JFK spoke to us of the new frontier and we cheered; Dr. King spoke to us of his dream of a united world and we felt there was indeed something worth fighting for; Ghandi spoke to us of his peaceful revolution and we saw a way out of that cycle of anger, violence and fear that is life.
On the other hand, back in 1940, …
The vacation from my day job means I’ve had time to focus on advancing my budding writing career. Until Thanksgiving (formerly known as Addicted) has moved on to the next level. I submitted the first twenty pages of the manuscript and a complete synopsis to a small, relatively new publishing company this morning.
Let the waiting begin.
Writing a book is the easy part. Seriously. After that, unless you’re Stephen King, James Patterson, or someone famous enough to get an advance for your memoir, it’s uphill all the way.
Self-publish? E-publish? Agent? Major publishing house? Boutique publisher? The options and permutations are endless. My initial plan was to start at the top and work my way down until I found someone who wanted to publish my book. I’ve now moved beyond the underlying assumptions from which that strategy evolved.
Self-publishing is always an option, and I’m not ruling it out. But first I want to explore the alternatives. Since my academic publications don’t count in the world of fiction, landing an agent without any writing credits is a tall order. Researching entities that might have an interest in a novel like mine yielded several pages of possibilities. Every one of them receive several times the number of manuscripts they could ever want or need.
Taking a look at the novels available from the publishers on my long list is the next step. A publisher with a catalog of books like mine is a better fit than one without any track record in the genre. That publisher can quickly connect me to readers who will buy my book.
The reality is that the volume of submissions to any publisher or agent is so high that they reject all but the very best manuscripts they see. And you only get one chance, because a rejection means backing up and starting over again. With the stakes so high, it pays to do your homework. The better the fit, the better the odds.
In the real world, such things often come down to who you know. Three members of my critique group work for the same publisher. As luck would have it, that publisher has a section devoted to books like mine. Having insider friends doesn’t guarantee results, but it does increase the odds that my submission will be noticed. And I’m fine with that.
Submitting the manuscript anywhere requires a succinct synopsis and a dazzling cover letter with a tantalizing blurb. Succinct. Dazzling. Tantalizing. Anything else, and a polite “this isn’t for us” rejection message will show up in my mailbox instead of the desired request for a full manuscript. They ain’t playing.
It’s all difficult, but writing the synopsis is downright painful. Condense a 67,000 word manuscript into about three pages of something that is still interesting to read sometime. Or just take my word for it.
Writing the blurb is only slightly less painful. Fortunately, the freelance editor I use does this well. She gave me several options. After some serious tweaking, one of them turned out like this:
As a middle-aged gay man in the college town of Lexington, Kentucky, Josh Freeman knows his best years are behind him. When he catches his partner of seventeen years having an affair with a younger man, Josh buries himself under a pile of take-out boxes, empty bottles, half-smoked joints, and self-pity. His best friend, Linda does what friends do—gently kicks his ass and encourages him to give the job he’s been offered in Washington D.C. a try—at least until Thanksgiving.
Thad Parker, a DC-based relocation expert, rarely dates and in his few relationships, there have been even fewer sparks. But when he meets Josh Freeman and shakes his hand, a spark hits him like a lightning strike. After Josh takes an active interest in someone else, Thad decides to wait.
While he waits, misunderstandings about Thad’s relationship with his older roommate, a reckless encounter with a serial killer, and a brush with death conspire against Josh and Thad’s chance at happiness.
Hopefully, it’s tantalizing. At just under two pages, the synopsis is certainly succinct. The cover letter definitely shines. Does it dazzle enough to result in a request for the full manuscript?
Time will tell. The web site gives no indication of the turnaround time. Whether it’s weeks or months, I’ll wait on pins and needles here in…
My Glass House
The farther north you go in Florida, the more southern things become. Northern Florida definitely has its own flavor. And nowhere is that more true than here in Panama City Beach, queen city of the Redneck Riviera.
Like coastal towns throughout the southeast, the town boasts a healthy assortment of hotels, restaurants, and shopping areas. The restaurants lean more toward sit-down and order-from-the-menu than all-you-can-eat buffets. The menus revolve around seafood–fried mostly–at prices I’d call reasonable. Go-cart tracks, miniature golf courses, human slingshots, arcades, and more offer alternatives to the pool and beach scenes.
The beach is beautiful with dazzling white sand and clear turquoise water as far as the eye can see. Sinking into the light and fluffy sand of the dunes makes the going slow. A steep grade eliminates any advantage from the more firmly packed sand along the water’s edge. I’ve been told this is a temporary situation resulting from beach restoration projects conducted earlier this year. I can deal with it, but I’d definitely prefer a flatter beach.
Honestly, if I had my druthers, give me a pool with an ocean view. Call me sissy if you want, but I like to relax in the water without fear of what might attack me. Since missing my chance to interact with a jellyfish by inches two days ago, I’ve stayed at the pool.
We took a long walk on the beach first thing the morning after our post-sunset arrival. There aren’t many people, even around the big hotels. Here in the residential area, we just about have the beach to ourselves. Nice.
I haven’t seen any shells. But hundreds of palm-sized pale blue fish massed just behind the small waves breaking gently along the shore. As the water receded, my partner pointed to the cause of the feeding frenzy: millions of inch-long shrimp larva writhing on the sand. The shear quantity boggles the mind, and that’s just on this one small section of beach. I’ve never seen anything like it.
Farther out, silvery fish the size of baseball bats leaped from the water, roiling beneath the surface. In the distance, too far off to identify, solitary dark shadows cruise through the water. Shore birds of every size and description join the feast.
Since that first walk on the beach, we haven’t seen the little blue fish or the shrimp larva they were eating. My partner has been coming here his entire life and he doesn’t remember seeing them before. No doubt it happens countless times every year. But for me, it happened just that one time. And it was beautiful, and it made me appreciate the bounty of the life I have here on this magnificent planet back home in…
My Glass House
Going on vacation means different things to different people. For me, it’s not a vacation unless a fog-free beach and non-frigid water are involved. Perhaps because of my upbringing, I tend to favor the beaches of South Carolina and Florida.
We haven’t been on a vacation in ages. Sure, we’ve traveled some for work and to visit family. But a trip to the beach just to get away from it all for a few days hasn’t been in the cards.
I blame my partner’s desire to finish his college degree program. Before graduating a few weeks ago, he took at least one class every session–including summers–to graduate as rapidly as possible. Throw in my hectic work schedule and there really hasn’t been a good time to get away.
Yes, our little dogs play a role, too. Perhaps if we treated them like soulless animals, we could board them or dump them off on a dog-loving friend. But we don’t. Tico and Toodles are our children. Frankly, it wouldn’t be a family vacation without them.
Now my partner might offer some silly explanation revolving around his perception of the relationship I have with Toodles. He’s certainly entitled to his opinion. It’s not my fault that Toodles is miserable without me. Seriously. She just pouts and stares at the door until I come home. What kind of person would leave her behind?
So the four of us piled into my partner’s Toyota bound for Panama City Beach. His father bought a beach house there last year that is part of a family compound. No razor-covered fences, weapons caches, or storage units full of non-perishable food. Just a swimming pool between two, two-story duplexes across the street from the Gulf of Mexico.
My partner’s father lives in the upstairs apartment and uses the downstairs for guests–mostly my partner and his sister. Their 91-year-old grandmother owns the other duplex. Her youngest son (my partner’s uncle) lives upstairs when he’s not hauling. Despite her still healing broken shoulder, she just ran out to Walmart to pick up a few things and is looking forward to her upcoming visit to the Biloxi casinos.
Other than Grandma, who we rarely see, we’ve got the place to ourselves. Dad’s fishing in South Carolina with a bunch of his buds. The uncle drove off this morning for a five-week haul in the semi that had been parked along the privacy fence between the pool and the street since our arrival. Believe it or not, I miss that big honking truck. Now the folks across the street have an unrestricted view of the pool.
Our one-bedroom apartment is really nice, even if it is a bit overfull. Squeezing the contents of the really big house he sold into the much smaller duplex is going to take some time–even for a do’er like my partner’s dad. The large pool area, a deck overlooking the ocean, and quick access to the beach keep me outside anyway.
I could really get used to this. The weather has been perfect–sunny with clear skies and highs in the 80s. The ocean breeze makes sitting in the shade pleasant and enjoyable. I know because that’s about all I’ve done for the last few days.
No Zumba. No running. No weight lifting. No diet. I’m on vacation. I’ll pick all that stuff up again next week when I return to…
My Glass House
Last week I blogged about the present status of my writing career. Basically, all projects were stalled and I was trying to figure out a way forward. As is so often the case with me, all I need do is state my intentions for everything to change.
I got the marked up manuscript from the editor I hired to help me with the novel formerly known as Addicted. Thanks to all the help from my writer’s group through the critiques they provided from start to finish, the editor had very few suggestions. I ended up incorporating all but one.
The biggest suggestion and one I’d already heard from my writer’s group was the need to change the title. Addicted was based on a premise I didn’t use. I knew the title had to change.
Coming up with a catchy title that hasn’t been used a hundred times before is hard. After much research and careful deliberation, I’ve decided on a new name for Addicted. It’s not perfect, but it works. Until Thanksgiving.
What about the suggestion I decided to ignore? The editor wanted me to change the ending scene from Thanksgiving dinner at Philip’s to Linda’s wedding in Lexington. I could see the advantages, but doing so would leave me once again without a title. So for now, I’m keeping both the title and the Thanksgiving closing scene.
Now I’m working on the blurb for the back and a complete synopsis to include with the query. It really feels good to be making progress again. In the next week or two, I’ll be sending Until Thanksgiving out to a publisher. I’ve decided to go with the publisher that employs three members of my writer’s group. Why not?
I may not become a household name overnight. But I do intend to be a published author. Until then, I may as well keep blogging here on…
My Glass House
Things have been unusually busy around here lately. It’s not my fault, either. I blame my partner. In the last month, he graduated from college, volunteered to sky dive, and agreed to cook all the food for a Cinco de Mayo/Kentucky Derby party at our house the week before final exams to celebrate his graduation and Toodles’ third birthday.
Okay. Maybe he didn’t know the party would hit the week before finals. Having a Kentucky Derby party any old time takes all the fun out of it. Too soon and nobody knows who won. Too late and everybody bets on the winner. Even my now highly educated partner couldn’t argue with that logic.
Few things spark a wave of home improvements like the decision to host a party. We reviewed the long list of options. That we waited until six weeks before the party dictated our choices. The resulting furniture and carpet purchases forced the complete reshuffle of every room but the kitchen. On the plus side, I could tell when we were moving furniture around that the time I spend lifting weights at the gym is paying off.
This past Friday was graduation for my partner and more than 4,000 University of Georgia classmates. His family came up from Florida for the festivities and stayed with us. We attended the afternoon ceremony for the College of Family and Consumer Sciences together. Tears welled up when I saw my partner in the processional, heard his name called, and watched him accept congratulations from the dean.
I’m so proud of him. For the last four years, he’s taken classes and worked two full-time jobs: his day job and taking care of me. The day job is 40 hours a week. Taking care of me never ends. I might be just a tad high maintenance. Maybe. Just a little.
Getting a degree on schedule is a tremendous but increasingly rare accomplishment. Life gets in the way. Quite a few one-time freshmen never finish. The fact of dropping out stays with you Marking “some college” on job applications eases the sting a bit…but not much. Dropping out of college tops the “minus” column–no matter what’s on the “plus” side of the tally sheet.
Going back to school after a multiyear hiatus takes courage. Seeing it through to the end takes grit and determination. But it’s worth it. Replacing college drop-out with college graduate on the tally sheet makes the spirit soar.
After the college graduation ceremony, we decided to grab dinner before the University wide ceremony at seven o’clock. Given that the families of 4000 other graduates had the same idea and that we were all more or less trapped downtown, figuring nobody else would go there, we picked an Indian restaurant which speaks volumes about how little say I had in this decision. Just saying. I’m not a fan of ginger, curry, or really anything that elevates food much beyond bland. I ended up really enjoying the food so it turned out well.
To give my partner time with his family, I decided to forego the four-hour-long university-wide commencement in Stanford Stadium. I’m selfless like that. I may as well have gone because at home, I ended up watching a live broadcast of the ceremony on the cable public access channel. Frankly, I find the stadium experience to be highly overrated and vastly prefer the comfort of my recliner, 52″ flat-screen, and HD cable. But that’s just me.
Today we didn’t have anything on our calendars. Gym classes are canceled for Mother’s Day. The audio version of Fifty Shades of Gray is on my Nano, but a steady rain prevents me from going for a long run to get a good start on it.
All our home projects are complete. The house is clean. The rain continues to fall. Seems like today was meant to be a lazy day here in…
My Glass House
Starting a blog is easy. Keeping it going is a bit more challenging. The internet is littered with the carcasses of failed and abandoned blogs.
I’m sure most bloggers fantasize about hitting the big league and making lots of money at least once in a while. But the vast majority of active blogs aren’t the least bit successful, at least by industry standards. And with few exceptions, most bloggers don’t care. They measure success with different yardsticks.
When I started this blog, I envisioned that by now, my recently penned memoir, Glass Houses, would be in print and steadily climbing the best seller list. This blog was intended to satisfy the never-ending curiosity of all my devoted fans. Thanks, all three of you, for keeping the dream alive.
Glass Houses isn’t likely to be in print any time in the next year…or two. I still believe it’s a great story, but I need to completely rewrite the first third or more and revamp most the rest. That’s going to take time, and thanks to my day job and a healthy lifestyle, time is in short supply.
Since the hordes of adoring Glass Houses fans have yet to materialize, a blog such as My Glass House is years, perhaps even decades ahead of its time. Until I’m famous, there’s just not going to be a lot of interest in my life. Same for the memoir. I’ll have a much easier time selling Glass Houses after I become famous.
So what about my second book, Addicted, the gay romance-slash-thriller novel? I planned to get the revised manuscript off to a publisher before I returned to Glass Houses. But now I don’t think that’s going to happen, either. The more I think about it, the more certain I am that a good prequel to Addicted is floating around in my head. I love Philip too much to keep his story to myself.
Meanwhile, I’ve been thinking more and more about a novel that takes place in the United States after the outbreak of the next Civil War. I’m going to do this one “by the book” with outlines, character sketches, and plot lines all mapped out before I write the first word. We’ll see how that compares with recollecting what happened for the memoir and making things up as I went along in Addicted.
My best made plans have never worked out. Something unexpected and unpredictable always comes along that forces a change of plans. But even if things do work out as planned, it looks like I’m not likely to have throngs of devoted fans anxiously awaiting my next book any time soon.
What then to do about this here blog? The original purpose–a platform from which to promote all the books I was getting published–is perhaps five years premature. That I’m such a visionary is just another reason why I need to keep blogging.
And I do need to keep blogging.
I’ve thought about resurrecting The Crotchety Old Man. He’s made several secret cameo appearances here on this blog and is always well-received. And lord knows, with the election coming he’d have plenty to talk about.
The idea of a new blog about my ongoing struggle to maintain a healthy lifestyle appeals to me, too. I was thinking of calling it something like “The Zumba King: Revealed” or “Adventures of the Zumba King.” I just want something that works better as a closing than…
My Glass House
Changing my lifestyle has been high on my priority list for a full year now. I’m not talking about my gay lifestyle, which doesn’t work that way anyhow. I’m talking about aspects of my life over which I do have a fair degree of control: diet and exercise.
I’m still kinda sorta loosely on Weight Watchers. Mostly. When I’m being good and avoiding stuff I shouldn’t eat, I religiously track all my food and keep up with my points allowance. I do good most of the time, eating healthy stuff all day and blowing it a little right before bed most nights. My points allowance can handle my nightly slip ups. It’s the bigger binges that really mess me up.
Take this weekend. My partner jumped from an airplane. He raised money for Extra Special People and the jump was his reward. We arrived at the festive jump site at 2:30. The weather was perfect–for jumping, but a little hot for just standing around waiting to jump. I paid ten dollars for twelve tickets. I got cotton candy for one ticket, a hamburger for two tickets, a snow cone for another ticket, five pieces of pizza (at one ticket each), a Pepsi for one ticket, and because they were such a bargain, another hamburger. My partner ate two pieces of pizza and drank half the Pepsi. The rest was for me. I eat when I’m nervous.
It was a long afternoon. At 6:00, he finally got to jump. He enjoyed it and says he’ll do it again next year. We got some great pictures, and the sky diving team made a video tape for him that’s pretty cool. For me, just thinking about the plane ride up is enough to induce a panic attack. My bucket list is mostly stuff I want to eat before I die. Jumping out of planes runs contrary to my desire to live long enough to sample every yummy gooey dessert on the planet.
After the jump, we went to Carraba’s for diner. Yeah, I know. I was already stuffed. But eating out after the jump had always been the plan. Having spent most the day in the sun, I quickly sucked down two frozen margaritas. Brain freeze. Buzz. Deep fried zucchini appetizer with their seafood special (salmon, shrimp, scallops, and lobster ravioli) and a giant honking piece of yummy gooey chocolate cake just for me for dessert. Sugar coma.
The next morning, my weight was ten pounds heavier than it had been the day before. I no longer try to figure out how many points a bad night cost me. I just pull a number out of thin air and enter it. Bingefest, 50 points. Hell, that’s not enough. The cake alone was probably 35.
My exercise routine has suffered, too. Between the new furniture, carpet installation, and four different days when I worked in the yard instead of going for a run, my activity level is way down. I missed one of my strength training sessions and had to skip centergy, too. I’ve hardly run at all.
I keep telling myself that in the long run, as long as I’m good (eat right and exercise) more often than I’m not, it’s all good. But that’s really not true. One night of bad can undo a week’s worth of good–or more. The scale has proven that to me time and time again. I’ve lost these last ten pounds fifteen or twenty times now. Sooner or later, one of them will stick.
Thinking about the long run is what gets me in trouble. I imagine a buff but unhappy me coming home from my day at the gym for yet another dinner of grilled chicken, brown rice, and broccoli and panic sets in. I don’t want to live in a world without fried chicken, pizza, sugary baked goods, and premium ice cream (the real stuff, not the fat-free crap). The thought makes me want to eat myself to death at the nearest buffet.
But I don’t. I head to the gym for another thirty-minute torture session with my trainer. And then I’ll enjoy a wonderful dinner of grilled chicken, brown rice, and pineapple (we’re changing things up a little). In the long run, we’ll still be hanging out together here in…
My Glass House
Here’s another round of tips dedicated to my high school pal and her new best friend, Katie. Sounds like they’re bonding, but the new is starting to wear off a little. Now’s when the real work comes. Hang in there! The first few months are the hardest. Hopefully these and the tips I provided in the two previous posts will make those months a little easier than they might otherwise have been.
Study up a bit. Whether you watch dog training shows on television, buy books on training and the characteristics of your particular breed, or scour the internet for information is up to you. We did all of the above and watched every available episode of both The Dog Whisperer and It’s Me or the Dog. Between Cesar and Victoria, I’d be more likely to call Victoria just because the positive re-enforcement approach works better for me than the whole “lead dog” head game. But in the end, it’s whatever works for you.
Redirect natural behaviors. Dogs are going to explore their environment and are likely to dig, chew, and otherwise engage in doggy behaviors. It’s what they do. Following the little sweetheart around the house yelling, “no!, no! no!” every time it moves isn’t much fun for either of you. Redirecting is usually a better option than no. When puppy starts chewing on your purse, redirect his or her attention to a favorite toy.
Foster favorites. It’s natural to want to run out and buy every kind of dog toy on the market. Save your money. You’re going to need it for the vet bills. And beyond two or three, more toys is just overwhelming. Our dogs each have a favorite furry toy (Tico’s sheep and Toodles’ squirrelly) which we have replaced several times. Aside from that, they like balls and anything that belongs to another dog. Tico is the rare dog that will take his sheep into the back bedroom and play all by himself for thirty minutes or more. Toodles drags her squirrelly out from wherever she left it and carries it to our bedroom when she’s ready to go to bed. It’s cute.
Nip biting in the bud. Some experts say biting should never be permitted. They’re probably right, but to me, playful biting is normal dog behavior. I can’t resist playing games with puppies that involve having my fingers chewed on. Isn’t that normal? When puppy bites (or bites too hard), yelp and turn away from the biter. If biting persists, the next tip will be needed.
Pin that bad boy (or girl) down. Sometimes it’s necessary to put your foot down. If puppy is acting up and persisting with behaviors you absolutely do not want to encourage, firmly put the little hellion on his or her back and hold them down until s/he chills out. Toodles needed this a lot more than Tico did. We call this “time out.” You might use this tool a lot, especially for new pups, but they learn. Other than to scratch a belly, we haven’t resorted to putting our dogs on their backs for a very long time.
Chew time. An hour or two before we go to bed, the dogs get a chew treat. There are dozens of different varieties on the market. You want one that the dog likes that requires a good thirty to sixty minutes of chewing to consume. By eight o’clock, our dogs are dancing in front of us demanding something for chew time. Unless a territory dispute erupts during chew time, we can count on at least thirty minutes of peace and quiet. “Chew time” is another call that gets a pretty quick response at our house.
Beyond any doubt, the two words our dogs most want to hear are: Car Ride. They enjoy going to the ATM, filling up the gas tank, going through the fast-food drive through window, or longer trips to visit friends in Georgia, Virginia and Florida. They don’t care–they’re just thrilled to be included. Traveling with them imposes certain limitations. We’re fortunate in that we’ve been able to take our dogs with us anywhere we’ve wanted to go. Most the time, they act even better on these outings than they do on the typical day here in…
My Glass House
In the middle of the night last night, it dawned on me that before I give out advice about raising puppies, I need to establish some credibility. And of course, I also thought of several more tips. I offer the following true-life story as evidence of my dog-whispering ability. How’s that for an intro?
We got new carpet in all the bedrooms today. The work that went into getting ready for installation made me appreciate the old carpet for lasting as long as it did. Getting ready for new carpet isn’t something I want to do very often. The garage is piled high and some of it ain’t coming back in.
Because we moved things around–including the kennels–the dogs were on high alert this morning. When the installation team pulled into the driveway, I told the dogs to kennel up. They were confused by the new location of the kennels, but re-oriented themselves in short order. By the time the doorbell rang, they were both too busy consuming the treat they get for kenneling up to bark.
TIP: Dogs are treat whores. Just say “treat” around here and the excitement level leaps exponentially until the promised delicacy is delivered. “Good dogs get treats” is significantly more successful than “come” at launching our dogs in the right direction. They do hear what you say…the trick is getting them to do what you want. The solution is almost always some kind of treat.
A couple of hours after the carpet installers got to work, I opened up the crates and said, “backdoor.” Both dogs tore off like the house was on fire. “Frontdoor” produces the same result, but in a different direction. They ran around the backyard for maybe fifteen minutes before we went back inside. I put them on the couch and sat down to get some work done. They jockeyed for a spot as close to me as they could get for a minute or two and then settled down.
The dogs sat quietly on the couch beside me. Members of the team walked by us dozens of times and were in and out the front door every few minutes. Toodles got a little growly a couple of times, but I just made my “no” noise and she settled back down.
TIP: No is not enough. A loud “No!” means somebody is about to get in trouble. Our dogs freeze when they hear it. We only use the word in extreme circumstances. That creates the need for at least two more ways to say no that don’t involve using the “N” word. A staccato “ah,ah,ah” from me means “you better not” and was enough to keep Toodles from barking at the carpet guys. It also kept both dogs on the couch when they acted like they had other ideas. Finally, you’ll want something for training purposes that let’s the dog know they’re good dogs but doing it wrong (coupled, of course, with treats for when they do it right). I don’t have one of these because Toodles is so perfect she never really needed it…and we spent very little time training.
We got off the couch once during the carpet installation for another trip outside. Again, all I had to do was say “backdoor” and it was a fait accompli. If additional speed toward the door is desired, adding “cat” or “squirrel” works wonders. The downside of using “cat” is the way Tico perks his ears up when we’re visiting friends and they mention their cat. We keep our fingers crossed that any cats in the vicinity stay out of sight.
The dogs stayed quiet while the team vacuumed the new carpet and returned all the furniture to the newly carpeted rooms. It was killing them, too. They kept looking at me as they squirmed, making little whiney noises that mean “pretty please with sugar on top!” Tico trembled with pure excitement, just waiting for his opportunity to meet our house guests. Toodles wanted to make sure they didn’t steal anything. She’s a tad dramatic. My partner says she gets it from me.
The gig was up when the team leader wanted to show me our newly installed carpet. Tico practically leaped into his arms. When he didn’t get any “no” noises, Toodles jumped down from the couch. She wanted to say hello, but couldn’t decide if he was a serial killer or not, so she just ran wide circles around him until they left.
Our little dogs made me proud today and it’s because they were brought up well. I have my partner to thank for showing me what they needed. He’s the reason Tico is such a pleasant dog to be around. Ignoring him when I did is a big part of the reason Toodles is the way she is. I’ve always said he was the smart one.
He taught me more about being a good puppy daddy than I can squeeze into two blog posts. I’m keeping my list of tips to share and add to it as I remember others. You’ll be hearing more about how to raise puppies here on…
My Glass House
