Lord Boxnoggin, in protest against winter, has taken to bed. My bed, to be precise, and he isn’t pried loose without a groan or two, even for walkies. I don’t know what he’s complaining about–he’s a different dog than the one we brought home. For one thing, he’s several pounds heavier. He has more than enough insulation now to get through a chilly day, the lovable chonk.
Of course, he is a Dog Not Allowed to Catch Squirls or Even That Cat, which means he is poor and put-upon, and he cannot believe the things I make him endure. Like waiting until dinnertime, only bacon grease on his kibble, and getting out of a warm nest made of my coverlet and down comforter in order to pace the neighborhood and pee in his regular spots.
Even the ham from Thanksgiving hasn’t changed his loud grumbling and groaning. Nothing makes him happy, this dog–or, rather, he groans and grumbles until he gets ear-skritches and cooing who’s a good boy. Then all is right with the world again, until I make him get off my bed.
Miss B would like to complain, I’m sure, but she’s an old dog now and doesn’t have the energy. She settles for waiting until after dinner, then pounces on Boxnoggin for post-prandial playtime. Having a companion keeps her young; having a companion keeps Boxnoggin on his toes. Really, they’re made for each other.
Let’s see, what can I tell you about the long holiday weekend? There was ham, there was dream pie1, there was “window weather”2, and there were 5-6k days trying desperately to finish Finder’s Watcher.
I did clear the 50k NaNo benchmark (easily) but the zero isn’t done yet. I’m probably going to take another week to put it to bed, then it’s into Poison Prince revisions. After all, publishing is shut down until new Year’s, if I turned the latter in during December it would just sit on someone’s desk. Somewhere in there needs to be a weekend of working on a Short Sekrit Projekt, and this is the week I need to go back to running.
In short, the working vacation is over, and now it’s back to just-plain-working. I have Beth Hart playing and a half-full cup of coffee, and this blog post is almost finished. A few hundred words on Finder’s, then the dogs get dragged out on their rounds and the daily stretching has to be performed. I can no longer crouch over a keyboard for ten hours straight without Consequences of the Muscular Sort.
I’d feel bad about not finishing Finder’s on time, but… the guilt would get in the way of actually working, which means I need to pack it away until the zero’s done. Then I could conceivably keep working until I expire, putting off the guilt over and over and finally escaping it when I flee laughing through the portal into What Comes Next.
It’s as good a plan as any, I suppose. Especially for a Monday.
Over and out.