I made hard boiled eggs with bacon and honey-butter biscuits for breakfast this morning. It felt weird to celebrate Father's Day without a father for the third time.
 
I stood at the sink, peeling the eggs, thinking about Daddy and how we had been at odds for a great portion of my life. We butted heads and I once went five years without speaking to him. I didn't think he really noticed. It was always me who made the phone calls, making conversation about things that interested him. He would talk to me longer that way.
 
We spoke of cars he liked, cars that got the best gas mileage, since he was always in the market to buy a new car. He just couldn't take the leap and actually make the purchase. Decisions regarding spending money paralyzed him, even more so as he got older.
 
We talked about the stock market and the most recent stock The Voice of the Lord had instructed him to buy. The Lord was quite specific with those purchases, telling him about margins and selling short and all kinds of technical things that I didn't quite understand. It typically didn't end up going the way that he (and the Lord) intended, and he and Mama lived on a very tight budget for the 58 years they spent together. In hindsight we think he suffered from undiagnosed schizophrenia.
 
As it turns out, someone told me that Daddy was devastated by the telephone call standoff, begging my mom to call me to apologize for whatever had caused the standoff in the first place. I am sure neither of us really remembered.
 
One day I just picked up the phone and made the call. It was as if the five-year hiatus had never happened. He told me about his most recent epiphany regarding the peeling of hard-boiled eggs. Having been a mechanical engineer as well as a rocket scientist for NASA once upon a time, he thought about efficiency in design and this translated into everyday things: how to make the simple things in life more efficient. He had put a lot of thought into this egg-peeling thing. Why did some eggs lump and bump and lose a great portion of the egg white in a peeling while other eggs practically peeled themselves?
 
He thought about the shape of an egg. He sketched it on a sheet of draft paper he always had on hand. A perfect oval with one wide end and the other end narrowing, almost to a point. He used some math I didn't quite grasp to work it out. Where to start the peel? How could math and science make the peeling of an egg more consistent and efficient?
 
It had something to do with always starting at the wide end of the egg and tapping the shell a certain number of times to ensure the membrane that covered the egg white, would be caught up in the shell as you peeled. That was the key. Getting the membrane. He was onto something big. No more lumpy destroyed eggs for us. Eggs so smooth, it was a shame to cut into them.
 
I peeled eight eggs using his technique this morning, all perfect except that one that had cracked as it boiled. I wonder what he would come up with for that conundrum. I wish I could pick up that phone and ask him.
 
Lisa H. Owens
Inspired by boiled eggs and my Daddy.
Father’s Day, 2021.

There is a strange wind blowing. The kind of wind that whips the tree-tops around and around, giving them the appearance of wacky inflatable guy,  a ploy used by car lots to draw your attention. They suck you in with their garish colors and wildly flailing arms. You try to avert your eyes, to keep them on the road, but wacky guy eventually wins, and you find yourself sitting in the car-lot's parking area surrounded by a hungry sales team, wondering how you got there.

Like wacky inflatable guy, the trees draw me in. I gravitate toward a window, watching the trees, but become distracted by glass panes flecked with tiny bug carcasses and dust, and am reminded to add Windex to the grocery list...a list that has grown quite lengthy over the past weeks. As the food supply begins to dwindle, it becomes apparent: no one in this household likes to grocery shop. My mind wanders to the time there was a grocery-store-standoff in my home.
 
I'd had a disagreement with my husband over whose turn it was to go to the grocery store. It turned into a ridiculous argument which ended in a childish exchange of:

“It’s your turn!"
“No. It’s your turn!”
“I went last time.”
“No. I went last time.”
“You’re an idiot!”
“No. You’re an idiot!”
​
You get the point. A circular argument with no resolution. The final straw was, when after depleting all of the pantry items—even those packages of clumped lime Jell-O that were at least a decade old—I opened the fridge to find salt and pepper from a variety of fast food chains (Why were they even in the refrigerator??), two McDonalds' ketchup's, a handful of soy sauce packets and door shelves laden with near-empty condiments. Not many recipes you can make with that, although once upon a time, my brothers, my sister and I survived for a while on saltines, mayonnaise and ketchup (making a quasi-thousand island dressing and spreading it on the crackers); and we are still alive to tell the story.
 
The way I handled this pointless standoff, was to first take a picture of the mostly-empty refrigerator and send it to my brother. (We had a good laugh over that.) Then, after calling my husband by his most recent nickname, Condiment Man, I Googled “recipes using: salt & pepper, soy sauce, ketchup, sweet relish, honey mustard, whole-grain stone-ground mustard, yellow mustard, horseradish mustard, Dijon mustard (my husband loved a variety of mustards), mayonnaise, Miracle Whip, ranch dressing, Italian dressing, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and grape jelly. Google thought about it for a while; and then my computer crashed.  It was a funny thing.
 
The memory makes me smile. I resume my position at the dirty window and continue to watch the trees.
 
 
By Lisa H. Owens
Inspired by true events
[Weatherford  May, 2021]

[1973 - Clearwater, Florida]
​​​Clapping aroused me from a deep and peaceful sleep followed by my dad's exuberant voice echoing through the furniture-less house, “Who wants to go out to lunch today?”

“ME!” was shouted in unison from the four tousled heads peeking out from behind three-bedroom doors.

​“Well, get up and get ready for church. We are going to a new one today.”
 
We knew the drill. After quickly dressing in our Sunday-best (we were extremely poor; but our best was still passable), we grabbed a snack then headed out to embark on the clown-show that was the six of us and a guitar squeezing into our only car, a 1960 matte sky-blue Volkswagen Beetle. My seven-year-old sister, Julie, went first as Dad held the driver seat forward and the seat-belt harness down so her slim body could squeeze through the narrow gap. She climbed up-and-over the rear seat, into the “itchy wool" luggage compartment and immediately started scratching. “It’s itchy,” she complained to no one.
 
My nine-year-old brother, Greg, went next and slid across to the far passenger side of the back seat. He settled in, as the baby (Mama’s favorite), three-year-old brother Jeffrey, smiled and sat tightly pressed up against Greg’s leg, giving his thigh a sweet flat-handed pat. Being the oldest at twelve, I sat directly behind the driver’s seat, only desirable because Dad’s arm couldn’t reach me when he started swinging back, aiming for leg contact in frustration, as our shenanigans and nonsense typically reached an unbearable crescendo. All of us were packed in—sardine-esque—as Dad laid the five-and-dime guitar gently across three laps and Julie breathed, in that raspy pre-anaphylactic shock sort of manner, into my ear. Mom glided into the front passenger seat, cool as a cucumber, and immediately started fiddling with the back of her hair. Fluffing and pulling and plumping. The first unofficial Miss Mebane as a teen in the mid-1950s and still a beautiful woman after birthing four annoying children, she incessantly worried about her appearance.
 
Out of habit, she asked, “Does the back of my hair look alright?"
 
“Yes,” the four of us chimed on cue—not really looking.
Dad plopped down in the driver’s seat, buckled his shoulder harness, a safety precaution instilled in him when he was a pilot in the air force, and off we went.
 
We began the drive to visit a new church. We did this every so often, usually when Dad wanted to go out to lunch. We turned into the parking lot of a quaint little chapel and went through the clown-show in reverse. Guitar, me, Jeffrey, Greg, and Julie, now covered in hives. We drew a small incredulous crowd. Nothing to see here, folks! (Although, there was always something to see.)
 
We stood together—just one big happy family—then proceeded toward the front entrance, as Dad broke off to whisper to one of the deacons handing out Sunday-Worship bulletins. He and the deacon covertly glanced our way. Mama, the guitar and the four of us continued on to a back-row pew and sat down. Immediately fidgety, pulling out hymnals, visitors’ cards, and those little pencils, drew a stern look from Mama. Then Dad slid in beside her, raising eyebrows and frowning our way.
 
The service began, and as usual, I fell into daydreams of horses and beaches and the restaurant lunch to be enjoyed by us after the service, God willing. Images of seafood and hush-puppies and tartar sauce and high hopes that Dad would allow us to order a soft drink instead of ordering the free water this time...my reverie was interrupted by the pastor’s announcement,
 
“We have a special treat for you all. A visiting family would like to bless us with a musical performance this morning. Give me an AMEN!” Pastor shouted toward the rafters (and the heavens) in an attempt to startle this sleepy-eyed crowd into action.
 
I heard a few quietish “Glories,” and “Hallelujahs,” and one booming “AMEN!” from somewhere in the middle, as Greg—guitar in hand—Julie and I made our way to the front of the congregation. Jeffrey voiced his disapproval to be left behind with Mama and Dad; but his time in the limelight would come soon enough.
 
Turning to face our captive audience, Greg strummed a chord, and we broke into a lively rendition of “Do Lord.”
 
“Do Lord, oh do Lord, oh do you ‘member me,” we harmonized in practiced synchronization as the guitar kept us on pitch. The crowd awakened as elderly heads were nodding and feet were tapping—with that one “AMEN!” from somewhere in the middle—thrown into the mix.
 
“I got a home in glory land that outshines the sun. Waaay beyond the blue,” we continued, as Dad subtly smiled his encouragement.
 
One more round of the “Do Lord” chorus and we wrapped it up, shuffling back to our seats, glad it was over. “Bless their hearts," and “Precious angels,” and the “AMEN!” followed in our wake. Safely seated in the back row, out of the view of the congregation, my thoughts returned to lunch as I coughed to drown out my growling stomach.
 
After the service (surprisingly short, as these things went), we passed through small groups of elderly folks deep in conversations about things like high gas prices and aching joints as we headed towards the exit—just a quintessential Jesus-loving family—receiving pats on the head and compliments along the way. Dad broke off to speak to the pastor and deacons as Mama herded us to the Beetle to begin the clown-show one last time, drawing the amused incredulous crowd as usual, but with well-wishes for us this time around.
 
In Dad’s absence, I pulled the driver’s seat forward and held the shoulder harness down so Julie, whose skin-flare had finally calmed down a bit, climbed in the back for another round with the “itchy wool." Then the remaining three of us—and the guitar—squeezed into the back seat.
 
We had just gotten situated in the all too familiar humidity when long purposeful strides brought Dad alongside us. He had a big grin on his face and a neat fold of bills in his hand—bills the congregation had donated to the poor little misfits out of the morning-service’s offering plate. Stooping to look at us through the tiny triangle of a window that was the backseat’s only source of ventilation, he asked, “Who’s hungry?”
 
All of us (even Mama, always watching her waistline) shouted, “ME!”
 
“Let’s go to Red Lobster,” he said, plopping down into the driver’s seat. 

By Lisa H. Owens
Inspired by true events (1973 in Clearwater, FL)
First Publication: The World of Myth Magazine June 2022 Edition (coming soon)

[1980 - Somewhere in Alabama]
I was heading south through Alabama on US Highway 231 pushing 90 miles per hour, traveling from Tulsa Oklahoma to Largo Florida. It would be nice to think that I was driving my own fairly newish Econoline Van complete with luxury carpet and a premium sound system, but that would be me living the dream. The truth was, after checking a student bulletin board, I’d found another Floridian heading home for Christmas break who needed money for gas and would be passing by Largo on his way. It was a win-win situation for both of us.
 
Benny from Hollywood Florida was sleeping somewhere way in the back of this monstrosity. He told me early in the drive how he came to be the proud owner of such a huge van. His father...a used car salesman and apparently rather good at it...would often park a car with one side against a fence with the car’s “good side” facing out toward the sales lot. The “fence side” of the car might have a scratch or two or sometimes even a dent but with a lot of confidence and some fast talk, his dad could sell that car to just about anybody. The van was one of the good ones, purchased at an auction that he decided to pass on to Benny as a “going off to college” gift. About 11 hours into this 19-hour trip and running out of things to talk about, his eyes were finally weary of watching the road. I hesitated briefly before agreeing to take the wheel. My driver's license had just expired, and I had plans to renew it when I got home. I decided not to let him in on this small fact and so now here we were…midnight with me speeding along jittery on caffeine and him snoring from somewhere behind.
 
The tunes were loud, and I was singing along, and we were passing through Alabama when I saw flashing lights coming up fast in my rear-view mirror. Dread filled me as I remember the expired driver’s license and poor Benny snoozing without a care in the world. I slowed down and eased to the shoulder as flashing lights followed close behind.
 
A rumpled head of hair on a squinty-eyed Benny sprang up, rudely awakened from an all too short nap, looking around with a puzzled expression.
 
“Uhmm…I might have been speeding and my license might have expired,” I mumbled. He was instantly alert and crouched forward to plop into the front passenger seat with a grouchy look on his face.
 
I watched as a beer-bellied Alabama State Trooper swaggered to my window and noticed his hand resting on his firearm. My hands gripped the steering wheel and I did a double-take when I saw that he was wearing mirrored sunglasses...at midnight. I felt like I was in the movie “Smokey and the Bandit.” I looked to my right hoping to see Burt Reynolds in the passenger seat, but it was still-angry Benny.
 
I handed over my license. He glanced down and began a slow head shake and his eyebrows lifted (barely visible above the mirrored glasses), as he drawled, “This is not uh valid liiicense. Doo yooou have uh valid liiicense?”
 
“No sir,” I responded, and I was asked to step out of the van. I was apparently going to be driven down to “the station” to be detained and the details were unclear, as I could only hear the sound of my rapid heartbeat pulsing in my ears. I had never been in trouble in my life and this was not a good time to start. Christmas. Just a little babysitting money in my wallet. Benny, a boy I barely knew, and would he just leave me stranded?
 
I was ushered into the back seat of the police cruiser and Benny was ordered to follow. A big hand rested on my head as I ducked down and slid into the back seat. I noticed another man in plainclothes already seated in the front passenger seat. He briefly glanced back at me and I looked down in shame.
 
We started the journey as Smokey, still in sunglasses, spoke into his handheld radio alerting the “station” that he was bringing in...I wasn't sure but thought he said…a prisoner. I looked back and good old Benny was still close behind.
 
Smokey asked me where I was going in such a hurry and I told him that Benny and I were students at ORU (Oral Roberts University). We were going home for the holidays, so I had planned to renew my license while there. He chuckled and looked over at his friend and they both looked back my way as he asked if I liked gospel music, since I was a student at a Christian university. I told him that I did indeed like gospel music and used to attend all-night “Gospel Sings” in North Carolina with my Aunt Joyce and Uncle WT as a young girl.
 
 I saw his eyebrows arch up above the top rim of his sunglasses again, registering surprise, as he asked who my favorite gospel group was. I thought back to my childhood and of the electricity in the air as group-after-group of old-time gospel singers and bands would perform—each selling original cassette tapes in the back of the auditorium once they finished their sets. There was no doubt in my mind who my favorite group was. They were the reason I loved attending these marathon events that ended in the wee hours of the morning.
 
“I always loved a group called The Florida Boys,” I said. Looks of surprise were directed my way from the officer and his under-cover passenger.
 
“Why were they your favorite?” the trooper asked.
 
“They had this great piano player. His fingers would fly over the keys and he would turn his back to the piano and could play with his arms behind him. He was a real showman but the things I most remember were his big mustache and the red socks he always wore. He always got teased about them but would just laugh it off.”
 
A smile passed between the trooper and his friend as he asked, “Do you recognize this man?”
 
I began to look at the passenger in earnest now. He had a mustache and a little gray in his hair and maybe looked a little familiar. The man lifted his leg and crossed it onto his knee and pointed at his ankle. He was wearing red socks with a pair of scuffed black leather dress shoes.
 
I was baffled but my curiosity peaked. “Are you a fan of The Florida Boys too,” I inquired.
 
He laughed and said, “I like their music a little bit. Not too sure about that showboat piano player though.”
 
The trooper piped up and said, “I see your point. That dang piano player is a big ole ham.” They both laughed and then he continued on, “But seriously! This guy IS the piano player from The Florida Boys.”
 
I looked at him even closer now adding about ten years to my mental image. It was true. This was the piano player from my favorite group, The Florida Boys. He was on a ride-along with his friend, the Alabama State Trooper and I was let off with a warning and an autograph from my childhood idol that said, “Slow down! Derrell Stewart”.
 
 
By Lisa H. Owens
Inspired by true events.
(1980: Somewhere in Alabama headed to Pensacola, Florida)

​[My Dogs' Stories Part-One]
The recent death of Neo, our 14-year-old boxer mix has sent our other two dogs reeling, so trying to keep their lives to the normal routine, we decide not to cancel their previously scheduled grooming appointment.  “You want to help me take Buddy and Dingo to PetSmart?” I plead. “Not really,” my husband frowns, “But I will.”

We get leashes off the wall hook which immediately starts a cacophony of barking, Dingo's aging vocal cords sounding like a sea lion.“Who wants to go in the car?” I ask as wagging tails beat a happy rhythm on my calves.

Buddy, our large terrier-mix typically saturated with dust and stickers, has his annual spring haircut and Dingo needs a bath. This is the first time Dingo, our German shepherd mix, is going to PetSmart and I have high hopes that it goes smoothly. We never know when he is going to act quirky since, as a puppy, he was dumped on the street and has a few trauma-related issues. My husband says that if Dingo was a human at a party, he would be the weird guy in the corner.

We get the dogs situated on their canvas seat-cover—Buddy looking out the window smiling; ears forward, tongue lolling while Dingo hunkers down, in the floorboard, instincts telling him a bath is coming.

A late arrival sends my husband scurrying ahead with Buddy while I am still working with Dingo on exiting the car. Finally coaxing him from his floorboard cocoon, we double-time it through the wide automatic doors, and stepping onto a Welcome Mat the size of Texas; I glimpse Buddy just rounding a distant corner. 

Stepping off the mat and feeling dead-weight at the end of the leash, I turn to see Dingo, back feet still on the rug, splayed out while front toenails dig for purchase on the floor…the slippery floor.

“Who wants bacon?” falls on deaf ears as I struggle to get him up and moving while a semi-circle of shoppers gawk. “What’s the matter with your dog?” a loud voice surges from somewhere in the growing crowd. 

“He is afraid of slippery floors,” I answer, stretching for a just-out-of-reach shopping cart. 

Planting my feet with both hands on the leash now, I gently tug bringing Dingo upright and hear a smattering of applause from our audience. Increasing the pressure, his body moves forward, off the mat and his toenails scrape the floor, a piercing “nails on a chalkboard" sound emanating.

Finally able to grip the cart, I drag it closer, spin and lift my 60-pound trembling bundle of fear, lowering him only to have legs and toenails latch on to the sides as the cart begins to roll away. An elderly woman, the only watcher without a cell phone recording, steps up to assist, holding the cart stable as I unhinge paws from the cart’s top edge and situate my big baby in the center of the basket. A bead of sweat drips off my forehead and we start to roll, now very late for his appointment.

Two preteen girls inject “Isn't he a little big for the cart?” as we pass, Dingo and I not even dignifying that with a response.

We arrive at the grooming area of the store, seemingly miles from the entrance, to find my husband seated comfortably on a bench. Expression puzzled at the sight of Dingo panting in the back of a shopping cart and sweat glistening on my forehead, he inquired “What took you so long?”


By Lisa H. Owens
Inspired by true events. 
Published in the Stephenville Empire-Tribune and Glen Rose Reporter - [May, 2019]
Posted on Beneath the Surface News
​
(Click to Read Part 2)

​[My Dogs' Stories Part-Two]
“Let’s go pet puppies,” I whisper, rousing my husband from his Saturday morning slumber. Rolling over with one eye slightly open, “We know how that always turns out,” he mumbles closing the eye and feigning sleep. “This time I won’t bring one home,” I say with fingers crossed under the blanket.

We had recently lost our boxer mix at the ripe old age of 14; white muzzle, bleary eyes, and a little drag in a hind leg. Step, step, step, drag, as our evening walks became shorter and shorter. Our other two dogs—both rescues—were inconsolable without him, hiding under the bed and ignoring their food bowls. These two 60-pound mutts needed a new leader and I aimed to find them one…fingers still crossed under the covers.

Coffee mugs in hand, we head to the local animal shelter, my anticipation building. As we enter the parking lot, I can barely contain my excitement and wrap my fingers around the door handle ready to exit while the car is still rolling.

“Calm down,” my exasperated husband says as he turns into a space and puts the car in park. 

A chorus of barking greets us as we enter the first of two long buildings laden with dog runs and...puppies. By puppies, I mean dogs of all breeds, sizes, and ages; some big and slobbery, some tiny and frail but all lovable in unique ways.

We make our way slowly down the center aisle, stopping to give ear rubs and nose tickles through the chain-link barrier that makes up the interior wall of each run. All the while dogs are performing to get our attention. Each so desperate to get love, their barking reaches an ear-piercing crescendo. 

My husband is several paces ahead of me as we exit and move on to the second low slung building. I catch sight of him just disappearing inside as the door swings shut. Something catches my eye in the outside portion of one of the large dog runs. Did a ferret, opossum or wiry cat accidentally get in with the dogs? A little creature is pushing his rumpled face hard into the exterior area of the chain-link in an attempt to get closer to me. One little wonky cherry eye is looking up; the other crusted and closed.

My heart melts but my mind sees an elderly dog...easy to get attached only to have him cross the rainbow bridge too soon. I pull myself away, walking around to meet my husband on the inside. As we walk hand in hand down the aisle, I freeze in my tracks. That little critter is now in the interior section of his oversized dog run with his head squished into the chain-link again but this time making a little grunting sound. He is still looking at me with that one “good” eye. I sigh, reaching down to unlatch the door and squeeze my hand through the crack in order to stroke his knobby little head. He wiggles into my hand, wanting to be picked up. Lifting up his nearly weightless body, I feel a rash of little scabs covering his back and head but his curled tail is wagging furiously. I open his tiny mouth expecting to see an aged dental disaster only to discover puppy teeth. This little disaster is a baby and has not been treated well. 

He needs me. He needs us. My husband, my daughter, my son—who is only home for Christmas these days—and two 60-pound dogs looking for a leader.


By Lisa H. Owens
Inspired by true events - 4/28/2018
Published in the Stephenville Empire Tribune and Glen Rose Reporter  - [October 2019]

(Click to Read Part 3)

​​[My Dogs' Stories Part-Three]
I am at the local animal shelter holding this little shivering creature in my arms. He is looking up at me with the one eye that will open, the other crusted shut and swollen. 

“I have to adopt this little dog,” I say to my husband. I had promised him earlier that we were only going to pet puppies, but my fingers were crossed so that promise didn’t really count.

“Let’s take some time to think about it. Out of all of the dogs here, this is the last one I would pick,” not being a fan of the lapdog or the sick dog, it is a justified response by him.

“Okay,” I say and gently return this weightless puppy to the huge kennel they have temporarily placed him in, terrifying for one so small. Dogs are more comfortable in cozy places, especially when they want a place to lick their wounds to recover or even die. My heart breaks having to turn and leave him, his little face pushed into the chain-link gate once again, a low whine begging me to reconsider.

My husband looks at me suspiciously; “Okay, then,” and we turn to leave. He instinctively knows that I don’t give up this easily. The next morning, my husband is going out of town on a business trip and I am counting on this for my plan to work. 

“Do you want to go pet puppies?” I casually ask my daughter the next morning only moments after my husband vacates the house.

“Yes!” she exclaims without hesitation. So, we go, and we walk around inside the two buildings housing the dogs, a chorus of barks welcoming us every step along the way. It briefly enters my mind that my dog may not be there anymore, but I push that thought aside.

We are giving out a pet here and an ear scratch there and as we near the kennel (my ultimate target) I hold my breath then see that he is still there. (Yes!) “This is the little dog I saw yesterday,” feigning indifference. I want an honest response from her. We are looking for the right dog to take over as alpha since our beloved boxer mix passed away and I wonder if this little 10-pound critter will be up for the challenge. He will have to lead a pack of two quirky rescues, both over 60 pounds and unable to cope without a boss. They have spent most of their time crouched under my bed recently.

The name tag on his pen says Scruffy, an accurate description. “He is so cute,” my daughter says as she cracks the door to rub his face. I am hopeful. He is not cute now; but my daughter, like me, sees past his scruffiness, scabs, and cherry-eye to the dog he can be. I reach down and lift him out as his curled tail beats a frantic wag and hand him over. It is instant love, the little guy pressing his face into my daughter’s neck and snuffling. 
​
“Let’s take him home,” we simultaneously say followed by “Pinch, poke. You owe me a coke,” a tradition when we say the same thing at the same time. I take this as a good sign.

We carry him out of the building housing roughly half of the homeless dogs, and up to the adoption desk located in another building. The process is easy since we are repeat customers, having adopted Buddy from them previously. We decide to stop by our vet on the way home to have him checked out and after a thorough exam and shots, we are sent on our way with antibiotics and congratulations on the new addition to our family.

“Scruffy” also leaves the clinic with his new forever name. While we are in the waiting area, a lady at the checkout counter mentions that she once had a dog named Fred that looked a little like our new dog. He was a miniature schnauzer. My daughter and I looking at Scruffy detect schnauzer-like features and also a little of something else. Pug? He had an under-bite and curled tail. Chihuahua? Bulging eyes. Yorkie? The right color schemes. Probably a combination of all, a designer dog gone horribly wrong...or brilliantly right in our opinions. Made just for our family.

My daughter and I say it at the exact same time…“Let’s name him Fred! Pinch, poke. You owe me a coke!”  “Fred” it is. Now to break the news to my husband.


By Lisa H. Owens
Inspired by true events 

(Click to read Part 4)

[My Dogs' Stories Part-Four​
“Hi, Fred,” my daughter tries out our adopted dog’s new name as we are leaving the vet’s office. He was in such rough shape physically that we dropped in to have him checked out before heading home. Dr. B prodded and poked and opened his tiny mouth affirming what I already suspected. Even though Fred looked like an ancient dog with his wispy fur and spindly legs on a too-long body, he was a young dog with adolescent teeth. Probably a year or so old but seriously neglected. We wait on pins and needles for Dr. B to come back into the examination room, my daughter holding this quivering mass of puppy.

“Heart-worm test negative!” he exclaims handing me a fresh bottle of antibiotics and a tube of ointment. “Two a day until they are gone and plenty of high-calorie dog food and freshwater and he should be good as new.” He then instructs me to hold pressure on the small cherry-like protrusion highly visible in the inside corner of Fred’s right eye. “Put ointment on it a couple of times a day and hold pressure on it when you can. This should keep it from getting worse, kind of pushing it back under the lid. We can surgically repair it if it gets bothersome.” Surgery will be the last resort option...which is good news.

We thank Dr. B profusely, proceeding to check out and then, once again, load up in the car—my daughter holding Fred tight, and drive the remaining mile home. We have high hopes that Dingo, always a little quirky, and Buddy, always rumpled, dusty, and lovable, will accept him as their new leader or at least a new friend.

Pushing the garage door opener starts a cacophony of joyous barking from inside the house. I walk ahead and crack the door that opens into the kitchen. “Who wants a new puppy?” I ask as we walk in with a now growling and shaking Fred. Blank stares emanate from Buddy and Dingo as we sit on the couch, Fred in my lap, for introductions. Dingo feigns disinterest after a quick sniff directed toward Fred but Buddy begins to get excited. 

“Welcome, Fred!” he barks as he proceeds to show Fred all of the cool things a dog can do at our house. Buddy runs back and forth itching his sides on the leather sofa; all the while casting glances at Fred to be sure he is watching. He brings a toy over, laying it on the couch in front of the still growling Fred. “This is the water bowl!” as he, still looking sideways at Fred, runs over and begins to take largely exaggerated laps of water from the newly filled water dish. He prances back over to us, mouth still dripping and face in a wide smile. “Wanna play?” Fred’s growling ceases as he tentatively begins to chew on the gift in front of him, Buddy’s favorite toy. Dingo glances over, feigned disinterest disappearing as his tail starts to beat a slow rhythm on the hardwood floor. “I guess you’re okay, Fred,” he begrudgingly whines. Fred creeps off of the couch and curls up in the little makeshift blanket-bed my daughter has placed on the floor between Buddy and Dingo, the spot usually occupied by Neo until his recent passing. The stars are realigned and order is restored. Two 60-pound beasts have found a new 10-pound but fearless leader. 

Now the hard part...placing that phone call to my husband, still out of town. He said he didn’t want that little sick dog when we first spotted him at the shelter. Not a fan of lapdogs. Little does he know how his life and this household is about to be transformed by taking a chance on this doomed little guy. Welcome home, Fred.

By Lisa H. Owens
Inspired by true events 

(Click to read Part 5)

[My Dogs' Stories Part-Five]​
My daughter snaps a quick close up pic with her iPhone—“Smile, Fred!”—and opening her text messages enters the nine-digit phone number of her dad. “Look what we got,” in the text line, accompanies the photo of a grumpy little wiry face. 

We wait on pins and needles for a response. We snuck off to our local animal shelter, on the sly, only minutes after my husband left for a business trip. Our mission...to adopt this little critter in much need of medical attention and a loving home. He has already ingrained himself as leader of this pack of two large quirky rescue dogs. Fred is the ten-pound leader, dictating the food bowls so we had to spread them apart to opposite ends of the house. Otherwise, Buddy and Dingo wouldn't be allowed to eat. His skinny legs make it hard to guard both bowls, so he stands guard—in the middle—casting a growly face, first left, then right, warning two 60-pound dogs away. They are happy to abide by his new rules having been lost and distraught when Neo, their 14-year-old leader passed away just a month earlier leaving them aimless and shaken. They will happily eat when Fred says it is okay.

A “ding" indicates a notification has arrived on my daughter’s phone. We look at each other, tense, as she clicks the message to open. “You got THAT dog?” my husband’s exasperated response pops up and is shortly followed by several emojis, angry, sweaty, bug-eyed, and resigned. We smile at the resigned little cartoon face and say, “YES!” My husband has recently discovered emojis and uses them in series now instead of words. Easier than the slow process of typing with “sausage fingers".

I quickly pick Fred up for a hug and am rewarded by a startled nip to my cheek. We have to remember that this guy suffered some serious abuse and he will need time to overcome his fears. “No face bites,” I scold him, and he pensively licks my reddening cheek.

My husband finally parks in the driveway, making it home after an overnight work-laden trip. We have bathed, brushed, and given Fred a little full-body Mohawk in anticipation of their first official meeting. We are not sure how this meeting will go, given the still unknown list of Fred’s fears, already realizing he is terrified of children, quaking and panting and baring teeth earlier in the vet’s office as a sweet little girl approached, “Pet doggie?" her mission. A child must have tortured this sad little dog. It is our hope that he tolerates being around a man without the same heart-wrenching panic.

The side door opens and my husband walks in, a little squeak emanating from a wonky wheel on the duffel bag he rolls behind him. I look at my daughter, she looks at me, we look at Fred and we all look at my husband. A little whine emanates from low in Fred’s throat. “My new Daddy!” he jumps from the couch and tail wagging, prances and dances and spins a happy bark resounding. We are relieved as my husband lifts Fred up into his arms and is assaulted, his face slathered with kisses.

“You never listen to me,” my husband scolds. “Thank you,”...long pause, the wheels in motion behind his eyelids as he comes up with the punch line…"for NOTHING!” and he laughs but I notice his hand. It is still massaging Fred’s little head.

By Lisa H. Owens
Inspired by true events 

(Click to read Part 6)