WordPlay

If you’re on my FaceBook or Twitter feeds, you watched this one unfold.  The evening clouds  coming in over the mountains weren’t a surprise–we knew about the rain.

When the hail started, that wasn’t a surprise, either. Biggie marble-size hail is common enough around here.  It squalls through in pretty short order.

I mean, usually.

This time, there was nothing usual about it–although as golf balls started to spang off glass and we crated the dogs away from the windows, we still thought it would pass.

Because, I mean, usually.

But within moments I was pressed against the leeward office window, watching DuncanHorse hurl himself around a paddock slippery with accumulating inches of hail–scrabbling, falling, and beyond rational equine thought.  Talk about feeling helpless…oh, I cried for DuncanHorse!

This lasted for approximately…forever.

(Yes, I’m pretty it was about that long.)

The hail piled up in drifts that would take days to melt, sandblasting the world.  When it finally–FINALLY–eased, I went out to comfort Duncan with his blanket (he’s too dignified to call it a blankie, but same effect), and gave him bute and a bonus snack of hay.  I won’t say he leaped into my arms upon my arrival, but it was a close thing.

The next days were all about discovering damage: Garbage can, holed; gutter drains, bashed; van, battered (to the tune of $6600), one solar tube cover split.  The roof damage is of yet undetermined–the special insurance catastrophe teams are here,  but taking weeks to work through the backlog.

Our scrub Oak, scrubbed. The dear little thing does still have a leaf or too...if you look closely.

My lush fall wildflowers turned into food processor fodder; we lost a little yard tree and are crossing our fingers for this year’s other painstaking transplants.  The wild juniper/pinon arroyo lands around us were thinned to a veil–neighbors across the valley are suddenly visible.  The wild grasses  were flattened, the roadside ditches held mini-glaciers of hail flow, and the giant sunflowers canted wildly out of the ground under their own weight.

Our thriving, bushy catnip

Smashed Asters probably ought to be the name of a band

OH.  The agility equipment.  Battered, shattered, shredded. I saved the table (it’s already repainted) and the A-frame (ditto), but the dogwalk…maybe salvageable, maybe not.  Insurance folks check it out this week, along with the teeter, tunnels and broad jump–and the barn, which gurgles mysteriously and has water in its structure somewhere.

Um.

As for DuncanHorse, it took five days before he shook off the soreness and the shock, but he’s back to being his opinionated self and would not care to admit he was ever in need of a blankie and a hug.

All in all, that storm left behind a little slice of damage remarkable for its completeness. No exposed car or household in this little area escaped; no skylight survived.  While most of the damage occurred tightly local to us, the storm also hit weirdly northwest of us to wreak havoc at Kewa Pueblo.

However.

In the end, it’s all part of living along the Sandias. If the beauty of these high desert foothills is dramatic, so can be the weather.  It’s also part of horsekeeping at home–and of being so drawn to the outdoors that the damage to the trees and flowers and the small creatures who perished now feels so deeply personal.

Tucked in by the house...a wee gaillardia, the lone survivor

Of course, that doesn’t stop us from crying about it, or floundering to fit repairs and recovery into the following weeks, or wandering around in shock at the gut-deep understanding that no matter how well you prepare and provide for your outdoor kids, when nature comes along, it’s not always enough.

Patty at the Write Horse sure knows it, too–Friday gives us the storm from a Risotada Training point of view.  But until then, we’re all still just putting things back together.

PS Dear Editor: v. sorry my proofs were pushing that deadline…

Boy, am I having a good time with The Write Horse today.  Never mind that I’m wishing that had been ME on that cattle round-up!  Such fun to absorb the adventure…

But if you’re a writer–especially one who wants the option of using ranching, the old West, or horses in your work–it’s more than that.  It’s a chance to tap into the all-too-rare horse-n-rider/rider-n-great outdoors gestalt that can be so hard to come by these days.

Soak it up, peoples! Boy, I know I am.  And I’m right HERE!

The DurginBook tidbits of the day? Hidden Steel had a place on the Frugal Kindle this week–yay!  Great resource, and one I have tagged for when I have my own reading device.  And the emergency dental work continues…but is going to take a while.  Did you know that if you rub Tiger Balm into your jaws, your eyes will water for hours?

And yes–!  This weekend it’s off to another agility trial.  Cross your fingers for us!

Agility people take “trials” and “trialing” so for granted that it sometimes surprises me when I mention “I have a trial this weekend,” and people become concerned that I’m tangled in some legal issue.

No, no.  It means packing up the van, sometimes driving a day, sometimes just for forty-five minutes to an hour–and spending two to three days getting up at 0-dark-thirty (usually 4:30, sometimes 4am) to arrive on site at 6:30 and spend the next eleven hours memorizing courses, walking courses, walking dogs, doing emotional and environmental management of dogs (huge!) and of course, those intense thirty to sixty second blasts through the course while–hopefully–grooving with the dog.

If you’ve never done this, you probably can’t imagine how all this effort is worth 90-180 seconds on the agility course.

The only answer I can give you is a big goofy grin.

Plus, of course, there’s the training. Lots and lots of that.  And it’s all time spent with the dogs.

This past AKC trial weekend?

Friday:

• It is HOT.
• Connery finishes his Novice FAST title!
• Belle earns Double Q  17/20 for her PAX2*!
• Dart Puppy learns what it means to be at a trial site!  He practices socialization!
• See neat people!
• My jaw goes WTF, that hurts!
• While juggling emergency dental appointment, begging indulgence from trial committee and affected judge to shift my jumpers runs back-to-back a couple hours ahead of schedule and simultaneously trying to prepare dogs for same, brain explodes, too.
• Brain explodes all over Connery’s jumpers run.  Ugly sight.
• Late to dentist.  Xrays, $$$, cracked tooth, inflamed toothbed…turns out if you lose a dog and don’t have the chance to grieve due to work stress, your body will find its way.  Nothing can be fixed immediately…plans are made for same.

Saturday:

• It is HOTTER.
• Fallout from brain explosion wipes out another run for ConneryBeagle, who begins to wonder where his real mom went.  Because he’s running first in each class today, he bears the brunt of the Stupids.
• Connery nails his other two runs in spite of his handler!
• Belle earns Double Q 18/20 for her PAX2!
• Dart Puppy shares his most mournful hound howl with the entire assembled trial contingent.  “Woe!” cries everyone within earshot.  “So sad!”
• Dart Puppy receives unofficial measurement by AKC rep and is found to (currently) be under 14″, a most exciting discovering!  (It is a critical determination of his agility career jump height.)
• See neat people!  Friend earns MACH!
• Jaw does not get any worse.

Sunday:

• We have MELTED.
• Brain returns!  One major Stupid Moment, compensated for.
• Connery nails all three of his runs, including a stupendous standard run!  Now has 2/3 of his Open FAST title!  Now has Double Q 19/20 for his MACH2!  (still needs lots of speed points, though)  That’s 7/9 runs for the weekend, totally in spite of Yours Truly.
• Belle earns Double Q 19/20 for her PAX2! She is six for six this weekend, with a great comeback after a season of increasing worries triggered by the stress of the January move.
• Dart Puppy is a Most Excellent Boy.  He loves his BONE.
• See neat people!  (sense a theme, there?)
• Jaw does not get any worse.  It ponders the dentist-filled week ahead.  I pretend not to know.

Sunday Evening:

• Come home, unload van with a mind to the two-day trial next weekend, feed annoyed horse, and sit stupidly in front of TV for the first time in a week.
• Best part?  Dog at my feet, dog at my side, dog in my lap.  All very happily exhausted.

Sunday PM not nearly as late as usual:

• My turn now.  Good night!

Monday Morning:

• What?  Already?

I think I’ll hit the rewind button to the part where I’m surrounded by happy, sleeping dogs…  And oh, yeah.  Just ignore this big goofy grin!

But wait! I’m doing this again next weekend!  It must be trialing season!

Belle (in late '07), by Doghouse Arts -- driving across the dogwalk

*PAX Title: The highest available title for a dog in Belle’s running class, earned even less frequently than the vaunted MACH.  In fact, clubs often don’t even bother to have the PAX poles and ribbons available; Belle was given a MACH pole & ribbon for her first PAX, and I’m guessing the same if we get this one.

Oh, I know, I know. Cheerful author blog is this.  Cheerful, perky, personable…

Well, today I’m kinda peeved. And it works for me to say:

Dear Dog Owner from the UNM Campus this Past Weekend:

Here is a clue about responsible dog ownership.

Other people, including dog lovers, have no obligation to adore your dog.  They have no obligation to greet your dog with joy, be jumped on, drooled on, or risk contact with claw or tooth.

And they should never, ever have to worry about whether your dog, as it runs toward them, has anything other than friendly intentions in mind.

Guess what.  Shouting, “Don’t worry, he’s friendly!” doesn’t count (even if you didn’t bother).  Not for a moment.  Because you never know what someone’s background is.  Have they been bitten in the past?  Do they have allergies?  Do they have injuries or weaknesses that will cause them  pain if bumped?  Balance or strength issues that will cause worry and concern at the approach of an unknown dog?

Fortunately, there’s an easy way to avoid all of this. It’s called a LEASH.  And there’s a back-up system for avoiding these issues when in public areas that invite dogs to go off-lead.  That’s called a RECALL.

On the other hand, if someone is infringed on to the point where they have to shout, “Call your dog!  CALL YOUR DOG!” then either your dog doesn’t have a recall or you’re above using it, and in either case if you had deigned to do so (which you didn’t), you would still have failed in your responsibilities as a dog owner.

Because, Dear Dog Owner, it’s your responsibility to use a leash in public areas that require it.  Period.  You are not special.  You don’t get to break that rule because it’s more fun or  more convenient.  So sorry!

Good stewardship means showing the rest of the world that dog lovers take our responsibilities seriously, and that we’re considerate of other people when it comes to our dogs.  Bad stewardship means dogs are allowed in fewer and fewer places.  Hotels charge a higher pet fee.  Parks deny organizations the right to hold dog-oriented activities–rescue fairs, competitions, dog celebration days.  Other people pay the price for the self-indulgent decisions of those like you.

And even if  your dog is off-leash in an area where such activities are welcome, then it’s still your responsibility to keep track of it at all times, and to call it back if it shows undue interest in other people, other fidos, or belongings that ought not to be peed on.  Don’t want to miss out on the scenery?  Use the aforementioned LEASH.

Do I sound like someone who bears deep wounds from the irresponsible few? You would guess right.  You would guess right that I have been attacked; you would guess right that one of my dogs has been brutally attacked a number of times, and that the dogs involved in all of these attacks were uncontrolled and charged over open ground to get us.  You might even guess right that had it not been for my quick-thinking friend this past weekend, I might well have tangled with your loose Doberman, who targeted my ConneryBeagle as he tracked his oblivious way through campus.

And that I’m really mad about it.

So, spread the word.  This is a leash:

And quite a nice leash, too. Perfect for a handsome dog.

And this is the hellahot pepper spray I have used in the past and will use again.

Not much fun for anyone.

Use the first to protect your dog–who bears no fault here–from the second.

Ahem.  We now return to our usual perky, cheerful, author-blog programming.

Yes.  I am writing.  Instead of working on the planned blog (which I wrote most of in draft while waiting for an appointment today, so I did have good intentions), I did another scene in the current book.  That’s Dark Blade of my Nocturne Demon Blade series, if anyone’s keeping track.

I am not feeling particularly guilty.  More like…smug.

smug smug smug smug

To assuage my not-guilt over my not-blog, here is a picture of a puppy owning the Best Toy:

This is THE BEST TOY. Ever. For the moment.

It’s a get ready weekend!

For me, get ready for September, which holds a slew of agility trials. For today, get ready for the weekend–and that means figuring out where Dart Puppy is slipping out of the back yard, and setting myself up with some OH YEAH COOL I CAN’T WAIT scenes in the book.

For this morning, it means “Here comes the Write Horse!” And possibly some thinking that if you haven’t ever owned a horse, you haven’t ever considered.

There are a lot of people making decisions about animal legislation these days…and far too many of them no longer have a day-to-day acquaintance with those animals, or even a passing awareness of the logistics of training, housing, handling, and loving those animals. To a certain extent, those of us deeply involved with animals have let this happen–because the realities of what we know from intimate acquaintance are so very obvious, it doesn’t occur to us that other people can’t see it, too.

One of these days I’ll go on my spay/neuter kick. Let’s just say that in the past thirty years, I’ve owned only one dog who hit the spay/neuter stage before she hit complete maturity or beyond, and if I have anything to say about it, that’s the way it’ll continue. I don’t breed; I don’t intend to breed. But I know what’s best for my animals, and those who are not handling them/competing them/training them…

Well, they don’t.

So which of us should be making the decisions?

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!

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.