Stories by Lisa Published online:

"How to Say No When Your Child Asks for a Dog"

Summary:Inevitably, most kids ask for a dog. And who can blame them? Dogs like Lassie adore you, keep you warm when you're caught in a blizzard and drag you out of burning buildings when you're unconscious.  But by the time we’re adults, we’ve learned the truth: dogs urinate on your new wall-to-wall carpets; dig holes in your leather recliners to hide their rawhide bones, and bite your neighbor’s kid.
So when my seven-year-old daughter Jackie asked for a dog, I said, "No..."

Excerpt of "Anything But a Dog!" Chapter One

“Mom, can I have a dog?” my six-year-old daughter Jackie asked, standing next to me while I washed the breakfast dishes.

I cringed. The dreaded day was here—all kids inevitably ask for one. And why wouldn’t they? Movie dogs like Lassie drag you from burning buildings and keep you warm when you’re lost in a blizzard. But by the time we're adults, we've learned the truth about them: they urinate on your new wall-to-wall carpets, dig holes in your leather recliners to hide their rawhide bones, and bite your neighbor's kid.

“No, you can't have a dog,” I said, bracing myself for the age-old argument.

“Why not?” she demanded.

My mind raced for good excuses to make my point. Might as well start with the standard one: “A dog is too much work. And I know I'll end up being the one who walks it in the pouring rain.”

“I promise I'll take care of it. I will, I really will! Honest Mom!” Jackie exclaimed.

“Sure,” I thought, “that’s what they all say.” Avoiding her pleading eyes, I picked up a plate sticky with leftover syrup. “The truth is,” I said, “we just can't risk a dog around your sister.” I hated admitting that. I didn't want her to blame her little sister, three years younger, for being so fragile. But taking care of Elizabeth, who was quadriplegic from cerebral palsy, was already enough work without adding a dog that might playfully nip at her.

I know! I’ll give Jackie the “lip-severing story.” That’ll convince her we can’t have a dog around her sister.
“When I was 13,” I began, “I talked Grandma and Grandpa into letting me have a Weimaraner. His name was Bogie—short for Humphrey Bogart—and he was a nipper. One day, my two-year-old cousin Suzannah was playing on the floor underneath the table with a Popsicle stick in her mouth. Bogie snapped at the stick and bit her lip off! My grandmother got the lip off the carpet and wrapped it in a paper napkin to take to the hospital. But it couldn’t be sewn back on. A surgeon fixed Suzannah’s face, but when we got home, my mother loaded Bogie into the back seat of the car and took him to the vet’s. I never saw him again. He took the ‘long walk’ as they say in the Lady and the Tramp movie.”

I paused so Jackie could let the horror of the incident sink in.

But all she wanted to know was, “Where’s Suzannah’s lip now?”

“Gosh, I don't know! The last time I saw her lip it was stuck to the napkin, all shriveled and mummy-like on my grandmother’s bookshelf. But that’s beside the point; can't you see how dangerous a dog could be for your sister? She can’t speak—how would she call out to us if she was in another room and the dog was bothering her?”

Elizabeth was born severely disabled because I caught cytomegalovirus (CMV) while pregnant with her. She was unable to roll over, sit up, or even feed herself and required constant hands-on attention. When she wasn't getting therapy at her special-ed school, I kept her propped up on the couch so my husband Jim, Jackie or I could easily sit beside her and stretch her rigid limbs. Naturally a dog would try to sit beside her too. I could just picture it landing on Elizabeth when it jumped on the couch. It would stand on her scrawny legs, scratching her with its nails and lick her face—just after cleaning its unmentionable parts. Elizabeth would be stuck! (More about Elizabeth on my website at Author Lisa Saunders.)

If there were a Lassie-like dog out there, Elizabeth more than anybody could use one, but I just couldn’t take that kind of a chance on an animal that could live up to 13 years.

Undeterred, Jackie asked, “Can I call Daddy at work? Maybe he'll say it’s okay to get a dog.” I headed to the laundry room of our Cape Cod style home with Jackie in hot pursuit; scampering like the playful puppy she desperately wanted.

Jim and I had been married 10 years and that was enough time to know he'd be even less keen on a dog than I was. “Daddy’s afraid of dogs. When he was a little boy, neighborhood dogs chased him on his bike and one bit him. It would scare him to death to think of defenseless little Lizzy with a dog.”
I felt Jackie tug on my arm as I moved the wet clothes from the washing machine to the dryer. “But Mom, I would never leave Elizabeth alone with the dog—it would go everywhere with me!” I stared into her earnest blue eyes, nearly hidden behind her crooked, self-cut red bangs.

“Jackie, you can’t keep a dog beside you at all times—how about when you go to the bathroom? What happens when you go to school?” Suddenly the irrefutable reason why she couldn’t have a dog struck me. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? “Besides, we live on a highway. The moment the dog got out it would get hit by a car.”

I was right—that worked. But not in a way that made me feel victorious. Jackie turned away and ran upstairs. I could hear from the squeaky thud she’d thrown herself on her bed. She was undoubtedly crying with the understanding that all hope for a dog was gone. It was true, we really shouldn’t have a dog as long as we lived on Veirs Mill Rd., a busy highway only 16 miles north of Washington, D.C.

Jackie was such a good kid, always eager to please. I hated to disappoint her—especially when I thought of my own childhood buddy, a beagle named Donald Dog.

I couldn’t remember being a little girl without him. When I was three, we lived in Massachusetts. Donald Dog came to our doorstep and never left. My parents invited him in, thinking they'd have an extra pair of eyes to watch over me.

A year earlier, when I was two, we lived above a bar. My parents were late risers, and when they got out of bed one morning, they were terrified to find my bed empty and me nowhere to be found. By the time they got around to checking downstairs in the bar, there I was, sitting on a barstool sipping a bottle of Coke with a stack of nickels for the jukebox, compliments of the bartender. That’s when it occurred to my parents that a dog might protect me should I run into more sinister characters the next time I went bar hopping.
The first real Donald Dog memory I have was the “I probably shouldn't get caught doing this” look on his face when he sat up and used his front paws to drag his rear-end across the carpet. My mother’s face looked funny too—whenever she did catch him doing it.

My parents moved us to the 16th floor of an apartment complex in Queens, New York, when I was five. Being an only child, they wanted me to take Donald Dog with me wherever I went. So, every day, he walked with me to the playground. I’d tie his leash to the leg of the swing set and jump on. Because I was a chubby kid, I was often teased, especially by a big, nasty, pony-tailed girl who would come over and taunt, “You better get off the swing, Fatso, or I'm gonna beat you up.” Donald Dog was not the protector my parents had hoped. Instead of baring his teeth, he just sat there, hanging his head, afraid she’d beat him up too.

Although Donald Dog was useless as my defender, my dad persisted in inventing elaborate stories about his brave exploits. In these tales, I was often kidnapped by an evil queen who wanted me for her own, because I was the biggest, smartest girl in the land. Donald Dog always came to my rescue. Mounted on a white steed with sword in paw and ears flapping in the breeze, he would overtake the evil queen, slay her, and carry me safely home.

The only exciting thing Donald Dog actually ever did, however, was to lift his leg on the trousers of a man he mistook for a fire hydrant.

With such fond memories, how could I make Jackie grow up dogless?

Perhaps there was a way she could have a pet. Or at least there was a way to toss this hot potato out of my lap and into God’s. Climbing our hopelessly dusty wooden staircase in our Rockville, Maryland, home to Jackie’s room, I decided to make her a promise. And since it was so unlikely to ever be fulfilled, I didn’t feel the need to consult Jim first.

“Jackie,” I ventured, sitting on her bed, “I do want you to have a dog, but only if it’s meant to be. So…if God brings one to our door, then you can have it. How’s that?”

“Really?” she asked, a smile spreading across her face.

“I figure Donald Dog was meant for me because he came to my parents’ door. If one shows up at our door, I’ll assume it is a sign from God that it’s a special dog who will be gentle around Elizabeth.”

“Mom, I love you!” She threw her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek.

I felt bad—all I had really given her was a bit of hope. But perhaps Jackie actually thought a dog would show up. She was probably remembering the red rose I had placed in a vase on our kitchen table a year earlier. It had drooped completely over, damaging its stem before it ever had a chance to open. Jackie prayed that it would revive and blossom. The morning following her simple prayer, she ran downstairs into the kitchen—and lo and behold—the rose was standing at attention, its petals unfolded in all it’s crimson glory!

But what were the chances of a homeless dog actually showing up at our door?

Yet Jackie deserved to have a real companion. It was with a bit of sadness that I acknowledged the real reason she so desperately wanted a dog—her little sister was simply incapable of playing with her. Jackie loved to cuddle with Elizabeth while they watched videos on the couch and she’d found a way to “dance” with her by moving her arms in time to the music, making Elizabeth laugh out loud. But the sisters couldn’t run around outside together and play games like Hide n’ Seek.

Perhaps there was a compromise to a dog? There must be a pet out there that wouldn’t hurt Elizabeth. A goldfish? I mean other than a freak accident, like it flipping out of its bowl and hitting Elizabeth in the face, the thing couldn’t possibly hurt her.

But how interesting could a goldfish be? Mine never did anything except turn the fish bowl green and die a lot. But wait, holding elaborate fish funerals in the backyard was fun! Oh, but then there was the time my friend Heather and I left her dead goldfish on the grass to find a cigar box to bury it in. Unfortunately, we forgot to mention it to her father who was mowing the lawn...

A guinea pig? Oh, but that constant squealing! The noise they made reminded me of the screeching music played in the movie, Psycho, when the Bates Motel owner (or was it his mother?) repeatedly stabbed the lady in the shower.

A hamster? No, I’m terrified of rodents. But perhaps I could overcome my fear for Jackie’s sake? They are entertaining—running around and around in a hamster wheel with no clue they aren’t going anywhere. Maybe Elizabeth could enjoy a hamster too. She was incapable of holding it, but she might find it amusing to watch it run in its wheel.

Perhaps a spinning hamster would make Jackie forget about a dog—the way my parents thought getting me Bogie would help me forget about boys…

Lisa Saunders, http://www.authorlisasaunders.com/
Author of light-hearted memoir, "Anything But a Dog!", which is a mother's harrowing search for one pet to suit two daughters--one a tomboy and the other disabled. For photos of the homeless, old dog who found his way into their home and into their hearts, visit: http://www.authorlisasaunders.com/

How to Get Articles Then Books Published

If you're just starting out, you might as well know the truth now--you have to be "famous" (at least well-known) to get published by a major publisher. Unfortunately, I'm not kidding. (Don't believe me? Then how did Paris Hilton's dog Tinkerbell get published?) At the very least, the publisher needs to know you personally or know your best friend personally to consider your manuscript. It is difficult to convince them to take a chance on an unknown unless you have unique credentials to cover a topic that fits in with their general themes. One intern at a major, glossy magazine finally told me what I always suspected, "We never read unsolicited manuscripts."

If you want to get paid (or at least read by more than your mother), then you need to find a way to start writing about topics of interest to readers. Once editors and readers get to know and trust you, then you can start branching out with your own personal stories.

If you have a message that will inspire, make your readers smile, or teach them a truth that can change their lives, then you need to know how to get published with the least amount of wasted time and money.

Here's how:

1. Build your portfolio--local newspapers and magazines WANT to print your words

The easiest way to get your thoughts into print and begin gathering "your" audience, is to submit letters to the editor (don't forget to include your hometown when you do) and to submit stories to those free weekly newspapers and monthly magazines you see lying around. They are short staffed and welcome free stories with a good photo or illustration (thoroughly caption your image and only send them work that won't violate anyone's copyright).

2. Call local editors directly, offering a story for free

I finally began earning money as a freelance writer when I called a Rockland County magazine offering them a story I did on a friend in the area who beat the Guinness World Record time for paddling down the Mississippi River. The editor replied, "That sounds very interesting, but we have a limited budget and won't be able to pay you." I assured him that was fine. I just needed to get my foot in the door.

That article lead to my very first assignment (though still unpaid) from the magazine: "Will you go to Nyack and find people to discuss Russell Crowe's stay there while he's working on his current film in New York City?" I have to admit, it was a bit exciting to walk into bars with a reporter's notebook and pen and ask around if anyone had seen Russell Crowe. After uncovering a few "Russell Crowe" sightings, the magazine offered me the chance to write the cover story, "The 7 Wonders of Rockland," and I was to be paid! The response to the story was great--not only did people call the magazine asking for several copies to use as a sightseeing guide, but a local developer contacted me with an offer to write about the towns where they were building. They paid my expenses to sleep in a bed & breakfast and eat in fancy restaurants in order to review them. They also paid for my husband Jim's expenses in exchange for digital photographs of our travels.

Although this magazine and developer were paying me to write on a specific topic, I was still able to share my personal insights and "voice" within. The local magazine went on to hire me to write reviews of hair salons (thus I got a free haircut from a lady who styles the heads of celebrities), and other places in my area.

3. Contact editors by name at national magazines

It's almost pointless to send a query letter to an editor without addressing it directly to them. You can find an editor's name by flipping through the pages of the big general books like the "Writer's Market" and "Literary Market Place," which are probably available at your library or local bookstore. I've always found my updated contact information by sitting on the floor of bookstores and libraries and skimming through magazines looking for the current editors, or I call publishers to find out who the submissions editor is.

4. Write a query letter that grabs their interest right away

The next step is the query letter, which introduces you and your work to a publisher. I've had the most luck when I begin the letter letting them know I've read their publication or I simply jump right into my story, hoping to catch their interest in the first sentence. For example, this query letter landed me a publisher for my memoir, "Anything But a Dog!" It began: "Inevitably, most kids ask for a dog. And who can blame them? Dogs like Lassie adore you, keep you warm when you're caught in a blizzard and drag you out of burning buildings when you're unconscious. But by the time we're adults, we've learned the truth: dogs urinate on your new wall-to-wall carpets; dig holes in your leather recliners to hide their rawhide bones, and bite your neighbor's kid. So when my seven-year-old daughter Jackie asked for a dog, I said no. Our younger daughter Elizabeth was disabled and wouldn't be able to protect herself from a frisky animal. But I did make Jackie a promise: 'If God brings a dog to our doorstep, you can have it.' In the meantime, I offered her a hamster..."

5. Learn how to use a digital camera

Magazines and newspapers need images to make their pages come alive--and many have had to lay off their photographers. Offer to provide images with your story, and if that's not possible, suggest in your query letter an image they might want to consider. In my historical story, "The Hanging of Henry Gale," I wrote to the magazine: "After reading the article about the Revolutionary War in your June issue, I thought you'd be interested in my story, 'The Hanging of Henry Gale.' My ancestor Henry Gale was a captain in the war who later became a leader in Shays' Rebellion. He was found guilty of treason and sentenced to hang. I can submit a photo of his headstone and suggest an illustration of Shays' Rebellion from the New York Public Library image database."

6. Get out from behind your computer and network

Meeting people in the industry is important. You'll never be "discovered" spending all of your time at a desk. Attending a writer's conference or taking a writing class improves your chances of finding work. At 45 years of age, I finally took my first writing class at Rockland Community College--Introduction to Journalism. Not only did I finally learn that periods should be placed before the end quotation mark, but the instructor was a copy editor who helped get my work published in her newspaper. I also joined the 18-19 year-old student staff of the College paper and learned how write and edit for that. When the College had an opening for a writer in their Camus Communications Department, I was offered the job.

7. Give readers what they want--but stay true to your voice

Why do you need to please your editors/readers first when starting out as a freelance writer? Only when you have developed an audience can you can branch out and truly say what you want to say.

When it came time to write the humorous account of how a homeless dog found his way onto my disabled daughter's couch, I wanted to secure a publisher before spending the time finishing the manuscript. So, I wrote a book proposal (required when seeking a publisher for non-fiction), sharing my harrowing search for just the right pet and analyzing the market, stating who my "readers" already were and who I thought would also be interested in my story. My query letter interested a few agents and publishers enough to ask for my book proposal. One publisher liked the proposal, so we signed a contract and "Anything But a Dog!" was published.

8. Write from your soul.

When you write, write from your heart--really share your soul. Don't write what everyone else is writing. If you lay your heart bare, your readers may just find a kindred spirit in you.

Lisa Saunders, Suffern, New York
Website: http://www.authorlisasaunders.com - Author of the books, "Anything But a Dog!"; "Ever True: A Union Private and His Wife" (also a play); "Ride a Horse, Not an Elevator" and the free e-book, "How to Get Published." I am a full-time writer for the State University of New York at Rockland, a member of its Speakers Bureau, the parent representative for the Congenital CMV Foundation and a STOP CMV area representative. My books are available through me, from the publisher, or through Amazon.com.

To Be Published or Self-Published—That is the Question

If you can't find a publisher for your book, don't feel bad--it's very hard to get published by a major house unless you're famous. However, don't give up. If you have a message that will inspire, make your readers smile, or teach them a truth that can change their lives, then by all means, self-publish. If you're willing to promote it, you may just find a publisher for it later on.

Two of my books were traditionally published and two were self-published. There are advantages and disadvantages to both so you may just find that self-publishing is the route best suited for your story.

My journey into the book publishing world started in the mid 90s, when I decided to write a memoir about caring for a profoundly handicapped child. I called it, "A Time to Weep; A Time to Laugh." After receiving a round of rejection slips with responses like, "We already did a story like that"; We don't do personal experience stories" and even, "Our editor died," I decided to publish it myself.

I had my manuscript professionally edited and typeset. Sweltering in my garage during a particularly hot summer in Maryland, I attached the pages together with an old comb binding machine and made a hundred copies.

At first I felt embarrassed promoting a book to the news media that had been rejected by publishers...until the day I received my first letter from a reader: "Dear Lisa Saunders, I recently read an article...about your daughter Elizabeth. I just had to buy your book...I've had a hard time with accepting [my daughter's disabilities]...Thank you for writing your book. It helped a lot." Her letter meant the world to me. My story did have a purpose.

Then, unbelievably, a publisher contacted me. The editor said, "I am attracted to your book, not only because it's a good story that fits into our market, but because you have already laid the foundation for a good promotional campaign." I signed my first contract with a publisher. I gave up the right to sell my self-published version (which hurt when I received an order for a hundred copies from a hospital) and spent an entire summer rewriting the manuscript according to the editor's specifications. But moments before the book went to press, the publisher downsized. My editor was let go...and so was my book.

Although I was able to keep the small advance, I felt utterly defeated and shelved the manuscript. I just didn't have it in me to pursue another publisher or to self-publish it again.

I moved on. Besides, memories of my great-grandfather's bed clanging back and forth in his bedroom on railroad-like tracks, my aunt making me use the outhouse, and the terror of riding my ornery pony, blossomed into the children's novel, "Ride a Horse, Not an Elevator." While the Sentinel newspaper in Maryland serialized "Ride a Horse, Not an Elevator," I searched for a publisher. Another set of rejection slips convinced me to try getting an agent instead. Even getting one of those was difficult, but I finally did and signed a one-year contract with her.

But she was unable to sell the story to a publisher within the year so I decided to self-publish again. This time I had a printer bind it to look like a real paperback book (called perfect bound) and I sold it to local school children, horse enthusiasts, and New York and Iowa featured it as part of their state-wide 4-H program called, "Horse Book in a Bucket."

I have since been traditionally published. My first book to find a publisher, "Ever True: A Union Private and His Wife," published by Heritage Books, was a result of me finding three-years of Civil War love letters between my great-great grandparents in my mother's attic. And the next book to find a publisher, "Anything But a Dog! The perfect pet for a girl with congenital CMV (cytomegalovirus)" published by Unlimited Publishing LLC, was my updated story about my disabled daughter Elizabeth, but this time, I wrote it about her life in relation to a homeless, old dog who found his way to her couch.

Although being published by someone else gives you some credibility with certain media, most readers don't care. Unless you are fortunate enough to get published by a major house that will spend a lot of time and money promoting your book (which is unlikely unless you are famous), I think it is better to be self-published because you can do what you want, when you want, and without asking permission.

With all the authors out there willing to share their experiences, there is no need to feel alone on your journey to getting published.

Good luck!

Adopting Shelter or Rescue Dogs for Children (Or, Is Your Dog Waiting For You at a Shelter?):

Expecting our second child, due to arrive Christmas Eve of 1989, had been a delightful experience. What a Christmas present! But the moment Elizabeth was born on December 18. I felt a stab of fear. My immediate thought was, "Her head looks so small--so deformed." Before she was twelve hours old, I found out why.

When the neonatologist entered my room the following morning, he said, "Your daughter has profound microcephaly--her brain is extremely damaged throughout. If she lives, she will never roll over, sit up, or feed herself."

He concluded that Elizabeth's birth defects were caused by congenital cytomegalovirus (CMV) - a virus that may have no symptoms for the mother, known as a "silent virus," or it may present itself with mild to severe flu-like symptoms.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) states that approximately 8,000 babies a year are born with or develop permanent disabilities because of congenital CMV. It is the #1 viral cause of birth defects--more common than Down syndrome.

How and why did I catch this virus that I had barely heard of? I read the CMV literature. It stated that women who care for young children are at a higher risk for catching it because it is frequently being shed in their saliva and urine. Pregnant women need to avoid kissing them on the mouth and sharing towels and utensils with them. Hands should be washed thoroughly, especially after wiping runny noses, diaper changes and picking up toys that have been in a toddler's mouth.

While I was pregnant with Elizabeth, I not only had a toddler of my own, Jackie, but also ran a licensed daycare center in my home. I felt sick at what my lack of knowledge had done to my little girl. In milder cases, children with congenital CMV may experience a gradual hearing loss, suffer some visual impairment or struggle with slight learning disabilities. But Elizabeth's case was not a mild one.

"My life is over," I thought. I asked God to heal her instantly, but since He didn't, I begged him to kill me and prayed to be crushed to death in an earthquake or struck by lightning. I just couldn't handle raising such an afflicted child, period. Although children are supposed to be a blessing, I felt far from blessed--I felt stricken.

Thankfully my husband Jim's love for Elizabeth far outweighed his grief. He said, "She needs me. I want to protect her from this cruel world she has been born into." He was just like Charlie Brown with that pathetic Christmas tree.

"Oh God," I prayed, "please help me love Elizabeth too."

Initially, whenever I looked upon Elizabeth, my heart broke afresh. I couldn't see past her prognosis. The prognosis became more of a person than Elizabeth herself--it was a living creature relentlessly torturing me.

If I was ever to move forward and find happiness again, I knew I had to stop dwelling on the unanswerable questions that kept popping into my head like, "What will she be like in the future?"; "Why didn't my OB/GYN warn me about this?" and "Why would God let me catch CMV?"

In those days after Elizabeth's birth, all I could do was rock her and read the book of Psalms. Before Elizabeth was born, I really couldn't relate to the Psalmists. I thought, "Wow, those people are really depressed!" Now, I found comfort in their bitter questions, such as, "How long must I bear pain in my soul, and have sorrow all the day?" Knowing I wasn't the only one despairing of life made me feel less alone.

It took Elizabeth a couple of months to finally figure out where my face was, but then one day she looked directly into my eyes and smiled-we had finally connected! I gradually began to think, "If she doesn't care that she's severely mentally retarded, and, apart from a miracle, will never walk or talk, why should I be so upset?" Maybe it was the sedative Valium talking, but that thought stuck with me, even when I no longer needed "mother's little helpers" to get me out of bed and into the shower.

Eventually, I no longer focused on Elizabeth's disabilities, but on her abilities-her appreciation for being alive for one. Although she could not hold up her head or move her tightly clenched fists to reach a toy, she could hear and see-at least a little. She could not sit up by herself much less crawl, but she could sit for hours snuggled contentedly in my lap and study my face with her large blue eyes framed by long dark eyelashes. When I smiled at her, she'd break into an ear-to-ear grin in return, letting me know that my happiness with her was all she needed to be satisfied in this world.

It took about a year, but I eventually stopped praying that a nuclear bomb would drop on my house so I could escape my overwhelming anguish over Elizabeth's condition. Life did become good again. We were eventually able to move ahead as a happy, "normal" family. Even strangers played a part in lifting my spirits. One afternoon, struggling with Elizabeth's wheelchair through the muck of an upstate New York county fair, I felt myself sinking into a depression because children were staring at my little girl who could not even hold up her head. "She looks funny," kids said loudly to their embarrassed parents. In the midst of my dark thoughts, a heavily tattooed carnival man, who looked like he had been drinking for years, ran from behind his game booth and came right up to me. My alarm melted into tears of gratitude when he handed me a large, brown teddy bear from his stash of prizes and said, "I want your daughter to have this."

One long-term nagging problem, however, began the day my older daughter, Jackie, asked, "Can I have a dog?"

I cringed. The dreaded day was here-all kids inevitably ask for one. And why wouldn't they? Movie dogs like Lassie drag you from burning buildings and keep you warm when you're lost in a blizzard. But by the time we're adults, we've learned the truth about them: they urinate on your new wall-to-wall carpets, dig holes in your leather recliners to hide their rawhide bones, and bite your neighbor's kid.

"No, you can't have a dog," I said, bracing myself for the age-old argument. "We just can't risk a dog around your sister." I hated admitting that. I didn't want her to blame Elizabeth for being so fragile. But taking care of Elizabeth was already enough work without adding a dog that might playfully nip at her.

I know! I'll give Jackie the "lip-severing story." That'll convince her we can't have a dog around her sister.

"When I was 13," I began, "I talked Grandma and Grandpa into letting me have a Weimaraner. His name was Bogie-short for Humphrey Bogart-and he was a nipper. One day, my two-year-old cousin Suzannah was playing on the floor underneath the table with a Popsicle stick in her mouth. Bogie snapped at the stick and bit her lip off! My grandmother got the lip off the carpet and wrapped it in a paper napkin to take to the hospital. But it couldn't be sewn back on. A surgeon fixed Suzannah's face, but when we got home, my mother loaded Bogie into the back seat of the car and took him to the vet's. I never saw him again. He took the 'long walk' as they say in the Lady and the Tramp movie."

I paused so Jackie could let the horror of the incident sink in.

But all she wanted to know was, "Where's Suzannah's lip now?"

"Gosh, I don't know! The last time I saw her lip it was stuck to the napkin, all shriveled and mummy-like on my grandmother's bookshelf. But that's beside the point; can't you see how dangerous a dog could be for your sister? She can't speak-how would she call out to us if she was in another room and the dog was bothering her?"

If there were a Lassie-like dog out there, Elizabeth more than anybody could use one, but I just couldn't take that kind of a chance on an animal that could live up to 13 years.

After many tears and arguments, I finally made Jackie a promise: "If God brings one to our door, then you can have it. How's that?"

"Really?" she asked, a smile spreading across her face.

"If one shows up at our door, I'll assume it is a sign from God that it's a special dog who will be gentle around Elizabeth."

"Mom, I love you!" She threw her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek.

I felt bad-all I had really given her was a bit of hope. Jackie actually thought a dog would show up.

Perhaps there was a compromise to a dog? There must be a pet out there that wouldn't hurt Elizabeth. A goldfish? I mean other than a freak accident, like it flipping out of its bowl and hitting Elizabeth in the face, the thing couldn't possibly hurt her. A hamster? They are entertaining-running around and around in a hamster wheel with no clue they aren't going anywhere. Maybe Elizabeth could enjoy a hamster too. She was incapable of holding it, but she might find it amusing to watch it run in its wheel.

Perhaps a spinning hamster would make Jackie forget about a dog-the way my parents thought getting me Bogie would help me forget about boys...

Of course what happens next is a whole other story!

Lisa Saunders

When Christmas Coal Become a Diamond:

The Christmas season can be so joyous--or so unbelievably depressing that you despair of life. Christmas movies can help you celebrate the bittersweetness of the holiday. They can also help you see that the coal you believe was placed in your Christmas stocking may just be a diamond--or turn your soul into one.

Expecting our second child, due to arrive Christmas Eve of 1989, had been a delightful experience. What a Christmas present--especially since we lost a baby through a miscarriage the previous Christmas Eve. But the moment Elizabeth was born on December 18, I felt a stab of fear. My immediate thought was, "Her head looks so small--so deformed." Before she was twelve hours old, I found out why.

When the neonatologist entered my room the following morning, he said, "Your daughter has profound microcephaly--her brain is extremely damaged throughout. If she lives, she will never roll over, sit up, or feed herself."

He concluded that Elizabeth's birth defects were caused by congenital cytomegalovirus (CMV) - a virus that may have no symptoms for the mother, known as a "silent virus," or it may present itself with mild to severe flu-like symptoms.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) states that approximately 8,000 babies a year are born with or develop permanent disabilities because of congenital CMV. It is the #1 viral cause of birth defects--more common than Down syndrome.

How and why did I catch this virus that I had barely heard of? I read the CMV literature. It stated that women who care for young children are at a higher risk for catching it because it is frequently being shed in their saliva and urine. Pregnant women need to avoid kissing them on the mouth and sharing towels and utensils with them. Hands should be washed thoroughly, especially after wiping runny noses, diaper changes and picking up toys that have been in a toddler's mouth.

While I was pregnant with Elizabeth, I not only had a toddler of my own, but also ran a licensed daycare center in my home. I felt sick at what my lack of knowledge had done to my little girl. In milder cases, children with congenital CMV may experience a gradual hearing loss, suffer some visual impairment or struggle with slight learning disabilities. But Elizabeth's case was not a mild one.

"My life is over," I thought. I asked God to heal her instantly, but since He didn't, I begged him to kill me and prayed to be crushed to death in an earthquake or struck by lightening. I just couldn't handle raising such an afflicted child, period. Although children are supposed to be a blessing, I felt far from blessed--I felt stricken.

Thankfully my husband Jim's love for Elizabeth far outweighed his grief. He said, "She needs me. I want to protect her from this cruel world she has been born into." He was just like Charlie Brown with that pathetic Christmas tree.

"Oh God," I prayed, "please help me love Elizabeth too."

We took Elizabeth home Friday morning, December 22. Although Elizabeth was no longer at death's door, my horror over her prognosis had not left. But I had to fight through it; Christmas preparations needed to be made. Another Christmas had not turned out as hoped.

Initially, whenever I looked upon Elizabeth, my heart broke afresh--all I could see was her prognosis. It was as if the prognosis was more of a person than she was. This "prognosis" was like a living creature relentlessly torturing me. I couldn't seem to get past it and see Elizabeth for the sweet little girl she was.

In those early months of Elizabeth's life, it seemed all I could do was rock Elizabeth and read the book of Psalms. Before Elizabeth was born, I really couldn't relate to the Psalmists. I thought, "Wow, those people are really depressed!" Now, I found comfort in their bitter questions, such as, "How long must I bear pain in my soul, and have sorrow all the day?" Knowing I wasn't the only one despairing of life made me feel less alone.

Elizabeth loved to be held--something my first-born daughter Jackie never enjoyed. Watching Elizabeth rest contentedly in my arms was beginning to bring me pleasure. One day, she looked directly into my eyes and smiled. Our souls had connected--I was hooked! I stopped asking God to kill me. Like George Bailey standing on the bridge at the end of the movie, "It's a Wonderful Life," I too began to cry, "I want to live again!"

Sixteen years later, I awoke feeling so proud. It was Elizabeth's 16th birthday and just one week before her 17th Christmas. Listening to nostalgic songs like, "I'll be home for Christmas," I thought about how hard Elizabeth fought to be home with us for yet another Christmas--overcoming several battles with pneumonia, major surgeries and most recently, seizures. Weighing only 50 pounds, she looked funny to strangers as a result of her small head and big adult teeth, but she was lovely to us with her long, thick brown hair, large blue eyes and soul-capturing smile. Although Elizabeth was still in diapers, and could not speak or hold up her head, she was a very happy young lady with a love of adventure - long car rides to look at Christmas lights being one of her favorites. She especially enjoyed going to school and being surrounded by people, paying no mind to the stares of "normal" children who thought that, like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, she belonged on the Island of Misfit Toys.

Another favorite activity of Elizabeth's also involved Christmas--she loved watching us struggle to set up the tree and untangle the lights while lounging on the living room couch with her 100-pound Lab-mix, Riley, who came to us from an animal shelter. Like Elizabeth, Riley could have been considered a misfit--he didn't know how to fetch, play with a toy or chew on a rawhide, but he did know how to jump on the couch and keep Elizabeth warm without stepping on her. Once the tree was up, Jim would light a fire and Jackie, Jim and I would joined Elizabeth and Riley on the couch to watch "A Christmas Carol." The only spot on my happiness came during the scene where the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come showed Scrooge Tiny Tim's abandoned crutch beside the fireplace. How I dreaded if that day ever came for us.

In February, less than two months after Elizabeth turned 16, all of the Christmas decorations had been returned to their boxes in preparation for Valentine's Day. I dropped Elizabeth off at school, strapped her into her wheelchair and held her face in my hands. With a kiss on her cheek, I said, "Now be a good girl today." She smiled as she heard her teacher say what she said every time, "Elizabeth is always a good girl!" With that, I left.

At the end of the day, I got the call I had always feared. "Mrs. Saunders, Elizabeth had a seizure and she's not breathing. We called 911."

The medical team did all they could, but she was gone. While holding Elizabeth on his lap, Jim looked down into her partially open, lifeless eyes and cried, "No one is ever going to look at me again the way Elizabeth did." I knew he was right. No one adored us as Elizabeth did. Although I was happy that she was free from her body, I knew it might be a very long time before we crossed the Great Divide to join her in her new home.

Now that we celebrate Christmas without Elizabeth, it is with some heartache that I lift the holiday ornaments from their boxes. But I have found a way to include her in our Christmas traditions: I open Elizabeth's drawer and pull out her little red and black checked shirt that she wore on her last day and hang it over an empty chair placed beside the fireplace. She is my "Tiny Tim" who would say to me if she could, "God bless us, everyone!"

You can see pictures of Elizabeth growing up, including the comfort she enjoyed with her dog, Riley, on my Web site at Author Lisa Saunders.

Lisa Saunders, http://www.authorlisasaunders.com P.S. If you would like to read a light-hearted account of Elizabeth's life growing up beside her tomboy sister and a series of dysfunctional pets, see my memoir, "Anything But a Dog!," on my Web site at: http://www.authorlisasaunders.com/ or write to me directly at saundersbooks@aol.com. "Anything But a Dog!" also includes the latest in CMV prevention and treatment, and if purchased through the National Congenital CMV Registry, a percent is donated to research and parent support.

Coping with Your Child’s Disability

The moment I first saw my daughter Elizabeth, I knew we were in trouble. "Her head looks so small," I thought, "so deformed." After viewing a CAT scan, the neonatologist said, "Your daughter has profound microcephaly-her brain is extremely damaged and has calcium deposits throughout. If she lives, she will never roll over, sit up, or feed herself." As the weeks turned into months, the doctor was proven right.

"My life is over," I thought after hearing his initial pronouncement. But as the months turned into years, I was proven wrong. Recovering from the shock and horror over your child's prognosis takes determination--but mainly, it takes love, forgiveness and humbly accepting help from friends and strangers.

Despite wrestling with God the first year with "Why me?" (I had caught cytomegalovirus--CMV--when I was pregnant with her), I was often comforted by an act of kindness from a stranger (I always attributed God with sending me that person) or from a particular Scripture that seemed meant just for me and my particular anguish at the moment. The first several months after Elizabeth's birth and diagnosis, I wallowed in the bitterness and suffering of others, especially in the Bible where I found Scriptures like, "My days have passed, my plans are shattered, and so are the desires of my heart." Job 17:11

My first prayers for Elizabeth, other than that God would heal her immediately, were that I'd love her. What a horrible thing for a mother to have to admit--that she needed God's help to love her own child. My husband Jim, on the other hand, loved her at first sight. "She needs me," he said.

Elizabeth's nurses were to first to spark feelings of love in me toward Elizabeth. "Look, she loves to have her head rubbed," one said as she held her in the crook of her arm and rubbed the top of her head with her free hand. "Take her home and enjoy her-try not to worry about what her future holds. Just take it one day at a time."

But once home, I was so depressed I could barely function. All I could do was rock Elizabeth and listen to sad music about others who endured indescribable suffering. I immersed myself in the Book of Psalms. Before Elizabeth was born, I really couldn't relate to the Psalmists. I thought, "Wow, those people are really depressed!" Now, I found comfort in their bitter questions, such as, "How long must I bear pain in my soul, and have sorrow all the day?"

If I was ever to move forward and find happiness again, I knew I had to stop dwelling on the unanswerable questions that kept popping into my head like, "Why would God let me catch CMV?"; "Why didn't my OB/GYN warn me about this?" and "Who did I catch it from?" (Congenital CMV, which causes more disabilities than Down syndrome, can be avoided if women of child-bearing age wash their hands often when caring for children under six and if they refrain from kissing them around the mouth.)

It took Elizabeth a couple of months to figure out where my face was, but then one day she looked directly into my eyes and smiled-we had finally connected! I gradually began to think, "If she doesn't care that she's severely mentally retarded, and, apart from a miracle, will never walk or talk, why should I be so upset?" Maybe it was my prescription sedative talking, but that thought stuck with me, even when I no longer needed "mother's little helpers" to get me out of bed and into the shower.

I decided to follow the nurse's advice and just think about Elizabeth's care one day at a time. There was no use in letting myself get overwhelmed with despair over what Elizabeth might not be able to do in the future. Today's tasks were what I needed to tackle. I was told Elizabeth could die unexpectedly at any moment. I could die at any moment for that matter. What was the point of losing my sanity fretting about tomorrow? The Scripture that helped me stay focused was "Perfect love casts out fear" (1 John 4:18). Although I prayed for a miracle all the time, I began thinking that I needed to concentrate on loving and caring for her at that moment and not dwell on what tomorrow could bring.

Writing also gave me the courage to handle the realities of my life. My career as a writer began with a series of form letters to my family and friends to update them on how Jim, my older daughter, Jackie, and I were doing after Elizabeth's birth. It was much easier to write about our circumstances than to wait for loved ones to ask me terribly painful questions like, "How are you doing emotionally?" or "What is Elizabeth's prognosis?" or "Is she sitting up yet?" I could not bear reflecting on those topics over and over again. I preferred to let everyone know what was going on through my letters, so that when we spoke by phone or face-to-face, we could speak of more pleasant matters. My soul needed to see cheerful faces around me, not ones filled with awkwardness and pity for our plight.

I sat Elizabeth on my lap while I pursued my newfound passion. As time went by, and I began to appreciate Elizabeth just the way she was, I no longer focused on her doctor appointments and what the doctors had to say, but on "normal" family events. Within a year after her birth, I began writing stories about the lighter side of our lives.

Elizabeth nestled on my lap for hours watching my words fill the computer screen in our laundry room, which also served as my office. She loved the gentle movements my arms made while I typed. Since writing soothed my soul, perhaps getting my stories published would soothe it even more! I bought "The Writer's Market," a fat book full of publishers and "How To's" and began my life as a freelance writer, getting stories published about Elizabeth and congenital CMV, as well as lighthearted "slice of life" stories about our family.

Little did I know that Elizabeth too would benefit from my need to share my thoughts. When my story about her, "Elizabeth: A Christmas Blessing," appeared in magazines and newsletters, she began receiving fan mail! One young man, an inmate who was handed a copy of Celebrate Life magazine in his jail cell, began writing to Elizabeth regularly. I had no idea if she understood the words I read to her from her pen pal, but she loved to watch me rip the envelop open and unfold the papers in front of her. The prisoner's words to Elizabeth were full of hope. He repeatedly told her that God loved her, and like him, she would be set free one day.

Sharing my feelings with the public made me feel less alone in my world of raising a severely handicapped child. C.S. Lewis, author of "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe," said, "We read to know we are not alone." Perhaps that was why I found writing so therapeutic-not only did it force me to put words to my feelings, making order out of the chaos, but when I threw my thoughts out to the public and got a response, then I knew that I wasn't alone. And more importantly, that Elizabeth, who could not reach out to others through words or touch because her cerebral palsy was so severe, was not alone either.

STOP CMV From Happening to Your Child

Few women of child-bearing age realize that plain old soap and water can prevent the #1 viral cause of birth defects, congenital cytomegalovirus (CMV).

Although CMV causes more birth defects than Down syndrome, more than half of OB/GYNs surveyed by the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists admitted they don't routinely caution their patients how to avoid the virus.

Women who care for young children are at a greater risk for catching CMV because preschool children are the majority of the carriers. Although it is usually harmless to healthy individuals, it can be devastating to a developing fetus.

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC):

Every hour, congenital CMV causes one child to become disabled

Each year, about 30,000 children are born with congenital CMV infection

About 1 in 750 children is born with or develops permanent disabilities due to CMV

About 8,000 children each year suffer permanent disabilities caused by CMV

Congenital CMV (meaning present at birth) is as common a cause of serious disability as Down syndrome, fetal alcohol syndrome, and neural tube defects.

In order to reduce the spread of CMV infection, women of childbearing age should refrain from kissing their children around the mouth, sharing food and utensils with them, and they must wash hands their hands diligently with soap and water after wiping runny noses, changing diapers, etc. If soap and water are not available, use alcohol-based hand gel.

I'm a mother who didn't know about CMV prevention until it was too late for my daughter, Elizabeth, who was born with congenital CMV in 1989. The moment Elizabeth was born, I felt a stab of fear-her head was so small, so deformed. The neonatologist said, "If she lives, she will never roll over, sit up, or feed herself." He was right.

By her 16th birthday, Elizabeth had survived several bouts of pneumonia, seizures and major surgeries. Weighing only 50 pounds, she looked odd to strangers, but her cheerful, soul-capturing smile made her lovely to my husband, Jim, and me. Two months later, she died suddenly during a seizure. Jim cried, "No one is ever going to look at me again the way Elizabeth did." No other parent should have to feel that way-especially when there are precautions one can take to avoid this kind of suffering.

After speaking at the international 2008 Congenital CMV Convention held at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) in Atlanta, GA, to a community scientists and families about Elizabeth's life with CMV, mothers approached me holding their children wearing hearing aids, or pushing them in wheelchairs, and wanted to know the same thing: "Why didn't my OB/GYN warn me about CMV?"

In the article, "Washing our hands of the congenital cytomegalovirus disease epidemic," Drs. Cannon and Davis state: "The virtual absence of a prevention message has been due, in part, to the low profile of congenital CMV. Infection is usually asymptomatic in both mother and infant, and when symptoms do occur, they are non-specific, so most CMV infections go undiagnosed."

In an effort to warn those who have never heard of congenital CMV, I wrote a light-hearted memoir about my daughter's life with her lazy, old devoted canine, called, "Anything But a Dog! The perfect pet for a girl with congenital CMV." It includes interviews with the country's leading CMV experts and raises funds for CMV research and parent support if purchased through the National Congenital CMV Disease Registry.

To see photos of my daughter Elizabeth growing up or to meet other families affected by congenital CMV, please visit my Web site.

Please tell others about CMV and don't forget to wash your hands!

How to Get Articles Then Books Published

If you're just starting out, you might as well know the truth now--you have to be "famous" (at least well-known) to get published by a major publisher. At the very least, the magazine or book publisher needs to know you personally or know your best friend personally to consider your manuscript. It is difficult to convince them to take a chance on an unknown unless you have unique credentials to cover a topic that fits in with their general themes. One intern at a major, glossy magazine finally told me what I always suspected, "We never read unsolicited manuscripts."

So, if you're not famous, or somehow "in" with a major publisher, you'll have to start with a small one. Follow these steps to work your way up to national magazines and book publishers:

Instructions

Things You'll Need:

• Computer, digital camera

1. Step 1

Build your portfolio: call local editors directly and offer a story for free

I finally began earning money as a freelance writer when I called a local magazine and offered them a story I did on a friend who beat the Guinness World Record time for paddling down the Mississippi River. The editor replied, "That sounds very interesting, but we have a limited budget and won't be able to pay you." I assured him that was fine. I just needed to get my foot in the door. The editor later assigned articles that paid. From there, other editors read my articles in the magazine and began calling me.

1. Step 2

Contact editors by name at national magazines

It's almost pointless to send a query letter to an editor without addressing it directly to them. I find up-to-date contact information by sitting on the floor of bookstores and libraries and skimming through magazines looking for the names of the current editors, or I call publishers to find out who the submissions editor is.

1. Step 3

Write a query letter that proves to the editor you know their magazine

The query letter introduces you and your work to a publisher. I've had the most luck when I begin the letter commenting on an article or book they've published or by launching right into my story. For example, one successful query letter began: "Inevitably, most kids ask for a dog. And who can blame them? Dogs like Lassie adore you, keep you warm when you're caught in a blizzard and drag you out of burning buildings when you're unconscious. But by the time we’re adults, we’ve learned the truth: dogs urinate on your new wall-to-wall carpets; dig holes in your leather recliners to hide their rawhide bones, and bite your neighbor’s kid."

1. Step 4

Learn how to use a digital camera

Magazines and newspapers need images to make their pages come alive. I always offer to provide the photographs or image myself. In one case, for a historical piece, I told the publisher they'd find the ideal image to go along with Shays' Rebellion in the New York Public Library image database.

1. Step 5

Get out from behind your computer and network

Meeting people in the industry is important. You can't spend all your time behind your computer and expect to be "discovered." Attending a writer's conference or taking a writing class improves your chances finding work. My journalism instructor at the community college helped me find work at her newspaper.

1. Step 6

Give readers topics they want--but stay true to your voice

Only when you have developed an audience can you can branch out and truly say what you want to say. When it came time to write the humorous account of how a homeless dog found his way onto my disabled daughter's couch, I wanted to find a publisher first before finishing my harrowing search for just the right pet. Having learned that I needed to think about what publishers are looking for, I analyzed the market, including who my "readers" already were and who I thought they would be, and wrote a book proposal for my memoir, "Anything But a Dog!" The book proposal worked and "Anything But a Dog!", which is truly my "voice" telling the story I wanted to tell, found a publisher.

Tips & Warnings

• If you are writing a non-fiction book, you'll need to learn how to write a book proposal--publishers want to see those before you submit your entire manuscript. My book proposal for "Anything But a Dog! The perfect pet for a girl with congenital CMV (cytomegalovirus)" is available for viewing on my blog, "How to Get Thin and Famous (or at least published!) at: http://howtogetthinandfamous.blogspot.com/

Resources

• How to Get Thin and Famous (or at least published!)

STEPS to STOP CMV

Protect your child from the #1 viral cause of birth defects , congenital cytomegalovirus (CMV). CMV is found in body fluids, including urine, saliva, breast milk, blood, tears, semen, and vaginal fluids

I didn't know how to prevent contracting CMV when I was pregnant with Elizabeth, who was born physically, mentally and visually impaired. Although she was a very happy girl, I wish someone had warned me how to reduce my chances of contracting CMV. Women of child-bearing age are still largely unaware how to stop congenital CMV from happening to their baby.

Instructions

Things You'll Need:

• soap, water, alcohol-based hand gel

1. Step 1

In order to reduce your chances of contracting cytomegalovirus, you must
refrain from kissing young children, who are the majority of the carriers (especially those in daycare) about the mouth.

1. Step 2

Refrain from sharing food and utensils with children.

1. Step 3

Wash hands diligently with soap and water after wiping runny noses, changing diapers, etc. If soap and water are not available, use alcohol-based hand gel.

Tips & Warnings

• Although CMV causes more birth defects than Down syndrome, more than half of OB/GYNs surveyed by the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists admitted they don't routinely caution their patients how to avoid the virus.
• Every hour, congenital CMV causes one child to become disabled
• Each year, about 30,000 children are born with congenital CMV infection
• About 1 in 750 children is born with or develops permanent disabilities due to CMV
• About 8,000 children each year suffer permanent disabilities caused by CMV
• Congenital CMV (meaning present at birth) is as common a cause of serious disability as Down syndrome, fetal alcohol syndrome, and neural tube defects. (The above figures are from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention for the United States)

Resources

• One girl's life with congenitial CMV
• CDC on CMV

 Tail of Two Dogs and a Shelter (700 Words)

"Mom, can I have a dog? I promise I'll take care of it,” my 12-year-old daughter, Jackie, asked yet again on New Year’s Eve in 2000.