Temporary Address

Temporary Address

Monday, December 10, 2012

The Molly Chronicles


I buried my chew strip in my human's planter boxes. I wasn't supposed to do that. Who knew???

Molly signing off.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

The Molly Chronicles




My human won!!!!!

My human entered NaNoWriMo and she won. She wrote a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. In fact she made it with two days to spare. I was so excited I ran around the back yard and did the Molly dance, which is running around the yard and the garage and the house in a frenzy of happiness.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

The Molly Chronicles

Oh my goodness!
I sneaked a peek at my human's new novel, and she does have a Molly character in the book. But you won't believe what she's doing to that poor dog. The Molly in the book is a news reporter, and while she's at the Occupy Berkeley movement, she gets sprayed with pepper spray, and winds up in the pound. I was so upset, I couldn't read any more. I hope there is a happy ending for Molly. When I was a young dog, I was in the pound due to no fault of my own. And it was horrible. It was scary and I was all by myself.  That's where my human found me, and we became best friends. I hope the Molly in the story is okay.



Saturday, November 17, 2012

The Molly Chronicles


Well hello again,
You're probably wondering how my human is doing with her new novel. Yes, she's working on the sequel to Temporary Address. She said she was going to post excerpts on her blog, and she will. But for now she is just writing junk. You see she entered NaNoWriMo. It's a challenge to see if you can write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. And for now, she's going for quantity and not quality.
She did promise that she would include a dog character or maybe even two in the book. And she's even going to include a publicist dog named Molly. I feel honored. But after all the work I've done, it's only fair. Molly won't appear until the second half of the book, she says. Anyway, she'll probably have something to share with you in December, so please be as patient as a border collie.
Did I tell you about the French rolls incident? Well it's not important, and besides, it wasn't my fault.

Wags and licks to you all,
Molly the collie

Monday, November 5, 2012

The Molly Chronicles



More rave reviews are comming in for TEMPORARY ADDRESS:


A real page turner. A book you can really sink your teeth into.


TEMPORARY ADDRESS - a great read in the bathtub. And when we get back from dog park, my human is probably going to give me a bath.



Wednesday, October 31, 2012

The Molly Chronicles


Hey, ho, this is Molly the dog, coming to you live from dog park where I'm interviewing the average dog on the street. Most dogs have read the new best-selling book, TEMPORARY ADDRESS and, so far, the reaction has been extraordinary:


A great read. it had me barking with excitement. I recommend TEMPORARY ADDRESS to all canines and humans who appreciate good literature.


Pugnacious. Captivating. Better than a squirrel in a garbage can.


Riveting. The only things missing were gophers and bacon snacks. And it wasn't about dogs.




Tuesday, October 23, 2012

The Molly Chronicles


Hi. It's me, Molly the blogging collie. I can't believe it's been a whole people week since my last post. And so much has happened. The paperback version is out. You can buy "Temporary Address" on paperback on line (cheapest through Lulu.com) and the e-book is available through Amazon.com.( and, in a couple of days, through anyone else on line.

I've been working so hard, I hardly had time to scratch a flea or sniff a hydrant. (It's always important to stop and smell the hydrants.) But it's all worth it. If you want to see what it's all about, you can read it by clicking the photos on the right of this blog. But it's way better in the published versions. My human was not very careful when she entered the posts on this blog. A collie would never have allowed that to happen. Okay, licks and tail wags to you all. I'm going to go have second breakfast.
Molly

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

The Molly Chronicles


Whew, what a day! I wouldn't wish it on a cat. First of all, my human took me on two very long walks because we had to get the wheels of the car aligned. Normally, I love very long walks, but we had to walk next to the traffic, and my human made me walk on heel. That meant I couldn't do my important dog work - I couldn't do olfactory reconnaissance of the area. And I couldn't mark my territory. I must say, I did a very good job walking on heel, and my human praised me for my restraint.

After that, my human played a very cruel trick on me. She said we were going for another walk, but we ended up - I can't bear to say it - we ended up at the vet's office, where they poked me and hurt my delicate  body. 
I'm still working on the book cover for "Temporary Address" (a collie's work is never done.) but the art work is still not uploading. I hired a printer who is very good, but wasn't able to get the art work the correct size. He hasn't responded to my last e-mails and is probably busy chewing on a piece of rawhide. His work is very stressful.

Molly the collie  signing off with a big bow wow to you all.

Thursday, September 27, 2012

The Molly Chronicles




Hello, it's Molly the collie BOK (back on keyboard). I've successfully uploaded the manuscript to Lulu Press. I must say, their staff has been courteous, efficient, and friendly - all traits appreciated by noble dogs like me. I'll keep you all informed of our progress.

Molly AFK (away from keyboard)

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

The Molly Chronicles


Hi, It's Molly the canine publicist here. We hit a snag on Lulu Press here, I'm sorry to say. I tried to upload the manuscript, and they said I had to read their guidelines first. Since I'm a dog, I'm always eager to please, so I read their guidelines, and tried to upload, and they said to read their guidelines. Went through the loop about ten times, tried their help section, but apparently they hadn't anticipated this problem before. What's a collie to do???????? Here you see me chewing on a piece of rawhide. A great way to relieve frustrations. You humans should try it. Molly signing off.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

The Molly Chronicles


Hey, ho, it's Molly back again.

We just finished an inspiring meeting with Kate concerning marketing my humans's book 
Temporary Address. Kate told us how she got a loan for a house in the days when women couldn't get loans from banks. She did it by sheer cussedness, asking and asking and asking and finally assuming an existing loan from a couple who needed to move out of their house in a hurry. My human used to be like that. She used to be able to just keep working and working on a project until she finally got it done. But now, alas, she's a bit of a wuss, so it's all up to me.

Kate had an idea similar to mine. She suggested contacting radio personalities who might like to see 
Temporary Address succeed. As you know, I've already contacted Bo, President Obama's dog, and I've contacted Nancy Pelosi. 

I have to go now. It's dinner time, and I do have priorities.

It's Molly, afk (away from keyboard)

Friday, September 7, 2012

The Molly Chronicles



Here I am taking a well-deserved break. I wish I drank coffee.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

The Molly Chronicles




Hi, it's Molly here again. I'm in a thoughtful mood today. Promoting is a hard job, and it's especially hard for a  dog because I don't have opposable thumbs, I don't even know how to spell opposable, and because I bark instead of talk like a human. And promoting a book like "Temporary Address" by an unknown is hard even if you are a human. I'm not the complaining type. My style has always been to just go for it with as much hard work and gusto as my body has in it. We working dogs have always been known for our drive. Anyway, I have to go and check on my progress with Lulu, (the website, not a girl named Lulu) where I'm working on publishing the paperback version. I want to thank you who read my blog and scratch my ears and tell me I'm a good dog. It means a lot to me.

Monday, September 3, 2012

New Novel

I've deleted this post. I signed up for namowrimo for November, which challenges us to write a novel in one month. And we can't use anything we already wrote. So I'm starting fresh.

Friday, August 31, 2012

The Molly Chrinicles


When in doubt, take a nap.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

The Molly Chronicles



Hi. It's Molly the industrious collie back again. And I have great news!!!!

Our good friend Carmen has agreed to spearhead promotion for our book, "Temporary Address"* in the Seattle area. She'll begin promoting end of September this year. She brings many years experience to our group, and I'm excited to think about what she'll accomplish.

This is better than ground squirrels!


*available on Amazon - 99cents

Saturday, August 25, 2012

The Molly Chronicles



I've been up all night working on my human's book. As you know, our house got burgled, and, although no liver snacks or pigs ears were taken, we did lose our computer. Tom gave us his computer because he hates it, and I can see why. It's old and doesn't support the new software in use on the Internet. I've always told my human that we have to adapt to the modern age and all the new technology that it entails. Anyway, I have high hopes for our literary endeavors. Amazon's sales of "Temporary Address" have not skyrocketed, I'm sorry to say, but I have hopes for the future, especially if we can get a paperback copy out. Most of my dog friends do not have a kindle.

As you can see, she's writing again which is good. Frankly I worry about her. We don't have a title yet. I suggested "Molly the Wonder Dog" but she pointed out that the book is not about me. There's no accounting for taste.  

Friday, August 24, 2012

New Novel

I've deleted this post. I've joined a challenge called nanowrimo which requires us to write a novel in a month, and we can't use anything we've already written.

Monday, July 16, 2012

The Flea Market Manifesto

The Flea Market Manifesto


Esmarelda had been fired may times, but she’d never before been chased through the hallway by a machete-wielding magician. It really hadn’t been her fault, though, she thought, and she ducked as a rubber knife whizzed by her head, bounced on the ground, and sprouted feathers. Mephi the Magnificent needed to enunciate better. Sixty flower hats had sounded almost exactly like sixty floured rats.



And besides, it really had been pretty funny when all the guests jumped into the pool, and all that flour had covered the delphinium beds like gentle snow, and a few minutes later, thanks to the splashing coming from the pool, the flour had magically turned into interesting pasty drippings – like modern art, adding a touch of culture to the delphinium bed. And besides, Mrs. Mahoney had agreed to drop all the charges, so what was the big deal?



By now Esmarelda was outside on the sidewalk. “Unfair,” she sniffed and ducked as a three-foot crate hurtled past her right ear. “So very unfair.” The door slammed behind her and she sat on the crate and sobbed for a whole seven and a half minutes. Suddenly a clucking noise from the crate interrupted Ezzie’s glorious indignation and celebration of self pity. Briefly, she considered returning the crate to Mephi, but remembered his temper and thought better of it. Severance pay, she decided. Mephi owed her something for all her time and hard work. She would jolly well keep the crate.



Maybe some guy will come along and he’ll offer to carry the box, she thought, and I’ll be all “Omigosh, you’re so strong”, and we’ll fall in love. And Mephi the Magician will call me and ask me to come back and work for him, and I’ll be all “I’m married now, so go find your own rats and hats.”



It was a good thought, but no rescuer magically appeared. Esmarelda was a tiny thing – five – one and ninety-eight pounds in her stocking feet, with huge blue eyes, and shiny black hair. Small but mighty, she thought. She made her way home hugging the unwieldy box in her arms.



The box squawked as she lugged it up the two flights of stairs to her apartment. “I wish they’d fix the elevator,” she said to herself.



Inside her kitchen, she pried the crate open. Maybe there’s something inside that I could sell at the flea market she thought. The first item out of the crate was a box - a smaller box within the big box, and inside of it was a hen – with shiny brown and orange feathers, and a funny, fat face like Winston Churchill. She clucked twice and flew up to the kitchen counter apparently reveling in her sudden freedom.



About this time, Esmarelda’s mothering instincts kicked in, and she produced water and uncooked rice for the chicken to eat. And she covered as much of the counter as she could with newspaper to protect it from the various hazards of a flying chicken. She named the chicken Winnie.



After Winnie had settled down somewhat, Esmarelda’s attention turned back to crate. Inside she found seven scarves all intricately embroidered with gold thread and decorated with exotic-looking coins. The embroidery appeared to be writing, but in a language that used a foreign alphabet. Nestled inside of the scarves, she found one last box, this one wrapped carefully in bubble wrap. Probably something valuable, she thought, and pulled back the bubble-wrap and then opened box to reveal – a magic eight ball. Big whoop there, she thought in disgust. And she shook the ball. “Magic Eight Ball, should I sell you at the flea market?” she asked.



“Ask again later.”



Since she’d just lost her job, she needed a little money - just to tide her over until something came along, and she’d sold at the flea market before. She figured she’d pretend to be shopping, and maybe set up her scarves on a wire somewhere so that she didn’t have to fork over the $25 for a table. The chicken had to go too. Ezzie was developing a soft spot in her heart for Winnie, but a chicken wasn’t a good pet for an apartment dweller. Still…”Magic eight ball, how much can I get for the chicken?”



“Don’t sell the chicken.”



It took Ezzie a couple of seconds to register this. Magic eight balls usually have a more limited vocabulary. She shook it again. “Why not?”



“Ask again later.”



Bright and early on Saturday, Ezzie woke to the sounds of workers in the hallway. She stumbled out in her bathrobe ready to complain about the noise, but decided against it since the elevator was finally getting fixed. So instead she got ready to sell her new finds at the flea market. She hid the seven scarves and a strand of thick wire inside a tote bag that could pass as a very large purse. She considered popping Winnie into the bag as well, but decided against it. She'd become ridiculously fond of the chicken, especially since Winnie only pooped on weight loss ads.



At the entrance to the flea market an orange vested attendant with the name “Murray” embroidered on his shirt pocket stopped Ezzie. "What's that chicken doing with you?"



Ezzie looked around. Sure enough, Winnie had stowed away in the bag. "I don't know how she got in there." Ezzie shot him a "you're such an understanding and studly-looking man" blink. "I can't go all the way back home. Isn't there something you could do?"



"Okay, I didn't see her. And here's a string to keep her from wandering too far." Grinning like an Olympic winner, Ezzie entered the flea market with Winnie perched on her shoulder.



She stroked Winnie's soft feathers. Now for the hard part. "I wish there was an empty table somewhere here," she said. Two hours later, she was still wandering around disheartened with Winnie perched on her shoulder. That's when a voice stopped her cold.



"Twenty bucks for the chicken.”



“What did you say?" Esmarelda whirled around almost colliding with a bearded, long-haired firefighter. Finally, a piece of luck, she thought. But before he could answer, she looked at Winnie and knew she couldn't do it. "You see," she said shaking her head sadly, "Winnie's my best friend." Really, my only friend, she thought. "However, I have some great scarves you might like."



But by the time she'd pulled out her scarves, he was gone. At least it was a start, she thought. Strange, though, firefighters didn't usually grow beards. Something about getting a good seal for the masks on their air packs.



Next she tried hitting up the venders. "These scarves have been going like hot cakes." Ezzie did the you're-so-kind-studly thing. "But my aunt is really sick, and I have to go, and I'll sell you the last seven for forty dollars."



"Throw in the chicken and you've got yourself a deal."



It was always the same: "Hey, Lady, a hundred dollars for the chicken." "Two hundred for the chicken, and forget the scarves."



"What's the big deal" she asked. "You're just a chicken." And Winnie squawked, flapped her wings, and dug in her claws as if she understood. The squawking began attracting attention - the wrong kind, and Ezmarelda tucked Winnie under her arm and slunk away to the farthest corner of the flea market.



One lone vender sat behind a table there with his wares spread out in front of him - an eclectic mix of tools, kitchen appliances, gadgets as seen on TV, and a rooster in a cage with the door open. With a happy chirp, Winnie pecked through the string, and trotted into the cage, sneaking sideways glances at the rooster. He, in turn, strutted in circles around Winnie, sticking out his chest, fluffing his feathers, and in general, acting stupid, as only a rooster or a teen-age boy in love can do.









"You look tired," said the vendor. And he opened out a folding chair for Ezzie. "I'm Ernie. This is Franklin Delano Roostervelt, the world’s most chicken rooster. Sit for a bit. Maybe you'll bring me some luck. He noticed the scarves hanging over the side of her bag. Here, you can hang your scarves up on the corner of my table."



He wasn't particularly good looking, thought Ezzie taking inventory - bushy eyebrows, bright red cheeks, and a Willie Nelson nose and pony tail.



"Thanks. I'm Ezmarelda, Ezzie. My chicken’s, Winnie."



And she sank gratefully into the chair. After all the walking around, she suddenly felt very tired. “Do you smell something sweet?” she asked, and a second later, her head fell back and she was fast asleep.



The next thing she knew a hand was shaking her shoulder. “How much for the scarves? Our high school drama class is doing A Thousand and One Nights.”



“Forty dollars.” In a fog she completed the transaction, and looked around, all the while shaking her head to clear it. Something was odd, very odd indeed. For one thing, Ernie was snoring, his head propped on an electric chainsaw. And the chickens were gone. Winnie and Franklin had been poultry-napped. She shook Ernie awake.



Quickly they packed up Ernie’s wares and headed to the front gate to report the theft. “There’s something I have to tell you,” said Ernie. A fireman with a weird beard offered me forty dollars to let you use the chair. I didn’t see anything wrong with it at the time.



“Someone took Winnie and Franklin. Do something!!” by the time they got to the entrance, Ezzie was near panic.



“Call 911” said Murray.



Ernie whipped out his cell phone. I’d like to report a robbery,” he said. “A hen and a rooster.”



“Chickens!” Murray’s face turned red. “All that fuss for poultry!! Read the sign –‘Not Responsible for Lost or Stolen Items’. Go find a lobster to complain to.”



Ezzie turned to Ernie. “What did the cops say?”



“They took a report.”



And Ezzie began the slow walk back home. “At least let me drive you,” said Ernie.



"Okay." What the heck. She was still feeling groggy. They were halfway to her apartment before Ezzie realized that she didn’t know anything about Ernie, and he may have been in on the chicken-napping.



Once inside the house, Ezmarelda yelled, “I need to pee,” and she grabbed the magic eight ball and shut herself in the bathroom.



“Can I trust Ernie,” she asked.



“Ask again later.”



“Why would anyone steal Winnie?”



“Reply hazy. Try again.”



“Where is she now?”



“1214 Palos Verdi Drive. Try the roof.”



“Will I get her back?”



“How should I know? I’m only a kid’s toy.”



She flushed and ran out. “We have to go,” she said. “1214 Palos Verdi Drive. They’re up on the roof.”



“How do you know?” Ernie asked as they ran for the car.



“Ask again later,” said Ezzie.



Meanwhile, at 1214, Palos Verdi Drive, Mephi the Magnificent (Yes, he’s the one who stole the chickens.) stood in his living room examining his catch. He reached inside the cage, grabbed Winnie’s neck and said “I wish to be the most famous magician since Houdini. No, make that even greater than Houdini – the greatest magician ever.” Winnie fainted dead away. Franklin cowered in the far corner squawking and shivering. Mephi stood back waiting to feel something different. He touched his arms, his chest, his face. That seemed to trigger a sneezing fit. Then a coughing fit. He rubbed his eyes and realized that he’d made a huge mistake. He tore into the bathroom looking through his medicine chest for Claritin. Mephi was allergic to chickens. Who knew?



Unable to find Claritin, Mephi washed his hands and face and changed his clothes. But he was a messy magician. The only clean cloak he could find was battery powered with a hundred and forty multi-colored light bulbs that wrote Mephi the Magnificent across the back. Oh well, it had always been his favorite. He flipped the switch, and his cape turned on.





With the poultry cage in his hand, Mephi climbed the outside stairwell that lead up to the roof. He reached inside the cage hoping to wish for the sneezing to go away, but as he grabbed Winnie, she fainted in his hand, and Franklin, forgetting everything else, took a huge peck out of Mephi’s hand. Mephi flew into a rage, and grabbing Franklin by his scrawny legs, pulled him out of the cage, and whirled him around like a yoyo. And that’s what Ernie and Ezzie found - Winnie, in a faint inside the cage, Franklin, being dragged squwaking by his legs, and Mephi, cussing and sneezing and hopping up and down on one leg.



Ezzie was able to reach inside the cage and stroke Winnie’s feathers. “I wish Franklin were strong and brave,” she said. And with that, Franklin flew upward into the night sky. Mephi immediately, dropped the rooster. You’d think that was it, but Franklin got a strange gleam in his eye, like a bear who suddenly realized that the hunter has just used up his last bullet. He swooped down and grabbed Mephi’s cloak.



“No-o-o-o.” said Mephi, but Franklin wasn’t listening. With Mephi below him, Franklin swooped twenty feet above the roof top, only to plunge into a dive towards the street below. Ernie brought out his cell phone and took pictures.



“No-o-o-o-o”



Franklin broke out of his dive a mere two feet above the concrete, and Mephi’s toes banged against the curb as Franklin started his second ascent. Thirty feet above the ground, Franklin tossed Mephi over his head and caught him by his beard.



“No-o-o-o-o”



Holding him by his beard, Franklin swung him around in a circle. Then with a mighty crow, he looped the loop, executed three rolls, flew dead center towards 1214 and pulled out of his deadly trajectory with the smallest of margins to spare. Spinning Mephi like a top, he threw him around catching him by his shoes, his beard, and finally by his cape. With the last catch, Franklin’s claw shorted out the cables in Mephi’s cloak, and he crackled in a glorious blaze of red, white, and blue sparks, creating a grand finale, to rival the finest fourth of July fire display since

1776. And finally Franklin set Mephi gently on the rooftop and dropped to a perfect two point landing.



Ezzie had Winnie in her lap and was gently petting her feathers and smiling from the sheer beauty of the aerial display.



At that Mephi came towards her menacingly. “It’s my chicken.” He said and he glared at Ezzie. And she knew he was right. No matter how much she loved Winnie, the hen belonged to Mephi the Magnificent.



“Oh, Winnie, I wish you were just a regular chicken,” she said.



"No-o-o-o-o.”



And, sneezing the whole way, he threw Ernie, Ezzie and the flock of chickens together with their cage out on the street.



The aerial acrobatics had not gone unnoticed. Several viewers who had witnessed the strange display, reported it to the police and to various tabloids. “UFO sighted over Palos Verdes Drive.” Strange occurrence witnessed in the night sky. Inquiring minds need to know.



Ezzie and Ernie superimposed the pictures from Ernie’s camera above the New York skyline. It now appeared that Mephi was sailing hundreds of feet in the air. Ezzie wrote the accompanying article:



“Enquiring minds can rest easy tonight. Mephi the Magnificent and his amazing magical powers have made the world safe for mankind. In the flight of death, he soared into the night sky and defeated an alliance of alien space ships using weapons highly classified by the CIA.



Mephi the Magician is appearing nightly at the Orange Pickle, 1244 Stratford Street in downtown New Brunshire. Two drink minimum.”



Ezzie reread the copy while strooking Winnie. I owe it to Mephi, she thought.



They sent the photos and story to "Power to the Paper", the seediest tabloid in the business, and got paid seven hundred dollars. They also got a one year subscription to "Power to the Paper". Ernie like to read it with his breakfast.



A few months later, as Ezzie was frying eggs, he was reading "Power to..." and noticed it. “Guess what? You’ve been nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.” He said.

Saturday, July 7, 2012

The Molly Chronicles


Hi,

It's Molly back again.

I'm lunching - I mean launching a massive ad campaign to sell my human's e-book, "Temporary Address."

Everywhere we go, we pass out our business cards. I want to get some flyers printed up too. So far I can't get any book signings because they usually don't allow dogs inside of book stores, especially dogs that shed a lot.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

The Molly Chronicles



Hey,

It's Molly here, with more blogging from my doggie point of view.

I'm composing a letter to Nancy Pelosi, asking her if she'd like to recomment "Temporary Address" to her constitiuents.

Meanwhile, I have foxtail trouble. My thick coat catches foxtails like crazy and then they work their way into my skin until my human has to take me to the ......... vet! #$%^#^!!!! Oh, the horror!#%$%#

But there's no way to chase squirrels without getting foxtails. A dog's gotta do what a dog's gotta do.


Monday, June 25, 2012

The Molly Chronicles

Hi, it's me Molly the border collie here.

Bo and I had a great e-mail chat. But he's pretty busy taking care of President Obama, not to mention Michelle and the girls.

He also likes liver snacks and he said my human's book "Temporary Address" sounds woofy, and he can't wait to read it.  But he  doesn't have his own Kindle, so he has to wait for his turn to download the book from Amazon.




Friday, June 15, 2012


I felt I should post something serious for a change.  Molly, my collie alter ego will be back soon. This is a story I wrote a few years back.


San Francisco Story



            Call it sibling rivalry, but I had always considered myself smarter, and, by inference, better than my sister Alex.  I was especially haughty when she was in the last stages of alcoholism, and her whole body, including her thinking were showing the results of having been pickled in booze. 

In her teens and twenties, Alex had been oh-my-gosh gorgeous. Imagine a girl five – ten with long, long legs, blue eyes, glowing cheeks, gently waving chestnut hair, and a dresses and accessories that all looked like she was wearing them for the first time. She’d modeled for The Emporium and Macys, and everyone thought she was beautiful.  And she had a matching, laughing, happy personality that made you want to talk to her and, if you were a guy, to flirt with her. 

Now fast forward twenty years.  Imagine sallow, wrinkled skin, stained clothing, and the smell of tobacco, liquor, and, often, something much worse.  And according to her, everyone was a bitch or bastards unless she needed something from them.

As Alex’s life spiraled downward, I often got roped into helping her, and it was hard to tell where helping left off and co-dependency began. 

            Anyway, one day I drove her to her bank on Market Street in San Francisco, feeling used, self-righteous and huffy the whole way.    You should never drive to Market Street in San Francisco, if you can at all help it.  Side streets join Market at weird angles; cars and buses creep along like three-legged possums; and the area is a mine field of one-way streets and no-left-turn intersections.  And, oh, the pot holes!  They’re just lying there waiting to attack your tires.  So many pot holes!!!  

I also got huffy at the idea of paying to park the car.  Downtown SF parking is outrageously expensive.  And, yes, I was going to be the one paying for the parking.   The nearest parking garage was several blocks from the bank, and Alex was pretty sick and a very slow walker.  I decided to just let Alex off by the bank and drive around while she withdrew her money.

            I let her off at a bus stop about a half a block from the bank on one of the side streets.  “But where will we meet?” she asked, hoping that I’d come with her.  That wasn’t going to happen. 

            “Right here at the bus stop.”  I was mildly irritated that she had been the one ask such an obvious question, since, as I said, I was the smart one.  I dropped her off, turned onto Market Street and drove around aimlessly for a few minutes, avoiding pot holes and other motorists.  There were a few metered parking spaces here and there, and I pulled into one of them and sat in the car until I got totally bored.  I decided to drive by the bus stop and see if Alex was there yet.   

It was the weirdest thing - I couldn’t find the bus stop.  I couldn’t find the street that the bus stop was on.  (Sense of direction was never my strong suit.)   Cars magically appeared daring me to hit them, and between avoiding collisions and watching for one-way streets and no-left-turn signs, I got very confused.  In a nutshell, I couldn’t find the bus stop. 

I thought maybe I’d have better luck on foot.  I found a fifteen-minute metered spot, pulled into it, and set out to find my sister.

            It was cold, and the sky was threatening rain.  I hugged my jacket tight around myself, but I was still cold.  And I felt the first pang of guilt.  Alex’s body didn’t regulate temperature.  She’d be cold inside a room with the heater going full blast.  Out on the street without a warm jacket like mine, she must have been freezing. 

            I walked along Market looking up and down the side streets trying to identify the one with the bus stop, threading my way through the crowds. 

The people on Market Street break up into two groups – the suits and the street guys.  The suits are the ones with business downtown.   The men wear suits and ties, and have good haircuts and leather shoes.  They carry briefcases.  Watches peep from under the cuffs.  Their stride is long and with purpose.  The women wear either suits or high-fashion dresses.  And you hear the chink, chink of their high heels on the sidewalk, and the soft swish of their nylon stockings.  Here and there you catch the flash of accessories – dangling hoops, and chunky necklaces.  And, of course, there’s the occasional Starbucks, safely contained inside its cardboard sleeve.

 The street guys wear anything and everything - dusty jackets with clumps of newspapers stuffed inside for insulation, fatigues, serapes, jeans and Dockers. Their clothing can be decorated with studs, and brads, frayed edges with torn knees, raspberry jam stains and cigarette burns.  They protect their feet with everything from combat boots to running sneakers,to knee-high moccasins tied with green string.

            A minute or two later, I entered Hallidie Plaza.  It was originally designed as a sort of town square, but most of the trees had been cut down, and the benches had been ripped out. The suits passed through Hallidie Plaza as quickly as possible, while the street guys and pigeons lingered.

A couple of artists had set up folding tables, peddling jewelry displayed over a bright purple cloth.  Another group was beating on drums and while a guitarist strummed a tune I couldn’t recognize.  An upside down tambourine invited the passersby to throw in some coins or – even better – paper money.  I can’t tell you what their faces were like.  I didn’t look.  I didn’t want to make eye contact.

            I’ve always been a little scared and put off by street guys.  It’s not that I was afraid they’d hurt me or anything.  It was more that I’d be embarrassed, that I wouldn’t know how to say “no”, or that I’d be talked into doing something I didn’t want to do, or giving something I didn’t want to give.

I’ve always considered myself better than the street people, and, as a Christian, I’ve always felt guilty for thinking that way.  But – but – but – I liked that better-than feeling.  Whenever I’d feel small and guilty and dumb, it was nice to be able to point to someone smaller and guiltier and dumber than me.   I think advertisers and politicians manipulate us by our love of gossip and put downs.

In one corner of the plaza, a man, a portly guy, with a balding head and skin like weathered lumber was selling something.  Street person.  He’d typed a religious quote next to a clip-art picture of a dove, and he’d copied these over and over on a sheet of typing paper.   Then he’d cut them apart to make bookmarks.  Very enterprising!  I avoided his stare.  I think the quote was, “God loves you.”  I walked along the streets.  Still no sister.  Still no bus stop. 

I hugged my jacket tighter.  I peered up and down the side streets.  A street guy, hunkering down inside a doorway, was lining his jacket with newspaper.  I kept on looking.  It really shouldn’t be this hard to find a bus stop. 

I had to go back to my car and move it.  But it was almost four o’clock.  After four, commute traffic regulations would be enforced, - no parking between four and six p.m. - and any cars parked by the meters would be towed.  So I had to find Alex soon.   I walked along Market Street searching the cross streets for something familiar.  I hugged my jacket harder.  I was running out of time.  It was getting really cold.  And I was scared for Alex.  I asked God, “What do you want me to do?” 

            I had entered Hallidie Plaza again, and I was walking past the man selling bookmarks.  His jacket was worn at the edges, and dirty shirt sleeves poked out at the cuffs.  His shoe had a hole.  But he was handling the cold better than I was, and he seemed happier than me – even though I’d eventually get away from Market Street, but he’d probably be back tomorrow. 

And, as I searched for Alex without success, reality slapped me in the face – I was no better than the man with the bookmarks. I really looked at him.  And I had to acknowledge him as a human being, a member of my family of human kind.  How much for a bookmark?” I asked. 

“25 cents.” 

How many should I get?  I bought one, and I gave him his quarter.  “God bless you,” he said.  “Thank you,” I answered and I meant it.  For that moment, I understood that we were the same.  I was no better; he was no worse.  We were people.  Capable of great good, capable of stupidity and baseness.  And while I was hugging my jacket and feeling like shit for losing Alex and leaving her freezing in the streets in the cold, he was smiling and clearly God was pleased with him.   

It was a moment only, a window into God’s love.  I understood that he and I were both pilgrims walking on the downtown streets, no more and no less - he selling his bookmarks, I searching for Alex. 

He said, “God bless you,” and I took in the words trying to hold onto them, trying to absorb the blessing down to my bones.  Because I needed it badly.

“God bless you, too,” I said, wishing that I could give him as much as he’d given me.  Maybe I should have bought more bookmarks. 

            I decided to go inside Alex’s bank.  Inside, the tellers were wearing suits and coordinating jewelry.  And I was aware of my jacket, not filthy, but demonstrating less fashion sense than the bank tellers’ outfits.  But I was still better dressed than the street people.  I waited to talk to one of the tellers.  And I wondered if the street people would get to talk to a teller as I was going to do, or if they would be told to move on because of their shabby clothes.   But, of course, I was projecting my own judgments on the tellers.  I told the teller I was looking for Alex, and she said that she’d helped my sister, and that she had noticed Alex turning right when she left the bank.  I had been looking in the other direction.  I ran back to my car.  I had about two minutes till they’d begin towing parked cars.  And I drove past the bank, where I immediately found the street and the bus stop and Alex. 

            I had the heater running full blast.  I pulled up to the bus stop where Alex was waiting, shivering badly.  I handed her my jacket as she climbed into the car. 

            It wasn't the end of the story.   Alex pulled on my patience many times after that.  I never knew quite how to handle the situation.  I did my best.  I tried to remember the person underneath the alcohol, the kid who’d run to do the dishes after a family meal, the one who’d give up Saturdays to take Mom shopping.  I remembered the sister who’d played paper dolls with me, and who’d been my maid of honor, and the special sister-to-sister moment which had been far too few.

            In the end, one day, she stepped off of the curb on Market Street, fell and hit her head, and was rushed to San Francisco General Hospital.  At the hospital, she went into a coma, and never recovered.  She was forty-eight years old when she died.  

             

Sunday, June 10, 2012

The Molly Chrinicles

Hi,
It's Molly the border collie here, with an update of our publishing career.

Our work hit a snag when my human found spider solitaire on the internet and I couldn't get her off of it. We're working on a paperback copy of  "Temporary Address". (Actually, I'm workin on it, and she's playing spider solitaire.)

 The electronic version is starting to sell. My human, Elaine, is scared to be pushy, but my friend Christine is great about smiling and handing out our business card.

I have some great ideas for our ad campagne.

Does anyone out there know Al Gore? If he can sell a video about carbon dioxide, surely I can sell a book about...well... you'll just have to read it.

Oh, by the way, if you don't want to buy it (for ninety-nine cents) you can read it for free. Just click the photos on the right side of this blog that are captioned with "Temporary Address" and the chapter numbers.

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

The Molly Chronicles



Hi,

My human and I are beginning our marketing strategy for getting "Temporary Address" widely distributed.

It's only available on e-book now, so my first thought is to publish it through Lulu on hard copy. This is very exciting! I look forward to public appearances and book signings with my human. Maybe people will by so impressed by the book that they'll offer me liver snacks!!!!!!

A dog's life is a good llife.

Molly signing off.

Monday, May 28, 2012


Hi,

It's Molly the border collie here.

I've turned my attention to my human's book. We had a heck of a time getting the formatting right, but, thanks to hard work, we now have an e-book available on Amazon.com. It's "Temporary Address" and you can read it on a Kindle or on your computer.

My human wants me to market the book because I'm cuter than she is. Good thing I have an enormous work ethic.

Molly signing off.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Hi,

This is Molly with a passionate plea to all you dog owners - Pick up after us dogs. We can't do it ourselves. We need opposable thumbs. Give a hoot; don't polute; the @%^$#^# you step in could be your own dog's.

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

The Molly Chronicles



Hi, Everyone,
It's me, Molly again.

I got in huge dog trouble!!!! And it wasn't my fault. My human left a monstrous ham bone on the kitchen counter unguarded. Of course I assumed it was meant for me and, being an oportunistic feeder, removed it from the counter before she could tell me otherwise.

It was worth it!!!!

Monday, May 7, 2012

The Molly Chronicles



Hi, It's me, Molly.

My human and I went on the "Bringing Back the Natives" garden tour. They mainly care about native plants, but they also try to create habitats for butterflies and birds and bees, but not squirrels or gophers.

I mostly had to stay and guard the car because for some reason they don't want lots of dogs wandering through people's back yards.

But Annie's Annuals has a very intelligent policy of welcoming polite dogs on leash. So I got to walk with my human around Annie's Annuals. I was very well-behaved, and didn't even barkor  do anything when we saw the chickens.

My human bought a tiny pink geranium, which she thought was a big deal, but it didn't smell like squirrel or gopher or anything interesting.

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

The Molly Chronicles



Hi,

I'm showing Tom how to steer the boat. I show him over and over and over and he still doesn't get it right.

My human, Elaine is trying to upload to HTML. When I get finished helping Tom, I'll help her. A collie's work is never done.

Molly signing off.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

The Molly Chronicles



Hi, Everyone,

Molly the Collie here,


Our house has been invaded by poltergeists, and I had to work extra hard to take care of them.  First was the stove. It started whistling. Then it began to warble. My human called a stove repair person who said the clock needed to be replaced. And he ordered the part. But I knew it was really a poltergeist. My human called Tom to tell him about the clock, and the poltergeist switched from whistling and warbling to clicking and knocking. I tried to read up about poltergeists on the internet. Then it switched back to whistling. It started out quiet and ended up shrieking so loudly that it hurt my sensitive ears.


The stove repair guy, who's name is Dave has a good appreciation of noble dogs like me. He said that he ordered the part and could install it in a few days. But I knew it was really a poltergeist.

That's when the poltergeist called his cousin Dudley who took up residence in the computer. The computer sounded like my dog cousin Astro digs for gophers and the rocks and dirt hit a metal sheet. So you just know it had to be a polergeist. But my human thought it was the fan in the computer, so she went to Staples and bought a new computer.

Meanwhile, I found out how to scare poltergeists away. It's a complicated combination of barking and growling and howling. It took me a few days to master it. But I finally succeeded and the stove stopped making noises. It happened at the same time that Dave, the stove repair guy, replaced the clock in the stove, so my human thinks the problem was the clock and not a poltergeist.

As for Dudley, the poltergeist cousin, to the best of my knowledge, he's living at Staples in the document shredder section. And those machines are supposed to be making noises like rocks and dirt falling against metal.

It's good to be back on line.

Molly 

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

The Molly Chronicles

Molly the collie here.

And we've had all kinds of excitement. A poltergeist got into our oven and our computer. I'll explain later. I had to go to the library in order to post anything, and, since the library doesn't allow dogs, I had to go incognito. I'm wearing dark glasses, a mustache, a sombrero and a pair of Osh Kosh overalls in order to sneak past the librarians. The things we litarary types have to do in order to publish. Being a dog is not as easy as you would think.

Molly

Sunday, March 25, 2012

The Molly Chronicles

On second thought, I'll make it "Food Dish with Treats."

Saturday, March 24, 2012

The Molly Chronicles


Hi, I'm back.

Tried to sign up for an art class, but they don't allow dogs in school. I think it's discrimination!!! Anyway, I'm working on my second painting. I'm going to call it "Food Dish".

Thursday, March 22, 2012

The Molly Chronicles




Hello, Hello,
Molly here.

My Auntie Pat doesn't believe that I painted "Dances with Gophers" - just because I'm a dog. She thinks you have to have opposable thumbs.

I created the long, sweeping brush strokes with my tail, and I used my whiskers for the shorter, more precise strokes. And of course my tongue and my paws produced the softer wash of the background. After I had finished, my human cleaned up the mess. (She complains a lot. Beethoven's wife didn't understand him either.)

Lastly, I used some materials from the garden to give it a natural touch. (No gophers were harmed in the making of this picture. Darn it!!!)

I feel I may have a talent for art, and I want to see where it takes me.

Don't worry - I won't neglect squirrel and gopher patrol.

Molly signing off.





Tuesday, March 20, 2012

The Molly Chronicles



Hi, All,
It's me, Molly.
Dances With Gophers


I tried my paw at abstract art.
Wish I had opposable thumbs.

Molly

Sunday, March 18, 2012

The Molly Chronicles


Hello,

Molly back again.


I've been asked how I keep my svelt figure.

It's not easy. My human tries, but she really is a wus, and we don't get anywhere near enough exercise. She wouldn't last five minutes herding sheep in the Scottish highlands.

I keep busy mostly taking care of the squirrels and gophers.

Up at the lake, I have a lot more to do, what with the chickens and cats. And, of course, the puppy Astro has to be looked after. 

But my most important job is taking care of my humans, and that does take a lot of energy.

Gotta go. My human is about to eat a snack, and I have to remind her to share. Manners are so important!

Molly

Saturday, March 10, 2012

The Molly Chronicles

I took my humans sailing on the bay.


Here I am enjoying a beautiful day out on the water.





I'm showing Tom how to steer the boat.




"Land Ho!"




 

Tom seems unwilling to share.







Spot lectures Jay about the dangers of falling asleep at the wheel.






This post has been re-printed by popular demand.

Molly

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

The Molly Chronicles




Hi, Molly here again. My human is freaking out. It seems that her novel got all messed up. So she's barking at the computer and mumbling about formatting and fonts and #@!@#$%^%$#$ computers. It got so bad that she was fifteen minutes late with my breakfast dish. I almost starved to death. 

I think she should let me write the novel. I would write about interesting stuff like squirrels and liver snacks, and the good smells you find when you go for a walk. Speaking of going for a walk, we should go right now. I'll go bark at my human.

Don't buy her book "Temporary Address" on Amazon.com. It's all squirreled up.

Molly signing off.