Posting from Somewhere Else & Cpt Jack Harkness's Saga

A while back I filled out an interview questionnaire for writer Lou Sylvre. Lou was nice enough to put this interview up on his blog. So today I am posting here with a link to this interview, encouraging you all to check it out. And to check out Lou, he's a nice guy with some great talent.

Dean Ocean: On Telling his Own Story

And here is Lou's website: Lou Sylvre, Author | Romance Across the Rainbow


In less interesting news...well less happy anyway: my cat Cpt. Jack Harkness nearly died. It started Sunday night Pepper, around 8pm, noticed Jack was acting strangely. He went to stand up and started screeching to high heaven, and growling in pain. We couldn't see any obvious signs of injury, which lead us both to the terrifying conclusion that he had a Urinary block.

Male cats of a certain age (usually between 2years and 5 years) are prone to getting crystals in their urine, that will then in turn block the urinary tract. This block causes urine to swell in the bladder and will result in death, usually by causing the bladder to rupture, the kidney and liver to become flooded with back flow urine and generally it's an agonizingly slow and painful way to go. There are surgeries you can perform to unblock a cat who has blocked. The problem with these surgeries is they are extremely expensive. And once the cat has blocked, it's an extremely high likelihood he will do it again. This is overwhelmingly a male cat problem and is almost never seen in female cats.

Cpt. Jack Harkness is two years old. And he was presenting with very classic symptoms of being blocked. I knew there was no way I could afford spending the almost $2,000 on surgery and if he turned out to be blocked, it was a death sentence. I would opt to euthanize him. I'm a writer, I don't make a whole lot of money and I have a lot of mouths to feed. So Pepper and I loaded Jack into the car and drove across town to the ER Clinic. Basically we both felt like we were taking Jack to die.

We arrived at around 9pm. Fortunately for us Pepper works there, so we were able to walk straight into the back of the clinic and announce Jack's symptoms. Immediately one of my favorite vets there Dr. Pearson grabbed Jack from us and rushed him to the ultrasound. I basically stood there like a worried dad, wringing my hands hoping for the best.

The good news was he wasn't blocked. The ultrasound was clear, but his bladder had some suspicious sludge in it. This is some what typical of male cats, but certainly something that has to be watched. Breathing a sigh of relief that he wasn't in immediate danger, we then had to wait.

The advantage of having a roommate who works at the ER clinic is we get discounted and preferential treatment. The down side is that sometimes that comes with having to go to the back of the line in terms of waiting to see someone. This is a small trade off for discounted care (please note the cost of the block surgery would have been still closer to two grand even with Pepper's discounts.) In line ahead of us came a dog with blood pressure so low I thought it had to be a zombie, and who's heart was being slowly crushed by a tumor leaking fluid around the chest cavity. Emergency care was given to this dog. And a pug that came in with a puncture wound on his ear, who's parents panicked because there was a lot of blood (please note: ears bleed like no other, even minor injuries look worse then they are.) We waited for about an hour before the actual ER vet Dr. Leftkowitz was able to take a look at Jack. Pearson had technically only been there to do paperwork, but had taken care of us immediately. She is familiar with us and knows how much Jack means to me.

Another ultrasound revealed his bladder was still fine. But that Jack was NOT okay being put on his back. So the vet recommended we give him a mild sedative and see what we could find once he was calmer. Sure enough once the drugs were on board and he wasn't freaking out any more, we were able to discover his back was what was hurting him.

Pepper and I both breathed a sigh of relief. This was not the dire emergency we thought we were facing. We were told to give him pain drugs 3 times a day (Jack we later discovered really LIKES being high) and keep his activity restricted. We arrived home at midnight.

Jack was set up in Sully's crate (which is big enough to fit two large dogs comfortably, or one Sully) with his favorite blankets (fleece) food, water and a small litter box.  He was high and seemed perfectly content with this set up.

Cut to this morning. It's six am and my phone starts ringing. I answer it in a fog after working until 2am, 6am had me a little groggy and disoriented. It's Pepper. She's calling because sometimes if you open my bedroom door while I'm sleeping my Aussie, Bodie, objects. Vocally. Aggressively.

"Hey, dude, Jack's...blocked..." She says, with out bothering to sugar coat it or soften the blow. It is simply how she is, and knows that realistically shooting straight about what's going on is the best way to deal with the situation head on.

It was not the wake up call I wanted. I drag myself up out of bed and we talk about his symptoms. She had gone to feed him and give him his AM dose of pain meds, and watched him try to use the litterbox and scream in pain. This is a classic symptom, the #1 in fact, of a urinary tract block. I brace myself for the realization that we don't have an option but to put him down.

Pepper calls the regular vet she works for on Tuesdays to tell him she will be late coming in, that we have to take Jack into the ER and have him put down. And then a miracle happens. The regular DVM asks what's wrong with him. When she explains he's got a block and that realistically treatment is out of my price range, Dr. Gilmore volunteers to do the procedure. He tells Pepper to bring Jack down to his clinic and that hell do it; free of charge.

Jack is now out of surgery and recovering wonderfully. He is feeling much better, and is enjoying the good drugs he's on (I'm not joking this cat is a junkie waiting to happen.) He is being put on a special prescription food and will be watched closely for the rest of his life for any sign he's going to block again (odds are high he will at some point, I just hope it's years from now.) So thanks to my amazing roommate, Pepper, and the incredible people she works for and with...Jack is going to be okay. And I'm in the process of sending flowers and chocolates to the vet, as well as ordering a gift certificate to his favorite restaurant to say thank you.

in which I lay out the reasons I'll never win a Pulitzer

I never know where to start with a blog. Should I begin with "greetings and salutations!" Or. Should I start by just diving into the subject at hand? The former would get old. Fast. The latter would likely lead to a great deal of posts being nonsensical. Because when left too much to my own devices; my brain will wander. ADHD for the win, people. For the win.

So we're going to just get to the point. Eventually.

Now.

Right now.

Whenever I am introduced to someone new, or I've had a lot of alcohol and introduce myself to someone new; I always get the same question. The second someone asks what I do for a living and I say 'Oh I'm a writer', the next question is some variant of this: "What do you write?" (For the record this also was a recurring theme when I was training dogs full time: "What kind of dogs do you train?" Or my personal favorite: "Can you help me with my dog [for free]?")

I never know how to answer this. First because my first published book is about Bromance in 1920's England and under aged sex. And a few other themes that take a turn for the dark here and there. And I do live in Idaho, and as much as I love being so close to all my favorite outdoor activities; there are some pretty hard core conservatives in these parts. It's hard enough being openly gay(ish) much less having some people know what Holbrook Academy is actually about.

The second reason I never know how to answer this question is because I don't know what I write. To me the themes of my stories are all basically the same: life pretty much will kick your ass given half a chance, your friends are important, loyalty is paramount, and faith in something larger then yourself will see you through. These are difficult subjects to sum up in a single sentence. Though I just did apparently, but I could wax poetic on the topics for ages. (Note to self: use this as a blog topic when you run out of interesting things to say tomorrow.)

But the reality is that while I always have similar themes running through my work, vary rarely is anything truly with in the same genre. Most of my work skips around the genre department as I see fit. My story Modern Privateer deals with espionage and high stakes white collar crime. But Alt-Jumpers is a hard core Sci Fi Adventure. And while Nothing Like Flying is a WWII epic, Werewolves of Portland is a Paranormal Noir. So the idea that I can pin "what I write" to a few short sentences, is daunting at best. I usually just settle for the blanket term "Oh, just fiction." If the person is actually curious they'll press for more information, or accept this answer and move on with life.

And then of course they all want to know if I ever wrote anything they've read. This is a no-brainer because no, they really very likely have not. Unless they frequent the GAY section at the book store, chances are good my only published book has never crossed their radar.

Finally, comes the kicker: "Do you write anything like Twilight/50 Shades of fucking Terrible/etc etc?"

This question annoys me to no end. It grates on me like nails on a chalkboard. First the implication is that if I haven't written anything like Twilight, nothing I've ever written or will write is worth anything to any one. Second the idea that the load of crap churned out for mass media consumption is some how comparable to what I write...is down right insulting.

I realize people don't know any better. But honestly, those of us who pride ourselves on having a smidgen of talent - do not relish the notion of being compared to hacks who got lucky. I usually grind my teeth and put an abrupt stop to the conversation by saying something that makes me sound like a stuck up jackass in love with my own work, and a delusional asshole. It usually goes something like "I couldn't write that kind of worthless tripe if I were comatose."

This total lack of public decorum might be why I'll never win a Pulitzer. It also might have something to do with the fact I have a tendency to write things simply because "Dude, that sounds cool!" in my head. Either or.