a parity of hilarity

Dungeon, Dragon, Lockdown

The wind is pouring through the Columbia Gorge; yesterday afternoon it bore smoke on its back, darkening the sky in the space of an hour and turning the sunset into a lake of blood. This morning most of the burning is gone, though I can still taste a tang or two as the wind shifts. It sounds like the sea, and the trees are flinging bits of themselves away with abandon.

It’s a nice day to be back at work, a nice day to walk the dogs, and a particularly nice day to write fanfic of our D&D campaign. I can’t do the last until I finish actual work, but I can long for it all I want.

Our weekly game was started during lockdown; our DM takes morale during uncertain times very seriously and, after a small starter campaign that almost broke us (it wasn’t designed for our play style, but we muddled through anyhow) we are now embarking on a homebrew. I haven’t played since high school, and am surprised by how much fun it is with adults.

We have the half-orc barbarian whose sartorial sense is only rivaled by his backhand and his cooking skill, a sylvan half-elf ranger obsessed with weapons and linguistics, a rogue with several past marriages and a gnoll toddler (both things unrelated to each other), an elvish vengeance paladin who keeps muttering oh my goddess, not again, and my own character–sort of my id let loose–a very young elf cleric whose last major act was biting some jerk’s nose off in a tavern.

We are a lot of fun, if you haven’t guessed. The entire session is a cacophony of laughter, in-jokes, moaning or cheering at dice rolls, lunatic roleplaying, and the DM throwing up her hands and sighing “Y’all need Jesus,” at least twice a session.

The first “Y’all need Jesus” is always celebrated with much glee.

Honestly, if I’d known it was this fun, I would have started doing this ages ago. But my initial experiences with the game were… well, it was a bunch of teenage boys who didn’t like a girl playing, so that was unpleasant. And I’m told we’re not the usual group–seducing the catfish is our preferred method, although when the murder starts we’re frighteningly good at it. The homebrew campaign is going to be a sort of mafia-wars thing in a Waterdeep-based city, and our first night in town we made a gigantic enemy who will probably kill us all.

And we regret nothing. Even the whole “steal from the banshee and almost die” affair.

Amusingly enough, with three paying projects on the burners and the alien romance tapping its foot and waiting impatiently, I’ve started doing quasi-writeups of our sessions as well–suitably altered for fiction, of course–because it’s hilarious, and it gives me a version of the fun feeling the game does. It will probably remain unfinished forever, or its finished version will eventually bear absolutely no relation to the game, but for the moment it’s therapeutic as fuck.

The biggest thing for me is a few hours each week where I don’t have to be myself, and further don’t have to perform emotional labor for everyone in range. There are consequences to actions in-game, of course, but very few outside, and that is utterly liberating. The feeling of pressure slipping away when Friday afternoon rolls around is luxurious. It’s been one thing keeping me sane through lockdown, and the story is just a bonus.

I suppose it wouldn’t work quite as well if DM, rogue, cleric, and ranger hadn’t been friends for almost a decade. The communication strategies evolved during long-term friendship have stood us in good stead, and there’s a deep comfort to doing outlandish things with people who understand your weirdness.

Not only that, but the DM created an NPC for my cleric that tickles all my narrative kinks. If that’s not saying I love you, I don’t know what is.

Happy Tuesday, my beloveds. I’m beginning to think I might get through, you know, all this. (Imagine me waving my hands wildly, indicating the entire world on fire.) At least I’ll go down laughing, if I must fall at all.

Over and out.

Boxnoggin, Travis, and the Venerable, Concluded

At least the fence is still standing. That’s something, I suppose.

I promised you the conclusion to the tale of Boxnoggin, Travis, and the Venerable yesterday, didn’t I. When we left our fair heroine (that would be me) she was attempting to teleport to said fence, though she had used up her one teleportation ticket for the day on attempting to grab her fool dog before he could launch himself for a spinning squirrel. Said fool dog had just shaken off the daze-effects of hitting the fence and was hauling himself, somewhat drunkenly but at a high rate of speed, after a spitting, cursing squirrel who sounded like a shaven-headed New Yawk cabbie.

So. One dizzy squirrel, making directly across the yard for the Venerable. One just as dizzy dog hard upon his heels. And then there was yours truly, my darlings, who had not only hit her hip on the table (gaining a quite magnificent bruise) but managed to get around the Venerable, which meant…

…which meant, O my beloveds, that I was in Travis’s way.

I skidded to a stop, almost turning my ankle on a fallen fir cone. At least this once I was wearing shoes–a small mercy indeed, because I was in the path of a cussing squirrel and a dog-sized tornado.

This was, to put it mildly, not an optimal position. But I compensated for it by digging my heels in and clapping my hands over my ears. I have no idea why I did the last, unless the combination of Travis’s torrent of obscenities and my own–what’s that?

Oh yes, my dearest Reader. I was producing a fair amount of blue words on my own account. Travis has nothing on me when I get going; when provoked, I am capable of language that not only would make a sailor blush but would also drop my sainted grandmother into her grave twice over if that redoubtable lady was not already occupying hallowed ground. And my grandfather would be at once pleased and mildly chagrined, suspecting that I inherited the propensity for breathtaking obscenity from him. (He might even be right.)

ANYWAY. This is the conclusion, so I’d best be swift. Or swift-ish.

You know how, especially in sports or action movies, everything slows down–even the dialogue, which produces a weird distorted rumble–as disaster approaches? I stood a very real chance of being flattened not only by fleeing squirrel but by my own dear, dopey, absolutely determined dog. It occurred to me, in one of those crystal-clear thoughts that go through one’s head during a disaster, that a squirrel looking for high ground might mistake me for a sapling and attempt to scale the redoubt, so to speak.

And Travis… well.

Travis bulleted past, and I am telling the bare honest truth: his tail brushed my throbbing, almost-turned ankle because he was still zigzagging somewhat.

I stopped cussing to scream like a cartoon elephant upon discovering a mouse on the floor.

Boxnoggin, on the other hand, was not so lucky. He clipped me hard on the shin as he went past, and I almost went down. Perhaps it was Physics’s final blessing that I deflected him a fraction from his course, or he might well have gained himself a squirrel snack.

But Travis had reached the Venerable, which seemed singularly unmoved by events. (It’s very phlegmatic, even for a tree.) I mean, the Venerable had witnessed the approaching disaster, been hit by the YANKEE SQUIRREL FLIPPER DEATHRIDE 5000, and furthermore–being firmly rooted–could do absolutely nothing to dodge any further trouble, hijinks, or shenanigans.

That poor tree. Odd Trundles used to headbutt it all the time, too. I keep thinking I’ll wake up one morning to find out it has, with a supreme effort, moved a foot or so in any direction to try to avoid one of those long-ago disasters.

Anyway, I am… pleased? Is that that word? I suppose it must do. I am pleased to report Travis reached his goal and climbed up the Venerable like a pole dancer determined to gain a championship trophy in the district finals. I am somewhat less pleased (again, I suppose that will have to be the word) to report that poor Boxnoggin forgot himself for a moment and tried to go up the trunk right after him, fell back on his ass, and let out a “yipe!” that shook me to my core.

Don’t worry, he’s fine. Only his pride (such as it is) was lightly damaged.

I expected Travis to hang safely out of leaping distance and treat us both to a torrent of abuse, but apparently he had suddenly remembered he had other places to be, for he went up the trunk without stopping and vanished in the Venerable’s canopy. And that, my dears, is pretty much the end–I won’t trouble you with a catalog of bruises or bumps suffered by the human involved in this small tale.

Except it’s Friday, which means there must be a Friday photo. And there is one more small thing to report.

Normally Boxnoggin is not a dog much troubled by memory. (He occasionally forgets how to go up stairs and must be patiently re-taught.) But that afternoon made a deep impression upon him, so much so that when he’s let out now, he attends to whatever pressing business, bladder or bowel, that needs doing and heads unerringly for a spot just to the south of the Venerable, where he throws himself down and stares…

…he stares, as I said, longingly at the back fence, and makes a throaty little sound. It’s the same sound he makes when he wishes to pursue a cat, rabbit, or any other small creature. And if you listen closely, you can hear what he’s saying.

“Come back,” he moans. “Come back and play with me, forever and ever and ever…“

And every once in a while, just to be sure, he cranes his neck to the left, examines the Venerable, and makes certain to check the hanging bird feeder.

Just in case.

The End

…until some-damn-thing-else happens, of course.

Boxnoggin, Travis, and the Venerable, Ultimate Edition

For a moment, I thought the squirrel had simply slid through a hole in the fabric of reality and vanished.

…maybe I should back up.

So, when last we spoke, Boxnoggin was hanging in midair, I was staggering backwards with a dog collar in my paw, and Travis was spinning rapidly on the bottom of the almost-horizontal YANKEE SQUIRREL FLIPPER DEATHRIDE 5000.

And then poor Travis did the only thing he could. Namely, he let go.

Boxnoggin landed with an oof several sizes too big for him, cushioned by soft turf. He even rolled on impact, since he’d been twisting in midair to get at the wildly spinning snack. I almost fell off the end of the sidewalk and onto the huge boulder just beside the hop vine, the boulder bedecked with what had been a very nice cuppa Earl Grey before I dropped said cup on my way down the bloody stairs.

And Travis… flew.

Now, during the original SQUIRREL DEATHRIDE 5000, another squirrel went flying to the right, and hit one of the garage windows. (You’re probably not going to find that post since I did some cleanup around this-here website lately; however there is a backup and if I do another SquirrelTerror book, it’ll be revivified JUST LIKE NEO.) That was back when Odd Trundles was alive, and I was, truth be told, dismally expecting something of the sort.

But I was wrong, my beloveds. For the YANKEE SQUIRREL FLIPPER DEATHRIDE 5000 is new, improved, and battery-powered. Which meant it was breaking new ground and, yes, flinging squirrels in an entirely new direction.

Namely, to the left, towards the back fence.

This meant Travis passed behind the Venerable, and for one mad moment I thought he’d outright vanished. Except–and this is a big exception–I could still hear him cussing.

“YOU FUCKIN LOOKIN AT MEEEEEEEEEEEEE?”

The cry trailed across the yard. Boxnoggin staggered upright while it was still echoing, and Travis must have hit the top of his arc behind the Venerable, for he was descending when he came into view again.

The problem was, of course, he was descending into the fence, with inimitable style but at very high (gravity-assisted) speed.

“OH NOOOOOO…” I yelled, as if by sheer volume I could halt the inevitable, or even postpone it.

Boxnoggin’s own momentum had not been shed, so his claws dug furrows in the grass, and he finally came to a halt, defeat snatched from his victorious jaws. He had expected to land with a mouthful of squirrel, and was sorely puzzled that he did not seem to have achieved that benchmark.

“YOU FUCKIN LOOKIN AT FUCKIN–” And then, my darling reader, Travis hit.

Now, the fence is a relic. It’s quite probably as old as I am, and held up by a hedge of oft-whispering cedars–except for the ones on the north end that our silly neighbor had taken out and hasn’t replaced yet, though I keep hinting. (Yet I forgive that man a LOT because he wears a mask when his friends visit and insists they do the same while sitting six feet apart on his deck. You do you, Back Neighbor!)

Anyway, there was a thump far too big for the evident size of the arboreal rodent striking it at speed. But if there’s anything we’ve learned about these squirrels, my friends, it’s that they punch far above their weight class.

The fence shook and shuddered. I dropped the collar, which landed with a forlorn little jingle in a pool of tea. Boxnoggin, shaking his fool rectangular head, turned in a complete circle looking for his escaped friend. The YANKEE SQUIRREL FLIPPER DEATHRIDE 5000 did not fly off its hook and into the wild blue yonder, but rebounded (Physics was certainly earning her cookies on this one) and smacked the Venerable Fir a good one on the side. (Quality construction, my friends. Quality fuckin’ construction.)

And Travis might have been all right, if he hadn’t kept opening his damn mouth.

The squirrel clawed at the fence, leaving fresh gouges in weather-stained wood, and I can only think he was a little dizzy from his carnival ride because he didn’t climb, as one would think he’d instinctively do. No, sir. Travis is not the type of squirrel to do the obvious, the safe, or even the reasonable thing.

No, he headed down.

Now, I can understand wanting some solid ground underfoot after all that. Honestly, in his position I’d probably stagger for somewhere reasonably level and commence vomiting just to put a capper on the whole experience. But I am decidedly not a squirrel, and who knows what was going through his tiny little mind?

He reached the lush violets between two large ferns and staggered, holding his wee head, and because he’d regained his breath he did exactly the worst thing he could–but honestly, who expected anything less?

“THAT’S RIGHT, YOU FUCKIN’ FUCKS, YOU TALKIN TO ME? I’LL FUCKIN FUCK YO’ SHIT UP, JUST FUCKIN’ SEE IF I FUCKIN’ DON’T, AND IMMA FUCKIN DO IT AGAIN!”

And, with unerring precision, Boxnoggin–though no doubt dizzy and breathless from his own vastly shorter carnival ride–turned in that direction, got his long legs under him, and launched himself afresh for the source of this new ruckus.

“FOR GODSAKE NOOOOOOOOO…” I screamed, and tried to throw myself in that direction too, having some hazy idea of maybe getting there first. But the table was in the way, and though I’m (relatively) fast over (very) short distances, I’d sadly used up my teleportation for the day.

So I barked my hip on the table and almost went down. Boxnoggin leapt after Travis like Pepe le Pew finally getting within range of a stripe-painted cat. And Travis?

Travis apparently had no clue what was heading for him. He was still busy holding his tiny squirrel head, and I am all but certain he defecated into the violets. At least, he crouched, still chittering obscenities conjugated into every part of speech, and I had visions of trying to pry a twitching squirrel corpse out of Boxnoggin’s gleeful mouth.

But then Physics, who had viewed all this with a great deal of amusement, played her final trick upon us three tragical characters.

That’s right. Boxnoggin must have still been too dizzy for proper aiming, because he launched himself for Travis…

…and missed.

Reader, he hit the fence instead.

That poor fucking fence.

“YOU FUCKING FUUUUUUUCK!” Travis screamed, and took off. He didn’t bolt for the east side of the shed, where he could go along the wall and nip through the southern fence and reach safety. Nor did he take off northwards, where he could perhaps outrun the dog on level ground. Nor did he take the safest route and go diagonally up the back fence so he could vanish into the cedars.

No, sir, that would have been too simple.

Instead, the dumbass, breathless, probably still dizzy in his own right from his carnival ride squirrel took off vaguely north-by-northwestward.

Towards the Venerable, and the now-gently swaying YANKEE SQUIRREL FLIPPER DEATHRIDE 5000.

Whether he wanted a rematch or just couldn’t get his shit together was academic, for Boxnoggin slid down the fence and landed in the violets Travis had just vacated, dimly aware his prey had escaped once again and rolling onto his side to see said prey scampering off.

Now it was a footrace.

Yes, the last one was penultimate, and this one the ultimate; there’s only the falling action after today’s climax to tell. So, to be continued–with a fresh photo–tomorrow. Take that, dramatic structure!

Boxnoggin, Travis, and the Venerable, Part II

You know in cartoons, where Wile E. Coyote peers around a brick wall or something and his head pops out on the other side a ridiculous distance away while his hind end is still where should be? It’s a classic gag, and usually ends with him lighting his own rear end on fire.

Keep that in mind.

So there I was, phone lifted, taking pictures with my right hand while clutching a full tankard of post-lunch tea in my left. I was also, for the record, chanting oh dear oh no oh dear under my breath like Bilbo Baggins clutching a bobbing barrel.

Around the trunk of the Venerable Fir, the combatants circled. Only they didn’t know they were combatants yet–as far as Boxnoggin knew, there was just a strange sound he was ambling after, not very interested but he’d just peed so he might as well.

Travis, however–I’ve decided that’s this particular squirrel’s name, for reasons that will become clear frightfully soon–was circling the Venerable’s trunk a few feet up, blissfully unaware of the dog. In fact, Travis thought he had more to worry about from yours truly, and headed around the trunk deosil as Boxnoggin tended the same way.

I wish I’d been able to get a shot of Boxnoggin’s ass on one side, Travis’s head on the other, just like the Wile E. Coyote gag. This takes a lot more time to tell than it did when it happened–each time they circled the Venerable I thought that’s it, we’re gonna have a Moment, but Travis juuuuuust managed to stay out of sight. Two whole times they went around the tree, and I decided that while my luck was holding, I’d better get down there.

I stuffed my phone in my pocket, decided not to take a scorching sip of tea, and headed with utterly fake casualness down the stairs, my heartrate rising. I began to baby-talk Boxnoggin, hoping I could entice him up the stairs and away from the tree-rat.

You see, Boxnoggin is part terrier. A large part terrier, and they were bred to chase (furry, rodent-adjacent) things of a certain size, grab them, and shake the stuffing out of them for their masters. The chase-and-shake drive is stronger in some than in others, and poor Lord van Der Sploot got a double dose.1 It’s not so bad–with a larger prefrontal cortex and the advantage of opposable thumbs, it’s usually super easy to see trouble coming and redirect him.

There I was, on the stairs. I had Boxnoggin’s attention for a few precious seconds as he completed his last circuit of the Venerable and was coaxing him towards me. I was even hopeful we’d get through this without any screaming, tea intact.

And then I heard a sound. A ratcheting, spinning sound that for a moment I didn’t recognize.

Then I did recognize it and my heart sank like the fucking Lusitania.

Because, you see, every week I’d been testing the Yankee SquirrelFlipper to see if the battery was still good. (And, not gonna lie, because it makes me giggle to press on the thing and hear it start up.)

Boxnoggin’s ears perked so far they almost separated from his foolish little head. He turned, and what did his wondering gaze behold but a dangling Yankee SquirrelFlipper, working as intended, and clutching the spinning circle at its bottom was something glorious, something wonderful, something even I would have enjoyed seeing if the situation had been otherwise?

Because Travis, you see, had decided fortune favored the bold, and after circling the Venerable several times and finding the coast clear (because Boxnoggin was always just out of sight and Miss B was occupied at the north end of the yard having semi-conversation with Miranda) he had decided to take his shot, make his move, and get himself some sweet sweet sunflower seed action.

Now his front and back paws were clamped reflexively tight around a spinning wheel of death, and even a squirrel’s tiny brain would figure out things were not going well. So he began to yell. “MOTHERFUUUUUUUUU–“

For a moment Boxnoggin could not believe his eyes or his luck. He paused, one front paw hanging in midair because he had forgotten it, his entire body quivering with longing, excitement, and the deep instinctive imperative to get that shit and shake it like a Polaroid picture, man.

I dropped my tea, scrambled down the last few steps, and lunged for Boxnoggin’s collar. But… well, long story short, he wears two collars when out in the yard, don’t ask. The inside collar sits a little lower on his neck, and I thought if I could get it I had a chance of controlling the situation.

I damn near teleported. My fingers closed. I had the collar! Sweet success!

But not really.

I had his inside collar; the collar, in fact, that tends to pop open when one applies pressure. In the heat of the moment, I’d forgotten to grab for the catch instead of the strap.

And so it was I was bent over, my tea somewhere behind me flooding some volunteers from the hop vine since thankfully the tankard hadn’t landed on concrete, and I was beginning to swear. Something like, “oh no, nonono oh fuck me Batman–“

Of course, Travis was making a sound too. Not quite as Sam Kinnison in a blender as a certain one-eyed lord of my former backyard, but a dizzy chittering of high speed squirrel obscenities splashing in every direction with flying sunflower seeds.

Boxnoggin’s haunches tensed, his inside collar came free in my hand, and I was left staggering backwards holding an empty strap because I’d expected to be hauling a dog and my ass, a glorious counterweight in any hauling situation, was a distinct impediment to keeping my balance when momentum had already been achieved.

So to speak.

And Boxnoggin flew.

That’s another thing about this dog–he can catch some serious air. A little less now that he’s at fighting weight (i.e., almost round as a partridge and glossy as a raven’s wing) but if you get the hose out on a hot evening and let him chase the spray, you’ll see a display of gymnastics that would get a 9.9 from everyone but the East Germans.

The deep buried courage of Lord van der Sploot had been lit, and now he was afire with the berserker rage of his people.

“SHAKE IT!” he howled. “SHAAAAAAAAAAKE IT FOR MY LADY’S HONOR!” And he was airborne.

And all I could yell was “OH FUCK NOOOOOOOOOOOOO–“

Because, you see, he was aimed right for the spinning, dangling SquirrelFlipper. And any fool–including yours truly–could see he was going to catch it.

to be continued…

Boxnoggin, Travis, and the Venerable, Part I

When I think about it, I believe the squirrel was determined to get into the Yankee Squirrel Flinger, which seemed to be doing its job. I mean, no squirrels had been flung, not that we’d seen, but the black oil sunflower seeds inside had not been pillaged by anything other than avians. So that’s good, but afterward my throat hurt for two days and I am just grateful Boxnoggin didn’t break one of his damn legs or even his fool head.

…Perhaps I should back up.

SO. Remember way back when the Princess bought (with her own debit card! and her own money! that she got from her own job! THEY GROW UP SO FAST!) a Yankee Squirrel Flinger? We charged that mofo up and hung it from the Venerable Straight-Backed Fir (the tree Odd Trundles kept headbutting for various reasons) to await developments. And so far, not only has it kept a charge for a ridiculously long time, but it also appears to be working, although a squirrel had not been flung into the side of the house yet.

For which I was grateful, yet because I am human I must admit slight disappointment. The upshot is, the product appears to perform as advertised, and the damn squirrels cannot plunder, pillage, or otherwise make a mess of it the way they have with every other feeder I’ve tried. (Like the SQUIRRELPROOF 5000 DEATHRIDE. Long-time readers will remember that debacle.)

Anyway, lately I’d noticed a squirrel or two on the Venerable Fir every time I was on the deck. They’re a bit brazen once they get a certain distance up the trunk, and they all seem to be eyeing me with furious disdain. I think they know I’m the monkey responsible for the treats hanging out of reach in the Flipper.

So. The other day I buckled Boxnoggin’s Outside Collar (long story) on him and let both dogs out, then wandered in their wake, blinking. It was just after lunch and I was in somewhat of a post-prandial stupor, clutching a fresh mug of tea to get me through the afternoon. It was a hot day, cicadas droning fitfully since they haven’t had much of the temperatures they like, and yes, I was wearing shoes.

I am slow, yes. But I can be taught.

Anyway, I shuffled for the stairs and paused upon hearing a strange scratching noise. Which meant I stopped dead at the top with a fine view of the entire yard. Normally I would have continued downstairs, enjoying my tea and the sunshine, but not that day, dear Reader.

No, not that day.

For I saw before mine wondering eyes a situation that could only lead to panic, terror, screaming, and anarchy.

…oh, NO.

Boxnoggin had just unloaded his bladder on the other side of the Venerable, and was heading to investigate the rhododendron to the far right, as he usually does every day after lunch, being a Creature of Habit.

“Oh, Lord,” I breathed, and did the only thing I could.

I set down my tea and reached for the phone nestled in my back pocket. Because I was going to get proof of this if it killed me, and I suspected it might. At the moment my fondest hope was that Boxnoggin would continue unaware and the squirrel–oh, let’s call him Travis, that’s a fine name–would have the sense to turn tail (literally) and continue up the Venerable Fir.

It… did not quite work out that way.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Rock Possibilities

I saw this little fellow again while on walkies with Very Excited Dogs yesterday. The painted rocks move around the neighborhood in odd patterns; I half suspect someone knows I’m keeping an eye on them and moves them just to say hello. Or, you know, the rocks are moving of their own accord.

Of course the real reason is that the people who paint them are trading them, and people who like them are moving them around like goods in an economy. But I wouldn’t be much of a writer if I didn’t consider the other possibilities.

And, of course, there’s the fact that this particular stone seems to be following me. While I’m not sure about the “stay positive” message–unfounded optimism tends to give me the hives, not to mention the willies–I can get behind the “laugh” bit.

I’m waiting for everything to reach the pitch of absurdity that makes me break down in helpless laughter. That’s generally when I know I’m going to be all right. It’s taking a while, though–there’s nothing laughable about current national events, and indeed there rarely is. Rather, I start laughing at the absurdity of my own personal life.

Sooner or later I’ll get there, I’ll hear that peculiar internal snap, and the giggles will flood free. It’ll feel like lancing a boil, a painful relief, and I’ll know I’m going to be okay.

It might even be the next time I see this damn painted rock, so I suppose I’d best get out the door with the dogs soon. Whoever daubed it knew what they were doing.

And, since this is a Friday, I’m curious. Do you get the giggles when you snap too, dear Reader? What happens when you reach the end of your rope and fetch up against the knot? When do you know you’re going to be okay again? Tell me.

I’m all ears. And, apparently, amusement.

From Coffee to Flinger

I’ve switched back to the Moka pot for morning coffee; the Chemex, while pleasant, wasn’t doing enough. I suppose if I had two and poured the results of first brewing through the filter in the second it might, which would be a fun experiment but not one I’m going to try right now.

Of course, with all the caffeine I’ve ingested in my lifetime, my adrenal glands are probably the size of pinpricks. Yesterday I found out the tea I thought was herbal actually had green tea leaves in it, which explains why I was almost vibrating in place with an aching head after a couple cups.

Caffeine is a funny thing. I cut my coffee and black tea with heavy cream, but with green tea or herbal that won’t work. Consequently, there’s no buffer when I drink green tea, and I come down with giant flaming headaches most of the time I ingest it.

It’s a quiet, rainy morning. Miss B will like her morning walkies–she is an all-weather dog–but Boxnoggin is going to complain and high-step the entire way, shaking his wet paws mournfully and giving me reproachful looks. You’d think a dog born in Texas would be fine with our much more temperate weather, but all he does is complain it’s not hot enough, what’s with all this moss?

The stress nausea in the mornings is going down to a low grumble instead of a rollercoaster plunge every few moments. I might be adapting to the continuous stress, or all the housecleaning I’ve been doing lately has worked off any residual feeling and left me drained. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, I’ll just be glad to eat breakfast.

I keep telling myself none of this is normal, it’s absolutely reasonable to feel beside oneself, and that the reaction shows I’m in fact conscious and firing on all cylinders. It feels like I’ve been in training for this catastrophe my entire life. Maybe if the disaster ever rumbles into the distance I’ll find myself standing bruised and shaken by the tracks, able to return to some kind of normal functioning.

Maybe.

In the meantime, we’re having a little fun Chez Saintcrow. The Princess, bless her dear heart and quirky sense of humor, invested in a little thing that’s supposed to bring us hours of joy. Curious? So was I when the package arrived.

Look upon this work, ye mighty rodents, and DESPAIR.

That, my friends, is what’s known as a Yankee Flipper. It is battery-powered, a game-changer in our ongoing war (well, not quite a war, more like a fond wish or two) against the damn tree-rats in the habit of plundering our bird feeders. The birds have already found it, and their weight doesn’t trigger any motion–but when a squirrel tries to hop on and help themselves, the bottom part is supposed to spin like the dickens. (I’m sure you’ve all seen the gifs.)

I had my office window open almost all weekend, hoping to hear the thing go off. I am a little worried that it might fling one of the fuzzy little thieves against the house or the tree, which would mean I’d have to take the entire thing down. I don’t want to hurt the fluffy-tailed fauna, I just want them to let the birds have their meals in peace.

I know they’ve been trying to suss out what the hell, because every time Boxnoggin goes out his presence drives a scout–occasionally even Barda!Squirl, Wild Explorer of the Backyard–up the massive fir you can see the entire contraption hanging from. Should there be a dazed or flung squirrel, Boxnoggin stands ready. I don’t think he wants to schnorgle them like Trundles always did, though.

Even Miss B is nonplussed by this turn of events. She’ll eye the hanging feeder for a few moments, then look at me with her eyebrows up. She’s not moving as quickly as she used to these days, having become an elderly statesdog; I’m sure, though, she’ll temporarily rediscover her youth and springiness if there’s a chance to herd Boxnoggin and a tree-rat.

…honestly, I can’t wait. I’ll keep you all updated on the SquirrelFlinger as events warrant. So far it’s been one of the few good things about quarantine.

And now both dogs need their walk in the rain. Wish me luck, dear Reader. I have this feeling I’m going to need it.