An Excerpt from:
Sometimes You Just Have to Dive In
***
I sighed as I approached my townhouse. There, in the window, sat Paddy, tail wagging and, head bobbing in time to my steps. Sometimes I wish he were, but no, Paddy is not my dog. He’s my ten-pound, sable cat with iridescent emerald eyes.
***
Now that the tourists have gone home, the place to meet people in Rehoboth is the beach at sunrise. It’s like MeetUp.com with one exception: you either bring a dog or you meet someone who has a dog. The problem is Michael doesn’t have a dog and neither do I.
Michael is this really nice guy I’ve been lusting over. He’s handsome, with an enchanting smile which he gives away freely. I’ve been watching him all summer but never got the nerve to say more than hello. Besides, he’s always with someone—someone way better looking or in way better shape than me.
Michael and I chatted briefly once at Aqua Grill; actually, I said, “Excuse me” as I squeezed past him. But last week I said to my cat, “No more” and went to the beach to meet him. But just like at Aqua Grill, he was with a hunky guy. This time it was EJ with his perfect dachshund.
Of course, I have a cat. But he’s not your typical feline. I’m pretty sure Paddy thinks he’s a dog, and a big dog at that. For example, I live in this older townhouse development on the forgotten mile. There’s a spacious lawn surrounded by our five buildings. It’s picturesque and peaceful, and the residents spend a lot of time out on the lawn. Many of my neighbors have dogs and they all play on the lawn, but not one will come anywhere near my place. The dogs keep a wide berth, especially if the sliding glass doors are open. As soon as they get close, my cat makes an ungodly sound and they bolt.
You’re probably thinking Paddy hisses. Nope. Paddy doesn’t hiss or meow. In fact, Paddy has never meowed in his life. He makes guttural noises that sound like gears grinding in my old ’67 VW beetle. And, if a dog happens to pass by, Paddy prances in front of the doors like a caged bull ready to strike. I thought cats kept their distance from dogs. Not Paddy. He’d take on any of them, big or small. . . . . . .
An Excerpt from:
Sometimes You Just Have to Dive In
***
I sighed as I approached my townhouse. There, in the window, sat Paddy, tail wagging and, head bobbing in time to my steps. Sometimes I wish he were, but no, Paddy is not my dog. He’s my ten-pound, sable cat with iridescent emerald eyes.
***
Now that the tourists have gone home, the place to meet people in Rehoboth is the beach at sunrise. It’s like MeetUp.com with one exception: you either bring a dog or you meet someone who has a dog. The problem is Michael doesn’t have a dog and neither do I.
Michael is this really nice guy I’ve been lusting over. He’s handsome, with an enchanting smile which he gives away freely. I’ve been watching him all summer but never got the nerve to say more than hello. Besides, he’s always with someone—someone way better looking or in way better shape than me.
Michael and I chatted briefly once at Aqua Grill; actually, I said, “Excuse me” as I squeezed past him. But last week I said to my cat, “No more” and went to the beach to meet him. But just like at Aqua Grill, he was with a hunky guy. This time it was EJ with his perfect dachshund.
Of course, I have a cat. But he’s not your typical feline. I’m pretty sure Paddy thinks he’s a dog, and a big dog at that. For example, I live in this older townhouse development on the forgotten mile. There’s a spacious lawn surrounded by our five buildings. It’s picturesque and peaceful, and the residents spend a lot of time out on the lawn. Many of my neighbors have dogs and they all play on the lawn, but not one will come anywhere near my place. The dogs keep a wide berth, especially if the sliding glass doors are open. As soon as they get close, my cat makes an ungodly sound and they bolt.
You’re probably thinking Paddy hisses. Nope. Paddy doesn’t hiss or meow. In fact, Paddy has never meowed in his life. He makes guttural noises that sound like gears grinding in my old ’67 VW beetle. And, if a dog happens to pass by, Paddy prances in front of the doors like a caged bull ready to strike. I thought cats kept their distance from dogs. Not Paddy. He’d take on any of them, big or small. . . . . . .
An Excerpt from:
Sometimes You Just Have to Dive In
***
I sighed as I approached my townhouse. There, in the window, sat Paddy, tail wagging and, head bobbing in time to my steps. Sometimes I wish he were, but no, Paddy is not my dog. He’s my ten-pound, sable cat with iridescent emerald eyes.
***
Now that the tourists have gone home, the place to meet people in Rehoboth is the beach at sunrise. It’s like MeetUp.com with one exception: you either bring a dog or you meet someone who has a dog. The problem is Michael doesn’t have a dog and neither do I.
Michael is this really nice guy I’ve been lusting over. He’s handsome, with an enchanting smile which he gives away freely. I’ve been watching him all summer but never got the nerve to say more than hello. Besides, he’s always with someone—someone way better looking or in way better shape than me.
Michael and I chatted briefly once at Aqua Grill; actually, I said, “Excuse me” as I squeezed past him. But last week I said to my cat, “No more” and went to the beach to meet him. But just like at Aqua Grill, he was with a hunky guy. This time it was EJ with his perfect dachshund.
Of course, I have a cat. But he’s not your typical feline. I’m pretty sure Paddy thinks he’s a dog, and a big dog at that. For example, I live in this older townhouse development on the forgotten mile. There’s a spacious lawn surrounded by our five buildings. It’s picturesque and peaceful, and the residents spend a lot of time out on the lawn. Many of my neighbors have dogs and they all play on the lawn, but not one will come anywhere near my place. The dogs keep a wide berth, especially if the sliding glass doors are open. As soon as they get close, my cat makes an ungodly sound and they bolt.
You’re probably thinking Paddy hisses. Nope. Paddy doesn’t hiss or meow. In fact, Paddy has never meowed in his life. He makes guttural noises that sound like gears grinding in my old ’67 VW beetle. And, if a dog happens to pass by, Paddy prances in front of the doors like a caged bull ready to strike. I thought cats kept their distance from dogs. Not Paddy. He’d take on any of them, big or small. . . . . . .