When Vicki asked if I would take care of her pets while she's gone, of course I said yes. For one thing, her critters are lovable: There's no work involved. There's Boomer who's a black-and-white dog of some sort, and Sophie who's a white-and-gold dog of some other sort. The cats are Ebby and Leo of the feline sort.
Mike and I have discussed this and we agree that Leo shouldn't be named Leo. He's not golden like a lion. He's grey. We'll have to query Vicki about this upon her return. Perhaps Leo was born between July 23 and August 22. Perhaps Leo roars. Perhaps he wears a tiara.
Ebby, on the other hand, is short for Ebony, and s/he is.
These creatures are used to being fed between 5:30 and 6:30 in the morning. I say no more.
Last night, Melanie delivered Miss Pook to me. She's a gorgeous grey cat with great markings. She's also a hisser. She's dangerous in that way. She's like the Boy Who Cried Wolf or the railroad crossing I used to deal with daily. It only had the red lights, not the bars, but the lights were almost always on and a train never came. Never. But a train could come. There were the tracks, after all. So I'd have to stop and look anyhow. It used to infuriate me that I was being trained, basically, to ignore train warnings.
Pook's that way. I now view her hissings as any other cat's purrs. But someday -- hopefully not on my watch -- her hiss just might be meaningful.
Now, I don't know if Miss Pook is her whole name or if Melanie's just being respectful. Sometimes Melanie calls me Miss Barbara, which seems Southern and sweet and yet somehow appalling. I fear it's an age-related title, but I can't be sure.
Mike, because he's basically perverse, insists on calling my guest Mister Pook. Lee, ever the gentleman, refuses to pick sides. He refers to her as the Hon. Pook.
Mittens, my own inordinately beloved cat, is not a fan of Pook no matter what title is used. Mittens would rather see Pook to go sea in a beautiful pea-green coffin. This morning, Pook was in the bedroom doorway hissing at Mittens, and I'm quite sure it was a valid hiss. Mittens was ten feet away, matching hiss for hiss. She was willing to be interrupted for fish, though, so I think everything will be okay.
Benji and Sunny, Mike's dogs who come over every day, don't care one way or the other about Msrh. Pook.
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Saturday I'm going to be a vendor at Sacred Lands (http://www.sacredlands.info/). I'm told that the path through those beautiful woods is a tear-shaped loop and I'll be in the pointy part. I'm also told that it's the BAD place to be because it's farthest from the music. Excellent. I love music (who doesn't?) but I'd rather focus on it instead of have it as background.
Please come out and spend your Christmas money there instead of at Target, okay? It'll be all one-of-a-kind stuff, plus there's the aforementioned music, and food, although I don't know what kind. It's not only a great alternative to the Black Friday madness (especially since it's on SATURDAY), but it's a way to support Sacred Lands, too. If being an outdoor vendor could ever be relaxing, this would be the place for it. Peacocks and hens are strolling around, including a pair of white ones. The noise from Park Street, the brick part, doesn't penetrate. It's beautiful. Show up. 1700 Park Street North. Nine to six.
Among other things, I'll be selling Shonda's African-American lesbian coming-of-age, coming-out-of-the-closet novel.
Since there's an Indian mound at Sacred Lands that's being excavated, there will be Indian things, too. And Native American things. And First American things. Yep. Michele said she's heard that title, too.
Let me tell you about some flute music I bought at SPIFFS (St. Petersburg International Folk Fair S-- ... Society? Shindig? Shenanigans?). The CD said "Native American Flute Music," so I bought it. Hah! It was "Native South American Flute Music." So I wonder if it should be First North Americans?
Speaking of labels, there's an opportunity to add labels for this post, but I don't know why I should. Do you?