The Beach
Those powerful thighs, that broad, masculine chest
Quite the Life (and all in Times New Roman 10pt!)
Those powerful thighs, that broad, masculine chest
Lessons in Parenting from The Wild
Velda‘s mate, Dehavilland, has been out and about lately.
They were out together, yipping quietly to let each other know where they were, also to let their kits – we haven’t seen them yet – know where their parents are and even though not in their presence, still to listen and obey.
Ah, The Wild…
Things are so different in The Wild.
Rarely…check that. I’ve never seen human parents as genuinely concerned for their children’s development as parents of The Wild.
To say it’s a completely different mindset is to say water isn’t fire. Well, duh!
Parental care in The Wild doesn’t care about property rites, transmission of wealth, so on and so forth. No human concerns here. All there is is “I’ll do the best I can preparing you for your life without me, because my time is few and you will live after I’m gone. I will prepare you so you can share this message with your children. If I’ve parented well and you’ve learned well, you’ll have children and share this message with them.”
Joshua Robertson discovers I had a life. Like you didn’t, right?
In the better late than never department – and my apologies for this – Joshua Robertson interviewed me in his Book Tavern a while back.
I could give you excuses why I’m just posting this now.
Except I recently encountered the following quote:
So, recognizing that it’s easier to do what’s right rather than increase my mistakes, I’m posting about it now.
Part of the fun of Joshua Robertson’s (and have you checked out his bookcovers? Some serious artwork there) interview was his holding my feet to the fire regarding my past life.
No, not the one when I was leading the Babylonian Ziggurats to the Fertile Crescent Soccer Championship of 2,100BC, the other one, when I was the Chief Scientist, et cetera, for several companies and created a technology complete with several patents.
So I had a life.
Before I became a full-time author.
Who knew?
Enjoy the interview.
And buy my books. Even the technical ones written when I was a Chief this-and-that.
A dog and his boy
Read Empty Sky Chapter 11 – Dr. Lupicen and Ann
Creator and above level members can download a PDF of this file to read offline
Two men, one shaved bald, tall, thin and quick like a whip and the other a fireplug on legs with a jet black ponytail halfway down his broad back, both in tailored, navy-blue pinstripe suits and wearing hand-made, alligator-skin shoes so polished they reflected the lights marking the aisle, made their way from the locomotive through the tender to the back of the train. The whip would walk a few long, waspish steps, wait, then spin the gold and diamond pinky ring on his right hand until the fireplug caught up. When the fireplug reached him the whip would walk a few more long, waspish steps, wait and spin his ring again.
The fireplug strolled, his hands clasped in front of his chest as if in prayer, his eyes skimming over his knuckles as they evaluated, the bands of the two turquoise rings he wore — one on each ring finger — clicking sometimes as he walked. He passed no one without reaching out to their carotid and checking for a pulse; conductors, stewards, clerks, passengers. It didn’t matter.
The fireplug’s slow methodicity and attention to detail frustrated the whip who released his frustration by aiming a small but powerful ruby laser into the lens of the security cameras while he waited for his partner to catch up.
“Christ, look at this place. What did Pangiosi use again?”
“Ambien. That’s what he had us dump in the food service trucks. It makes you sleep and wake up without feeling groggy. ‘Far as everyone on the train is concerned, they’ll all think they probably had too much to drink.”
“Do you have to test every mother’s son?” The whip broke protocol and used names in an attempt to make the fireplug move faster. “We’re supposed to get McPherson to Pangiosi before morning, you know.”
The fireplug stopped and stared at the whip who turned away before the fireplug answered. “We have plenty of time. Besides, we find one dead person, we got trouble.”
“Didn’t you tell me once something about your grandfather teaching you to help people die?”
The fireplug nodded as he worked. “Not exactly. He taught me to sing them from this world to the next, to carry the souls of the dead so they’d find peace.”
“Happy hunting ground stuff?”
“Something like that.”
“You believe in that stuff?”
“I don’t believe in much of anything anymore.”
“Yeah. Ditto that.”
The fireplug continued his slow inspection. The whip tapped his foot at the rear door to the car.
The fireplug stopped and looked up. “I wonder if these people dream.”
The whip broke protocol a second time. “John, who gives a shit. Pangiosi gave us an order. We carry it out.”
John stopped. His arms folded over an expansive chest.
The whip looked out a window and spun his gold and diamond pinky ring. “Sorry.”
John’s prayerful hands went back to work.
Shem twitched himself awake. His head rose up and he sniffed the air. A scent, something from deep dog memory, canine memory, canid memory, canis memory. He leapt off the bunk and growled. A door opened in the bedroom suite, a door only dogs, only canines, only the line that first walked before man then behind then beside could see, sworn under the first full moon to watch for such doors because humans, the canids knew, would grow to forget.
The door closed. Whatever had been there had been warned away by flashing eyes, by baring teeth.
He jumped back on the bunk. As he circled to lay down he remembered the Little Master had gone. He looked across the suite to the other cot. The Great Master snored lazily like an old Alpha in the tall grass on a hot summer day.
Shem scratched his ear with a hind paw then sniffed his genitals. He rested his head over his paws, flopped to his side and stretched on the mattress. The entire bed was his!
Glorious His!
A few minutes later he, like the Great Master, snored like an Alpha in the tall grass.
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Patience in all things. Especially when things are hesitant.
We have friends.
They are gracious and loving, never overstaying their welcome.
Some are unsure of their welcome, though.
We do what we can to let them know our joy at their presence, our happiness at their arrival.
But their history with others…flavors their relationship with us.
We don’t blame them. If enough Italians hurt you, you become wary of Italians. If enough Londoners hurt you, you become wary of Londoners. Doesn’t really matter if it’s Chinese, Germans, Jews, Muslims, Christians, Aboriginals, doctors, lawyers, teachers, butchers, bakers, candlestick makers, …
So The Foxen are wary of us.
We give them time.
A chance to learn our voices, our scents, our ways.
We endeavor to be to them as we wish them to be to us; giving, sharing, caring, loving.
Slowly, they learn that we, at least, are not like others who look like us.
Wish all things could be that way.