From a Distance - #Retrospection #Spirituality #Compassion

From a distance you look like my friend
Even though we are at war
From a distance I just cannot comprehend
What all this fighting’s for....

~ Bette Midler, “From a Distance”

Just before I entered my senior year in high school, humans walked on the moon for the first time. With my long-time love of both science and science fiction, I was jubilant. The stars beckoned. Anything was possible.

Only months later, the Ohio National Guard fatally shot four Kent State University students protesting the Vietnam war.

Looking back, I cannot recall how I reconciled the elation and the horror stemming from these two events, though I know both affected me deeply.

We believed, back then, in the inevitable revolution. Things would never be the same. “The time’s they are a-changing,” Dylan sang, and we believed. We looked to a new world of love and peace, freedom and justice and moral responsibility. The Age of Aquarius.

Things didn’t quite turn out that way.

Well, the times did change. They always do. We impeached a president. We waited in long lines for rationed gas. We danced to Saturday Night Fever. We watched the stock market crash, rise and crash again.

Hijacked planes toppled the twin towers and claimed three thousand lives. Nightmare waves scoured the coasts of the Indian Ocean, killing two hundred thousand. Having finally quit the jungles of Vietnam, U.S. soldiers occupied the deserts of Iraq and Afghanistan.

We elected a black man to the Oval Office—twice. We cloned sheep, transplanted hearts, sequenced our own DNA and that of our animal cousins. We haven’t walked on Mars yet, but our robots have. We know there’s certainly water on the Red Planet, and probably some form of life.

My siblings had kids, who grew up, graduated high school, went to college. My parents left the earth, after bountiful lives no one could call short. A dear friend succumbed to ovarian cancer at fifty two. Two of my former lovers committed suicide.

Technology followed the science fiction of my youth. Computers shrank to the size of match boxes. It became more and more difficult to distinguish fact from deliberate fabrication.

My spirituality is eclectic, but I do believe the Buddha’s teaching that everything is transient. Suffering derives from attachment, the attempt to resist changing circumstances.

Through the distance of six and a half decades, I find comfort in the constant cycles of change. No matter how horrible things appear right now, they’ll be different tomorrow, or next week, or next year. Of course this also means more hard times may be coming, but they will eventually fade away as well.

The only reality (again according to the Buddha), the key to breaking the chains of illusion, is compassion. That’s my focus now, in these latter days of my life. I am trying to release the hate and anger stirred up so effectively by today’s media. I don’t want to sweat the small stuff, but to do justice and love kindness and refrain from judgment if I can. I am trying, with mixed success, to be a center of peace, radiating to those around me.

Really, that seems to be the only option.

To quote Paul McCartney, another prophet from my youth:

And in the end

the love you take

is equal to the love

you make.

Charity Sunday: Helping you to imagine... #NewRelease #CharitySunday #AmnestyInternational

Greetings!

This is the weekend I would normally do a Charity Sunday post, where I post about some worthwhile cause, then invite you to comment. Then I donate to the charity according to the number of comments I receive.

Today, I’m doing something a bit different.

I don’t know if you saw my post “Imagine” a few days ago, on World Refugee Day. In that post (which I’d love you to go over and read), I invite you to imagine what it would be like to be one of the 70 million individuals in the world today who have been forced to leave their homes because of conflict, violence and disasters natural and man-made. Despite their suffering, refugees are in many places treated as unwanted, even inhuman. Can you imagine what it would be like, to be homeless, destitute and despised?

Today, I thought I’d help you imagine, by sharing my own attempts to make real the plight of one group of refugees. According to UNHCR, there are currently more than 95,000 refugees in Thailand, living in nine camps. Most are from minority groups along the border with Myanmar, who have been displaced by decades of ethnic conflict.

My new release Refuge brings one of these camps to life, seen through the eyes of a young private in the Thai military. Here’s the blurb:

I never wanted to be a soldier, especially a guard at the remote, dusty Mae La refugee camp, a thousand kilometers from my home. But these days there were no jobs in our village. My mother depended on the money I sent her each month. Still, she cried whenever I phoned her.

Until I met the lovely hill tribe girl Preean, though—until she asked for help I knew I shouldn’t give her—I never really understood what I was doing to my fellow human beings. How could she go on, one day after another in that desolate place, without any hope for change? Mae La was limbo—once you arrived here you were stuck. There was nowhere else you could go.

To love her was dangerous, a risk to my own life and freedom. But when she offered her body and her heart, how could I refuse? 

~ ~ ~ ~ 

Refuge is a multicultural erotic romance with a happy ending, but it portrays, as vividly as I know how, the miserable life of these refugees.

I want you to read this story. You can download it free from Smashwords by going here:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/945432

and then using this coupon:

VZ77M

So here’s the deal this Charity Sunday. Instead of making donations based on how many comments I get, I’ll donate two dollars to Amnesty International (one of the most important organizations working for refugee rights and welfare, around the world) for every download of the book (free or paid).

Furthermore, I plan to donate all proceeds from sales on either Smashwords or Amazon (which I hope will have the book up within the next 24 hours) to Amnesty.

I’ll donate two dollars for every review on Amazon as well.

The coupon and donation offer expires on July 4^th. The altruistic allocation of proceeds will go on indefinitely.

Feel free to share the coupon, and the book, with your friends and family. The more people who imagine the life of a refugee, the more likely it is that the world will work to reduce their suffering and give them a home.

Finally, here’s a bit from the book, so you’ll have some idea what you’re getting:

~ ~ ~ ~ 

“Excuse me, do you have a pencil?”

I jumped. I had been daydreaming about home, eating somtum and gai yang with Mum and my brother Daeng under the tamarind tree in the backyard. The light tap on my shoulder dragged me back to the smelly, dusty camp where I was supposed to be on guard.

“What?”

“A pencil? Or a pen?” The young woman gestured back towards a knot of kids gathered in the shade of the water tower. She held up a sheet of corrugated cardboard scavenged from some trash heap. “I’m teaching them their alphabet. I’ve got this but nothing to write with.”

She wore a faded teeshirt, baggy shorts and flip flops. Her hair hung down her back in a messy ponytail tied with an old shoelace. Still I could see that she was pretty, slightly built, with sharper features and paler skin then the girls back home. Her smile appeared genuine, though her eyes appraised me nervously. I guessed that it took some courage for her to approach me, a uniformed soldier with a loaded rifle—never mind that I was only a year or two older than she was, and wanting nothing more than to go back to my family in Yasathon.

I leaned my gun against my thigh. “I’ve got a pencil back at the barracks, but I can’t leave my post until my shift is over. Maybe you could postpone your lessons until after three? I’ll bring it to you then.”

Her face lit up. She grabbed and squeezed my hands. Hers were tiny, but strong. “Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you.”

I blushed at her enthusiasm. “Never mind. Now you’d better go.” I’d noticed Sergeant Chokchai headed my way. He didn’t approve of what he called “fraternization” between us and the camp’s inhabitants.

“Everything secure, Private Nu?” He loomed over me. I swallowed hard. He came from Bangkok. He had made it clear in his view, I was just a stupid hick from the Northeast.

“Yes, sir. Everything is normal, sir.”

“What were you doing, talking to that filthy Burmese cunt?”

I winced at his foulness. “Nothing. She wanted to know the time, that’s all.”

“Why should she care? She’s not going anywhere!” Chokchai gave a nasty chuckle “You should know better, though. Don’t talk to them. Don’t get involved in their affairs. Oh, they’ll act all polite and respectful, but they’re snakes. They’ll stab you as soon as your back’s turned. You remember what happened to Sakon, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” Sakon had been another sergeant. They had found him behind the mess hall with his throat slit. Everyone assumed that he was murdered by one of the refugees, even though he’d been a brutal man who had many enemies.

“Just remember, they’re animals. Ignorant, superstitious animals.” He looked over his shoulder in the direction that the girl had disappeared, shaking his head in obvious disgust, before returning his unwelcome attention to me.

~ ~ ~ ~ 

Thank you for your time, and your compassion.

Quick update: the book is now available on Amazon (but not free):

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TDYD7DB
 

Imagine... -- #UNHCR #WorldRefugeeDay #EveryRefugeeMatters

 Image by Zachtleven fotografie from Pixabay

Look around you. No matter where you live, no matter your economic level, if you’re reading this blog, you probably have a home. You’re surrounded by your personal possessions, things that have special meaning to you. You very likely share your home, too, with people who are important to you – family and friends, neighbors, members of your community. Maybe you live in the town where you were born. Maybe you’ve moved far away, but wherever you are, I’ll bet you have happy memories, emotional connections and some level of physical comfort.

Now imagine that’s all gone. Imagine you’ve been driven out of your home, your town, even your country – by violence, by war, by famine, by disease. You have no place to call your own. Think about what it would be like, to be forced to leave everything behind, not just your possessions but also your culture, history and traditions. If you’re lucky, you may have been able to take your family with you when you fled. If you’re less fortunate, you may have seen your husband, wife, son or daughter raped, arrested or murdered, drowned in the effort to escape, or lost to starvation.

Who would choose this? No one sane. Yet this is the situation faced by more than 70 million refugees around the world. What do these people want? What we all want: safety, shelter, sustenance, work that will support them, a community to which they can belong, a future.

Today is the World Refugee Day. I’m not asking you to donate. I’m not suggesting you should feel guilty because you’re fortunate enough to have a home. No, all I’m asking is that you stop for a moment and use the power of imagination – the same power that allows you to lose yourself in a book – to put yourself in their places.

Imagine you’re a Rohingya man from Myanmar whose house was torched by the army, now living in a squalid camp in Bangladesh with 700,000 of your compatriots. Or a Syrian teenager whose parents were crushed inside their bombed house, who risked his life in a leaky boat to find a home in Europe. Or a young mother from Guatemala who’s walked all the way through Mexico to the U.S. border carrying her two month old child, after drug gangs raped her and shot her husband.

Imagine the terror, the despair, the hunger, the deep loneliness. You can identify with characters in a story. Can you do the same for the refugees? Can you summon enough compassion to burn through the xenophobic rhetoric so common these days?

I’m not asking you to do anything – except to resist the temptation to demonize these souls who have lost everything. It’s easy to blame outsiders for everything, easy to fear them, all too easy to reject them. Resist that temptation, if you can.

If you do want to do something more – well, there are lots of opportunities to work with or on behalf of refugees.

As a really simple starting point – since I know you love erotica and romance – consider purchasing the altruistic anthology Coming Together: On Wheels. All proceeds from this book support the United Nations High Commission on Refugees. Of course, I have a story in this volume, a romantic and arousing tale entitle “Test Drive”. Here’s a snippet:

Pure testosterone. That was Jack Taggart. I think I must have got a hit of his pheromones or something, before I even saw him. I almost skipped down the sidewalk that July evening, inexplicable excitement fizzing through me. I should have been worn out from a long shift behind the reference desk. Instead, I felt like dancing as I strolled along Main Street, headed for home. I pulled off the elasticized tie and shook out my hair. It tumbled around my shoulders and down my back, much longer than Estelle thought was appropriate for a woman my age. Too bad. My profession requires me to maintain a certain level of propriety in my dress, but there’s got to be a limit.

“Hey there, pretty lady.”

His drawl rumbled through me, an avalanche of heat, melting everything in its path. My hair flew as I turned back in his direction.

I’d intended to scold him for his barely polite greeting. The words caught in my throat as I took him in.

He lounged in the doorway of the Indian motorcycle showroom, hands in his pockets, broad shoulders braced against the frame, one lean, denim-clad leg crossed over the other—six feet of loose-limbed masculinity. A sand-colored braid hung down across his solid chest, almost to his waist. The rolled-up sleeves of his plaid shirt revealed tanned forearms furred with golden down. His sun-bronzed face wasn’t classically handsome, but when his bright blue eyes snagged mine, I couldn’t look away.

Thirty. Thirty five at most. I could almost be his mother. Shocking that all I wanted to do was tear off my conservative skirt and blouse and throw myself into those obviously strong arms.

“Want to come for a ride, darlin’?”

“Ah—huh—what?” A master’s degree in library science, reduced to inarticulate mumbling by a bit of flirting. What was I, a teenager?

“Got a sale going on, through next week. Discounts of twenty to thirty percent on all our models. I have to say you’d look fantastic on a bike, Miss.” He unfolded himself from his casual pose and handed me a business card. “I’m Jack Taggart. Top sales associate in the Midwest, three years running. And you are…?”

It’s none of your business who I am, I wanted to tell him. Fat chance. “Um—Alice. Alice Robinson.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Robinson.” Apparently helpless to resist, I accepted the large, calloused hand he held out. Lighting sizzled through me as our palms connected. “Or is it Mrs. Robinson?”

His cocky grin sent blood rushing to my cheeks. I straightened my spine and tried to regain some sort of control over my autonomic functions. “Mrs. My husband died four years ago.”

* * * *

If this piques your interest, I hope you’ll check out the book. In any case, I hope this exercise in imagination will make you a bit more grateful and a bit more kind.

Certainly it has that effect on me.

Responding to hate (#charity #love #lgbtq)

Hope for Pulse anthology

All proceeds support the victims of the Pulse shooting.

So there’s a lot of talk now, about fighting the hate that was stirred up by the recent U.S. election. Many of us have been shocked and distressed by the casual cruelty in the words of the new President-elect and his supporters. Statistic show that hate crimes—attacks on members of minorities, on the disabled and on women—have increased significantly over the course of the campaign and especially since the election itself. Some people now feel that it’s okay to physically attack people different from them, people they don’t trust, people on the “other side”.

That’s not us, we say. We care. We have compassion. We’re going to fight those right-wingers, crush those damned bigots, emasculate those deplorables who can’t make it in today’s world, so they have to take it out on someone more vulnerable. We’ll battle to the very last breath to wipe them out...

Um...do we really think we can fight hate with more hate? I don’t think so. Violence breeds violence (for instance, many abusive parents were themselves abused as children), and negativity simply triggers even stronger negative reactions from the opposing side. Hate is not a solution.

I know this may sound ridiculous, but I am convinced the only way to fight hate is through love and understanding. That means recognizing that everyone—no matter what their politics or religion or views on abortion or gay rights—every person has his or her own world view, his or her own reasons for believing and acting in a certain way. We can disapprove of a person’s opinions or actions, but when we condemn the individual rather than the actions, we’re falling into the same trap as the haters. Labeling a person as the enemy, inhuman, makes them the Other, and implies that it’s okay to hate them, even hurt them. That accelerates the spiral of distrust and violence.

What can do we do, then, to hold back what seems like a rising tide of inhumanity? Start by being human ourselves, modeling compassion in our own lives the greatest extent possible. That includes opposing injustice and evil when we can. We can demonstrate to bear witness. We can sign petitions. We can run for office, or volunteer for causes that uphold humanity. We can (as I do) write stories and give them away to support charities that work against the hate.

Each of us can make a contribution. But I truly believe we need to start by letting go of the hate and anger that turn other human beings into inhuman targets. Otherwise we’re no better than they are.

For a list of the charitable anthologies that include my stories, see http://www.lisabetsarai.com/books_antho.html

Help a fellow author facing homelessness (#ASMSG #donate #MFRWAuthor )

[This is a repost from my colleague Barb Caffrey Please offer what help you can! ~ Lisabet] 


Folks, one of the reasons I’ve been cagey for months here at my blog is because I’ve been enduring hardship. I can’t go into that many details as most of them are not mine to tell; all I can tell you is that in seven days, I am going to lose my home. And I need immediate help to relocate, get set back up on my feet, and to continue to create — because my goodness, CHANGING FACES is due shortly.

All of this upheaval is not conducive to creativity, to put it mildly. But I need somehow to get it done anyway.

Of course, I don’t know how I get all this done. Right now, I feel overwhelmed, overmatched, and extremely frustrated. I have tried very hard in my current situation to make everything right, and yet I could not do it.

I’m hamstrung in many ways trying to explain what’s going on right now. It’s a crisis situation. In seven days, the place I’m living will be sold…and I can do nothing whatsoever about it.

That much, I think I can say.

As anyone who regularly reads my blog knows, my health isn’t tiptop. I manage a number of health conditions, including carpal tunnel syndrome, asthma, allergies, and at least six others. I also must bring along with me my thirteen-year-old dog Trouble, as he’s my true friend and I refuse to leave him behind…he’s not always the best-behaved dog (thus his name), but I love him, and he loves me.

Anyway, I’ve set up a Patreon page. I’m asking for $4400 for help in relocating; this is a three-month projection of what I will need. Over time, I figure I’ll need about $1200 a month to live as my needs are small…an internet connection, a safe space to work, write, and edit, a good place for Trouble to take a walk perhaps…some serenity, because I surely don’t have any right now.

At Patreon, people offer things in exchange for support called “rewards” — I assume so we artists, writers, and creators don’t have to feel bad about asking for help. I’ve offered four things: “Trouble with Elfs” for anyone who helps me; if you pledge $5 per month, the reward is Michael’s original versions of “Columba and the Committee;” if you pledge $10 per month, the rewards is Michael’s original version of “Columba and the Crossing;” if you pledge $25 per month, I’ll send you the original version of Michael’s novel MAVERICK, LIEUTENANT…I don’t think he’d mind.

I intend to keep on writing, keep on creating, keep on doing the best I possibly can. But what I’m faced with right now is a disaster…I need to keep mind, body and soul together while I figure out what my next move is.

I implore you, please help me to do just that. Go to my Patreon page. Anything will help.


I’d also appreciate your prayers, good thoughts, warm wishes, and any job leads you think may be beneficial. I am an excellent editor with references; I am a solid writer who tells entertaining stories; I know how to research, to do administrative work, understand most computers to a certain extent…I’m hard-working, dedicated, resourceful, and persistent.

Thank you for reading, and I wish I hadn’t had to write this whatsoever.

Introducing Daisy - Blog Tour and Giveaway!

By Ashe Barker (Guest Blogger)

Anyone who knows me would not be surprised to see animals appearing in my books. In fact, it’s fairly unusual for me not to have a four legged furry friend in their somewhere, and often they play a key part in the story.

The creature featured in Red Skye at Night is Daisy, the stray dog who adopts Harry, and by extension Hope, as they make their way across the Cairngorm mountains in Scotland. Poor Daisy is only a puppy and has been fending for herself. She’s not been doing a great job of it, so when Harry and Hope stop for a picnic and Daisy gets a whiff of a chicken sandwich, and better still a warm dry back seat to curl up on, she’s not letting go.

Dogs aren’t daft, and I reckon Daisy knows from the off that it’s Harry she needs to concentrate all her charms on. He’s the dog lover of this pair, and he warms to Daisy straight away though I’d defy anyone not to adore the cute little thing really. Even Hope, who cares more than most of us about the state of her rear upholstery, is persuaded to let Daisy come along and our duo become a threesome.

I don’t describe Daisy in great detail in the story, I prefer to let readers use their imagination. She’s about four months old, brown, thin, probably got some border collie in her. This is the sort of image I had in mind – what a sweetie. I’d have scooped her up too and taken her home like a shot.

Over the years we’ve had our share of rescue animals, including a Yorkshire terrier I agreed to look after for a couple of days while his owner sorted out her domestic problems. It was June, and I suppose I should have smelled a rat when Toby arrived complete with winter coat. He died of old age some fourteen years later.

Daisy has an important part to play in the story. She symbolises Hope, and more specifically, Harry’s reaction to Hope. Right from the beginning he’s attracted to the sassy taxi driver. Having convinced Hope to drive him to Scotland he decides early on that he’s keeping her. He won’t be going back to Canada without either of his new travelling companions, and although Daisy is an easy sell, he has to use some pretty direct methods to get Hope to finally agree. Harry generally gets his way though.

Despite her unhappy start in life Daisy has landed on her feet. Despite their fondness for chicken sandwiches new family have some odd ways. For example they like to swim in freezing cold rivers and seem to expect her to join in. Not happening. Harry and Hope also seem to spend more time than Daisy can really credit rolling about naked in the Scottish heather. She has new people coming into her life all the time, but she’s a friendly, optimistic little dog, and as long as she’s around Harry she knows she’ll be safe. Hope’s a little less quick to reach the same conclusion, but gets there eventually.

Here’s the blurb for Red Skye at Night:

Two strangers, one outrageous proposal, and the journey of a lifetime.

How far would you go? To Skye and back?

A random accident as a teenager wrecked Hope Shepherd’s aspirations to be an international athlete. Now working as a taxi driver, Hope is unsettled by a sexy Canadian she picks up at the airport. With his good looks and easy charm, he’s just the sort of man she can do without. But can she afford to turn down his offer?

He offers her a small fortune to drive him to Scotland, where he hopes to discover his ancestral roots. And not just anywhere in Scotland. Harry McLeod wants to go to the Highlands, to the Isle of Skye.

He is persistent, and Hope needs the cash. But what are the real terms of this outrageous deal?

Harry McLeod desires Hope, and the attraction is shared. If he can get her in his bed—or better still, tied to it—will she allow him to peel away her protective layers to release her inner submissive? Harry is stern, uncompromising, outrageously sexy and utterly irresistible. How will Hope respond to his dark brand of sensuality? Does he offer more than a generous fare and a few erotic encounters?

When they reach Skye, a feud spanning four generations challenges all that Hope thought she was coming to know about submission. Will it be enough to convince her that this could be a relationship to stand the test of time?

Like the sound of Red Skye at Night? Buy it here.

About Ashe Barker:

Until 2010 I was a director of a regeneration company in Leeds, in the UK, before becoming convinced there must be more to life. So I left, and at last I’ve been able to realise my dream of writing erotic romance. I’ve been writing seriously for about two years but I’ve been an avid reader for as long as I can remember, erotic and other genres. I love reading historical and contemporary romances in all pairings – the hotter the better. But now I have a good excuse for my guilty pleasure – research.

In my own writing I draw on settings and anecdotes from my own experience to lend colour, detail and realism to my plots and characters. My stories are often set in the north of England where I live but I draw inspiration from all over. An incident here, a chance remark there, a bizarre event or quirky character, any of these can spark a story idea. But ultimately my tales of love, challenge, resilience and compassion are the conjurings of my own lurid and smutty imagination.

On the rare occasions I’m not writing my time is divided between my role as resident taxi driver for my teenage daughter, and caring for a menagerie of dogs, rabbits, tortoises. And most recently a very grumpy cockatiel. I’m a rural parish councillor, and I’m passionate about evolving rural traditions and values to suit twenty first century lifestyles.

My other titles include the ‘Black Combe’ trilogies, The Dark Side, Sure Mastery, The Hardest Word and A Richness of Swallows, all set in the atmospheric moorland of West Yorkshire or Cumbria and with a strong BDSM theme. The Three Rs, part of Totally Bound’s What’s Her Secret? imprint is a stand-alone novel set in Berwick in the Scottish border. I’ve also written a couple of short stories, Re-Awakening, and a raunchy pirate tale, Right of Salvage, as well as a novella, Carrot and Coriander.

I have a pile of story ideas still to work through, and keep thinking of new ones at the most unlikely moments, so you can expect to see a lot more from me.

I love to hear from readers. You can find me on my blog, and I’m on Facebook, and twitter too. And more recently on Tsu

Here’s an excerpt from Red Skye at Night, and what better scene to share than the first encounter between Daisy and her new friends?

Harry holds my jeans for me to step back into them. I rest my hands on his shoulders, leaning on him as he draws the fabric back up my legs, I stand to fasten the zipper and glance back at our remaining picnic.

Except there isn’t any. Nothing remaining. What there is, a few feet from us, its nose stuck in the paper bag that had contained a particularly succulent chicken sandwich, is a small brown and white dog.

“What the…?” I exclaim.

Harry turns, sees the dog too. The animal looks up at us, snarling as it backs off.

“How the fuck did that get here?” Harry stands, edging me behind him as the dog’s ears flatten against its skull. The snarls seem to me half-hearted at best, but I prefer not to test that theory.

“Maybe it’ll just go away.” I whisper the words to Harry, hoping he isn’t really thinking of confronting the dog. Despite the snarls and show of canine bravado, it would be an unequal struggle. There’s something incredibly pathetic about the animal, and as we watch I spot a faint, almost indiscernible flick of its tail, a signal of timid, despairing hope.

“He’s scared of us. That’s all.” Harry’s voice is low, the gentle, calming tone I recognise. He crouches, holds out a hand, palm up.

“Be careful.” My voice is hushed but I’m also of the opinion that the dog poses no real threat to us.

Harry edges forward, picking up a stray piece of wholemeal bread from the edge of the picnic blanket. He holds that out to the dog, crooning softly as he waits for the animal to make up its mind. Eventually hunger wins out. The snarling stops as the animal slinks forward, almost on its belly, crawling towards Harry’s outstretched hand. It takes the bread from his fingers, gulps and swallows, then backs off a couple of paces. Harry moves forward, the dog backs away, but only one pace this time. It’s letting him get closer. One lip curls, but there are no further growls. Harry picks up a piece of cheese and holds that out. The dog comes forward more readily, sniffs the food before delicately taking it from him. This time it lies down to eat it.

I watch as Harry reaches for the dog. The animal flinches as he lays his hand on the smooth-haired brown head, but displays no further aggression. Harry scratches its ears, and the dog tilts its head, turning to flick his palm with its tongue. Harry smiles. “Good boy. Friends now?” He strokes the dog more firmly, moving in close to pat the bony flanks. He runs his hand along its ribcage, and instantly the dog rolls onto its back in a posture of total submission.

I know that feeling.

“Ah, good girl. My apologies.” He turns back to me. “She’s thin as a rake. Come here, feel her ribs. Poor little thing.”

I step forward. I’ve never had strong feelings about dogs one way or the other, but have to agree that this specimen seems harmless. I kneel next to Harry and reach out. Sure enough, each individual rib is sharply defined beneath the skin. The animal must have been starving and our unguarded picnic too much of a temptation.

“How do you suppose it, sorry, she, got here? We’re miles from anywhere.”

Harry glances up from his perusal of the dog now shivering under his hands. “A stray? Perhaps she wandered off and her owners left her behind. Maybe she was dumped up here. She doesn’t look to have been doing very well at fending for herself.”

“What are we going to do with her?” Even as I ask the question, I know we won’t be leaving her behind.

“How do you feel about dogs in your taxi?”

“I don’t usually allow them. But I suppose this once…”

Harry turns back to the dog. “So, how about that? You want to come with us then?” The skinny little tail wags, tentative at first, but unmistakable. We’ve made a friend. Well, Harry has, without a doubt. I suspect the jury’s still out on me.

“What are we going to do with her?”

Our canine passenger is curled up on my back seat, where she fell asleep as soon as the car started to move. I’m driving now as Harry consults his map again. I whispered the question to him, almost as though the dog could understand what I was saying.

“I don’t know. She seems kind of sweet, though, now all that snarling has stopped.” He leans around to look at the little brown and white shape huddled on the car blanket.

“We could take her to the police. In Aviemore.”

Harry glances at the back seat. “I suppose. She doesn’t look much like a hardened criminal to me, though.”

“Idiot. The police take in strays. They hand them over to the council, I think. Or maybe a vet…?”

“What then? After the council get them? Oh, and it’s not advisable to refer to your Dom as an idiot. Not when he has a boot full of bondage gear and a raging hard-on.”

The car lurches as I process that last remark. “I did offer, but you wanted to wait. I’m not sure about the council. They keep stray dogs for a while to see if anyone claims them, then if their owners don’t turn up they get re-homed, I suppose—or put to sleep.”

“That seems a bit harsh, just for nicking a chicken sandwich. A vet’s a good idea, though. We should get her checked over, then we can have another think.”

“What’s to think about?” I glance sharply at him. “We can’t keep her. I live in a tiny bedsit in Leeds, and you’re going back to Canada in a few days.”

“True. Let’s see what the vet has to say first.” He closes his map and reaches for the glove box. He pulls out his iPad and starts tapping.

“Are you consulting the local tourist board again? Looking for dog-friendly hotels?” I’m joking, but Harry smiles at me serenely.

“Exactly.”

There’s a faint snoring from the back seat as our passenger settles in.

I shake my head, resigned, and apply my attention to the road in front.

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