Sheila's LiveJournal

The weather has been nice here in the mornings, with a healthy layer of marine fog that keep the temperature down, at least until noon. The greys and I have taken advantage of this for long walks along the bluffs, admiring the ocean views and the passing joggers and people walking dogs. Needless to say, the greys love this part! But while Jack is friendly to all, two-leggeds and four, Annie is afraid of little dogs.

I’m not sure why this is. I’ve seen her go snarly mouth to snarly mouth with a mean-looking Rottweiler, and pitbulls don’t faze her. I had to take her home from the dog-park once because she thought she could answer a pit’s challenge. But little dogs make her hide behind me until the menace has gone away.

Meanwhile, Jack has started to bark when somebody he doesn’t know comes to my door. To understand the magnitude of this, you have to know that greys don’t make great watch-dogs, and they usually don’t bother barking. Too much energy, maybe? They’re both nine now, Jack edging towards nine-and-a-half, so they’re officially seniors – although greys can live to be twelve to fourteen with good care, and I know of at least two that made it to within days of their sixteenth birthdays. They’re basically “little dogs on long legs” according to one vet!

So I’m giving them a break from playing therapy dog at the hospice because I’ve noticed Jack is showing signs of stress lately, for some reason. If I take Annie without him, she’ll sulk and he’ll be heart-broken. He wasn’t too thrilled with the last Meet n’ Greet we did for Greyhound Rescue, either. (Since his devastating illness a couple of years ago, I’ve kept a close watch on where he carries his tail.) I think his energy level is just a lot lower than normal.

Now, if only Nicky the Resident Feline God will quit bossing them about....

The three of us spent a couple of hours at the hospice today, the dogs performing their roles as therapy dogs. I really could hardly spare the time as I'm working hard on a story with an August 1st deadline, but the dogs hadn't visited the patients since before July 4th when I was away. And last week I had a nasty bout of sciatica that made me not want to walk dogs anywhere. The residents were beginning to complain that we were abandoning them. (Very often, the first words I'm greeted with when I go in alone the rest of the week are, "Where are Jack and Annie?")

For Jack and Annie it was as if there'd been no break. They waltzed right in like the pros they are and began lavishing affection on people who wanted it -- or in some cases, didn't know they wanted it, but the dogs saw they *needed* it and persuaded them. They have an instinct for that.

The house's two cats came out of hiding and glowered at the greyhounds, but my dogs have been put in their place by our own resident cat, and as a result they wouldn't dream of offending any cats anywhere, any time.

Now we're home, they've had dinner and are snoozing, and as soon as I sign off here I'm going right back to that story.

I'm packing for Westercon in Tempe, over the July 4th weekend. I already took the greyhounds to stay with my daughter. The cat and I will spend a romantic night alone together here before my plane leaves tomorrow morning. I'm sure he's thrilled!

I'm especially looking forward to a panel Sunday morning with Stan Schmidt and Juliette Wade on creating alien languages.

I'm home, and ready for a nap. I spent Thursday and Sunday nights with family, and the two in between at the Nebula Hotel in Brentwood (anybody remember OJ?) on Sunset. Samantha Henderson and I had the air conditioner (not) from hell in our room; the hotel "maintenance" (I use the term advisedly) couldn't fix it, and the only way not to roast to death in our sleep was to turn it off altogether. But then we had no fresh air, being on the first floor, with a walkway passing our sliding door -- and no way to lock it into a safe open position.

Other than that, and a few other "interesting" problems with the hotel, the affair was very enjoyable. It's always great to see old friends and talk business. I had the additional pleasure of meeting up with some former students of mine that I hadn't seen in years. And the Festival of Books was comfortably warm, but breezy, nowhere near the oven conditions that prevailed last year. Sold books, talked to more friends, and generally had a good time.

And when I came home, with the dogs, Nickie ignored me -- as I'd expected he would. However, when I went into the study to turn on the desktop and get email, I found he'd expressed his disapproval of being left at home. There, on one of the dog's beds, was a little pile of cat poop.

I'm off tomorrow to the Nebula Conference and Awards Banquet in Los Angeles. Although the hotel is only about fifty miles away from where I live, I'll have to make close to a two hundred mile round trip because I have to take the greyhounds out to my daughter's house in San Jacinto in the Moreno Valley to stay. Actually, that's not too bad because it will give me a chance to take them out to dinner tomorrow night, before heading to LA Friday morning, and then spend Sunday evening with them on my return as well. I haven't seen this daughter and family since Christmas, so it will be a pleasant visit.

The Nebs are being held at the same time as the LA Times Festival of Books, and SFWAns will be signing at the Mysterious Galaxy Booth (#614) on the UCLA campus. My slot is Sunday at 10am for an hour, and I'll be signing THE GUILD OF XENOLINGUISTS. (I have a few copies of the newly reprinted backlist, so I may take them along too and see if anyone wants to buy them.)

Oh – Nicky the cat wants it noted that he will stay bravely at home by himself and keep an eye on the marauding sparrows and hummingbirds who infest our balcony. (Actually, a neighbor will look in on him once a day, so he won't be totally alone, but don't tell him I told you!)

I had been home from ConDor for about thirty minutes, the dogs --who'd been vacationing with other greys for the weekend -- were with me. I petted Nicky, and opened the balcony door so he could go out and prowl around since he'd been shut in the condo all weekend.

As I said, thirty minutes. Max.

I turned around to go into the bathroom (I was unloading the suitcase) and there on the floor was a dead sparrow surrounded by feathers that wasn't there two minutes ago.

"Hah. Welcome home, mom. This is what I think of your absence. Now try to figure out how I caught a sparrow on the balcony so quickly!"

I'm gathering stuff together in preparation for a trip to ConDor in San Diego this weekend. The greyhounds will go with me and stay two nights with a friend from greyhound rescue -- so they get to party with five other greys for the weekend.

Then a rather pissed-off kitty appeared (with what looks like his protest post-it stuck to his fur), reminding me that just because he's brave enough to stay home by himself for two nights, I shouldn't overlook him. The subtext is, if I should be dumb enough to neglect his feelings, I will pay for it in shredded toilet paper -- his latest game in the bathroom. Or worse, of course.