W ow. What a way to start a morning – reading an email from Greyhart Press telling me an invoice is attached, and he’s waiting for my Paypal info so he can deposit money in my account.
Now – how cool is THAT?
And you know, the money is great. Not going to get me rich. (Okay, okay, I know you’re dying to know, so I’ll tell you. I sold 63 books! I’ll not tell you the royalty amount, onaccountabecause it ain’t none o’ yer bees wax.)
But, I find the money doesn’t thrill me as much as knowing that 63 folks decided to spend their hard-earned money on my work…
Now THAT is a high you can’t get from a bottle
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As the first hint of light began to peek over the trees, Lizzie appeared in the snug kitchen. “Is he here? Where is he?”
Wiping her hands with a kitchen towel, Beth moved over to her daughter. “He never came back last night. But it’s almost light out. We’ll take a walk right after breakfast, and I’m sure we’ll find him.”
“No! No, no, no! We have to find him now!” The little girl dashed the door. Beth hastily grabbed two coats from the hook beside the door and bolted out after Lizzie. As she emerged onto the porch, her daughter was standing frozen at the top of the steps, staring toward the corner of the yard. Glancing that way, Beth saw a brown heap leaning against the outside of the chain fence. “You stay here—right here, understand?” Beth raced to the fence and climbed over.
The dog was a mess. Dried blood cascaded down his neck and over his chest and front legs. Burrs and twigs covered his coat, and he was filthy front to back. She laid her hand on his chest. Breathing, but just barely. Turning toward the house, she issued quick instructions.
“Get the blanket off the foot of my bed, and grab the car keys. We have to get Flapjack to Doc Barchfield. Quickly, now!”
As the little girl disappeared, Beth turned her attention back to the injured animal. If he lived, he would be one lucky dog.