It's bloody dark in the country without street lights so in anticipation of the change in time and the earlier arrival of night, we picked collar lights up for the two dogs. Not as necessary for Stella because she doesn't go very far from the house at night, providing we can actually get her off the couch and outside in the dark and cold.
"I'll hold it till the sun comes up," she tells us.
But Abby, ah, dear, dark, bouncy Abby. She needs a beacon to light her way to and from home.
You'd be amazed at how much light these little suckers put out. You don't want to see them coming at you in the dark if you're drunk. The lights AND these two dogs, actually!

Soooooo...
Momentous day. Using my sister's milestone birthday as, what, good luck charm?
Just, JUST, sent off my first query for the new and improved, refocused, energized, inspirational, transformational (is that a word?) memoir of mine -- the same one you've been hearing about for two years -- the one that is now known as "Safe At Home: A Daughter's Journey into the Heart & Soul of Alzheimer's".
If, IF this agent is interested, I will hear back from her in 30 to 60 days.
Because of this and because of the approaching holiday season, I'm only querying this agent at this time. I did tell her that. She's kind of numero uno. For the next 30 to 60 days. Then I move onto numero uno number two.
You know, I'm great when I'm planning on querying, when I'm tweaking the letter and going over the first 5, 10, 20 pages. That's when I'm feeling confident and hopeful and determined to make this happen. I actually believe it will happen.
Now that I've actually emailed the query to an agent -- just this one -- I feel like puking.

Holy crap. My sister has reached a milestone birthday.
You know, I like being in my forties. I have found it very liberating even if the "happy fat" is multiplying. But being in my forties means, I don't care!
My sister turning 40 today, however, is a different matter. It makes me feel old!

(Min is rockin' the short hair now -- but not quite the 1974 look! -- but I don't have a photo of that.)

I'd forgotten about writing this down in my notebook so let's go back a bit to the first meal of partridge we enjoyed with Mum.

As we sat down to our meal of potatoes, acorn squash, carrots and parsnips, and very delicious, very dry partridge, I said, "We should have Dad here."

When Dwayne and Mum looked at me, I said, "There's a photo of Dad as a young man and he's holding a live patridge in his hands."

Mum laughed. "He brought it into the house! I said, 'What are you doing?' What if it had gotten loose..."

So a thought hit me:

If my father hadn't moved to the city to become a funeral director and if he hadn't lived above his funeral homes, if he had lived in the country, had lots of land, a pond, a barn, I think he would have collected animals. As pets. 

"Call Reg," I said. "He'll take it."

Mum laughed again. 

This is a nice thought to have, an alternate life for my father, a different way of envisioning his love of animals. 

Really, this is no less plausible then not knowing he played baseball until after he was stricken with Alzheimer's disease.

This is the face we see peering in the window for a week or so after buying the two dogs new knucklebones. Abby delights in burying them -- both of them, much to Stella's consternation -- then digging them up, trotting around with one in her mouth searching for a new hiding spot.
Bizarre but it keeps her busy. We call it her "project". 

My husband is enjoying an opportunity to hunt partridge for supper. He heads out in the morning on the four-wheeler and takes Abby with him. He told me the other day that he'd shot a partridge at a distance but hadn't killed it instantly. When he approached on the bike, it couldn't fly but it was trying to get away and he couldn't catch it.
"I told Abby to get down off the bike and go around," he said. "She did and stood right in front of that partridge so I could grab it."
He's very impressed with our new dog. Such a different personality than Stella, less independent and dominant, very much interested in doing what we're doing and being with us, on our terms. I'm glad he has the company of a dog when he heads out. It's hard for him to shake the thoughts about how his children have treated him, how his daughter is using Facebook to attack him with lies, about how the people he's known all his life are gossiping about him based on what they hear and read. He's a sensitive and deep-feeling man and family is so important to him; to be betrayed by his own two children because of the machinations of the woman he was married to for 25 years is a great torment to him. Going back into the woods on his bike with a gun and his dog to bring home a lovely meal for us is a balm to his battered soul.

These field-dressed bodies weigh 3/4 of a pound each. Dwayne puts them in the crockpot with potatoes and carrots and a can of mushroom soup and voila! A tasty dinner from our woods.
(Tastes like chicken, not strong or different at all.)

Random thoughts in the middle of writing a story pitch to Reader's Digest...

It's so bloody warm for November 1. Went for a walk with the dogs without a sweater. Picked more clover for Rosie. I've been telling her since Thanksgiving that this would be here last feed of clover.
Our other rabbit, Daisy, is dying. I'm fine with nature taking its own course but I told Dwayne he could do whatever he's comfortable with; I'm glad to be married to a man who can't bring himself to shoot a pet rabbit, even if it's dying.

Facebook is addicting. Damn. Thank goodness I didn't go the personal account with Friends. I'd be driving everyone crazy. I like my professional page (as I call it) and the challenge of writing posts that relate to my career. Seems funny to use that word but I suppose I should consider my writing a career after all these years.

It's slow-going to reach the 25 "Likes" I need to get a username but instead of frantically emailing people and begging them to like me (!), I'm going to let that unfold in due course. Since we're going to intentionally bid Dwayne's terrible year good-bye and intentionally welcome a fresh, new year in together in Atlanta, I think I'll wait to begin querying agents in that fresh, new year.
Or, if I reach 25 by next week, I might just sneak one out next Wednesday on my sister's 40th birthday -- seems auspicious.

You know, I'd like to be 25 again. I'd like to know everything I know now at the age of 42 but be 25 again with all that wisdom and experience.