It is a damp, gray day.

Not a good outdoor dog day.

Wet fur. Wet dirt. Testy moms complaining about ‘mud’ and ‘tracks’.

There is a depressed dog on either couch. Life is just not hardly worth waking up for, today.

When good dogs go bad:

Okay: I stole the eraser from the corpse because I collect them. I am convinced that someday Nancy will have a mechanical pencil that will survive long enough to need a replacement eraser, and I have at least 6 of them waiting for that moment.

So far it’s not looking good.

It would appear that mechanical pencils sit on Nancy’s deck, or her couch-side table, and sing siren songs of chewability to Annie. Come little dog, and chew me up, I’ll taste so good… You haven’t nibbled on a pencil as good as me in days…

I can leave my shoes on the floor and Annie will trot up to them and  beak them, but only one of my pairs is so tempting as the cause her to grab it and run away with it… Come on, Cheryl, RUN! I’ve got your shoe! We can play chase!

The life expectancy of an unattended mechanical pencil is roughly 12 hours.

This is the problem. Snorty McFee:

All of my animals have multiple names. Her name on her license is ‘Annie’. Her name when she is outside barking and I have enough enough is ‘Annabel Lee!’ AKA ‘Snorty McFee’. (This allows me to look at Nancy and bark, “Get Snorty!”)

Riley is Wiley Riley Booberry Boo (or any combination thereof.)

‘Wiley Riley’ is…an exaggeration. Nice dog. Not a rocket scientist.

Yesterday I took them to the Downtown Dog to have their toes shortened. This is a horrible betrayal. Annie weighs 40 pounds and it takes two people to trim her nails, one to hold her, one to snip. With Riley they use a sander that looks remarkably like my Dremel, but Annie will have nothing to do with that, thank you very much. Yesterday the unthinkable happened: a foreign dog came into the dog grooming store and Annie and I spent some time assuring each other that no one really needed to bite that dog, that it was a public store–for dogs, even–and that awful, no good, horrible dog had as much right to be there was we did. Although we had an appointment. And we’re a better dog. And we don’t like that dog at all. We are, I think, actually making a little progress on that whole other dog aggression thing. Not dog park  progress, but ‘we can walk past other dogs maybe sometimes if everything is fine’ progress. Tuesday we have another appointment with our trainer to continue our work,and we have arrange Ilahcare for our next class, whenever that may be. We WILL be a well-behaved, walkable dog. We’ll get Cheryl and Nancy trained if it kills us. We will.

Riley does not like having his toes shortened either, but I think his major objection is to the table. We don’t like that table. He is quite proud of his feet when it’s all done. Riley doesn’t care if other dogs come into the grooming salon while he’s there. Well, he does: some he would like to greet, some he would like to send packing, but a simple ‘no’ will allow Riley to calm down and get down to the serious business of getting all the way across the hardwood floored storefront with shortened toes.

He has gone outside again. Birds are chirping. Grass is growing. He has an estate to survey.

 

 

We are petitioning to send Cheryl back to work.

We don’t know what ‘work’ is.

Nancy goes there. She’s gone all day and we never have to worry about her racing out into the back yard with a spray bottle in her hand, yelling intelligible human-speak while dousing us with water. It doesn’t hurt or anything, but still. We look stupid. Imagine if you have barked to your neighbor dog, I own this fence, I am ruler of this yard and you are not welcome here! all alpha and fierce-like, and then your old, fat owner comes charging out of the house and chases you across the lawn with a spray bottle. You get all wet and you look stupid in front of your enemy.

Hahaha, laughs your enemy, your owner did that to you!

We are losing the backyard wars and it’s all because of Cheryl. 

She says stupid human things to us. We don’t understand them all, but this is one she says often. She says:

“Stella lives in her back yard

just like you live in yours.”

Crazy talk. 

We have the whole back yard to defend.

Cheryl needs to stay in the house and keep her spray bottle to herself.

Annie is outside eating crocus blooms: or eating bees, it’s hard to tell from here. According to the back fence thermometer it is 60 degrees outside, which may be a little optimistic, but whatever it is, it’s Annieweather. Also Rileyweather, but he is much more tolerant of the cold than she is. Annie has a minimum of dog hairs. In fact, there are parts of Annie that have no dog hairs at all. She’s a forty-pound purse dog.

Annie and I have had the garage fight twice today. We store our trash, our recycling, the cranberry juice and my gourds in the garage. Well, okay, we also keep the car out there. The easiest way to get included in any ‘go’ adventure is to be in the garage when the car is about to leave, so whenever the garage door opens, out runs Annie. Also, because she lacks faith, she does not dash back into the house on command, sensing that bad, bad trickery might be involved.

Because Annie has minimal hairs, it would be dog cruelty to leave her in the cold garage for any length of time. This is ignoring things like antifreeze leaks, insecticides and salt licks. We have a dog rescue organization here in town that offers cash money to neighbors willing to turn people in for dog cruelty.

When Annie dashes out into the garage and then says, no, no, Cheryl, I’m not coming inside–I’m going to stay out here for a while, hey, what’s this delicious green stuff? Cheryl wants to beat her with a broom. 

“Go ahead–eat antifreeze, for all I care.”

We don’t have any free-flowing antifreeze in our garage, but you catch my drift.

When she first came to live with us, everything we did was like opening the garage door to grab a bottle of cranberry juice, only to have Annie dance out into the garage and play ‘chase me’ around and around the car. In fact, when we first got her she was terrified of the car: it took me 35 minutes to get her into the car the first time. This was after Riley said, Hey–it’s a go day! and jumped into the back seat, panting with enthusiasm. Unlike Riley, she’s never said, Oh, look, the front door’s open–I think I’ll run to Canada… Although, to be painfully honest, those adventures are actually preferable to standing two and a half feet away from a dog I can’t catch. When Riley bolts off down the street I am more focused on FINDING him than I am on how (&*%(&*($_)$#(*7 frustrating this bull-headed runt of a dog can be…

Anyway. I called her. She wouldn’t come. I called her cheerfully. She laughed: Trick. I shut the door.

I walked away.

Silence.

Silence.

Woof!

Cheryl–somebody left me out here in the garage…

I accidentally shut Riley in the garage once and he stayed out there quietly until people started coming to the house and he had to bark their arrival. (It was also better dog weather in the garage that day.)

Both dogs have come inside now. Riley is piled up on the couch, resting, and…I’m not sure where Annie is. The trash is not rattling. No dogs are outside barking. (Well, if they are they’re not mine.)

She’s napping on the living room couch. She can’t nap out here with us because Riley owns the couch. No: you can’t share. I don’t share my couch. Oldest Child.

They came inside because the backyard neighbors (once Princess’ proud owners) have a new dog who may/may not be named ‘Deuce’. Deuce is a medium-sized dog, possibly still a puppy, of obscure breeding background (I saw him once for thirteen second at the top of the baby’s slide.) Deuce and his human mom are out in the back yard practicing ‘sit’. This so infuriated Annie she had to rage outside and insult his heritage on both sides of his family, which caused Cheryl to rage outside and order both dogs into the house and slam shut the dog door.

So a foreign dog and his human are doing no one know what in the neighbor’s back yard, NO ONE KNOWS OR CARES and there is nothing to be done but the taking of a nap.

Nancy will hear about this, when she gets home.

Annie just trotted out there, poked me with her nose, and then trotted back into the living room and threw herself in a heap on the couch.

She moved, Cheryl. That woman I like to bark at  and you won’t let me any more–she moved.

Just so you know. 

 

Annie is exhausted. It is barely 11 am.

She is lying on the end of the Conservatory couch, under the light, about two feet from Nancy (at her computer) and about eight feet from me (at mine.) Ilah is in her room. Riley is outside, soaking up sun.

The Thing in the Back Yard has been barked into submission.

No one is gallivanting off to parts unknown.

If the noisy water machine in the food room would be quiet, life would be perfect.

We are in an interesting phase of our training with Annie. We (Nancy and I) are learning that ‘leave it’ actually works, that ‘sit’ is a useful command most of the time, that even when Annie goes ballistic because The Thing in the Back Yard is braying, BOTH chows have escaped from their house at one end of the lawn and Jetta the Weimaraner is hysterically barking at the other end, if we say, firmly, “Annie, come,” she…may not actually ‘come’…but she will eventually veer her mad dashing through the door door and back into the house. Or, in other words, we don’t have to corner her, grab her by the collar and haul her bodily into the house.

We have made progress, in spite of ourselves.

Today we worked out the kinks and figured out a way the two of us could attend our intermediate dog training class together (with our dog.) We need this dog to learn obedience. And she can: I believe I’ve admitted before, the hardest part of training Annie is training me.

What do you want me to do, Cheryl?

You’re not paying any attention–we could be eaten alive by this danger coming toward us and you’d never know: I’d better step in, here…

Riley–our starter dog–trusts me to handle situations, even if he has to dance and lean against me and bark to get my attention. Annie has limited faith in my abilities. Nice human, she appears to think, but a little dumb about the world.

Oh, you noticed that, did you? Okay, I’ll follow your stupid command

I have learned humility with my intermediate dog. I no longer lecture my sister about taking her dog to the dog park. Now that I have a dog that is aggressive toward other dogs, I can suddenly hear. (This has always been one of my most charming traits: teach me about of two elements on the periodic table and I am suddenly an ‘expert’ on elements. I’ll tell you anything I think you need to know about elements, regardless of your own level of expertise. I just learned it, it’s obviously new information no one else has ever heard before. Teach me about five of the elements on the periodic table and I might eventually realize just how many elements there are. Go bury in my head in the sand and groan. Girl, you did it again… I never learn. I was, for about a year, an expert on dog training because I had a genial lab mix who would occasionally sit when I told him to. I’m sorry, WeeOne. Thank you for your patience. And Jim. I’ve never even SEEN his dog, yet I felt completely confident telling him how to train him…)

It appears that a contingency of the family Peck is en route to Alabama today. Have a wonderful weekend.

Say ‘hi’ to Ella for me.  

Last year we fired our Internet service, which was also our cell phone service. I was mad because the salesman who sold me the service was fairly universally hated by the people who worked for him because he was more into hustling than he was providing service. He would sell anything to anyone, whether or not he had any expectation that it would worked, and then duck into the back room when an unsatisfied customer showed up. (I learned all of this after I fired the service and dropped by the office a few months later to find a.) he was gone, b.) previously ‘gone’ employees were back, and c.) they really, really disliked him and took great pleasure in telling me what a jerk he was.)

In the end, we went back to a service I had previously fired. The Internet service is fantastic. The basic cable is very reliable. The premium channels, for while we pay extra, still pixelate at dramatic moments, but who gets everything they want in life? Thrown in the ‘bundle’ with the above services was a free phone. We took it because…it was free.

Previously the phone number belonged to someone named ‘Ping’. Not all of Ping’s friends speak English. Not all of his creditors are pleased with him. Ping may be a she. For a year now I have been answering Ping’s phone and assuring those who have called me that I am not Ping, I don’t know Ping, I don’t know Ping’s new number, but this number is mine and I am not Ping.

It would appear that I lack credibility.

Today the phone rang and when I answered the caller seemed confused. Her caller ID told her my name was Ping. I explained I am not Ping, I don’t know Ping, I don’t know Ping’s new number and I have no interest in paying Ping’s past debts, having quite enough of my own current ones, and it turned out this person is a friend of Ilah’s and she really should have the number on her phone, just not in Ping’s name.

So I called Comcast, who gave us the free phone.

They were charming and helpful (they have clearly been trained to provide good customer service) but it is now my job to call friends with different service providers to find out which providers ID me as Ping.

I would like to divorce Ping. This relationship is not working out. However, I’m not so devoted to the dissolution of our union that I wish to call my friends to ask a.) who they thought just called them, b.) what service provider they use for their phone and c.) how they are, in the general course of their lives, because you really can’t just call people to ask them to read their caller ID and tell you what service provider they use, thank you very much, click.

I am dogless today. Ilah is expecting guests and my partner worries that our dogs are problematic. Actually only one of our dogs is problematic: the other stays in the back yard and barks at guests’ cars, but sees no reason to come in and bark at them. Ilah had multiple guests yesterday and Riley said, I’m sorry, Cheryl–I’m out here waiting for snow.

Riley loves snow. He loves to stand in the middle of a snowstorm and blink. When he does come in, he has a light blanket of snow on his back and snowflakes in his eyelashes. It’s a good day, Cheryl, he tells me. I’m claiming my husky heritage and besides, the little black dog hates the cold. So on snowy days the whole back yard is mine.

I haven’t explained that whole March concept to him yet. It could still snow again, and I hate to break his heart.

But today he has gone to work with Nancy and will probably spend most of the day outside on his lead because a.) Annie is inside and not hanging from his jowls, and b.) he is terrified of Nancy’s work cat.

Annie is not. Terrified of the cat. She has a healthy respect for the work cat: but unlike Riley, she does not shrink back and plead, don’t make me go in there… 

The work cat is not terrified of Annie, either.

Be gone, dog, sayeth the work cat.

You’re funny, laughs the dog.

I’m not stepping foot into that building, Riley takes his stand. No, no, no, I’ll stay out here and suffocate in mounds of snow like the Iditarod husky that I am.  

And on and on it goes.

I have a mean streak.

I do. It’s an ugly little buzzard sitting down somewhere near the gizzard of my soul.

It makes things up.

Mean things.

And then it convinces me they’re funny.

And then I say them, intending them as a joke–hahaha, imagine if I really meant this–and people’s feelings get hurt.

I don’t know what that’s about, probably because I don’t want to know what it’s about. Are the mean things I say really secretly true and the kinds of things I would say seriously if I had more guts? I don’t think so. I have examined these malaprops carefully after they have danced naked off the end of my tongue and poisonously barbed the exposed flesh of people I love. Did I really mean that? Why would I say it at all if I didn’t? Am I harboring hidden angers and aggressions that fester like boils until they erupt? 

I could point out that fundamentally humor is laughing at that which makes us uncomfortable. It is our way of saying, ‘doesn’t bother me. I’m okay with that. Strike!’

Humor is also how we say to each other, ‘I know you well enough to know to hurt you. I choose not to at this precise moment because you’re my friend–but I do know how. Look! I didn’t do it.’ 

I don’t know why I’m mean. It’s certainly not a trait I admire in anyone else.

Riley and I are home alone today. Well, Ilah is here, but she stays in her room. (Because Nancy and I are succulents who thrive around 68 degrees and Ilah is a hothouse tomato who needs to be 110.) I called Riley inside earlier this morning because he was barking (every dog in the neighborhood was barking, but he was the dog barking in my back yard.) He came to me a minute ago. Cheryl. I have to go outside again. Don’t hate me because I’m half-husky.  And then I heard the discreet rattle of the dog door. He would never just go outside, even if he was taking his nap in the living room and I was in the Conservatory. As often as not he’s happiest when I walk him to the back door. 

Annie went to work with Nancy because I said something insincere and mean this morning. There was a tiny exposed nerve just lying there on the floor and–being me–I stomped on it. So she took Annie to work with her because yesterday I said that Annie was ‘very busy’ all day and actually ended up briefly in her crate because I was tired of her barking at the neighbors. Nancy took her to work so I could have ‘some peace’ today.

I am the hardcore dog-trainer who every ninth offense remembers to snap, “leave it!” and then stands there with my jaw dropped when she leaves it.

Wow! It works! 

Duh.

Anyway. Ilah’s head is healing nicely. She beat me at Phase 10 the day after her trip to the ER, so it does not appear she’s suffered any brain damage.

Oh yes: another Riley story. Because Ilah’s head has a hole in it (stapled shut, but a hole nonetheless) Monday I went to writers group and Nancy stayed home with her mother and the dogs. I spent 3 hours at group and then I drove to Richland to drop off my taxes, so it was a little after one when I came home. I opened the garage door before I drove in. And then I went out to the street and brought the trash can back in. So I came home, but I did not immediately come into the house.

Annie sang, “She’s home! She’s home!” and dashed through the kitchen to dance at the garage door in anticipation of my arrival.

Riley got off the couch, stretched, walked over to Nancy and nose-bumped her. She didn’t take me, this morning, he said. I’m not that excited to see her come home, are you? He cuddled right up against her. It’s you and me, Nancy, because you stayed home with us and she just went gallivanting off without a care in the world…

But his eyes kept going to the back door.

Me and you, Nance–just me and you…

I got the garbage can situated, closed the garage door, dug my stuff out of the car… By the time I opened the garage door Annie was standing there, checking her watch What have you been doing all this time–didn’t you know I was waiting for you? 

And Riley was dancing sideways through the kitchen (he runs like a puppy when he’s excited) You’re home, you’re home! Did you have  a good time, did you see any dogs, can I go with you next time, Oh, thank God, you’re HOME!

No, really. I’m punishing you.

 

Ilah (Nancy’s mom) fell last night. Watching TV in the living room, I heard an odd little cry of distress and I bolted out of my chair (‘bolting out of my chair’ now takes me about five minutes), dashed into her room and found her lying on the floor. Annie dashed in to lick her head because it’s not all that often that Ilah is at floor level to be licked and because she hit her head on a drawer pull on the way down and laid open a gash that bled fairly prefusely.

Cheryl, she has blood on her head–here, I’ll lick it. 

Riley said, Oh, God, the humans are hysterical and he moved his nap to the Conservatory and out of our line of action.

Not Annie. She was in the middle of everything, wriggling.

Panic! Panic! Annie yelled as she ran through the house just in front of me. I was going to get the steam cleaner to steam the blood out of the carpet, but I had to move the wheel chair in the laundry room to get to it and as I hauled it out of the way I happened to think, That might come in handy… So I wheeled the wheel chair back to Ilah’s bedroom while Annie ran along ahead of me I think you should call a helicopter, Cheryl, it could land on the roof and the helicopter guys could rapel down the walls and crawl in the window… We have to get this woman to a doctor, she’s way too old to start sprouting holes in her head…

Nancy took her to the haspital where the doctors examined her, took a CAT scan (or something like that) and eventually tunked four staples in her head. They were gone about two hours. All this time Annie was running around the house, they’re gone, Cheryl, they left without us, it’s almost time to go to bed and two-thirds of our household is missing–I think The Thing in the Back Yard got them, hey, Cheryl–do you have a gun?

While Nancy and I were trying to transfer Ilah from the wheel chair into the car Annie ran around the car twice and finally jumped into the back seat. I’m fairly sure I’m supposed to go with you…

We are going to have to practice emergency proceedures with our dog.

Ilah is fine. She’s wearing a stocking cap today because her wound broke open and bloodied her pillow in the night. She feels fine. I need to go feed her lunch now.

Annie is exhausted.

It is a gray and moody day. At some point I need to gather together my tax papers so I can deliver them to my people tomorrow. I am worried I will owe money. I accidentally looked at the sheet my pension sends me every now and then to let me know what I get, when I get it, and how much everyone else gets to keep and I had to mutter bad words and stomp my feet. I was prepared to live on a ‘fixed’ income: between my health insurance and state and federal taxes, my income appears ‘fixed’ to steadily decrease. I am sure I am the only woman on the planet who has this problem.

Yesterday Riley and I went to the dog park. He knows the route: he knows when he’s within three miles of the dog park. The dog normally snoozing in the back seat is poised like a masthead on my console, his lab/beagle/golden/mutt nose pointed at 3 acres of dog heaven. Two miles from the dog park his tail begins to swing back and forth and he’s panting.

Omigod, omigod, Cheryl, he said excitedly, the place is full of mud!   

He ran through the front gate and greeted the dogs already at the park with a warning growl, Don’t mess with me, I came for the mud, and off he went, running, sniffing, peeing, sniffing butts all over the park.

He is the official park greeter for as long as he’s there: whoever comes through the front gate meets Riley. A man and his son and his dog came through the gate and Riley was there to greet them. Hi. Stay away from me, I just came to sniff your butt. What did you have for supper last night, anyway?  The man reached down for a pat and Riley danced away. Forget you, unknown human, he laughed, I already have enough people in my life and I have running to do. 

I am sure I have said this before. Riley is a pretty dog. I spend a lot of time taking pictures of him, or admiring his head and trying to pinpoint the exact dog he reminds me of. (And I know what dog he reminds me of. Unfortunately I never knew what breed she was, either.) To me he looks like about two-thirds of a golden retriever. Smaller body, slightly shorter hair, beautiful face. Most people at the dog park ignore him because there is nothing about him that particularly stands out and because he is self-entertaining. Even when he runs with other dogs he is always a little behind and a step outside the loop (sadly my Riley has never been a speedhound.) He may occasionally see people at the park that interest him and when he does he runs toward them and when they put out their hand to touch him, he sweeps off to the side, just inches out of reach. If he is known for anything at all at the park, he is known for growling for no particular reason. Or he is known for having an old fat woman who follows him around commenting that he is ‘just an old Boopsie Growler.’

In this Year of the Encroaching Cold–which may say more about the age of Riley’s people than it does about the weather–we haven’t gone to the dog park as much. There may be a little husky buried in Riley’s genes–he loves the dog park and he is morely likely to hang back in the heat than in cold. Tiny crystals in the air do not concern him when he has three acres of fence line to sniff. Trees to mark. The back gate to investigate. We have fallen completely out of the loop of knowing when who goes when, so if he had dog friends at the park, we never show up at the right time. (Not that he cares. Riley is a nose-driven dog, not a social butterfly.)

I sat on the bench and talked to Elmer and his Mom for a while.

I marvelled privately that while I know enough to skirt mud, my  yellow dog came back with a mud-colored undercarriage, as if he ran right through it. He never gets quite as dirty as Izzy can, but the, Izzy has special skills.

On the way home Riley sat in the back seat, looking out the window, and panted. This was good, Cheryl, he assured me. We need to step up this going-to-the-dog-park thing. Whew! Did you see me run?

I am editing today.

Editing is not for the faint of heart.

I belong to a writers group (two, actually) and my writers group hates my writing. (okay: they don’t hate my writing. They hate my fondness for creatively describing a character’s act of articulating thoughts and emotions through tone, expression and eye contact. This boils down to constant arguments about ‘he said’.)

For instance, in the middle of a complex interaction of characters, deaths, kidnappings and stolen dogs, one of my fellow authors has one of her characters worry that she might be responsible for the kidnapping of her close friend, ‘she stated’. I wrote, ‘I know you’re not going to like this but ‘she stated’ is so flat here.’ And she laughed and she said, “I’m sorry, but you’re wrong.” (In fact–although she did laugh–she would probably object to my saying that because her comment is not overtly ‘funny’.)

If I say, ‘he agreed’, or ‘she intimated’, or they…really did anything but asked/said, it is ‘distracting’.

I accuse them of being trendy.

Last week I read six books in six days and I honestly don’t remember how any of those writer dealt with ‘he said’.  Interesting. You might think after the number of discussions I’ve had about that subject alone lately, thought delivery systems would stand out for me as I read. They don’t.

So what I have done for the past 5 chapters is run through and cut out the following, soon to be included in the same list where I store ‘a little’, ‘some’, ‘once in a while’ and ‘pretty much’:

he said

she said

he agreed, concurred, admitted, acknowledged, checked, confirmed, guessed, hoped, implied.

she asked, queried, inquired, questioned, wondered

But I’m on a roll now.

If you write a long sentence they want a shorter one; if you write short sentences they want longer ones.

I hope like a crow on roadkill every time the balding head of the passive voice pops up: they gush, ‘I just loved that sentence you used, what was it…something about a crow on roadkill…I’m just not sure what you mean…. 

Ah, well–it’s lunch time. The announcement has been made.

I must to find something for this woman to eat.

And now, the dog wants out. He could just go through his dog door, but….    

    

My hat, my Kindle, my phone, my highlighter, the book I was reading (Red Mist by Patricia Cornwell,) Jenell’s North Carolina basket, the Alabama sun filtered through blinds. You can always tell where I am by tracking my little piles.

Yesterday Nancy’s granddaughter, Nancy’s son and his friend/partner/I’m-not-sure-what-her-official-title-is came over and made dinner for us. Grilled Salmon, sweet potatoes, this w-o-n-d-e-r-f-u-l cheesy bread, and spinach and portobello mushrooms. And pineapple upside down cake. Wonderful.

Today I wrote a little, spoke firmly to Riley about barking, shared the last of the Cheetos with Annie, ground up some stray papers… We’re not doing anything terribly significant today. It must be moderate weather because Riley is outside and Annie is inside. The sun shines most of the time, but there are some dramatic clouds scattered here and there across the sky.

I have a love-hate relationship with Patricia Cornwell. (She is unaware of our relationship, however contentious it may be.) I read the entire book, much like the last time I was in Bama I read the last Cornwell book, kicking and muttering all the way through it. I am as strong an advocate of strong female leads as anyone around, but there is a certain arrogance to Cornwell’s writing and to her characters that aggravates me. However, would I stand up in front of a room of people and present this as a solemn literary criticism? Probably not. I can be a petty individual when I put my mind to it, and she is small, blond and enormously successful as a writer while I am old, gray, fat and unknown. I can be competitive. There is no doubt in my mind that if I put my competitive spirit up against Cornwell’s, she would mop the floor with me. And, ultimately: I read both books. She is a compelling writer, even if you’re gritting your teeth just as little as you go. Some people might call that ‘edgy’.

Annie is wadded up in a puddle of sunlight on the rug. She’s not even sleeping: she seems to be waiting for something exciting to happen.

Today that might be a long wait.