I’ve twenty minutes before I should go and prep the rice cooker for lunch (brown rice! Leftover broccoli! Adult food choices to make up for last night!) and put some bread dough together. So I thought, instead of revising the last chapter of the werewolf smut (tentatively titled Bite because why not?) and deciding if I need to make it, well, smuttier, I’d blog instead.
I know, it makes no sense, but there it is.
Miss B is somewhat slow and nippy today. The weather’s changed, and even though yesterday’s run was slow and short, she still needs a little recovery time. This pisses her off–recovery, to her, is a dirty word, because it means she won’t go With Mum. And if there’s anything she hates, it’s being left behind while I go do Fun Things Without Her. Like doctor’s office visits, grocery shopping, long runs, or even checking the mail. Each time, she informs me when I return that I was Gone Far Too Long and will need to work hard to Make Amends.
Then she gets an itch, thumps down, chews on her bum for a second or two, and all is forgiven.
Odd, of course, doesn’t mind me leaving as long as he can sleep on my bed while I’m gone. He does notice when I return, however, and does a groaning pee-dance at the head of the stairs, yodeling the song of his people. It sounds suspiciously like a dying giraffe, with bonus ear-shattering banshee wails added for spice.
Any ingress to Chez Saintcrow is accompanied by these horns and drums, let me tell you.
They’re saying it’ll be 80F today, which is…not usual, for May. Currently it’s far cooler, with a lot of cloud cover, so it will probably turn into a humid nightmare later. Right in time for me to bake bread, of course, so that will, of course, be sweaty and uncomfortable. But I want good toast, and store-bought is not going to satisfy for the next couple days.
Now that I’m typing, I seem to have run out of things to say. Maybe I should go back and use the remaining time to dust and sculpt the werewolf smut. This, I suspect, will be a fun thing to do before I’m fully caffeinated. Losing track of whose hands are whose in the middle of a sex scene can bring much unintentional hilarity into the world.
I hope your Wednesday is not a humid nightmare, my friends, and that someone is as happy to see you as Odd Trundles is to see anyone coming in the front door. Be kind, be safe, be excellent to each other.
Over and out.