In which Mongo is comforting

 

It's after one frelling a.m. and I haven't started the blog yet.  Since one of the ways I avoid thinking about how much time the bangleflandadblinging blog eats is by starting that night's post in the (comparatively) early evening and then writing it in driblets while I work on something else at the same time* this is bad.  What else I'm doing may not be very demanding—if I weren't half thinking about the blog I might not find out after it's too late that I've once again ordered enough plants for next season to fill all New Arcadia's gardens** for example—the point is merely that when it's AAAAAAUGH o'clock and for frell's sake I started the beastly blog hours and hours ago . . . at least it hasn't all been the blog.  When I'm up against it like this there's nowhere to hide.  I have to write it and I have to write it NOW.

            Today's problems began last night as they so often do.  Yesterday was seriously bad anyway because I had to get up whether I'd had any sleep or not (I hadn't), so today I decided I would simply stay in bed till I'd had enough sleep.  It might be February.  Well, it wasn't, but it took about twelve hours to get about six hours' sleep, between the cough, the sleeping sitting up because of the cough which means that not only aren't you sleeping very well even when you're sleeping, when you wake up to pee again because you keep drinking water from the sad delusion it will dampen your flaming throat, you are crippled with muscle spasms.  Woman was not made to sleep sitting up.  Fortunately the hellhounds are so accustomed to ignoring my screaming at inanimate objects that they don't react to my screaming at . . . me.  Which either says something rather ominous about the success of my tendency to anthropomorphize (or at least critter-morphize) computers, furniture, articles of clothing and little noodgy objects, or it says something even more ominous about my status the last few flu-addled days.  Or it may just be they don't recognise the harsh rasping croaks that are the extent of my vocalisation lately as having anything to do with the hellgoddess.***

            Anyway.  Twelve hours eats a vicious hole in your day.  I'm still too enfeebled to think about pulling on a bell rope so, barring some half-speed hurtling and a cup of tea with Oisin†, all I've been doing ALL FRELLING DAY is working on SHADOWS.  So I haven't got anything to tell you about. 

* * *

Maggie has (also) had a bad day, and last night was pretty stressful too.††  There have been skeletons coming out of closets and bogeys from the corners.  The world is not the shape she thought it was.  And she has just withstood a creepy-making conversation about when what you have is a relationship and when what you have is a parasite.  And why do we keep pets anyway? 

* * *

 I looked down.  Mongo hadn't quite given up on the possibility of more sandwich.  He was sitting beside my chair with his head pressing rather heavily against my leg.  When he saw me looking at him his tail, of course, began to wag.  "Trombone," I said, and he leaped up and shot away to look for his rubber trombone.  It wasn't a fair command:  I should know where it was before I sent him after it.  You want to reinforce your training with success.  But I wanted my parasitic dog to show off how clever he was.  I heard him scurrying around the living room.  Not there.  He made a quick pass down the hall to the front door, but the dining room door was closed.  It wouldn't be in the dining room.  He scampered upstairs.  I heard him nudging the door to my bedroom open.  It might be under the desk or the bed.  No.  Not in the bathroom either.  (Dog toys occasionally got in the bathroom as the result of the drama of baths.)  Damn.  It was probably in the back yard then.  Damn.  Use your brain, Margaret Alastrina, not your stupid emotions.  He's not going to find it and he's going to be unhappy and feel that he's failed.  Which will be your fault.

Mongo flung himself downstairs again.  I might be giving up hope but he wasn't.  I was just about to get up and open the back door, which was better than not doing anything, but dogs have a strong sense of fairness and Mongo would know I hadn't played fair with him, even if he forgave me, which he would.  But he trotted to the back door himself without looking at me.  And reared up on his hind legs, took the handle in his mouth and pulled down.  The door snicked open.

I had never taught him to do this.

He ran outside and found the trombone under a rosebush.**  He came dancing back in with it again (I admit he didn't close the door behind him) and laid it proudly at my feet.  "You are wonderful and amazing," I said, "good dog."  I got up and fed him the last slice of chicken from Val's sandwich-making.  I also closed the back door.  Then I put the plate that had had the sandwiches on it on the floor so he could lick up all the crumbs.

"I can live with 'parasite'," I said.  "It doesn't bother me." 

* * *

* This does not include the hours I spend reading up on South American vampire bats when I meant just to be checking the spelling of 'pipistrelle', or trying to find a nice neat short definition of the difference between quantum theory, quantum mechanics, and quantum physics^ so that if I'm going to make a fool of myself I can do it forthrightly and in full cognizance, or googling not quite at random in pursuit of that perfectly off the wall metaphor that I know is out there waiting for me on . . . just . . . the . . . next . . . opening . . . screen. 

^ Which appears to depend on who you read.  A bit like asking what the difference between fantasy and science fiction is.  

** Hey.  It's a small town. 

*** Hellhounds are actually being very patient with me.  They are not getting hurtled to their standard full extent due to human infirmity^ and I don't dare let them off lead because I can't call them back.  You don't realise just how much you use your voice for things other than conversation till you haven't got it to use. 

^ My dogminder costs.  Put me in my All Stars and I can still walk.  

† I forgot to remind him to boil the mug I used for forty-eight hours and then let it stand in bleach for a fortnight.  He'll probably remember.  It's a little hard to miss that there's something wrong with me.  Oh, and he claims he's going to write me another blog post.^  And he has the new Finale update.  Sob.  Lust.  Loooooonging. 

^ If this is pity, I'll take it. 

†† Although there was a Very Cute Boy. 

††† Sic.  Maggie's mom likes roses.