Stories, art, workshops, and calls for trip reports

A Short Story to start with

1. HUNGRY DOGS

Three pit bulls launched themselves at the gate, gnashing jaws on wire fencing, barking and yelping. I woke with a scream. Shivering, I stood at the window. Another snowstorm had covered the mountains and I was glad to be inside for that too. It was time to start the day and my stomach rumbled at the thought of fresh tortillas warmed on the woodstove.

A truck drove past, old, blue, a Ford probably– not that I really know the difference, and the driver was yelling at their dogs. The mutts took off, over the hills and into the valley. The truck turned around and headed back to the fork in the road, turning downhill in chase. Their idea of sport? Idiots. I hate them.

The wind whipped across this peninsula, a finger of barren land that loomed over the Rio Grande Mesa, that flatland to the west with the I25 stretching south. The junipers creaked in the gusts and the cholla cactus stood firm. Too cold for me and back inside, I put the kettle on and thought about making breakfast, bacon and eggs perhaps? I had bought fresh tortillas from the village store the day before. The Montoyas made the best blue corn tortillas in the Southwest. They always saved me a batch on Fridays. As different as we were, we liked to chat about the history of the area, slowly becoming friends, I like to think.

Staring out the window, waiting for the water to boil for my coffee, I thought about those damn dogs. They’ve chased me, Lee, the brave one who moved out into the wilderness alone and who’s now terrified by a pack of dogs. Shit. It’s not good. I hoped the driver caught them before they kill again. I hoped I’d never see those dogs again. Or the truck. But that’s just wishful thinking. I read a billboard once that said, worrying is a waste of the imagination. As if it were that easy to stop. It’s not. My insomnia can vouch for that fact.

The air was chilly that November morning, so after rummaging through the piles of clothes on the cabin floor, I pulled on thick black jeans and boots, as well as a heavy sweatshirt. The water boiled finally, and I poured myself a mug of strong coffee, setting milk in an egg cup for Henry, the cat. He would be staying inside today, or at least until I knew the dogs had moved along or been caught. Either way, I’d keep my boy safe.

I took my coffee outside and sat in the light of the sunrise. It felt good to be out, but my nerves were still shot from the dogs’ chaotic start to my day. I thought about getting the shotgun but knew I’d not be able to do much of anything, yet I filled my pockets with rocks in the one side and cat kibble in the other.

I set off downhill. I couldn’t resist seeing what had happened.

At the lowest point in the valley, I found them. The dogs I mean, not the neighbors. One of the dogs had been shot but lived. Another lay there, obviously dead. The third was nowhere to be seen. Dogs. Fuck. I hate them. Neighbors. Fuck. I hate them.

I stood, five feet away, and muttered to myself. The dog watching me was white with brown patches, broad faced, with tongue out, panting, scared, his tail still in the dirt of the arroyo.

I stepped closer. His eyes widened. I squatted down. – You okay, kiddo?

I tried to see where he’d been shot but couldn’t work it out. Was he going to die on me? Like karma or something? I waited a beat, but nothing changed. I glanced at the dead one, female, teats extended as if just had pups, again. No rescuing her, but maybe she was better off? No more constant breeding? I dunno.

The boy watched me unblinking. I edged closer. – You okay?

The tail wagged slightly, and I relaxed, sat down. Close, but not within reach. I couldn’t stop shaking. I tried to look calm, strong, not show weakness on my sleeve like I’ve been accused of by my last girlfriend. We didn’t make it work, the two of us. Not enough in common, she said.

The dog didn’t care to listen. He whimpered. A bullet had scored a path across his rump, red on white. I looked closer and saw blood dripping from a broken and shot back leg.

I could leave him. Be done with it. I stood. Looked at the two dogs and thought, Fuck you. You killed my chickens. You tore up my Henry. You treed me. Fuck you. I’m not scared of you. I’m not.

I walked away, with stones in my hand, ready to throw them. I’d been a great pitcher at one time. I had good hand-eye co-ordination. I picked one, thinking I’d brain the dog, the boy, the living one. The one with the bloodied butt. Put him out of his misery.

The truck rumbled down the dirt road in the distance. I heard yelling and grinding gears. A gun shot. A yelp. Another dog down. More yelling, cheering this time, as if this was a game to him. Raise puppies to shoot them? Fuck. I looked back. Under the juniper lay the boy, near his mama. I saw the pain in his eyes. The blood on the sand.

He wobbled in place, tried limping towards me but collapsed with a grunt.

Fuck.

I dropped the stones. His eyes blinked slowly, fading now, giving up or something. The truck headed down the valley again, leaving these dogs dying in the dirt. I walked up to the pup and sat close by, with my hand out to be sniffed. He licked my fingers. Softer than Henry’s tongue.

Then the truck headed our way. The rumble of tires on rocks thrummed in my head. A shot of caffeine like adrenalin kicked me, blood thumping, loud, breath tight, I hunkered down in the dirt, hiding and scared as these dogs must be. What would they do if they found me? Us? The smell of blood and dirt, metal and earth, life life life. Keeping my head down, I reached out with a hand full of cat kibble and offered it up. The dog ate, eyes on me, tail with a slight wag. The truck passed us, too close to ignore easily. Their radio blared out the local talk show or was that just them spouting crap over the crunching tires on rocks?

I turned back to the injured pup. – Are you hungry?

Wag.

– Do you want to come home with me?

Wag wag.

– You’ll be good to Henry? Promise? No killing cats in my home, deal?

Half a wag.

I squatted down next to him, murmuring, – This will hurt but trust me. We’ll get you back in time for breakfast. Okay, one two three…

I hefted him up, a slight body of thirty pounds, all skin and bones. – We’ll get some weight on you, fella. Okay, let’s go home. I’m hungry too.

We took off, up through the scrubland and back to the cabin on the hill. It wasn’t easy and I fell a few times, almost dropping the dog but not letting go. We scrambled through cholla cacti and junipers, over scrubby grass and little else. It’s a barren land. Up on the flat area around my new home, I opened the front door and Henry ran out, but I didn’t worry. I set the dog down on a thick blanket near the woodstove and brought over a bowl of water. He lapped up half of it, spat it back out, and flinched. He wagged when I didn’t yell at him.

Poor bastard.

– Food then? I’ll make us some eggs and bacon. No tortillas for you though. That’ll work, right?

He watched. His leg had stopped bleeding but looked broken. I picked up the phone to call the vet while putting on the kettle. Time to start the day properly. I poured out more cream for the cat, he’d need a bribe now we had a dog around. I’d take the dog with me to the pet store. We’d better stock up before winter really hit.

2. Introducing (or reminding you?) the online shop Sleam’s Artwork with new offerings each week: After years of mostly doing cartoons or text, I’m getting into painting. I didn’t know that watercolors would convey the vibrant colors of Mexico so well. This winter, I focused on capturing the streets, homes, and beaches of Baja California Sur. They’re available as downloadable files to print as well as on various practical things like mugs, totes, wearables, mouse-pads and more! I’m having fun. I hope you like them.

3. Wanderlust Journal: SUBMISSIONS OPEN! We’re taking ideas through the website contact form, just give a sense of what you want to share with our international audience of over 179,000 so far! We focus on personal experiences, approx 1500 words, include a short synopsis and bio please. Thanks, Brianna and Sarah

4. Check out the travel poetry books available through Wild Dog Press

5. Writers: If you are looking for a developmental editor, check out how I can help your writing become what you aim for, building upon your skills and showing you patterns that might or might not like to continue using…I’m working with Tongass Mist Writers in Alaska. Have a look here: https://www.tongassmist.com/event-details/commit-to-the-page-a-10-month-manuscript-revision-and-publishing-quest

6. Donations really help. Wanderlust Journal is a free online resource for publishing and reading travel essays and photo-stories. Same for Substack. Pretty much for everything I do…! It’s lucky I live in a little caravan (Travel trailer to you) and enjoy nature more than shopping. Anyway, even if you can only give a little, it helps me do what I’m committed to doing, ever since a teenager, and that is documenting other lifestyles, cultures, experiences and then sharing them through fiction, artwork, and travel narratives.

Think of these projects next time you are able to give a little, thank you.