What a lovely birthday

Sophie and Jacob enjoying my birthday party.

Many thanks to my Facebook friends and others who've sent me birthday greetings today. I feel like Cinderella, and I've had a lovely day. The morning got off with a predictable scramble--feed each animal but keep them separate, catch up on emails, etc. and then to the grocery.
But then came the nice treat of lunch with Jordan and her friend/colleague Susan--many thanks to Susan for hosting and to both of them for a lovely arrangement of flowers. We went to one of my favorite places, and I had the club sandwich I always crave. Then home for a bit of work, and a bit of frustrating computer work, and a nice nap. Then up, too quickly, to prepare for dinner tonight. Jordan and Jacob arrived about 4:15, and we were at it, with Jordan saying, "Go get dressed, Mom." We had 12 adults and two kids--Jacob's friend Eva was absolutely terrified of the puppy--for supper. Lots of appetizers--an artichoke heart dip, hummus, onion soup/sour cream (that old standby), and my pickled radishes which a few people tried and raved about but they generally weren't eaten. Jay, my handsome neighbor, barbecued brats and turkey burgers, and I provided potato salad and baked beans. A hearty meal and a good time enjoyed by all.
The guest list was mixed--some of Jordan's friends, who are also my friends, and I'm flattered that these young people care enough about me to come to my party, bring me cards and wine, and spend much of the evening hanging out.. I'm really blessed. Then there was the older  crowd--friends of mine, though some not even as much as ten years older than Jordan's friends. Jay and Susan--with Jay as the chef for the evening, Mark and Melinda (she's from my office and a good friend), and Elizabeth, though without Weldon who was in California. It was really a jolly evening.
Sophie was the hit of the party--everyone took turns carrying her, playing with her, and loving on her, and she never seemed to tire though now she's lying peacefully at my feet.
Jordan did a yeoman's job tonight--putting dishes out, cleaning up the kitchen, taking Sophie out periodically. She is such a help, and I am so grateful--I hope she reads this and knows how much I appreciate all she does for me. And how happy she made my birthday.
OK, I don't mind getting older, though I resist Jacob's comments that when I die he'll take care of Sophie. He makes it sound like it will be next year. I am so blessed with family and friends and work I love to do and all the things that keep me  young--including right now Sophie who may keep me from exercising but does keep me on my toes.
So, again, thanks to all of you who joined in to make this a special day.

Tell me again why I wanted a puppy

I remember when I had newborn babies--I was tired all the time. Well, a nine-week-old puppy is like a newborn baby, only I'm forty years older and, yes, I'm tired all the time. Waking up is hard.
First of all, you simply can't train a puppy this young. For certain things,  you can train yourself--like taking her outside every hour. But there are complications there: I cannot take her in the front yard until she's four months old and has had her final parvo shots. Parvo is rampant this year, maybe because of heat and drought, so I'm doing all the protective things--spraying my shoes after going to a pet store, etc. A friend came to pick me  up for lunch one day and before I invited him in I asked, "Have you been to a public park? A dog park?" He looked at me solemnly and said, "Never in my life."
I can take her out in the back yard because my dog is innoculated and it's been long enough since I had the stray lab back there. That works really well--she poops and pees, as long as Scooby isn't out there. If he is, she gets so interested in him she forgets what she went out there for. And I can't take her at night--I'd lose a black puppy in the dark space on the side of my house. One night I tried a leash. I really went prepared for this--leash, flashlight, squeaky toy to which she will come. But she's so little, she just pulled her head out of her collar. There went that experiment.
I have heard of something called Puplight--a collar that has a bright light on the front, slanted so that it doesn't bother either pup or owner but still throws a good bit of light. I think I'll get one--but it's too soon.
Sophie was supposedly trained to a litter box filled with feline pine. She acts like she never saw it, never heard of it, hasn't a clue what to do with it. I did put those puppy pads down today, and I've had just a bit of luck with those. That may get better. Meantime I'm pulling up rugs in the places where she stays most.
A puppy playpen was recommended, so I bought one--not cheap. She barked and yelped and hated it for four and a half days and then discovered how to climb out. I did figure out a neat way to keep her in the kitchen today, using sections of the playpen, but only if I'm in there cooking. And she will stay happily in the bathroom while I shower, put on make-up, etc. But she definitely does not want to be out of human company.
I hate to crate her all the time--and she's too young really to understand that a crate is her nest. She does wet in it occasionally. But that's where I leave her when I go out--and her yelps follow me down the driveway.
Meantime Scooby, my Aussie, is scared of her and almost refuses to come in the house, even in this heat; the cat hates her. One thing Sophie has learned--she ducks when she sees the cat.
Jordan and Jacob have come many afternoons to play with both dogs, and they are a godsend. But I spend much of my time juggling animals, feeding, cleaning up messes, etc. On a good note, I've lost two pounds. Another good note: Jacob seems to have bonded with Scooby. I expected him to be friends with the pup, but she's too frenetic for him.
I know Sophie will turn into a good dog--she understands "NO" and "STAY" already and she's affectionate and loves human company, but there's a lot of training ahead of us. I think I'll feel better when she's four months, I can begin real training, and I can take her in the front yard.
Meantime, understand why I'm tired?
I'm happy to add a PS: Sophie had a visitor tonight--a ten-year-old girl who played with her all evening while my class met. They both had a good time, and tonight I have one tired placid pup. The girl's mom took a cute picture of Sami holding Sophie, but Sophie is so black all she looks like is a bundle of black--no darting eyes, cute face, etc.

Cat in a closet

Last week I was convinced my 19-year-old cat, Wywy, was trying to die. He ate little on Wednesday; Thursday he disappeared and ate nothing, though I put food, water, even milk out. Thursday night I was convinced I would wake up in the morning and find him dead somewhere. I woke up early worrying about it--and there he was sitting in the doorway to my bedroom. But he still wouldn't eat. I discovered his hiding place--a closet where I store extra blankets on the floor. He's burrowed himself a nest. I emailed Jamie, whose cat he once was, and we decided to make him comfortable and assure him he was loved. By Saturday noon I was sure he was on his last legs--he has major health problems--and I geared myself up for the inevitable call to the vet Monday morning. Saturday afternoon, for no reason, he came out of hiding and began to eat voraciiously. He went back to sleeping on my bed, even walking on me when he thought it was time to eat; if I got up in the night, so did he, asking for food. He began to sleep on my bed in the daytime. I'm not sure if this was a fit of pique over the puppy, his way of protesting, or if he perhaps used up one of his nine lives. He did this once before, after he was flea dipped which he considered a huge insult. Today he's still himself, though not eating quite as much. But he sleeps on my bed and greets visitors, so I guess for a while all is well.
Meantime, Sophie the puppy has discovered how to climb out of her playpen. The only place I can confine her is her crate and I hate to do that too much. But this morning when I cooked, this afternoon when I napped, and tonight when I needed some Scooby time, she was crated. She had a high old time when two friends came for dinner and spent much of the evening playing with her, but she's always ready for more. I may grow old before this is over, but we really had a better day today. Our best times are when I work in my office, and she can play or lie at my feet. When she's sure of company, she settles down and lies quietly--so lovely. I hope it's a forerunner of times to come.
Scooby has made no progress in getting used to her and seems to look grayer, but maybe that's the contrast to a black puppy. Or maybe he needs another summer haircut.
More from the animal kingdom later.

Generations

A friend is devastated because her son is moving to Portland, Oregon, and taking his eight-year-old son with him, her only grandchild I think. I have seven grandchildren, but only one is local, and I see a lot of him. If his parents moved halfway across the country, I know I'd be devastated too. Her plight got me to thinking about the differences between children and grandchildren.
I remember babysitting Jacob one night when he was seven or eight months old. He had a dream and woke screaming. I sat in the rocker, crooning to him and holding him close. He cuddled up close to me and after a moment fell asleep. I sat there holding that sleeping baby on my chest for an hour, realizing this was an opportunity I didn't get much anymore.
When you have children,  you are the focus of their world in a way that grandparents can never be. If they're upset, scared, in pain--they want Mommy. I loved those years. I remember watching one of my children run a block with his arms spread to get the hug I offered from my knees. More than once, I've listened to Jacob scream, "I want Mommy!" A couple of times I've called her and we've talked strategy a bit. We don't want to have her or Daddy come get him and set a precedent. Sometimes ice cream makes it all better, and once a Lunchable saved the day--or night. He dried his tears and said, "Juju, you are the best!" I thought, "Yeah, 'cause I'm feeding you faux food." But grandparents have to realize we can never be in the same place as Mommy or Daddy.
Being a grandparent has problems too--the old saying is that they go home and someone else worries about them. That's not always true--we worry as much as parents, we deal with tantrums and tears and laughter and jumping on beds. We track their height and weight and wonder if they're walking, talking early enough, doing everything on schedule. We wring our hands over whether or not they're eating properly--and feel we can't speak. Half the time my daughter tells me I let him get away with too much and the other half she says, "I'm not going to worry about that." Fortunately we're good friends, and I can voice my opinion.
But we're different. If we do it right, we're fun in a way Mom and Dad aren't. We aren't as harried and hassled as parents who work full time and raise children. Yes, we let them get away with things--watch a little extra TV, stay up a little later at night. We take them places Mom doesn't have time for, they know we'll pick them up at day care or school if need be. At my house, Jacob can play with dogs and a cat that he doesen't have at home--at five he's just learning to be comfortable with the dogs and is proud of himself. He can watch TV while he eats his dinner--I know, I never let my children do that.  Grandparents really are for spoiling children and loving children unconditionally.
I wish my six other grandchildren lived close enough that I could see them several times a week. Each is so special in his or her own way, and I'm so proud of them. But not seeing them as often makes the relationship different, especially with little ones.
Jacob was here for lunch today, waiting for his other grandparents to pick him up for a cousin's birthday party. My Aussie was loving on him, and he said indignantly, "I'm going to a birthday party. I can't go all slobbered!"

A good mystery, Civil War reenactments, and the puppy wars

After several mini-crises this morning--a water leak somewhere in the house (plumber coming tomorrow), a hurried trip to the grocery, and so on, I decided to take a break today, not that I've gotten much done this week. But I spent much of the afternoon reading Julie Hyzy's newest mystery, Grace Interrupted. Grace is a young woman who has taken over as director of a historic house that is a tourist site and includes hotel accommodations. I thoroughly enjoyed the first in the series, Grace Undeer Pressure, and am enjoying this one. The plot revolves around Civil War reenactors who have rented a remote portion of the mansion grounds, and that fascinates me. Over a  year ago, I edited Monte Aker's book, The Accidental Historian, which has a lot about reenactments--from the Civil War to the Alamo. Monte tells it all with wry pokes of humor at himself (which sometimes made me laugh aloud) but I finished that project with a much better understanding of reenactors--and why they do what they do. So that knowledge is increasing my enjoyment of this mystery.
The puppy wars continue. Sophie has learned to climb out of her playpen, so today we had a contest of the wills. I vowed every time she climbed out, I'd put her back in and scold her. I can't figure a way to puppy-proof the thing, although a friend sent some suggestions, but I decided training was the best approach--she's this super-smart dog, right? Cooking dinner tonight, I must have pulled her down off the edge of that playpen a dozen times--and of course each time I had to wash my hands. They're going to dry out and become prunes. I will say she no longer whines and yips but that's because she thinks she can get out. I figure when I'm working in the kitchen and can talk to her, she should be content--she doesn't see it that way. She and I spend most of the day in my office, where she plays with her toys, tries to chew on magazines, books and wires--my friend Sally recommends Tabasco on the wires, which I think is a super idea. Sometimes Sophie wears herself out and sleeps at my feet--then I can get stuff done. We are making a little progress on housebreaking--mostly because I am now trained about when to take her out--or pretty much so. Jacob plays with her in the afternoon, which she loves. I do too!
Yep, I'm still tired.

A long day but a wonderful dinner

All my days have been long this week, since the arrival of Sophie.  She's now contentedly chewing on my shoes. I know it's a horrible precedent, but I'm letting her because they're so stretched out and awful I can't keep them on my feet, and I have new replacements. But if she goes after the new shoes, we'll have a discussion. I seem to spend my days saying "No" to electrical cords, throws and rugs with fringes, etc. Nothing daunts her.
However, Scooby continues to be afraid, and I continue to put them together in the evening, even if only for an hour. I pet and love Scooby the whole time he's in the office with her. I've had to move my wicker chair out of the office every time I bring Sophie in here because she chews on it--which could be fatal. But the worst is that she jumped out of her playpen three times today. Breeder suggests some kind of netting, which I think is a good idea. This weekend, we'll change the wicker chair for the overstuffed one in my bedroom--the plaid throw can go on the overstuffed chair without dragging on the floor and tempting Li'l Bit, as I sometims call her. She is so full of life and happy she's just irresistible.
The cat is another big problem--I think his body is shutting down. He ate very little yesterday and peed less, ate nothing today. Tonight when I came home from dinner I took care of the older animals first--put Scooby in the office with treats, picked up Wywy to get his food out of the fridge. He peed all over the kitchen floor and me (while I was holding him), then yowled when I put him on his counter for food and seemed to stagger a moment. I'm afraid the inevitable is coming. Jordan had a cat that got so weak and bad that Christian finally persuaded her they would have to put it to sleep the next day--the cat died in her sleep that night. I wish such an end for Wywy--I hate to make that decision, but I don't want him to suffer.
Bright note in my day: Betty, Jeannie and I celebrated our June/July birthdays with dinner at Taverna, an Italian restaurant I'd not been to before. We had a wonderful, seasoned flatbread for an appetizer, then each had starters--they both had shrimp (I swear they do that because they know I can't eat it) and I had carpaccio, which I can never resist. This came with paper thin slices of pecorino and a salad of greens with a creamy dressing and lots of capers. Wonderful. I had a flourless chocolate cake with a molten chocolate center set on zabaglione (there wasn't much of it) and raspberry sauce--just four little dots on the plate, but it was all good. Now I'm full and happy. Scooby having endured an hour in the office with Sophie is happily in his bed, and Wywy has slunk off somewhere. I'll have to go look for him and love on him.
Is it any wonder that when I took a nap today I really, really didn't want to get up?

The Magic of a Mentor

The Sisters in Crime listserv has a program called Mentor Monday. Once a month an expert in a related field takes questions about their area of expertise. This Monday it was Kris Neri, author and owner of an independent bookstore. She answered questions about owning and operating an indie bookseller in these turbulent book times. It was interesting and informative, but it's a one-day thing and none of us develop a relationship with the mentor.
On the other hand, there are mentors who enter our life for varying periods of time. I am lucky enough to have had a mentor all my professional life. I met Fred when I was in graduate school, forty years ago. He was a young faculty member, and I was his first doctoral candidate. We've kept up the teacher/student relationship, though Fred would tell you today that it's more a friendship of colleagues. Over the years I've called him with innumerable questions, especially when I was writing historical fiction: "If you were going to pay a sympathy call in 1904 in East Texas, what would you take?" The answer was dried fruit pies. "If you were a bored kid in East Texas, what would you do? Chunk rocks in the stock tank. His knowledge of the trivia of the nineteenth century astounds me--and what he doesn't know, he researches. Once he gave me a thorough lesson in the workings of a derringer for a story I'd been assigned to write. For years he was a valued member of the TCU Press editorial board, and I relied on him to be first reader of all young-adult novels submitted to us.
The relationship did sort of a flip a few years ago when he wrote a book called  Boys Books, Boys Dreams, and the Mystique of Flight, about boys aviation books of the early twentieth century. He submitted it to other presses, and I finally asked why he didn't bring it to TCU. He said he didn't think we'd consider it. Long story short, we published it and the next book , From Bird Women to Skygirls. I became his publisher.
But as I started to write mysteries, he took up the mentoring role. At TCU he taught the genre fiction classes, including mystery, and he's widely read in the field. He reads my manuscripts at various stages and discusses plot strategies with me. He is generous with his praise but never hesitant to suggest other developments, other ways to do things, parts that don't work, and problems he finds.  Today I particularly wanted to pick his brain about the plot of the third mystery I'm planning--I know what's going to happen but I was stumped on motivation. He made excellent suggestions at lunch, then emailed me later with yet another one that is spot on. So now, if I find time between animals, grandson, and other things, I can write that first paragraph. Nowadays, we each make suggestions to the other.
Fred and his wife have been to my house on a few occasions, and I've had dinner at theirs, but ours is not really a social relationship. It's collegial--and I'm grateful for that. Every writer should be so lucky.

Day 2 in the Animal Kingdom

The lion is not exactly lying down with the lamb, though at this point it's hard to figure out which is what. Scooby, my 55 lb. Aussie, is afraid of Sophie, the--what? 5 lb? --pup. She barks at him in that way that dogs have of indicating they want to play, and he panics and comes to me for comfort. Last night, they both lay at my feet while I worked, but tonight was not nearly so peaceful, and I finally put Scooby in his bed, where he is much happier. I suspect Sophie is feeling a bit more secure and agressive.
Wywy the cat also hates Sophie. He hisses and strikes his paws at her--fortuntely he has no front claws. She is unfazed by this and considers him curiously.
But Sophie clearly hates her playpen. I put her in it first thing in the morning with her litter box, for which she has no use at all. She whines and screams and jumps, dumping over food and water. Once in my office, she's pretty quiet--usually. Tonight she had company to show off for, and she was into everything.
This afternoon Jordan woke her (and me) from naps, and she immediately took Sophie outside, where the pup peed and Jordan praised her. I guess I'll try that tomorrow morning. She has peed on the rug in my office twice today--fortunately not a kilim--and pooped on the old rug in her playpen, with the litter box right there. Not a great record. Now she's tapped out under my desk.
First full day. We'll all get better at this.
I'm going to bed very early tonight.

The naming of puppies

It may not be as difficult as the naming of cats, but naming puppies presents problems. I named my new Bordoodle Sheba, because I'd once had a farm collie (sort of, to me, a mutt Border Collie) named Sheba, short for Bathsheba Finkelstein (that is another long story not for here). But this pup looks nothing like my Sheba of forty-five years ago. Nor does she looke like a Sheba of any kind. Lots of names were put on the family table today--I discarded Roxie, although Mel, Maddie and Jamie voted for it, because I once knew a wonderful woman named Roxie who died tragically. Chloe and Zoe were considered, but I have a friend named Chloe. I discovered in the pup's papers that  though the breeder just called her Pink, her kennel name was Matilda Pink. Matilda might be shortened to Maddie (my granddaughter) but Tillie or Tillie Mae offered possibilities. Edie held out for Sophie, and that's beginning to sound good to me. In fact, I've been trying it out tonight.
I'm deep in the throes of introducing a new pup into an established household structure. When I got home this afternoon, all three animals needed attention at once--Scooby to come in out of the heat, Wywy to be fed, and Sophie to explore the house. Scooby lifted his leg on the pup (fortunately poor aim) as if to say, "Just want to be sure you understand whose house this is," and Wywy had one of his hissing fits--good thing he has no claws. I just now picked the puppy up which immediately made Wywy demand food. The pup escaped her playpen, but I have since connected the loose corners the right way and think all is well. She is happy as a lark with people around, but she whines like a Banshee if left alone in her crate or playpen. Last night, with the crate on my bed, she slept all night with one break to eat, potty, etc. And she let us all nap for an hour this afternoon--that's a habit for Scooby, Wywy, and me. We'll see what happens tonight, but I think for the first half day we've settled into a fairly good routine. Right now both dogs are lying at my feet, peaceful as can be. I'm trying to share the love.
A confession: I'm exhausted.
Many thanks to Jordan for making the trip to Frisco, to Jamie and Mel for being so hospitable to a new puppy in their two-dog, one-cat household and for treating us to delicious meals, to my granddaughters for absolutely loving Sophie and carrying her around, and to Jacob for wanting so badly to be part of holding her, training her, caring for her. It will be hard for him to learn, a bit at a time, that she is my dog, I will share, but he must accept what he can and can't do. I have a great family.

Reading (or re-reading?) To Kill a Mockingbird

Several months ago I was asked to be part of a panel discussing To Kill a Mockingbird in August. Smart program planners always ask months in advance, because it's so easy to say yes to something six months away whereas if it were next week, it would be easier to say, "No, can't do that." In the interest of getting my name out as an author, I agreed, all the while thinking "Darn, I'll have to re-read it. It's been way too long." For the past week I've been re-reading that classic book and been totally immersed in it, finding it hard to tear myself away to do the things I really need to be doing.
The panel moderator sent out a list of questions to spark the discussion, and one was when did you first encounter TKAM? In reading, I decided I may never have read the book, though that seems impossible--surely I read it in college or graduate English classes. But I can see the movie clearly in my mind--especially the scene where Atticus shoots the rabid dog--and I'm beginning to wonder if that's the only way I know it. I think this book is so deeply engrained in many of us that we honestly can't remember our first encounter.
Everyone wonders why Harper Lee never wrote another book. I can't speak for her, but I know this book needs no sequel. It ends where it should end, comes full circle, and any attempt to carry it beyond that point would fall flat. Perhaps Lee, with her deep roots in and knowledge of southern culture could have written another totally different book, but she chose not to.
TKAM offers an in-depth writing lesson for authors who want to take time to explore it's structure. The voice of Scout is dead on as narrator--the story could not have been told from any other point of view. Scout combines an unusually acute perception of the world around her--for an eight-year-old--with the naivete of her age, which sometimes leads to the novel's most ironic moments. The society in which the action takes place is fully developed, without didactic description, through Scout's view of things--we see the truth about the black community and the way they're treated, about the poor whites, about the townspeople set in their ways and counting their ancestors.
Atticus troubles me only because he's so wise, so calm, so perfect--but he too has his weak moment, his fall from grace if you will, at the end of the book when he realizes humanity triumphs over law. (No spoilers here). The other characters live in our minds because Scout makes us see them as individuals, often eccentric.
This is not a novel about justice--rather it's a novel about the injustice inherent in our legal system. The tragedy is peculiar to the South in the 1930s and yet it is with us today--dare I cite the Casey Anthony case? While that case is tawdry at this point, TKAM is rich with humanity--its great moments, its small moments, and, yes, a good dose or humor--not slapstick, always the ironic comment or turn of events.
Harper Lee's novel will make you laugh, wring your hands, and despair for humanity, but it will in the end enrich you. I've always thought a novel could be called significant if when you finished it you were in a slightly different place emotionally or intellectually than when you began it. TKAM fits that criteria. And if you're a writer, this novel will teach you about subtlety and economy of words and the soft but sure approach to telling a story.
Maybe Harper Lee knows best. She might feel, to this day, that she could never equal this accomplishment. I for one bow to her judgment and wishes. Did you know she has decreed that no edition of the book will ever have an introduction? Good--scholars won't be picking it apart and dissecting it as scientists do a moth or butterfly.