Chapter One: This Is the First Chapter

Well, let’s see here. How should I start this? I’ve never done this before and I’m kind of nervous. What if I mess up? Everybody might laugh and I’d hate that.

Most dogs go through their whole life without writing a book, and so have I up to now, but all at once I feel an urge to write an exciting story about the life of Drover C. Dog.

That’s me. If I’m going to be an author, I need a name that sounds like something an author might use. Plain old “Drover” doesn’t sound very exciting, does it? I don’t think so. “Drover C. Dog” sounds more dramatic. It’s the kind of name that needs trumpets or something.

I made it up myself. I used “Dog” as my last name because . . . well, I’m a dog and it fits. The middle initial “C” just came out of thin air.

That’s a funny way of putting it, “thin air.” Is there some other kind of air? I don’t know, it all seems pretty thin to me, otherwise we’d choke when we tried to breathe.

You can choke on water, I know that. I saw a bat almost drown one time. It was a hot day and he needed a drink, but he fell in a goldfish pond because he was half-blind and he couldn’t swim. I had to drag him out. His name was Boris O’Bat and he’ll come up later in the story, if I get that far. I’m not sure I will. If I don’t . . . well, I saved a bat once and it was kind of exciting.

I picked C as my middle initial. It seemed as good as any and, besides, I’ve always wanted to see the ocean . . . see the sea, you might say, and all at once everything fit together: C, see, and sea.

It’s neat when things fit together like that, so my writer-name is going to be Drover C. Dog. One of these days maybe we’ll see it in lights.

There’s that word again, see. It just keeps popping up. Maybe my new name will bring me good luck. I hope so. Bad luck is not so good and I don’t need any of that.

Anyway, I’m kind of nervous. I want this to be a good story, not something boring. That’ll be a challenge. Hank tells me that I’m pretty boring and I have a feeling that he’s right.

But just because you’re a boring little mutt doesn’t mean you have to write a boring story. I’ll try to make it exciting, but not right now. Just this little bit of writing has worn me out and I need a nap. See you in an hour.

The Next Day

That turned into a pretty long nap, about fifteen hours of wonderful doggie sleep. I dreamed about . . . I don’t remember, but it was a great dream. Now I’m fresh and wide awake and I have to start the story of my secret life.

Here we go.

Okay, I was born and that’s how it all began. Then I grew up and here I am and not much happened in between.

Hank was right. My life has been so boring, even I can’t stand to hear about it. I’m a failure as a writer. I knew I would be. I’m so embarrassed! Good-bye.

The Next Day

Well, I’m back. I’m not going to quit. Just be­-cause you have nothing to say doesn’t mean you shouldn’t write about it. And besides, I have something to say. I thought of it last night in my sleep.

Here we go again.

Like I said, I was born and that’s how it all began. Mom said I was there but I don’t remember. All I know is what she told me. One day she was sitting in the yard when all at once she got an urge to go camping. She thought that was odd because she’d never cared for camping. She scouted around the yard until she found an empty box and some rags for bedding.

She said camping was fun but it gave her indigestion. She thought it was indigestion, but when my brother Willie was born, she knew something was up.

I was number nine, the last pup to hit the ground. Mom said that when she saw me, she screamed, “This isn’t funny! All I did was go camping and now I’m sharing a box with nine wet rats!”

It took her a while to figure out that those “wet rats” were her own children and she’d just taken a full-time job as a mother. She thought we were the ugliest things she’d ever seen, but after she cried for a while, she licked us dry and served lunch.

Like I said, there were nine of us and she only had eight plates at her table. Willie and I had to share a plate. He always went first and ate like a pig. I got what was left.

Well, those are my earliest memories . . . or they would be if I could remember that far back but I can’t.