In preparation for Talk Like a Pirate Day, I bought four pineapples. (Both tasty and decorative!) Earlier tonight, Elaine took me by the hand and dragged me into the kitchen where the pineapples are lined up, rather impressively, along the counter. She pointed up at them and declared, "Eat pinecone!"

After I regained my composure, I decided to strike a deal. Now, I wasn't about to cut into one of the fresh, whole pineapples, but I did have a can of pineapple slices in the cupboard. I also had a daughter who until very recently would answer, "What does a pirate say?", with a good, hearty "ARRR!" But with one week until our big pirate party, she had suddenly decided that, actually, pirates say, "NNNNN!" And she has been taking great delight in torturing me with that.

So, I told Elaine, pineapple would be a good treat for a little pirate. Then I asked, "What do pirates say?" She thought about it for a moment, and then she gave me a good, hearty "ARRR!" Apparently, pineapple is more valuable to little pirates than torturing their mothers.

I've been having an absolutely fantastic time maintaining a yard of my own. It's like playing Diablo -- but even more satisfying. Instead of hacking apart re-animated skeletons and lava monsters, I get to hack apart plant beasts. So far, I've completely shredded three rhododendrons and have severely hacked back innumerable shrubs. (Okay, I could probably numerate them if I wanted to... But, it's much more fun to attack them with sharpened hedge shears than to count them, despite what Sesame St. would have you believe.)

Of course, I've planted things too. Three roses: a yellow one called Radiant Perfume; a pink one called Spellbound; and a white one called Pope John Paul II. Also, two camellia bushes to replace the rhododendrons. (Camellias are much more interesting people than rhododendrons.) But, really, gardening seems to be mostly about fighting plants back as they war to take over your yard. It's epic, really.

My hedge shears are sharp, but the hedge keeps growing!

Getting a second Sheltie has been working out really well. Quinn is almost exactly like Patrick. Except, only in the good ways. He's like Patrick v.2.0. It's a little eerie, actually. He has the same toy and game preferences; many of the same idiosyncratic behaviors. But, mostly, he exudes the same presence. It makes me understand people who want to get their pets cloned better. Because, apparently, you really can get a new animal who will set at peace the part of yourself that aches with missing the old animal. With Shelties, however, you don't have to go to the trouble and expense of actual cloning, since they're already all so genetically similar.

The time came to get a pet robot.

He's still charging.

The time came to get another dog.

After meeting some Corgis and scouting out the mutts at a local animal shelter, I decided what I really wanted was to get a Sheltie puppy again. So, I emailed most of the Sheltie breeders in Oregon and ended up with leads on some litters that would be available in the fall, one litter of seven-week-old puppies that would be available in a week, and a pair of thirteen-week-old puppies that had been meant to be show dogs but were turning out too large. The seven-week-olds were down south of Eugene, and the thirteen-week-olds were up north of Portland. I made appointments to meet them both.

My experience with the seven-week-olds was pretty much the same experience I had meeting Patrick -- the puppy was annoying (although, I found that endearing since it reminded me of Patrick as an annoying puppy) and the adult mother was lovely.

The thirteen-week-olds were completely different. By that age, the puppies are starting to look and act like little Shelties instead of wriggly, toothy, little balls of fluff. They're old enough that personality differences between the two puppies were readily apparent. And, even better, they were already trained to sleep through the night. So, when I brought Quinn home, he was already, in some ways, the best behaved dog in the house.

So, now, when our dog pack rushes the door or tears around the yard, there is -- as there should be -- a fluffy but dignified, high-stepping, orange Sheltie in the mix.

Perhaps my expectations were skewed, but I felt there was a disappointing lack of helicopters, time travel, and ninjas at my ten year high school reunion.

As a shield against the chaos, confusion, consternation, and uproar of my house being dismantled and put into boxes around me, I started Otters In Space 2 last week. I needed to withdraw to a world where the animals talked, and I've been outlining it in the back of my mind for a while. So, I figured it was about ready.

I'm not usually much of a sit-down-and-write-every-day type of writer. Generally, I can go distressingly long periods of time before the guilt fully kicks in, forcing me to sit down and pound through a story in a week. This strategy has worked just well enough for me in the past that I haven't had much success replacing it with a strategy involving less guilt. Thus, I was very pleasantly surprised last week to find that the good habits I developed while writing Otters In Space 1 actually stuck.

About six months before Elaine was born, I decided that I didn't want to have a baby before writing a complete novel. So, I became very disciplined; I wrote every day; and I finished my first novel. Then I lapsed back into my old ways. So, I was taken completely by surprise last week to find that, while the habits I learned for Otters In Space 1 don't seem to apply to short stories or the other novel I'm working on, they do apply to further works of Otters In Space. As soon as I set those characters free again, the old training took over.

So, now, before I can go to bed, I need to make some progress on Otters In Space...