HAHA JUST KIDDING. It’s burned into my tiny monkey brain like the sight of Sean Connery in Zardoz. Anyway. When last we saw Neo, the cats, and my champion herding Aussie, they were all in my sunroom. Neo had expressed his thankfulness for me saving his psychotic squirrel ass by screaming and invading my house, and the cats had taken a vote and decided that they were going to chase the little furry demon. To be fair, Tuxedo!Kitty wanted revenge for being kicked in the head, and Lemur!Cat just wanted to chase something small and snackable without a window in the way. Cranky Old Duck Cat just wanted to be sure nobody was going to eat his share of the kibble. And then, Miss B had gotten loose, and every circuit inside her doggy skull just fused together when she saw an opportunity to heeeeeerd something.

Let’s halt the action here for a second, just press the pause button, as it were, and see what everyone is doing.

See that little gray blur, vibrating in place even though we’ve hit pause? That’s Neo. He seems to have bounced back wonderfully from being hit by a truck. His tail, however, is more crooked than ever, and perhaps it’s that throwing off his balance, because he’s just fallen off the sunroom table and is hanging in midair.

The cats are caught in various poses. Cranky Old Duck Cat is hunched there by the kibble, his eyes wide and his crumpled ears pinned back against his skull. He has just realized that there is chaos afoot, but as long as it doesn’t come near his food bowl, he’s content to simply be a spectator. Tuxedo!Kitty, that black-and-white streak there? He’s hanging in midair too, spread out like a starfish and hissing, because he has just realized the noise means that the dog has joined in the fun. (More on the dog in a bit.) Tuxedo!Kitty, sweet and dumb and stupid as he is, has not adjusted well to Miss B’s presence in our household. In fact, he actively plots her demise, but she thinks he’s cute and fluffy. Which, of course, leads to Hijinks.

Anyway. Lemur!Cat, long and deceptively lean for such a big feline, has just hit the floor and is in the process of gathering himself to levitate again. (That DERP on his face isn’t effort or the thrill of the chase, it’s his natural expression. He had some…problems, growing up.)

And who is that on the table, big huge doggy grin spreading drool everywhere, caught in in the act of knocking every blessed plant off and onto the concrete floor? The one who had just landed in the middle of the catboxes, causing an explosion best left to the imagination and popping back up like a jack in the box, her battlecry (“GONNA STICK ME SOME NAZGUL, I AM NO MAAAAAAAAN!”) rattling the sunroom’s windows and doors? Why, it’s Miss B. But wait. Because she’s not just there. She’s also crouched in front of the sunroom steps, head down and snaking, ready to nip at Lemur Cat’s hindquarters to drive him toward the open door to the backyard. She is also on the treadmill, claws digging in as she tries to nose Squirrel!Neo out of the air and into the proper direction.

I believe I have found the source of her ability to herd. It lies in being in multiple places at once. Or maybe the pause button is defective, who knows?

Well, we’ve let them rest long enough. Let’s hit play again.

CRASH. SHATTER. BANG. “Noooooooo! Not the plants!” My cry of despair. (I kind of understand how Faramir must have felt seeing his city get the crap beaten out of it.) “GOD DAMN YOU ALL!” Shaking the axe handle, and then, I realized…

…that I was right in the path of the hurricane, so to speak.

If you’ve never seen a forty-plus-pound dog on top of a picnic table, baying frantically as her claws dig in (there are gouges in the top of the table you would not believe) and launching herself like Supergirl, well, you’ve missed out. Her tongue was out, and she looked about as joyful as it’s possible for a flying canine to look. She cleared the treadmill’s arms and landed on the other side, on a long wooden bench that had been holding up yet more plants. I say “had been” because the sudden application of her force on one end had predictable results, and if I had not hit the deck I might have been brained by a flying philodendron. (It only missed the glass door by a miracle.)

A misspent youth in the middle of barfights is far from the worst training for this sort of thing. I’m just sayin’.

This left me on the floor, staring as a crooked-tailed squirrel landed, got his feet under him, screamed “GONDOR NEEDS NO KUNG FUUUUUUUUU!” and bolted past me for the yard.

Lemur!Cat, committed to his leap, actually landed on me, and he was wearing his cleats for better traction. I screamed, sort-of-crawfishing on the floor as potting soil showered down on me, and smacked him. Even though the cat is a moron, he’s still incredibly agile. He twisted in midair….and collided with the dog, who dropped straight down and nipped at Tuxedo!Kitty, who did not know whether to shit or go blind at this point. The sudden appearance of an OCSA (Object of Canine Size and Appearance) was too much for him, and he bolted out into the yard. Lemur!Cat, landing on the treadmill, gave another sideways leap, but Miss B actually caught him with her nose again and heaved him, neatest trick of the week, out the door.

Then she leapt over me, paws outstretched. “FUUUUUUN!” she barked. “RIDERS OF ROHAN, TO ME, TO ME!” She landed in an explosion of bark mulch outside the open door, and I found myself bleeding and barefoot, lying on the concrete floor and clutching an axehandle, in a suddenly echoingly-empty sunroom.

Well, kind of empty. Crankly Old Duck Cat still crouched by his food bowl. “THAT WAS AMAZING,” he quacked. “I’M HUNGRY.”

I scrambled, aiming to get to my feet but only making it to hands and knees. Somehow spilled out the door and got my legs underneath me–look, I was not the picture of grace, but you wouldn’t be either if you’d just been beaten by a cat the size of a fat raccoon and the mental horsepower of a damp brick–and halted at the edge of the pavers I’d put down so I didn’t have to stand in the mud while Miss B did her business out in the yard. The stone was cold, the shirt I was wearing was never going to be the same, and I realized I was calling down curses on every animal in a fifty-mile radius at the top of my lungs.

I told you, these things always end up that way.

Out in the yard, grass flying and tongue lolling, my dog had two cats and a crazed squirrel bunched up, and she was trying to herd them. Despite a stunning display of athletic prowess and outright bi- (or tri-) location, such a feat was beyond her skill.

Still, she gave it a good go. The battle ended with Neo nipping under the juniper hedge still screaming about how he knew kung-fu, and the cats scattering like marbles dropped on the kitchen floor. Lemur!Cat squeezed under the fence near the plum tree, leaving some fur behind in the process, and Tuxedo!Kitty just barely made it to the side of the garage and through a gap there. Miss B pulled up short, saving herself just barely from crashing into the gate on the garage side of the house, shook her fur, and looked over her shoulder at her human, who was still shaking the axehandle and yelling.

“…sonofabitch,” I finished lamely, and had to stop for breath. I wiped potting soil off my forehead with a damp hand–look, I was sweating, you would be too–and whooped in a deep inhale. Miss B trotted to me, her skirts switching.

“THAT WAS FUN,” she announced. “MORE? THROW A BALL? PLAY? FOOD? TIME FOR FOOD?”

It was at that moment I decided that never again would I feel charitable toward a tree-rodent. It took me two days to clean up the sunroom, and one of the jade plants never recovered from the shock. (It’s still shuddering and whispering “—and then I fell, and then I fell…” over and over again.) It took a week and a half for the clawmarks in my side to heal, and Lemur!Cat had to be coaxed back inside with tunafish. Tuxedo!Kitty spent the night in parts unknown, and showed up the next morning loudly bitching at the dog and actually hissing at me for good measure.

I kept a sharp eye out for the goddamn kung-fu squirrel, but I guess he had to hole up somewhere and recover from his convalescence. It was a damn good thing, too, because the next time I saw him he had an angry girlfriend punching him in the face. I guess the King of the Backyard never gets a break…

…but that’s another story.

Related posts:

1. The Battle of Pelennor Sunroom
2. Another Small Victory–And Dream Pie!

Also, this past weekend was the first annual Author Faire at Cover to Cover Books. It was a roaring success, even if I do say so myself. Picturespam after the jump!

My tablemates were Lisa Nowak and Cheri Lasota, who were kind of hesitant about sharing table space with a lunatic, but I won them over. WITH LOVE, DAMMIT. (Not really. They found me amusing and not very frightening. Which I’m glad for.)

Chris Luna, reading a poem he wrote while half asleep.

Cheri Lasota, reading from her recently-released ebook. That’s a Kindle she’s holding.

Bill Cameron, reading from his “Princess of Felony Flats”, a short story I now have to find and possess so I can see how it ends.

Mike Nettleton, one half of the Deadly Duo, recently unshaven. And reading!

Ron Gompertz, reading from his Hitchhiker’s Guide to Ancient Rome. (He brought a helmet. Which I wore, but I can’t find the picture now. IT’S A MERCY, OKAY?)

Toni Partington, reading about crows.

Ann Littlewood, holding off a tiger with a bucket and a shovel. (I am not kidding.)

My tablemate Lisa Nowak reading. (The antlers are optional.)

Carolyn Rose, the other half of the Deadly Duo, with her most searingly personal book.

And THIS is what happens when you leave writers to their own devices. (Note that I was not kidding about the helmet. Note also that Chris is a trouper.)

Also, I managed to catch a wily, elusive Publisher! In the wild! This is PROOF! They do exist as corporeal beings, feasting on the blood, pain, and tears of–oh, I’m just kidding. Lucas is a really nice guy.

Me, I read from the beginning of Angel Town. Lots of snot and gore and heaving and maggots. I think that’s why nobody wanted to talk to me afterward. See, you really cannot take me anywhere.

Special thanks to Cover to Cover for hosting the event! And for sandwiches. Also, thanks to Vito, who loomed, and the Martian Mooncrab, who brought me a lawn-gnome Christmas ornament, and to Reader Rachel W., who totally made my day.

And now I’ve a lunch to inhale and some more zombie cowboy to write. Over and out!

No related posts.

I have Authorfest photos that I should put up, but that’s going to have to wait.

* A lot of you write to me asking about the cover models for the Strange Angels series. Guys, I do not know. You would do better asking the publisher, Razorbill. As an aside concerning Dru and the gang, I am now getting a bumper crop of mail from teachers, librarians, and youth counselors. Dear Readers…thank you. Thank you very much. I am glad to hear what you have to say. Bless you.

* Here, have Bruce Wayne’s medical report. I haven’t laughed like this since Man of Steel, Woman of Kleenex.

* Jane Austen might have died of arsenic poisoning. Note that the poisoning was most likely accidental, say, a medicine to help her rheumatism. Nevertheless, I have a mad idea of a lady novelist dead of arsenic, resurrected by a form of clockwork science, and shambling toward those who pique her with the jawbone of a literary critic clutched in one rotting speckled hand…

* Oh yes, and you get a twofer: two short stories by me, released through Orbit Short Fiction. Unfallen, the prime story, was inspired to a great degree by Slacktivist’s (ongoing) reading of the Left Behind series so we don’t have to. (Incidentally, Mr. Clark, if you would like a gratis copy, please do email me.) Also included, I believe, is The Last Job, an Izzie Borden super-short that pleases me quite a bit, and is a sort of homage to Hammett, Chandler, and Woolrich. I rather like Izzie and would love to write more shorts featuring her.

Unfallen by Lilith Saintcrow

by Lilith Saintcrow

I do realize I need to post pics from the Authorfest and write the second half of the Battle of Pelennor Sunroom. I’m getting there, I promise. IN the meantime, I am fueling my recovery with pita chips and ginger water (this is the first time I’ve felt actually hungry in days) and sheer stubbornness.

Over and out.

No related posts.

The squirrel wasn’t listening. The dog, attached to the couch, was barking hysterically.

When we last saw Neo, he had voiced his battlecry and flung himself into my unprotected house. This was a fine way for the goddamn rodent to repay me for not leaving him in the road to die. Gratitude may be a virtue, but I really am beginning to think it’s one this little asshole doesn’t possess.

Several thoughts flash through one’s head when one has inadvertently let a demonic tree-rat into one’s house. Let me see if I can list them in some kind of coherent order.

1. OH JESUS CHRIST SQUIRREL RABIES AUGH!!!
2. None of this would have happened if I’d left him outside like a less goddamn charitable person would have.
3. A FUCKING SQUIRREL IN MY HOUSE!
4. How am I going to clean this up? Will bleach get squirrel out of the linoleum?
5. AUGH! SQUIRREL! WILD ANIMAL CRAWLING WITH FILTHDISEASENASTY IN MY KITCHEN!
6. I am really questioning my own intelligence at this point.
7. HOW DID HE GET OUT OF THAT FUCKING CAT CARRIER?
8. Thank God the dog is tied up–wait.
9. AND MY DOG IS TIED UP AND CAN’T DEFEND HERSELF AUGH!
10. The cats! OMG the cats!
11. HE KICKED ONE CAT IN THE HEAD, WHAT IS HE GOING TO DO TO THE OTHERS?

…you get the idea.

I found out I was carrying an axe handle, and put on the brakes in the middle of my kitchen, barely aware I was screaming obscenities.

What? The axe handle? They’re cheap, they make good weapons, and you can prop them near doors. I like having reasonable weapons in each room, and something within arm’s length at any moment. I AM PARANOID, OKAY? DON’T JUDGE. The axe handle had been right by the garage door. I’d picked it up by the wrong end, but it can still be a bludgeon. At least it wasn’t the Sekrit Weapon. And I just couldn’t throw it, because with my luck it would go straight through a window, and explaining that to anyone who came to fix it would just not…wait, where was I?

Oh yeah. Middle of the kitchen, jerked up short like a dog on a chain, the chunk of wood in my left hand dangling once my arm dropped. The obscenities cut off midstream, I choked on something that sounded suspiciously like “–damn hamsterf!cking crazyass rodent!” and froze.

An uneasy silence fell.

The cats, you see, had come to investigate the ruckus. Sweet dumb Tuxedo Kitty, who had been kicked in the head by Neo lo these many ages ago, Lemur!Cat, and Cranky Old Duck Cat. He’s our oldest, he’s cranky, and if you surprise him he actually quacks. Like a duck. (Look, all my animals are strange. I can’t help myself, I pick up the rejects and the outcasts. This explains not only the Duck Cat, the Stupid Tuxedo, and Miss B, but also my dating life. ANYWAY.)

Cranky Old Duck Cat, his oddly-shaped ears flat against his head, crouched and examined this New Thing In The House. He regarded it exactly the way he regarded Miss B when I brought her home. “WHAT IS THIS THING?” he grumble-quacked. “IT LOOKS SNACK-SIZED. PROBABLY TOO MUCH TROUBLE, THOUGH. WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE NOW, MONKEY?”

Tuxedo Kitty, eyes wide and tail twitching, was near the dining-room table. “I THINK I REMEMBER YOU,” he was saying. “I’M ALMOST SURE I DO. HANG ON.”

Lemur!Cat, huge, long, and lean, with a face that looks like a tree lemur’s (cat’s eyes are HUGE, OMG) and all the mental horsepower of a fat wet rock, stood chewing air and regarding this intruder with a gleam in his eye I’d seen a few times before. It was the gleam I saw, accompanied by the throaty pleaseohplease noises he was making now, right before he launched himself at the sunroom window to try to get at the birds at the feeder hanging outside.

He still hasn’t grasped the nature of the barrier that bonks him on the nose each time. (Look, he had some problems growing up, okay?)

Lemur!Cat’s haunches went up. He crouched, and Neo, his tail twitching, stood at the edge of the rug. I cleared my throat, nervously, and nobody moved. “Okay,” I said, quietly. “Let’s just all calm down and think about–”

“I KNOW KUNG FUUUUUUUUU!” Neo took the only route of escape left, through the almost-closed glass door into the sunroom. I leave it open a bit so the cats can get out to their kibble and litterboxes, but closed enough so Miss B can’t get her fat ass through it. (She has a distressing fondness for Catbox Roca.) I bolted for the door, to shut it before the cats got through. If he was in the sunroom I could go out through the garage and open the outer sunroom door, and he could get out into his kingdom once again.

I’m pretty fast, especially when spurred by adrenaline. However, I am no match for three cats. Lemur!Cat had sprung, and Tuxedo!Kitty, not wanting to be left behind, took off after him like a rocket. Crab!Kitty, dimly understanding everyone was running for the Room What’s Got The Kibble, let out a yowl and sprang forth to get his fair share.

“CHRIST NO NOT THE PLANTS!” I yelled.

Right before I ran into the sunroom door. I’m just goddamn lucky the chunk of wood in my left fist didn’t shatter some glass and add to the fun.

Cursing, rubbing my nose, I wrenched the sunroom door open.

My plan at that point was to get through into the sunroom, close the door behind me, and open up the door to the backyard, then figure out how to get the goddamn squirrel out. The cats would probably chase him into the wild green yonder, and once Neo had some room to maneuver, I was a bit more sanguine about the end of this little episode not involving bloodshed, broken glass, and yowling. It was the best I could come up with. It was even a cunning plan.

Unfortunately, the goddamn animals had other ideas.

Neo leapt for the high ground–the picnic table where I keep the jungle of houseplants I am nursing to health, or someone moved and I can’t just throw them away, or I found them shivering on a streetcorner and just had to take them in. (SHUT UP.) Lemur!Kitty was right behind him, and the desperate battle was accompanied by my despairing cry and CrankyOldDuck!Cat quacking “ALL YOU KIDS STAY AWAY FROM MAH KIBBLE!” and Tuxedo!Kitty’s yelling “I REMEMBER! I REMEMBER! YOU KICKED ME IN THE HEAD!” And Neo making THAT SOUND again, in between warcries involving “GONDOR NEEDS NO KUNG FUUUUUU!” and “FIGHT YOU AAAAAAAALLLL!”

I was still kind-of-thinking at this point. I wrenched the door to the outdoors open, trying not to break it with the axe handle, heard a terracotta pot shatter, and realized far too late that the dog was too quiet and I’d left the other sunroom door open.

From the depths of the house came help unlooked-for.

“HEEEEEEEERD IT!” she bellowed. “MUSTER THE ROHIRRIM! CALL UP THE DEAD! HEEEEEEERD IT!” She hit the doorway in a flurry of fur and baying. “I AM NO MAN!”

The quiet I’d noticed earlier? That had been her worming out of her collar. When a dog is motivated, I guess, miracles happen.

Three things that were not miraculous happened at once.

“JESUS CHRIST!” I yelled.

“THE DOG! THE DOG!” the cats screamed in unison.

And, of course, “KUNG FUUUUUUUUU!” Neo.

I now pause to inform you that Aussies, champion herding dogs that they are, consider things like a heavy-duty picnic table that weighs as much as I do not as a “deterrent” to rounding up and herding three cats and a squirrel. Nope. No, definitely not a “deterrent.” More like “enjoyable but not very complex challenge.”

I could only stand still…and watch.

…To be continued! Also, don’t forget the giveaway over at the Deadline Dames–there’s still time to win a copy of Angel Town.

Related posts:

1. The Pyhrric Victory of Pelennor Sunroom
2. Battle of the Pine Boughs
3. Cat vs. Treadmill, Round One

After all, I was going into the garage.

When last we left him, Squirrel!Neo, stunned and possibly concussed (that’s a word, right?), was curled in a cat carrier in my garage. He had a bowl of shelled peanuts, a bowl of fresh water, and I’d made sure the cage door was locked. I spent a restless night, hoping I wouldn’t have to dispose of yet another rodent corpse come dawn. I was running out of room in the Squirl!Semetery. Though I wouldn’t put it past another one of the little bastards to rise from the grave again.

So, the following fresh warm morning, I got up, nervously checked out the websites of a few sporting goods stores, and thought of dealing with the questions I would encounter if I went in and bought a whole set of hockey pads, helmet, greaves, the works. Kevlar seemed like a good option. Plus, a few hockey sticks would be a good addition to my Sekrit Weapon cache. Bonus if I could roll them in tar and ground glass.

Look, I was just being careful, okay?

But in the end, I decided that one wounded squirrel in a cat carrier was probably not going to require me dressing up like a modern-day secutor. I mean, Neo was probably feeling a bit under the weather, although I doubted even at that moment that he would be harboring so much as a tiny shred of gratitude toward the big pink monkey who had gotten him out of the road and shelled his fucking peanuts. Probably, I thought, he’s sleeping.

That was my first mistake.

My car was in the garage, so I decided swinging a Sekrit Weapon around was not going to end well for anyone. Thus it was, that unarmed and foolish, I went where angels fear to tread. Miss B was clipped to the couch–no, I didn’t staple her or anything. I just put her on a leash that has the other end below one of the couch legs. It’s what we use to keep her from bolting over the pet fence and out the front door to catch, say, a tender, juicy UPS driver. Or a departing guest she likes too much to let leave. (Annie Wilkes has NOTHING on Miss B, let me tell you.)

Yeah, well, we’re working on Miss B’s impulse control. She’s getting better.

At least I had the presence of mind to put her on the leash and give her a Dingo bone (there is very little she won’t do for squeezy cheez or a Dingo bone; I like Cheetos so I figure we’re about even) and tell her to stay. She obeyed me for a full five seconds before going to the very end of the leash and giving me the Puppy So Sad You’re-Stepping-On-My-Tiny-Dreams Look.

I already felt like a jerk.

ANYWAY. So I bopped to the garage door, listened intently, and heard nothing. Which wasn’t at all unusual. But I figured if Neo was afoot in my garage, there would be Noise Of An Incredible Nature. All seemed quiet. Peaceful, even.

I twisted the knob and sallied forth into my carhaven. I left the door open behind me. I had some hazy idea of always leaving myself one avenue of escape. (It works out well in other areas of my life, okay? DON’T JUDGE.) Around the end of the car, thankful that the windows were rolled up, because all I needed was a squirrel in my car while I was driving down the street. (Remind me to tell you about how I had to have my windshield replaced one time.) I took a deep breath, looked down at the cat carrier…

…and froze.

The steel-grill door to the cat carrier hung ajar, its hinges squeaking just a tiny bit to add dramatic tension to the moment. You could almost hear the horror-movie music swell. The towels were shredded, the peanuts were gone, and the water had been violently upset.

I guess King Neo had recovered.

Now seriously, Friends and Neighbors, I want to ask you: How is it even goddamn possible for a squirrel to open a cat carrier door with a spring-lock FROM THE FUCKING INSIDE? HOW? Because I DO NOT KNOW. It is one of those grand life mysteries, like where the other half of a pair of socks goes or how wire hangers mate.

“Madre de Dios,” I breathed. “Neo, goddammit–”

“BANZAI!” he screamed, leaping from a pile of boxed foreign editions. “I KNOW KUNG FUUUUUUUU!”

I flinched and screamed like a little girl, falling back against the car and barking my hip a good one. The car rocked on its springs, but Neo wasn’t aiming for me. He was aiming for the car’s roof, and he streaked across it like he was on wheels. Another leap, of effortless flying authority, and he vaulted from the hood…and barreled in through the door.

The open door. The door I had left open.

Into my house.

Into my goddamn kitchen.

In the distance, the barking began.

…To be continued

Related posts:

1. The Gaslighting of Neo
2. Neo & Miss B
3. Neo And The Fence

Anyway, when last we met, I was telling you about the mysterious peppering of Squirrel!Neo with pinecones. I saw Steerpike!Squirrel slinking away afterward, but that wasn’t, so to speak, proof enough to convict. It was, however, enough to make me wonder and keep an eye out.

Picture this: a cloudy afternoon, the squirrels going about their business. You know how, in a group of people, a sudden silence will fall? (Hermes is among us, they used to say.) It’s kind of like that in the Kingdom of Backyard. There will be a crowd, and all of a sudden, everyone will disappear except for one lone squirrel. He’s got a crooked tail, and he’s a little bigger than Yon Average Yard Rodent. He glances around, sees that he is alone, and immediately is on high alert.

Because that’s when it strikes. A pinecone, a small rock, any type of ammunition. Always when he was alone, always from an unexpected direction. Other squirrels would show up and give him curious looks as he stood, shaking his fist and chittering angrily, or desperately trying to convince them to stay under cover.

The first stage was anger, of course. He’d be pelted, and would take out his aggression on the first thing he saw. Most of the time it was other squirrels. But this particular afternoon, he was bombed from the plum tree with something that looked suspiciously like an acorn. (I don’t know where the hell it came from, there’s not an oak tree for a few miles.) Neo hit the dirt, rolling, and just barely avoided getting hit in the head. He came up, furious and looking for the perpetrator…

…just as Romeo!Jay, his brother-in-arms, glided down to land near him and shoot the breeze. Romeo doesn’t talk much–he saves most of his words for Juliet!Jay, as we saw during the Corn Pops War. But he does like to hop around after Neo and his cadre, occasionally getting in a screechy joke that will make all of them laugh. I get the idea that with Mercutio!Jay around, Romeo doesn’t often get a word in edgewise, so he’s learned to make them count.

Neo went off.

“BANZAI!” he yelled in squirrel-ese. “MOTHERFUCKER I’VE GOT YOU NOW! BOMB ME WITH NUTS, WILL YOU?”

“JESUS CHRIST!” Romeo!Jay screamed, taking off in an explosion of feathers. “WHAT THE HELL, YOU FURRY DUMBASS?”

Your Humble Narrator stood in the sunroom with a watering can–yes, I was watering my goddamn bonsai, that’s a whole ‘nother story–and a slack jaw, observing this.

All Squirrel!Neo’s considerable fury and frustration had boiled over. He leapt after Romeo!Jay, screaming like a banshee. Yes, he was making THAT SOUND, like a wineglass, Sam Kinison, and some steak caught in a possessed blender. Romeo, normally an easygoing guy (he used to be a little more wound up before Juliet noticed his existence, now he’s pretty damn calm for a jay), spread his wings, let out a warning screech, and pecked Neo.

On the head.

It was a perfect kung-fu peck (where the hell do all these animals learn their goddamn martial arts, I’d like to know), and it rang Neo’s chimes pretty good. Romeo hopped back. “WHAT THE HELL?” he squawked again. “HAVE YOU LOST YOUR TINY LITTLE MIND, DUMBASS? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?”

Neo lay stunned on the grass for a moment before hopping up. “YOU FEATHERED BASTARD!” he screamed. “OH YOU FEATHERED FUCKING BASTARD, I’M GONNA–”

“YOU’RE GONNA WHAT?” Romeo cocked his head. “ANYTIME YOU THINK YOU’RE BLUEJAY ENOUGH FOR THE JOB, FOURLEGS. BRING IT.”

With that, he spread his wings again and took off, brushing over Neo’s head. The King of Backyard ducked as the jay buzzed him, and Romeo was gone over the house in a flash of blue feathers. The King shook his tiny little rodent fists and bayed furiously at the cloudy sky.

That’s when the other acorn pasted him right on the noggin as well. This one came from the plum tree too.

Behind Neo.

“Holy shit,” I breathed, looking down at Miss B. She cocked her head, wondering what in the yard was holding my attention so much. “Somebody’s gaslighting Neo.”

I got the canine equivalent of a shrug–she can’t see out into that part of the yard when she’s under the picnic table in the sunroom. (Don’t ask.) I looked up just in time to see Neo’s tail disappearing into the juniper hedge next to the plum tree as yet another acorn-shaped thing plowed into the ground behind him.

I waited.

Sure enough, after an interval, who should come sneaking down the plum tree but a certain reddish squirrel?

“You bastard,” I muttered. “Oh, I don’t like you.”

Steerpike!Squirrel glanced at the house as if he’d heard me. He flicked his lean reddish tail twice, smoothed the fur on his tiny head, and I could swear to God he smiled before vanishing into the hedge after the sorely-tried King of Backyard.

I had a sinking feeling things were about to get ugly.

No related posts.

Yeah. Anyway.

You would think dance would have taught me grace. Nope. I am capable of amazing feats of dexterity while avoiding fists or when moving too quickly to really think about it, but grace? Nope. Not me. I’ll settle for not hurting myself nine times out of ten.

Those tenths, however, usually end up being doozies.

So, last Friday I was out with my climbing partner S. She talked me into cocktails. Not just any cocktails. We were going to have dress-up-like-real-ladies cocktails. It was the inaugural event for The Dress–wait, did I tell you guys about the Dress? I found it in the J Peterman catalog. First dress I’ve bought in YEARS. It fit (well, anything with a side zipper has a different value of “fit” than my usual “if I have to contort to get into it, it doesn’t fit” rule) so I couldn’t send it back. It’s a very light pink. With polka dots. And a bow. ANYWAY. I wore heels.

That was probably my mistake.

We met for lunch and a little shopping, and there was a very nice little boutique…where I proceeded to trip on a step and fall full-length.

Now, I know how to fall, so I only got a bruised knee. S had never seen me fall without a rope, so she was a little perturbed. I reassured her I hadn’t broken anything, blamed the heels (“if I would have been in my BOOTS–” I said, and she gave me an eyeroll that could have won at the Olympics and a stern “Don’t start, Lili,”) and we continued. The funny thing? The cocktails came afterward.

Yes, I managed to fall flat on my face while stone-cold sober.

Cut to this morning. Miss B and I are out for our usual five miles. Some of the sidewalks we run on are fairly cracked, the trees shading them have managed to heave up blocks of cement inch by inch. I know where all the bad cracks and edges are. We’re in front of the church, on a piece of pavement I’ve passed over easily five hundred times by now…

WHAM.

Yep, flat on my face again. Skinned my right palm and my right knee, bumped my shoulder (I went loose and rolled sideways to shed momentum), my left thumb got a bit battered (I do NOT know how, don’t ask) and I found myself staring at concrete right in front of my nose.

Miss B, of course, thought this was a new game. One she was not quite prepared for, but gamely ready to give a go at. “Alpha’s thrown herself on the ground! Should I too? What’s my role? What are my motivations? HALP SHOW ME WHAT TO DO!”

“Oh, fuck,” I muttered, which cheered me up immensely. If I’m cussing, I’m okay. It’s only when I get really quiet and say something like “Oh my goodness” or, more frightening, “Oh, fudgesicles,” that I know I’m really hurt and shit’s about to get ugly.

Miss B pranced, getting the leash wound around her front leg. I pushed myself up and took stock. Just a bit of skin lost and a little bruising. Nothing broken, sprained, torn, or pulled. Good deal. I untangled the dog, chirruped and gave her a treat, and we were off again.

For another four and a half miles.

The good thing about a bad fall is that the adrenaline tranquilizes me for the rest of a five-mile run. I got through the four-mile mark before I began to feel winded in the least. Miss B kept waiting for me to play the game again. I suspect she had some idea of her role the next time I went tumbling. I further suspect that self-appointed role will make it incredibly difficult for me to gain my feet again.

Oh, well. I am philosophical about my lack of grace or dignity. If I can’t have either of them, I will at least settle for persistence. And not wearing heels. Unless absolutely forced to. At least they were the Capezio character shoes. I can run in those, and I can even fight, if need be…

…but that’s another blog post.

Related posts:

1. Just Not Happening (Much)
2. Grace That Saves
3. Good To Be

Also, my darling 40-pound dog tried to kill me this morning. The track is at the local middle school, and they were testing and repairing the sprinklers for summer. When some of the sprinklers turned on near us, she headed for the safest place around–right between my feet. While I was running. I didn’t break anything, but it was damn close. I haven’t made an amazing leap like that since…well, ballet, really, or my last barfight. Of course, since the leash is wrapped around my waist, she came with me. it was an interesting fifteen seconds or so.

Also in the Cat and Dog Follies this morning: Tuxedo Kitty is in another bolt-and-bounce phase, which means Miss B. views him as a magical food-producing machine she can’t get too close to, but must watch carefully in case the jackpot occurs.The kibble isn’t even chewed when he horks it up–just moistened a bit. Miss B. thinks this is a glorious snack. Tuxedo Kitty goes right back to the bowl after every hork. It’s a Circle of Life I just don’t need to be involved in. Though I have found that catnip spray will disrupt Tuxedo Kitty from staggering back to the bowl.

You read that right. I got my cat high to stop his binge-and-purge. Hey, whatever works.

Also, I found out that Miss B. will never starve. Not as long as the squirrels keep burying peanuts in the backyard. It’s like she’s a peanut-hunting machine. The squirrels are less amused than I am.

Time to load up on choco donettes and head back into the wilds of the copyedits. Submerging in 3…2…1…

No related posts.

* An interview with me, and a giveaway, over at CJ Redwine’s place. I am interviewed by a were-llama. Also, part 2 of the giveaway next week involves JEWELRY. Trust me, you want to be in on this.

* The Wall Street Journal went concern-trolling for pageviews again. Dame Jackie responds a lot more politely than I would have, Diane Duane hits it out of the park, the Guardian weighs in, and #YASaves hits trending. I thought of posting my own response to WSJ’s pearl-clutching idiocy, but in the end Jackie and Diane did it better than I ever could, and I don’t want to link and feed the troll more pageviews. So there it is.

* Kristen Lamb on training to be a career writer:

Athletes who compete in decathlons use a lot of different skills—speed, endurance, strength. They walk this fine balance of giving an event their all….without really giving it their all. They still must have energy left to effectively compete in the other events and outpace the competition.

We writers must learn to give it our all….without giving it our all. The better we get at balancing our duties, the more successful we will be in the long-run. Writers who fail to appreciate all this job entails won’t be around in a year or three. They are like a runner who sprints at the beginning of a marathon. They will fall by the side of the road, injured and broken.

So today when you have to squeeze in that 100 words on your break from work, think I’m training. When your kids hang off you as you write, picture that weighted sled. Play the soundtrack to Rocky if you must. (Kristen Lamb)

* Want to see me climb? We’re recording ourselves on routes so we can nitpick our performance. (By “we” I mean “me and ZenEllen, my bouldering partner.”) Here’s some from today: an inglorious failure at a bouldering route, then a second attempt where I stick the damn thing. I’ve been working this route for a few weeks now. You can also see some of my tats, and the Official Belt Of Urban Fantasy. (Long story. I had to buy one, after that.)

And now I’ve got to spend the first half of my writing day in alternate-Renaissance fantasy France, and the second half in contemporary paranormal YA. The braincramps are fun to watch–my face squinches up when I shift gears and go from one to the other. Good times, man. Good times.

Related posts:

1. The Value Of Social, And A Giveaway!
2. What I’m Reading
3. Tonight’s The Night

Something awesome. Something wondrous. Something…gnomish.

The Box of DOOM

Is It A Mummy?

It Claws Forth

This Garden Is Too Small

It Burns Us, Precioussss

Now We May Stalk Our Prey

Zombie Gnome Loves Nature

Single Zombie Gnome Seeks BRAAAAAINS!

PEEEEEEEKABOOOOO!

Paint me lahk one of your French girrlssss...

"Suddenly, Phil had the feeling he was being...watched."

No zombie gnomes were harmed in the making of this blog post. For your very own Gnomepocalypse, see DougFx’s Etsy shoppe.

Pleasant dreams!

Related posts:

1. Powells Pwnage, May ’11 Edition
2. Sunburnt, Dirty, And Terribly Happy (Smith Rock 1)
3. They Are Odd And Winsome Beasts, Those Writers