Showing posts with label fuzzy friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fuzzy friends. Show all posts

Thursday, July 8, 2021

Whiskers, Paws, and Double Trouble

 A few weeks ago, I wrote about my new kitten Jet. He's turned out to be a near-purrfect companion: quiet, confident, brave, cuddly, playful, likes traveling, doesn't mind a harness and leash. The only problem is his tendency to chew on his toy of choice: me.

The issue became so extreme that unless this kitten was asleep, I couldn't reach out to touch him without his eyes going all pupil and his little body springing to attack my hand. When I'd pick him up to carry him, he would even bite my face. Stern and consistent discipline didn't deter this hunter's-instinct-gone-haywire. 

This is no way to live with a cat for the long haul. I was heartbroken. My options were to ignore him for the next 15 to 20 years, take him to a shelter, or get him a friend. The latter option was not really on the table because my husband and I had spent the last several years juggling multiple pets, and we didn't want to repeat the hassle. Plus, it would be easier to travel with one cat instead of two.

But the first two options were too dreadful to contemplate.

Then last Friday, I was running errands, one of which was going into the pet store for a new carrier. Our old one is literally being held together with duct tape. As soon as I walked in the door, I said to myself, "Just peek at the kitty cages, and see if there are any kittens near Jet's age and size."

Mind you, my husband had no idea what I was up to. I had made no conscious plan to get a second cat. But perhaps my subconscious had planned it all along? Maybe the search for a new carrier was all a ruse?

All counted, the store had SEVEN kittens that were Jet's age and size. I had never adopted a kitten from such a place, never had to (all our cats just showed up on the doorstep), had heard bad things about doing so. But I was desperate, and all these babies needed a loving home. So I asked the cat lady, "Are there any boys?" 

She started handing me kittens.

After looking them over, I brought home this guy:


I walked into the house and set the carrier box down at my husband's feet. I said, "Meet Echo." What could he say at that point? Luckily my niece had come home with me, so he kept his mouth shut until his brain had adjusted to the idea of a second pet.

My intention was to keep the two critters apart for a few days until Echo had had the chance to adjust to his new surroundings. But by accident and oversight of a door left open, they met almost immediately. Ever since, Echo and Jet have been inseparable. Bosom buddies. 

The chewing on Mom stopped. The house is a happy place again. And my husband is kinda in love with them both. All's well that ends well.

Now to see if Echo likes the car...


Wednesday, June 30, 2021

Jet and the Bumblebee

 My kitten Jet discovered bumblebees today. I was walking him in the garden this morning, for some leash training, and the bumblebees were buzzing happily among the Lamb's Ears, which are currently in full bloom. What kitten isn't fascinated with toys that move on their own and bob within easy reach?

"You'd look pretty funny if you got stung, buddy," I tell him.

I tug him in a different direction, then pause to investigate a plant growing where I may not want it. While I'm debating on whether to pull it as a weed or leave it and see what it becomes, Jet gives a yipe and darts to the full extension of his leash. He's a little guy, but he bolted with such force that he pulled me after him.

Sure enough, a bumblebee is rising off the ground and continuing on its merry way. Jet is shaking his paw and licking it madly. It starts to swell almost immediately.

It's not often you can see degrees of emotion in the contemptuous face of a cat, but Jet was clearly angry. He curled up on my lap and glared at nothing. His tail twitched a bit, and when I tried to offer a comforting caress, he snapped a warning bite at me. Fair enough. "Not now, Mom!"

So now we're in recovery. And I can't help but wonder if he'll leave bumblebees alone in future, or if he's plotting revenge.


forensic evidence of assault by bumblebee


Saturday, June 12, 2021

Whiskers, Paws, and Attitude

 Next up in the "Exciting New Developments" series is this guy: 


We named him Jet, because he thinks he's very, very fast. Though "Maverick" might've been even more appropriate, given the flybys and chaos he leaves in his wake.

Still, he's a welcome relief.

Last September, in the middle of pandemic unknowns, battles with depression and panic attacks, and all that ugly mess, we lost all three of our fur babies. All three. In the space of one month. It was one bitter blow after another.

Some predator must've moved through our neighborhood, because several pets vanished at once. First our six year old cat Leo disappeared, then two weeks later, we had to put down our Great Pyrenees. Her hips had given out at last and she could no longer get up by herself. 

On the same morning we delivered our dog to vet for the last time was the last time we saw our 15-year-old cat Gabriel.

We simply didn't know what to do with ourselves. Reading in my cozy chair under my cozy blanket just didn't feel the same without a kitty on my lap. Evening walks with the dog stopped. We had supplies of food and toys, medicines and litter with no critters to use them.

In one horrible rage, I filled a trash bag with every pet thing I could find and tossed it all in the trash and bawled my eyes out.

Slowly we adjusted to being pet-free. No more surprise messes to clean up, like gopher guts on my welcome rug or regurgitated food devoured too fast or wads of white dog wool rolling across the floor. We no longer had to seek out pet-sitters when we went on road trips. Our lint roller fell into disuse, and I got to wear pretty clothes for no reason than I could wear them without fear of cat hair or dog drool spoiling them.

It was nice.

And lonely.

You know it's past time to remedy the situation when all you and your partner text to one another are gifs of adorable kittens. But we waited. We've never had to seek out pets. They've always come to us. So I kept an eye out for kittens who'd gotten lost or dumped. No luck. Seemed, with the pandemic, everyone was keeping their critters close. 

Then on Mother's Day, my husband and I went to have dinner with his family. After dining, his brother said, "Hey, would y'all be interested in a kitten?"

My husband and I looked at each other. He started giving all these excuses about why we didn't want a kitten. We have trips planned, for one (that's in an upcoming post).

Then he said the fatal words, "If there's one that looks like Leo."

His brother showed me a picture. The kitten might've come from the same litter as our lost Leonidas.

I said, "Is it a boy?" (I cannot abide female cats. They're so ... catty.)

The answer the people sent back was "b" for boy. 

"He's mine!" I shouted, as if we were at the world's first-ever kitten auction. We left immediately for the store to replace the supplies I'd thrown away in my grief, then picked up the kitten.

The babies, it seemed, had been moved into the back of an old car, which was about to undergo a restoration project. The mother had either gone hunting or abandoned them and was nowhere to be found.

Now my lap is full. All the time. Even when I'm trying to eat. And type. And I've learned to think of myself as a jungle-gym. And a bathtub. And a chew toy. My happiness is complete.

Jet plays hide-and-seek, afraid I'll steal his favorite toy.

Chilling in the driver's seat, because we all know cats are in charge.





Thursday, June 26, 2014

Small Distractions: Introducing Leonidas

So I've complained all year that there seems to be less and less time to write. But this week, if all goes well, will be the first week in months that I will actually have 4 days out of 7 that I can devote to writing. Amazing! Since when did I go and get myself a social life? I mean, really!

Today, however, it isn't my social life that has me distracted from writing. It's a little guy named Leonidas who doesn't have nearly as many muscles as this Leonidas:



My Leonidas showed up in the neighborhood a couple weeks ago, nearly dead from starvation and dehydration, not because he'd been attacked by Persians -- or Persian cats, for that matter. And who's the biggest sucker in the neighborhood? Yep, me. Just as we were getting him fattened up again, he developed a terrible infection and I was sure he would have to be put down. But the vets were determined to save him, and save him they did. Now, Leonidas is running wild all over my house, and my other cats still aren't sure what to make of him.

This is Leonidas telling me that the old draft of Fury of the Falcon really stinks. But, he says, the paper tastes great.



This is Leonidas being caught in the act of trying to tell this story his way.



He wanted me to post that he was fighting off a thousand Persian cats in the alleyway and is the lone survivor who must tell the tale. And he says the white stripe over his right eye is really hiding the scar he earned from battling the ferocious wolf-chihuahua of Suburbia Pass. ... Why am I not sure I believe him?

So I blame my being distracted from writing this morning on Leo's escapades and using me for a jungle gym. And since it's been a while since I've updated my blog, I thought it appropriate to gave a hint about why I've been, well, distracted.

As soon as he falls asleep, I will sneak in a few paragraphs of a new chapter.

(Side note: the page of text in that middle picture is crap. Don't read it, at all cost. Your eyeballs might melt. Not one word is being kept and used in the new draft.)

(Side side note: I am not a kitty rescue service. Please don't send me any more cats. I have all I can handle.)


Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Jack Tales: The Art Lover



Last month, I introduced Jack, my new writing buddy, who also happens to be the orneriest cat on the block.

Yesterday evening, as I was rolling towels and socks from the laundry basket, Jack decided to make himself at home among the piles of clean laundry. Cats, he once told me, only like clean laundry. They refuse to lay among dirty laundry, because later, when they bathe, they will be licking human toe funk, which, believe it or not, doesn't taste as nice as tuna fish.

In a short while I looked over and saw him hiding under a towel. Luckily this towel is not used in my kitchen. So instead of scolding him, I asked him, "Jack, what in the world are you doing?"

He said, "Can't you tell? I'm reenacting La Primavera, and I'm quite good at it, thank you very much."



Jack as La Primavera



La Primavera, by Sandro Botticelli, 1481-82, detail.



Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Meet Jack, my new writing buddy!

Last July I posted about the death of my darling companion, Raphael, getting all sappy and stuff. Well, it's amazing how I still miss that little guy. My last statement in that blog post was that I wouldn't be replacing him any time soon. It's amazing how life makes a liar of you.

One day in mid-October we were minding our own business, enjoying breakfast and the cooler weather on the back patio when all of a sudden we heard the heart-wrenching yowling of a cat in panic. It was coming from the creek that divides our backyard into usable space and non-usable forest. In my head I envisioned this poor creature trapped under some fallen logs, on the verge of drowning. I put on my wellies and slogged out into the water.

As it turned out, this panicked cat was stuck on top of the logs, likely chased there by the evil tom that prowls the neighborhood. But as we also have other cats, this poor vagrant was likely scared to venture into our backyard as well, lest he lose an eye or two.

When I finally got a good look at him, I saw that he was orange and only half-grown. Thank God he's orange, I thought. I don't keep orange cats.

Right? Yeah...

So my husband and I rescued this terrified animal and set his paws on solid ground, and said, "Beat it!" But the cat promptly glued himself to our feet. We tried walking him through the neighborhood, hoping someone would recognize him. We discussed shelters and pounds and other methods of being rid of him. We decided, well, we won't feed him and we'll go inside and he'll wander off and go home.

Why do cats fall out of the blue and decide to adopt me? They detect a sucker, that's why.

Come late afternoon, we found that the cat was right back up on the logs from whence we "rescued" him, and he was yowling so loudly that we could hear him inside the house, 40 yards away. Okay, I say, I'll feed him, but I'm not naming him, and if he doesn't shut up, I'll deliver him to the nearest shelter. This cat was so desperate and scared, he kept meowing even while he ate. Non-stop noise. I said, this cat is crazy, there's no way we're keeping him.

And then I did something really stupid. I said, "His eyes look like pumpkins. If he were a girl we could call him Pumpkin, but since he's not, we'll call him Jack." That was fitting, right? It was almost Halloween and it was Jack o' lantern-carving time. My husband looked at me and said with a smirk, "You just named him." I ducked my head and said a swear word. How could I be so stupid? Oh, yeah. Sucker, right.

So Jack became a new member of the family, and all he wants to do is lay on my lap or curl up on  my shoulder, even though he's getting way too big for that now. So, today Jack said, "You haven't blogged about me, snob." So here he is, in all his orange orneriness:


Jack said he doesn't want anyone to see how he picks his nose and don't publish that picture or he'll pee on my bed, but it's a parent's prerogative to embarrass their children, right?


This portrait, however, is Jack-approved.


Thursday, July 11, 2013

Cat Immortal

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RAPHAEL

October 14, 2005 - July 8, 2013

Well, I meant to get a chapter+ written this week, but on Monday morning I woke up to find my most faithful companion sick. He died at noon. I'm still sick over losing him. Caring about the scene I need to be working on comes and goes in fits, so I write when I can focus on words. 

It's really amazing to discover how many habits I had that revolved around this little guy. Very strange adjusting to a different way of doing and thinking. The worst part was Monday evening dinner time. I went to the garage with my two other cats in tow, and looked down at the floor where three bowls waited to be filled. I had to decide which one to pick up and set aside. Raphael always got his bowl of food last because he was too sweet to steal a bowl from the other two, and because Gabriel and Sonora don't like each other, I have to separate their bowls at arm's length, then I would set Raphael's bowl down in the middle. So I picked up the middle bowl and put it on the shelf, sobbing the whole time, of course.

I've had too many pets during my lifetime to get sappy over most of them, and I am usually not the type who posts sappy obituaries about an animal on my blog, but this one was different. I won't be replacing him any time soon.
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Sunday, September 30, 2012

Travelogue: Writing, with BATS!

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My weekly progress report is several days late because travel knocked me off routine, but that's okay, right? Last week, my husband and I drove to Austin, Texas, for his work. My work got to take place on the eighth floor of a hotel room with a river view. I've had to learn to enjoy writing from hotel rooms. Years ago, the change in location threw me off, and it used to take a day or so for my brain to adjust and start creating again. But now? Glorious. There are no distractions in a well-placed hotel room. No dishes to be done, no cleaning, no weeding, no shopping, no cats to feed and push off your laptop, no reason to even answer the phone because you simply can't come to dinner tonight, you're out of state, see ya later.

I did not expect to like Austin as much as I did. A lovely city. The best part to me was the natural wonder right in the middle of downtown, all of fifty yards from our hotel. Most people are creeped out by bats, but bats are one of my favorite animals. I mean, c'mon, they're mammals that FLY! And they're furry, and they eat West Nile virus-carrying mosquitoes. So when I heard from a friend that Austin had a colony of bats, I was thinking, "Okay, we'll get in the car, drive to a cave in the hill country, and see the bats." Noooo. We walked out of the hotel, onto the bridge that crosses the Colorado River and experienced the bats. On one side of the bridge, we got to watch an amazing sunset turn the sky and the skyscrapers orange. On the other side, dusk approached. Under the sound of the traffic crossing the bridge, we could barely hear the squeaking as the bats woke up and became more and more excited.

When sunset was almost completely faded and the sky was the right color of lavender-gray, the first bats started darting out from under our feet. Then wheels of bats started circling, and the squeaking became odd little clicks. At last, three narrow columns of thousands upon thousands of bats flew out over the river and into the city. I'm sure I was standing with my mouth and eyes popped wide open. At my house, we have exactly three bats that come out on summer nights and eat our mosquitoes. So I was not expecting clouds of bats. Literal clouds; once they flew out over the city, the three tidy columns bunched up into shifting black clouds. And they kept pouring out, pouring out, pouring out, till after dark when we could no longer see them.


Another unexpected surprise was the scent. Exactly three bats don't put off much perfume, you know. But when thousands upon thousands of bats get the air moving, there is this distinctive sweet, musty odor. I might have chalked it up to some little old lady's odd perfume, but we smelled it the second night as well. The second night was even better, because we walked down the riverside trail and rented kayaks. I had never kayaked before, so I was very glad the river was wide and calm, else I would've ended up in the water with the turtles and catfish. But I stayed in the boat and at sunset we paddled to the bridge. Down on the water, the roar of traffic was much softer and the squeaking of the bats far more distinct. The bridge, we saw, is actually constructed with deep slots made to house the bats, so we couldn't see them until they started flying out.

When the sun dropped behind a skyscraper and the sky turned to lavender-gray, here they came. Three columns right over our heads. I paddled as fast I could to keep up with them as one of the columns followed the treetops along the bank. A second column crossed the river and flew along the water on my other side. Then came that sweet, musty odor and the black shifting clouds as the bats left the treetops and joined up over the city.

An unforgettable experience. So, if you happen to travel through Austin, take the opportunity to see this amazing nightly nature event right in the middle of downtown.

All that to say that, while in Austin, I finished Chapter 6 and it was a doozie. *whew* But writing more about it here would spoil the bat story. 
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Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Beauty and Relaxation - Road Trip Travelogue II

The rest of the road trip was phenomenal. The best my husband and I have ever taken. Once work was wrapped up in Boulder, we took the scenic route west to Breckenridge and stayed in a gorgeous, renovated old lodge at the base of Mount Quandary. We managed to hit the place just before high season, so our room rates were unbeatable.

Our first stop was Mount Evans. My husband has this crazy goal of mountaineering up several (if not all) of the fourteeners in Colorado, and Mount Evans is the only one that is conquered by driving up to the top. So I can say that I, too, in all my physical weenie-ness, have conquered a fourteener. I'm actually prouder that I did not faint on the narrow broken road that winds along the cliffsides to get there. What is it with people who don't put guard rails on the sides of roads? In any case, it's amazing how short the breath is at that altitude, but the view is truly spectacular:
(my husband standing on top of the world)

The best part for me, though, was that we got to see mountain goats. Up close. Like six feet away. Growing up, my father (who should've been a mountain man in the early 19th Century) had taught me to look for animals, and it became a fun game on trips to be the first one to spot the pronghorn, the deer, etc. It was a rare treat when we got to see elk or goats through binoculars. I kept bemoaning the fact that I had forgotten our binoculars and wondered if I would get to see a goat at all. Well, atop Mt. Evans there is a privy, for all the people who survive the drive without pissing their pants. Before we begin the terrifying drive back down, we decide to make a pit-stop, and what do I see resting in the shade of the privy building? A herd of young goats! I gasp, unable to believe my eyes. No binoculars needed. These adorable little guys are not six feet away. I grab my camera (that, of course, keeps shutting down due to low batteries!) and snap as many pics as I can:

Mountain Goat: Mt. Evans

I was surprised by how small these critters are. They're smaller than my dog. Of course, she is a Great Pyrenees, so I shouldn't be surprised.

Anyway, the trip already felt like a success, so on we drove, reaching the lodge that evening. The next day, we decided on the hike we wanted to take. It's called the Blue Lakes trail, which is extremely easy, the "trail" actually being a grated road that winds along the side of Mount Quandary to the glacial lake. And what do you suppose we got to see? Yep, more goats! A herd of them was lounging around on the trail and snuffling up some kind of mineral that must be in the sand or gravel there. These were full grown and wilder than the Evans goats. Our approach made them a bit nervous, but I grabbed my camera and started filming. (Yes, I acted like the star-struck idiots that I always cuss. Seriously, people come to Oklahoma and sneak up on buffaloes with their cameras snapping. So stupid.) I was prepared to dive up on some dude's truck if the goats decided to charge me, b/c their horns are dagger sharp and I had just heard a story about a hiker who was gored in the leg by an aggressive male. He died of blood loss before he could be rescued. So, while I was cautious, I should never have gotten so close. The goats eventually got tired of me gawking and moved on up the slope so James and I could pass. We watched the marmots and pikas hop around on the rocks for a while, then drove into Breckenridge for a beer and gift shopping. Lovely.

(View from Lodge. Fog the morning we left for home)

We spent the rest of the time exploring mountain roads and looking at all the ridiculously expensive houses and wishing we could afford one. Then we packed up and started home. The only disappointment we suffered on that drive was a failed side jaunt. When I was 12 or so, my family had taken a similar trip, and my dad was thrilled to show us the Royal Gorge, that scarily deep river gorge with a scarily high bridge across it. I longed for my husband to see it, so we planned our route just so we could stop by. Well, twenty years later, there is no "stopping by." Money-grubbers have turned the view into a theme park. It costs $25 friggin' bucks to see the view. They expect folks to stay all day and ride the roller coasters and eat the fried food while they're at it. I was extremely disappointed, so we continued on, cursing this greedy person and that greedy person who would capitalize on a view. But what's new?

Anyway, we made it home in one grueling shot. I think I lost my marbles somewhere between Pueblo and Amarillo, but I found them again eventually.

In conclusion, this trip was more joyful and relaxing than I could've hoped for. Once I forget the stiffness that comes with sitting so long in a vehicle, I'm sure I'll be ready for the next one.
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Wednesday, April 20, 2011

The Great Baby Bunny Rescue!

Not much writing this week either, due to upcoming family gatherings to prepare for and garden projects to wrap up. So the story I have today indirectly involves the latter. My husband and I have worked stupidly hard to try to tame just a corner of our property for flower beds and other signs of civilization. Perhaps followers who have been around a while will recall the pics I've posted showing off my gorgeous back yard. To keep folks up to date, I live on a natural creek on the edge of a very small town, so we have our raccoons and opossums, coyotes and armadillos that come traipsing in from time to time. We also have our domesticated visitors that liven things up when they meet face to face with my beloved large cats. I have three very large, fat cats who do actually earn their keep. When we first moved into this place, the yard was riddled with gopher mounds and tunnels. Within a few months, the local population of these pests was next to nil. We also rarely have issues with rats or mice. The occasional bird also meets a bloody doom at the pointy end of a cat's paw.

Then there are the rabbits. Those little cottontail cuties that, for the most part, have learned to stay outside the territory of my hungry tigers. Readers will find in my archives from last March pictures of the two domestic bunnies we adopted. Since that time I've grown a soft spot for the critters. My bunnies are now far too big and caged up for the cats to do them damage, but since we brought those big-eared critters home, the cats have vowed revenge on us for not letting them eat the domestic bunnies. Or perhaps vowed revenge on all rabbit-kind.

So yesterday morning, James and I were preparing to head to the green house in the city for a few more plants I needed for the pots on the back patio when we heard the high-pitched squeal of an animal in distress. Gabriel, the stately, suave hunter who looks like he's wearing a tuxedo (sometimes I think of him as a gelded version of a 007 in the cat realm), had snatched a baby bunny from under a woodpile. Now, we had no reason to think that any rabbit-mother would be stupid enough to set up house anywhere near these prowling monsters, but she must've been the daring kind.

At the sound of the squeal, Raphael and Sonora came running, tails high. So did James and myself. I'm sure Gabriel would've made fast work of that tender morsel had not a snake intervened. Yes, a two-foot-long bull snake (that's small, by the way) happened to be in the killing zone and convinced Gabriel to drop the bunny and swat a few times at the red flicking tongue. No doubt the snake had been eying the same bunny and took issue with a cat sneaking in and stealing its breakfast. So the cat and the snake conducted a stand off. In the meanwhile, James threw me a bucket so I could put the bunny in it and run. But that part of the property is wooded and overgrown, and the bunny took good advantage of it and hid from all of us. I hadn't had time to throw any shoes on, so there I was picking through the leaves and brush barefoot, with bunnies, snakes, and poison ivy under toe. What a way to start the day.

The snake eventually grew tired of this game and retreated, under the very leaves I'm standing on. So I too retreated, taking the cats with me. They get shoved into the garage for the few hours we were gone, in the slim hopes that they would forget about their morning adventure. That afternoon, when we returned with our lovely flowers for the pots, I felt sorry for the buggers stuck in the house and let them outside. Yes, a half hour later we heard the squeal again. This time, both Gabriel and Raphael came running up from the woodpile, both with baby bunnies locked in their jaws. "No!" I scream and James runs after them. I'm not far behind. "Whoa!" James cried. "Look at that." That daring mother rabbit charged from the woodpile after Raphael. A good attempt, I'm sure, but Raphael was more daunted by me running after him. I chased him to ground, pinched his jaw and forced him to release the bunny. Now, I'm talking a tiny thing, no more than four inches long and still likely in need of mama's milk. With the darling in hand, I returned to find James holding Gabriel by the scruff until he released the second bunny. *whew* Now we have two baby bunnies in a yellow bucket. What to do with them?

James threw the cats back into the garage so they couldn't see where we took them. The mother had run off at last; James wanted to deliver them to h
er; I just wanted to return them to their nest where mother will find them. But so might the cats. It's not a hopeful situation, so I snatched the bucket and dumped the bunnies back under the woodpile. They skittered off, grateful.

So much for the great bunny rescue. I'm not sure how long-lived it will be, for between 007, Raphael, and Lucifer the Serpent in the underbrush
, I'm betting those bunnies are bound to find their way into some predator's gut. Just as long as I don't have to see it or hear it (or find an ooey-gooey present by my front door), so much the better. And for now, I'm happy I got to help them survive another day. Maybe they'll make it. *fingers crossed*

Ah, the joys of living in the country.


Thursday, March 24, 2011

Progress Report, 3-24-11, and a Red Rider

YESTERDAY'S PROGRESS
Project: Falcons Rising
Pages Revised: 2
Pages Cut: 1 (Yep, I cut more than half the content)
New Scenes: 0
Bad things that happened: Elves have killer, cold glares. *shiver*
Good things that happened: nothing yet, and it's about to get worse.

I got a late start writing yesterday, but I was able to squeeze in a couple of pages. Today won't be any better, I'm afraid. Still trying to learn the ins and outs of Twitter (along with taking care of LF and other networking business). Twitter is really very simple; it's just that one name leads to a thousand others, not to mention the # marks and lists to explore. Once the birdie is old hat, I'll be able to fly through and get on with writing.

On a sidenote:

Here's an absurd picture for you. Yesterday, a gorgeous spring afternoon with a sky unhazed by field dust and pollen, and this prissy, country-girl writer, sitting on her back patio with her pages to revise; alongside her, a new Red Rider BB gun. A pink Red Rider. Oh, yes, they make them, just for prissy country-girls like me. I filled the barrel with shiny steel BBs and waited, lurking under the trees, looking, oh, so innocent with my novel pages propped on my knee, in my lime green high heels and frosty pink toenail polish. Then lo! and behold, those pesky, loud, hungry cowbirds flocked overhead, landing in the elm tree, thinking they were so clever that they found a sucker who is still feeding the finches. Those pesky, loud, hungry cowbirds cleaned out my feeders in one blinkin' day! So, as I say, they flocked in and landed for another course. Down goes the pencil and up comes the BB gun. My dad taught me excellent form. Those BBs must sting like hell, 'cause off flew those pesky cowbirds for another treetop. That wasn't far enough -- *pop pop* -- and off they flew to some other sucker's bird feeders.

(No pesky, loud, hungry cowbirds were killed in this battle. Though I hope their bottoms sting)

Ah, back to writing...

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