WordPlay

This Wednesday Behind the Scenes, it’s total indulgent gratitude.

What the (insert word of your preferred emphasis here), you may wonder, is that?

Well, that’s when you wallow in gratitude for something you didn’t plan but find truly comforting.

It’s a coincidence that the first released Backlist Ebook was A Feral Darkness, which contains a dog who carries traits, physical and behavioral, from two of my dogs–the first and only time I’ve done that. (Contrary to what many people think, mostly authors just make this stuff up.) The dogs? Jag and Jean-Luc Picardigan.

Jag came to me as a pet and with behavioral rehab needs: a developing and inexplicable fear of…well, no one was quite sure what, only that it happened unpredictably and otherwise didn’t suit his personality. He was an incredibly sweet dog, and I had fallen for him on sight, some months earlier, during a cross-country visit with Cheysuli breeder Jennifer Roberson. (Sometimes you really can almost hear that *click*…). He arrived, fit instantly into the household, and was much adored.  I began trying to understand what drove his problems.

Never actually had the chance. Six short weeks after his arrival, a neighbor child released him from my yard. He panicked straight into traffic.

I wanted to write him a better story than that. Eventually, I did.

By then, I had another Cheysuli dog. Jean-Luc’s special child issues were no mystery; he was injured at birth, made vulnerable by an open fontanel, and as a result developed into a deeply autistic dog in nature. Not to mention his subtly asymmetrical forehead!

So pieces of Jean-Luc Picardigan also helped inform Ch. Nuadha’s Silver Druid. Two special dogs, being shared in their own way.

As it happens, I chose A Feral Darkness as the first Backlist Ebook for many reasons.  Then, when I couldn’t find a stock photo I liked for the cover, along came another unplanned development–Jean-Luc’s appearance there (there were no good ones of Jag, and Jean-Luc isn’t actually too far off in coloring).

It’s the total lack of intent behind it all that makes the situation all the more meaningful to me this week. To know I didn’t plan the timing, the cover…the circumstances…and yet I can still look at the book and smile.

So yup. Today I’m feeling grateful for such comforts.  And the indulgence is talking about it, because some of this you’ve already heard, and none of it is probably truly meaningful to anyone but me.

And in that vein, here’s a totally indulgent snippet from A Feral Darkness!  From a book about forgotten gods and rising powers and modern-day potential for plague and one woman trying to figure out exactly what she started with her childhood wish at an inadvertently anchored place of power…this time it’s all about the dog!

Smashwords
Kindle

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“He’s got a lot more white on him than I thought,” Elizabeth admitted, pausing in her own work.

Or than Brenna had thought. No way, under the mud, to see how broad his blaze was, how symmetrically it encompassed his muzzle, narrowed just enough to miss his eyes, and broadened again at his forehead. Or to see the dark freckles on the bridge of his nose, or how richly his brown cheek patches stood out against the black on the rest of his head. He had a white bib and undercarriage, and except for brown points, a white tail tip, and a jagged white collar, the rest of him was sleek black. Black, aside from his ears. The interior of one was stark white; the other light brown.

But it was the backs of those huge ears that were so beguiling, mostly white with thick brown freckles. Utterly unexpected, utterly charming.

And his eyes. Coming from a clean face, they looked softer, more open. Big love-me eyes that followed her every movement.

But he’s somebody else’s dog.

Back on February 3rd of this year, I posted about Jean-Luc Picardigan’s growing difficulties–managing his new deafness with his old brain injury.  At the time, I felt in my heart that he could not overcome this new burden, and for the most part I was right.  The summer was a time of trying and failing to find strategies that would improve his quality of life, even as his ability to manage continued to diminish.  I began to wonder how he would handle the cold months, with their less flexible circumstances–especially as being outside a majority of his time seemed the only thing that calmed him.

Jean-Luc, however, has taken that concern out of my hands.  With the discovery of a critical problem this past week, I’m suddenly in a position where treating this dog who is barely managing is not an option,  and not treating him is not an option.  So even as you read this, I have taken him out for some last moments on the agility field that proved to be his saving-grace therapy–poles on the ground, A-frame lowered until it’s almost flat–and I am now about to say good-bye…or am saying good-bye…or have just done so.

The decision and the loss, the agonizing over what’s right…it’s all the cost of our time together.  I won’t say it’s gladly paid, but I can only say it is so very worth it, for what we get from these short years.  Still, for today, I am rather quiet–but here’s an excerpt from that February post…

So…it happens. Dogs go deaf. Some sooner than others. So it is with Jean-Luc Picardigan, nearly twelve years old but otherwise robust.

Well…if you don’t count the brain injury.

But it turns out that the brain injury might just matter.

…

Though really, he’s always been a wonder in his own way. Cheysuli Jean-Luc Picardigan OJP NAP OJC NAC CGC started his agility training as therapy–awkward, spatially challenged, and easy to overwhelm–and was never expected to enter an agility ring, never mind earn Open-level titles and his CGC (canine good citizen). He even won a startling handful of red and blue placement ribbons along the way–he not only ran agility, he ended up loving it and doing it well!

And the picture up there is how I’ll remember Jean-Luc–that bright, sweet brown eye peering out at the world, trying his best to make it his own.

It’s Bubonicon weekend!  That engaging, personable convention held here in Albuquerque (home of prairie dogs and their bubonic plague, in case you didn’t get that one…).  This afternoon I’m off to schmooze with the fun readers and writers of this area, and today I’m all a twitter–er, no, not that kind of twitter–pulling together some books and notes and postcards and seeing if there’s anything in the closet that fits me.

Today at the Write Horse, Patty’s adventures are closer to home…a week of tidbits from the trainer’s life.  Made me smile.  It’s noticing the little moments with animals that makes the difference when it comes to pulling the big training picture together!

Off to notice some little moments in my writing life.  It’s a good philosophy!

Patty Wilber  

Summer is winding down.  Sunflowers (Genus Helianthus) decorate the roadsides and snake week (Genus Guitierrezia) is blooming in the fields.  I have a little stand of sunflowers by the hay barn where the horses are usually Not Allowed.  They eat the flowers.  

Sunflowers with the Sandia Mountains in the background.

Snakeweed. Note the MOSS in the background. That's how wet it's been.

This spring was emerald green with the non-native annual grasses (foxtail and cheat grass).  Then, there was little rain and the whole place dried to a brown crisp.  Along came the monsoons (which typically run July 4 to early September) and the perennial grasses, summer wildlfowers and the invasive weeds are all going beserk.   

Kochia (from Russia;  introduced as a hardy drought  and cold resistant forage plant that no one really loves to eat–someone forgot to test the palatablity factor, I guess) is out of control!  Just add water!  

Mouse up to her ears in Kochia!

Cometa and Zeke. Green green.

 This week has been a fun one in the horse training business.  

I drove a carriage!  

Anni is a Fjord and she was a tough nut for me to crack.  I swear, she hated me for the first 3 months I worked with her.  Ear pinning when I arrived.  Sulling up (refusal to try) when ever I asked her for anything new.   

My typical horsey client can be convinced to try a little something with a kind word and a well timed cue.  Not Anni. Asking got me nowhere. Up the pressure? She shut down completely. I contacted Beth Beymer at Starfire Farm for Fjord training tips.   

To teach Anni to canter, Beth suggested cueing in the same spot of the arena each time and rewarding a faster trot.  Really?  A faster trot, was not, to my mind a “try”.  But ok.  Will do.  

In addition, because Anni did canter in the round pen and on a lunge line without a rider, I had Sue (Anni’s mom) cue Anni for the canter while I rode as a passenger in the round pen.  

These two things worked and eventually,  Anni began to look forward to seeing me!  She fretted when I worked Paul (Sue’s other Fjord) first.  She began to try to out perform him each ride.  What a change.  Still gives me goosebumps!  

I do the riding training and Sue does the driving training.  This week I drove (!) and we compared cues. For turns, I use steady rein pressure, wait for a response, then release.  I sometimes ride without reins and use a whip to cue turns, stopping and backing.   Anni carries her head a bit low, but I am asking for more elevation when riding.  All of these are directly applicable to driving!   

For more tips on carriage driving (as opposed to wagons or log pulling), a good resource is Cuffy and Winkel. 2003.  The Essential Guide to Carriage Driving.  

Excitement #2:  Zeke:a 6 year old Arabian with a young brain.  He is gorgeous!  He is uptight!  He is here for a little tune up: softer, more flexible response to the bit and canter nicely in the arena.   

I couldn't get him to stand far enough away from me to get a good full body shot. He does like sunflowers though!

 When a horse is soft in my hands and soft to my legs, it is like merging into the animal; becoming one (cue music and dramatic lighting).   

In our six rides, Zeke has shown he wants to be there!  Unfortunately, he also has a lot on his mind (That tarp moved!  The gravel hit that barrel!  You repositioned the bridge!).  This tends to get in the way.  

Allowing his confidence to build and rewarding his efforts so the soft can emerge is the goal.  I have felt brilliant flashes, AND he is letting me set him up for and picking up the canter. Whoo whee! Almost better than sex.  Almost.  

Excitement #3:  The girls and I went to the Manzanos, a nearby mountain range.  I wasn’t planning to go, but the Back Country Horsemen project was short a pack animal and needed Risa.   

BCH'ers Paul, Madelyn, Richard and Chuck working on a log that was blocking the trail (using the 2-man saw Risa packed in).

 It was WET.  At Red Canyon, the creek was running full (first time I have seen that in August since…forever.)  The trail is steep and has lost 6-8 inches of base in some areas due to the intense rainfall this summer.  Roots and rocks are exposed everywhere.  

In addition, the path crosses back and forth then forth and back across the water.  Penny forded everything.  Sometimes I heard her sigh in dismay (REALLY? Again?), but her attitude was graceful, even when Risa’s was not. (Balked and then rammed Penny with a pannier full of tools, but only 2 or 3 times.)  

Miss Attitude, SLEPT while we packed her! She did need to be pushed a bit over some of the water on the way up  (Terri rode Olympia up to Risa’s heiny and clucked at her).  On the way down, Risa crossed everything smoothly!   

The waterfall was stunning (but my camera ran out of batteries, so no pics).  It wasn’t too hot, but it was humid. It didn’t rain until I got in the truck to come home.  

Next week the fall term begins at the college and I will be back in the classroom part of each day, but this week….well, I love horse training!

It’s first draft mode around here (Nocturne Demon Blade series, book 2!), but I’m still poking away at the Backlist Ebook projects.

<= Bet you’ve guessed what I’m working on now.

Touched by Magic was my third book sold,  and the second to see print.  I had a really, really  clear idea what I wanted to do with this book–and no idea at all of how ambitious it was.

I’m glad, actually, that I just barged right in way back then.  I might not have the temerity, now that I’m more eddie-cated about the craft and about publisher expectations.

Anyway, I’m taking the opportunity to give it a good updating.  (More on that in another blog, I think.)  And since it’s the oldest book file on my system, the conversion process itself is…challenging.  This gives me time to ponder the cover.

Let us take a moment to gaze upon that first cover.

*moment of silence*

I can readily forgive the elaborate dress on my country character–the artist had a known fondness for such things.  I can forgive the dark brown instead of pale blond hair…sometimes such details give way to compositional needs.

I cannot forgive the unicorns.

My unicorns are fearsome beasts. Draft-size, draft-weight.  Magnificent, of course, because I deserve magnificent unicorns.  And the colors?  Clearly described as unusual, but simply as pertains to horses.  Brindle and walnut and sable and merle.

They were not pastel.

NOT.  PASTEL.

Nor were they weenie little ponies. Short-necked, loaded-shouldered, sway-backed, static-haired, girly-assed little ponies.

WERE.  NOT.

At the time, this artist’s work generally sold books.  But oh!  So many readers came to me and said, “I almost didn’t pick up this book because of the cover, but I’m really glad I did.  It’s not about pastel unicorns at all.”

It’s really not.

So here I am, about to compose my own cover. I’d sure like to do better!  I have some ideas, but…what do you think?  What would you try to say about this book on the cover?

(Hey, it’s an open book question, so…have a blurb!  Have an excerpt!  Notice what the unicorns are doing, in said excerpt.)

Magic has never been a part of Reandn’s life. Almost gone from Keland when he was born, there is no trace of it left by the time he enters training with the King’s Wolves, the elite force that patrols the king’s lands.

Magic has never been a part of Reandn’s life. Until the people under his care start dying. Until the threat extends to his family, and until he finds himself struggling through disorienting attacks of weakness that turn the very act of going out on patrol into an unacceptable risk. Someone, somewhere, is trying to draw magic back into Keland, and they don’t care what–or who–is destroyed in the process.

But Reandn does.

===========================

Six-year-old Rethia woke to wild hoof beats.

Frightened, she pressed herself against the ground. When she gathered the courage to peer up, she could make out only flashing legs and leaping bodies–and all the while, the unmistakable tingle of magic coursed through her body.

Imperceptibly at first, the pounding diminished and the tickling magic intensified. The creatures were leaving–and they weren’t just running away.
They bounded into the air without landing. Disappeared. Vanished in a flash of not-being.

And when there was only one set of hoofbeats left, solid and deliberate and walking toward her, Rethia trembled with the knowledge that she witnessed great magic in a world that was drifting free of such things, and forgot to be afraid of the beast itself.

The hooves stopped in front of her basket, strong round hooves with heavy-boned, clean-lined legs rising from them. Not a horse. She knew that even before she looked up to see the horn.

She pulled herself upright and looked straight into the face of the unicorn, her deep blue gaze unflinching. It was a heavy-boned face, with ridges etched in darkest walnut instead of gleaming highlights, and with odd, icy eyes that abruptly reminded her that unicorns were not Tame. Wild magic, free always, of what man might intend or wish for it. When the beast did not react to her impudence, she lifted a small trembling hand to touch the thick, tangled mane and forelock, so long they brushed her face even as the animal raised its head. It looked around the trampled, abandoned meadow, blew out a huff of air. When it looked back down at her, its icy gaze warmed, catching the blue of her eyes, staining them with the reflection of its walnut features. It dropped its head to again accept her touch.

She had no idea it would be a trade.

Probably there are a whole lot of things you’re happy not to know about flies and their little fly babies.

Oh, I wish was you.

It hasn’t been bad here this year, really–not compared to the valley last year when we lived not only next to a herd of sheep, but the aquecia. In fact, with that historical watering system all around us and flies being so keen on incubating in damp, warm places, I suspect that place was just plain Fly Heaven.

It was not Horse Heaven. Not come July. No talking in the paddock unless you wanted flies in your mouth. Flies bounced off our bodies and worse, into and out of our ears. I went through hundreds of dollars of fly bait, fly spray, and fly masks.

The Height of Horse Fashion. If you read horse nose language you see he is Not Pleased. This is because he believes he should be eating.

I had already done every possible thing with my own yard, but here’s a fun fact about flies–they have a quarter-mile range. Jammed into the valley with its unique urban-rural agriculture, we didn’t have a chance. Not even with my trusty fly predators scattered around on a monthly basis.

*insert fly predator love*

Baby Fly Predators, still sleeping in their shipping package

This year, we’re out in the foothills. No sheep, no aquecias (the arroyos manage our water, and otherwise we xeriscape), and lightly scattered horses. The fly predators had a fighting chance…at least, until a month or so ago.

I ran into trouble because–and here is a little tip about flies–the fly traps have to be placed just right. The right amount of sun, the right amount of heat, and the correct proximity to their favorite hang-outs.

What the human wants is to put the trap–one gallon of stinky fly bait in water–in a place that won’t affect the neighbors or the house, or stand vulnerable to horse investigation.

And they have to be placed that way ahead of the seasonal surge, which around here is triggered by the monsoon.

But here in my new location/climate…I didn’t know what the flies would want. My instinct was that the flies would want to be HERE. And HERE had no protection from Horsie Incursion.

After repeated failures, I gave up and put the trap HERE, surrounded by a little bulwark of juniper logs.

DuncanHorse still gets to it. But not very often.

So now it’s a working system, if too late to prevent the population surge–and complete with that pungent but odd fly bait. Not immediately nasty, just sort of, “Gosh, I wish I hadn’t smelled that.” And then, as you realize how the slightest molecule instantly adheres to your skin and doesn’t let go, “Gee, I REALLY wish I hadn’t smelled that.”

Solution: scrub until the affected skin is gone. Works a charm.

But then there’s later. After a few days…as the flies begin to collect. As they DIEEEEE. Then it’s not just fly bait, it’s rotting flies and fly bait. A gallon jar with four solid inches of dead flies over the world’s nastiest liquid (we can’t call it water any longer). Oh yeah.

But hey! The flies think this is even MORE exciting, so the trap works even better!

Yay!

And then comes the day. The fly trap must be emptied, rinsed, and rebaited.

Han Solo: What an incredible SMELL you’ve discovered!

This is that smell.

And this is when you learn what you really, really, wish you didn’t know about flies:

They’re explosive.

You heard me.

BOOM!

Yes indeed. You gotta dispose of the accumulated mass of flydom JUST SO.

OR ELSE.

While frantically trying to not actually touch it.

Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

And here, I had intended to insert a photo showing amazing masses of potentially explosive flies.  However, this afternoon I had an uncharacteristic fit of mercy and good taste, so instead….

Look! Pretties! My first-year gaillardia! California poppies! Sunflowers! (Can’t take credit for those…they plant themselves.)

These annual sunflower plants are about twice as tall as I am...

These gaillardia ought to spread nicely next year, and be good and thick!

Poppies! Poppies! Poppies! I hope these pretty little things come back next year...

Brain Bust.

Also known as, too many projects, too little time, and you want me to what, now?

Well, I did. But I think it broke my brain. I think I need a weekend in, um, hey! How about Montana?

One weekend with photos, coming up! Not mine, but hey…I make a living from living not only out loud, but vicariously. This is good for me! I hope you enjoy it, too!

Patty Wilber      

My parents  have been married 50 years.      

My mom wanted a  family reunion. Finding dates to suit was not easy.  We settled upon Aug 8-14.  A house near Glacier National Park in Montana became the destination.       

Going away involves finding horse sitters. For this trip, we decided to parcel out most of the animals  instead of having a neighbor come feed.  I have imposed on my neighbors a lot this summer, and this seemed like too much.      

Babe, the 15-year-old broken legged dog (Tabooli stepped on her a couple months ago) went to a friend of Jim’s.      

Cometa went to Tabooli’s house (T. went home July 30).  Winston and Penny were slated to go there too, but Winston, who ended up needing antibiotics, leg bandages changed, and stitches removed, went to my friend Cheryl (a nurse with lots of horse wound care experience) at Whispering Spirit Ranch.  Penny went with him for company.      

Risa, my appaloosa that is bred to work cows (she is “cow bred”) went to my friend and fellow trainer, Mark Bohannon.   The idea was that he would ride her “on cows” to see if she had “any cow”. (She does.)      

We managed to catch our flight to Missoula the 8th–after Mark (son) and I drove Maegan (daughter) to L.A. the 5th (so she could start law school orientation on the 9th–she missed the reunion!) Driving out of LA., north, on a Friday (the 6th) was completely insane.  “You can check out, but you can never leave”…Took 3 hours to go 60 miles! Ok! So everyone else in the world apparently already knew this… 

Made it to Montana!      

Met my brother, drove to Kalispell and on to the house. Cool weather.  Big trees.  Meadows, lakes, flowers galore.  Very nice.      

On Monday, we did an “easy” ( it was, actually )  5 mile hike to Avalanche Lake to “acclimate”.  Of my family, I am the only non-fitness freak.  (I’ve got the horses, so I did not escape the obsessive gene.)  My sister runs 50K races, my hubby (Jim) just completed an iron man distance triathlon (140.6 miles of swimming, cycling and running), my parents hike several times a week, Mark  is a D1 soccer player.  You get the picture…I ride… A lot.  But riding is not that aerobic.  The only thing that saved me is living at altitude–Much of Glacier is lower than where we live.      

Avalanche lake, Glacier National Park. No horses to be seen.

We went rafting!  The water wasn’t super high, but there were still some fun rapids.      

We rode a tram to the top of Big Mountain and hiked five miles down.  I was sore.      

I ALMOST went to Canada to ride with Connie Hunter of Sunset Stock Horses.  She bred All Round Sundown, who I rode to a national championship (for Whispering Spirit Ranch).  She said she could meet me on the Canada part of the park (since to come to the U.S., you need, yes, that Coggins Test and travel papers–see last week’s blog MyNew Horse, Money Pit).  Unfortunately, my passport was at home (well, and, it was a family reunion, but gosh it had been a few days without riding!!)      

We hiked the Highline Trail to the Loop trail (11 miles).  I made it.  My dad (he’s over 70) out hiked me.  My mom (69) had no problem keeping up with me.  The rest of them hammered away. I plugged along and analyzed the trail for equine friendliness.       

When we got to the Granite Park Chalet (~7 miles in), they had propane and snacks.  That stuff must have been packed in by mule… but the Highline Trail was devoid of equine evidence.  On the way down the Loop Trail, however, I spotted tracks and manure.    Hypothesis supported.      

Highline trail. Cliffy. But wide enough for mules or a good mountain horse. Didn't see equine sign until we headed down onto the Loop trail.

Big horn in the mist! We also saw mountain goats, mule deer, and some of us saw grizzlies and some saw a black bear!

  On the last full day, we took a tour on Two Medicine Lake  in a boat built in the 1920′s (or maybe 30′s) and then Jim, Mark, my bro and myself hiked 8 miles.  I noted there were both bridges and horse friendly water  crossings. I kept up (but they did go a little slower for me).  I still bonked on the last hill!   

People bridge to left. Horse crosing to right.

  We made it home to NM the 14th and I collected all my horses the next day (and went to watch an American Stock Horse competition at the Singleton Ranch (San Cristobal) near Lamy, NM). Might give one a go next month even though Penny is not quite ready for open competition.  There are not enough entrants to have a novice horse division.  As a paid professional  I only qualify for the open…what the heck!  It could be fun!  

Glad to be home.  No more travelling (probably) until I go back to the Pecos over Labor Day!

Well, we’d LIKE to be #1.

The truth is, right now, that’s hard for both of us.  Because, you know, the whole “how things change” gestalt.

Change is messy.

For writers, the ongoing technological change means increased uncertainty in an already uncertain career.  It means shifting responsibilities and skillsets and costs, as publishers push us to take up the burden of publicity.  It means stress beyond endurance, sometimes.

For readers, it means watching publishers fumble with how to best manage books/prices/formats.  It means falling in love with an author only to discover s/he’s been dropped/pushed to another genre/opted out.  It means reading partial story arcs when publishers decline to pick up book three of a trilogy because books 1 & 2 weren’t blockbusters from the start.  It means watching bookstores shrink and the struggle to find new sources–reliable sources–of quality reading.  (Clickie for some more thoughts on that.)

So now, I will reveal to you the answers to all of these dilemmas and more!

HA HA HA HA HA HA!

*coff*

Maybe not.

Maybe I’ll just point out the obvious. We’re in this together.  And in order to reach the best possible outcome, we need to stay in it together, with awareness and an understanding that our interests do, in fact, coincide.  We’re each going to explore different paradigms to fill our needs, but my gut feeling is that the ones that are successful will be the ones where we BOTH get to be number one.

And because I’m both reader and writer, and because I’m incorrigibly persistent (which is how the reader got to be a writer), I happen to think it can be done.

What’s in a name, you say?

Oh, just EVERYTHING.

When it’s a dog’s name, it has to serve so many purposes.  Especially when you need to be able that name short and sharp for the agility course.  But when you’re like many dog folk–and writer folk–it’s got to have MEANING, too.  Even if only to amuse your very own self.

The new Beagle youngster started out with a call name of Cubbie.  Totally cute!  And to build on that, his registered name became Albedo’s Charter Member.  (Albedo = kennel name.  Charter Member = allusion to the first Mouseketeers.)

Which really, is a nice little package.  Especially for a dog headed for the show ring where such things are appreciated.

And then he turns out to be a one-ball wonder (both must descend to make it to the show ring), and THEN  someone like me comes along and says, “Er.  Cubbie isn’t a good name for agility.”

‘Cuz it’s not.  If I tried to say “Cubbie” while running, not getting lost on the course, keeping an eye on the dog, and using the right timing–well, it would come out, “Kuh!” and never find an ending.  I’d get all stuck on those bbbbbbs.

But, you know…we still wanted to be clever.  So it went like this:

Us:  What about “Musketeer” instead of “Mousketeer”? What does that give us to work with?

Muttering: Porthos, Athos, Aramis, D’Artagnan.

Well, Porthos was Captain Archer’s Beagle so that would be cute, but…see above, not a good agility name.   None of them are…

But oh.  Wait a minute. Did I not hear of one of Patty’s (The Write Horse!) clients, just this spring?  D’Artagnan Horse, nicknamed Dart?

Dart, the very perfect name not only for the agility field but for this snake-quick, zoomie little boy dog?

I am not above borrowing.

But…

Us: Shoot, we wanted to do something with “Albedo” if possible, too.

googlegooglegoogle

Oh look! There’s a DART technique for measuring/determining the albedo of various regions of the Earth!

(Disclaimer to scientists who don’t think I said that just right:  I know.)

Dart = WIN!

So I would like to introduce this dignified creature in his favorite pose, airing his singular ball, with bone:

Albedo’s Charter Member aka D’Artagnan Beagle aka…

At any given time, this is the view in the office: D'Artagnan Beagle, showing off his most prized possession

Dart!