Re-election and hellcritters

 

HE WON.  HE WOOOOOOOOOON.  I don’t have to move to Chiron or Vesta.  I wasn’t looking forward to the difficulties of importing chocolate and champagne.  Not to mention oxygen.  And even if I converted to ebooks, does the signal reach far enough?

So I’m celebrating by taking a couple of nights off.*   And I have the perfect excuse to take a couple of nights off because look at the FABULOUS photos Tilda took.  COME BACK SOON, TILDA.**

Hellterror, cavorting

 

Hellterror, cavorting, and hellgoddess attempting not to TREAD on cavorting hellterror

 

Trust me, one spends most of one’s time being slightly la-la-la out of it when one is in charge of a hellterror.

 

Dangling puppy. She’s good at dangling. She thinks this is what life is, dangling from a nice supportive arm. Wriggling level negotiable but the default setting is ‘high’.

 

She’s about to drop that dangerous plush-covered bottley thing (it’s labelled ‘catsup’ but that doesn’t explain the nice crunchy noise when a puppy bites it) and attack the photographer.

 

The food-oriented puppy. No, the food OBSESSED puppy. HUUUUUUUNGRY. I HAVEN’T HAD ANYTHING TO EEEEEEEEEEEAT IN HOOOOOOOOOOURS.

 

She is not allowed to chew on shoes.

 

Never. Not ever. Especially not these shoes.  I could maybe spare an old pair of All Stars.  These cost MONEY.

 

And let us not forget my beautiful hellhounds.  Awwwwwwwww.

 

On our way to a hellterror-free hurtle. We’re safe for a few more months. . . .

 

* * *

* And working on SHADOWS, KES and . . . um . . .

** And I’ll try to see a little MORE of her next time.  I almost missed her entirely today.  The hobgoblin, instead of going about its secret hobgoblin chores silently as demanded by long folkloric tradition, decided to RIOT about half an hour after I got to bed last night.  You can’t let a hobgoblin (or a hellterror) believe that rioting will get it attention, so you have to lie there and listen to it.  Eventually I turned the light back on and read for a while.  Every time I thought the little ratbag had stopped for the night . . . she’d start up again.  Reasons to want a large house:  so that you can’t hear your frelling puppy shredding her newspaper.   ARRRRRRGH.  As she finally began to settle I turned the light off again and put a pillow over my head.  With the result that I slept through my alarm . . . and Tilda is an early riser and needed to get off promptly for the long drive home and I’m NOT an early riser even when I do hear my alarm. . . .

The good news is that while I expected the hellterror’s crate to be a vision of dread, despair and heavy cleaning, beyond the explosion in a confetti factory aspect, all was well.  I almost forgave her.  Almost.