He screamed for me when they took him away. Now Hobkin doesn't typically vocalize. Skunks are very quiet pets. He'll occasionally huff if he's miffed, and I can count on one hand how often he's "roinked" in distress, so I'd never heard him scream before. He sounded like a parrot being tortured--shrill and loud. They brought him back to me, very unhappy and very scared, his whole front dripping wet from the isoprophyl alcohol they'd spritzed him down with in their unsuccessful efforts to jab him. He stopped screaming as soon as they handed him to me, and he consented to letting them both draw blood and poke him for his shot without a peep, although clinging to me with all his fuzzy might. Hobkin's never trusted the vet again, not that he was overwhelmed with him before. I hope they remember this experience at his appointment and let me assist. My poor baby. At least his godmother will be there. If they won't let me hold him, he might be okay if she does.
And . . . it begins. The first boxes of Dragon*Con Film Festival swag have started arriving. Several boxes of flip books for Tim Burton's Corpse Bride are now sitting in our dining room. Sigh. I may as well say good bye to my dining room until September.
Found out via aimeempayne that Ellen Datlow mentioned me in the 2004 Years Best Fantasy and Horror! Alas, it's for my work as managing editor of Tangent and not for any of my fiction, but I'll take what I can get. I shall continue to press my nose against the window of the writers who've gotten an honorable mention or *gasp* even been published in those hallowed tomes, but at least my name has appeared in one of them. It's a start.
And, err, 14 crits this morning. Meep. I solemnly swear I will never again complain about a lack of lovin' in the Critters queue!
New Words: 500
On the Korean folktale.
Club 100 For Writers