Obedience School Dropout

Every mystery writer has a muse. Mine had four paws and was named Sam.

When I met my husband, he had two dogs, a Yorkshire Terrier named Charlie and a Collie named Gus. Shortly after we bought our house and moved in together, Gus passed away. Marc immediately insisted we get another dog to keep Charlie company.

He’d heard of a veterinarian who owned a kennel where he brought in dogs from approved breeders, and we went over to check it out. We both fell for a golden retriever, and after the appropriate tests we brought Sam home. And I knew that as Charlie was Marc’s dog, Sam would be mine. I named him after my favorite hobbit, Samwise Gamgee.

We set about training him, and took him back to the kennel for a series of obedience lessons. Marc handled every training session, getting Sam to walk politely next to him, come when called, sit and stay and so on.

The last day of class, Marc got called in to work. I took Sam to his final exam.

Sam did not graduate. Failure was too strong a word, so we called him our obedience school dropout.

Was it my fault? Had I not practiced enough? Or was Sam simply determined to do things his own way? Looking back, I think we got our answer. Sam had plenty of intelligence. He just had strong opinions.

I worked from 9:30 to 6:00 at an IT job, and Marc worked the evening shift as an MRI tech. I’d get up at 6:30 and take Sam for a forty-five minute walk around our community and then leave him in his crate while Marc slept. When Marc woke, he’d feed and walk both dogs then put Sam back in his crate until I came home. Then I’d give Sam another long walk.

It was during those walks that we really bonded. I had an expandable leash for him so he could sniff and walk where he wanted, and I reined him in when I had to. I played with him, brushed him (lots of golden retriever fur!) and gave him treats, and he was always around me. After I went to bed, he’d stay with Marc for a while, but when I woke up I’d find him looking up at me.

He had a lot of personality quirks. If he was on the stairs with his paw over his face, that meant you couldn’t see him. If he was under my bed and didn’t want to come out, I’d have to grab his paws and drag him. He ate various pens and chewed through electronics, even though he had plenty of toys of his own.

I can’t recall the precise time when I came up with the idea to write a mystery with a dog like Sam. I do know that I was a big fan of Lilian Jackson Braun’s Cat Who series, and I thought I could write a book like hers with a dog instead of cats.

And so, with Sam slumped protectively behind my desk chair, I began to write.

Rochester began just as wild as Sam. “He was too big, too enthusiastic, too shaggy. His exuberance overwhelmed his manners.”

That was Sam all over. One day he slipped the leash and took off down the street, stopping at the mailboxes to give a neighbor a big bear hug.

Rochester channeled Sam’s exuberance and curiosity into crime-solving. I. watched him on our walks, looking for ways his natural behavior could become clues in a mystery. He sniffed, he scratched, he barked. Every detail went into my mental “Rochester file.”

I still do that, with Brody and Griffin. When they do something I haven’t noticed before, like twitching nostrils when they pee or sniffing a downed branch, I learn why and then incorporate it in the next book. My dogs have always been my research assistants. They just insist on being paid in treats.

Sam’s personality illuminated my life, and Rochester does the same for Steve and all the good people they meet. In Dog of Secrets, it’s Rochester’s warmth and love that draws Daniel Farahani out of his shell, and comforts him as he learns why his parents were killed.

Dog of Secrets releases next Monday, August 3, and I can’t wait to share Rochester’s newest adventure with you

Sam has been gone for many years now, but his photographs still sit on the bookshelf beside my desk. Every time I write another Rochester adventure, I glance over at them and remember the dog who started it all.

With love and gratitude,

Neil