Okay, everybody can act. I mean, this is Russell Crowe and Jennifer Connelly and Emma Watson and even Anthony Hopkins. Three Academy Awards out of the four top-billed actors isn’t bad, especially since Emma Watson is too young to really make her mark yet. So when things get all intense and angsty, they can twist up their faces pretty good and make you believe they’re crazy upset.

And we’ve got these great Hollywood production values (though my friends spotted a rubber sole on Russell Crowe–I mean Noah’s– boot. We won’t talk about that.) The special effects are pretty cool and go way beyond making a really big boat (exception: the reoccurring vision of the snake and the apple is pretty cheesy).

But there’s a lot of stuff on there that never came up in Sunday school. Like these prehistoric transformers made out of lava-encrusted, fallen angels called ‘watchers.’ Good thing they’re around. The whole movie would have been over before it started without them on the job, and you and I would not be here.

Then there’s these cool little rocks that you can make fire bombs out of. This guy  says he’s King of the World and he has a thing that looks like a bazooka that shoots these rocks right out, and wow! Ka-BAM!

They use magic smoke to put all the animals asleep for about a year. You don’t have to feed them and there’s no manure to shovel. I’ve got to figure that one out for my dogs. It would be great if I could go on vacation without having to board them.

Did you know they saved a skin shed by the serpent in the Garden of Eden, and they like to perform rituals with the snakeskin and it glows? Or that Methuselah was alive when Noah needed some advice? I can’t figure out why Noah left Grandpa out in the rain like that. I mean, they had room. And Grandpa could pull some really wicked tricks out of his, well, he didn’t have a hat, but, you know.

Good thing they can act, because it gets pretty ugly when Noah decides that the evil God wishes to erase from the Earth, well he decides that evil resides in him and his family, and no one is exempt. I’m glad they didn’t have chainsaws back then.

Yes, there was a big boat full of animals and a flood. Past that point, it was a bunch of guys in Hollywood, sitting around a table saying, “How can we sex this thing up?” I had more WTF moments during this movie than I’ve had in, well, years, because, like, I don’t say WTF,” like, ever.

If the Bible isn’t exciting enough for you as it is, you should leave well enough alone.

Save this one for DVD. Then you can toss popcorn at the screen when it gets too silly. But skip the butter, it’s hell to get off.



#FurbabyFriday – Author Jill Yesko

JasperJasper – In Jill’s own words:

The Michael Phelps of Basset Hounds
How may times have I heard the refrain “bassets hounds are fat and lazy dogs.”If only people knew the truth…Behold Jasper, my five-year-old basset hound. Jasper belies every stereotype of the couch potato basset who only moves when he hears the dinner bell ring.

Jasper is a dogathlete, a remarkable houndie physical specimen. He swims, runs, jumps, and would probably ride a bike if his legs weren’t three inches long.

It began when Jasper he was a wee puppy. Walking along the shores of a reservoir he nearly yanked my arm off pulling me into the water where he immediately began paddling away.

Bassets aren’t supposed to be swimmers. That’s the province of labrador retrievers, right?

Well, guess who loves to swim? Don’t even get me started about how Jasper jumped out of the canoe in the middle of the lake and began swimming away like a doggie Michael Phelps. This basset never met a body of water he didn’t plunge into. One of my favorite bonding activities is to walk in the creek with Jasper splashing his way beside me.

And then there’s my theory that Jasper is part kangaroo.

He’s been know to leap onto the highest beds and scale the tallest boulders in the dog park so he can bark his head off at all the doggies at his feet. Those well-muscled back legs mean he can bunny hop through two-foot-high snow drifts with his Dumbo-like ears flowing behind him.

Since Jasper has come into my life I’ve lost five pounds trying to keep up with him as sprints across the field after squirrels, robins, and whatever imaginary critters his nose mandates that he chase at top speed.

Yeah, that’s my lazy basset hound!

Jill’s Book

DogSpelledBackwardsPrivate investigator Jane Ronson suffers from oppositional defiant disorder–the uncontrollable urge to punch first and ask questions later. When a rabbi with a shady past offers a bag of cash to spy on a rival rabbi, Jane jumps at the chance. To succeed, Jane must infiltrate a black market kidney ring in Baltimore’s Orthodox Jewish community by impersonating one of its members. Between Russian gangsters and double crosses, Jane is No. 1 on everyone’s hit list. To get the bounty–and stay alive–Jane forms an alliance with a rabbi’s wife and confronts a dark family secret.

Excerpt from “Dog Spelled Backwards: An Unholy Mystery”

Jerome stood before me with his hands clasped together as if in prayer. He was swaddled from head to toe in a dark blue robe. On his head was a foot-tall white turban and his eyes were outlined in dark khol. Green sparkly loops dangled from his ears.

“Get your butt outta the car,” he mouthed through the glass. “I need you to give me the once over before our meeting with your Rabbi and his mobster rent boy.”

I stepped out of the car. “I told you to dress conservatively, not to wear a damn burqa! Didn’t you look at the pictures I emailed to you? You can’t go into a kosher restaurant looking like Cleopatra!”

Jerome put his hands on his hips. “This is the best I can do on short notice. It’s an abaya, not a burqa. I borrowed it from a Muslim friend. And another thing Miss Know-It-All, Orthodox Jewish women and Muslim women obey the same rules of modesty. So zip it.”

I held the restaurant door open as Jerome wiggled his hips and butt like a fashion model striding down a runway. I counted to ten and hoped for the best.

Author bio:
Jill Yesko is the author of the acclaimed crime fiction novels “Murder in the Dog Park” and “Dog Spelled Backwards: An Unholy Mystery.” Before becoming a writer, Jill was a cartographer, bicycle racer, and mate on a water taxi. Jill patrols Baltimore’s dog parks with Jasper, her red and white basset hound.

Author of:
“Murder in the Dog Park: Bad Girl. Good Cop. Bad Dog”

“Dog Spelled Backwards: An Unholy Mystery”
Available in bookstores and on

Twitter: @Jillyesko

#FurbabyFriday – Author Cleve Sylcox

Boots – In Cleve’s own words:
This is boots…He got the name because of his white paws.
It was one of those great spring days after a hard winter that Boots, a stray, adopted me. It wasn’t hard though. A cute little kitten drenched by a cool spring rain melted my heart. I picked up the kitten, dried it and put it down. That’s when he attacked my shoe strings and played with the fringe on the leg of my worn old jeans. He held onto my shoe with his front paws while gnawing the lace. He stayed there as I swept, and cleaned the winter out of the basement.He grew into a medium size, fuzzy indoor/outdoor cat who was dominate in controlling the rabbit and squirrel population on our half wooded lot. Mice were never a problem. He even brought us gifts of rabbits. I soon referred to him as the best dog that ever owned me.

Playful and curious he was always around me. Outside he would playfully attack my backside after I bent over to pull a weed. Inside he wanted to be a part of everything. Sometimes he would curl up on the keyboard as I was trying to type.

One of the funniest things he did was lay on top of our refrigerator and swat at hair as people walked past. He would lie onto top of the kitchen cabinets and reach down, swatting an unsuspecting guest in the head. Then pop back up and hide before they had chance to discover him.

At night as we slept he would curl up with us and sleep sometimes with is head resting on my head. I heard it said that animals have no souls and are in capable of love. Whoever said that never knew Boots. I swear he loved us as much as we loved him.

Several years after that cool spring rain where his heart and mine became one we lost him. He was hit by a car. I buried him in the woods he so loved to prowl. Even now as I type this tears swell. I miss him as if I had lost a child, or best friend.

Cleve’s Audiobook:
The Package in Audio
David Winters likes Cloak and Dagger Novels,
but never thought he would be in an actual mystery.
That is until his law partner, Tinsley, asked him to
do a simple little favor and he finds himself swept
away in intrigue, death, and women.
You can find out more about Cleve and his books at

#FurbabyFriday – Author Traci Tyne Hilton


Dr. Watson – In Traci’s words:

Dr. Watson is our first dog ever. In our whole lives, neither my husband, nor I ever had a dog before this one. He’s not a Nuevo-designer dog. He’s a real live mutt. Part Pug, part Rat Terrier, part Chihuahua. He has the Pug’s barrel body, the buggy Chihuahua eyes, and the skinny legs of the Terrier and Chihuahua. He has eye-catching ruddy fur that is as soft as silk. And he thinks he’s the boss of the world.

We’re pretty huge Doyle fans at our house, and so Dr. Watson seemed a good name, before we got to know this guy’s personality. But now that we know him, only Napoleon really fits. He’s truculent, stubborn, and pouty. He wants to be the boss of everything, and he thinks the whole world is his territory.

When he was big enough for his first vet appointment—all of six or seven pounds–the vet came out to see us with a very serious look on his face.

“Your dog is a biter.” He said. (Technically this was the vet’s husband speaking, but that’s too complicated to get into.)

We laughed like doting dog parents. “He sure does like to nip!” we said.

“No. He bites. It is dangerous and you have to train him to stop.” He looked at our two-year old daughter with sad eyes. “To protect your kids, you need to have the baby lie on top every day and be the one who feeds him. Teach him where he belongs in your family and he won’t hurt anyone.”

It seemed like sound advice, and matched up with what the Dog Whisperer has to say in similar circumstances, so we did all of that. The result is that our Dr. Watson believes firmly that he is third in line in our family structure. I’m #1, Lucy (now 7) is #2, and the rest of the family is well behind him. This frustrates my husband when he tries to walk the dog, but as Watson has never bitten anyone, ever, I consider it quite a coup!

Adopting Dr. Watson from the shelter is the best decision our family ever made, I have to say. Nothing compares to the love this dog has given us: not our trip to Disneyland, not the big trampoline, nothing.

Our other dog, the free Pomeranian from Craigslist…he’s a different story

Traci Tyne Hilton

Traci Tyne Hilton
is the author of The Mitzy Neuhaus Mystery Series, The Plain Jane Mystery Series, and one of the authors in The Tangle Saga series of science fiction novellas. She was the Mystery/Suspense Category winner for the 2012 Christian Writers of the West Phoenix Rattler Contest, a finalist for Speculative Fiction in the same contest, and has a Drammy from the Portland Civic Theatre Guild. Traci serves as the Vice President of the Portland chapter of the American Christian Fiction Writers Association.

Traci earned a degree in History from Portland State University and still lives in the rainiest part of the Pacific Northwest with her husband the mandolin playing funeral director, their two daughters, and their dogs, Dr. Watson and Archie.


Good Clean Murder…
Hardworking and hungry Bible school student Jane Adler cleans houses to make ends meet. But finding the money to pay for the last semester of school is the least of her problems when she uncovers a body in her boss’s bed.

More of Traci’s work can be found at

#WoofWednesday – Behind Blue Eyes



#FurbabyFriday – Author Mike Meyer


Coco and Pom Pom – In Mike’s Words:
Coco loves to be chased, and Pom Pom loves to chase. They tear after each other, running up the stairs in less than a second, and flying down the hall in a flash. Every now and then the tables will be turned, and Coco will suddenly be chasing Pom Pom. Kitty and I have so much fun just watching our little boys romp through the house. Sometimes we will pour ourselves a glass of wine and sit together on our sofa, watching Coco and Pom Pom chase each other, wrestle, play tug-of-war, suddenly pounce on one another, and playfully stalk each other. Kitty and I have the best entertainment ever, watching the boys at play. They make us feel good, and they make us laugh.

Michael Meyer
A writer of international suspense stories, Michael has also published a memoir about his journey with Coco, Pom Pom and Kitty.


Losing loved ones is an awful fact of life; losing one’s loving spouse, one’s day-to-day partner through life, especially in the prime of life, is one of the most unbearable tolls that we humans are forced to endure. This is the true story of my journey from grieving widower, not caring if I lived or died, to the once-again happily married man I am today, a man who both loves and cherishes life. My three kitties have given me a new zest for living.
My story begins with loss and tears, but it ends with lots of love and laughter. I hope that you will find yourself both entertained and inspired by my journey.

It is amazing how time helps. In time, I have learned to overcome my own albatross. I have learned to live again, to love again. Life is a gift reads a plaque on our dining room wall, and that sums up what I have gained from the three kitties that saved my life. From Coco, I learned to care again. From Kitty, I learned to love again. From Pom Pom, I have learned how to cope with my own demons, the effects of aging being one of these. Pom Pom has taught me to accept what is and then to move onward. Yes, I have learned plenty from my three kitties.

Find out more about Michael Meyer at:

Real Life Mystery

DSC01531Sunday Morning I loaded the dogs in the car for our daily trip to the park. With the crazy freeze-thaw cycles we’ve been seeing, the roads are a mess of pot holes. I hit one right after I turned onto Virginia Avenue and was relieved that I didn’t damage my tire.

We were sitting at the next intersection. No birds were singing, but the sun was shining and my pups were barking as they always do when they’re excited.

A horn started beeping repeatedly. I turned around, trying to figure out what they were beeping at. Nothing. The horn continued.  I looked to my left. The woman in the car next to me was waving vigorously at me.

Huh? I rolled down my window.

“You’re leaking,” She said.

“Okay, thanks. I’ll check it out.”

The light changed and I drove on. I always stop at the Big G convenience store for coffee, so I pulled in there to take a look. I figured it to be something minor.

I got out and walked to the rear of my car. Gas was gushing out in a stream, creating a puddle in the parking lot.

I went into the store and got my coffee (The tank had been almost empty before it started leaking, which was why I wasn’t worried about creating a bio-hazard). I know that probably sounds bizarre to many of you. I used to work in a drug and alcohol rehab, where crisis was served up daily on the menu. Back then I created a mantra: “If someone isn’t breathing, call 911. If you don’t need to call 911, it can wait five minutes.” I started the habit of pausing when something crazy happens to avoid making the situation worse through knee-jerk reactions (Something I witnessed many times).

The leak slowed to a dribble, then stopped. The engine still started, so I took a chance and drove the mile back home. My landlord, Rudy, was out with his dogs. I told him about the leak on my way into the house.

He knocked on my door a little later. “You’ve got a bullet hole in your gas tank. I heard shots last night, that was probably it.” He took me outside and knelt on the asphalt, pointing up under the car.

The hole on the side of my tank was punched in, slightly oval. No marks marred the pristine steel around the tank.

“It had to be a bullet,” He said. “Nothing else would blow off your undercoating like that. I’ve seen plenty of bullet holes, that looks to be .25 caliber, maybe .32, no larger than 9 mil.” He was puzzled as to how the bullet got between my tire and fender to hit the side of my tank.

Officer Ward was dubious. He didn’t see how a bullet got up under my car like that.

“I figured it someone was being stupid last night (shooting off a gun for the hell of it, as opposed to intentionally trying to hit something) and it ricocheted up off the road.”

“Where was it parked last night?”

“Same spot.”

He did not call out CSI. He did decide that if it was a stray bullet,  it likely came from the apartments behind my house, the only place in line with the hole.

Officer Ward was still not convinced, seeing as the car didn’t start leaking until I was on the road that morning. He said he would file a report stating that “something” punctured my tank, and if the mechanic found a bullet inside, to save it for him and he would amend his report.

I’ve thought some more. I figure someone took the shot and the bullet was losing velocity when it bounced off the pavement. It hit my tank with just enough force to pierce the wall, but then it stopped, lodging in the hole. When I hit the pot hole, the bullet popped out, starting the leak.

The big question is, did it fall into the tank, or back out onto Virginia Avenue? I’ll find out when I pick up my car.