These Certain Musings

The dogs started their raw food diet last week, chowing down on chicken quarters every morning. Yesterday they had rack of lamb as a treat. In the evening, they have a raw apple, carrots, or banana. They both believe this raw food thing is the bestest most wonderfulest idea ever.

Despite all the reading and research I've done on raw feeding over the last year-plus, I still couldn't shake my fear of feeding the dogs raw chicken bones. Thus I sat on the back porch as they ate, ready to intervene at the first sign of trouble.

Hah.

Ty the Wonderdog had no trouble at all--expected, since he lived on the farm for years and dined on... whatever he and the other farm dog sniffed out in the woods. Seriously, there was a patch of meadow up the hill from our house we nicknamed The Bone Yard because it was the dogs' favorite place to stash their treasure when they could eat no more. I once found a... a thing that so grossed me out, I was determined to get rid of it. After a couple attempts the dogs foiled, I decided to dump it in the fast-moving river, figuring the coyotes that roamed in the woods down there would eventually grab it. That was not to be. Instead the dogs swam down the river to retrieve the thing and return it to The Bone Yard.

So yes, Ty is quite accustomed to raw food.

Gambit was another matter. He was absolutely certain he should love-love-love the chunk of raw meat in his mouth, but he couldn't figure out how to eat it. By the time Ty was licking his lips in satisfaction, Gambit was just starting to experiment with tearing off little nibbles. Ty looked on as Gambit went from nibbling to gnawing. I'm sure he would have pitched in to demonstrate technique, if I hadn't been watching. But in the end, Gambit succeeded in finishing his meal.

Seven raw meals later, it's obvious they're not having trouble with bones, or any other part of the meal. Gambit still takes longer to eat his portion than Ty, but danged near any creature would take longer to eat than Ty.

As for the miscellany:

I've been scolded about working my arm too much--a scolding brought about because I was stupid and re-injured it and am back to wearing a soft brace all the time.

Related to the above, I'm sitting on the Black Belt Review Board today--very excited to watch one of my students test, and excited/sad to watch three adults of my own cohort test because I was supposed to be testing with them.

We shall see how much progress I can make on Crossroads before the end of November. Yesterday was my day to believe everything I write is junk. Stupid junk. Stupid, derivative, incomprehensible, boring junk. But I've been here before and, just like my occasional certainty I'm a clumsy and substandard karateka, the feeling passes.

The above feeling was shown the door this morning, when I got a note from a friend that said his coworker liked my first book and wanted to know when the next one would be coming out.

And, in the most important news of all... DEV PASSED THE WRITTEN DRIVING TEST AND NOW HOLDS A REAL LICENSE. This means that, on Sunday, I can hand him the car keys, he can drive himself to and from work, and I can stay home.

It also means the beginning of fret-festivals every time he leaves the house on his own. I'm assuming the edges of that worry will dull over time, much the same way as every other fear.

Lastly, and least importantly, I've been feeling restless again. Truly, I should have figured out how to have a career as a travel writer. It's been months since I've traveled more than 50 miles from home. I'll be heading to Denver in December, but will be staying with family, so that doesn't really count.

When I was ten years old, three of my bedroom walls were painted bright pink. The fourth wall was wallpapered with something meant to look like a patchwork quilt of pink, blue, yellow and green patterned squares bordered with white rick-rack. I thought it was the most beautiful bedroom ever.

My favorite scent is night-blooming jasmine, followed closely by fresh lilac, followed closely by the dusty scent of pine trees in high, dry summer.

I don't collect tea cup sets, but my grandmother did. Thus I have about two dozen lovely tea cups and saucers.

Sometimes I crave stuffed mushrooms of the sort made by a restaurant outside San Luis Obispo that's changed too many times to have the same menu. The mushrooms were stuffed with cream cheese and green chilies, broiled in butter, and served surrounded with cubes of warm, soft sourdough bread. I've tried to recreate it home—it sounds so simple!—but it's not quite the same.

I performed with a show choir my freshman year of high school.

I much prefer hardwood or tile floors over carpeting, though nice rugs are certainly nice on a winter's morning.

My father used to call me Baby Flamingo and carry me through the house on "flamingo rides" before bed. To this day, my little sister picks up the odd flamingo gift for me now and then, the most recent being a Christmas stocking bearing a flamingo in a Santa hat.

I do not like to swim.

The first year I lived on the farm, I had to help fight a sudden brush fire on the property. It was enough of a crisis that I ran out of my house to help while still wearing slippers. I couldn't find a shovel, so grabbed a plastic rake. It was a relatively small and slow-moving fire, but determined to take the hill from us. By the time we stopped it, my rake had melted down to a nub and my charred slippers were falling off my feet.

I once had to see a doctor because I'd badly sprained my wrist during a scene in Antigone. I had been wearing handcuffs at the time of injury. That was fun to explain to the nursing staff.