Horse Pedicure

What I have to look forward to today...

1. Gather up tools: rasp, hoof knife, nippers, and gloves.
2. Decide that gloves are for wimps.
3. Head out into 100-degree day. High in the blue New Mexico sky, a turkey vulture rides the thermals.
4. Get horse; start the trim with hoof knife. Halfway through process, horse gets bored and takes back foot. Cut hand with knife.
5. Staunch bleeding. Move on to work with nippers.
6. Half way through the process, horse gets bored and takes back foot. Cut hand with nippers.
7. Staunch bleeding. Feeling dizzy. Turkey vulture seems to be losing altitude.
8. Frown at horse. Ponder stance on horse slaughter. At 1100 pounds, horse aughta be worth something.
9. Move on to work with rasp. Smooth off all the rough edges on horse's hooves. Smooth skin off knuckles. Look! Shiny, white bone.
10. Finally put gloves on. Good news. Gloves slide easily onto blood-lubricated hands.
11. Very dizzy. Confused. What's up with this enormous red dog?
12. Collapse in bloody puddle. Look! The big birdy had landed...


One horse for sale, as-is, hooves may need some work.

Better Than A Pink Flamingo

Sunday morning. Watching "New Homes" show in the boob tube.

A woman whose hair is a shade of red that can only come from a cheap bottle of colour, wearing a puke green suit with a purplish scarf, brays enthusiastically about a new subdivision that she likens to the Andalusian region of Spain. Her basis for comparison? Homes will be situated on a slope like the terraced hills of Spain. Rightee-oh.

Every house is at least 3000 square feet, bloated and bland, its mediocrity obscured with splashes of marble and tile. Lots of bling, identical to the house next door.

***

Realtor Lingo:

Professional Landscaping = Contractor hired a team of underpayed illegals to lay some sod and plant a few sickly yuccas.

Views for Miles = Views of McMansions just like yours.

Surrounded by wildlife = Termites, since all the actual wildlife went the way of the dodo, when the developer leveled everything for miles.

Spacious = Twenty-foot ceilings in entry and living room suitable for roosting pigeons.

Liveable From Day One = Has indoor plumbing.

Big, Beautiful Homes = Big, boxy, ugly and situated on a postage stamp.

Wonderful Sense of Community = Homeowners' association that would put the Nazis to shame.

***

My house may be tiny and lacking in tile and other "must haves," but it has one of these in the backyard.



Nikster, The Un-Flamingo

Love,
P. Kirby

Death of Science Fiction?

When he's not getting fixated on self-publishing or putting the hate on fan fiction, Lee Goldberg can be interesting. His latest posting looks at the supposed demise of science fiction.

To be blunt: I don't like science fiction. ("Sci-fi, sci-fi, sci-fi, sci-fi!" To piss off the genre Nazis.) Why? Dunno, exactly. My aversion makes no sense.

I love science. Heck, in college, I majored in just about every science except chemistry. I totally dig insects and all things that crawl and creep. I can identify nearly all the constellations and I think Brian Greene and Stephen Hawking are good reading. I know how engines work (more than most men) and why the sky is blue. Some days I need to dink with computers--a compulsion.

But with the exception of S.L. Viehl's StarDoc series (especially Blade Dancer) and Stacey Klemstein's The Silver Spoon, SF doesn't move me. No an inch, not a millimeter. (I suspect the genre police will argue that neither of the above are science fiction. What-ever.)

Michael Swanwick's The Iron Dragon's Daughter sits on my keeper shelf, but I couldn't get past page five of his award winning Seasons of the Tide. Neuromancer? Left Hand of Darkness? Fuggetaboutit. Brain hurty, yuck.

A Best of SF anthology sits on the shelf (because I haven't gotten around to getting rid of it), only a few of the stories read. (Okay, so I'm really not a fan of short fiction.) The first paragraphs of the first story have more jargon than my master's thesis: "commensal species," "iron sulphate," "iron-sulphate complexes." To paraphrase the old lady in the ancient Burger King commercial: "Where's the character(s)?" Hell, some of the stories in the collection aren't even stories, but rather some weird-ass-shit pseudo essays that appeared in the magazine Nature. "Where's the fiction?" David Langford's "A Different Kind of Darkness" is one of the few that utilize good characterization in such a way that the hard SF part of the story goes down easy--spoon full of sugar. "Grandma's Jumpman" by Robert Reed tackles prejudice with a chilling ending. The rest? Big meh.

Am I suggesting that writers of hard SF should write something else? God, no. As a writer of prosaic, fluffy stories, I've had too much derision flung at me from the "substance crowd" to go there. Write what you love, otherwise, what's the point? There is nothing I loath more than people who presume to tell others what to write.

Because of my tastes, do I welcome the "supposed" demise* of science fiction or any genre for that matter? No, no, no. (*I suspect SF will never die, though sales have declined.)

But it's not hard to see, in today's market, where cell phones, television, movies, and video games rule, why hard crunchy science fiction is fading. And deriding the public for their tastes will not shame them into newfound sophistication.

Big concepts and hard science are great. But I suspect, for many readers (remember, most readers aren't writers), in the absence of character (or plot), there is no story.

I think Goldberg's got it right in this respect:

The moral of this story? Writers are never happy.

Writing...
Many words...1000?...yesterday. Also did some storyboarding for next scene.

P.K.

Home Alone

Pan with yarrow and catmint in background

Saturday night. J-man in Colorado

Get ready for bed. First, paranoid security check, booby trapping doors and checking weapons. Got all the traditional hurty things--guns and J-man's sword collection--and the improvisational--lamp on my dresser. Paranoid security plan includes provision for worthless dogs whereby I will stuff them in the closet for their protection while I do battle.

Climb into bed and do a little reading. Fool neighbor dog is barking...and barking. Remember that I didn't feed the catfish. Get up; drop algae wafers in each tank. Back to bed. Fool neighbor dog is still barking and has been joined by several others.

Hear war drums. No, it's just the Nikster banging on his feeder. Hooves must be handy. Like hammers on the end of your feet. Debate getting up to shut him up. Uh-uh. If neighbor dog can bark all night, Nikster can express his musical talents and drum away.

Nikster stops drumming. Dogs still barking. See something brown moving across carpet. A cockroach? We don't have cockroaches! Whew. Just a cricket. Chuck a sock at Jiminy and he hippity-hops into the hallway.

Put book away, switch off lamp/alternate weapon and try to sleep. Cricket in hallway starts singing. Is joined in stereo by cricket in kitchen. (They love the kitchen; good acoustics.) Have a lurid fantasy involving a shoe and splattered cricket gore. Neighbor dogs are still barking. Have another lurid fantasy involving a gun and splattered brains of dogs' owners. Then the coyotes get after something and let out blood curdling war whoops.

Stuff pillow over head and finally get to sleep. The country ain't quiet.

Happy Sunday.

Nikster and the Nazgul

(Probably of interest to no one. Too bad; I wanna blather about my horse.)

Peoples' perceptions of horses are funny. Probably because of the movies, most see horses as large fuzzy all-terrain vehicles. Drive 'em forever and where ever. Training a horse is just a matter of getting it to accept a rider on its back, right? All the other stuff, "Whoa," etc., comes preprogrammed. A bit like Plug and Play computer hardware. Once you're on their back everything else falls into place. Wrong.

Naturally, most of these people can't even train their dogs properly. Most of the dogs in America don't come when called, at least not reliably (mine, included). And the process of turning a horse into reliable mount is much more complicated.

Horses aren't entirely pre-programmed to even "like" us. They're prey animals and somewhere in the back of their instinctive memories, they still remember a time when men with spears tried to turn them into Sunday supper.

For the most part, the Nikster thinks people are okay. He is, however, quite suspicious of strangers. He is rideable. He's also paranoid and when he decides something is scary, he reacts big. If I happen to be on his back at the time, he sometimes forgets it's me up there. "Yikes! Mountain lion on my back. Getitoffme, getitoffme!"

So we've been working on his fear issues. And mine. See, when I was a kid, I'd bounce when I fell off a horse. Now, I hit the ground and go crunch.

The process has two facets: First, to expose him to as many scary things as possible; second, to train a reliable "calm down" cue. The exposure part has the neighbors thinking I'm a loon. For example, I've hauled a big ole drum (some sort of Central American thing) out to the paddock. Wham, wham, wham! The goal is for Nikster to stand quietly while I beat the thing around him. (Hmmm. Perhaps this is why he started the midnight drumming sessions on his feeder.)

Yesterday we were working with the black plastic trash bag. The latest variation: I put it over my head (and suffocate, much to his relief), and make like a Nazgul. All was going well until he reached over and pulled it off my head. At which point, black scary thing was suddenly attacking him--because he was pulling it toward himself; small horsy brain. His head rose up on his long Loch Ness neck, the bag still firmly in his teeth; he skittered back a dozen feet, finally dropping the bag.

To his credit, he did look a little sheepish. "This," I told him, "is why people think horses are stupid." We repeated the exercise a few more time and he sorted things out.

Now I just need a clanking suit of black armour.

Um, mornin' Happy Friday.
P.K.

Maybe I Should Give the Dark Side a Try

In Which the Rat Dog tries out her Jedi mind tricks: "You will give me green chile stew."

Or at least, that's how I'd caption this pic.

Writing...
Feeling all creative and ready to go. Except I haven't done the weekly Critters thing and frankly, don't want to. I think I'm burnt out on Critters. Not that it hasn't been a terrific resource. But, since joining, I believe I've served up close to 100 critiques. Just not interested...I think I need a break.

Happy Sunday.
P.K.

A Message From Nikster

Nikster here again.

Hello. I'm eight years old. I'm a bit spooky and not always the best riding horse. But I'm learning to play fetch; I come when I'm called; and I respond to loads of "at liberty" commands (like Shadowfax from "Lord of the Rings"). I'm often a big ham.

Every years thousand of horses just like me are sent to a cruel death, packed in tiny cattle trailer, for 10 hours or more with no food or water, destined for an inhumane death at a slaughterhouse. These horses' only crime? Being sold to the wrong person. Most are healthy; most well-trained (better than me.) Their destiny? Fancy meals for rich people in Europe and Asia.

Me and my buddies need your help. Here are the details from the Humane Society:

Now we need your help again to protect thousands of our domestic horses -- our loyal and trusted companions -- who are at grave risk, every day. We cannot let this continue. Take action today.

Congress will be taking another critical vote on horse protection. Representatives John Sweeney (R-NY) and John Spratt (D-SC) plan to offer an amendment to the Agriculture Appropriations bill to ensure that tax dollars are no longer used to allow the slaughter of horses. We expect the vote to occur on Wednesday, June 8 or Thursday, June 9. We don't have much time to reach all the Representatives in Congress and secure their votes for the Sweeney-Spratt amendment.

1. Take action. Contact your U.S. Representative and urge him or her to vote YES on the "Sweeney-Spratt horse slaughter amendment." Click here to contact your Representative now:
Linky

2. Make a call. The vote on this amendment is expected to be on June 8 or Thursday, June 9. Please take a moment to make a short phone call urging your Representative to vote YES on the Sweeney-Spratt horse slaughter amendment. (Not sure what to say?
Click here:Linky)

3. Spread the word. Every single U.S. Representative needs to hear from constituents who care about animals. Ask your friends and family to call their Representatives as well. Click here to tell five friends to take action now:
Linky
to help stop this inhumane slaughter for foreign meat markets.

The last step requires you to sign up for the HS mailing list. If coming here through Blogger (as opposed to LJ feed), you can use the mail option below, instead.

Thank you. And to everyone who called their reps about the wild horse slaughter bill, extra thanks and horsy kisses.

H.R.H., The Nikster

Desert Wind

Roses in Front of an Adobe Wall (Click on image to zoom in.)

An epidemic of houses covers the desert plain and the wind is angry. No longer can it sweep unimpeded over the landscape. Everywhere it rushes, there are obstructions. Frustrated, it beats against the homes' windows and hoots down chimney pipes.

It flings itself against our house, bits breaking off and leaping the adobe wall, angry little gusts that tangle with the leaves and stems of the big lilac bush. But the native sagebrush is delighted by the attention. It bows demurely and tiny gray leaves shiver with delight.

Dust is everywhere. Sand is pushed in waves over the ground until it finally breaks in gritty tan sprays. Sometime around midnight, however, the wind loses interest and the air is suddenly still.

In the morning, there is still a little evidence of the wind: tiny sand dunes in the bottom of the horse's feeder; nectar from the hummingbird feeder splattered on the porch's concrete, a host of ants already lost to a sugar orgy. Reduced to a benevolent breeze, slow air currents caress the chocolate flowers and the yard smells like a Hershey bar.


Chocolate Flower with Thread Leaf Sagebrush in the Background

All images copywrite 2005 Patricia Kirby