Hey, Rooftop readers…
Once again I am returning from a light sabbatical. Last time, I was working on the release of my first full-length book, I Was a White Knight… Once. (Something you can check out by clicking the nifty link provided)
This time around, I was finishing up my second mini-book: The Four-Legged Perspective.
(Yes, that’s also a clickable link. Go ahead, check it out. You know you want to)
The tale is a split-story regarding the arrival of a new baby under my roof; half is from my dog Kitty’s point of view, half from mine.
Right now, it’s only available on the Amazon Kindle, but hopefully that will be changing soon. If you don’t have a Kindle, they have plenty of free reader apps available, and guess what? My download is less than a buck. 99-Cents is all it takes to take to read yourself to sleep at night, and keep this in mind: as it’s an e-book, no trees were harmed in the making of it. Sure, plenty of Chinese slave labor went into making the electronics device you’ll be reading it on, but don’t think about them. Think about the trees. The carbon-dioxide absorbing/oxygen-emitting trees.
They weren’t harmed at all.
Below is an excerpt.
(Oh, and if family-friendly comedy isn’t your style? Check out my first mini-book, Touched By Anything But an Angel. That’s about me getting a massage from a man. Disgusting, isn’t it?)
From The Four-Legged Perspective:
On December 2nd, 2012, at 1:10 in the morning, I awoke with a start. Something didn’t feel right, and it was my belly and body. I was warm, and immense pressure was pushing up from my stomach into my throat.
I was going to throw up.
Maybe. Suddenly the urge to purge was more the sensation I was about to make liquid boom-boom.
(I’m not sure which exit strategy frightened me more.)
I left the bedroom and went to the living room to assess the situation; was this a false alarm, or was I really about to be sick? The hot cocoa I had before bed was burning in me. I wasn’t feverish or achy, so it wasn’t the flu. Food poisoning, maybe? I had been in Mexico ten years earlier; maybe a sleeper cell of Montezuma’s Revenge had taken root in my colon and was finally coming to fruition? No, that’s just silly talk right there.
Twenty minutes later, at 1:30, I heard Hillary fuss in her room. My ears perked, but I made no motion toward her; she often makes little pig noises as she transitions between sleep cycles. As a new dad, when I first heard them months earlier, I would lay in bed petrified, horrific new parent thoughts running through my head: “Do these sounds mean she can’t breathe? Is she getting enough oxygen? Is she about to wake up and start crying?” Should I get a bottle ready? Should I go pick her up? I should probably pick her up. When in doubt, always pick the baby up and let her feel Daddy’s warmth to let her know she is loved.”
(I know that’s in absolutely zero parenting books, but I thought it just the same. And I did, thankfully, just let her sleep.)
Very quickly, however, Hillary’s transition squeaks became comforting. Once we discovered they were natural, they were a sign all was well in Hillary-world, which acted as a sort of melatonin to us: “Ah, she’s good. Now I can sleep, too.”
But, snap back to the present, a few seconds after her initial peep, I heard Hillary gurgle, then choke and spit up. As I stood to check on her, she started crying.
Before I could get around the chair I had been sitting in, Kitty burst into view; he was headed from the master bedroom to Hillary’s room. Kitty saw me walking in his direction, and paused…
I can be found on Twitter @nathantimmel