it's a great life, if you don't weaken (matociquala) wrote,
it's a great life, if you don't weaken

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She circles 'round her freedom and I circle 'round her heart

Liam is a nine year old black male Briard (chien de berger de Brie) bred by my mother, who is one of the owners of Eiledon Briards. He's the inspiration for my short story Sleeping Dogs Lie, which will be in November's Flytrap

He was also a breeder rescue from his first owner, who did not take particularly good care of him. (This is an understatement.) He nows lives in NewHampshire, and is something of a madman--king of all he surveys, and terror of the local squirrels.

Liam attended the 2004 Briard Rassemblement... which is an every four years overview of the breed, where a top judge selects the dogs that most epitomize the breed--

It's not like a dog show, but more like a review of the breeding stock, and generally speaking, only a handful of dogs and bitches are 'selected'--the rest are graded on a scale from poor to excellent.

My mom emailed today. She's home from the Rass, happy and tired. She writes: "Liam in his 1st and last public appearance was selected at the age of 9 years 2 months and 2 days old."

Not bad for a dog who nearly spent his life locked in a basement.

This is Liam.

One-Eyed Jack

New Words:: a big, big, big 140!!!!!!!!!!!
Total Words:: 35,924
Reason for stopping: I had to go watch Sandbaggers. No, really. It was the episode where everybody gets killed. (What do you mean, which episode where-- oh, nevermind. The Farscape addiction builds on obvious roots...)
Mammalian Assistance: cutest. cat. evar. Picture a one hundred and fifteen pound natural-eared blue merle Great Dane resting her head on my arm while an eight-pound back cat washes her ear with passionate thoroughness. I wish the camera had been where I could grab it. Also, Ollis is playing vulture on top of the book-case.
Stimulants: grapefruit-tangerine seltzer
Exercise: I went to the post office. Surely that counts for something.
Mail: nolove from Asimov's, but the rejections continue to grow slowly more complimentary. This has the unified effect of making me more frustrated (argh! How can I make my stories more perfect?!) and more determined. (almost... there... can't... pass... out...) In a lightning trade, I sent stories out to Asimov's (go figure) and to Interzone.

Short stories are like race-horses. You pour so much love and effort and hope into them... and then they stand in the starting gate and look for all the world like they could really run if you just managed to get them to try.

Books in progress: Joan Aiken, Castle Barebane Enjoying this very much, but I read slowly these days.

In other news, I need more Taj Mahal. Preferably involving tubas.

And I'm in love with Sandbagger #1 (Kane). In. Love. And could the head of special ops be more evil? He's like Alexander Waverly's evil twin. Only, evil. Eviler than an evil twin could ever be.

Kelly Robinson hates living alone. He mopes about the house until all hours whining about his lousy social life. It may take an intervention to get him laid. Emma threw a party, and Scotty threw a party, and that was all very fun. Napoleon liked the dancing girl.

We're shocked.

Illya still thinks the sun rises and sets on his partner, but he's the only person who will even talk to Napoleon, and Steed can't stand Peel.

Oh, dear. Now Kelly is bumming around the house in his pajamas ordering pizza.

I really need to build this boy a tennis court.

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