Sense of Adventure

- if you happen to be Emma Dog. The only one worse might be early October, when in Uncle Joe’s famous words, the Great Sky Demons attack en masse.

I’m fine with it, myself. Especially since it’s still a relatively cool season this year.

But, sadly for the Em, it’s the annual July 4^th Fireworks Bombardment. Actually, it’s fairly light and late this year. Heck, the 4^th is only a week from today. Usually it sounds like a hot night in Baghdad by now.

Tonight it did start to pick up. Emma wouldn’t stay outside even to eat dinner. When I ventured out front a few minutes later we got such a loud, sustained, and variegated barrage I briefly thought there might be some kind of professional show going on.

Fortunately, Emma’s noticed that the explosions taper away to nothing later on. Last night she went out late and stayed out most of the night. So she’s not liable to get as bored as she has in years past, which is good.

And of course, it’ll all be over soon.

To fit in around here, you really have to be a character. For one thing, you need to help keep the other denizens of the madhouse entertained.

Emma continues to show she belongs in the Milán Pack. Just now, with the street full of youths, not all the most reliable-looking, and with bass thumping from the speakers of a truck across the street, what roused Emma to bark fiercely?

What but her nemesis, a young mother with a pram?

To be fair to Emma, the mother was walking a somewhat stout little dog. That’s got to up the threat factor.

•••

To further support Emma’s pack-appropriate eccentricity, on our walk today we got rained on. At home Emma doesn’t like to be out in any kind of weather. By which I of course mean weather, as in, the weather doing something, not just sort of being there. Today, though, she happily ignored the fact that it was raining. As long as the rain stayed light.

To my surprise she didn’t even react to fairly loud thunder. Usually if any kind of boom is even audible when she’s outside, she’s shrieking and thumping at the back door to come in. Out on the ditch this afternoon, she didn’t even blink. Apparently she figures Daddy will protect her.

(This might be ill-advised. Daddy is tall, hence liable to attract lightning.)

I enjoyed the rain myself. Mostly. It’s a rare treat to see New Mexico on a cloudy, rainy day. And light rain falling on me actually feels pleasant. Certainly knocks down the heat.

But then as we approached the point where I intended to turn around the rain began coming down for true. Then Emma was, like, “Daddy, can we seek shelter now? Don’t you know enough to come in out of the rain?” Fortunately there were trees with thick enough foliage to offer some respite.

Even then I was more concerned by the lightning. If I’d expected that, or if I’d heard thunder before we set out, I would have kept us home. Naturally it waited until we were on our way up the ditch.

(more…)

Emma and I were walking back down the ditch on the return leg of our walk this afternoon when on the far bank I saw an older Latino guy in a white straw cowboy hat, jeans and a Western shirt coming the other way. That type isn’t superabundant here in the central RGV, but up in northern New Mexico everybody’s grand-dad looks like that. Behind him tottered a four-year-old boy in red shirt and blue shorts - and also a black cape, a Batman mask, and, somewhat inexplicably, carrying a plastic sword.

I did a double-take. It ws so incongruous at first I thought the kid was wearing a black devil mask. Then the older guy said, “I found this caped crusader wandering behind me along the ditch.”

That was so splendid I had to laugh with delight. I’m afraid the lad misinterpreted that as showing disrespect, for he held high his sword and declared, with fierce conviction, “I’m Batman!”

Yes. Yes, you are. Emma stared at him as if he were Ziggy Stardust complete with the Spiders from Mars. I had to hustle her along lest the caped crusader wreak dreadful retribution on us.

A little farther on I tawt I taw a Harrier flying over the ditch. Not this:

But this:

Not pictured: Gamera

(more…)

So the other night I went to dinner with some of the usual ASFS suspects (you know who you are.) As a couple of us sat at India Palace, a fine Burque eating establishment, waiting for the rest of the party to turn up, we really liked the music playing over the speakers. It was jaunty, clearly Eastern with more than a hint of Western rock and pop. So we asked what it was.

The waiters, who seem, huge surprise, to be East Indian themselves (a necessary distinction around here, for what should be obvious reasons) were bemused by our question. We were not hugely surprised when they told us it was the soundtrack of a Bollywood movie called Fanaa.

I was pleased to find it available on eMusic, the DRM-free music download service I subscribe to, which has a great selection if you don’t insist on the current chart toppers. (Another huge surprise: I don’t.) So I went ahead and used seven of my monthly DLs to snag it.

Having downloaded it overnight I just put it on WinAmp on my notebook PC, as I sit here on the couth in the living room. Emma lay snoozing on the floor by the other sofa - she’s usually outside this time of day; I think the wind bugs her. Me too.

No sooner did the music start to play than she lifted her head, gave me a reproachful look (which she does really, really well) over her shoulder, got up, and took herself off to the office and the sanctuary of her pen. So much for Indian music!

(more…)

So when I finally hauled myself out of bed, hot upon the crack of noon (despite my determination to regularize my sleep schedule - which I will do - inspiration hit me late on the current Rogue Angel book; and while I never wait on inspiration, when it strikes, I don’t dodge) I glanced out the wind-blown front curtains to see my little calico pal Clarice trot by up the sidewalk, intent upon her Important Cat Business. I resolved to go out and say hi; haven’t seen her in a few days.

What with my usual routine I got distracted. I sat down on the sofa by the coffee table to drink my cocoa and ice my left arm, which seems afflicted with tendonitis. And I managed to upset my Giant Red Mug o’ Ice Water with the power cable to the notebook PC.

This was aggravating but fortunately I didn’t let my blood pressure spike over it. Nothing really got hurt; and it’s the desert, for gods’ sakes; the humidity’s like 9%. I did sop up as much excess water and ice cubes with a bath towel as I could. And when I went to toss ‘em out front Clarice reminded me she was in the area by getting up from her comfortable spot in the neighbor’s yard and hopping the fence.

I took the towel and bowl I’d used inside and fetched out some treats, of a kind my cats currently spurn. Clarice and I have been friends for a long time - a lawn-design sketch I did for the front yard several years ago features a depiction of her lying in a corner of the yard - and it really got cemented when, in emulation of my friend Larry, I started giving her treats.

So anyway we hung out a while. I left the inner front door open and TJ came to the screen. And Clarice hissed at him.

(Yes, there really is a prehistoric monster in here. We’re getting there. Seriously.)

(more…)

Back from a flying trip, in sundry senses of the word. Some fun stories to tell. Some not to.

Tired now.

When I left it was 90°. Or more. Naturally I left the swamp cooler running so as not to bake the cats. It gets cooler at night usually, of course, but I figured it was no big deal. Especially as opposed to making the cats endure potentially lethal daytime heat.

So I’m flying back this morning and they announce that in Albuquerque it’s 49°. Whoa! 49! And when we arrive, it’s like 48°.

My friend Larry gave me a lift home. Also he drove way to hell and gone north to Corrales so we could retrieve the Em. He’s a pal.

(My car is … not reliable right now. So I had to plea for help.)

When we walk in of course the cooler is churning away. Out come TJ and Squeak. And they look at me and are like, “Dad? FREEZING!”

Oops. I mean, the damn heater was on. Took me a minute to figure out what was making all the noise, once I hastened to get the swamper off.

Oh - I also contrived to get to the kennel without Emma’s retractable leash and X-harness. The kennel guy lent me a leash to get her to Larry’s car. We got in the backseat; she seemed pretty eager.

The plan was for me to sit in back and hold onto her - usually I cinch her in with the shoulder belt through the harness. Which I lacked Also I figured that was less hassle on Larry. I was hoping Emma would be okay with the proximity to Uncle Larry as it was: even though he’s a close friend, and official External Member of the Milán Pack, he hasn’t spent a lot of time around her. So I wasn’t altogether sure he had yet graduated to the Official Emma List of Approved Persons. And if you’re not on that list, you’re on the Watch List.

(more…)

I’m fortunate enough to have some really wonderful friends. Some even go so far as to extend their friendship to Emma Dog. Unless it’s the other way around.

When the group goes out together to restaurants Emma’s Aunt Kathy (Kelly-Kubica) and Aunt Roslee (Orndorff) are especially thoughtful in donating meat scraps for me to take to Emma. Which is very sweet of them, and much appreciated by Emma. And me.

So tonight - technically yesterday evening, now - as threatened I attended the monthly ASFS meeting to hear Ian Tregillis read from Bitter Seeds, the WWII “secret history” novel he just delivered to Tor. As I was going in I was hailed by Kathy. She’d been out to dinner before the meeting, and had actually got a doggie box to bring scraps for Emma. It was just incredibly nice of her. She even brought a baked potato for my compost heap, which is going above and beyond.

It was a great reading, very well received. The book’s going to be killer.

After the meeting several of us (Roslee, who’s a nurse, had to work and didn’t make it out tonight) went by Craig’s house while he prepared some packets for art-show participants. Then we headed over to the Applebee’s on Menaul. There Kathy got another steak (she’s on a reduced-carb diet), and darned if she didn’t send another box o’ scraps home to Emma. So she’s set up for the next few days. A happy dog indeed.

As we headed out to the cars Kathy suggested I check the box she had given me. “Emma won’t much like it if you bring home a box full of broccoli,” she said. “She’ll look at you, like, ‘Why don’t you love me?’ ” And she pulled an appropriately mournful face.

(more…)

I have a black dog. This is very important to me..

It wasn’t when I got her initially. I just wanted a dog. It’d been a year and a half since I lost Bear, whom the wonderful Pat Rogers so aptly called “the little golden dog” - who acquired a large and active fan following who continued to query me for months after her death as to where she was. Enough time had passed for an emotional reset. And to prepare myself I’d read the amazing and useful The Other End of the Leash by ethologist Patricia McConnell. So when I happened by the animal-adoption fair being held at the nearby PetSmart, my main concerns were a nice dog who’d get along with me and the cats and not eat too many house guests or neighbor kids - after one or two, people start to talk.

But more of that tale later. It’s just that the dog I’ve grown to know and love and rely upon to defend the redoubtable Milán Pack and territory against the wicked (lately, mostly young moms strolling past with prams and little dogs on leashes - as every schoolchild knows, among the leading perpetrators of home invasions!) is black. A very deep, glossy black, except for a white blaze on her chest that’s seldom visible.

So why, oh my, when I open the back door, is what I get back a khaki dog?

This just happened. Again. It’s about 1:30 PM Friday. I’m trying to get some writing done and maybe at last plant the honeysuckle I’ve nurtured in a pot on the kitchen counter all these months in the backyard, before heading out to dinner with some Wild Cards Mafia types - including Denver’s own Carrie Vaughn, of Kitty and the Silver Bullet fame - and then to ASFS to hear Ian Tregillis read from the first novel of his upcoming Milkweed Triptych trilogy. I love that name, by the way. Anyway, I read the ending (I mean, silently, to myself. Without even moving my lips much) as part of the Critical Mass authors’ group, and it completely rocks, and Melinda says Ian’s a great reader, so I’m much looking forward to it. Anyway.

(more…)

… but Hell no.

Usually Emma Dog goes outside when I get out of bed and stays out all day (for some reason she won’t stay out if I’m not up, at least in the daytime.) She does her business, gets fed, explores, lies in the sun, all those outdoorsy dog activities. Today she started whimpering to get in after maybe half an hour. So I let her inside.

A few minutes ago, a little after 1:30 PM here in the Mountain West, Emma got up off her fleece on the couch and went to the back door. Which I’ve got propped open for ventilation. At the screen she stopped and stared out a few moments. It’s a standard way she petitions to go outside.

Then she turned, went back to her couch, and curled back up to go to sleep.

The reason’s not hard to divine: today really blows. Literally.

It’s our second day running of nasty wind. Today it hasn’t got up to really scary winds, which we attained around 5 PM yesterday. But its bad enough.

Today’s redeeming feature is that it’s a cool wind. It’s actually effectively aerating my house, which for some reason has the ventilation characteristics of a sealed bank vault even with all windows and doors wide open. I don’t even have the ceiling fan on in the living room, where I sit on the (other) couch - yes, it’s got an Emma Fleece too - writing this with the Cubs-Brewers game on in the background. (Oh, good. The Brew Crew just tied it on a home run.) Yesterday it just blew hot air everywhere. It was the very sort of day which makes me much prefer Fall to Spring. They’re my two favorite seasons; Fall mostly omits the killer winds.

Another annoyance is that there’s nothing I want to do in my yard right now that the wind won’t render impossible. Or at least make prohibitively unpleasant.

(more…)

I was just out in the kitchen - it’s about 12:14 AM - getting some ice to top off my Giant Red Mug o’ Water for the night. It’s 64 ounces. If you’ve seen me at a con or a party lugging this great big garish thing around you no doubt think I’m the world’s biggest alcoholic. And I don’t drink alcohol at all. But I’ve always slogged down immense quantities of water. Having basically a tank-truck with a handle saves me having to keep running for refills.

Anyway … I’ve missed a lot of sleep, what with one thing and another (no, nothing that fun), the last several nights. So my perceptions are a bit altered, here. As a consequence, when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a blur of shiny black fur coming into the kitchen I decided that it must be Squeak.

Then I turned, and it’s Emma. I jumped about a foot in the air and my heart almost stopped.

See, here’s the thing: Squeak’s a cat. She weighs like twelve pounds. She’s basically a very glossy black football with legs and a tail and big yellow-green eyes. Emma Dog weighs in at nearly 100 and is the size of a miniature horse. Almost, anyway. And, in the kitchen late at night, unexpectedly seeing a great big black something that looks like Emma is startling, let me tell you.

She gave me a hurt look anyway. Dad! You thought I was a monster.

Sorry, sweetheart. But … yes. Yes, I did.

And why did WordPress just give me a message, Saved at 25:17 AM? What is up with that?

Oh. Whew. That’s twenty-five minutes and seventeen seconds (because it just now autosaved again at 0:29:30.) I thought the people in charge of Daylight Savings Time had decided to really screw us up this year.

I told you I get weird when I get short on sleep. Weirder.