But It's a Dry Heat

Archive for the ‘Greyhounds’ Category

The Music of Chaos, Now in Print!

Buy a book or the cute greyhound will have to go back to a miserable life of racing, stuck in a tiny crate all day, fed horrible food, abused.  You wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?

Then buy a book, save a puppy dog.

Shorter sales pitch: The dead tree version of The Music of Chaos is now available!

There they are. Some of my author copies of The Music of Chaos, my debut novel.  I tried to enlist the Wonder Horse‘s help in selling, but his version of marketing involved chomping his big, yellow teeth on the books. (Everybody’s a critic.)

My author’s copies arrived yesterday.  Prompting the immediate response of, “Oh, crap. Now I’ve got to sell my book in two formats!”

I love the idea of an ebook. But there’s something about holding your book in your hands, the smell of ink and glue, that makes any writer all … giggly.  Like a schoolgirl. Titter.

Here’s the short version of the book blurb:

“Blind dates are always a train wreck.”

By day, Regan O’Connell is a highly respected project manager.  By night, she’s a Wolfe, a paranormal agent working for a vampire syndicate.

Her two worlds collide when a co-worker sets her up with tall, dark and sexy Jason Lake.  Jason is a Holder, a member of an ancient, all-human organization dedicated to policing the activities of things that go bump in the night. Things like half-vampire Regan.

Falling for the wrong guy is the least of Regan’s problems. There’s a murderer on the loose, and his favorite weapon is chaotic magic, an erratic force with the power to rip holes in the fabric of the universe. And the best way to catch the killer is to get close to Jason, the man who is not only her enemy, but her prime suspect.

Buy it now (please) at Decadent Publishing or Amazon.

For those who want instant gratification, you can download the ebook version: Decadent Publishing, Amazon/Kindle, and B&N/Nook.

Or you can sample a chapter–FREE.

 

I’m Magical. I Made Food.

This is comic gold.  Especially for dog people.

Packing all of your belongings into a U-Haul and then transporting them across several states is nearly as stressful and futile as trying to run away from lava in swim fins.

Casa de Kirby made the move across this big nation twice.  Our dogs, who shall forever be known as the greatest dogs ever, enjoyed the entire adventure.  Of course they did.  They didn’t have to worry about finding a rental housing with two dogs, one quite large.  They didn’t worry about starting a new job in a strange city.  They weren’t bewildered by strange regional vernacular.  I.e., the practice of calling a pickup truck a “rig.”  Que?

Me?  My ulcers had ulcers.

(Pictured: Our current grey and his birthday present, Mr. Squirrel.)

Do You Really Want to Say That?

I’m queen of “speak first, consult brain later” conversation. But eventually, my brain does catch up with my mouth, I realize I sound like a blithering idjit, and I shut up.

But some people have an amazing capacity to spew stupidity without an ounce of self-awareness. Most of these people are in politics, but ordinary folks aren’t immune to stupid.

One particular encounter with stupid revolves around a stray dog. The setting being the morning dog walk, a few days ago.

The greyhound is extremely shy. As far as he’s concerned, there are only two trustworthy beings in the universe. Me and my husband. Everyone else, including his fellow canines, is suspect.

The last thing he wants is to meet and greet pushy stray dogs, even if they are “friendly.” If pushed too hard, he’s likely to get snappish. In my experience, even “friendly” dogs can get nasty when provoked, so my standard stray/off-leash dog procedure is to keep the loose dog away from the hound.

When we were approached that morning by a big, black, lab/shepherd mix, I did what I always do. I stood my ground, glared at the dog, waved my walking stick menacingly, and said, in a deep, growly voice, “No!”

This dog, who I suspect was quite sweet, was also dumber than a bag of hammers. And he just kept coming. So I scooped up a handful of gravel and chucked it at him, repeating the “No!” And he marched toward us, gravel bouncing off his coat, unfazed.

The hound was already at the end of his leash, near panic. When the black dog got within whacking range, I gave him a firm tap with the stick. This deterred him for about a second, at which point,…lather, rinse repeat.

This unfortunate beast was clearly the kind of canine genius who would come home with a snout full of porcupine quills, day after day, after day.

Anyway, as this is going on, a guy from a nearby property peered over his fence and said, “Whose dog is that?”

“I don’t know,” I said and whacked the poor, nit-witted dog again.

“What?” said the guy. At which point, I gave him an exasperated shrug. He started to babble about who he thought owned the dog. I, having pushed the stray far enough away, continued on, ignoring whatever the man was saying.

I’m not good at thinking on my feet. But what I should have said was, “This dog? He’s mine. It’s a game we play. I take him for a walk, let him go, and then throw rocks at him and beat him with a stick. He loves it!”

Oy.

Good Thing He’s Cute

After spending the morning staring at the computer screen at work, wondering, “What the hell is it I do I here?” I’m back home.  And staring at the computer screen.

My faithful greyhound enters the office, walking carefully over the saltillo tiles.   He makes it to the area rug, sighs in relief, and plops down next to my chair.

“Now this is nice,” I think.  “Exactly why I have a dog.  Companionship.”

A few seconds later he starts farting.  Big dog.  Big, fetid, meaty farts.

I grab a sketchpad and wave it around to clear the air every time he lets one fly.  After about a dozen repetitions of this, Mr. Sensitive gets offended and leaves.

He doesn’t, however, have the good grace to takes the stench with him.

Greyhounds are better seen than smelled.