I guess my e-newsletter is essentially a more structured form of a blog (at least for me). I thought I might post the first edition here, to share with followers and perhaps stir some interest. Do please sign up if it resonates.
By the way, many thanks to all the folks who entered the giveaway competitions and for all the wonderful feedback you are providing. Authors might swear up and down that they don't read reviews, but guess what, this one does!
Best

Nick

E-Newsletter 1

Welcome to the first of what I hope, time permitting, will be a monthly dose of pet related entertainment, education, and giveaways. If the stars align, I plan to:
a) Share a story from the frontlines of my work as a staff surgeon at the Angell Animal Medical Center, in Boston, Massachusetts.
b) Offer a little veterinary advice (sorry, but it’s not possible for me to do a Q&A format, even if I have seen your pet in person)
c) Provide updates on my new book, excerpts, insights, and the back-story to how The Wonder of Lost Causes came to be.

If you like what you read, feel free to share with a friend, have them sign up, and don’t miss out on following me through Goodreads and Bookbub, both fantastic sites for chances to win all sorts of freebies including advanced readers copies.
So, without further fanfare, let’s give this a shot!


Head Spin!


Not so long ago, I saw a young, handsome, German shepherd with a peculiar neurological problem, and this mysterious case reminded me why, in certain circumstances, writing fiction offers a far more interesting alternative to the professional trappings of writing non-fiction.
The dog—let’s call her Sasha—was sweet, gangly, and clumsy in that adorable way of all six-month-old puppies. Yet she had developed a disturbing tendency to permanently cant her head to the left.
“It’s been getting worse for the past few weeks,” said Laura, labeling herself as Sasha’s “Mom”. “But no one’s been able to find out what’s wrong.”
In her fifties, Laura wore jeans, a plaid shirt, no jewelry, no make-up, and when she first greeted me, I was struck both by the warmth of her hearty handshake, and the calloused, dry nature of her hands.
“And otherwise in good health,” I asked, noting Sasha’s eyes, pupil size, blink, facial ticks and twitches as I poked and pinched, trying to test the various facial nerves that may or may not be malfunctioning.
“Great,” said Laura. “Hangs out with me all day at work.”
I began inspecting oversized ears, those velvety shepherd cones, honing in on every sound, thanks to about eighteen unique and busy muscles pulling, twisting and adjusting the cartilage in every direction.
“And what do you do for a living,” I asked, shoving an otoscope down the vertical canal, catching a glimpse of a white, intact ear drum, before Sasha could pull away. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I’m a potter,” said Laura. “Sasha seems to love it when I work at the wheel.”
I thought nothing more of this declaration, focusing on my examination, unable to determine any obvious, visible reason for the way Sasha insisted on keeping her head tilted off to one side. It was as if she had slept wrong, a painful crick from a bad red-eye in coach, an ill wind that had blown too hard, frozen her in this awkward and troubling position.
Over the next few weeks, working in tandem with our neurologists, multiple tests were performed that yielded inconclusive results. The only upside to our failure to find a diagnosis was the fact that, through no specific recommendation or dispensing of a miracle cure, Sasha’s head tilt became less and less, slowly but surely returning to a posture of perfect balance and normalcy.
Several months later, I checked in with Laura in order to see if Sasha was continuing to do well.
“She’s great, like nothing happened, “ said Laura. “For a while there, I was convinced it was all my fault.”
“I’m not with you,” I said.
“My potter’s wheel. Sasha’s obsessed. Will watch me for hours when I’m throwing clay, and it got me to thinking, the way she gets mesmerized, hypnotized, following the spin, her head going round and round and round. I wondered if it was . . . like . . . freezing up her neck on the same side.”
I stifled a laugh, but went with, “I’m sure this has nothing to do with the wheel,” though I felt bad that I had not got her a solution, an answer that said, “put this behind you and worry no more.”
“I mean she’s still watching you make pots, right? And the head tilt is gone?”
“Yeah,”said Laura, but in her hesitation I heard, “but what if it comes back?”
I’m sure I said something reassuring, something to let her know that we had ruled out all the bad possibilities, and I could tell Laura took some measure of solace from this news, assuring me she would keep a close eye on Sasha and call if anything went awry. And when I hung up, I thought about this interesting case, wondering if it merited writing down as a story, concluding that the absence of a diagnosis presented a problem to the reader of a non-fictional case. Then I thought about this in the context of a fictional story, perhaps being investigated by a younger, more socially awkward veterinarian (perhaps like Dr. Cyrus Mills in my Bedside Manor series). Now, I could easily imagine what Dr. Mills might say while searching for a remedy to Sasha’s strange ailment.
“Not to worry,” he would tell Laura, “next time it happens, simply put the potter’s wheel in reverse and it should cure Sasha’s head tilt instantly!”




Joint Supplements

For the past twenty years joint supplements have become increasingly popular in veterinary medicine, and I am often asked my opinion on the merits of using them for a dog or not. Though there are a great many holistic treatments to improve joint quality, here I intend to focus on glucosamine hydrochloride, and chondroitin sulphate, since they are the most recommended by veterinarians to treat osteoarthritis. Here’s my take:
1) If I’m going to add a supplement, I need to prove there’s a problem which will benefit i.e. I want to prove my dog has joint arthritis or is going to get joint arthritis. X-rays are useful, demonstrating boney build up around a knee or an elbow, a poor fit between the ball and socket of a hip joint.
2) Ideally, get a sense of “before” and “after.” Make adding a supplement the only variable. Perhaps there is an activity that is known to be problematic. Re-challenge with this activity to see if it is better tolerated as an attempt to measure whether or not the supplement is working.
3) You need to give the supplement a chance, at least 4-6 weeks.
4) Know this, there is a lack of decent data in the veterinary literature supporting or condemning the use of joint supplements.
5) There are usually no adverse effects, except, over time, the cost of supplements add up, so it’s worth answering this question early on—is this supplement actually helping my dog? If yes, carry on. If uncertain or no, why bother?


Reference:
Glucosamine and chondroitin use in canines for osteoarthritis: A review
Bhathal et al; Open Vet J. 2017; 7(1): 36-49


Why did The Wonder of Lost Causes take so long to write?

Between 2008 and 2014, despite working full-time as a veterinary surgeon, I managed to publish five books (three works of non-fiction, two novels). So why have five years passed before finally getting to TWLC, coming out May 7th, 2019?
The answer is complicated and multifaceted, reflecting my personal life, professional life and writing life.

From a writing standpoint, I’m always buzzing with new ideas, a new project, long before a manuscript goes from the editorial stage to publication. By the beginning of 2015 I was on the verge of seeking a new book deal on a historical piece of non-fiction, my take on the ‘Judy’ story, the amazing, canine version of “Unbroken”, a WW2 dog that led an incredible life. Here’s an early draft of the proposal’s prologue:


As a ruthless equatorial sun came to the boil, the prisoner adjusted the bulky rice sack, its lumpy contents spilling around his raw neck and craggy narrow shoulders. Though the sack weighed less than forty pounds, time, heat and heart-hammering fear made him feel like a little boy struggling to carry a grown man from a burning building. It was June 1944, and while the world focused on the allied invasion of Normandy, the prisoner stood at the dockside of a bustling port on the northeast coast of Sumatra. Like the other seven hundred corralled and baking men, he had been allowed to carry what few personal belongings he still possessed.
Unlike them, his pack contained a priceless yet highly dangerous stowawaya fully-grown dog.
Hermetically sealed inside a dusty cocoon, this patient canine butterfly lacked a visible air hole. The slightest twitch, scratch or adjustment might give the game away. For both the prisoner and the dog ‘playing dead,’ the stakes could not have been higher. The order had been clear. Ship the men to Singapore but the dog must stay at the labor camp.
The prisoner never hesitated. If he left the starving animal behind, she would have been shot, vulturous guards eager to consume what remained of her body.
But if they discovered his attempt to take her with him, the prisoner and his dog faced certain and swift execution together.
Now they stood as one: sweating, silent, barely breathing. All around them men crumpled and collapsed, thoughts of shade and water an untenable mirage making the prisoner smack his split and blistered lips. The bag of bones grew heavier, the scrawny dog’s hips and shoulder blades grinding and rasping against his own chafed and sunburned skin. Hours slowed to a child’s version of time, until his prayers seemed to have been answered and the columns of other prisoners finally began shuffling toward the ship’s gangway. Then the crowd fell silent, the ranks parted, and into the void stepped a man more akin to a devil than a soldier: the Japanese Commandant.
Back at the camp, the Commandant had visibly lit up at the sight of the dog being tied up and abandoned, personally overseeing the methodical inspection of every bag and sack by his soldiers. The plan to smuggle out the dog appeared to go off without a hitch. So why did the prisoner feel like he was about to be caught? Was it the swagger in the officer’s gait, footfalls slow and deliberate, chin up, every pore on his freshly shaved cheeks exuding smugness? Had the Commandant known all along, biding his time, relishing this moment of psychological foreplay, unable to conceal his pleasure as the two men came face to face?
Though his legs stood their ground, inside the prisoner buckled. Weak and defeated, head bowed, he had been so close. And now, he would lose everything. Defeat, fear and a new reality saw their chance and swooped in, rippling through him as he broke down and cried.
“Ino murrasini noka?” asked the Commandant. Dog not come?
The prisoner managed to nod and kept his wet eyes on the ground. Only a few inches and a thin layer of worn canvas separated the dog’s snout from the full fury of the Japanese Captain.
The moment stretched. The Commandant twisted his lips into a feral grin, savoring it, and then, at last, cracked his cane against the tops of his shining leather boots. He marched on.
Not until the prisoner dropped into the black stench of the old tramp steamer’s hold did he dare to open the sack and allow the poor creature inside to finally stretch and drink water. The Dutch steamship, SS Van Waerwijck, was bound for Singapore and another POW campbut this one held the possibility of Red Cross packages, letters from home, news of the outside world and, hopefully, a more merciful incarceration.
For a while, man and dog shared the two most important things they had left in this worldhope, and each other’s companionship.
They did not have long. Within hours of their departure, two torpedoes sent their ship to the bottom of the Malacca Strait and, once more, man and dog would fight to keep their remarkable bond alive.


I loved this project, was fascinated with it, not least because of my British connection, my Grandfather a fighter pilot in World War II. Alas it was not to be. Despite Judy’s passing over seventy years before, I was beaten to the finish line by another writer getting a deal perhaps no more than a few days ahead of me. I’ll never know. I do know I was crushed, my book destroyed before I’d even had a chance to write it.
Perhaps this experience cemented my desire to write fiction, something where competition from other writers would not be a problem. But what to write?
This is where my agent, Jeff Kleinman, comes into his own. Jeff relishes the creative process, he’s unbelievably good at it, and he will encourage me to come at him with ideas, elevator pitches, in the form of a few lines, a short paragraph, to see whether it peaks his interest. The Wonder of Lost Causes was born along the lines of “Sick kid believes that he’s traded illness for a special gift, the ability to communicate with dogs.” A paragraph becomes a page, a synopsis of a story, a discovery of things that work and things that don’t. One page becomes ten, twenty, forty and suddenly an outline for a book begins to develop. This process took months but toward the end of 2016, Jeff said, “Okay, go ahead and write a first draft.” What a relief to finally get going. And so I did, and, perhaps nine months later (I’m pretty quick once I have a plan), I sent Jeff my first draft. This was when he called me on a Sunday morning, shopping in a local supermarket, raving about how he had read the first half of the book, fallen in love with the two central characters, Jasper, the sick boy, Kate, his single mom, how he had laughed and, most of all cried (this is imperative for Jeff with animal related stories, get him crying, you are on to a winner). He was going to continue reading, get back to me later, and I was on cloud nine, my imagination spending royalty money, wondering who would play Jasper and Kate in the movie version. Five hours passed and then he delivered my reality check.
“We need to talk about the second half of the book and why it’s not working.”
Hard to hear, even harder to fix, but Jeff was absolutely right, the last two hundred pages of the book had to go. I needed a new ending, a new direction and we were back to our literary game of tennis, the emails sailing, volleying, back and forth until the correct ending, the obvious ending, the necessary ending came to be. By the time the book sold to Harper Collins at the beginning of 2017, my editor Lyssa Keusch loved it, for the most part, but knew it could be better. It took me another year to add enough spit and polish to get down to the fine nitty gritty of what you will be able to read in May. And don’t get me started on book titles and book covers!
As if this writing challenge weren’t enough, there have been big changes in my life both at work and home. But maybe these should keep until next time. Suffice to say even after penning a NY Times Bestseller, and having your writing translated into sixteen different languages, this fickle endeavor never gets easier on any level. Trouble is it’s as frustrating as it is addictive, as crazy as it is rewarding. For now, I’ll stick with, “Who cares about the journey, so long as you arrive.”