I keep changing the title, but nothing fits better.

Saturday, a kitten about six weeks old showed up in our middle 40, which is largely bog right now. He was drenched through, which showed his outlines to be exceeding spare. Wondering who he belonged to, we picked him up and questioned him (to which he replied with a tired but loud buzzing) and saw that he was covered in kitty-snot and runny-eyed gumminess. His weight was very like that of a passing thought. This was a kitten that had spent many nights out, and would not likely last another one.

So we brought him in, washed his face, fed him and warmed him and housed him. We did NOT name him; to name a cat is to accept a lifelong attachment that would be foolish for us. We have 4 cats, 2 dogs (maybe; Mouse is still walkabout), and thirty birds. Worse, we live in Burr country, and this was a long-haired kitten. Keeping him would require that we shave him at least twice a year.

So, no keeping this little nameless fluff. He slept in all three of our laps, turnabout.

Today the no-kill shelter agreed to accept him for placement with a good home. They agreed to accept him in two weeks.

Two more weeks of being followed around the house by our nameless guest, purred at, snuggled against and on and occasionally licked. Then we’ll just take him down to the shelter and wish him well, and never look back.

*sigh*

His name is Nicodemus. For him, Hell hath been harrowed, indeed.

The puppies, damn their happy little souls, went walkabout Sunday morning. They must have found something really neat to sniff up in the hills, and then something really neat to chase up in the hills, because they missed dinner. And then missed breakfast.

Stella, the black lab mix, showed up on someone’s doorstep about five crow-fly miles from the house. Mouse is still at large.

Bridgette & I chatted with the lady who captured Stella for a while, then pile into the car –

– which didn’t start. Without going into gory details, it appears that the starter solenoid is dirty or corroded and sticks part-way through, disengaging most electronic circuits without fully engaging the starter motor. Disconnecting the battery briefly corrects it…usually. Not last night. We finally got our SemiPermanent Houseguest (about whom, another time) to come give us a tow. Then the car started. Two minutes later SPH showed up to tow.

*sigh*

Learned that the problem is the solenoid this morning from a local automotive guru. Ten minutes later Bridgette called; she was stranded by the car, which wouldn’t start regardless of battery twiddling. The solenoid is getting worse, so…tonight I will be taking a nap when I get home, then removing the solenoid in the dark, cold, wet night, cleaning it, and reinstalling it in the same conditions. I am not looking forward to this, but at least I know what to do.

I wonder where Mouse is.

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Cinderella called last night, and we spent a fairly rough 90 minutes on the phone. She is not having the most fun ever. I had no fix; I have the same problems she has, to a lesser degree. Bleah. Tomorrow, I will win the lottery, and all these problems (but the puppy) will be moot, and I will stay home and finish my book in the next eight weeks, and begin the second one.

Meanwhile, just for discipline’s sake, I’ll go work on that first book now.

Yesterday and I chatted briefly about performing miracles, alluding to the book Illusions — which, if you haven’t read, you really ought. It’ll fill your need for fuzzy-headed saccharine for the month, but the book is wonderful, and many of the things it offers up are usefulusefuluseful. Anyway.

I pointed Catie’s entry to Bridgette & Othello. Othello noted that two years ago, it seems that she was working as a computer geek and writing books in her free time, implying that the correspondences were there, as well as the footsteps I might follow in. And we chatted a bit about Illusions, a fave of Othello’s, too, and I talked about how my treatment of my self-imposed obstacles & crutches comes largely from the discussion of cloud vaporizing in Illusions.

Then Othello turned to the computer and I sat back down to write some more.

A few minutes later he presented me with a lovely printed image of bowl of clouds crowded around a magnificent open field of empty sky, as if someone had taken an enormous ice cream scoop and dished themselves an Olympian bowl of cumulo-nimbus. Across the cloud-free expanse is a paraphrasal of the messiah in Illusions when asked to vaporize the biggest, baddest cloud in the sky with a thought - which he does before he has it pointed out to him, by removing it from his universe.

“Okay…which cloud was it?”

Good kid. It has become my bookmark/companion at the writing desk.

Quote for the day: A professional writer is an amateur who didn’t quit.

Last night I exerted myself sufficiently to stimulate metabolism, then went home where I:

Was astonished at what our refugee/houseguest had done, organizing the shop
Repaired Siberia, where the puppies had burst through the fence
Mixed a drink
Made soup from leftovers, quickly and elegantly
Wrote and sipped while soup simmered
Mixed another drink for after dinner, and placed it on the table where I write
Served dinner with spinach/feta bread and aplomb
Enjoyed chatting with wife & boy
Sat next to my drink, open notebook, and Pen
Wrote 150% of my daily requirement
Went to bed happy
Slept badly but didn’t mind.

This morning I:

Rose groggily
Dressed quickly
Fed puppies
Started a fire
Released puppies to course outside and release
Started morning food & drink
Noted it was only 6:25
Wrote for 15 minutes
Noted the time, and that no one was up yet
Decided they could sod off
Wrote for another 15 minutes, sipping tea, admiring the sunrise, and watching the page fill
Collected sleepy wife & boy and came to work

A question for the teeming millions: What does dried blood smell like?

I have been pulled from my duties, many times, by the CEO to create poster-sized Excel spreadsheets showing in graphic technocolor glory the story of a trio of Jobs Gone Awry. He will, in theory, take these posters to court and use them as an instrument to sue the socks off the errant customer.

We keep revising them. Over. And. Over.

And Over.

Each revision has been adding more detail. It started with RFI documents, as-planned dates, and as-built dates. It added in subcontractor documents, correspondence, submittals, release dates…. The last revision called for me to append to each labelled detail (RFI #14) a short explanation of what it implied (Discussion of wombats undermining widget framework footings; ledgedancing subflooring not stuccato enough). For everything. And, in eight hours of focused frenzy, I have done just that, printed out the results, and took them to The Man for review.

“What,” he asked me, pointing to several dots, “is that?”

“Correspondence. Release dates. Submittals. Subcontractor paperwork.”

“Oh. We don’t need that. Delete it and let’s look at what we have left.”

The room became very far away, and all sound but the steadily rising muffled thunder of pulsing blood became a hint of whispering ghosts. My body moved as through crystalline taffy, recording for history a firm, confident smile, a sweep of documents into neat piles, tapped even and paperclipped, and something very like my voice asserted that new documents would be forthcoming.

And I was back in my office. Even my outrage is very far from me. I’m waiting for my pulse to settle before I continue.

Then I’ll roll that beastly rock up the hill again.

I have, since there was sufficient cash in the WW envelope, just registered for Writer’s Weekend.