Edward Albee and His Wolfhounds

Excerpts from Paws and Reflect

Here is another excerpt from this wonderful anthology, this one from award-winning playwright Edward Albee.

I BECAME INTERESTED in Irish Wolfhounds because a friend had one. He was a painter. He had invited me over to look at his canvases, and this dog came up and leaned against me. I sat down to look at a painting, and he sat down and looked with me. We moved out to his studio to look at another painting, and this big dog sat down next to me again.

We went to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, and he stuck to my side. He had this big head, and wherever I sat, he put his head on my knee and looked up at me with his big, dark eyes. We became very good friends. He was the dog that introduced me to Irish Wolfhounds. They are the loveliest of creatures. I decided I had to have one. That was in 1969.

I’d always been a dog lover. Whenever I visit someone who owns a dog, pretty soon the animal of the house has drifted over to sit near me. People are always telling me, “This animal doesn’t like anybody—I don’t know why he’s so taken with you.” Animals and I just seem to get along.

I’ve had as many as three Irish Wolfhounds at a time. The Wolfhound breed is very special to me, but I like all dogs. At one time I had three Irish Wolfhounds, one Lhasa Apso, and one cat.

Irish Wolfhounds were originally bred to hunt wolves. We don’t have a lot of wolves in Montauk, so they’re not going after their natural prey. But their hunting nature is always with them. They are indefatigable. They can run forever.

Back when the Romans first came to Ireland, they took some of the early Irish Wolfhounds back to Rome with them and paraded them around. I wanted to parade mine around in New York. I got big leather collars for them. 

We would go to Central Park and walk to a huge hill. The dogs and I would stand at the top. The hill sloped down before us for about 300 yards. If they saw a squirrel at the bottom of the hill, they would race down it, knocking over people and bicyclists on their way. They just had to chase the squirrel. It was inconvenient for the people, but the dogs loved it.

I’ve gotten each dog from a different breeder. I make my choice on the personality of the puppy: Accessibility—a dog that’s not frightened of people. Alert. Sensitive. My Wolfhounds, in particular, have always been thoughtful, generous and intelligent—qualities that really mark the breed.

When I pick a dog, I want one that is both fully an animal, with animal instincts and one that relates to other animals, and one that is fond of being around people. I find that Wolfhounds satisfy both requirements.

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Little Caesar

Another Excerpt from Paws and Reflect

CAESAR WAS DEAD. The little emperor who’d stolen all our hearts was gone after eighteen years, and we were left with silence and memories. He wasn’t my first dog, but he was the most memorable dog I’ve ever had the pleasure to call my friend.

His imperial name came from my little brother’s overactive imagination. But it fit Caesar’s regal personality, which was clear even in the squirming puppy that he was when he entered our lives.

I was fourteen, my sister and brother even younger, and we’d wanted nothing so much as we wanted a dog. A neighbor’s beautiful terrier, Sheba, was about to give birth. She had mated with a regal-looking, all-white Fox Terrier. My sister, brother, and I anxiously awaited the results of the match. 

When it happened, I remember my brother running home with the news that Sheba had produced a litter and that we were to choose one.

We trooped over to the house to take a look at the litter and make a choice. The squirming mass of puppy flesh was too indistinct for me to choose, and neither could my sister or brother. So Mom picked one of the puppies. We were to wait for him to be weaned and then could take him home. The waiting wouldn’t be easy, even if we could visit him each day.

A few days later, however, disaster struck—Sheba was killed by a car and the puppies had to be hand fed.

Mom picked him up, a shivering little squealing bundle who barely knew what was going on. He fit in the palm of her hand, tiny, vulnerable, and pitiful. I took one look at him and wondered how we’d keep him alive. But Mom knew more about puppies than I’d imagined. She promptly found a tiny bottle and fed him some kind of milk mixture whenever he wanted.

On the day he came home with us, my brother immediately named him Caesar. I looked at the tiny wriggling pink-and-white pup and laughed, thinking that such a big name would weigh down so small a dog. Watching him move and yawn, blink his eyes and fidget—the sight tugged at my heart and I knew that no matter what his name, I was bound to this little dog.

That was the beginning. The days turned into weeks, and he gained weight and strength and was soon standing on his own and demanding something more than milk. Next came the training—a gentle boot camp. 

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Caesar was a quick learner and took his place among the family members in a short time. I remember staring at him and wondering how that little lump of flesh had become the handsome dog surveying his territory with an imperial air. He was like his father: shapely, sturdy, and smart. 

Unlike his father, Caesar’s white coat was marked with one black furry patch circling his right eye. But rather than appear foolish, Caesar managed to look dashing, black patch and all.

Small and quick, Caesar quickly became the neighborhood favorite. And he lapped it up. He loved the attention but also knew that he had responsibilities and took them seriously. He shook the windows with his barks and with his paws as he pounced on the storm door to frighten passersby. No one escaped his attention, especially not strange dogs, whether or not they had a human companion.

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The Girls by Victor Banis

Another Excerpt from Paws and Reflect

I'm continuing my posts of excerpts from this great collection of essays about men and their relationships with their dogs with this bit from "The Girls" by Victor Banis.

Victor was a terrific guy, a gentleman and a pioneer of gay literature who wrote prolifically for the pulp paperback world beginning in the 1960s, under many pen names. This excerpt gives you an idea of how wonderful his prose is, and his attention to detail.

She was a year old when a boyfriend—mine, not hers—arrived one day carrying in his arms a peculiar-looking little animal that purported to be a German Shepherd with the ears of a jackrabbit. 

Her name, he informed me, was Prima, and she had been terribly abused in her previous home. I pointed out that I had neither the desire nor the room for a second pet, and reminded him that my landlord had not been happy about the first one, but he asked plaintively if I would just keep her for a day or so while he found a home for her. I made the mistake of saying yes.

In all fairness, he did warn me that she was not yet housebroken. By the next morning, however, Jennie had seen to that, and they were going outside together. That struck me as even more mysterious, since it was not the sort of oddity you would expect to have happen twice. Still, I had no reason to complain.

Since we lived in the city, I tried training the newcomer to a leash, thinking that Jennie’s instant understanding of that necessity was certainly not likely to repeat itself, as the toilet training had. But Prima was such a frightened little thing that, no sooner had you put any kind of collar around her neck than she fell to the floor in a quivering, peeing mass and could not be induced to regain her feet until the collar was removed and she had been reassured that no physical violence was intended.

It was Jenny once again who took charge. To my astonishment, by the next day she had taught Prima to heel at the snap of my fingers, and from then on I could walk down a busy sidewalk in, say, West Hollywood, with both girls safely and politely at perfect heel.

How had Jenny done that? What secret language had passed between them? I only knew that whatever I wanted her to do Jenny divined, and whatever Jenny did Prima did as well. So I could come out of the kitchen into the den, where the rug had just been shampooed, and walk around the bare-floor perimeter to cross the room, and Jenny would follow after me, and Prima after her, and not a paw upon the damp rug. I could entertain less–dog enthusiastic guests in the living room and, though the girls had the run of the house, they would sit politely in the doorway while I sipped cocktails with the guests. I have had two legged friends whose manners weren’t so good.

The story of Victor's life in the pulps

They could be parted from me only by trickery. If, of necessity, I left them home without me, they would sit at the upstairs window and cry in great mournful howls until I returned, to be greeted with wagging tails and scathing looks.

The girls shared my life for fifteen happy and loving years. About halfway through that span, we moved to a cabin in the mountains. They loved it: the great outdoors, exploring together, creeks to splash in, all sorts of scents to investigate. In the summer we took long treks in the woods; in the winter, they liked me to throw snowballs for them to catch. They got friendly with the squirrels, who lost their fear of the girls and would leap over Prima when she slept in the doorway to come inside and beg for a snack.

Victor Banis passed away but his work lives on.

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Doomed for a Dog

Excerpts from Paws and Reflect

To celebrate the new cover for the classic essay collection Sharon Sakson and I published, Paws & Reflect, I'm publishing some excerpts from the essays. This one comes from Donald Hardy's very funny essay, "Puppy Whipped."

The last few weeks of my Cocker Spaniel Casey’s life, I took her for “walks” under the vet’s instructions not to let her walk.

The doctor on the case (who was fabulous) was upbeat but slightly evasive about the prognosis. Diagnosis, too, was slightly uncertain, but she did give Casey treatment: a steroid to encourage the marrow of her aging bones to crank out red blood cells; puppy Pepto to calm the stomach so she could take the steroid; antibiotics; and soft food, special stuff that looked, the doctor said, like paté. “She loves it,” she said. “She has been chowing down all day. Only feed her this. And no exercise. Out the door to pee, right back in, and rest.”

Permanently. She was supposed to do nothing but eat expensive pâté and sleep. It’s a dog’s life, indeed.” But Dr. Fab,” I said. “I live on a boat, about 200 yards worth of dock from the shore. We have to walk that far for her to get to where she can pee.”

“No, ” replied the doc.”That’s too far. You carry her.” Silence.

“Well, OK, ” I said. I let Casey do her business when I got her home, then carried her down the dock. This wasn’t too bad, as she only weighed thirty-five pounds, but I had a strong sense that it would get old fast. I eyed up the dock carts. I’d nearly killed myself the year before when carrying my other dog, Bear, up to the shore for a vet visit. Bear weighed in at eighty pounds.

“Hmmm,” I thought.”Maybe I’ll get a nice big one that’ll fit both dogs, and then neither will have to walk . . . assuming they’ll let me push ’em. If they don’t, that’s a wasted 250 bucks. I’ll wait.”

As I was coming back from walking Bear that evening, Patty and Dennis, my neighbors in the marina, asked what was wrong with Casey. I explained, and they offered a little dock cart they didn’t need. About twenty minutes later, Dennis knocked on my deck and said, “Here it is! You’ll have to hose it down, but it should work for her.”

I climbed up on deck and thanked him, and then looked at the dock cart.

Don's Novel

It was small. It was red. It was cute.

I was doomed.

Eleven o’clock rolled around, and it was time for Casey’s late night—well, I suppose one ought not to call it a walk—“outing.” I took some puppy blankets up and lined the bottom of the cart, then carried Casey up on deck, deposited her in her little cart, and started down the dock.

So. There I was. A forty-seven-year-old, six-foot-two, 200-pound man, pulling a small, fluffy golden dog down the dock in a cute, little red wagon.

Find Donald Hardy online here.

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Other Elements of Author Branding

Moving Beyond the Tagline

I’ve been focusing so far in this series about taglines, because they’re an important part of developing your brand. But there are other elements of your brand as well.

Titles

Stuck for a title for your book? Try out Reedsy’s Title Generator. You’ll notice that many of the titles they generate are short and sweet. My MFA thesis advisor, the very talented James W. Hall, told us that thrillers should have two-word titles, for a couple of reasons. 

First, it’s harder to convey the essence of a book in a one-word title. Unfulfilled? Might be a great word to describe the plot or your protagonist’s key motivator. That title could be a romance, a mystery, science fiction.

Unfulfilled Desire, though, is sure to be a romance, while Unfulfilled Revenge sounds more like a thriller, and Unfulfilled Exploration might be science fiction or adventure.

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Most of the books in my Mahu series have two-word titles. The next five books used Mahu first, followed by a qualifier. The word “mahu” is a word from the Hawaiian language which means gay or two-spirit, and for a long time it was a nasty epithet like faggot or queer.

Since then, it has been reclaimed, and I’m proud to use it as a synonym for gay. In the following books I wanted to explore more sides of my hero’s character. Mahu Surfer takes him to the North Shore of O’ahu, where he returns to his surfing roots while investigating a case.

Mahu Blood is probably one of my best titles because of the dual meaning. It’s a murder investigation so of course there’s blood. But this book is also about Hawaiian heritage, and what Kimo his inherited from his Hawaiian ancestors.

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Key Words in Titles

I also use a key word to link the five books in my Love on series, which begins with Love on Site, which has a construction background. The curlicue neon font says this is contemporary romance, as does the shirtless cover model. I like the angularity of the crane in the background and overall the whole layout of the cover, which was done by an artist for Loose Id, who first published that series. 

The inspiration for the title came not only from the years I spent building shopping centers, but from Beatrice’s speech in Much Ado About Nothing. “Benedick, love on! I shall requite thee!” I wanted to convey the sense of joy from that scene in the Kenneth Branagh and Emma Thompson movie.

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I use longer titles for my adventure and thriller books. The Angus Green FBI series, for example, begins with The Next One Will Kill You, while the first book in the Have Body, Will Guard series is Three Wrong Turns in the Desert.

Colors

The books generally use darker colors in the background, to convey once again that these are mysteries, rather than comic romps.

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Check out some of these covers and see what they tell you about the story you could expect to read. Notice in particular the two very different books with the same title: Silversword by Phyllis A. Whitney and Silver Sword by Charles Knief. You only have to look at the cover design to know what you’re getting.

Font

Your choice of font, both on your book covers, your website, and the text you apply to images, says something about your brand.

When I got the rights to the Mahu series back and relaunched them, I commissioned new covers. The designer used the same font on each book, a simple sans-serif one that is intended to convey that these are serious books.

In each case, the first word sits on top of the second, almost touching. That parallel structure tells the reader these are part of the same series.

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