I love this bunny. He’s got some serious ‘tude going on. And he knows how to pull off wearing pink.
Let the countdown begin.
This is what is known at my site as a Blog Quickie.
Because –
#amwriting
Ornery Sven is on my case.
It’s Holy Week in my household.
And…. Mr. Bunny is coming. Hope he comes on a chopper to my house. Just sayin’.
About a week ago, this started happening on my front porch. My teeny, tiny front porch. I thought it was Mama Weather, because we all know how pms-y she’s been lately. I took my broom and swept it away.
The next day, it was back. Now I’m thinking — dang those ornery racoons. You might think that is presumptuous of me. Nuh unh. They’ve been feasting on squash seeds out of my compost bin for the last three nights. They just slide back that lid smooth as you please, and party hardy. I took my broom and swept it away.
The next day, I stepped over it in total denial. Total. Denial.
This morning, I decided to head to the mall for story plotting shopping. What? I can multi-task. I walked out the door and saw this –
And this –
And this –
The birds are coming for me, and they’re planning on moving in, staying on, taking over, pecking my plot right out of my brains…
I know. You can’t get past the fact that my porch light has not seen the cleaning that is Spring.
Get past it.
The Birds are coming, I tell you. Coming.
Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds is one of my favorite films. The man could do tension. The man could do thrills and chills. The man was brilliant.
This is my favorite trailer for The Birds.
Enjoy!
You’re probably thinking this is an educational post about the world garbage crisis. I’m sure there is a post somewhere out there on the intertoobs about that, but this isn’t it. And I’m using the word educational as a nod to my many blog spammers who say, “Thank you for your educational post on…” We all know that when Elen blogs it out!, educational doesn’t factor into it. Just sayin’.
I digress.
Stop the Stink! We did just that today in my neck of sunny Canadaland. The stink is the wintry coat of one Gracie Allen Golden Pup, aka Gracie Lou Freebush at the groomers. By the end of winter, she is one stinksome pup.
I’m pretty sure stinksome is a Viking term I read in a Sandra Hill novel. So no, WordPress, it isn’t misspelled, it’s archaic…, or a Hillism. Whatever. It stays.
We did a coin toss to see who would actually get in the Echo with an 80 lb. pond-scum-smelling Golden. I lost. Next time I’m using my special coin.
Miss Gracie has gone to the same groomer her entire doggy life. She’s comfortable there. They love her. They can clip her nails without her howling like a werewolf.
That actually happened at the vet. The Vet Tech and Gracie disappeared into the back room — both of them all toe-bouncy and cheerful — and Gracie set to howling with every tiny clip. They returned 10 minutes later. Gracie was all that-wasn’t-really-me-acting-like-a-big-puppy-cheerful, and the Vet Tech was all I’d-rather-birth-a-football-red-faced. That’s why I pay them the big bucks.
Golden Pup gets what the groomer calls the Large Long Hair Bath Super Tidy. It takes eleven years to dry her. Super Tidy translates to Golden Buzz Cut. We decided long ago bd — before delivery — that she would not be a pageant dog, so we got pretty practical about that long Golden hair pretty darn quick. With every super tidy our Golden morphs into a lovely short-haired Lab. She has never once looked at me with those liquid brown eyes and said, Mama? Where are my curls? She doesn’t seem to know the difference.
Nope. No siree. She just bounds into the backyard and rolls like a horse and digs a trough through the grass with her face and all is right with her world. She’s blessed that way.
And for a few days, we hold that stink at bay.
Stop the Stink! Just another day in the life a Golden Retriever mama writer.
 |  |
 |  |
