Inhuman Swill : Ella : Page 8

Fuzz amongst the tulips

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Fuzz amongst the tulips 1
This was the scene Laura called me to see out our back door this morning. She was already there taking pictures:

Our tulips, which we didn't plant but were just waiting for us, under the ground, have been opening slowly in sequence from the front of the yard to the back along the north fence, then from the north to south along the back fence. This reflects the amount of sun falling on each portion of the yard. There are yellow and pink tulips along the side, red along the back. Ella likes to lounge amongst them. If you look closely enough, you can see the fallen soldier she has crushed beneath her monstrous fuzzy body.

Ella went to the groomer yesterday. The cut will look good once it's grown out a little and gotten some curl back. But for now she is soft as satin.

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For the past few days, I've thought I might smell just a dash, just a soupçon, just one wafer-thin mint's worth of natural gas in the kitchen. I would sniff, and Laura would tell me I was crazy. It happens.

Last night I thought I smelled it, and this time Laura allowed as how she might smell it too. I didn't call ConEd immediately, having a vague memory of a similar situation in my Brooklyn apartment and being made to understand by the man who came to check it out that I had been kind of silly not to know this wasn't the dangerous kind of gas smell.

So I called up ConEd very late this morning, from work. In the voicemail treet, I deliberately did not choose the emergency options. I waited for a customer service representative. I said I might have smelled a little gas in my kitchen.

"What's your address, sir?"

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Groovy dog

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Groovy Dog
Little did we suspect, but it would appear that our own [info]ellapup has been secretly stealing studio time, and her self-released psychedelic hippie folk revival tribute album will be shipping any day now. I am fortunate enough to have discovered this (thanks for the tip-off call, MasterCard!), and I have a first look at the photo shoot that will yield her album cover.

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Shunn's Huns

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I took it easy last night, no running out into the insanity that is the Irish pub scene in Astoria to drive out the snakes. It was just the dog and I, Laura having stayed over with a friend in Brooklyn to get a quick start on the half-marathon they're running this morning.

Me, my plan was to take Ella to the park for our standard two-hour Saturday outing, then get her medications in her and head out to New Jersey for Lunacon. But when I woke up at five, I could barely move. Every muscle in my body ached. I couldn't get back to sleep. It's no secret I've been burning the candle at both ends, but I don't want the flame to go out today.

Ella needs her walk, so we'll head out in a few minutes and see how that goes. (Though I'm seriously tempted to take a car service to the park. It's a half-hour walk.) I'm full of water and coffee, and an Aleve will go down the pipe next. I hope when we get back I will no longer feel as if the Huns of Ill Health are lying in ambush just beyond the next rise. Ella is pouting on the floor, but maybe her enthusiasm once we get underway will scatter those ruffians!

Update: Feeling better already, just being up and moving around. We'll see how I am at 9:30.
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Look and feel

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Ella is back from the hospital! Actually, she came home last night. She's none the worse for the wear except for being on several prescriptions and having had a cuff shaved around one of her back ankles. For such a fluffy-looking dog, she sure has a leg like a chicken bone!

In other news, there's been a very slight tweak to the look of Nothing major!

(CSS rocks.)

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Our friend [info]ellapup is spending the night in the hospital for monitoring and fluids as she recuperates from a particularly nasty bout of gastroenteritis and its attendant dehydration. Please, no flowers. She would only eat or more likely shred them. Squeaky toys always put a wag in the ol' tail, though.

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Beards in action

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Glowing eyes
Oh, you know what I mean. I hope.

Even though in this photo I'm only sitting around reading a manuscript for this week's workshop (hi, [info]gtrout!), the beard is there patiently growing and doing its work.

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Mad Bomber Hat
So Laura and I were walking across town on 9th Street on a recent frosty evening—Tuesday just past, to be precise—our arms laden with new purchases and our minds casting ahead to the pleasures of an evening at the Kettle of Fish on Christopher Street in the company of our CD Mix of the Month club cohort, when we spied a spasm of utter disgust and contempt twist the features of a squat, portly pedestrian approaching and about to pass us on our right.

For a moment I wondered what horrific sight or gut-churning smell it might be that had made such unholy handiwork of this Andy Richter–looking fellow's fat face, but all became clear when the porcine perambulator spat these words with a venom that would not have disgraced a slithering specimen of Naja nigricollis nigricincta"What is that on your head?"

Ah. Owing to the evening's chill, I proudly sported my infamous Mad Bomber Hat1, tugged snugly down around my ears. Lined with genuine and luxuriant lapin fur, this toasty headgear never fails to elicit hearty compliments from more discerning critics (as, in fact, it did not much later that evening). Never before, however, had an imprecation of such vehemence been hurled at my innocent chapeau.

Needless to say, such churlishness could not be allowed to pass unchecked. Shrugging off my shock, I turned as the surly stranger passed and sent this salvo sailing over my shoulder:

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Ella on the assist!

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Ella (accompanied by her pal Casey) demonstrates her rebounding technique:

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William Shunn