Tillie has a tale to tell–or, rather, George does



George the Basset Hound is, in his own words, “an amazing familiar who is in a perfect hound body…a sleek, smart, and gifted scenting machine.”

He has to be in this book. The family’s new puppygirl, Tillie, has attracted a very strange companion–a ghost. The specter seems harmless enough, but just to make sure, George’s packmate (otherwise knows as Karly) enlists her Auntie Heather to help find out why this ghosty-girl has attached herself to them.

Auntie Heather, a greenwitch, agrees to help Kayla (who is a witch in training) seek out the reason behind why the ghost has not moved on.

And, of course, George’s abilities are crucial to tracking down that reason. They couldn’t do it without him.

Just ask him…


This was such an entertaining book! Told from the viewpoint of the Bassett Hound, witch’s familiar, and all-around perfect dog (again, just ask him), it is full of life from the viewpoint of a canine. Everything has a smelltaste, and whatever passes in front of his nose is fair game for sniffing and/or eating. And speaking of passing…what comes from his other end is something in which he also has great pride.

I have to love this dog. He is so full of himself. The way he sees his actions and how he perceives others’ view of him is so like – sorry – people. He loves his “peeps”, but swears that they never feed him. A great nose for sleuthing, but a terrible memory…

And an attention span that is as short as his legs.


As to the story–it is an absolute page-turner. I loved it!





Tillie’s tail is spinning in circles. She’s staring at a filmy thing sitting

on the steps of an old, rough-brick building. I know it’s really a large Peeps’

den, but since it’s bad to be in the dog house, I assume it’s bad to be in a house.

Why don’t they just call it a den if houses are so bad? From the smelltaste of

cooking, Peeps, dust, skin, and the other stuff Peeps like, there are many small

dens inside. Tillie “wrrrrrtttles” again and adds a soft “wuff.” Her front goes

down into a play bow. The thing she’s trying to get to play is shimmery and

clear, with thick and thin spots swimming on the surface.

“Snoof. Snuffle” I lick my lips. There’s a disturbing smelltaste of


Oh mousefleas.

It’s a ghosty.


Piqued your interest? I hope so! George wouldn’t have it any other way.

Here is the necessary links to pre-order your own copy:


Now for the—


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