THE DOG NEVER DIES.

ANIMAL LOVERS KNOW THE FEELING.

You’re halfway through a good book. There’s a dog. You’ve grown attached to the dog. And suddenly you begin to worry. Please don’t kill the dog.

YOU CAN RELAX. Animals have always played an important role in my stories. Not simply as background scenery or lovable companions, but as characters who help move the plot forward. And very often, those animals are dogs.

In the Rancho Exotica Mystery Series, Bodhi, a Shepherd–Cocker mix, is the constant companion of senior amateur sleuths Claire and Avery. He’s also an occasional problem solver, whether the sisters realize they need his help or not. In Ghosts of the Wild Beasts, Blair is a rescued pit bull whose ears were, “docked by an a-hole with pinking shears.” Blair, more than a survivor and beloved companion, ultimately helps lead to the mystery’s final solution.

BUT IT ISN’T JUST DOGS.

In A Venue of Vultures, a gathering of vultures leads Avery and Claire to a dead body—and straight into their first murder investigation. In A Zeal of Zebras, the zebras themselves become the apparent murderers of one of Rancho Exotica’s residents.

Of course, Claire, Avery, Madelyn and the other humans still have to do some of the work. But the animals matter.

And I have one more rule: THE DOG NEVER DIES.

Not from murder. Not from an accident. Not from disease. Not even from old age. My fictional dogs may get into trouble. They may lead their humans somewhere they would rather not go. But when you meet a dog in one of my books, you don't have to spend the next 200 pages worrying about what the author is going to do to him.

Because there are plenty of ways to break a reader’s heart. And killing the dog doesn’t have to be one of them.

Animals, attention, and the Stories We Chase

I recently read THE ART OF RACING IN THE RAIN and was deeply moved by the dog narrator, ENZO.
Animals in fiction often see human beings more clearly than we see ourselves. They notice fear, grief, love, loneliness, and kindness long before we say the words out loud. Dogs, especially, observe us without ego or pretense. Enzo represents a different way of seeing the world. Observant and loyal, he is a truth-teller.
In my Rancho Exotica mystery series, (https://a.co/d/0gEGWNOs) animals aren’t props or decorations. They’re emotional and moral witnesses to human lives.
I’m not sure if it is intentional or not, but the recurring racing phrase, “The car goes where the eyes go,” reminds me of the Quantum Physics “observer effect”—the notion that observation itself can influence outcomes. On the surface, it’s racing advice. For race car drivers, it’s literal: If a driver stares at the wall, they often hit the wall. If they focus on the opening, the car follows their line of vision. They survive. Maybe even win.
But it suggests something larger.
Our attention shapes our reality. Fear pulls us one direction. Hope pulls us another.
Attention matters.
Maybe that’s why dogs make such compelling narrators. They are always watching. And unlike humans, they almost never look away.

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— with Patsy Stagner Author.

TURKEY VULTURES—Harbingers of Death or Good Friends to Humankind?

Early one morning—not too early, I’m retired—I'm working strenuously over my Keurig to brew a proper cup of coffee including an allegedly nondairy creamer that makes it palatable, when a crashing sound like an airplane falling on my house makes me drop the gourmet java to the concrete floor. I rush out the back door fully expecting to see a meteorite smoldering on my roof.

Instead, “[a] billowing black blanket of turkey vultures spread across the backyard.”

And yes, this is how my new novel, A Venue of Vultures, Book 1 of the Rancho Exotica Mysteries, begins. Drawn straight from real life… my real life. In the cozy-but-edgy mystery, two retired sisters (led to the body by the vultures) must play amateur sleuth to solve the murder of a bowhunter in their forest or risk spending their retirement in a Texas prison.

And my interest in a bird I’d never paid much attention to begins.

First, let’s set the record straight. That big, homely, black bird most people call “buzzard” is not. The avian monster you’re seeing is a “vulture.” The two types of vultures who inhabit North America are turkey and black. Turkey vultures are too large and slow to hunt and must rely on carrion. But black vultures have been known to prey on small animals. My novel features the turkey vulture because they just seem nicer. Not likely to attack and kill your pet Maltese and carry them away. They can barely lug around their own bodies.

A gathering of vultures goes by different names depending on what activity they’re engaged in. Vultures gathering on a tree branch (they’re quite social), a fence, or the ground are called a committee, volt, or venue. (I picked venue for my novel for alliteration purposes.) When they circle on the vortex high in the sky, it’s called a kettle, as it resembles a boiling cauldron. The fictional perception of vultures circulating over a dead creature, or waiting for them to die, is old folklore. Vultures are hefty birds who take advantage of the warm columns of rising air, floating on these thermals at high altitudes. That’s why you see them flying together in circles.

My favorite vulture nomenclature? When they’re engaged in a feeding frenzy on top of a decaying carcass, it’s called a wake. “Nature’s undertakers servicing the animal world,” as the female protagonist in my mystery novel informs her sister.

When I’m smack dab in the middle of this vulture congregation, it's a bit eerie. The way they're staring at me, I can't help but wonder if they think my days are numbered. These not-so-pretty birds are in front, behind, and all around me. They appear to be basking in the morning sun, spreading their wings as if warming up for their busy day. This is the horaltic pose. Typically, this involves vultures sitting on the open grounds or in tree-tops, facing away from the sun while spreading their wings.

The only sound a turkey vulture can manage is hissing, so don’t expect them to tweet you a tune.

Then, the smell hits me. I discover there’s a dead body on the acreage next to mine. (Not a bowhunter, but, sadly, a white-tailed deer.) Vultures have the best sense of smell in the bird kingdom because that’s how they find food. Their smellers are so sensitive they can detect dead meat from eight miles (13 km) away. They remove the eyes first, then the skin, start pulling tissues, and leave only a skeleton. They may not be pretty, but they serve a vital role in cleaning up our environment. What would our roads and highways look like if it wasn’t for vultures?

Another way they serve humankind is to lead authorities to a missing body. And supply forensic clues that may point to the killer. The skeletonized remains can tell investigators how long the body has been deceased (it takes vultures up to five days to turn a body into a skeleton). Location of body parts can provide clues to a killer’s MO (modus operandi).

With their wrinkled red heads and habit of vomiting when they're spooked, turkey vultures might not win any beauty contests, but let's give these big birds a little appreciation. After all, they do look quite majestic when they take to the skies.

[Check out this jazz tune by Ralph Bowen named “A Venue of Vultures.” Who knew there was a musical tribute to these incredible birds?]

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