What If Shelter Animals Could Talk?

If you had the ability to talk to your pet, would you? Most people would probably jump on board and say YES! Some maybe not so on board. It all depends on the person and their relationship with animals. In Lost and Found, the first book of my teen psychic mystery series, Mysterious Tales from Fairy Falls, I introduce Meagan Walsh, a fifteen-year-old rebel without a cause. She has the ability to communicate with animals telepathically. However, she’d buried this psychic gift after her mother died tragically in an auto accident and was only stirred to use it when confronted with a crusty shelter cat named Whiskey.

Fairy Falls was bores-ville from the get-go. Then the animals started talking.

The Fairy Falls Animal Shelter is in trouble. Money trouble. It’s up to an old calico cat named Whiskey—a shelter cat who has mastered the skill of observation—to find a new human pack leader so that their home will be saved. With the help of Nobel, the leader of the shelter dogs, the animals set out to use the ancient skill of telepathy to contact any human who bothers to listen to them. Unfortunately for fifteen-year-old Meagan Walsh, she hears them, loud and clear.

Forced to live with her Aunt Izzy in the safe and quiet town of Fairy Falls, Meagan is caught stealing and is sentenced to do community hours at the animal shelter where her aunt works. Realizing Meagan can hear her, Whiskey realizes that Meagan just might have the pack leader qualities necessary to save the animals. Avoiding Whiskey and the rest of shelter animals becomes impossible for Meagan, so she finally gives in and promises to help them. Meagan, along with her newfound friends, Reid Robertson and Natalie Knight, discover that someone in Fairy Falls is not only out to destroy the shelter, but the animals as well. Can Meagan convince her aunt and co-workers that the animals are in danger? If she fails, then all the animals’ voices will be silenced forever.

Excerpt:

Beep, beep, the front door sounded again. Sighing, Whiskey lifted a back leg in the middle of the hallway and proceeded to groom herself. She heard a familiar voice. The Kind One is here. Good. I’ll get my litter box done first. She stopped grooming and instantly regretted the extra mess she’d made. Then Whiskey heard another voice. This one belonged to a human who was younger and female, yet there was a rough edge to her voice, like she had just swallowed a handful of litter. Curious, Whiskey sauntered over to the reception area, jumped on the grey chair that waited there for her, and proceeded to do what she did best—observe.

“Stop whining about it, Meagan, or suck it up, as you would say. You’re doing these hours and there’s no getting out of it.”

“Isn’t there a child labour law on this?” the younger human asked.

“You’re not being paid.”

“Okay, isn’t this considered some kind of abuse, then?”

The Kind One smiled. “Only if I feed you to Mary Jane.”

“Mary…who?”

Whiskey snorted in laughter, but to a human, it would sound more like a strangled meow. The Kind One jumped and turned around. She giggled, and then moved to scratch Whiskey under the chin. “Good morning, Whiskey-girl. I hope you didn’t leave too much of a mess for me this morning.”

The girl’s face twitched. “That cat is named after booze? Nice.”

“She was found near the liquor store,” the Kind One said, smiling. “It seemed appropriate.”

Whiskey sneezed, causing her collar bells to jingle, and purred to appease the Kind One. She was Whiskey’s favourite human and she didn’t like it when the felines of the shelter made more of a mess than usual for her to clean up. However, last night, a full moon had graced the skies. Tempers were higher at this time of the month, so it wasn’t unusual to find upturned litter boxes, vomit in the cages, or clumps of fur all over the floor. The pull and power the moon had over animals was out of their control, so when it waned, things got calmer, and their home was kept cleaner.

“Mary Jane is our pit bull,” the Kind One was saying. “She’s the last one left in the shelter since the government banned the breed. I wish we could find her a suitable home. I think she’s going a bit bonkers being in the shelter twenty-four seven.”

The girl’s mouth fell open. “I don’t do dogs.”

The Kind One shrugged. “Fine. There are over seventy cats that need attention and care. I’m sure you won’t be bored.”

The girl frowned. “I don’t do cats, either. I’m...I’m allergic.”

“Oh, haven’t you heard, my dear? There are pills for that,” the Kind One said, laughing. “Go into my car’s glove compartment and grab a couple of allergy pills, and then get your lily-white butt back here so you can help me start cleaning.”

The girl moaned. She pulled at the oversized pink scrub top she wore as if protesting the Kind One’s orders, and then opened the door to go outside. Beep, beep.

“Well, Whiskey, shall we get this party started?”

Whiskey meowed, and then stretched before getting down off the chair. She ran straight to the door and let out a long-winded meow. She wanted out so she could roll on the driveway to loosen any fur the Loud One had not purged from her. Two beeps accompanied her departure. Whiskey heard a car door slam and looked across the lot. The young girl had a white stick stuck in her mouth and was heading for the side of the building, near to the dog runs. Whiskey watched as she snuck behind the lone shed and sat down.

Interesting, she thought. I wonder if the Kind One trusts her?

Whiskey decided to observe this young human. Carefully, she skulked over to the tall grass that was never cut and pushed her way through it. Closer, closer, closer she got, until she was about a stone’s throw away. The dogs were barking like the lunatics they were. Louis was in the run closest to the forest that backed onto the building, while a new dog, a Lab mix, she guessed, was in the middle. The run next to the driveway had always been reserved for Mary Jane. Whiskey glanced back at the girl who was sucking on her white glowing stick. Whiskey sniffed, and then sneezed. Her bells tinkled. Poison, she thought, pawing her face to dissipate the stench.

“Who’s that?” the girl asked, quickly removing the white stick from her mouth.

Whiskey sneezed again, sounding off her bells as she jumped out of the long grass. She gave the young human a long look of disdain, like one a cat might make while having the squirts in a litter box.

“Oh, it’s just you,” the girl mumbled, and then resumed sucking on her white glowing stick.

Silly, stupid human, Whiskey thought. She turned to saunter away.

“I’m not silly, and I’m certainly not stupid,” the girl responded nastily.

Whiskey froze and then sat down. She turned her head around to watch the girl blow smoke out of her mouth. Her long legs were stretched out in front of her and she seemed relatively relaxed. Whiskey shook her head. Had she imagined it? Did this girl really pick up her thoughts? This was a real conundrum. No human had ever come as close as this one to understanding her; to actually communicating with her. The exception, of course, had been the Kind One’s instinct to know when a cat was ill and take care of the matter, but instinct was instinct and this was something more.

“What’s the matter, Whiskey?” the girl asked, sucking on the white stick once more before rubbing it into the ground. She blew out ringlets of smoke. “Cat got your tongue?”

Lost & Found, Book One Buy Links:

PANDAMONIUM PUBLISHING HOUSE ׀ AMAZON ׀ BARNES & NOBLE ׀

Guest Post: A Cat, A Boy, A Bond by Author Anne Montgomery...

There was nothing extraordinary about the cat that stared at me from the pages of my local newspaper. He was black. Gold eyes. His name was Westin. He’d been at the Humane Society way too long. His $20 price tag a clear indication that if he did not find a home soon, well…

I called my son to come look at the picture. I told him about Westin. “Should we go get him?” I asked. His eyes lit up.

Within the hour we bounded through the door at the shelter, waving the newspaper article. “We’re here for Westin.” We grinned at the receptionist. A woman standing nearby frowned. I pointed at the picture again, wondering at her odd reaction.

“The story did not tell you everything,” she said, leading us toward a glassed-in enclosure, a place called the Campus for Compassion, where hard-to-adopt animals are placed for one last push to find them a forever home.

My son and I glimpsed Westin briefly through a large window as the woman ushered us through a doorway, around a corner, and through another door.  We somehow missed the sign that would have tipped us off that Westin was no ordinary kitty. The woman escorted us into the tidy room scattered with cat toys and shelves ascending one wall, where Westin quickly displayed his climbing skills. I sat on a small couch. Westin stared at me, then bounded into my lap.

“You get acquainted. I’ll get Westin’s records.” She left, closing the door behind her. A short time later, a young volunteer appeared, bearing a thick folder.

“Where did he come from?” I asked, as Westin head-butted my hand for a rub.

“He was one of thirty cats found abandoned in a hotel room,” she said. “We named them all after hotels.”

The thought that there were kitties nearby named Radisson, Hilton, Sheraton, and Howard Johnson made me want to laugh. Perhaps she read my mind.

“They’re all gone. They’ve been adopted. Westin is the only one left.”

I stared at the cat, now happily ensconced in my son’s lap. “Why?”

“Westin is sick.”

My son and I simultaneously stared at the cat, who appeared quite healthy and happy.

“When he came to us, he had lost a lot of his hair. We almost put him down. The vets here did a lot of testing and, well, Westin has horrible allergies. He’s on daily medication and will be for the rest of his life. He has to be fed special food that’s about $60 a bag.”

I stared at my son, a first-year college student who’s living at home while he studies to be a chef.

“I’ll leave you two to think about it,” she said, a hint of sadness in her voice. “He’s been here a long time.”

“It’s a lot of money,” I said when my son and I were alone. “And a lot of responsibility.” We already had three cats, two of which came to us as strays and which live on the front porch, just wild enough still that being inside upsets them. We also have an indoor cat that my son raised from a kitten. And a cattle dog.

When the volunteer came back, I asked if anyone else had ever wanted to adopt Westin.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Until they found out about his problems.”

I turned to my son. “You said we’d split the costs,” I reminded him. He nodded, considering.

The boy with the blue eyes stroked Westin’s head. “He’s just like me, Mom. No one wanted me either.”

I stared at the ground. Troy is my third son. All of my boys spent time in the foster care system, before entering my life when they were teenagers, having been shuttled between group facilities and foster homes too many times to count, clearly understanding that there didn’t seem to be a family that wanted them.

I can’t say it hasn’t been a struggle. Westin suffered a ruptured ear drum and only wants to eat food that he’s allergic to. Still, he gets along fine with the other animals and is under the watchful eye of our vet. We are hoping that, someday, he can go without the daily doses of medication and the special expensive food. In the meantime, Troy takes care of Westin. They seem to have an understanding.

Now, six years later, while Westin still has allergies, we manage them. He and his brother Morgan are best friends, and we can’t imagine life without him. That’s Westin on the right.)

My son Troy takes care of Westin, a cat found abandoned with 29 others in a hotel room. They seem to have an understanding.

Here is a brief peek at Anne's Historical Fiction novel base on a real soldier.

Bud Richardville is inducted into the Army as the United States prepares for the invasion of Europe in 1943. A chance comment has Bud assigned to the Graves Registration Service where his unit is tasked with locating, identifying, and burying the dead. Bud ships out, leaving behind his new wife, Lorraine, a mysterious woman who has stolen his heart but whose secretive nature and shadowy past leave many unanswered questions. When Bud and his men hit the beach at Normandy, they are immediately thrust into the horrors of what working in a graves unit entails. Bud is beaten down by the gruesome demands of his job and losses in his personal life, but then he meets Eva, an optimistic soul who despite the war can see a positive future. Will Eva’s love be enough to save him?

Praise for Your Forgotten Sons

“Although a defty crafted work of original fiction, “Your Forgotten Sons” by Anne Montgomery is inspired by a true story. An original and inherently interesting read from start to finish, “Your Forgotten Sons” will prove to be an immediate and enduringly appreciated pick.”  Midwest Book Review

“This was a quick, riveting read that really challenged me to think differently about our servicemen and women, especially those who take on the jobs that don’t get heroically depicted in the media or news…I really highly recommend this book to anyone that is looking for a different take on American history. I left it with a newfound appreciation for the unsung heroes.” Bekah C NetGalley 

“This is the truth. It’s gritty and painful and bittersweet – and true.  When you think you’ve read every perspective of WWII, along comes Bud to break your heart.” Bridgett Siter Former Military Reporter

“Anne Montgomery writes a strong story and I was hooked from the first page. It had a great concept and I enjoyed that this was inspired by a true story…It was written perfectly and I was invested in the story. Anne Montgomery has a great writing style and left me wanting to read more.” –  Kathryn McLeer NetGalley 

Available at Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble, Google Books, and Kobo

 Anne Montgomery has worked as a television sportscaster, newspaper and magazine writer, teacher, amateur baseball umpire, and high school football referee. She worked at WRBL‐TV in Columbus, Georgia, WROC‐TV in Rochester, New York, KTSP‐TV in Phoenix, Arizona, ESPN in Bristol, Connecticut, where she anchored the Emmy and ACE award‐winning SportsCenter, and ASPN-TV as the studio host for the NBA’s Phoenix Suns. Montgomery has been a freelance and staff writer for six publications, writing sports, features, movie reviews, and archeological pieces. When she can, Anne indulges in her passions: rock collecting, scuba diving, football refereeing, and playing her guitar.

Learn more about Anne on her website, Wikipedia, Facebook, Linkedin, and Twitter. 

Creating a Marketing Campaign for a Book Series…

In January of 2026, just before my knee replacement surgery, my publisher at Pandamonium Publishing House and I had a meeting to ‘plant seeds’ as she put it, for the spring and summer book marketing seasons. My chin trembled. “Umm. Wait. You know that I’ll be out of service for 6 to 8 weeks, right?” I asked her with the calmest voice I could muster. Honestly, I could sense her grinning back at me through my cell phone. She casually went on to explain that I’d only had to post twice a week, and they would supply the images I’d need to pull off this Fairy Falls Narrative Campaign, as I dubbed it. “Fine,” I moaned. “What does this campaign entail?”

The goal was simple. To position Lost & Found and Blackflies & Blueberries—the two books I have published so far in Mysterious Tales from Fairy Falls teen psychic mystery series—as dark, perceptive, outsider-driven stories set in a town with secrets. Not cozy. Not gentle. Not seasonal fluff. I was instantly engaged. My publisher went on to say that these books are not: cute animal stories, cozy small-town tales, or gentle mysteries. They are: animals as witnesses, psychic intrusion into hidden crime, corrupt systems inside “safe” spaces, and outsiders seeing what insiders refuse to. “Basically,” she explained, “It’s perception vs. reality.” It was my turn to grin. This marketing idea sounded fresh and out of the box. Better yet, it was doable while I recovered from surgery.

So, how did we go about creating this framework? By choosing the appropriate campaign style. This was narrative marketing, not polite promotion. The tone is unsettling, observant, and atmospheric. We are creating intrigue, not asking for attention. Then the fun began for me with just under two weeks before surgery, as I had to create the content needed to commence this campaign. My publisher gave me a template to follow with examples of what was to be expected, and I worked diligently on these six key strategies until I had enough narratives to run. To give you an idea, these are the content types I had to follow:

·         Fairy Falls Incident Posts, that had to look like town notices, alerts, or reports.

·         Anonymous POV Drops, in an animal’s POV, a townsperson’s POV, an observer’s POV, or a killer’s POV.

·         If You Lived Here Series, where I’d post a narrative stating something like, ‘If you lived in Fairy Falls, you’d trust the wrong people.’

·         Watcher Imagery and Cryptic Lines, using normal, peaceful photos, then overlay narrative like ‘Fairy Falls sees everything’. That’s it. No sales language. No calls of action. Just atmosphere.

·         Urban Legend and Myth Framing, using Fairy Falls legends, things people say but can’t prove, or stories no one wants to repeat.

·         Outsider Perspective Content, where outsiders would always see the cracks, or it takes someone who doesn’t belong to notice, or no one inside Fairy Falls wanted to see this.  

All these narratives I had to create must align with teen identity, alienation, and distrust of authority.
Easy-peasy, right? Well, it was a challenge, but I managed to conjure exactly what my publisher was looking for. Yay, me! I also had fun learning how to add type to an image and pick that atmospheric music to go along with it on Instagram, and then share on my social media accounts. I know from past experience that when doing a campaign like this, you must show up consistently, however choosing to take a week and a half off to recover from my surgery was a no-brainer for my health and well-being. Once rested, I jumped back on the book marketing bandwagon with a renewed sense of excitement, knowing that I am indeed planting seeds that will hopefully sprout into connections with future readers. And in the grand scheme of things for authors, it is all about connecting with readers. That, and have a supportive publisher who pushes you out of your comfort zone. Wink.

If you’re an author, have you run any interesting book marketing campaigns? If you’re a reader, what kind of campaigns draw you in and get you excited enough to read the featured book? I’d love to read your comments. As always, thank you for spending your time reading my blog, and I hope that I’ve added value to your day! Cheers!

Lost & Found, Book One Buy Links:

PANDAMONIUM PUBLISHING HOUSE ׀ AMAZON ׀ BARNES & NOBLE ׀

Blackflies & Blueberries, Book Two Buy Links:

PANDAMONIUM PUBLISHING HOUSE ׀ AMAZON ׀ BARNES & NOBLE ׀