A mature writer finds an agent, gets a publisher and goes on tour: Who takes care of the dog?

Since my book, The Scent of God, was released in April, my husband and I have been at odds. Friendly odds. The discussion revolves around our schedules. If I am on tour, will he be home to care for the dog? If he is at a conference, will I be around to see to the dog's needs?

When I flew back from the first leg of my book tour, Bill took off for Atlanta. He returns in time for me to head to Minneapolis for the next leg of my journey. Meanwhile, I am caring for the dog.

Our dog is a sweet, nine-year-old adoptee, Shelby, who for some reason beyond my comprehension cannot seem to "take care of nature" without a human there to supervise. Even if she rushes to the door to be let out, she waits outside that door for us to join her. There's no way she's going to pee on her own.

In cold and rainy weather, walking the dog is not my favorite pasttime, nor do I appreciate the smell of a wet and muddy dog hovering at my feet as I type. Bill doesn't mind it because he has lost his sense of smell but I much prefer a dry dog.

But the dog is not what I meant to write about when I started this saga. What I wanted to talk about was the particularly wet and windy morning when, returning from our predawn hike along our cobbled Lake Superior beach, a solitary gull attracted our attention.

For 15 minutes, Shelby and I watched fascinated as it battled the wind to fly against the prevailing current. With persistent and determined effort it flew into that wind. And got nowhere. It actually flew backwards rather than forwards, losing three or four times any yardage it might have accomplished in its original burst of flight.

"Give it up," I thought. "Rest on the rocks. You'll never get where you're going in this wind."

But the gull had different ideas. Over and over it would confront that wind, trying to fly east toward Grand Marais. The wind would laugh and push it a hundred yard westward toward Duluth. The gull would attempt a different level. Again it thrust against the wind. If the gull was determined to battle that wind, I was just as determined to wait for the outcome. The wind lifted the gull upwards. The gull seemed to stop fighting. It rode that backward current. Then, suddenly, it hit the current it was looking for and in a matter of seconds flew into that wind and out of sight.

Elated and mystified, I returned to the house in time to take my first satellite radio interview. And when it concluded, I knew there had been a message for me in that gull's effort to move forward despite the wind. I put the phone back in its cradle and actually groaned out loud. Had I bungled that call as badly as I thought I had? Three satellite radio interviews later, I am still trying to find the right current.

Thomas Merton once wrote: "I make resolutions to speak less wildly, to say fewer of the things that surprise myself and them. Where do they spring from?" I ask myself the same question.

Adapted from Beryl's Blog