Animal Life

When I was biking the other day, I came across a dead short-tailed weasel on the road, not something you see very often. I don’t want weasels to die, but it was kind of nice to see the thing laid out so I could inspect it’s cream-colored belly and rufus back and it’s pointy snout. The weasel is a notorious chicken killer; it bites the chickens’ heads and sucks the blood out so sometimes you can’t tell what happened. Christopher asked why I didn’t bring the weasel home so he could study it too. I said I hadn't had a plastic bag with me.

The next morning he carried something to my desk where I was writing and placed it out my mouse pad. It was a tortoise, an Eastern Box Turtle, with it’s jointed plastron all clammed up so you could hardly have pushed a pencil tip into his soft parts. Really, the only thing such a creature has to fear is an automobile. Unfortunately there are plenty of those. I got to thinking that mating must really be something for the armored Eastern Box Turtle, who can live to be a hundred years old. Together, Christopher and I returned the turtle to the spot Chris found him.

Turns out that sex is an elaborate process for box turtles. First the male climbs atop the female. Once he insinuates himself into her, he hooks his back legs under her shell and flips over onto his back. The female apparently trudges forward, dragging the male behind her, upside down. For the male, it must be something like slow motion water skiing (Whee!) You ask, do turtles do everything slowly? Well, sex takes three hours or so. Whee!

If you want to see photos, go to http://www.aboxturtle.com/mating.htm

Manuscript is off!

Thank you all my friends who helped me with the stories in my manuscript, which finally made its way to Wayne State University Press on Tuesday, June 17. Thank you to Lisa Lenzo, Jaimy Gordon, Melissa Fraterrigo, Rachael Perry, Donna Sparkman, Gina Betcher, Monica Friedman and Lynn Pattison for looking at the whole manuscript over the last couple of months and giving me feedback and/or encouragement. Thank you to Heidi Bell and Andy Mozina and Carla Vissers and Christopher Magson (and again Lisa Lenzo) for helping me work every goddamned story in there. For help in conceiving, shaping and/or editing individual stories, thanks to Susan Ramsey, Glenn Deutsch, Jamie Blake, Elizabeth Kerlikowski, and Shawn Wagner. And there are more.

I don't know if anyone really writes books without the help of one's friends, but the back-and-forth I have with my pals is in some ways the largest portion of my work. They are my first audience, they help me see the larger audience.

The book is scheduled for publication in Spring 2009, April or May. There's lots of work to do in the meanwhile, but at least this moment gives some relief. Cheers! BJC

Little Sorrows

I may have conjured our gray cat from dust. She appeared in our front yard garden just after I had invented a gray cat in my novel. She was furtive as a ghost, small-framed and skinny as a potato chip. Her eyes were pretty, lined with white like the eyes of a female wood duck. Dozens of stray and feral cats starve outside these walls, but we wanted her inside with us. We caught her in a live trap. After the spaying, Judy the veterinarian told us she had been pregnant, at only five months old. Unfortunately our orange cat chased her and continued chasing her for the whole six years, though it became routine and less stressful for the gray kitty, whom we named Earlene. She did not trust people, and only gradually came to partially trust Christopher and myself. She was no lap cat, but in the last year she took to sleeping against my chest, under the covers. We nicknamed her Usurpina because she often jumped up to sit where I had just been sitting, usurping my warmth. Also, she really enjoyed pushing pencils and pens off tables and desks onto the floor. One of her eyes did not dilate, and she had occasional seizure-like episodes during which she lost control of her back legs. Last week, she seized and did not get better and now she is gone. Christopher and I dug a deep hole under the birdfeeder and wrapped her in an old pink cotton tablecloth. Kellee brought some flowers for the grave. Every sorrow is practice for the next sorrow, I suppose. With so many people dead around the world from storms and wars, we note simply that Earlene was a small cat we rescued and loved and lost.