Yesterday morning I took my poodle, GalleyCat, out for a walk in the park. Waiting for GalleyCat to finish his business at his favorite peeing tree, I noticed a woman in killer red stilettos chasing after her own poodle. The poodle, decked out in a pink tam, had about fifty manuscript pages in his mouth, dragging them in the mud.

"Stop!" The woman yelled. "I need to read that partial when I donate blood!"

The poodle, which looked rather metrosexual, dashed toward me so it was only natural that I bent down and snagged his rhinestone-studded leash, a good thing as one of the woman's killer long heals snapped.

The woman fell the ground crying, "Oh, my bunions! Damn you fashion!"

I took the pages from the dog, giving them a quick glance. Someone had written a clever beginning to a novel involving aliens and ice cream. I thought of my own clever novel, kept in my purse (at all times, ya know just in case) in a manila folder paper-clipped to a SASE.

The poodle and GalleyCat were getting around to some serious butt sniffing and the woman seemed too broken up over the shoe to come get him. Sighing, I dragged the two to where she sat on the sidewalk.

"I'm afraid it's a little muddled." I handed her the manuscript back.

"Oh, it's more than a little muddled. To wit, 'the alien sunk his terrapin into the outer carton of ice-cream.' Terrapin? I think this writer meant to say 'trepan‚ because that's a drill, while a terrapin is an--"

"Edible turtle that lives in brackish water." I finished, thinking of the story in my purse, it was rife with terrapins.

The woman took her rhinestone-studded glasses off and began to wipe them on her faux mink coat. The frames of the glasses matched her dog's leash. "Yes, that's right. I'd personally deliver Dick Cheney to PETA for a decent novel about turtles. Instead I'm gonna need a whole bucket of gin to get through this pile of crap."

Without hesitating, I pulled the manila folder from my purse, prancing like an overeager puppy. The woman looked at me sadly. "You're a writer, aren't you?"

"Unpublished." I agreed.

She sighed, and held out a hand for the folder. "I hope you haven't written another will-o-the-wisp hook bogged down by it's own repetitive redundancy." But she took the papers anyway, got to her feet, broke up the promenading poodles and tottled away, telling her dog, "Come on Killer Yap, I need to watch some old ER Clooney to relax."

"What a snarky thing to say" I thought, pulling GalleyCat after me as I headed for home.

Miss Snark looks for the spy cams...this is getting too close to life!

Scoring to come


JLB said...

Nothing wrong with hoping! "Be prepared," isn't that the Boy Scout motto?

Sam said...

LOL - very cute!

Self-appointed scorekeeper said...

-50! -50! Bat, books, boots and greasepaint? Hm?

Dog Pile said...

Oh, they're in there. You should read it again and this time try not to be so distracted by the cleverness of the writing. Of course, a lot of times, authors hide things in within their stories. Perhaps the words are something you find by "reading between the lines." (or maybe aliens stole them)