Title:
George Knows
Author
Name: Mindy Mymudes
Author
Bio: Mindy
Mymudes runs with the Muddy Paws Pack in Milwaukee, WI. She insists
she is alpha, even as the dogs walk all over her. She hunts, cleans
the den and keeps them entertained. When she can escape the pack, she
enjoys digging in dirt, listening to audiobooks, and weaving the
antics of the pack into stories. The alpha male, Tall Dude, just
shakes his head and stays out of the way.
Author
Links -
George’s
Blog: http://bassetbones.wordpress.com
Facebook
(me): https://www.facebook.com/pages/Mindy-Mymudes/486126501426333
Goodreads:
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6702514.Mindy_Mymudes?from_search=true
Book Genre: Urban
Fantasy, Midgrade
Publisher:
MuseItUp
Release
Date: Dec. 6
Buy
Link(s): Amazon
Book
Description: An egotistical magical basset
hound named George believes it's his duty to train and protect his
12-year-old, a greenwitch named Karly. The world is full of people
who don't know how to use their natural human senses, and while
teaching Karly to use hers, he's also teaching her how to use her
magic. George is the perfectly designed familiar.
My Review:
George Knows was a fantastic read great for both adults and kids. It was very well written and the storyline was amazing. I found myself laughing out loud at times, as George took us on the journey of protecting the girl-pup. It was brilliant to write this from George’s point of view and really teaches us not to overlook all that’s around us. Only when you can take it all in, can you truly experience life. I loved it.
The paranormal aspect was a nice touch and this is one author that I will be watching to get more from. Well done Ms. Mymudes.
Excerpt:
I
don’t understand my Girlpup; the rest of my Pack adores me. Packmom
Doreen is always an easy conquest. She saved me when I was a puppy
and I fell over my ears, and my legs wouldn’t stay under me. She is
the most important member of the Pack—she feeds us.
Just
not often enough.
Packdad
Brian is very well trained and does whatever Packmom Doreen wants. In
the last two years, I’ve become a model of the perfect hunting
hound. Karly needs to see me for what I am, and she doesn’t.
Yet.
When
I prowl in her mind, I see how she pictures me—a clumsy, stupid,
wobbly pup. I shouldn’t have to prove to her I am the best familiar
in the world or that I am brilliant. I shouldn’t, but I know I’ll
have to.
“George!”
she shouts through panting. Why is she running? “Where the heck are
you?”
Although
Karly’s scent changed after her twelfth birthday from
sweetmilkFrootLoops to that fakeflowerchemical that she thinks
removes her odor, I know it’s her. Even if I can’t smell her, I
can still hear her stumble over the path. Big rocks and trees that
scrape the sky get in the way. She needs to get lower to the ground.
Now she’s sneezing. If only she’d work with me, her allergies
would go bye-bye. Whoever heard of an allergic witch-in-training? We
can use green magic. Except, Karly will first have to trust me.
And
she doesn’t.
Yet.
Maybe
when she gets older.
She
will.
I
continue to scrape my claws into the damp ground, searching for more
smelltastes and listening for my Girlpup. She’s panting like it’s
a hot day. At least she’s catching up. I am satisfied she’s okay,
and dig like a badger with my wonderful big paws and claws, the ideal
excavation tools. I wish I was digging up the den of a rabbit. I slow
to sniff.
No.
There’s no rabbit here.
Something different’s
calling me.
What the heck is it?
Dirt
and roots pile up behind me, and my rear is now higher than my front
as I dig. I scrape against rocks and try to push them away. They
aren’t rocks—too long and thin. I wrap my jaws around one and
toss it with a headshake out of the hole. I find another and do the
same thing, until there is a pile of buff-colored things that looks
like bleached driftwood.
I
heave myself out of the hole and investigate my find. The thick
sticks are hairy with fine roots. I pick one up. It’s light for its
size, hollow, and about the size of a rawhide bone. It has a round
knob on one side and is broken off on the other. I retrieve more
pieces from the hole and sit. Maybe they are old branches.
No.
They
don’t smelltaste like old branches.
Hmm.
Karly
finally shows up, huffing and puffing, out of breath. She needs to
get out more. I poke my nose into the pile of things I’ve dug out.
“George, what are you doing? You aren’t, um, eating those, are
you?”
I
look at her like she’s crazy. I don’t eat wood.
Anymore.
Karly
points to the things and counts them. “So what did you find? There
are nine of whatever they are.” She bends down and touches one.
“Weird, they look like someone snapped them in half.” My Girlpup
takes one of the longer things and rubs off the dirt.
She
drops it like it’s a pan just out of the oven. I take a sniff; it’s
not hot. There’s something here, though.
Not
a good something, either.
“G-G-George,
those are bones,” Karly’s voice breaks as she stutters over my
name. I take another sniff. Yeah, they could be bones. What’s the
problem with that? I lick one. It tastes like dirt. They’ve been
here a long time.
Yup.
That’s
it.
Just
a bunch of animal bones. Maybe a big dog buried them. What’s
bothering her? The hackles rise on the back of my neck. The not good
gassulfurdrysnakecatstink smelltaste spins around my brain like
smoke.
Oh.
Oh
no.
I
hack and cough. I know exactly what kind of bones these are.
