canine tales

Contortionist Headache

After being utterly convinced all day yesterday that it was Friday, I am now in the middle of a Friday that feels like a Monday. Well, more like I’m in the first third of a Friday that feels like a Monday. My weekend is going to be full of research reading, and I’m fighting the urge to get started early, especially since more rain has moved in. Curling up on the couch with some tea and oodles of research sounds way more fun than writing a zombie attack or a vampire trapped at a boring orgy.

…yeah, maybe I’m getting sick or something, because the last sentence isn’t really like me at all. I mean, research is great, zombie attacks are too, and the hilarity of the vampire story pleases me immensely, but I’m just not feeling like myself. My dreams were full of strange hybrid beasts and stories, simmering in an unholy broth. While that’s fairly usual, the headache that resulted upon awakening is not. I can blame the headache on the Mad Tortie, who slept in my hair last night.

I’m glad my hair is long enough (Finally!) but the strain on my neck is pretty unbearable. When you add Miss B snuggling as close as she can every time I turn over, it’s a miracle I didn’t fall out of my own damn bed. Fortunately, it’s built pretty low to the ground, and I’m still pretty chewy and bendy at my age, but still.

So I’m pouring down as much water as I can drink, as well as contemplating bowing to the inevitable and taking some ibuprofen. I’ve got to work today, no matter how hard my head is throbbing or my neck feels like tangled wire. There’s just not enough coffee in the world this morning, either.

I wish I had something other than this cavalcade of complaints. Afterwar’s zero draft is set aside to marinate, I have two erotic novelettes I might test in Kindle Unlimited to achieve daily wordcount on, Roadtrip Z needs a zombie attack to move things along, and the Sekrit Projekt has just had its first big batch of murders and will go straight into vengeance. I’m already feeling the nerves from She Wolf’s upcoming release day, too.

Maybe, instead of retreating to the couch, I should just crawl back into bed. Except Odd Trundles decide, after sniffing his breakfast and discerning it was merely kibble (the horror! the horror!), to mutter fuck this shit and make himself comfortable on said bed. Shoveling him aside so I can get back in is more trouble than it’s worth, especially since between the 60lb bulldog and the wriggling Australian Shepherd there’s a space only a contortionist could sleep in.

I guess it’s work after all.

*wanders off to find ibuprofen*

Fuzzy Fuzzy

I think we may all need a moment of remembering belly skritches are good, dogs are goofy, and even a fuzzy picture of Miss B’s happy grin is enough to brighten an entire day.

Canine Dignity

That feeling when you know you’ve got to grease your bulldog’s creases, and that he probably won’t like it, but he’d like being chafed and yeasty even less. Unfortunately, you can’t explain that to a dog. For them, it’s all one eternal Now, and when the Now involves not only bath-time but Sulfodene and butt paste, well. There is much moaning, groaning, and “BUT I WAS JUST WASHED LAST WEEK.”

The only thing making it bearable for Odd is the prospect of treats after the greasing of manifold crevices. Which he snarfs happily, then looks at me as if to say, “MOTHER. THAT WAS NOT ENOUGH REWARD FOR WHAT YOU JUST PUT ME THROUGH.”

And I reply, each time, “At least you get something out of the deal.” Not gonna lie, when one’s up to one’s wrist slathering a bulldog’s inguinal fold, sometimes one wonders if rescuing, say, a Labrador might have been a little more dignified.

Of course, I had a yellow Lab once, and “dignified” is not the word I’d use for that lurpy, happy bundle of furry neuroticism.

I managed to get out for a run yesterday, and it felt amazing. The only trouble with today is having to take it easy, because the mixture of bad weather and depression set my mileage back a bit. I long to get out and pound some more pavement, and I know Miss B would go with me, but the aching in my shins tells me pushing it yesterday means nothing but stretching and deep breathing today.

Dammit.

At least things are a little brighter. I managed to make it out of bed this morning on the first try. Progress! Miss B didn’t have to nose me more than once to express her joy at being Awake and Ready to Do Fun Things. Thankfully, brekkie and a rousing game of “let’s wrestle with Odd so Mum can grease him” has exhausted her, and she needs a short nap before finding more trouble to get into. This will probably involve the backyard, which is a sea of mud from the snowmelt and the weekend of steady rain.

Yeah. Dignity. Not a canine strong suit. I’m beginning to think it’s not really one of mine, either.

Little Odd Troubles

WHY YES, I AM IN A MOOD TODAY. How could you tell?

Part of it is the wind. When I lived in Wyoming, one expected it, but up here, a constant stream of rushing air is a little less tolerable. Normally I quite enjoy it, like the sound of rain, but last night Odd Trundles woke me up every. two. hours. with a combination of “SOMEFING HIT DE ROOF, IMMASCAIRT!” and “I THINK I NEED TO PEE. MOM? MOM, I THINK I NEED TO PEE.” Naturally, as soon as I struggled out of bed and shrugged into my robe, Odd decided he really didn’t want to leave his nice warm crate at all, even if Miss B, cranky after the second or third episode, got her snoot in there to try and drag him forth.

So yeah. I’m cranky as fuck-all too, today.

*time passes*

I love this weird, yeasty little dog, I really do. And proof of it is, even as sleep-deprived as I am, I still rush to comfort him when one of his legs stops working and he freaks out. Bulldogs have weird neurological and spinal things because they’re so corkscrewed. Occasionally, if Odd moves wrong, something goes haywire and one of his back legs either goes numb or won’t respond, and this scares the little fellow so much that without instant soothing, he has one of his seizures. Thankfully, I was right next to him, and if I don’t freak out he’ll stay calm. It takes a steady voice, gentle hands, and a little pressure in particular places to short-circuit the seizures, almost like an interpretive dance. Miss B, anxious to help, almost precipitated the seizure afresh by attempting to grab his leg and MAKE it work for him, so that was an interesting few minutes. Now he’s resting comfortably with a peanut-butter-smeared muscle relaxer to make sure he stays loosened up.

My heart is still pounding. If someone would have told me the things I’d do to keep a rescue bulldog functioning, I’m not sure I would have believed it. On the bright side, there’s generally a clear-cut fix for everything that ails him, and while I’m focusing on his little troubles I’m not thinking about the current on-fire state of the country. So there’s that.

I need some tea. It’s Thursday, so another chapter of Roadtrip Z is up at my Patreon; the first part is still available for free! When we reach the next Patreon goal I’m going to vlog a reading from Steelflower, pronunciations and all. There’s some other exciting news I can’t talk about just yet, but I’m working on three deadlines at once right now, so that gives you an inkling.

Off I go to brew more caffeine, just to keep myself upright until I can crawl back into bed tonight. Hopefully both Odd and I will be exhausted enough to sleep the whole way through.

Agility Stats

This morning I dragged Odd Trundles out for walkies right after his brekkie. He was quite put out, not only because this represented a Change in Routine, but also because it cut into his morning “I’m bored, let’s do something!” bitching. So he hung back and tried to wrap the leash around my legs, which meant Miss B got her nose down and started heeeeerding him, which tangled her leash around my legs, and…yeah. Fortunately my agility stats are still going strong.

I also used 5calls and actually got through to a very nice staffer in my Congresscritter’s office. Said Congresscritter is a Republican I’ve voted against every. damn. time., but she’s working for me and I might as well make my voice heard. Please, if you’re calling, be kind to the staffers on the phone! They’re usually unpaid interns doing a shit job with grace and patience, so be polite. It helps to have a script, too. Even if you don’t use it, having a flowchart script of what to say can get you over the bump.

Now that the dogs are relatively calm (Miss B will need an afternoon ramble, just to be safe) I can focus on Afterwar. And Roadtrip Z. And bonus wordcount for a Sekrit Projekt I’m aaaaaaalmost ready to announce. ALMOST. Stay tuned for that.

Here’s your usual daily reminder to hydrate, make sure you get something to eat, and take a few deep breaths. It feels like the world is burning down, it’s okay to feel like screaming, none of what’s going on politically now is “normal” or “sane” except the resistance to der Turmper. You’ve got to take care of yourself and keep yourself human, you have a right to do that. I offer you a hug, and the knowledge that you’re not alone.

Also, schnorgles from Odd. Just look at that face. (And that seasonal alopecia!)

Morning Clipping

Today is for yoga, extra caffeine, and clipping Odd Trundles’s nails. The first is likely to be a bit painful, the second exceedingly enjoyable, and the third, well, that’s my cardio for the day.

Odd is sixty-plus pounds of bulldog, and he hates his bath and nail-clippings with a passion. The bath he will submit to, because he loves me and suffers much for me, but nails are a Step Too Far. Which means the grooming hook comes out, the Princess is pressed into service to put him in various wrestling holds, and the entire process is accompanied by much swearing under my breath. If he would just stay still we could have it done in under five minutes and he could get his treat and go on with his day, but noooooo, he has to wriggle, complain, and generally be a bad sport about it.

I don’t blame him, he can’t help himself. Before we got the grooming hook clipping him was an all-day extravaganza of chasing, whining, frustration, and peanut butter. Now, it’s just fifteen minutes of swearing and tussling, and a little bit of peanut butter at the end.

*time passes*

I wandered out to get more coffee and found the Princess was up and had breakfasted, so we got out the grooming hook and I spent ten minutes dragging Odd out of his bed in my office. He suspected something along the lines of Bathing or Other Unpleasantness was coming, and I had to upend the damn thing to get him out, then carry him (he went limp, passive resistance style, and oh my GOD does this dog weigh a tonne) to the table. The Princess held and cooed to him while I contorted myself, swore just a little and very softly, and we both comforted him as I clipped away. Better to do two small cuts than try for a big one and hit the quick, even if he hates every second of it.

Once Odd figured out the Princess wasn’t going to let go, he went limp again. Which made things both easier and more difficult at once. He’s just talented like that.

Afterwards, treats and a quick trip outside to pee, and now he is exhausted, licking his chops, hoping for more treats…and has completely forgotten about the grooming hook and his nails. I’d say he’s forgiven me, but it’s clear he just doesn’t remember anything other than “there were little bits of snackables involved.” His twin neurons are occupied with breathing in and breathing out, with a fraction of each channeled into longing for a couple more bits of dehydrated liver or something. *shudder* I know dogs are carnivores, and entrails are high-value, but I just cannot understand why anyone would ever eat another creature’s filter.

So if you’ve ever wondered about the romance of a writer’s life, just know that most of it involves wrestling with something that loves you very much but it not quite the brightest bulb in the marquee, desperately trying to contort to groom said beast in the gentlest manner possible. I am sweating, sucking on more coffee, and aching from bending in a few ways I no longer am quite young enough for. Yoga’s gonna be great today, I can just tell.

Thus concludes the thrilling tale of the Morning Clipping of Odd Trundles’s Nails. Which, I am sure, has been just as fascinating for you as it was athletic for me. Tuesday can only get better.

*sips coffee, does deep breathing*

Eight-Ring Circus

Busy-bee morning, though it is freezing still outside and we won’t get above the temperature of ice for a few days. It was so cold this morning I rolled out of bed and into my running togs and the Jedi bathrobe, and I am pondering the advisability of wearing said bathrobe for a 5K. (I mean, that qualifies as training, right? You can’t ever know when you might have to flee dressed as a Jedi.)

These are the things I think about.

I’ve put up the book page for Roadtrip Z. The first couple chapters go up on Thursday, or before if I get my act together. (Hint: probably the former.) I am SO EXCITED about this, guys. I like doing serials, I like the challenge and the weekly check-in with readers. I also like the idea of doing something new (for me). Since last year was so awful with the Steelflower debacle making the mortgage chancy, I’m happy to be trying something new. Publishing is kind of like being a shark–you stop swimming, you suffocate.

(It’s not shark-infested waters. That’s their home. They LIVE there.)

The only bad thing is the usual nerves (nobody will like this, they’ll hate it, it will suck, they’ll hate me, THE SUN WILL GO OUT AND WE’LL ALL STARVE) are magnified, and on a weekly basis, too. But really, that anxiety is never going to go away. Best just to realize it’s normal, plan for it, and move on.

(And every once in a while sit on one’s bed and scream into a pillow. Ever tried that? It’s liberating.)

It’s a busy morning partly because of work, and partly because Odd Trundles has been attempting to, erm, well, either mate with the Mad Tortie or dominance-hump her. She has variously taken refuge near the office heater (he keeps knocking over), my bedroom (where he follows, barking), or my lap, which means he gets, ahem, excited over my ankle since it’s the closest he can get. (You ever tried to write a sex scene while a bulldog attempts sweet sweet nookie to your ankle? It’s…exotic.)

Now the Tortie, somewhat shell-shocked, is clinging to my shoulder as I type this, and Odd has retreated to his bed in my office, licking his paws and making longing noises. The Tortie’s tail makes it somewhat difficult to see the screen, so I’m going to go put her somewhere out of Odd’s reach and head out for my run.

(Maybe with the bathrobe. I haven’t decided yet.)

This concludes the peek inside the eight-ring circus that is my head, and the accompanying circus of Chez Saintcrow. Thank you, and have a nice day.

(Hope you kept all your fingers and toes inside the carriage…)