A Dog’s Story Journey

I’ve figured out how to describe arc in storytelling.

Arc is something I need to know, because as the cutest dachshund this side of theMississippi, I’m writing a children’s story with me as the main character.

Arc is the path from the story’s beginning to the middle and to the end. The path has lots of nice smells along the way for me to stop, sniff and ponder.

In my story’s beginning, I plan to describe an incident that sets up the conflict. I can think of plenty, like all the big dogs that try to walk by without paying me any heed. I bark loud and long, just to let them know, “Here I am,” with an “Aren’t I cute?” thrown in for a conversation starter.

Conflict arises because they just look at me like, “Excuse me, Little Missy, but you are awfully small.” They don’t tell me I’m cute, but trot on ahead.

I don’t agree with their “awfully small” business. I’ve got a big dog bark to prove them wrong, so I say, “B-A-A-R-K!!”

The conflict escalates as I try to prove that I am a big dog (okay, I do weigh 9.5 pounds) as I wag my tail. I am trying to say, “Yes, I am tough, but I also want to be friends.”

I find it frustrating that they respond by putting their doggie noses in the air as if to say, “No thanks, you’re not one of us.”

“But I am,” I say with a smaller bark and more tail wags.

As they continue walking away, I know how this will end. I have to stay behind all sad and lonely, all because I forgot how to play nice when all I really wanted to do was say, “Hi.”

They don’t get it, those big dogs.

My story is not resolved because I have this penchant for barking, because as I’ve said before, I bark, therefore I am.

The end.

See Shelley my pet parent’s blog on arc at http://shelleywidhalm.wordpress.com/2012/05/27/a-storys-arc/

A Dog’s Poetic Barking

When I bark, there is no subtext. It’s simply, “Woof, woof, yip and yap.”

I bark loud when I want to let the big dogs know that I am 9 ½ pounds of toughness.

I bark long when a noise – like a truck rumbling over the alley below my window or the neighbor click-clacks up the stairs – interrupts my quietude.

And I bark yippy and yappy to let my friends, along with any would-be-friends, know that I am here.

My vocabulary of different barks carries a variety of meanings. What I want to say is pretty obvious in the “hello, I’m here and I’m cute” message, though there is a bit of underlying meaning that the listener of my barks has to interpret.

Okay, I was wrong, there is subtext in how I express myself.

If I am engaging in zen with my dog bear, paddling my feet as I bite his neck, I bark with irritation at the interruption.

If I’m drifting to sleep, I bark a soft half-bark, saying, “Go away, I’m dreaming.”

Or starting to.

If I snarl with a bark, I’m pouting because I’m not getting my way. To emphasize my message, I go under the bed and take a timeout.

Shelley, my pet parent, put a rug on my pouting spot, but I walked over it (under the bed) to the spot next to it.

To pout, you need a lot of space. Not plush carpet-y stuff.

I need a blank slate, or floor, to figure out what I’m thinking. Woof! And bark, bark, bark. Sigh-h-h.

A Dachshund’s Toolbox

Writers like to say they have a toolbox, while it’s their dogs who like boxes.

I like tissue boxes and boxes slighter larger or smaller that I can rip apart into smaller pieces. Newspapers and envelopes also work for ripping.

I’m not interested in tools, because as a dog, I can’t build things, though I can dig.

With some imagination, however, I see that I have a tool, that of my cuteness. Don’t I look adorable in this photograph where I’m posing for the camera?

My cuteness stops traffic wherever I am, because people (most of them anyway) want to pet me. They say, “She’s so cute.”

Yeah, I know.

Another tool is my bark. What do I love about barking? you ask.

I like hearing my own voice, and I like grabbing attention. I like pointing out sounds, like the neighbor coming home, trucks driving down the alley and people talking on the other side of the window.
Do you think it’s easy to bark with all the steps I have to go through?

First, I hear a sound, lift my head and decide whether it’s a perceived threat, annoyance or stimulant (i.e. a potential visitor to pet and play with me). If I determine the noise needs an echo, I bark. If the noise is unusual or new, I bark loud and repeatedly.

Like I’ve said before, I bark, therefore I am.

My dog toolbox has cuteness, barking and oh no, not that.

“It’s time for your bath,” Shelley says.

I run under the bed to my secret spot where I hide when I want to have a pout or avoid things.

“Don’t you want to be clean and pretty? If you smell, no one will pet you.”

I don’t care, I bark to say.

After two hours of hiding, I realize I’m not getting a bath. I won! Until the next day when Shelley grabs me and hauls me to the sink.

So does my heart.

I so wish baths didn’t have to be in the toolbox, but that’s the way it is in a world where being clean matters.

See Shelley’s blog on writers’ toolboxes at http://shelleywidhalm.wordpress.com/2012/05/13/a-writers-toolbox/