I’m not crazy about other people’s pets, but they love me.

My daughter Shawn’s late dog Maya never failed to greet me with a leap to the chest that’d knock down a child. After Maya’s sharp claws punctured a nice Izod shirt, I tried to remember not to wear knit clothing when visiting. Shawn’s remaining dog Sparky slobbers me up at every opportunity. And her cat Whitey, who is deaf, doesn’t need hearing to know I’m in the room; he just sidles up, purring, and lays his head in my lap. Cat radar.

Carol and I have loved our own pets well enough. I was 5 when our springer spaniel Lassie died after picking up poisoned food in an alley; I still recall my grief. Our golden retriever Sandy was my buddy from age 10 to age 20. And Carol gets misty remembering the Jason family dog, Dopey Jason.

For that matter, Carol — in addition to possessing clairvoyance and ESP — is a dog whisperer. When Carol croons, savage beasts whimper.

Sam forced us to revisit the pet issue. He was dying for a dog when he was little. Naturally he promised to take care of the creature. We both knew he was full of baloney. As kids, both of us had made — and broken — the same promise.

We also knew how much trouble a pet can be, starting with the need to walk them four times a day. That’s the standard my parents set anyway. Walking the dog turned into one of the great alienating events of my childhood, with my dad deploying nagging and guilt, and me responding with passive aggression … for nothing. Shawn doesn’t walk the dog four times a day yet Sparky seems to survive.

And the responsibility never ends. Walk ‘em, feed ‘em, housebreak ‘em, keep ‘em off the furniture and away from the letter carrier, take ‘em to the vet, put ‘em in the kennel when you go away, yada yada yada. For what? Unlimited, unconditional love, sure, but big deal. Kids give you unconditional love too — for the first 10-12 years anyway, the typical dog lifespan — and after that … well, at least teens are not boring.

I started thinking about this topic after Carol read me an item about people who visited friends and family with their pets in tow. The visitees, pet-less, were miffed. The visitors were taken aback, stunned, uncomprehending. What’s the problem? It’s only Fido.

Whether or not you’re a pet owner, you probably know what’s going on. To the visitees, Fido is an animal … to the visitors, a person.

No, more than a person, better than a person (sometimes better-looking too). Always up for some fun. Doesn’t ask you to take out the garbage while you’re reading the paper. Likes being petted but willing to take no for an answer. Can’t cook — can’t even talk — but those may be pluses too.

Sorry. I once was able to go there but no more. I’d rather deal with messy human relationships than messy animals. Maybe it’s because I’m writing novels. The social scientist seeks for us to understand our nature, the clergyman seeks for us to rise above it … but the novelist just wants us to roll around in it.

President Harry Truman once said, “If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.” But I’d rather give the last word to Dorothy Parker, the writer, who said, “People are more fun than anybody.”

Frank Joseph
www.tolovemercy.com

P.S. Come see me in Chicago in November! The appearance schedule is posted at last. I’ll be at three bookstores, four public libraries, eight schools, one book club and the Illinois School Library Media Assn. (ISLMA) annual meeting in Springfield (talking on “Getting Boys to Read”). Check out the full schedule at www.tolovemercy.com/frank_joseph_appearances.html

I think of myself as a fast writer. I also think of myself as Roger Federer.

The novel I’m currently writing, working title To Walk Humbly, is about one-third finished — 135 pages and 28,887 words since I first put word to paper (pardon me, screen) on March 25. So let’s see, that’s 28887 words/167 days = 172.97604 words per day. I mean, yuck.

I can write fast, mind you. When I’m cookin’, I can write fiction as fast as I can type. The problem is what to write.

You’ve seen the cartoons: Frustrated writer sits at typewriter next to wastebasket piled high with crumpled pieces of blank paper. Add your own caption. I’ve seen the same cartoons and, foolish me, I thought that was how it’s done. Obviously it’s not or they wouldn’t be drawing cartoons about it. (Well, maybe it is if you’re Joyce Carol Oates, but not if you’re Frank Joseph.)

I spent three months doing historical research before I even started writing the current novel, in a quest to prime the pump. That certainly was useful and necessary, but when the day came that I thought the pump was primed, nothing trickled out. I started to get anxious.

Then I had a brainstorm. I’d brainstorm! Linda Morefield, a member of my writing group, graciously agreed to participate and one fine day we sat on her screened porch and talked my story out. Linda played sounding-board while I did most of the talking. That was OK, that was fine, that was actually great, because after about 90 minutes I was on fire. I went home and started writing this novel.

It petered out quickly. I started feeling like the guy in the cartoon again.

Frustrated, I started writing in longhand on a yellow pad … and that, folks, was the breakthrough.

See, the stuff I want to write about is floating around in my mind but it’s incoherent. Writing it down stream-of-consciousness-style does not cause it to cohere. What it does, I think, is summon into existence a virtual brainstorming partner — a Virtual Linda if you will.

I have filled a yellow pad with this narrative. It is truly a narrative — messy and disorganized, just like my mind. There are no plot trees or character charts or lists or any of that organized stuff writers are advised to do — just whatever happens to be bubbling in there when I do this exercise.

For what it’s worth, I do this writing using a treasured fountain pen my son Sam gave me as a birthday gift when he was about 11. And green ink. I am not superstitious by nature, but Dumbo is my favorite movie.

Does it work? Yes, for me, and sometimes very quickly indeed. Yesterday afternoon I wrote in longhand on the yellow pad for no more than 20 minutes, then turned to the computer and cranked out some 1,200 words of fiction in about two hours.

So try it, you writers out there. If it works for you too, I’ll put the word out. If you have your own trick for getting the words to flow, let me know and I’ll put out that word too.

Frank Joseph
www.tolovemercy.com

P.S. I need to interview people who went to Hyde Park High School in Chicago in the mid ’50s. If you did, or know someone who did, please contact me at 301-656-8753/frank@tolovemercy.com.