The Man, The Dog, His Owner & Her Lover, a Witting Woman Novella

By Candace Carrabus

To Stephanie O’Hanlon, 40-something workaholic, a blank to-do list is crazy-making. When she gets laid off and rescues a huge, smiling dog from a shelter—a dog her friend insists is inhabited by Steph’s lover from a former life—she discovers the true meaning of crazy.

Gabe Fagen, handyman and crazy-in-love with Stephanie since they were teenagers, sees Steph losing her job as the chance he’s been waiting for. But will she notice he’s alive with a mysterious giant dog acting as her guardian angel?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Candace Carrabus
• Release date: Jul 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9780989605748

Candace Carrabus

I have written stories and ridden horses--frequently simultaneously--for as long as I can remember. I grew up on Long Island and spent my formative years in the saddle--just imagining.Not surprisingly, my stories are usually infused with the mystery and spirituality horses have brought to my life.My philosophy, in brief :: (No, not in briefs, but that's a nice image, thank you very much.)We are all immigrants in spirit, with our minds, hearts, and souls being the final frontier.Yep, that's it.I've discovered this is what happens to all my main characters--whether by choice or accident or design--they go somewhere else.They immigrate.At first, this change is external--physical. Over time, their journeys lead to a place of discovery and growth that is within each individual alone. The final frontier to which we all can go.Boldly go . . .Go on.Go.Awards and suchRaver -- Book One of the HorsecallerFirst place, Sci-Fi/Fantasy novel, Oklahoma Writers Federation, 2003First place, Paranormal, Toronto Romance Writers, 2005Winterlight (now known as On the Buckle)Third place, Single Title Contemporary, Toronto Romance Writers, 2005A Farmer at LastSecond place, Essay, Oklahoma Writers’ Federation, 2003WomanThird place, Poetry Unrhymed Short, Oklahoma Writers’ Federation, 2003Unending MemorySecond place, Saturday Writers Poetry Contest

Book preview

The Man,

The Dog,

His Owner

& Her Lover

Candace Carrabus

The Man, The Dog, His Owner, & Her Lover

Published by Witting Woman Works

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information email: [e-mail]

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 by Candace Carrabus Rice

www.candacecarrabus.com

Cover illustrations © ArtParts / Ron and Joe, Inc. www.ronandjoe.com

Cover design by Candace Carrabus Rice

Witting Woman Works and the leaping maiden, mother, and crone image are trademarks.

Acknowledgements

While writing is solitary, the entire process cannot—and should not—be completed in a vacuum. There are many to thank, but first and foremost is my husband, whose middle name is Forbearance. Next, my fabulous critique group—Amy, Joy, Jerry, Tricia, Denise, Doyle, and Dana—who provide well-honed feedback with kindness. Also, beta readers Christine, Kim, and Donna who read this story and got back to me quickly. My daughter liked the first chapter and encouraged me to keep going when I was unsure where this was headed. Our current pack consisting of Emily, Carlo, and Lucy provide constant inspiration. My clowder of cats, but especially George, who passed away from natural causes during the writing. I love you all and couldn’t do this without you.

For all the dogs I’ve loved and lost.

You ask of my companions.

Hills, sir, and the sundown,

and a dog as large as myself...

They are better than human beings,

because they know but do not tell.

Emily Dickinson

Chapter 1

My friend Heather has sex with her cat. Not literally, of course. But the cat easily gets what Heather calls over stimulated and grabs her arm and humps it. This involves teeth and claws and blood but does not faze her. She flicks him on the head and tells him to quit, and ten minutes later he does it again. The cat, George, is one of her many rescues. Sometimes I wonder if I am, too. Especially today.

We’re meeting for an emergency lunch at her favorite place. She was available because Friday is her day off, but she would have met me anyway. As an animal shelter volunteer, she’s always up for a crisis.

Jean, my therapist, would call Heather an enabler and her relationship with George co-dependent. She doesn’t know the half of it. And Jean says I’m dysfunctional. In her head, she probably thinks lots worse. But as she has told me repeatedly over the years, what she or anyone else thinks is not something I have control over, so I shouldn’t worry about it.

Easy for her to say.

I do worry about what others think and listen hard for the subtext when they speak. Today, my worst fears were realized. There had been no need for reading between the lines. I wondered how hard it would be for Jean to squeeze me in for an emergency session after the emergency lunch.

Heather wore long sleeves despite eighty-degree temps.

Another wild night with lover-cat George? I asked.

She rolled her eyes and snapped open her menu to hide from my accusing look. I don’t know why she bothers with the menu. She orders the veggie burger and water with lemon. My taste runs toward a real burger with French fries and blue cheese and—

Come to the shelter with me after lunch. She mumbles this around a bite of toasted pita chip and hummus without looking up from the menu she isn’t reading.

I don’t have ti—

Yes you do. Then, she did look at me with that gaze that misses nothing. I’ve never been able to lie to her. We’ve been friends since high school. Plus, she can see through bull even faster than my therapist.

I did have time because I’d lost my job that morning. Hence the emergency lunch. The reality of it hadn’t set in; I was still jet lagged from that week’s business trip. They’d barely given me time to grab a cup of coffee before calling me in to the conference room.

I would never lose my job, of course. Only a moron would do that.

There’d been a merger. Positions were eliminated, consolidated. After hearing laid off, my eyes glazed over at the business speak, the euphemisms.

Like enabler…co-dependent…dysfunctional…

Like I lost my mother a couple of years ago. No. She died. End of story.

——

The shelter was noisy and smelly and no matter how often I go, I enter with a vague sense of unease because I know I won’t be taking one of the animals home and leave with a distinct sense of self-loathing because I haven’t taken ten animals home. Why I accompany Heather on these ventures is beyond me.

We got some new dogs in, she said as I followed her down the narrow hall.

They always have new dogs. And cats. More come in than go out. It’s a no-kill shelter. Her cork-soled Birkenstocks made no sound except for the occasional squeak on the hard linoleum. The clack of my high heels echoed off the walls, competing with the persistent barking.

Truthfully, I go to torture myself. I love animals and would have at least a cat if my travel schedule allowed. But I live alone and am gone more than I’m there. It wouldn’t be fair. I like it that way. Not the unfair part, but the being-gone-so-much-I-don’t-have-time-for-commitments part.

There, Jean.

There’s some honesty for you. The job is my life so I don’t have to have a life. I said it. Happy?

At least, it was my life, other than sessions with Jean, which typically go like this:

How are you feeling?

I think…

No, Stephanie. Feelings.

I think…

FEELings.

I got nothin’.

Except…

Anger. That’s a feeling, right? Worked my butt off for that company for fifteen years. Traveled every week to wherever I was needed, no questions