Rip Van Rodent 1, Boxnoggin 0

Pre-caffeine, stumbling around the backyard, waiting for Boxnoggin to deign to pee. He startled a yawning squirrel–one I’ve christened Rip Van Rodent, because he always looks half-asleep–who promptly fled while Box quivered at the end of the leash and I whispered, “Jesus Christ you lot, not today, I haven’t even had coffee yet.”

I was not shoeless, so I suppose there was no reason to scream. Anyway, Rip Van went up the Venerable Fir while Boxnoggin ambled back and forth, caught upon the horns of a dilemma. On one hand, his terrier instincts were screaming to chase the arboreal rodent; on the other, it was the first loo break of the day and there was correspondingly high pressure upon his bladder.

He settled for dead-eyeing Rip Van Rodent while watering a particular fern–one of his favorite loo spots, the poor thing. Rip Van hung out on the fir trunk, comfortably above Boxnoggin’s grasp (not mine, but then again I don’t think the blasted squirrel sees me as a particular danger) until Box, having relieved one imperative, decided to go for the second one and bolted for the Venerable.

Fortunately I was ready for this, as it seemed the most inconvenient thing which could possibly happen and therefore, the thing most likely to occur with both dog and squirrel in the mix. So I was braced and ready, Boxnoggin reached the end of the line and quivered inside his harness, and Rip Van sneered before scuttling further up the Venerable, his point presumably made.

This does not bode well.

There are library books due today, and I can finally turn all my engines to revising Riversinger and Minnowsharp. I would already have turned this book in, but proof pages for the previous one in the trilogy landed so I was forced to reshuffle. I’m not quite annoyed–such is the nature of publishing, after all. But I am a little peeved, mostly because these books are having such a difficult parturition. It’s not precisely anyone’s fault, and it’s frustrating as all fuck.

It also seems like we’re going to have ninety-degree weather this upcoming weekend, which will be horrid I’m sure. I’ve enjoyed the damp grey spring despite the slugs, snails, and constant dumping of stagnant water so mosquitoes don’t get a foothold. It’s certainly better than the alternative. But I guess the sprinklers will have to go on soon, to keep the roses–and the things planted along the back fence, hopefully to provide a bit of privacy in a few years–alive. Gods, I miss the cedars.

So. Monday and I are glaring, each daring the other to make some move, but at least I have coffee now. Boxnoggin is never allowed outside without a harness these days, as he simply Cannot Be Trusted Not To Hurt Himself, but he enjoys being the cynosure of a human’s gaze while gravely choosing bathroom spots and furthermore will get a long walk to tire him out for the rest of the day. In a few more gulps of coffee he’ll arrive at my office door, expectant. I don’t know how he knows when I’m about to finish caffeination; it’s one of those canine mysteries.

I just hope Rip Van isn’t waiting for us outside. Oh, and I should tell you guys what Carl and Sandra (and Jerry, FUCK YOU, JERRY) are up to these days, but that’s (say it with me) another blog post.

Off I go.