin by closing your eyes, clearing your mind by focusing on your breathing then imagine what your character might dream about, and don't worry about punctuation or grammar.) example: Syn Acker, is dreaming about floating lightly as a feather over her hospital bed. She's no longer wearing the horrible open backed hospital gowns, but instead a flowing white shift. She can't feel her body. She can't feel anything, but she is now able to move, to look around her hospital room. There is a picture on the wall of rolling grass fading back into a canyon, and blue sky everywhere. She feels herself fall into that endless blue sky of the painting. Somewhere far away from her she is becomes aware of voices. The same voices she heard inside her hospital room so many times, but could never see. She turns to look for the faces that go with the voices. She sees her mother in her black funeral clothes, hunched in on herself crying, sitting on a puffy white cloud beside a dark haired man. She can't tell who the man is, but she hear's them. Behind them on the cloud simply looming there is a tall figure, that seems masculine despite the long hook beaked mask it wears, the figure makes her skin crawl. The masked figure doesn't speak or move. Syn's mother feels guilty, because they left Syn behind in such a terrible place. They left her helpless and alone. The man sighs, seemingly exhausted. He sounds so reasonable as he leans over assuring her mother that neither one of them signed up for this kind of life. That Syn would want them to live, and find comfort. Something is wrong about his face, it contorts sneering as he speaks. He leans in and takes a bite out of Syn's mother's neck, and she doesn't seem to notice. She cuddles in closer to the man, almost relieved to have a shoulder to cry on. This sicken's Syn. Syn tries to scream, to go to her mother, to help her, but she can't. They can't seem to see or hear her. Her heart beat jumps in her ears as she tries to float closer to her mother's cloud. But she's helpless and can do nothing as the man (who Syn realizes is her fiance Tate) pushes her already dying mother from the cloud and licks his fingers clean. Syn screams a ragged wail in her dream, which throws her body into a fit waking her in her hospital bed. So in reading back over this, I've learned a few things. First, my mc never really trusts her fiance. Which is a pretty big deal in and of itself. Secondly, she's afraid of being or feeling helpless. Thirdly, she feels something or someone looming over her at a distance, and it makes her uncomfortable, it could be death or a few other possibilities. I believe I will try the "dressing room" exercise and then come back to do another dream for this character to delve deeper.
Lately, I'm finding it increasingly difficult playing at being an adult. I don't mean doing the adulty things, like paying bills, but rather in making myself do the sensible thing. You see I've always done the sensible thing. That's been my go to pathway even when I wasn't sure what my path should be. There is nothing wrong with doing the sensible thing either. But lately, I'm finding it's just not enough. I've had a sensible job for the last nine years as a veterinary technician. It's not over confidence (I'm the least self confident person on the planet..) when I say that I'm very good at my job. Or when I say that I run the clinic where I work. If I leave the clinic will close. But lately, though I love my job, I'm not in love with it. It's becoming more and more difficult to do my job, and I find myself wondering how much longer I will be able to. Part of this is the stress of the job. It's highly stressful helping people, and their pets, when sometimes those people really are the problem. It's hard to care more than a pets owner does. It's hard to watch pets you've helped from the time they were puppies stumble in with arthritis, and know that today maybe the day their owner decides not to pursue treatment options. Plus all the normal stress like dealing with co-workers who really are just here for a pay check. These issues aren't the only reasons I'm finding it harder lately. Not only do I not want to do the sensible thing, but I also find myself pushing myself to want something more. Something I would have never thought I could, or would ever consider doing. Wanting that badly enough, to push myself harder, to finish side projects regardless of what it takes. Fantasizing about what your life would be like if you'd just finish your projects isn't the same thing as sitting down and doing something. None of this is good or bad, it's just something different. Maybe different is what I really need so desperately right now. I don't have delusions of grandeur. I have a goal, and I'm working toward that. There is a huge difference between doing the sensible thing, and having enough sense to push yourself to finish your goals.
Maybe I've miss titled this blog, and maybe the tittle is right on the head, but either way here goes. Writing is a lonely endeavor. The best we can hope for as writers is that when we do poke our heads out from behind our keyboards, screens, or what ever you prefer to write on, there will be someone there waiting for those precious words. For some of us, that need is ten fold, and culminates in workshops, critique groups, or real life writer meetings. Personally, I take the whole gambit. In recent years I've gotten much more serious about trying to craft my words into readable stories (that I don't feel completely terrible about trying to share). If I'm going to submit something for review, or take the next step and have an actual professional editor look at my work I want to make sure it's as good as I can make it. I've sent copies of one manuscript to two different editors to see what the feedback would be like. I don't regret it, but in hindsight some of the suggestions made should have been caught by my real life critique groups. Giving someone constructive criticism like, "I really like this piece." Is nice, but as a writer, I don't want nice. I want honest. I want someone to take out that proverbial red pen, and go to town on the things that are really wrong with my pieces. That rarely happens for me. Does that mean my writing is just that good? No. It means I'm not getting the feedback I need to to make my writing better. It means that the people I've been letting read my work may not have the ability to catch some of the mistakes I'm making. Is that terrible, or the end of the world? Should I stop going to that particular group? No, because I still get to critique their work, which in turn makes my writing better. Sometimes, even I forget not to be to much of a cheerleader though. I have to remind myself that most writer's who are honest with themselves (no not all of us are) don't want to make friends. They post their work to make it better just like I do. I try to never be a condescending ass when I give a critique either. I want to be as helpful as I can, and encourage others to post their revisions. But that takes work to. It's easy to tell someone you like their piece, or what you would want to change if you'd written it. But that does not make a good critique. It's much harder to pin point parts of the piece that stick out and need work. I think I for one would much rather read a critique on one of my pieces that did that. So that's it in a nutshell, if I ask you to critique for me, please be brutally honest, poke a stick at it, mark it up with as much red ink as you can spare, but expect the same. I'm not great with grammar (clearly if you read through all this and are still here kudos, I know it was rough,) but I'm much better with content. Anyway, enough ranting for now. -Happy Writing, Corbyn
At the beginning of August, one of my real life writing groups did a writing retreat. One of the ladies in said group brought her copy of James Patterson's online writing seminar. In it he said, "Be prepared to write, and write a lot. At least a million words. You'll go through them all, and if you stick with it doggedly, you'll get there, and find yourself not only a published author, but also one with a work ethic that will never fail you." That really stuck with me. When I started writing I was extremely young and naive. I came from a family that didn't really encourage those pursuits. (I can remember being eight and thinking, it would be really cool to write stories.) So my first real experience with writing, or writer's was online. I would wind up in chat rooms, especially the rp ones, and think wow. Look at all the cool stuff these people are coming up with. It was both liberating in a way, as well as terrifying and more than a little intimidating. I was a country bumpkin, what did I know about the world, and how would I ever be able to do what they were? Fast forward a few years, and I had out grown my rp groups. I desperately wanted to tell people stories, but not just any stories. Full long ones that would get them hooked in so they never wanted to stop reading. (I still want that.) I stumbled from chat rooms into the world of forums. But that then that to became to restricting. I got disgusted with my progress and stopped writing for a while. I started playing video games instead. Then in 2011 I went back to college. There I saw the chance I had been waiting for. My local community college was offering a creative writing course. I thought, great... I'll finally get to learn how to do what I want to do. It didn't go as planned either. I felt like I was a weird fish in a pond of college students who didn't really want to be doing what they were doing. Most of my class mates turned in five sentence poems when ever at all possible. (I have no problem with poems in general.) But I was turning in twelve page openings for short stories, and I didn't feel like most of them were being read much less critiqued. When the class wrapped up for the semester we all met at a local coffee house, and I found out just how wrong I had been. My professor confessed that he felt like I had a knack for it, and he and a few other class mates were sure I'd get published one day. It was a much needed ego lift. But since 2011 I've found myself second guessing my writing, and doubting that this thing I want to do is a possibility. Most of that like other writer's is me getting in my own way, and I know that. But my point in this overly long blog is just that. Patterson's one million words comment stuck with me because even though I've struggled through the last four years, I have work to show for it. It may only be three short stories, and two really crappy novella length works, but I've put in the words. I'm not at my million word mark yet, and I'm still figuring things out, but when I go back and read some of my writing from then versus now, or even some of the things I turned in for school, the difference is night and day. And on days like that I'm happy to do the work... no the words, because the words are taking me one step closer to my goal. I don't do the work because I want to get published and make a lot of money. I do the work because I want to tell stories that people can't wait to read. I want to build places and characters that readers have to know more about. I want to grip people by their proverbial shirt fronts, grab their attention and leave them begging for what happens next. I write because I can, but I'm a writer because I choose to be.
I found myself kicked back into a relaxed slouch, my body nuzzled into the soft leather of the couch. Absently I popped a cheesy corn chip into my mouth as I scanned the television channels. What a great invention television is, it’s one of the few forms of “entertainment” that you humans have invented that really does you no good what so ever. It’s mind numbing, and for that I am intrigued. I hated being kept waiting, and that was exactly what Arian was doing. I found myself scanning infomercials waiting for my very own personal pain in the derriere to show up. I guess in polite terms you could call her my partner. I was torn between sponge bob square pants, that squid was kind of funny, and another episode of Tom and Jerry. I loved watching the pair carry on, it just never got old watching senseless violence, so much like home. I was starting to think about the coziness of hell fire and brimstone when I heard a plop. “How can you watch these mindless shows?” Arian’s voice was pitched a little higher than usual. I shrugged, “What else do I have going on?” “You could have found some useful employment.” She was working in far more jabs than usual. “What’s the assignment this time, a nun, priest, a kid with cancer?” I frowned swinging my head to look her full in the face as I popped another chip lazily into my mouth. Arian scoffed and grabbed the remote from my hand turning off the tv, “You lazy demons..” “Ouch my pride! That really hurts Arian,” I gave her my best fake smile.
Possible new opening to a story I had started months ago... Looking for some feedback from those who read the original version posted here... Just wondering if it makes for a better opening... The bus swayed every now and then jumping as the shocks corrected after a bump. The speakers in the rear of the vehicle crackled cutting through the sound of a country fiddle playing a run of notes. You southern people, I have never understood your fascination with country ‘twang’ as you call it. My mind roamed in an auto pilot state listening to the fiddle and the accompanying singer. “The devil went down to Georgia; he was lookin’ for a soul to steal...” I smiled to myself whistling along with the tune as I toned out the bodies jarring into me every now and then. “He was in a bind, ‘cause he was way behind and was willin’ to make a deal,” I sung to myself. Of course I, Caleb Monroe had never been to this Georgia, and I was no Devil, but I have never been a saint either.
I joined a writing guild in the next town over, and it has been inspirational to say the least. Saturday I will be attending a writing conference in Amarillo. I'm not sure what to expect but I think it will help bring me out of my cloistered little shell, which I need. The first (admittedly the only) meeting I have attended so far was around the first of December, the following being in a few weeks. Anyway, at this meeting they did a potluck sort of gift exchange. It was neat because I walked away with a resource book. I don't typically read these because I feel that the best thing I can do to become a better writer (besides reviewing more) is to write more. So the book sat on a shelf in my office through the holidays. I got bored and broke open my little book and began to read. One suggestion that I have taken away from it is to know what kind of writer I am. Mainly I'm a procrastinator who doesn't actually work well unless I have a deadline. I rarely finish what I start, and I project hop like crazy. I'm not saying that is a bad thing, it just is because I never finish anything. So that brings me to the gist of it all.. The book recommended looking for a writing sponsor. This isn't like a twelve step program... the sponsor shouldn't be someone you spill your heart out too about your boyfriend or horrible day. This "sponsor" should be someone you check in with on a scheduled basis. Someone who says.."How's the writing coming? Are you close to your goal?" Basically someone to remind you that you've set a specific goal and someone to make sure that your accountable for pushing toward what ever it that you've set goal wise for your writing. As cheesy as it is, I've never thought of writing this way. To set a specific goal for myself then actually hold myself accountable for it. Writing has always just been something I've done for school or because I thought it was fun. Which it is.. but I'd like to finish a project to. So my point in all this is that I'm going to try it.. Especially since I haven't really written anything new in a good while. Here it is.. My goal: To write two new chapters for poor little Corbyn by February 20th. It's an extremely modest goal but class starts again next Tuesday so I need to be realistic. So now that my goal is set and I've decided on which project to focus on I need to find someone to sponsor my effort and verbally remind me every once in a while that I am accountable to myself and I do have a deadline. Do I really need a baby sitter so to speak to do this? NO but a little prodding never hurt anyone.. So that's my plan... Let's see what happens!
I took a creative writing class at my college a few semesters ago that rekindled my desire to write. It was a great open course, but it did not teach us much about craft. As the result of a wet appetite, I have gone on my own personal learning crusade regarding the actual craft of writing. Specifically I focus on fiction short stories and hopefully eventually a novel. So one of the resources I have come to enjoy is the Gotham Writers’ Workshop book on fiction writing. Anyway what I have decided to do is share some of my own responses to a few of the suggested exercises in the book here. I’m not sure why I decided to do this but hopefully it helps someone else as much as it will me. I’ll be starting with characters because I have a bad habit of TELLING instead of showing in my writing. Here goes…. Exercise 1: Character Think of a Character. Then think of a specific desire for this character. Make the desire something concrete like money, a home..Etc... Jot it down, you’ll need it later. Me: Anna desires a relationship with Nathan, a man she has known for several years. Exercise 2: Contrasting traits Think of two traits for your character, maybe she’s normally a nice person but turns into a witch when she feels slighted. Not every character is good or bad, but everyone has contrasting traits. Me: At work Anna has a very outgoing personality, however in other social settings she is withdrawn, shy, and rarely talks to anyone. Exercise 3: Dimension Write a passage about your character pursuing his/her desire. Be sure to include some obstacles in your character’s pursuit of their desire. Me: Anna checked her cell phone for the tenth time that afternoon. There were still no texts from Nathan. Should I text him or wait until he texts me first, she thought. Quickly she brought up a new text window and began to type: Hope your day is going well. “No, be strong and just wait.” She quickly hit delete. Anna shook her head slowly as she sat the phone back into the charger and went out into the reception area of the office. Mary waited there an amused look on her face as she usually had. “Nothing from this mystery man yet huh?” Mary’s grin widened. Anna said nothing stepping around her coworker just in time to be saved by their next client Mrs. Keeter. Anna fixed a wide smile on her face getting ready for the woman. “Hello Mrs. Keeter, how are you today?”
I read a lot about people who claim to have writers block. Personally, I’ve never suffered from it; however I do get easily distracted by various things. When working on my writing and not actually wanting to work on a specific story, I have a trick that I use as a writing exercise. I use a random word generator: http://watchout4snakes.com/CreativityTools/RandomWord/RandomWord.aspx http://watchout4snakes.com/CreativityTools/RandomWord/RandomWordPlus.aspx To find three words, in my case the words that were generated were: Cow, Nightmare, and Chocolate. Now that I have my three words I write. It doesn’t matter what you come up with just as long as you write. Also you’re not writing to come up with the next block buster, this should be FUN. It can be a five minute free writing exercise or go all night. Just write. Here is what I came up with: “I don’t believe this! You piece of junk!” I kicked the side of my Chevy truck with my boot. “Owwwww, damn it!” I hoped up and down grabbed my purse drawing my teeth down in a clenched position. “Please oh please work! What?!? No signal?” With a heavy sigh I pulled the keys from the ignition and turned back down the dusty road I had just been driving down. “Great.” I figured the distance back to the farm house I had passed to be about three miles, if I was lucky. Instinct took over and I began to walk rubbing my hands up and down my shivering arms. “Of course this had to happen in Nov-“ A coyote let fly a mournful solo somewhere off in the shrubby distance. His cry began the flood of night time noise that only a prairie can provide. Insects and rattles abounded everywhere driving my senses crazy. I jumped a little more as the minutes and miles began to stack up. “I’m wild and reckless….” “Born in Texas, I eat six shooters for my breakfast” It helped to calm the nerves. I gazed out over the prairie stretched out next to me and could just make out the line of an electric fence. “I shot a wild Indian, and kilt a wild bear...” My mind finally began to wander about the time my stomach began to growl. I dug in my purse nearly coming to a stop until my fingers met with foil. Ah, comfort food. I pulled out the bar and peeled back the foil breaking off a piece of chocolate before stuffing the candy back into my purse. My feet began along my journey once more as I popped the small piece of chocolate into my mouth savoring the sweetness. “And I whipped my hinny on a prickly pear woo woo!” The chocolate and my favorite tune perked me right up as I continued along my way I didn’t even notice the mulling. I can’t be certain how long I walked along that road oblivious to anything. It seemed like forever and not just three miles. Then the mulling became louder. I looked back toward the fence and noticed several cows, mostly white with patches of black begin to drift closer to the fence. I kept walking glad for the company. The dust churned thick in the air from the beating the cattle’s hooves provided. Every few minutes I looked back to the once barren prairie to see several more cows gathering, almost walking with me. I walked on and still saw no sign of the farm house. The chill crept back over my skin forcing my hands to work my arms yet again. My legs stayed somewhat warm due to the walk, but the more I rubbed my arms the cooler they became. Finally, worried that I might have miss calculated I turned in search of my truck. There behind me were black and white Cows. Thick along the road they obscured my view of anything else behind me. “What the heck? Where did all of you come from?” I turned back to the dusty road ahead of me, but could see nothing but black and white. The mulling became a sea of churning cow voices drilling ever closer to me. I began to back toward the fields but there all I met with were hot wire fencing and more cattle. Wide eyed I was ushered back to the middle of the road surrounded on all sides by these cows! I began to panic remembering stories of cowboys being trampled and worse, but these were cows what could they want? The mulling became pitched droning on. My imagination got the better of me; I could almost swear they were saying, “Chocolate… CHOCOLATE...” Something pressed against my forehead bringing me jerking upright. I forced my eyes from a sea of black and white to open. Fiercely I rubbed my face with my hands before shaking my head to look at them. “Ewwwww!! Chocolate?!?” I looked across my littered desk to find that I had once again fallen asleep at my keyboard. “What a nightmare!”
As a general rule, I’m no blogger. The types of blog entries I typically post are versions of my writing, usually a piece of a novel or short story. Today I’m writing to tell a different story. I must warn anyone who continues to read this sad entry that the following will be rather graphic and is unfortunately a true tale. At nine this morning I sat behind my desk waiting for my first patient to arrive. It had been a typical Monday up to this point. All the slightly off owners of our clinics patients had run rampant calling about worries over various things. In the midst of which I received a call from an owner we’ll call Sally. Sally wanted to bring her dog in today because she was worried about his leg. Understandable enough because Sally’s pet could no longer walk on the limb. A thousand possibilities ran through my head when she told me this. Had Boscoe been hit by a car, stepped on, in a fight? If he had little to no use of the limb that meant we would most likely need an X-Ray. I asked Sally to bring Boscoe into the clinic immediately. She informed me that she couldn’t bring Boscoe in until later that afternoon around three. The appointment was set. At two forty five this afternoon Boscoe made his appearance in our clinic for the first and last time. Sally would not bring him into the clinic until every other dog in the clinic had been cleared out. Finally at three fifteen Sally relented and brought Boscoe in. Peeking over the counter I could see this mass of fur bobbing until the front half of the poor dog finally made it around a corner. I bit my lip instinctively as I looked over this dog. Boscoe was covered from the neck down in dried black blood. Bile rose in my throat as my brain reacted to the scene before me. Hobbling down the hallway this dog was not only unable to walk, he was missing his front right leg from the shoulder down. I moved to Boscoe immediately picking the dog up nearly cradling him to my chest as we moved into the front exam room. Boscoe was laid onto the scale, a weight and temperature reading were taken, and then I promptly stepped from the room to fetch my Veterinarian. As I was doing this my co-worker was speaking to Sally. Upon inspection and a history taken from Sally, we pieced together the last two and a half weeks of Boscoe’s life. Sometime around three weeks ago, Boscoe wandered away from Sally’s farm, not a completely unusual thing for him to do. Sally believed that at sometime in the four days Boscoe was gone his paw was injured possibly in a trap. She bathed the paw in cool water to remove the blood, and then bandaged the paw. Three days went by and Sally removed Boscoe’s bandage finding that the paw had swelled even more, the tissue having died off. Sally awoke the next morning and Boscoe had gnawed the paw nearly completely off. Sally removed the paw. She rebandaged Boscoe’s stump for another three days cleaning and rebandaging. At the end of that day Sally left the bandage off. She did not see Boscoe again for several days. By the time this course of events had played out, Boscoe had self mutilated himself to the point that he only had three inches of his radius and ulna left intact and most of that had no flesh covering them. The tissue around what was left of his arm was completely dead and dying moving progressively up into his shoulder. To even be able to handle poor Boscoe Sally had given him an over dose of anxiety and motion sickness medication, he was basically stoned out of his mind. I have been a technician at my Veterinary clinic for nearly five years. In that time I have never seen a more glaring, hideous, sickening case of animal cruelty, and neglect. Sally decided to mercifully euthanize Boscoe. I held his head as he took his last breath slipping into a deep sleep. I decided to blog about this because I needed to vent my frustration at an owner who could so carelessly endanger her pet. Someone who had the nerve to ask my co-worker before he dog even took his last breath, if we knew of anyone who had a dog that might need a good home. Too often I see home “quack” jobs where people have googled Veterinary advice off the internet. This went far beyond owner neglect, this woman didn’t even do that much for her dog. She never sought advice, she never treated the dog, she simply bathed him with water. I’ve been witness to some sad events in my time at the clinic, but nothing to date has ever touched, angered, or bothered me to the degree that this event did. Thank you for reading… - Corbyn