PUBLISHING PARTY

Don's chilling horror novel is finally up and ready for reading at your nearby
Dark Realm Press e-bookstore. This process has been as painful and energy draining as the horrific acts committed by Don's more bestial characters--i.e., vampires--and it has taken so maddeningly long, it's almost hard to believe the work has actually reached total completion. Hurrah, hurrah, my dear Don! E-publisher is calling for a sequel. I have to plan a getaway, or something, because when he writes, Don more or less disappears into another world. It gets lonely.

I suggested getting a bottle of champagne to celebrate, but mostly as a joke, since I am still battling possibly the world's most vicious sore throat. At the recommendation of a friend I trust, this afternoon I sprang for a bottle of cayenne capsules, which she assured me would kill all the bad thingies currently befouling my system. I swallowed two caps, and about a half-hour later went through a bout of extreme nausea and--surprise!--a vast burning sensation in my gut. I just squeaked by without hurling. I think it may be working, though, since my throat feels more normal--just a little achy around the tonsil area.

So the celebratory fiesta tonight will consist of a Vicki-cooked dinner (which we've not had for a week) and television--trustworthy, faithful television. Last night was a red-letter one because after a month's absence "24" was back on, a stunning example of exciting TV, an hour of almost unendurable action/tension.
Jack Bauer and his CTU pals are confronting a designer virus of hideous virulence. I can relate.

AGAINST ALL ENEMAS

My husband reads my blog, so I can't disappoint him. Nevertheless, my entire being remains in a state of miserable quiescence as I recover from a virus that struck without warning in the wake of some prolonged business meetings. I been sick!! Really sick. But here I go, for as long as my fingers and awareness last.

I live north of Los Angeles now and thought I never could--being a Westside snob for so many years, an apartment dweller with hip vicinities close enough to my doorstep to call my own: Main Street in Venice, Rodeo Drive, Melrose Ave. in Hollywood, and once my personal fave, Westwood, next-door neighbor to UCLA. (All miles and miles from each other. New Yorkers would not grok their California closeness!) Well, I've long since lived far away from these territories in the Valley boonies. Maybe its my age or my unanticipated proximity to arch conservatives, but I'm now more comfortable living away from the self-consciously trendy places that do little more than absorb your time and money. But we had to be down there this weekend, and you could say we hit the poshest of the posh at one point in Beverly Hills, but even that delicious`high-point and its veneer of monied invincibility failed to thwart the virus that laid in wait.

Don made a joke at the first meeting about giving up a colonoscopy to be there; he elicited the expected laughs, but the fact of the matter is that as we age those kinds of torturous medical exams must be endured, and any excuse to postpone 'em is most welcome. I've already had mine and am off the hook for 10 years. But overdue for a mammo-wham. This aging thing so sucks!

But I digress. All was seriousness and hilarity and angst and projections and the tacit promise of more meetings ahead. Then we got in the car to go home. And it struck. I lost my voice. My tonsils swelled. I felt like I'd been pummeled with a battering ram. Out of nowhere, tiny microscopic barbarians surrounded the soft tissues and with grisly ferocity chewed away my mellow presence of mind. By the time I arrived home, I could barely swallow. I ran for the ibuprofen. My throat was a horror story.

Years ago I acquired tonsillitis and the doctor suggested an unusual but effective treatment: "Buy an enema bag," he directed. "Fill it with the hottest water you can stand and three tablespoons of salt. Irrigate your throat with that every hour for three days." That, (as exhausting and revolting as it was) and an antibiotic, did the trick. But did I really want to go buy an enema bag? Like, wouldn't be more "me" to spend the money on something cute, something from Melrose Ave. perhaps? I mulled that over, took more ibuprofen and collapsed into bed.

Later in the weekend I was well enough to watch Tim Russert gently question Richard Clarke on "Meet the Press." As his eyes darted back and forth, Mr. Clarke adroitly recalled dates and times and meetings and when George W. pointedly asked him if Iraq might have been involved in 9-11. The spin was in, and it was trash the Bush administration. Tim asked Clarke about the convenient timing of his book release, and he shrugged, "I have no control over that." With my energy flagging, I tried to imagine Clarke with a sore throat. Forced to irrigate with an enema bag. Couldn't do it. Only real people are once in a lifetime asked to aim enema bags at their throats, to purge the pain with salt and persistence; the rest fill the bag the usual way and aim it at their chosen enemies, an attempt to purge politics and people they can't abide. Clarke, like his peers, has lead-lined tonsils and Kevlar hide, and can take meetings, power lunches, testimonies, interviews, what have you, and sail through them unperturbed. Some of us fall ill after a couple of business meetings.

Meanwhile, the larger barbarians with an abject hatred of all things American lie in wait for another chance to bring us down, to kill us. What's almost worse is knowing of the attention lavished on entrenched bureaucrats--ostensibly good Americans--who will cheerfully exploit such tragedy for their own gain, forgetting who the real enemies are.

ROCKS & BONES

Bruni and her two Rottweilers were again on the main trail; they were coming down as Buckwheat and I were hiking up. I guess we have a tacit understanding now, since I can call Buckweat and after some "I wanna play" whines and racing back and forth he eventually comes over and I grab his collar while walking past B. and the two patient, kerchiefed dogs that sit quietly beside her. We never talk. She's distant and unfriendly. It means nothing.

Buckwheat and I relish these mornings. Our usual hikes are more involving now, since I've begun collecting smoothe rocks worn down by water flows that must have sculpted the canyon millenia ago. I confess to having a "thing" about rocks, and my excuse for collecting these otherwise unremarkable specimens of ancient geological upheavals is a need for the right size rock here and there to add to my desert garden, where I've planted two noble cacti that have grown to be the centerpieces of the backyard. They need chic rocks for accessorizing. I've also planted two other heat-tolerant plants that I've circled with brick edging, but one of 'em was partially displaced by you-know-who, who tried to bury a bone chewie that I gave him yesterday. When I found it, half chewed and gritty with dirt, I rinsed it off and gave it back to him with a stern warning. He looked repentant, but I'll bet dollars to dog bones he'll be back at that poor plant before its roots have had a chance to recover.

Don and I will be driving south to the Westside tomorrow morning, a real change of pace. Days of dirt, dog, work and stones calls for some urban action.

MEDIAWATCH

Don was a brief radio guest in St. Louis yesterday, and his few minutes on air in flyover country pointed up the crass ignorance of so many talk show hosts whose producers crave ratings--let's call them audio
Pop-Rocks--at the expense of good information. Of course the interview was by phone, and just before he was invited to comment, Don heard the host exclaim to his listening audience that UFOs were a bunch of hooey--he didn't think there was anything to 'em! So Don's first words were, "Well, if you don't think there's anything to UFOs, why are you having me on your show?" Which was a smart and terrific come-back that caught the guy totally off-guard. Then, as is his unique proclivity, Don launched into an articulate, sound-byting introduction to the field. Suddenly the line went dead. No call back. Clearly the host was overwhelmed and no doubt had some clever put-downs of Don, the mag, or both to mollify his audience.

Along with rampant homogenization, modern media fails the public by ridiculing or ignoring facts and issues that might cross the bounds of the politically correct or the easily assimilated, the UFO phenomenon being outside even those wide categories by having a radicalizing influence just at their mere mention. They're subject to two-way exploitation, by being laughed at yet counted on as audience grabbers. Thus, over the years we've watched many quasi-informative broadcasts and "specials" that ultimately disfavor the potential anomalous nature of UFOs by including comments from "the other side"--debunkers like Phil Klass, Michael Shermer and James Oberg, who are inevitably called upon to show the program's "impartiality," but who really act as escape valves for the producers as well as diluting the startling nature of the UFO facts themselves. Bottom line, the mass media audience is not prepared for the conglomerate of facts, and naturally, no mainstream media or government outlet will help with that admittedly revolutionary task.

Putting media alone in the hot-seat is unfair. The phenomenon itself began the trend of confounding everyone. Neither mass media nor all the governments of the world could effectively manufacture such an overarching suppression of factual data were it not for the UFO entity's own deceptive character. More on that in another blog entry.

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MONDAY--SUNNY, HAZY, STUPID--MONDAY

I failed to drag out another cob-webbed garage box today; instead I refilled the bird feeder hanging by our front window. Then I went to Office Depot and bought a new ink cartridge for our calculator and we began adding up receipts for deduction totals sure to enthrall the IRS. Taxes are a regular bugaboo (akin only to the proverbial death), but this year I feel a little more in control because (1) I made less money; and (2) I kept scrupulous track of my expenses. But I thought that last year, too, and ended up forking over quite a bit of dough to the Service, which, I am told, is a private organization that doesn't really have a legal right to the mountains of cash it wrenches from the trembling hands of us working stiffs. I've deliberately avoided looking too deeply into such info, on the reasonable theory that true rebels, once they take on the Federal Government in earnest, end up like those poor whackos in Waco. It's easier, and safer, to add up figures and store receipts and make calls to accountants like a tin-fingered automaton. But . . . my automaton's fingers can glisten like fool's gold and get all tingly at the slot machine, which is more fun than calculators.

Buckwheat did a nasty today while Don and I were out. He tore open my new sack of potting soil and spread it all over the back yard. Damn, I know it's Spring. The claustrophobic, hazy sunshine and flowery, loamy smells are getting to me, and spilt potting soil fills me with insensate rage. Lethargy overcomes me. I desire sweet foods and music and my honey. I am thirstier than usual and cannot concentrate. Spring is a despicable season, all mushy and indeterminate, like jello that's been left on the sink too long, or like that long-ago romance that felt so wonderful and went so nowhere.

I began my Spring by seeing Mel's "The Passion of the Christ," which may have been a mistake, but I was driven to see the thing causing as much furor as the gay marriage issue. Jesus was literally ripped up by Roman soldiers, his body flailed into bloody pulp. But the movie was a grand, intense spectacle in every way, just too graphically crucifixion-fixated for someone of my spiritual background. I was brought up to see the Christ spirit as principally forgiveness, love and grace; that this spirit is within each one of us. Dying on the cross, Jesus said, "Behold, I make all things new." The wisdom of that transcendent statement! Christ died for our sins? The Christ lives as our love and blessings.

That's not to say that the blood and agony and leering devil of that movie weren't just perfect for Springtime.

A GRANDMOTHERLY SORT

(Don wants me to make sure I tell you that he went through today's box. We threw away about 1/8th of what was in it.)

I called son Eric and daughter-in-law Julie but really wanted to talk to my 3-year-old grandson Roy. His attention span keeps him on the phone for approximately 10 to 15 seconds, so I have to get in my "hi, honey"s and "I love you"s pretty darn fast before he runs off, though I can't tell and I'm jabbering away when Julie gets on the phone and informs me he's off to get a toy or something. I still have trouble understanding him when he has something to say, but Julie helps interpret.

The hardest part of being a grandmother is admitting you're a grandmother--how could I possibly have grandkids when I still feel like a kid myself most days?--and the second hardest thing is not being able to be with them all the time. I have two now, (Gus is 6 months) and two lawyers are their parents, so organization and money are never much of an issue for them, although they rarely talk about it. So I really wouldn't know. Eric, my super-bright, super cute "boy," just bought a cabin in Big Bear, an investment property the family can enjoy and recently did during a snowy weekend. Equity, equity. My kid understands that sort of thing, and perhaps someday, if my ship comes in and I'm not at the airport when it does, he can help build our equity. What is freedom? Not paying mortgages? Anyway, a few years ago Eric wrote a book about 21st century business innovations, and when I mention it he just kind of shrugs it off.

Had breakfast with Renee and she told me about a friend who's largely idle and on disability, but used to hang out with distinctly wealthy and famous types, rock 'n' rollers. According to Renee, she got by for so many years on just looks and charm that she never really developed her own "thing," and is now paying for it with an aberrant addiction to television. She helpless without her TV set, which recently went bonkers and threw her into a tizzy. She doesn't drive and so was calling friends, asking them to rush her to Circuit City for a new TV. She obviously doesn't have grandkids. With her TV she maintains a virtual existence, and Renee is perplexed that she can go through life without some kind of purpose and occupation. Together we agreed that an individual life is broadened and made healthy through satisfying work or other daily involvement. But later I lapsed into my cosmic mindframe. Who says watching television can't be a purpose? Someone has to do it. Perhaps her friend made her own sort of progress over the years for just such a reason. To watch TV, and to have the government send her money.

Since I've matriculated into my grandmotherly era, I've noticed more time spent with the television. It worries me, but this has always been a shared hobby for Don and me. We met during "Miami Vice" and have lasted through three seasons of "CSI"! While his TV interests have promiscuously spread into practically anything on the SCI FI Channel as well as FOX News, I've judiciously kept my "must-see TV" narrowed down to "60 Minutes," "CSI," "Monk" and that's about it. And not even "Monk" sometimes, because it comes on at the laughably late hour of 10 p.m. Grandma needs her beauty sleep.

TODAY'S BOX

Woke up with a relatively mild but intrusive headache--the kind where cords of pain squeeze the head from temple to temple and getting out of bed provokes slight queasiness. Gee, what a shock!--could this icky state possibly be from the to-die-for buffet + wine (both white and red) that Don and I were treated to at Marina Yacht Club? What's a little headache when a new magazine is off the press and you're celebrating the event at arguably one of the Coast's most exclusive outfits? Besides a sumptuous repast, the Club serves up all the polished wood and boating accoutrements an elite sailor could ask for, including magnificent silver trophies won by long-forgotten boating heroes. Just walking around engenders an "Ahem, I am one of these yachting people" feeling. I liked it. But next time I might skip dessert. (Chocolate cake with whipped frosting topped with chocolate sprinkles, delicate tiramisu and the chocolatey-ist brownie ever.)

Anyway, the whole thing was a much-needed break from our typical fast-food outings. This morning, recovering with Excedrin and coffee, I joined Don on the patio and wasn't there five minutes before my compulsive review of the garage mess began. But I have a plan. We have boxes and boxes of old papers, magazines, broken furniture, my dead mom's stuff, Christmas decorations, junk, junk and more junk filling the garage. We have a broken garage door, and a huge, ugly chair lying on its side out there. I simply can't stand it anymore! I walk out there and see my neighbors calling the sheriff to report hazardous conditions in the neighborhood! So, scholar of organizational techniques that I am, I've decided to break down the juggernaut into manageable (!) tasks, starting by taking a box to Don every day and together rifling through it to decide what we can get rid of without inviting eternal retribution from the Gods. Today's box is filled with cords and old computer speakers. Sounds simple, except we have three other boxes with the same kind of stuff! Don won't part with anything electronic.

Today's box has been presented to Don for the last three days. "Take it out," he grumbles. "But that's what I'm trying to do . . ." I grumble back. "We need to . . . " Then he changes the subject. The frustration is nearly unbearable. What is his neurosis? At this rate, if we can get through "today's box" before next week, I'll consider it a success. What helps me in these moments is replacing my garage picture with that of something like the yacht club. People who own yachts don't live like this! I'm certain of that.

NOT QUITE FRIDAY

Don had to go to the VA to to get some dental work done, and I came along. Sometimes I cannot read anything with any real concentration unless I'm waiting for someone or something, so I took along my unread U.S. News and World Report, Entertainment Weekly and L.A. Magazine. The latter had several interesting stories, not the least of which was a profile of actor Ron McLarty and how his extraordinary writing compulsion, bearing 8 novels consistently spurned by publishers, finally bore fruit when his direct-to-audio (first ever) book Memories of Running was heard by Stephen King, who loved it so much he wrote a review for EW. Offers in the low millions followed! Such is the power of name and PR.

I highly recommend that some savvy writer-celebrity read my husband's chiller of a first novel
Past Sins --- Well hey, it's already happened! Our dear friend Dwight Schultz has written a blurb for the Gateway site where Don's book will soon debut, and it is smashing. Don's novel is an awesome horror-thriller about vampires--and these are not, if you'll pardon the expression, your pussy vampires a la Anne Rice. These are the real thing; think John Carpenter on PCP! Not for the squeamish.

It's weirdly wonderful: My son, my husband, my close working associates and my best friend have all written books! And I thought for sure it would be me who would get there first! My book fantasies have all but disappeared. But so much publishing energy is cycling around my environment I have vowed to swing into that desire again. All I need is one good idea . . .

TODAY'S OFFICIAL POST

Apart from futzing around with blog enhancements, I've little to say today. Buckwheat and I went on our usual constitutional, and it was typically fun, and no Bruni...in fact, we only saw one human being--a fireman at the way-close Fire Department 74 here in the canyon.
They're all so cute!What is it about firemen? Buckwheat saw, and chased, a rabbit and a squirrel, so it was a really good day. As usual, the critters were too fast, which is as it must be.

I'm trying to kick-start my brain cells for the next issue, and hope to see the current (April/May) issue in a day or two. Made one tentative assignment, to the ever faithful Sean, and feel the embers of the last issue slowly beginning to re-ignite into the eventual fiery tempest that will somehow miraculously manifest a magazine. Just because I've been doing it for 18 years doesn't mean it's easy.

I inherited junk jewelry from my Mom, and one item was a green rhinestone 3-leaf clover. I wore it on my dress yesterday and it fell off. I think it fell off when I went to the store, so it's probably gone forever.
Now I'm wearing a green rhinestone frog.That, and a Beck's lite beer, is the sum of all St. Patty's Day for moi. Don is more committed; he'll be drinking a Guiness. Sure and begorrah!

Now I be gonnah!

GRADUALLY ADDING BELLS & WHISTLES!

It worked! I couldn't be happier. (I lie. Yes, I could be happier. Life would be better, and less gastrointestinally discomfiting, if I didn't have tax organizing to do. I will rope my spouse into it. But enough of that.)

So . . . for those three or four hardy folks who may have stumbled on to this blog (that includes my spouse!), I will merrily add some links. For instance, the place that kinda explains my day job, or the site that I spend some quality game time at, and, oh what the hell, the place I'd really like to spend quality game time at, and I do mean spend . . . I'm gettin' the hang of this. I really am!

Back later. Have work to do. Will bring more links on my next visit. Happy St. Patrick's Day!

THIS IS ONLY A TEST!

Because she is a fine person and she cares--she really, really cares--my friend and colleague Nancy has shown me the "tagging" that should allow me to have both bold and italic words within my text! She also explained something called "hyper-reference," or href, which, God willing, will even permit me, oh joy of joys, to add the ever-important links!

Dare I hope this works? WE SHALL SEE!

BLOG CLOG

This blogging thing is fun and easy, too!

I wish. Don't ask me why, but you know the icons that help you add links, special fonts and all that? Well, they're not on my template. All I have is the spell-check doohickey. Which is a tad superfluous, because I'm a world-class speller. Usually. But what I really want to do is add bold type, italics for emphasis, that kind of thing. But most of all, I WANT TO ADD LINKS! The Blogger support site tells you what keystrokes to use when you have a PC-format browser, like I do, and when I tried it all seemed to be going delightfully well . . . until I entered the stuff. Then, Wham! It erased ALL my copy! I had written two engaging paragraphs, too, on Sedna.

If you're asking, "Who's Sedna?"--you're not watching the news. That's the new "planetoid" that was just discovered in our solar system--some 80 billion miles from the sun! Or is it 8 billion? Better check my NASA info for accurate claims. (Here's where I would have dutifully put a link so you could flip to the NASA site yourself. But, no. My Blogger template is three icons shy of a full altar, if you catch my drift!) Sedna, besides being larger than a local comet and smaller than Pluto, is red, like Mars, and "highly reflective," like nothing else Cal Tech lead scientist Dr. Michael Brown or others have ever seen in the vast, populated sky. "Frankly, we're baffled," he told the virtual gathering of news monkeys, including me, at yesterday's phone-in NASA news conference. "There's no answer at the moment, period." One potentially eerie mystery hanging, like a huge luminous moon, unanswered. But where did that silly name Sedna come from? The round little icy object is named after an Inuit sea-goddess. Brown and his pals came up with that one.

About Buckwheat: We went around the park today and we ran into Bruni and her Rottweilers--I thought I'd timed it to miss her--but actually it was an innocuous encounter. With that expression like she owns the park, she just did her usual strident talk to her dogs while Bucky passed by with a few whines. Then, a few minutes later, we saw Caryn our neighbor and her Golden Retriever Rugar, whom Buckwheat considers his best friend. Such joy! Such bounciness! Such dog love!

Subject change--I'm saying it now before the entire world: I am going to construct a brick patio extension before summer, the one I've been promising for four years! You read it here first!!!

Power in Hermosa

I'm lovin' it . . . no, not McDonald's comfort food, but the new "empowerment team" C. and J. and I have created. C. wasn't available yesterday, so I met J. down at her Redondo Beach apartment. Before we headed on the longest walk I've taken in years, we sat around her ultra-fem apartment--fresh flowers, lots of lace, rosy fabric and ornate framed oils--I saw one I coveted; it looked like a Utrillo--and I got a hit from my past: she lives alone and likes it most of the time, until she starts thinking about her lost boyfriend and the husband she thinks she wants. Well anyway, the girl stays in the positive zone, so there was no moping --we began what I thought was going to be a short jaunt, but we walked all the way to Hermosa, non-stop.

Buckwheat woulda loved it.

What's neat about our Power Team (Don calls us the Powder Puff girls! He thinks that's so cute) is that a lot of time is spent talking about what we affirm that we can have in life, not about what we can't have or think we should have or used to have. What cracks me up is that I feel such a sense of contentment these day that the only thing that keeps coming up for me is More Money. I can have More Money! C. teaches English and writes, Joni teaches Yoga, models and gets online. I edit, and write periodically. All three of us have more than enough opportunities to create mounds of passive income. Much of the day was spent in creative visualization of same, mentally accessorizing with luxurious appointments such as toned bodies and kissable boyfriends (for J., of course).

But more general visualizations, too. I already manifested by being at the beach! The beach is my nest. The beach is my joy. The beach is where my body and soul become infused with universal well-being.
At one point J. talked about potentially purchasing a house in Tucson. I contemplated such an option for about 20 seconds. The size of a house I have now, or larger, for about $100,000 less. Tempting. But no accessible beach? Leave California? About as much a chance of that as selling Buckwheat!

Anyway, J. is the real Power chick when it comes to manifesting. She told me, "We're going to have the best table at Hennessy's." This, on a Saturday, at a hopping beach town that just happened to be having a St. Patrick's Day parade and street fair going on. Not to worry. Sshe strides up to the hostess just as pertly as can be and announces her name, nothing else. Pause. She might as well have said, "I'm Jennifer Anniston." In a few seconds the hostess hands her a placement card and directs us up to the upper patio, where we're seated at ....yup....the best table in the place, with an umbrella. (J. never lets her face endure the sun if she doesn't have to.)

At lunch we chatted about things we love. I said "live music." Within the hour we were seated in a boardwalk beer bar listening to live reggae! Can I manifest, or what?

When we got back to her abode (my legs weren't even aching--musta been the 25-oz. mug of Pilsner Urquel I drank--) she topped off the day with chocolate cookies and diet ginger aie) I saw pix of her old boyfriend and her portfolio. She's gorgeous. He's okay
But something better is in store for her. More Money for me.

March 12, 2004 Avoiding Terrorism

In an attempt to forget about the nearly 200 people killed in Madrid by those vicious al Qaeda fanatics, I took Buckwheat for an early-morning hike. Earlier than usual. We take such walks or hikes every day, and besides terrorism, they help me forget--or at least momentarily suppress--other stuff that just hurts to think about.
Buckwheat is a 100-lb. Lab/German Shepherd/Shar Pei mix. We think he might have other breeds in his bloodline, because he's bigger than both of his parents and people are always asking, "Hey, is that a Ridgeback?" (Sure enough, when Buckwheat hears or sees something he's not quite sure about, a distinct ridge of fur lines up on his graceful back.)
Don, my husband, picked him out of a $25-each litter of mutts and christened him Buckwheat, not out of any nostalgia for the darling little "pickaninny" in the "Our Gang" comedies, but in honor of the warm and down-home flavor of dog ownership and in and recognition of his coloring--like coffee-with-cream or...well, like a stalk of buckwheat. If I ever learn to post pictures on a blog, you'll see this beloved creature.
We live in a Southern California canyon backed up against scrub-and-sage covered foothills, with well-tread trails serving us and other dog-loving neighbors. Idyllic for a mature woman and her boy-toy doggie.
Unfortunately, dog ownership has it's own sort of elitism, and when Buckwheat and I run across that on our nearest favorite trail, we practice standing firm in our right to cavort unfettered--specifically, no leash.
Undue pride in trained attack dogs can be a uniquely American sort of terrorism. Now and again, like this morning, we cross paths with a stocky little brunette and her two black Rottweilers. SHE keeps her two rotties on a leash on this lonely trail. As big as he is, Buckwheat is still a puppy, heedlessly social, and of course as soon as he saw her dogs he whined and bounded straight for them.
"Oh, no," Ms. Brunette shouted, "This isn't good!"
"Calm down," I stated calmly." He's just a puppy. He won't hurt anything."
"I've got two dogs here . . ." she growled menacingly. For their part, the Rottweilers were unperturbed and sat next to their owner just as nice as you please. She whispered in their ears as if they would strike without hesitation, should she let her guard down. The implication was unmistakeable. Put your pooch on a leash or there'll be hell to pay. The leash was wrapped around my waist a little too confusingly, and the 30 seconds it took me to untangle it felt like forever. Why would this woman make me so nervous? Her dogs don't bother me a bit.
Once I had Buckwheat leashed, we sauntered past Brunie and her boys like we were in total control.Well, I controlled the impulse to raise my eyebrows and grunt. She was still whispering to her mutts, but I knew the danger was past. Buckwheat, bless his heart, joyfully gamboled up the trail as soon as the other dogs were no longer in sight. But Brunie's attitude stayed with me, reminding me that there are all degrees of terrorism in this world. Some are just easier to deal with, benign burdens of freedom. Putting my baby on a leash for a few moments was not a problem.
And go ahead, Brunie, stew about dog owners with undisciplined fur-bearing children. I stand by my right to keep Buckwheat free! And I bet we have more fun.