WordPlay

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.

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...

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!

What was I saying on Friday? About our animals and how they embarrass us in public?

Well.

If you want to be embarrassed in public, aim yourself at a puppy fun match in rally and obedience for the first time in nearly three years, and then work double quadruple kilruple overtime the weeks before, so you have no time to review the finer points of the sports involved.

You know, like just what do those rally station signs mean exactly, again? And which ones have changed since I last did this? And in obedience heeling patterns, which direction is “about turn” again? Heh heh heh.

Then get up really really early, in a body that doesn’t allow caffeine.

But if you REALLY want to be embarrassed, take not only your trained adult dogs, but an adolescent boy Beagle you’ve had for all of three weeks and with whom you spent the majority of the time just dealing with separation anxiety created by his transition.

Yeah, that should just about do it.

Let’s just say the obedience judge was Not In The Mood.

Only one thing to do:
–Apply permasmile.
–Pretend not to notice puppy brainsplosion.
–Totally fake it.
–Thank the judge at the end and FLEE! FLEE FOR YOUR DIGNITY AND YOUR LIFE!

While, of course, never letting the puppy have a clue that he isn’t brilliant. “Isn’t this fun?” you tell him. “Weren’t you a good boy?”

And in the background you hear the sound of a phaser on overload.

That’s the sound of the puppy’s brain.

Well, we didn’t come entirely unprepared for this whole venture. We didn’t fail to give the puppy tools to deal with it. So into the crate with him for quiet time with a few interspersed walkies, and several busy-with-the-other-dogs hours later it’s his turn for rally. By then I’ve relearned all the signs I got wrong in Excellent and Advanced, and Novice is easier anyway. By then, too, it’s REALLY HOT out in the sun. Puppy has been pondering life in a shaded crate; handler is showing definite signs of wilt.

“Let’s go do some rally! Won’t this be fun!”

Puppy: Will there be hot dogs?

Me: Yes! There will be hot dogs!

Puppy: I feel a hint of brain coming on.

And lo, he Qs on his very first rally leg, three weeks into our life together. Of course, this is a fun match. It doesn’t count. But it’s fun!

“Yay, puppy!” you tell him.

“I…” he says. “I think I liked that.”

Off to the only thing that actually counts, with no expectations–the CGC (Canine Good Citizen) test. So many things on this test–cleverly designed to pinpoint the things that are behavior buttons for many dogs–are exactly the things this puppy has struggled profoundly with during his transition time, a time during which his very cleverness bushwhacked his ability to cope. “I love people!” has been replaced by “Stranger Danger!” and “I don’t care about other dogs!” has been replaced by…well…”Strangrrrr Danjrrrr!”

And then there’s the fact that what with everything he’s had to learn, one of these skills was something you thought to introduce to him the day before. D’oh.

But lo. The puppy’s brain has engaged. “Will there be hot dogs?” he asks.

“When we’re all done,” you tell him. “Just kisses until then.”

“Well,” he says, “there are just way too many strangers here and way too many strange dogs, and I can’t be bothered to fuss about them. What were our new rules again? The parts about downing and staying?”

The CGC Test: "I learned this yesterday." (Staying while the handler walks 20' away and back.)

And then he goes out and gets his CGC, which only two days before you would have said was as likely as hitting the NY Times Bestseller list.

(pause for thought.)

So yes, we seek embarrassment! And we get embarrassment! But sometimes we get little miracles, too.

"See my heel-sit!"

My favorite. The leash looks funky only because it's swinging, and it's swinging because this is a REALLY enthusiastic "come to front from heel." Good puppy!

GOOD PUPPY!

…Monday

Once upon a time, I was young.

Just about to hit my teens, in fact, and discovering–via the magic of reruns–the world of Classic Trek. Star Trek, The Original Series. TOS.

Totally groovy.

And boy, did I watch that show. I watched it, made copious notes about it, created character & episode guides, role-played it, dove upon the first David Gerrold and James Blish books with a scary glee, and blithely ordered The Making of Star Trek from a bookstore across the city, having no reference points and no idea that a closer bookstore could have ordered it.  The Maternal Unit was Not Pleased.

(Hey, I’d called everywhere looking for that book…that was just the first store where they offhandedly said, “Oh, we can order that for you if you’d like…” What did I know from special ordering at age 12?)

Oh yeah, I had the episodes memorized. You betcha I could tell which one was which from the first moments of the show. You betcha that even at that age, I was in awe over City on the Edge of Forever–and snorting over the line, “Brain and brain, what is brain?” (Alas, those were formative years…I still mutter that to myself on challenging days…)

I was also a Kirk girl. Oh, so bold and noble and heroic! So dashing and commanding and full of ideals! (Even if they did dress him in that greeny-gold that looks good on no one.) Yup, I fell for that hook, line, and sinker. And as I moved on from that–enjoying the various movies and the various series, if never with quite the same fervor (but well enough to have all the episodes of TNG on tape and leap at the chance to write a book for the tie-in line!), the Kirk thing stayed with me. Sort of a default.

But this interesting thing has happened. This year, I picked up one of the earlier Trek DVD sets. Not one of the really fancy remastered oooh special effects sets, but it definitely has all the scenes with all their little pieces (which the reruns most definitely did not!). I use DVDs to keep my brain occupied as I exercise on the elliptical, so of course this purchase was totally righteous.

Totally.

And here’s what I’m noticing: It’s a better show than I thought it would be. There’s been much ado and sneering about the better special effects, the better tech, etc, of later Trek franchises, but all the clunky stuff pretty much falls into the background when you’re caught up in the story. And yeah, you have to know the time in which it was set, to better appreciate some of the inadvertent sexism.  But the same can be said for many classic accomplishments.

And– *wince* –those poor red shirts…

Here’s the other thing I’ve discovered: I’m no longer a Kirk girl. I’m a Spock girl now.

Back away, Kirk-lovers, I’m not dissing the Captain! Still all the things he was before. But what I didn’t notice, at that young age, was what stood beside him. The fact that Spock, for all his supposed lack of emotion, feels more deeply, with more nuance, than any man who finds himself free to emote at will. The fact that Leonard Nimoy, in order to convey the conflicting layers of his character, turned in a series of wonderful performances.

It’s his face I find myself watching, when I have to choose.

So yes, I was a Kirk girl, and now I am a Spock girl, watching with awareness and a certain fascination at how much time changes perspective–as well the actions and behavior, fictional or not, that touch us.

It’s too bad about that brain thing, though.

…Monday

What fun to start the week with babbling good news. I think next week I’ll MAKE UP some good new so I can do it again!

This week, though, I don’t have to. I’m delighted to announce that I’ll be writing three more Nocturnes, and two of the online Nocturne Bites along the way.

The Nocturnes are the ones I’ve gotten the most requests for so far…remember Maks, the straightforward bodyguard who’s played a role in all three of the Sentinels books so far? Maks takes the tiger as his other form; he’s a quiet guy with an unusual background. Not quite tame, for all his reliability–and with reason. The first Sentinels book is Tiger Bound, and that’s where I get to play with Maks’ story. Oh, gleeful, evil, rubbing of hands together!

Ruger is the character who first started getting the requests–right from the start. Was I ever going to write a book for him? Well, in fact…yes! Ruger is the healer who also spends time as a Kodiak bear, and who (in Lion Heart), took the brunt of an Atrum Core ambush. In the wake of that, he’s still looking for himself. Could be he just needs a little help, hmm?

But before I dive into those two books, I’ll be writing a second Demon Blade book. You haven’t seen that first one yet–it’s been waiting for scheduling, and to some extent waiting for this cycle of decisions to come around, to see if we’d be working it as a series or as a one-off. Well, guess what! I get to do a series!

And then there’s a Demon Blade Bite and a Sentinels Bite.

And there’s ME.

VERY HAPPY!

Getting to write books I love, knowing my schedule is planned for these next months, hummm hummm humm! The muse wins!

BLOG PARTEEEE!

…Monday

“Doranna LIKES Julie Czerneda!

“Doranna LIKES Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America!”

And, on a particular day, “Doranna LIKES Doranna Durgin!”

Yes, it’s the wonderful world of FaceBook.

Actually, I enjoy FaceBook. I’ve met people there and reconnected with people there, and of course I have the Fan Page there (thus the oddball third example, and YES, I would love to see you there!). And there are still FaceBook functions that mystify and defy me, but…well, that happens. Heh.

But I really, really don’t LIKE being forced into the role of a giggling fourth grader, passing virtual notes across the aisles.

“Doranna subscribes to Doranna Durgin.”

Okay, it’s  a little multiple personality-ish. Hmm.  Yes.

But the meaning is obvious. And not one that people will feel compelled to razz me about, because yes! Hello! I want to be able to see my Fan Page posts on my regular FB page!

“Doranna SUBSCRIBES TO Julie Czerneda!

Okay. Maybe it still needs some work. But I’ll take it!

FaceBook, are you listening? Dignity, please?

…Monday

You’re my only hope!

So here’s the thing. I’m putting these backlist works up for electronic availability, right? Short stories and then we’ll see.

On the one hand, it’s a blast.

On the other hand…Dammit, Jim, I’m a writer, not a marketing department! I’m a moonlighting graphic twiddler, not a design team! And I’m mixing up my nostalgic media references!

The spooky river. Ooooh...

And so I find myself faced with…

Decisions.

So guess what! Yes! I want you to make them FOR me! Yeah, that’s the ticket!

Sometimes I don’t have much choice with cover concepts or ideas–I’m working with stock photos, yes I am, even when I sometimes, er, twiddle with them.   So when I started looking for a Deep River Reckoning cover–the short story from the Reckoners universe just now available on Kindle, and which I’ll actually talk more about on Wednesday–I went hunting a really spooky river.

And hunting. And hunting…

Well, I was really happy with the end result, but now that I’ve had a chance to ponder it–and get a bit of feedback…I wonder if it’s not just plain too…

Serene.

You know. Pretty, but not grabby. Maybe not quite the right balance for a fiction world that’s contemporary, smart-ass, full of ghosties, full of magical action, and yah…has quite the little romance thing going for it, too?

So I played with a couple of other things, and then I realized…wow. I have no idea what to do.

Which cover would make YOU think about “picking up the book”?

AKA, “Hellllp MEEEEEE!”

(PS yes, there are watermarks on the bottom two. These are comp versions of the images for now…)

Ahh, the haunted woman. Evocative!

Scary stuff happening here! Run away! No, pick me up!

…Monday

Yup, this is what we’ve been doing the past couple weekends.  Flying dogs.

Seriously!

Sometimes they don’t fly. Sometimes they get cocky, and crash and burn.  Sometimes they get worried, and then it’s more like a “meander” around the course–that happens to both of them, as Belle is a natural worrier and Connery still stresses when he’s not sure he’s safe (due to those horrifying giant-breed attacks when he was younger).

And then there are the courses. Sometimes the timing is awfully tight. Sometimes it’s just not physically possible to get from Here to There as a handler, when There is the spot that will tell the dog exactly what to do. Sometimes they’re just wicked, twisty, tricky…you look at the course map and go, “Buh..?” And maybe drool a little in stupefaction.

So on a course like that, I’ve got to handle on time, with my feet in exactly the right place, my hands in the right place (hands indicate a myriad of things, from direction to distance from handler), my verbals just soon enough to give guidance while not distracting the dog from obstacle performance. And the dog has to be appropriately focused–a balance of handler and obstacle focus–ready to listen while at the same time committing to the next obstacle with enough energy to navigate it.

All as fast as possible, of course. (PS and don’t get LOST!)

My guys tend to be careful and attentive, which means we Q on accuracy more than we blow out on speed. But every now and then it all comes together and we get the right course and the right level of canine cockiness and the right handler timing…

And that’s when dogs fly.

Belle takes on the tire with her little legs flung high out of the way. You can just see the glint of the blue speck inside her left brown eye. (This, and all of these pics, were taken by Bruce at BAMFoto)

She's not panting here--that's her happy running mouth. You can see it in most of her photos.

This one's got it all--the little blue eye dot, the happy mouth, the little front leg fling... Go, Belle, Go!

Connery hits those same weaves with fierce concentration (and the cutest little face!)

Typical Connery waiting at the start line. "HURRY MYMOM HURRY!"

…Monday

Or, in Duncan’s case, the call of the modest fenced pasture.

He. Wants. It.

Duncan loves his pasture. Doesn’t matter how scarce those grass blades or how studded with prickly pear. He has a south flat shared with agility equipment and junipers and one gorgeous piñon, a north flat of yucca and prickly pear in which we sometimes ride, and a rugged, offset connection corridor curving around behind the house–the little arroyo, full of piñon, juniper, snags, and cactus.

Beyond that fence line, he can only gaze upon the plunging deep true arroyo, which is really just as well.

The paddock itself is plenty generous–different shade choices, flats and slopes and the barn. Zones for winter hang-out, zones for summer hang-out. Room to cut loose now and then.

Say, when he has a serious case of Pasture Wannit.

Because it doesn’t matter how dry, it doesn’t matter how sparse. He loves his pasture.

Unfortunately for him, although this land is meant to be grazed–by antelope, deer, elk, and bunnies–it isn’t meant for heavy use. It’s meant for animals who wander through, nibbling along the way. So that means while he’s good for this land, he’s also bad for it. (If he wasn’t a barefoot horse, he’d be even worse for it.) And in this dry, pre-monsoon season, that means he has only a few hours out, every other day or so.

This is, he says, not nearly enough. So he has a procedure through which to satisfy his Wannit.

First up: The determined and steely stare over the gate.

DuncanHorse: You. Will. OPEN.

When this fails, a quick circle around to glare with stare part 2:

DuncanHorse: Feel my wrath building! SNORT!

I have to say the gate is seldom impressed. Even the universe seems to have other things to do.

Next? Pawing at the gate. He doesn’t do this for any other reason, and he’s not pawing the ground. He lifts his front leg remarkably high and scrapes his hoove along the metal.

DuncanHorse: Must. Develop. Opposable. Digits.

Sadly, he does not.

And so the fun begins.

DuncanHorse: Wrath! SNORT! FLING MY HEELS! SPURT AWAY WITH AMAZING POWER! STOMP! STAMPEDE! LEVITAAAAATE!

Somewhere in that process, I often amble out to enjoy the show. Somewhere in this process, he becomes bored with himself, but doesn’t want to admit it. There follows a great spate of snort! Snorty snort!

And then suddenly, it’s…

Flirt. Flirt flirt flirt.

DuncanHorse: Am I handsome?

DuncanHorse: See my eyelashes?

DuncanHorse: See my curvy neck?

DuncanHorse: The gate is right there beside you…

Nice try, Duncan. Here’s a hug, a pat, and a cookie.

DuncanHorse: Kiss my nose?

Always!

The Power Snit: That there is the Lippie Engine at work. Also, that is what we call "the Neck of Annoyance."

The Power Snit Sprint upon take-off. Not a great angle, but that is one hard-workin' butt

Proof of the butt: Suddenly--full gallop! In rather tight quarters, you may notice.

"See? See my flirty neck?"

"My super flirty neck! Here I come! Time to kiss my nose!"