Although I was born in West Virginia and lived there until I was 15, I now reside in Dayton, Ohio. One of Dayton's claims to fame is that the world-renowned humorist Erma Bombeck lived and worked here for most of her life, before she relocated to Arizona (I believe).
In honor of the fabulous Mrs Bombeck's legacy, the University of Dayton holds an Erma Bombeck Writer's Workshop every other year in the spring. The workshop focuses on humorous write, I think and it is very popular, drawing attendees from all over the world. In conjunction with each workshop a contest is held for the best humorous short piece, and the contest also draws entries from all over the globe. First place winners each receive a cash prize and free tuition to the workshop.
The workshop and contest were most recently held in 2016, and I entered and was awarded with an Honorable Mention prize, one of only two presented, if I remember correctly. I am still very proud of that, even if I didn't win. Of my story, the judges wrote:
Judge #1:
Good stuff. Great detail and visuals, and I loved the dialogue. Very relateable and amusing.
Judge #2:
I'm biased, but I'm a sucker for a dog rescue story. His descriptions
of the dogs were spot on and laughter-filled. I saw the ending coming,
but still enjoyed it.
I'll definitely be entering again next year. In the meantime, I've reprinted my entry below, in case you'd like to read it.
DOG DAYS
“I'm starting a rescue,” my wife announces one day at dinner. “A dog
rescue.” The children and I look up from our spaghetti, and a series
of images pass through my brain. Rescue: flashing lights, ambulances,
EMT's with stretchers. Dogs, however, remain conspicuously absent from
my mental picture.
I swallow my mouthful of garlic bread – one tries to be polite with
children present – and ask, “A dog rescue?”
“Yes,” she says. “I'll save unwanted dogs from the county shelter,
then rehabilitate them and adopt them out to local families.”
That was two years ago – 14 in rescue years. Of the 51 dogs she's
re-homed, 32 have urinated on the couch, 19 have chewed on my shoes,
and one ate an entire pound of thawing chorizo. The garage, which once
housed our cars, is filled with dog food. I de-fur the furnace filter
once a month, strangers stop by at odd hours to donate blankets and
chew toys, and I haven't seen the postman since last spring. There's a
one-eyed dalmatian who lives in my closet, a shih tzu in the bathtub,
two pugs with allergies behind the TV, and a papillon with irritable
bowel syndrome who makes her home beneath my desk.
Once, a typical evening of ours might be spent watching a movie with
the kids. Now, Friday nights might go something like this:
Her phone rings. I pray it's her mother.
“Hello?” says says. “Yes, this is Paws-4-Ever.”
Her eyes light up. Her breath quickens. If I didn't know better, I'd
think she had a boyfriend.
“He's hairless? Oh, no. And he has no teeth? Oh, the poor thing! Yes,
yes... of course I'll take him. We'll be there in twenty minutes.”
“No, Beth,” I said as she hangs up the phone. “Look, I have to draw
the line. No toothless dogs. Please.”
“But he's a chi-weenie!” she squeals, pulling on her coat and
grabbing her purse. I stand up, dislodging Taco, the chihuahua who's
been with us for 9 months. “Beth?”
Brushing hair from my jeans, I reach for my jacket, laying on the
armchair under Kojak, the poodle with PTSD.
“He's a stray,” she said. “The poor thing. And they found him
downtown, wandering alone. And he's HAIRLESS, Tim. Completely bald.
How would YOU like to be bald with no teeth?”
She pauses as I pick up my car keys and smile at the mirror,
examining my gums and hairline, both of which, I notice, are receding
rapidly.
“Okay, Honey,” I say. “We can bring in one more. But do you know of
any rescues for balding, toothless, worn-out old husbands?”
