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/

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.

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/

I figured as a dog, I could dig a little into what makes for good storytelling, because I’m not just about barking.

Call me Zoey the Super Cute Dachshund.

I am learning about the elements of fiction, so that by the end of the year, I will know how to write a puppy’s book, I mean children’s book.

Take plot, which in my shoe-less paws, is pretty exciting. The hook is my cute demeanor (check my photos and see just how adorable I am) that draws passersby into wanting to pet me.

The inciting incident of getting human attention always triggers my desire to get more pets and to be told that I am the cutest of all the cute dogs in the world. Sometimes this desire submerges me into a bit of trouble when I bark at the big dogs or from the vantage point of a coffee shop table or the patio, telling everyone, “Here I am. Come play!”

The obstacles to my getting visitors are the front door without a doorbell and Shelley, my pet parent, saying, “No bark,” to which I reply with an even louder bark and a snout in the air.

“You have to come in now,” Shelley says, and if I don’t, I’m picked up and brought inside.

Darn.

The other elements of fiction include:

• Setting, or wherever I am: downtown out on walks, the patio to see the city and Shelley’s Mom’s big, huge, wonderful backyard to run and run and have fun.
• Character, which is obvious in that I am the main character of everything, while the minor characters include Shelley, her friends and her family.
• Dialogue, or woof, bark and yip. Need I say more?
• Pacing, as in I run fast, I play hard and I sleep long.

As for theme, that should be obvious. Life’s not all about looks, but about beauty, or cuteness in my case, from inward out. It helps, however, that I’m cute to look at and have a cute personality to boot.

Chew on that, why don’t you?

The end.

* See Shelley’s blog on the writing process at http://shelleywidhalm.wordpress.com/2012/05/06/a-writers-quarterly-review/

I am out on a walk in downtown when I smell a tulip that serves as a dog’s version of Proust’s cup of tea.

 Dogs, particularly miniature long-haired dachshunds, don’t do tea.

But we have memories.

That tulip takes me back to the first time I heard birds sing; i.e. I had a flashback.

I was nine weeks old and Shelley, my pet parent, had just brought me home in February 2008. She introduced me to the backyard, where I was supposed to do this thing called potty, and I heard twittering going on. I cocked my head, my eyes widening, and I looked around. What was that? I asked with a sniff in the air.

“Oh my gosh! You are so cute!” Shelley said, gazing at me with the I’m-so-lucky-to-have-this-particular-dog look.

That was the second time I heard the word “cute” – the first was when Shelley and her mom visited me in the pet store. They were saying that I was expensive and something about wanting to rescue a dog – rescue me! – but that I was too cute not to take home.

Cute soon became part of my identity.

So, on this walk, Shelley and her friend Tim are talking about her blog on flashbacks, and Tim said, “You have to put up a photo of Zoey’s witch’s hat.

Oh-h yes, lots of memories are triggered by my Halloween costume from last year.

Shelley, Tim and I were in southernColoradovisiting Tim’s family and they did a photo shoot with me in my costume for a cute dog contest (which I didn’t win and still find to be a bit upsetting).

While there, I went outside with Tim and I saw a prairie dog. I looked at the mini-dog thing and at Tim and back and forth, thinking, “That ain’t no dog!”

Another time we were out in the yard, I did my potty thing along the fence and when we turned the corner, I saw this great expanse of fields that went on and on until it hit the sky. There was no way I could pee on all that.

I let Tim know with my eyes that this Fowler place is sure strange.

As are flashbacks, because they take me out of the present moment where all my senses are activated to a place and time where I was learning how to be and become me.

See Shelley’s blog at  http://shelleywidhalm.wordpress.com/2012/04/29/flashbacks-on-track/.

Zoey the dachshund believes that all story plots should be centered around her.

In a dog’s world, there may be such a thing as subplots, but, for me, it’s all about the main plot.

The main plot is what happens to and around me, particularly when it concerns food, going on walks, playtime and treats.

As the cutest dachshund in the world, I hook readers with the fact that I am cute and in how I express myself.

Bark! Woof! Wow!

When I encounter big dogs and cats, I bark extra loud to tell them to find their own story. They are not allowed to play any part in my plot, even though they are minor characters, so minor in fact that I can’t see or hear them.

MEOW! Hey cat, get out of my story.

Oh, I see a big Dalmatian while I’m on my walk. BAARRKK!

He just looks at me.

BARK! I say.

Is he seriously shaking his head, as if I’m some 9.5-pound little dog?

I am so, so insulted. BARK! I have the bark of a big dog, I let Mr. Dalmatian with his way too many spots know.

It is so unfair, I think, as I stick my nose in the air and continue on my walk through downtown, owning my world. I love it when people (i.e. minor characters) stop and ask to pet me. They are begging to have a chance to enter my world, and I let them, but only temporarily, as I roll on my back with the “pet me, please” tail-wag.

After about five or six petting sessions with various minor characters, I return home for some treats. My favorites are rawhides, milk bones and miniature cowboy steaks.

To sum up, this is the plot of my day: get up, pout when Shelley, my pet parent, goes to work, nap and bark at noises, run in joy circles when Shelley comes back, go on a walk with Shelley, play with Shelley and say goodnight.

Goodnight. I guess that means The end.

Zoey the dachshund is proud of her storytelling abilities.

Call me Zoey (not Ishmael).

From the heights of my second-floor patio, I have the point of view of seeing everything onFifth Streetfrom the bar to the newspaper.

I smell cooking food from the restaurant below. It’s my Proustian cup of tea that brings about memories and longings of good human food.

Yep, I’m a dog who faces the eternal food dish of boring and organic (yuck!) dog pellets.

I prefer the more exciting scenes of my life that happen on weekends, i.e. when Shelley is not at her stupid work.

Here’s an example of a Sunday in storytelling format:

Scene 1: Zoey, curled against Shelley, stretches and leans her head back.

“Are her eyes open?” Zoey wonders.

They are!

Zoey kisses Shelley, and Shelley kisses Zoey, telling her, “You are such a cute girl.”

With a tail wiggle, Zoey hurries to the edge of the bed, scampers down her doggie staircase and runs to the patio door.

“Let me out!” she says with a bark.

(I know, I know, you’re not supposed to begin a story with a dream or waking up).

Scene 2: Shelley eats breakfast, not sharing (here is conflict no. 1, because she should share, duh).

After Shelley takes a shower (thank goodness I didn’t get a bath, because that would present conflict no. 2), she takes out the leash, and I do my let’s-go dance.

Out on the walk, I see three big dogs walked by one person, and I bark my loud bark ready to take them all on (conflict no. 3, or maybe not, because I weigh 9.5 pounds).

The rest of the scenes have to do with Shelley leaving me at home, so she can have fun, coming back and playing with me, and leaving again.

This is not what I want. I want her to pay attention to me, and the same with everyone else. (I know there was a point-of-view shift in the telling of the story, but I can’t talk about myself like that.)

The conclusion of the story is: my life kind of just happens. It’s not the stuff of bestsellers, though I am awfully cute. That is the real story, my extraordinary, extensive and ever-present cuteness, no matter what I’m doing.

So there, and woof!

Zoey plays with her golden retriever friend, Sophie.

As the darn cutest dachshund ever, I am the main character in my life and certainly should be in Shelley’s life.

But she goes to work and does things without me, which I find to be a bit discouraging. I want to be at her side at all times, and if not, than I want to be with someone else who can play with, pet and walk me.

These someone else’s are the major and minor characters in my life.

The major characters are:

• Shelley’s mom, who I see once a week when Shelley takes me there for a visit. I give her mom lots of kisses, get a special treat that I only get from her and no one else, and run around her backyard, barking up a storm. “Here I am!” I tell all of the neighbor dogs.
• Shelley’s dad, who lives inEastern Coloradoand who I see every couple of months or so. He plays with and pets me, plus tells me that I am cute. Well so does her mom, of course.
• Tim, Shelley’s best friend. I see him a couple of times a week on walks or at places where pets are allowed. He’s really tall and plays music.

The minor characters are:

• Shelley’s brother, who I see once in awhile. He thinks I’m cute.
• Shelley’s other friends, who I see if they happen to come over or if she brings me along, or out on our walks.

The walk-ons are:

• Anyone who I see when Shelley and I are out on walks, and they have to stop and pet me and remark how cute I am. Well, duh!
• The employees at PetSmart who ooh and ahh over me when Shelley and I go shopping for my stuff.
• Shelley’s workmates, who I see on the rare occasion I actually get to go to work with her.

As you can see, there are lots of people in my life, while there aren’t many dogs. I have one dog friend, Sophie, a golden retriever who belongs to Shelley’s brother’s girlfriend. Sometimes they set up play dates for us, and we have fun.

As for the other dogs, I bark to let them know I’m top dog and to ask them, with my wiggling tail, if they want to play. Shelley says I shouldn’t bark because that’s not how to make friends. But I can’t help it.

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

* See Shelley’s blog on developing major and minor characters at http://shelleywidhalm.wordpress.com/2012/04/08/major-vs-minor-characters/

While Shelley blabs on about all this writing stuff, I thought I would try my paw at some fiction, writing from the third-dog perspective:

Zoey the dachshund lives in an apartment in a city in the middle of somewhere. She is looking out the window, waiting for Shelley to come home from a long day at work.

“Let’s play!” Zoey says with a tail wiggle when the door clicks open.

Shelley puts her work stuff away, but she doesn’t pay Zoey any attention except for a kiss and a quick pet.

Why is she in a hurry? Why won’t she play? With! Me!! Zoey thinks and drops her head onto her paw.

Upon hearing a noise, Zoey lifts her head. Shelley’s talk-talking away on the cell phone, the big antagonist to Zoey’s playtime.

In a huff, Zoey runs under the bed, her place for pouting or hiding or taking a time out from the busy-ness of being a cute dog.

Zoey wants to be the main character in Shelley’s life. The leash rattles and that beautiful sing-song voice she has asks, “Do you want to …”

Zoey has a journal at the ready to tell her stories.

Duh, of course I want to do anything that involves you, Zoey thinks as she sits still waiting for what she had been waiting for all along: time with Shelley.

It’s a love story, a girl and her dog. It’s also a mystery when Shelley will come home. It’s a horror, too, when Shelley can’t play. It’s drama. It’s comedy. It’s a dog’s life. This love that does not end, unconditional in its beingness.

Zoey the dachshund poses for a photo shoot as she relaxes atop newspapers.

My point of view is first person. It’s “I,” “me,” “mine” and “it’s all about me.”

The way I think about my life is in terms of me and what happens around me that I see, smell, taste and experience. I’m all about trying to make sure my needs are met.

I’m a dog, so I’m supposed to be self-centered, or at least to a point.

That point is the fact that I’m your best friend. I am your follower as you tell me what you want to do with our day. Go for a walk? Yes! Come outside with me as I bask in the sun? Yes! Pet me and love me and tell me that I am your girl. Of course!

As you can see, my point of view becomes second person when I want something from all of the “you’s” in the world, especially my main, “You.”

My main “You” is Shelley, my pet parent, the one who loves me unconditionally. She tells me so in words, hugs and pets, and way too many kisses that can be kind of embarrassing,

I let her know I love her back with morning kisses and cuddling and eager tail wags when we meet up again anytime she heads off to her stupid work.

I engage in the second-person point of view when I think about others. I think things like: You need to give me some of your yummy looking dinner. You need to pet me. You need to play with me. Now. And if you don’t, I will bark.

And bark again until I get my way. And get noticed. And am acknowledged for my role in our story.

So back to me, I am the center of my world, your world and everyone else’ world as I trot along, looking as cute as ever.