Watch Lisa introduce book on Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rIDJZkVYhnc 

or read the entire Chapter One excerpt:

.1.

 “No, you can't have a dog.”

“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!

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 pedals 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…

Autographed copies of Anything But a Dog! are available directly from the author by writing to Lisa at saundersbooks@aol.com

You may also purchase from the publisher at:  www.unlimitedpublishing.com/saunders