I was never meant to be a dog lover.
When I was a child, growing up in upstate New York, my grandparents lived on the outskirts of a one-traffic-light town. From the time I was very young, we would go there most Sundays, and while in later years I relished the unfettered access to my grandmother’s library (where I discovered Mary Stewart and Victoria Holt along with the bodice-rippers), when I was young I was terrified of going because of The Dogs.
My grandparents did things on a large scale. The house was a sprawling ranch. The hand-built stone fountain out back was a bulky, three-tiered affair. The in-ground pool was so deep I couldn’t see the bottom through the murky green water piped in from the Black Creek nearby. And the dogs were full-grown St. Bernards.
There were three of them, and, with their large heads and black-rimmed slobbering jaws, they might as well have been Cerberus. One of them was named Brunhilde. (My grandparents were German.) One of my earliest memories is running away from them, for they’d been let out of their gated area. I was perhaps three or four. They chased me around the front yard and driveway, and as I looked back and up at their great heads, I was terrified (of course) and screaming. My grandparents called, “Stop running! They think you’re playing a game!” Against all my instincts I stopped running … with the predictable effect that they ran me over. My grandfather burst out laughing.
Years later, we had some neighbors, the Ensleys, who lived behind us. They had a German Shepherd mix that snarled and growled, and no fence, although usually the dog was in the house. One spring day, coming home from school, I took a shortcut between their yard and the neighbor’s—and the Dog Was Out! Barking! Running at me! I raced through the muddy yard, losing two of my shoes and one of my socks in the process.
Not good dog experiences.
So when my daughter Julia was eight, she decided she wanted a dog, and I said no. I don’t usually put my foot down, but I had no interest. We have friends who have dogs, and I enjoy visiting and hiking with their pets, but I didn’t want the bother. Besides, I’d heard from my friends about the trouble of housebreaking, the vomit in the car, the expensive vet trips.
My daughter Julia is now twenty, and she is loving and generous and wonderful but tenacious as all get out. She launched a campaign with the cunning of a secret agent: “Daddy, do you want to do a quiz with me on the computer? It tells us what kind of dog would be good for our family!” They did quiz after quiz; no matter, I thought. We aren’t getting any kind of dog. But the quizzes kept coming up with the same answer at the bottom of the page: YOUR IDEAL DOG IS A BEAGLE!
Sometimes it would be accompanied by pictures of beagle puppies. Or a cartoon drawing of Snoopy. Or confetti love hearts.
Oh, good grief.
Then my husband went online and discovered that Beaglefest was being held the following weekend in Tempe.
Beaglefest? I asked skeptically. There are enough beagles in Arizona to have a three-day festival for them?
Apparently so, for on Saturday we took some out-of-town guests (who love dogs) and headed down to the festival. There were beagles everywhere—big beagles, howling beagles, small beagles, beagles in costumes, beagle clothing, beagle masks, beagle play-spaces, beagle furniture, beagle bagels. And there was a Beagle Rescue Society tent.
“There it is, Daddy!” Julia pointed.
Seriously. Tenacious.
The Rescue volunteers saw her coming from a mile away. “Hi, honey. Would you like to take one of our dogs for a walk?” They handed her a leash, and I looked at my husband. He shrugged and took off after her, not wanting her to get lost in the crowd.
And somehow I found myself with a clipboard and a pen, filling out a form. The AZ Beagle Rescue Society would have to come to our home to be sure it was “appropriate for a beagle.” Was there something special about beagles? I asked. Yes, in fact. Beagles dig like mad, so you must have large rocks or bricks against all gates and possible openings. They tend to be eaters, and you really have to watch their weight. Most important, you can’t let them off leash, especially in the desert, as they will follow their nose and can run for miles—and then be too dehydrated to make it home.
I felt resistance rising in my chest. Why would I want to be responsible for an animal that might be bent on running away? I saw myself out in the car, driving around in the middle of the night, trying to find the dog—having something terrible happen—finding it hit by a car—dehydrated—set upon by coyotes–
But Julia returned from her walk in love with Rosy. My husband was nodding and smiling encouragingly at everyone. My son was hopping around with excitement. I was outvoted.
We installed Rosy in our home, and in small, mundane ways, she began to change the dynamics of our home. My son, age 5, was no longer the “baby” of the family. “She’s shorter than I am,” he explained, and he took on the responsibility of feeding her. He measured her food with earnest care, two scoops morning and night, and topped the kibble with a kid-sized fistful of frozen green beans because we were told they were good roughage for her GI system. When my daughter had a hard day at school, she’d pull Rosy up on her bed, as it seemed one of the only things that helped. Rosy was my husband’s “other girlfriend,” snuggled right up against him, her paw on his chest, as he watched football.
And yet now Rosy is more my dog than anyone else’s. She is my faithful companion, lying on the chair during the day when I write. Like most authors, I get stuck sometimes—wrestling with my plot or a character’s motives—and there is nothing like a dog walk to clear my head. On days when I’m feeling frustrated or overwhelmed, her breath, steady and audible, reminds me to breathe. Her joy in the simple events of the day—breakfast! wahoo! a walk! yippee! a greenie bone! yes, yes!—has buoyed my spirits these challenging past nine months. She is around seventeen now, with the inevitable health issues. She has a brain tumor and a heart murmur, and until she has her three medicines, some mornings she falls over a few times before finding her feet. She naps more than she used to. I’ve never lived through losing a dog, and I don’t know what that’s going to look like. Some people urge me to get a puppy now; some say not to, and that it will take a few months before I’m ready to have a dog again. Though I think losing her will break off a piece of my heart, I imagine I will want another dog. Because my memories of dogs now are sweet.
What about you? I’d love to hear from dog owners about your favorite memories and experiences.
One of the delights of writing historical fiction — even when it blends into fantasy as mine does —comes from delving into the past via research. My fiction is set in the world of the ancient Hittites, a powerful Bronze Age empire (1600-1200 BCE) that stretched across what is now Turkey, Syria, Lebanon and Israel. The main military rival of the Hittites is likely to be more familiar to most readers than the Hittites themselves: Egypt under Ramses II, the pharaoh in the Biblical story of Moses.
Not every era in human history provides equal access to us today. Occasionally, the random events of war and historical preservation obliterate whole cultures. Such an erasure happened to the Hittites. And to further muddle our historical understanding, sometimes there’s confusion — as there was for generations of historians — between the Hittite empire and a small later group of people mentioned in the Bible who called themselves Hittites. Fortunately, decades of archaeological excavation have resurrected this fascinating civilization, and scholars now understand quite a lot about this cosmopolitan and sophisticated people. 
My novels focus on the high point of the Hittite empire in the 13th century BCE and especially on their most colorful and highly-regarded leader — a woman named Puduhepa who reigned for decades with great success despite the patriarchal culture of the Hittites. She was both a queen and a priestess. Her religious devotion to the Hittite goddess of love and war was expressed through visionary dreams in which the goddess spoke to her. The Hittite word for dream is Tesha, and that became her name in my fiction.
The Hittites wrote on clay tablets using the cuneiform script. Cuneiform is written by pressing a reed stylus into the clay at an angle so that it leaves triangular wedges. The wedges are grouped in complicated patterns that represent a mixture of whole words and syllables. A clay tablet covered with cuneiform looks a lot like the tracks of birds. This writing system, first used to write Sumerian, was old long before the Hittites used it. The Hittites adapted this writing system to their own, very different language. That uneasy fit makes for difficulties translating these intriguing tablets — even when they aren’t fragmentary and cracked, as they usually are. The tablet in the photo shows part of the “autobiography” of Tesha’s husband, which he actually intended as an extended prayer to his goddess. Fortunately for history, he included a summation of many of the key events in his life as he demonstrated how the goddess had stood by him through his life.
Divination is another aspect of Hittite life described on the tablets that feels on the surface completely foreign to us. The Hittites sincerely believed they should consult the gods with every major decision, especially if they feared they’d committed a sin and angered one of the gods. They put yes or no questions to the immortals and looked for the answers in the flights of birds, the spots on a sheep’s liver, the pattern of swimming snakes, or the fall of thrown “lot signs.”
Of Kings and Griffins, begins with a crisis of leadership: the ruler for twenty-some years, the shrewd and crafty Great King Muwatti, has just died. The young, headstrong Prince Urhi mourns his father but bristles at the idea of being consoled or guided by his Uncle Hattu, who had been the king’s trusted advisor. As the book opens, my powerful heroine Tesha uneasily observes this triangle — the dead king on the bier, his bellicose son, and her wise husband Hattu, who commands the loyalty of the empire’s army and controls an independent kingdom within that empire. Hattu wants nothing more than to mentor his nephew and honor his late brother’s wishes to confirm Urhi on the throne. But Tesha suspects Urhi views Hattu as a threat, not an ally, and the gods exacerbate these tensions — through that divination — by throwing in their doubtful view of Urhi. Tesha uses her forbidden sorcery to repair this volatile situation, but that may not be the sure path she believes it to be. As danger ensnares everyone Tesha loves, can she trust this offer of divine assistance, or is it a trap — one that will lead to an unstoppable bloodbath?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Judith received degrees in Classics from the University of California, Santa Cruz and Cornell University. Her novel Hand of Fire was a semi-finalist for the M.M. Bennett’s Award for Historical Fiction. Priestess of Ishana won the San Diego State University Conference Choice Award. Judith has two grown children and lives in Arizona with her husband.