Sticky

Okay...I know what you’re thinking.

What business does she have writing about the war? She has not done one day of military service.

Well let me enlighten you, my friend. I have had extensive hours of researching all the stories my great grandfather has told me about the war. So, I am armed to the teeth with information, imagination, and hard-core passion! That’s how I’m going to write the next great American war novel. That is, of course if I can find a way to keep my dog, Franny from trying to kill my cat, Tinker, which usually leads to my untimely demise.

Explain, you say? Oh, I shall.

I’m sure I’m not alone when I say, Fur, no fur, kids are all the same. No matter how much you love them, they drive you crazy. Enter Francis Bonancis Clodhopper. Yes, that is her real name and is totally on her registration certificate. She is my two-year-old German breed, German Sheppard. I say that because there is also an American breed of German Shepard’s, but they have problems with hip dysplasia. So, we got the German breed. Anyway, she is very smart, very energetic, and all black. Quite the contrast to Tinker, who I thought was a Tinker Bell and turned out to be a Tinker Toy instead. He is my three-year-old cat. He is all white with spatters of orange here and there. They just love to help me write.

“And how do they do that?” You ask. Well, let me tell you.

Did I say that Francis is energetic? Hmmm, I must think of a better description. Insanely rambunctious, maybe?

In what I like to call my “Imagination Station,” which is just fancy name for the extra room I stuck a table and chair in with my laptop, I have the greatest plot board in the world. Okay maybe not the greatest, but super close. It’s a nine by eleven-foot dry erase board and full to the brim with sticky notes. They are all color coded to Plot, characters, scenes, chapter titles, etc. Right along the bottom is my timeline. See I use sticky notes because they are easier to move around. The marker just starts to smudge after I erase it for the one millionth time, you know? So, this board is my pride and joy, my thoughts and revelations, my rainbow-colored lovechild if you will.

It’s about noon when I’ve finished what I believe to be a wholehearted effort to dust my house when I grab a fresh cup of java and head upstairs to the Imagination Station. Francis always goes up the stairs on my left and down on my right. She’s a good girl, most of the time. Tinker does instigate a lot of the trauma around here. For a cat with no balls, he sure has a big pair. I mean, I wouldn’t mess with an animal that was one hundred pounds heavier than me with razor sharp teeth!

I digress; So, Tinker must scramble between our feet to get up the stairs first. This of course sets off the energetic…No, the insanely rambunctious button in Francis. Like a fart in the wind, she’s off to chase Tinker. Can you say, “Let the mayhem ensue?” This begins a chain of events you just couldn’t make up.

“No Francis! Don’t eat your brother.” I yell to no avail.

I yell for the two hundred and seventy sixth time, maybe more. For some reason, Tinker has grown a huge set today and stops at the top of the stairs, swings around like a ninja, and buries his claws right in Francis’s nose. The blood-curdling sound that emanated from her voice box was enough to wake the dead, I swear!

Francis rears backward into me, screeching like a banshee. Mind you, this is no average size Shepard either. Francis weighs a good one hundred and fifteen pounds of pure muscle.

Have you ever had one of those moments when everything seems to happen in slow motion? I’m quite sure you have. It’s not fun at all. As I lift my coffee up in an effort to not only save my most beloved java treat, but to save my skin from the scalding liquid, Tinker bounces off my chest like a seasoned acrobat. As you can imagine, my java treat did not survive, nor did my new tank top. Thank God I was wearing a bra!

Francis races after Tinker like her ass was literally on fire. They run full speed right into Imagination Station faster than I can catch my breath. And then I hear it- crash, bang. Francis is now digging the rug with teeth bared, to get beneath the fallen white board. Tinker is hiding beneath it, hissing like a bad valve.

“My baby!” I scream.

In my haste to save my board and everything I have so deliberately placed upon it, I pick up the board and release the hound. Francis hurls herself at Tinker in a flurry of multicolor sticky notes. I see my characters float in the still air above me. Sargent Thomas Howell, Lieutenant Douglas P. Smith, Claire Danes. I just love her name. Try as I might they sprint around the room and back down the stairs before I can get my hands on at least one of the notes.

I fumbled down the stairs chasing a trail of chapter titles to the kitchen. The First Step, No Man Left Behind, Why Not? Covered in sticky, hot coffee, I manage to wrestle Francis to the ground just as my husband comes through the kitchen door. Tinker escapes between his ankles to the outside and Francis finally relents. She and I lay on the linoleum floor gasping for any oxygen left in the room. The fight is over. Hey, that’s a good chapter title.

My husband is now doubled over in hysterics trying desperately to catch his breath.

“This is not funny Jacob!”

“Oh, but it is. You should see yourself Lucy. “

Again, he doubles over as if he just got punched in the stomach by Hulk Hogan. He finally gains control of himself, walks over to me, bends down, and pulls a sticky note from my hair. He reads it and laughs again, even harder. I swear his side was actually going to split.

“I was going to ask you how your day was, but I think this covers it.”

He hands me the sticky note and as I read it, I must laugh as well.

It reads; “The Battle Issues.”