Author Description

“You could read it in one go (has anyone ever actually died laughing?) or keep dipping in and out. It lends itself to either. But whichever you choose, eating and/or drinking while reading is not advised, as several people have found to their (and their appliances’) costs.”—CathyR reviews Barb Taub’s writing for Between The Lines Book Reviews “They’re trying to kill me.” Barb aimed a quality glare at the narrow streets outside the car window. “And I can’t kill all of them first. I’d never be able to hide that many bodies in a foreign country.” The Hub kept his gaze on the red light. “No one is trying to kill you.” We were in the middle of Italy, in the middle of a pandemic. Barb had been in lockdown with the Hub for over a year and frankly, she needed help. But so did everyone else in the world. It was Catch-22. She couldn’t get emergency therapy because it was sane to expect the pandemic to make everyone insane. As an experienced therapist with paws, I know exactly what to do when my human waxes murderous. I sit up, head tilted to one side, ears perked. If her voice sounds happy, I give a butt-wiggle. But if it sounds urgent, I offer my belly for rubs, adding a small whine that says, “You can tell me. I’ll always agree with you. I’ll follow you even when you move to foreign places like Illinois and England. (Well, maybe not Illinois.) And I don’t have opposable thumbs, so I’ll never post anything on Facebook.” Barb and I made a deal. We shared the couch, pre-dawn walks, Covid haircuts, wound self-treatment via Doctors Google and YouTube, and a pandemic. Barb didn’t assault serial killers anti-maskers, and I didn’t eat out of the trash can. Mostly. (´ᴥ`) As everyone who is owned by a working dog knows, they need jobs. Some herd sheep. Some herd tennis balls. And some herd hapless writers through a pandemic. Already an accomplished writer-wrangler and therapist before Covid, Peri came into her own as pandemic therapist extraordin