I paused on the landing, startled to hear roinking noises coming from Hobkin, who was pacing very agitatedly downstairs in front of the barrier. Worried, I called Matthew over, but then realized I still had his present in my arms, which he wasn't supposed to see. So, torn between two impulses: upstairs to hide away the package or downstairs to check on my upset skunk, I watched Hobkin pace to make sure he wasn't limping or evidencing other physical injury, then sprinted up the stairs.
I raced back downstairs, with Hobkin still vocalizing, and picked him up. At which point, he stopped and cuddled against me.
So it seems like my silly fuzzwit was so upset that I was apparently abandoning him after just coming home, that he felt the need to complain about it. Now, unlike dogs and cats (and guinea pigs), skunks are very quiet animal. Any sound coming from them is very unusual. So I'm both touched and perplexed. Hobkin is needy.
1000 words on the Urban Fantasy. Chugga-chugga-chug. I-think-I-can. I-think-I-can.
Also, a 117-day "nice writing but . . . " from Space and Time on a story I'd queried about. Sigh. Out it goes again.
There's an informal competition going on in the R&A topic of the Speculations Rumor Mill</i> to see who can get the most rejections in December. Right now, the leading contestant is at fifteen, so I'm pretty much out of the running at two with this S&T one--that is unless every single one of the markets I've got works at decides to send me a "buzz off" notice in the next three weeks. I think I shall not hope for that particular sequence of events, thank-you-very-much. But it's always good to put a positive spin on a negative.