Wonders of my small world

 

Sophie telling me she's hungry. 
That's a language I can understand,
the barking not so much.

I hardly know where to begin, so many odd little wonders have happened in my world today. Early this morning, I was half-heartedly scrolling through news sites online when I came to an article about an app that will let people decipher what their cat is saying. The program is called MeowCat and has both interesting achievements and questionable outcomes. Only halfway interested in cats, I read through to see if there was anything about dogs. Yep! A project called Zoolandia is trying to decipher dogspeak—and the language of other mammals.

The other evening, as Babette and I were talking, with Rosie curled at her feet, Soph began to bark frantically at me. It was obvious she wanted something specific, and I was frustrated because I didn’t know what it was. I had fed her, given her treats, filled her water bowl. Finally Babette said, “That kibble you put aside so she and Rosie wouldn’t quarrel.” That was it: Sophie wanted the second course of her dinner. Once she had that, she curled up next to Rosie and slept. How I wished for an app that would tell me what she was asking for. I’m going to keep tabs on this developing technology. Sophie is very verbal—you can tell from the intonations in her barking—but I can’t often tell what she wants. I’d love this new technology.

Some technology I’m not so happy about: Facebook decided I offended its community standards and would not let me post today. I think by now my isolation has passed, but it was frustrating today. I have no idea what I posted that was offensive—and I don’t think they know either. Last night I got a flurry of message about community standards, but I didn’t pay close attention. My mistake. I think now their algorithms had gone amuck, and I got caught in the middle. Me, Pollyanna? Post something offensive? I don’t think so.

I know the common perception is that writers are recluses who sit at their desks long hours and have no relationships in the real world. A lot of the time I’m inclined to think that about myself, but today I was glad to read about some outreach programs by the writing community. PEN America, the international association of writers, is sponsoring “Words on Fire: Writing, Freedom, and the Future,” an afternoon’s conversation about the issues of freedom of expression in these “dire times.” The program is sponsored by the New York Historical Society. Originally, Salman Rushdie was to speak; now that he is recovering from severe injuries, it has become a tribute to him.

And another story about the writing community: When the two senatorial seats in George were closely contested, a group of mystery writers formed a loose organization called Mystery Loves Georgia and solicited donations for an auction—autographed books, the naming of a character, a free review or critique, and so on. The effort was wildly successful, and now they formed Mystery Loves Democracy with the goal of raising $100,000 to fight voter suppression. I contributed a signed copy of Saving Grace to Mystery Loves Georgia and committed to name a character after a donor. To my surprise, Linda Rutledge, the character, proved to play a much larger role in Irene in Danger than I anticipated. So now I have promised to send another copy of Saving Grace (my thinking is it’s best to start a reader on the first book in a series and hope he or she gets hooked) and have promised to name a character in Irene Takes On Texas after whoever buys that. Since I’m at best a low mid-list author, I price my contributions low—starting at $15. The auction will be held in mid-September.

Tonight Jean took me to a local bistro for supper, a place that we have both liked for a long while. The atmosphere is pleasant, the food good. Ah, not so tonight. Both of us felt our dinners were not up to par, and the restaurant was so noisy, we kept having to repeat ourselves. Once some time ago when we debated eating at the cottage, Jean said something to the effect that the food here is better and the atmosphere much quieter. Tonight I decided she was right. But I was glad to get out, and Jean was good to undertake hauling me and my walker around.

After supper, we drove by the house where she and her husband lived—new owners have changed the exterior a lot (I will say no more) and then she took me for a tour of the TCU campus—the east campus, where there are buildings I never heard of. And dead-end streets and parking barriers so you hardly know where to go. I have only been retired for eleven years, and I only live maybe a mile from campus, but I didn’t realize how out of touch I am. But I was left with this lingering doubt: do building make a university or is it the people—faculty and students and staff. And which comes first: buildings or the academic program. I had been interested earlier today to read the qualifications of new liberal arts faculty—they specialize in gender studies, race, queer studies, indigenous literature. It’s a far cry from the days when I said my specialization was American literature with a special interest in women of the American West. Today, that sounds quaintly old-fashioned—or just plain lame.

I am glad to be retired. I think I’m too old for this new world of wonders.