Snipers & Mud Puppies

Gave two chapters of a WIP (Work in Progress) to a comrade to read, never expecting the response I received. In a nutshell it went something like this:  “Your antagonist is based on a composite of so-and-so and that crank you used to work for when you lived in… isn’t it?”  Apparently another reason friends don’t make good critique partners is that they know you just a little bit too well!! 

Comrade and I have known each other a long time. When I bought my very first house she came to visit and add artsy touches to the décor. We were deep into putting the finishing touches on a project in the kitchen, when the bay of kitchen windows began to explode. Glass flew over us and a sparkly trail of it sailed the entire length of the kitchen. Carefully stepping over the glass and watching in wonder as the windows continued to shatter and sparkle through the room we managed to dodge the imploding shrapnel.

            “I think someone is shooting at us!”  Comrade said indignantly.

Peering out at the sunny backyard and taking in the holes peppering the double paned glass I had to agree. Ducking the incoming shots that were now sporadic, we both stood, hands on hips, eyes narrowed into the sun, scouring the horizon for our sniper. Maybe we should have ducked, but we WERE preparing for vigilante justice, you see.

           “Oh for the luv of…” Comrade went storming to the back door, threw it open and screeched at her helpful husband out back. “GEORGE YOU CAN’T MOW GRAVEL!  GEORGE!”

Once she saved my dog’s life, from me truth be told. Taking a break from a heated escape attempt, Gunner tried to cool off in a puddle of oil. We’re talking Texas puddle of oil folks, not something spilled on the garage floor. We’re talking sailing through the air, grin on his doggy face, landing with a splash and wallowing around in it before he noticed it wasn’t water. If you ever get tarred and feathered do not call me. When he came dripping home, looking like some demon who clawed his way out of the River Styx, I simply went to the Sunday paper and looked under the “new dogs” section.

Comrade attacked him with the hose and a couple gallons of Tide, which only served to oil slick the entire backyard too. Then she demanded I take him to the Vet, in my car, pronto, which I did sort of, only in hubby’s car (it was his dog). Imagine my surprise when they dragged his usual abnormal white and orange fluffy self into the waiting room a few hours later.

So it was really no big surprise that Comrade could decode my fiction, she’s seen much of the fodder before it was submitted to The Glitter Globe for sustenance, modification and dissemination.