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So I’m guilty. I'm the only individual at fault here.
Just like always, guilty, guilty, GUILTY. I’m the only person responsible for any of this as I was the only person there, and I did it all.
I did it all.
Anyone want to buy a dog?
I know the book is titled after something a puppy did. And not just the one book either, the whole fucking series. I know that... but it’s not about the dog, not the book, and not the series.
That was not my intent.
And anyone who picks that book, or any other book,,,
... in the series up, and says:
... is in for a bit of a shock.
Of course I did try to minimize that "cute" dog expectation, and the impending disappointment, by my specific, and frequent, admonitions in the descriptions of the individual books in their cover notes. But even people who read books, and reference book jackets intently, are influenced by pictures. And Freud was so damn cute.
He was cute.
But Freud is only a character in the story and his being, indeed his play dates and his antics in general, are only fodder to move the story line along. And of course to add some humor and warmth to what could be taken as a very dark tale.
It happened so naturally, so easily, when it began too. I was trapped in the house by my illness when Freud arrived. "trapped", and here was this adorable, and vulnerable, nine-week old puppy just full of energy, incredibly intelligent, curious, constantly vulnerable, and constantly pining for attention. Freud was constantly pining for attention, constant, constant, constant attention from jump at that.
And me, me, I tired so easily back then. My stamina was nonexistent, my stability a joke, and I had to rest, to lie down, for short, and sometimes long, periods often.
I was all alone too, all alone except for the new puppy; "alone".
So there were times during the day; and of course at night, where the puppy, Freud, had, he just "had", to be left alone.
Into the kennel I created in the master bathroom marble glassed in shower I would put the little guy. In that kennel was a brand new plush dog bed, a multitude of his favorite squeaky soft, and hard, rubber toys, furry toys and chew bones too; a multitude those...
... a multitude, and water, and food, and a wee wee pad. There into that well-apportioned kennel to reside alone for a bit I put the puppy as I rested. Freud alone for a bit so I could rest, so I could get my strength back and begin again.
Within 60 seconds there would be a low moan emanating from the master bathroom. And slowly that low moan would increase in volume; slowly, slowly, slowly. That low moan would increase first in volume; and then in pitch; and soon...
... soon it was howls.
And that’s when I started to write.
Hence the title:
“And The Puppy Howls”.
It all stems from that.