Princess of Peace

I think the Rat Dog is Ghandi reincarnated. A cushy life of a house dog; the ultimate reward.


More than a decade ago, the Rat Dog was outside doing her "before bed toilet thing." I was watching her through the back door. The house we lived in had a small yard, most of it covered by a concrete slab. She was darting around in the dark, tail curled like a scorpion over her back, the white tip the stinger. From time to time, she'd bow down on her forelegs in "let's play" fashion.

"What's she doing?"

I turned on the light. Brown chitinous shapes started to dark for cover. "Roaches, ugh." I ran outside and commenced squashing. I made like Gozilla and stomped my way across the concrete, roaches crunch-squishing underfoot. Mid-slaughter, I looked over at the Rat Dog.

She had puttered over to the remains of a former playmate. After a couple of sniffs, she looked up at me, her tail suddenly drooping. Her expression said it all. "What. Have. You. Done?"

Looking at the carnage, it was evident that the only agent of destruction was me. There were no partially chewed insects that had been mauled by a small dog. Since then I have watched her play with crickets and other insects. She's always careful not to squish and never uses her teeth. Just nudges with her nose.

Nowadays, she's too lazy to play with crickets. She does, however, still like to find desert toads. The toads don't move very quickly and she follows them around the yard. None of the wildlife takes her seriously. The goldfinches come to the feeder even when she's sitting right under it. The rabbits also ignore her.

How did such a sweet little creature end up with a bellicose bitch like me?

It's Thursday.

Pat K.

Quagmire

Nope, not a rant about Iraq. Some kvetching about my tomato garden.


Squash, striped tomatoes and cherry tomatoes.

Once again my inability to plan strikes. Planted too close together and not staked properly, the tomato plants lean on each other like unruly green drunks, spindly arms around their buddies' twiggy shoulders. It's a dirty great mess.

Harvesting requires the flexibility of a contortionist in a Chinese circus. The worst part? I do this every stinking year. I. Never. Learn.

I found a regular red Celebrity tomato yesterday. Don't know I'd planted any, but then again, a bearded guy named Osama might be hiding out in that mess for all I know.

Stuff...
Stretched out tiny budget and bought Sin City. Terrific ball-busting movie. Not for the squeamish or fans of chit-flicks. But awesome. (J-man, naturally, likes it for Jessica Alba. That's cool. Just so long as he doesn't develop an unnatural fixation for Jessica Simpson.)

I love hitmen. No matter what you do to them, you don't feel bad.
~Marv.

Writing...
Naughty thoughts. Want to write sex scene in the Romance. Already wrote sex scenes for Book Two, but then romance is a just a sub plot. I've been putting off the sex scene in the Romance to avoid blowing any sexual tension--tension in my teeny mind. But...in the moood.

Got a rejection for a story that already has a good home. What-ever. Market had the story for more than a year, so I'm not feeling terribly bad about losing track of the submission.

Needed gritty angsty inspiration while working on Talis stuff, so I popped in Queensryche's Operation Mindcrime. I was gunning for "The Needle Lies" but the lyrics on "Revolution" seemed oddly topical, a couple of decades after the CD came out.

I'm tired of all this bullshit
They keep selling me on T.V.
About the communist plan
And all the shady preachers
Begging for my cash,
Swiss bank accounts while giving their
Secretaries the slam.

I used to think
That only America's way, way was right.
But now the holy dollar rules everybody's lives.
Gotta make a million; doesn't matter who dies.

Anyhoo, will be invaded by in-laws this evening. So gotta get some writing done.

Monday, blech.

Pat K.

Puppy Tears

Tearless puppy shampoo.

How do they know that it's no tears, no sting? Not like you can ask puppies, eh? Also, it can't be a "cruelty-free" product since it must be tested on puppies. Or do they test it on babies? [wink]

The question arose while washing the Rat Dog. Her face and beard gets washed with puppy shampoo. The rest of her, I scrub with regular, "Not tested on animals," people shampoo. Well, I can assure the makers of said shampoo that it has now been tested on an animal. It leaves her coat fluffy and lusterous. (Works better on her hair than mine, actually.)

Rat Dog got revenge for bath by projectile vomiting on the couch.

Meanwhile, in the yard...

The Snake That Came to Breakfast (Click pic for closer view. Ah, come on, he's not venomous.)

We hope he stays for dinner. We're having a mouse problem. Although we've trapped and relocated several*, there are still some of the plague-spreading little beasties about. The roadrunners are catching a few, but any help Mr. Snake can offer will be appreciated.

(*Then stupid mice probably move into someone else's garage, where they are poisoned or killed in some other nasty manner. Oh, well, the blood isn't on my hands.)

This gopher snake was only about eighteen inches long, so he'd better watch out for hawks and maybe the roadrunners.

Writing...
Did two critiques today to make up for NONE done last week. Starting back on plotting Book Two. Attention span is starting to wander off to other novel--romantic contemporary fantasy, aka, the Romance. Staying off Internet to make up for "lost week."

Happy Sunday,

Pat K.

Feeding the Hungry

Tiny birds are eating us out of hearth and home.


Female Rufous Hummingbird in Sunflower. (Click pic for closer view.)

Remember the Lesser Goldfinches I was so excited about? Well, two became three and now there are usually seven or eight little lemon yellow birds fighting for a spot on the feeder. And Niger thistle is rather expensive. The roadrunners think goldfinches are tasty, but they haven't made much of a dent on the population.

Meanwhile, swarms of hummingbirds are going through at least a feeder a day. Many are Broadtails, and even Calliopes getting a start on migration. Perhaps because the women-folk have to leave late due to child-raising duties, I haven't seen any more male Rufous hummingbirds, but there are still a few females about. Yesterday, I unwittingly used the last bit of sugar to fill a feeder. This morning, no sugar for our tea.

We had a great rainstorm yesterday. The kind that sweeps over the desert in a great gray curtain; you can hear it coming, drumming on tin roofs and on swamp coolers. I was out working with the Nikster. When the drops started to hit, the sugar baby let out a nervous nicker and ran under his porch. It came down so hard I was stuck out in the barn for a few minutes. My hero, however, came out, umbrella in hand and rescued me. Aw.

The clouds kept mean old Mr. Sun under wraps this morning, so I sat out on the banco and watched the birds' antics. Interesting dynamics between the species. The curve billed thrashers will chase mourning doves from the feeder, but get chased in turn by scaled quails. A full grown scale quail shows no qualms about taking on a roadrunner. Of course everything disappears when a Cooper's Hawk shows up. Gorgeous birds, but they seem to delight in gory, sitting on the fence and tearing into an unlucky meal.

Then the sun came out. A helicopter flew over; a very weak imitator of the hummingbirds' flight.

Happy Sunday.

Pat K.

Momma's Boy

The Nikster shuns fame.


Unless he's working on the lunge line or in the round pen, Nik thinks he should be at my side. No problem, except when I'd like to take photos. Small compared to some horses, Nik still fills up the frame when only a couple of feet away. Here, he's showing off his "be nice" posture and making faces (his upper lip is sticking out farther than it normally does). The sleepy look is thanks to a fly that braved the repellant to land in the corner of his eye.

(J-man snarks: "He wants his mommy.")

He ground ties--horse equivalent of "stay"--but doesn't understand the concept if not wearing a halter or bridle.

And...when doing at liberty, clicker sessions, he gets so relaxed, he lets it all hang out. As in hung like a horse. Since he's a gelding, it signifies nothing, but it makes for, er, lewd looking photos. "Come on, Nik. I'm trying to make you famous. Put Mr. Friendly away."

Horse with 'tude, indeed.