Name of memoir? And were there other names you considered that you would like to share with us? Hello! All My Dogs Go to Heaven was almost called The Road Trip of My Life. Either title would fit, especially because I’ve lived all over the United States (and in China) and many different towns within states, and my life has always felt like a road trip.
However, in writing the book, I was also delving into the question of do dogs go to heaven? Ultimately within writing the memoir of my journey through life, this was the purpose of the book as I was learning to come to terms with the death of one of my beloved fur-kids (also known as the Brat Pak).
What is the date you began writing this memoir and the date when you finished the memoir? I don’t have the exact dates but unlike most of my books that take 3-6 months or more to write, this was a passion project that jumped the line and surged through my brain and out my fingers onto the keyboard in approximately one month in January. (Before edits) Before it hit me, I was working on a different book, but I felt obsessed to get this one out of my head, so I took the detour. So glad I did because writing out the traumas of my childhood and early adulthood allowed me to acknowledge them for the last time, then put them away with a sense of finality.
Where did you do most of your writing for this memoir? And please describe in detail. And can you please include a photo? I did all of the writing for this book at my desk, in my office on the banks of Lake Hartwell in Georgia, USA. I’ve found that for writing that takes a lot of concentration, I do best in the comfort of my cocoon, which is my office with my 3 pups around me.
What were your writing habits while writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? I write on an Apple Mac desktop (that continues to give me problems!) and I was usually sipping on one of my two allowed Dr. Peppers a day. I’m happy to say I’ve now been soda free for two months, by the way! I wrote morning, noon, and night, with ice bags on my hands and wrists between, because of the urgency this story had me going. I don’t listen to anything in the background, except my little Hazel Bea who is a whiner when she wants something.
Out of all the specific memoires you write about in this memoir, which ONE MEMORY was the most emotional for you to write about? And can you share that specific excerpt with us here. The excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer, and please provide page numbers as reference.
MY FACE MAY BE WHITE, BUT MY HEART IS PURE GOLD
Pages 6-10
Oliver paced the length of the yard, careful to avoid the low spots of standing water. Rain in the cold temperatures of December were the worst, and he had tired of standing outside the door, hoping to be let in to feel the warmth on his cold, wet feet. His clumsily healed and crooked jaw was proof that it wouldn’t benefit him to whine or scratch either. After fourteen long years, the shape of his malnourished body and pus-filled mouth showed that his care was the lowest of priorities for the family inside. He knew what he meant to them, and that his was a sad tale of unrequited love.
Though it pained him to give up, it was well past time. They would never return his loyalty. The pack mom and dad were too busy trying to wrangle the rowdiest of small humans, coming and going at all hours of the day and night, sometimes yelling and causing all sorts of ruckus. There was no room in their lives for a small little man as himself, no matter how well-behaved he believed himself to be. Things were different when he had first come to them, a fluffy and eager-to-please puppy, barely wet behind the ears and with the breath that made them giggle. They didn’t have little humans back then and claimed he was their everything.
There were tumbles and hugs, snuggles and smiles, all sprinkled with promises to protect him forever. He believed them and felt he’d found his pack. He pledged to return their devotion and protect them with everything he had.
Then he grew older, no longer able to tumble and play—his breath losing its sweetness. The little humans came, one after the other. Later, a young puppy took his place, and it was the center of attention, making him feel invisible until one day, he was told to just stay outside.
Those first nights he couldn’t believe they really meant him to stay out there forever. Surely, they would let him in. He had held up his part of the plan—he still loved and tried to protect them. Why did they suddenly no longer care for his well-being? Still yet, he waited patiently by the door. They would come to their senses. He could teach the young pup how to behave, give her all the advice she needed to be a good dog.
But the door never opened.
At least not for him.
Oliver would not be allowed to rejoin his pack. Didn’t they see that dogs weren’t loners? It was the worst life sentence you could have, to be cast out and left to spend every waking minute alone, but at least he could count himself lucky that he wasn’t sentenced to being tied up or chained to a tree.
They didn’t care if he wandered. But he didn’t. He waited.
Hoping they would love him again.
The summers were brutal in the humid Georgia temperatures, but the winters—well, they were something else entirely. In the light of the day, being of small stature, he was stalked by the hawks and had to be careful. At night the sounds of coyotes howling sent shivers of fear through him, and he huddled under anything he could find. And oh, the fleas. Even in the coldest of colds, he could not rid himself of the tormenting creatures as they burrowed and bit, depleting the slight reserves he barely had. He’d had to stop obsessing over them, though, because his first priority was simply staying alive.
To lay down and die would not be his legacy.
Now night would soon come again, and his old bones were no longer able to stand the bitter cold rumbling through them as he trembled and waited for the sun to rise.
He also had an epiphany. Someone out there needed him. And he had to find her. Today he would start his journey, and if night came too quickly, he would find somewhere else to sleep, hopefully somewhere safe from the packs that hunted for small creatures like him.
With one more look at the place he had given most of his life to, he headed for the driveway that led out. He would stay low and wouldn’t venture onto the pavement. It was a country road without much traffic, but an old dog knew a few things, and one of those things was that you didn’t test your courage against five thousand pounds of metal and motor.
He walked at least a mile and then tired and decided to rest.
With a stick in his mouth to gnaw at and ease at least some of his hunger pains, he settled into the high grass of the ditch. As he rested, he listened to the occasional car go by and even heard a truckload of chickens being transported to the coops of doom. He said a prayer for them, even though they weren’t his acquaintances, but other chickens were, and he had said goodbye to many feathered friends over the years.
They’d done their best to teach him to survive, and he could hunt and peck insects with the best of them. He had even conquered the unique chicken noise in the back of his throat and, along with a certain strut, sometimes almost believed he was one of them. He also knew that he carried the deadly stench of the chicken farm, but that was a small price to pay for the bit of companionship he’d found there.
Suddenly he heard another car coming closer, and his ears perked up. Why was this car making his pulse race and his heart leap in joy?
He must take a look.
Slowly, because his old bones ached so very much, he stepped to the top of the road shoulder and peeked out.
The car passed him by, and his heart fell.
He was too late.
Sighing, he turned to go back and rest a bit more before he must remain awake all night to keep guard.
But wait—first he heard the car stop, and then he saw the red lights on its rear shine. They began to back up, straight toward him.
Before they could change their mind, and knowing he was jeopardizing his life, he stepped completely out onto the road in full view.
The car door opened, and a woman stepped out.
“Well, hello. Aren’t you a dapper little fellow?” she said softly.
She didn’t come closer, and he appreciated her respectful distance. He’d also learned that all humans weren’t to be trusted.
“You poor thing. You look like you’re starving.”
She didn’t mention how badly he smelled, and that saved his dignity more than he could ever let her know. Her voice was encouraging and perhaps tinged with a bit of pity. But it was kind, and he knew, yes—he could feel it—she was the one.
“Do you want to come with me, and we can figure out who you belong to?” she asked, kneeling a few feet away, welcoming him to make the choice.
There really was no indecision on his part. Feeling lighter and happier than he had in years, he found his prance again as he made his way over to her and allowed her to reach down and pick him up. When he felt the gentleness in her touch and the way she cradled him close, despite his unkempt condition, there was no doubt.
She was his epiphany, and whether she knew it or not, she needed him.
Together, they climbed into the car, and he perched on her lap, looking straight out the front window in anticipation that whatever was next would be better than what was.
Can you describe the step-by-step process of writing about this ONE MEMORY? As I wrote the above excerpt, my heart ached for the dapper little gentleman that came into my home and burrowed deep into my heart. He passed away last year and for such a tiny thing, he loss has been huge. He came to me at a time when I was suffering with an empty nest and my identity of who I am without mothering someone constantly. He needed me desperately, and I needed him just as much. Weighing no more than a bag of sugar and just as sweet, Grandpa, as we came to call him, became the official leader of the Bratt Pack and gained fans all over the world through social media. He is greatly missed but he has sent me signs that he is still around me, which I’ve detailed in the book.
Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked up rough drafts of this excerpt. I don’t have a photo of the marked up rough draft, but I did delete a very sensitive scene that depicted a time that right after I was divorced, I went out with a friend, and someone drugged the very first drink I ordered in the first ten minutes of my arrival. I awoke the next morning with a stranger in my home and absolutely no memory of anything that had happened from the time I had walked into the place and took a sip from my first drink. It was a traumatic event for me, even after all these years, and I felt like the judgement that might come from readers was something I couldn’t handle on top of the trauma of telling the story for the
All the Magnification of One Memory in Memoir LIVE LINKS can be found at the very end of the below feature:
http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2020/09/ruth-weinsteins-back-to-land-alliance.html
The images in this specific piece are granted copyright: Public Domain, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law.
The other images are granted copyright permission by the copyright holder, which is identified beneath each photo.
Some of the links will have to be copied and then posted in your search engine in order to pull up properly
The CRC Blog welcomes submissions. Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7