Today is all about Marked copyedits. Publishing is always festino lente, and even though the kids have today off, there is no rest for the wicked or the writer. Even though my major focus is the CEs today, I’m going to alternate between them and Harmony. I started the latter as a gift to my agent and a way to keep myself occupied while waiting for a publisher or two to evacuate or get off the pot, so to speak, but it’s…growing.
It helps that gray skies have moved in. I’m more productive in the autumn, most productive in the rainy Pacific Northwest winter, middling in spring, and the summer is generally a sweat-soaked interval of beating myself over the head for diminishing returns. When the leaves start to turn and the rains sweep in, something inside me unfolds. Snowy winters, I think, wouldn’t do me much good. But the rain…it taps, it soothes, it whispers. It makes me glad to have a roof, of course. It is an immense luxury to come home from a run, sweat-soaked and miserably streaming with cold water, take a hot shower, put on dry clothes, and settle down to write.
Socks, especially. There’s just something about a good pair of socks on a rainy day. Of course, as my writing partner always gently ribs me, I’m overly concerned with my feet anyway. Dancing made me hypersensitive about my feet, my knees, and a few other things.
Anyway, I’m looking forward to more gray days, to the leaves falling, to comfortable temperatures, to thick sweaters and hot tea in the afternoons. Odd Trundles, of course, is surprised each year when the water starts to fall from the sky, and requires an adjustment period. He somehow forgets, during the summer, that such a thing as damp air exists. It’s both hilarious and a little saddening to see him high-stepping to shake his paws off, especially when he gives me a look of such mild, baffled dejection, as if suspecting I’m somehow responsible for the weather and have turned it upside-down just to mess with him.
I keep glancing out the window and seeing the clouds, the green of the cedars washed clean of summer’s dust. I know there will be at least one more torrid week or so, false summer ripening the last tomatoes, but there’s relief in sight.
“Put out some water for them,” a kind commenter said. “They’ll love you forever.”
While the latter half of that advice is extremely questionable, the former just seemed like a decent thing to do. After all, if I was thirsty all day, the little rodent fucks probably were too. My compassion thus appealed to and my good sense suppressed by the broiling, I set out some water for the squirrels.
Who ended up having an orgy in their new swimming pool. No, I won’t describe it fully. Just know that whatever you’re imagining, it was a hundred times more uncomfortable to witness. Apparently, what the commenter meant was, with access to a swimming hole, they’ll love each other forever.
I still haven’t drained the damn thing. I just don’t want to touch it.
Well, school has started for one-half of the children a la Chez Saintcrow. The Princess is graduated, so it’s just the Little Prince September-scrambling to get every duck in a row. Fortunately, we have enough leftover school supplies to equip a whole army of teenagers. Except a binder. A one-inch binder. I didn’t happen to have one lying about, so it was ambling through the doors of the office supply store at opening this morning to pick one up.
On the way I saw a man vomit a truly amazing volume of liquid onto the parking lot. I would have stopped to ask if he was all right, but he wiped his mouth and walked away quickly, in a straight line. So…I’m guessing he felt better?
Today there’s a long run–Miss B will be upset because she’s not allowed to come along–and a few emails I’ve put off sending. Then it’s more work on Harmony, which I will probably finish in spite of myself, and give to my agent as a gift. I spent a pretty productive hour yesterday, while waiting for the Princess who was in a job interview, sketching out the Harmony compound and listing the different people involved in the group. That sort of noodling adds depth and richness to one’s imagined world, but it’s so very easy to mistake that effort for actual writing work. One can end up with binders full of ephemera and no book. There’s no substitute for doing the damn work.
The neighborhood is very quiet since the kids have gone back to school. Especially in the evenings. I am unsure whether the incidence of broken glass on park paths will go down. Half my regular running routes are unsafe for Miss B’s paws. I’m not quite shaking my cane and yelling “YOU DAMN KIDS,” but it’s…close. Oh, how time flies.
So, in the new quiet, I’ll run, and breathe. And marvel at time flowing ever onward, as one is wont to do when one has survived multiple years past one’s expectancy.
Last week I made the great mistake of running in the heat. I got out the door late, thinking that my route was shaded most of the way, so it wouldn’t be too awful.
WAS I EVER WRONG. I had to reel home in the heat, several times almost stopping to sit down and put my head between my knees. I knew, though, that if I stopped, I probably wouldn’t be able to get back up, and since there is nobody who would come get me, well then. There was no choice. I was glad I hadn’t taken Miss B, both because of the temperature and because she would have been completely overstressed by trying to herd me home. At least I managed to get a solid half-hour in before I almost passed out. The thing that stopped me from losing consciousness was twofold: one, I felt like throwing up, and I will not do that when I’m about to pass out; and two, I am hideously afraid of falling and chipping a tooth. Why that, rather than a broken bone or road rash, should be the thing I fixate on, I have no idea.
So, Miss B and I were both itchy this morning, and since the ungodly icky-hot has largely broken and I was getting out the door at a Reasonable Time, I took her along. An easy six kilometers, just to shake things out. It’s at the top edge of Miss B’s range nowadays. A few years ago she would have salivated at the prospect of a 10K and we could have trained for one together, but as she’s grown older, it would be cruel to ask that of her. She’d run until her heart gave out, my darling Aussie.
Dogs don’t make good decisions. It’s part of their lovable charm, to some extent, but it’s also why owners have to protect them. I am, of course, MEAN and CRUEL to leave Miss B behind on days when I’m running longer or faster. She just can’t comprehend that it’s to save her from her own exuberance.
So, she’s sacked out asleep just outside the office door as I type this. I could tell, somewhere around 4.5km, that the excess had been drained off and she was getting down to Serious Work. She still lunges at schoolbuses (they’re practicing their routes for the first day) and bicyclists (what the fuck would she do if she CAUGHT one, I’d like to know) and motorcycles, not to mention her pulling and oh-god-PLEASE sounds when she spots another dog. Some things, I gather, will not change, no matter how elderly a statesdog she becomes.
Another symptom of encroaching age is her separation anxiety. It’s getting worse, no matter how often I come back. Even if the kids are home with her, even if Odd Trundles is present for her to boss around, she still loses her shit when I leave. We’ve done all the training to show her I always come back, she has items of my clothing to snuggle, and she’s almost never left alone in the house. Even when Odd goes to the vet, she comes along to remind him to breathe. *eyeroll* But none of that matters, apparently. If her nose isn’t right up my rump all day, clearly she is in AGONY and must TELL THE WORLD.
Poor thing.
Anyway, we turned in a good time on today’s run, and since she’s been worked, she’ll be livable for the rest of the day. Tomorrow morning, though, she’ll be spry and bouncy again, ready and waiting to go jaunting about. She won’t know that I’m dialing back because she’s older, she doesn’t know I watch her carefully during every run just in case it becomes too much for her. As long as I keep her active, the vet says, she’ll keep going, even with the issues she has from puppyhood malnutrition and too-early breeding.
I won’t lie. Sometimes it irks me to go slower, to stop early, to dial every run down. If that’s the price for keeping her happy and active, though, it’s a small one. We have them so briefly, these lovable, furry idiots, it’s worth a few adjustments.
I’m pretty sure the squirrel didn’t mean it, but it happened just the same.
I tumbled down the deck stairs, empty watering can in hand, and ran along the concrete path. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to catch Miss B or Kowalski!Squirl the Recently Beshat, but I had to do something, right? Miss B, glad to finally have a clear-cut problem with what she deemed a simple solution before her, achieved warp speed just before Kowalski!Squirl found himself faced with a bit of a dilemma.
Kowalski!Squirl: STELLLLLLLLAAAAAAAUGH! Miss B: HEEEEERD IT!
A word or two is necessary here so you understand what I’m about to relate. The south end of my yard contains, from left to right:
* The shed, full of gardening implements and a tarp just in case;
* A small built-it-yourself greenhouse, set alongside the shed;
* Emphysema Joe’s home among the lush lavender greens, tucked behind said greenhouse;
* The vegetable garden, which is bisected by a railroad tie;
* The compost heap;
* Open space in before the fence and the apple tree.
The vagaries of pursuit meant Miss B was coming in from the left, arcing out a bit to come at Kowalski!Squirl from the side. If you’ve seen a dog herd sheep, you’ll know what I mean. Kowalski!Squirl, heat-drunk, smeared with dog droppings, and more than a little crazed, consequently veered right.
Yes. Straight into the vegetable garden. Right up the middle, right up the railroad tie that serves to separate the garden rectangle into two almost-squares.
The railroad tie that comes to an abrupt stop. With a post. A post at the end.
The post Norbert, our cranky gargoyle watchdog, leans against since his resin base is cracked. Was cracked. I mean, it’s still cracked, but…
Kowalski!Squirl: STELLAAAAAAAAAA! Miss B: HEEEEEEEEEEEERD– Me: –ohnogodpleaseno– Norbert: WHAAAAAAAAA–AUUUUUUUUGH!
POW.
The shitty-assed squirrel plowed right into Norbert, maybe thinking to climb the post behind him. But what Kowalski!Squirl did not know was that Norbert, hollow and made of resin, was a bit more…erm, friable, I suppose is the word? More friable than he looks.
That’s right. The goddamn squirrel shattered my gargoyle. He clambered up the thin pole and leapt for the fence, almost getting caught in the lilac hedge. Thankfully, he avoided the bush Stanky Thing Squirrel got tangled in. Further thanks are probably in order to the fact that Miss B didn’t hit the lilacs. No, she just dug up the left half of the vegetable garden on her way through, all but uprooting a poor tomato plant, sailed over the potato box (now there’s a story for another time) to land neatly on the walkway next to the hedge and began barking, furiously, at the fence as Kowalski!Squirl, in an ecstasy of fear-laden relief, screamed down at her.
Miss B: OHPLEASEOHPLEEEEASE COMEDOWNCOMEDOWN IMMAHEEEEEEEERDYOU! Kowalski!Squirl: %$#&! $#@*&! #@$%*&^%$#%#@*! Norbert: AUUUUUUUUGH! Emphysema Joe: *peering through the greens* OH, MAN. OH, MAAAAAN. Me: FOR FUCKSAKE!
While all this transpired, Odd Trundles was barking at the north end of the yard, excited but without a clear idea of why, since his short flight in that direction had knocked every other consideration clean out of his huge, wrinkled, very hard head.
Odd Trundles: *snortwhistle* MOM! MOOOOM! I’M ALL ALONE! MOOOOOOM! WHAT HAPPENED? MOOOOM WHERE ARE YOOOOOOOOOU?
Miss B leapt at the fence and its cargo of ordure-smeared rodent. Kowalski!Squirl decided discretion was the better part of valor and took off, numbly hopping along the top of the chain-link, leaving brown smears. He made it to the back fence and vanished into the cedars, while Miss B tracked him along the fence and, losing her prey, decided to show her athletic prowess by running a few laps of the yard at high speed, barking all the while.
Odd Trundles: *trotting vigorously in her wake* WHERE ARE YOU GOOOOOOOOING? Miss B: *pouncing on her favorite digging hole* HEEEEEERD GONE, MUST DIG MUST DIG. Me: *clutching empty watering can to my chest* OhmyGod, Norbert… Emphysema Joe: OH, MAAAAAAAAAAAN. THAT’S NOT GROOVY. Norbert: *coughchoke* WHAT THE FUUUUUUCK?
Yeah. The squirrel. The goddamn shit-smeared squirrel broke Norbert.[1]
I HAVE HAD BETTER DAYS.
I dropped the watering can, scrambled into the garden, and went to my knees. The heat was amazing, Biblical, and I was sweating freely.
Me: Jesus Christ. Oh, Norbert. I’m so sorry. Norbert: THIS IS…UNDIGNIFIED. OUCH. Me: Yeah, well…squirrels. Norbert: I SAW HIM COMING. I JUST…OUCH. MY BACK. UGH. Emphysema Joe: *clears throat* PSST. HEY, BOSSLADY. CAN YOU…CAN WE TALK FOR A SECOND? Me: I’m kind of busy– Norbert: NO, GO AHEAD. I NEED A MOMENT.
There followed a whispered conference in the lavender, while Miss B dug and Trundles, feeling extremely lightened in the back end but with a certain pressure in his bladder, burp-barked his way across the yard, trying to find a place to pee and reach me at the same time. As usual, when presented with two options, his brain froze, so he would stagger a few steps, squat, decide to raise his leg, almost fall over, look up to see me crouched by the lavender, and stagger another few steps towards me.
Emphysema Joe: YOU’RE NOT GONNA DO IT, RIGHT? PLEASE TELL ME YOU’RE NOT GONNA. Me: Do what? Joe: *significantly* YOU KNOW. Me: *holding onto my temper, hand over my pounding heart* No, I don’t, or I wouldn’t have asked, dammit! Joe: SHHH! LOOK, OKAY, WE ALL KNOW WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU BREAK. Me: When I– Joe: NO, WHEN WE BREAK, BOSSLADY. NORBERT’S BEEN THINKING ABOUT IT A LOT LATELY. BECAUSE, WELL, HE’S FALLING APART. Me: *finally catching on* Oh. OH. Jesus, Joe. Joe: HE CAN COME LIVE WITH ME– Norbert: I CAN HEAR YOU, FOR GOD’S SAKE. IT’S FINE. I’M READY.
I shook my head and went back to the garden, crouching in front of Norbert and attempting to get him, as it were, all in one place. It was hard–each time I picked up a piece, it would crack and fall apart.
Me: Look, Norbert– Norbert: I UNDERSTAND. DO IT QUICKLY. Me: For Chrissake, shut up a minute. I am not throwing you away. Norbert: … Me: I am not throwing you in the rubbish bin while you’re still alive. That’s not how I roll. Norbert: … Me: Who’ll look after the garden if I do that? Norbert: I CAN’T SCARE THE BIRDS LIKE THIS, MA’AM. Me: Norbert, for God’s sake, you can scare anyone you want. I am not throwing you out, and that’s final. Norbert: I APPRECIATE THE THOUGHT, BUT…I CAN’T LIVE LIKE THIS. Me: …fine. Emphysema Joe: NO, MAN, YOU CAN’T– Me: Shut up, Joe. Norbert, I am not throwing you away. *wincing a bit, rubbing sweat from my forehead, suddenly noticing I’m probably kneeling in squirrel-spread dogshit* It’s really simple. Norbert and Emphysema Joe, in unison: IT IS? Miss B: *finally stopping her digging* MOM? MOM WHERE ARE YOU? *trots over, self-importantly, and decides to stick her nose into Norbert. WHAT’S THIS? Me: It’s super simple, guys. Get out of there, B. Odd Trundles: *tripping over kale, finishing the destruction of a tomato plant, and landing on the empty watering can* WHAT JUST HAPPENED?
I arranged Norbert’s, erm, pieces, as best I could, carried the watering can back up to the deck, checked Odd’s hind end and my knees for any, um, effluvia, and dragged both dogs inside. The kids wanted to know what happened, but I could only shake my head and whisper “…squirrel.” At least I had shoes on, right? Inside, there was air conditioning. I also poured myself a glass of wine, because by God, I felt like I’d earned one. The dogs both flopped down on the tiled kitchen floor and congratulated themselves.
So that’s the tale of how a heat-drunk squirrel rode a bulldog, fell in poop, almost killed my gargoyle, and oh God, GOD HAVE MERCY, I’m going to have to go to the craft store.
Because Norbert, my friends, needs a new body.
Which–oh, come on, say it with me–is another story.
HERE ENDETH SQUIRL!OVERHEAT. (For now…)
[1] Note: picture taken the morning after the Event.
Remember the Twitter impersonator incident from 2014? Since then, every once in a while, I report harassment or impersonation of me on Twitter just to see what will happen. (Yes, there are impersonators. Which somewhat mystifies me, but at least one of them is a stalker, so…yeah. Anyway.) When I report harassment, exactly nothing beyond a form reply rejecting my complaint happens.
When reporting impersonation, however, the form letter comes with a demand for something very specific: a readable picture of my driver’s license or passport.
Twitter’s insistence on this particular piece of information–state-issued photo ID–is perplexing in more ways than one. Ever since 2014, they’ve been asking me for it. I write back explaining why I won’t be sending one, and giving links to my website, my official FB, my verified Amazon Author pages, my Goodreads page, all clearly sporting links to my Twitter account. Since I wouldn’t turn over a scan or fax of my sensitive personal information because their implied handling of such data in 2014 was questionable at best and they have not actively sought to regain my trust since, they issue a form rejection of my complaint, and when I respond to the form rejection with another explanation, I get back a form letter saying the support case is closed and further replies will be sent to to an unmonitored address.
Charming, isn’t it?
Now, when they opened up verification a little while ago, I figured I’d try it out, just to see if the horrendous parts of the process had been fixed. I figured I’d play at least part of the game, however, and sent in the links to my website, my Amazon Author pages, my Goodreads author page and Facebook fan page–you get the idea–all with clear links to my Twitter profile, and, bonus, a scan of my driver’s license with the number, my birthdate, and my address blacked out. I held out no great hope.
Well, on August 8th I received a form letter rejection, and when I wrote back asking how my profile/bio didn’t meet the requirements for verification, the email bounced. It wasn’t quite as classy as the unmonitored email address ploy, but perhaps they were losing patience with my gadfly self.
Imagine my surprise when, after a very clear rejection, this landed in my inbox earlier today:
FROM: Twitter Support
TO: contact@lilithsaintcrow.com
Case#*REDACTED* RE: Verification Request for @lilithsaintcrow
.
Hello,
We received your request to verify @lilithsaintcrow.
We need to confirm the identity of the account owner in order to further investigate this request. Please provide a copy of their valid photo ID (e.g. driver’s license or passport) within 48 hours of receiving this email.
If the legal name does not match the stage/artist name, please include a letter from the management company stating the following:
The legal name stated on the official identification provided is the authorized account holder of @lilithsaintcrow.
Please scan and upload the required documentation using the following link: *LINK REDACTED*
We must be able to see the full name and photo, so please try to send a legible copy. This information will be kept confidential, and will be deleted once we have used it to confirm their identity.
Reply to this email to let us know once you’ve uploaded the documentation. We appreciate your patience and cooperation in this matter.
Thanks,
Twitter Support
Reference *REDACTED*
Help
Twitter, Inc. 1355 Market Street, Suite 900 San Francisco, CA 94103
I’ve redacted the link, case number, and reference number above for obvious reasons.
So, just to get this straight, they rejected my verification request outright, bounced my request for further explanation, and are STILL, after all this, determined to get their hands on my driver’s license. They do say the information will be kept confidential, yet how can I trust their policies won’t be changed in the future? “Will be deleted” once you’ve used it to confirm? Why not just spend the two seconds to google me or for God’s sake, READ THE REPLIES AND THE APPLICATION I SENT YOU? Wouldn’t that be easier than me sending personal, sensitive information to a company that exists to sell user’s eyeballs to the highest bidder?
I mean, yes, Twitter is convenient as all get-out and it’s really great for interacting with fans, and it’s ubiquitous right now, but let’s not think this service is offered out of the goodness of any Silicon Valley bro’s heart, okay?
However, being just enough of a contrarian, and being just irritated enough, to try again for the purposes of blogging about the whole damn thing, I sent a reply. Here it is:
Dear Sir/Madam,
As I have told Twitter multiple times, this is unnecessary and somewhat insulting, especially after I was impersonated on Twitter in back in 2014. (I wrote about it here: Then, I was told that harassers and impersonators could gain access to whatever information I gave Twitter. Your assurance that the data will be deleted is not sufficient for me to risk my safety or the safety of my family.
I am a New York Times Bestselling author. Here are (a few of the many) places where my official Twitter account is referenced and linked to:
My website: http://www.lilithsaintcrow.com
My Facebook and Facebook fan page: https://www.facebook.com/lilithsaintcrow https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lilith-Saintcrow/172118402032
My Goodreads page: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/131208.Lilith_Saintcrow
My Amazon Author Pages: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002BLOSOU http://www.amazon.com/Lili-St.-Crow/e/B002TN3418/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1
However, I am fully expecting to receive another form letter rejecting me for verification, like the one I received a few weeks ago (on August 8, to be precise) when I initially requested verification. I have no idea why you are asking for sensitive personal information again after initially rejecting me and ignoring my request for further information about said rejection.
Best,
Lilith Saintcrow
I added the NYT Bestselling thing because my agent tells me it shows I’m Serious.
Now, why am I bothering, especially since I might not even take verification when offered? Because this has irritated the bejesus out of me. Twitter is a complete and utter mess when it comes to dealing with harassment, despite Randi Lee Harper’s clear, cheap, and effective fixes, which she’s offered for free. Also, their insistence on getting hold of critical personal information about me is thought-provoking, to say the least. Why are they so set on gaining this information? What happens to it when their policies change?
Someone remarked to me that the company Just Doesn’t Get It, “it” being harassment. I don’t think that’s strictly true. I think they get it, but it’s not profitable to care. So, Twitter doesn’t.
*gets out the popcorn* I’ll probably get another form letter in response.
I can hardly wait.
ETA: Well, I didn’t have to wait long. Another form email, exactly the same as the one above, landed in my inbox at 5:23pm. *gets more popcorn*
ETA 8/25/16: I just received this email back from Twitter Support.
FROM: Twitter Support
TO: contact@lilithsaintcrow.com
Case#*REDACTED* RE: Verification Request for @lilithsaintcrow
Hi,
Thanks for the followup email. Unfortunately, we are unable to verify you if you are unable to provide the required documentation. Thank you for understanding.
Thanks,
Twitter Support
http://support.twitter.com
@Support
Reference *REDACTED*
WELL. THERE IT IS THEN. *melts more butter* *screeches with laughter* I wrote back. Of course I did.
Dear Sir/Madam,
So, you mean to say that despite my concerns about stalking, harassment, and impersonation, and despite the fact that you can verify that @lilithsaintcrow is my official Twitter account by a few moments spent on my website, my verified Amazon Author page, and my official Facebook, despite the fact that this email address is clearly my official one, you cannot “verify” me unless I hand over sensitive personal data I cannot trust you to guard responsibly due to your track record? This is what you’re saying. If there’s another explanation, please, enlighten me.
Best,
Lilith Saintcrow
I see two options here. Either Twitter wants my driver’s license information because they plan to monetize it in some fashion later down the line, OR they don’t have the staff to run verification properly, which means they don’t have enough staff to handle the data properly. What happens when they’re hacked? They say they delete the information just after they use it, but really? Once it’s on their servers, I’m just supposed to trust them? Especially when they were very clear back in 2014 that they reserved the right to share a scan of my driver’s license with someone I had reason to believe was a stalker who had already threatened me? Neither of these options induce me to a great deal of confidence.
So. No blue ticky-check for me. I’m not even sure I’d take it, were they to suddenly pay attention and offer one. Marginalized folks, and people at risk of harassment, or people who are ALREADY being harassed, are not served well by this, and I would caution them to reconsider verification. Either it’s a data grab, or they don’t have the staff to keep that sensitive data safe. I don’t want to risk it, I won’t give out information that can possibly impact the safety of my family, and I really, really urge everyone considering verification to think about this.
Kowalski!Squirl, still screaming for Stella, landed too. Only he did not hit the ground. No. That would have been too damn simple.
Instead, I watched, clutching the empty watering can, as the heat-crazed, screaming squirrel landed directly on a poop-spewing, very excited Odd Trundles. What resulted was, in Cleolinda Jones’s memorable parlance, a FURSPLOSION.
Kowalski!Squirl: STELLAAAAAAAAAUGH! Odd Trundles: NEWFRIEND? *snortfartshartwhistlegaspbark* NEWFRIEND WHERE IS YOU? Miss B: WHAT THE HELL? HERD? BITE? BARK? WHAT? Me: *horrified gasp*
Now, even though Odd must have sensed, dimly, on some level, that the sudden weight on his back was his new, exciting buddy, and though Odd is so sweet he would no doubt do his best to be a trusty steed ridden into the chaos of battle, there was just one problem.
Now, I know Odd is not the only dog who has trouble with the concept. Miss B, of course, understands that when I put the treat under something, her job is to knock it over and collect the sweet, crunchy food reward. Odd, however, just looks mystified, sad, and awestruck. Mystified because, well, where did it go, sad because the treat is Obviously Gone Forever, and awestruck because hoomins are MAGIC and can make things vanish at will.
So, Odd had just crapped himself and his new friend had vanished, and there was a sudden weight on his back. There’s another aspect to this, of course. Poor Odd is so corkscrewed that his hind end only exists for him because he has working legs back there. He can’t see his own ass, or lick it, like other dogs. His back might as well be Shangri-La, for all he’s ever seen it. This creates a number of strange behaviors, the most interesting of which is when he has gas and is frightened into thinking some form of stenchful whistling beast is RIGHT BEHIND HIM and READY TO POUNCE.
Normally, when Odd is frightened, he makes a beeline for my ankles. However, I was up on the deck, which meant there were stairs between him and that precarious safety. So, every synapse in his doggy brain fused, and he decided the best thing to do was just to…run away, as fast as his stubby, blurring little legs could carry him. His immediate lurch to put this plan into motion, as it were, dislodged Kowalski!Squirl, who thankfully had not landed claws-down. No, the tree-rat was shaken away, and landed in the streak of digested extrusion his appearance had called forth from Odd Trundles’s capacious bowels.
In other words, my friends, the squirrel ended up in the shit.
Odd: HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALP! *barkbarksnortwhistlefartbarkscrabble* Kowalski!Squirl: STELLLLLLLLAAAAAAUGHEWWWWWWWWW! Miss B: *staggering, cocking her head* WAIT, HOLD UP, I AM SUPPOSED TO DO SOMETHING, I KNOW I AM, LET ME THINK…
Odd blundered into the shade-garden boxes, uphill on the north end of the yard. Kowalski!Squirl, besmeared and bespattered, took off for the vegetable garden at the south end. I reeled towards the stairs, though I don’t know what I could have done at that point unless it was just to wait for events to reach their natural and fully inevitable conclusion.
My poor, sweet, silly bulldog made it to the other side of the shade garden at high speed and dug in his claws, digging a furrow across an astilbe that will never be the same. Kowalski!Squirl extended in a full running lunge and hit the ground a few feet away from the Cesspool of Despair, throwing up a pine cone in his haste. He was so rattled, I guess, he didn’t make for the fir in the middle of the yard. He zoomed right past it, and (as I said) straight for the vegetable garden. I mention this again only because, to understand what happened next, it bears repeating.
Miss B, bright as she is, finally took complete stock of the situation she was enmeshed in. There were two objects moving at high speed, but she was pointed toward the southerly one, and not only that, the southerly one was a small arboreal rodent, making a lot of noise and powerfully fragrant. Can you guess what happened next? Can you, my dear Reader?
I’ll tell you.
The Australian shepherd bellowed “HEEEEEEEEEEEERD IT!”
I’m pretty sure the squirrel didn’t mean it, but it happened just the same.
So