juushika

Two of these are actually backlogs (one actually very backlogged) (I am unusually behind on reviews right now); nonetheless spooky season has begun! My autumn TBR is gorgeous.

Also bless these first two forth both going the ominous footnotes route. It's my new favorite gimmick. Also it makes me want to reread Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, which I remember for exceptional footnotes but haven't read in so long that I can't remember how, precisely, they inform the atmosphere.


Title: Other Words for Smoke
Author: Sarah Maria Griffin
Published: Greenwillow Books, 2019
Rating: 4.5 of 5
Page Count: 335
Total Page Count: 400,600
Text Number: 1511
Read Because: reviewed by Rosamund, ebook borrowed from the Multnomah County Library
Review: Over the course of two summers, twins visit their aunt's magical house where something in the walls yearns to feast. I'm not convinced this up to all its potential: it builds a delightful sense of mystery and dread (I love the footnotes) but the reveals are a little defanged. Nonetheless I adored this. It's a slim, strange novel about mystery, about magic as dangerous as it may be empowering, about a viscerally haunted house (bookended by evocative papercraft dioramas), about unrequited and queer longing. I love a haunted house, but they can often be meditative or bleak; this delights in an equal sense of wonder. I'm earmarking this for future rereads.


Title: Plain Bad Heroines
Author: emily m. danforth
Illustrator: Sara Lautman
Published: HarperCollinsPublishers, 2020
Rating: 4 of 5
Page Count: 640
Total Page Count: 404,095
Text Number: 1521
Read Because: found on this list of queer dark academia novels, ebook borrowed from the Multnomah County Library
Review: In the modern day, a movie is set to adapt a book that chronicles the deadly events at a girls' school back at the turn of the century. The narrative skips between the centuries, the film and the school. Thus it's inevitable that one timeline will appeal more than the other, and I prefer the historic setting—there's a plot contrivance in the modern day that I find a little strained. I also doubt that any backstory could explain the haunting in a satisfying way, but I would've preferred none to the one tacked on.

But maybe the real horror is the hatred we internalize along the way: this is a delightfully meta-textual book, peppered with footnotes from a self-aware narrator (a gimmick I adore—it's such a fun way to build tension in a horror novel!); it's super queer, with a cast of diverse and oft-plain/bad women vibrantly evoked; the atmosphere and haunting, the boarding school and orchard (and Hollywood too, I suppose), the rot and apples and wasps, is distinctive and delightfully gothic. This is imperfect but it still got me good; I really enjoyed it.


Title: Rawblood (aka The Girl from Rawblood)
Author: Catriona Ward
Published: HarperCollinsPublishers, 2020
Rating: 4 of 5
Page Count: 350
Total Page Count: 404,445
Text Number: 1522
Read Because: reviewed by tamaranth, ebook borrowed from the Multnomah County Library
Review: In the British countryside stands a manor whose family are compelled to stay there by inevitably find themselves haunted by an uncanny resident. This is a ridiculously gothic puzzle-piece of a novel about a family's history and their occasional confidants; I adore the atmosphere and the more distinctive of the many narrators, but I'm not sure that the plot twists work for me—particularly, the ending reveal is belabored. I'm glad I tried Ward again, having bounced off of The Last House on Needless Street—it was content, not style, that turned me off; the psychological-thriller-horror-mystery hybrid is fun with a different focus, albeit not especially memorable.

More autumnal and/or spoopy picture books. Gravett is! so good! I can't wait to read more.


Title: Leaves
Author: David Ezra Stein
Published: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2007
Rating: 2 of 5
Page Count: 30
Total Page Count: 378,225
Text Number: 1406
Read Because: from multiple autumn picture book lists, hardback borrowed from the Wilsonville Public Library
Review: A bear experiences his first autumn. The dark, messy lines and cool autumnal colors are definitely a style! But the floppy, long-muzzled bear is a miss for me. Since this is a cute but straightforward autumn book, all about cozy vibes and learning the changing seasons, its success hinges on its art; I found it forgettable.


Title: Alfred's Book of Monsters
Author: Sam Streed
Published: Charlesbridge Publishing, 2019
Rating: 3 of 5
Page Count: 30
Total Page Count: 378,970
Text Number: 1408
Read Because: from this list of best Halloween books 2019, hardback borrowed from the Wilsonville Public Library
Review: Alfred would rather read his monster encyclopedia than attend another "delightful" tea with his aunt. This is a near-miss for me and the problem is the art: children's books with digital-heavy art always look flat, even when they have a strong aesthetic and textured backgrounds; I also wish the bestiary pages were more dynamic, specifically that the monsters weren't in roughly the same angle and pose each time they appear. But "baby goth frustrated by niceties figures out a way to spice things up" is a charming and relatable premise and, while the art doesn't land, the spooky/playful Victorian gothic vibe is still fun.


Title: Little Mouse's Big Book of Fears
Author: Emily Gravett
Published: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers, 2007
Rating: 5 of 5
Page Count: 30
Total Page Count: 379,000
Text Number: 1409
Read Because: reading more of the author, hardback borrowed from the Wilsonville Public Library
Review: A little mouse fills out a create-this-book of phobias in order to work through her many, many fears. I loved this tip to tail. It's a deceptively simple gimmick brought to life by countless clever details: nibbled corners and interactive pages (which have held up well in this library copy, so kudos on the design); a wealth of morbid humor in the flavor text of newspaper cutouts and collage materials; endless texture, motion, and creativity in each panel. It's cute, highly relatable, and unexpectedly dark—with a funny coda that manages to be upbeat without spoiling the overall tone. I didn't love this quite as much as Wolves, but it came close and it makes me glad I'm checking out more of Gravett's work.

What a weird [vaguely mumbled unit of time], just like everyone else's, but still.

I did a good job making October an All Spooks, All the Time month, which I've been carrying through November with mixed success. I pulled out a bunch of the spoopy films from our shelves, the stupider the better, and even managed to watch a few. Devon and I rewatched season 1 & 2 of Hemlock Grove, and then wisely decided against rewatching the third season, which was such a flop that there aren't even wiki summaries. I've been trying to read fanfic to scratch the itch instead, but I find myself stymied by the "shit on the female character that gets in the way of my favorite gay ship" approach of most fans. Season 2 is often a mess, season 3 sure does said female character dirty, and the technique of using a woman as go-between to explore homoerotic tension without making it actually gay is gross—but the end of season 2 leans to a bisexual polyam triad which isn't bad rep and isn't "in the way of" the gay ship and actually could be fascinating???? more of that, please, and less misogyny, thank you.

The highlight of the season was that by some luck I managed to line my library hold of Luigi's Mansion 3 up with November, so I played the first and second game in October. I still begrudge Nintendo their reliance on nostalgia as they marginally update the same handful of franchises, but, as with my experiences with Kirby and Zelda, I'll admit the format works and that watching those old, janky, limited-by-their era franchises expand with better gameplay, quality of life improvements, and particularly the bigger and better-rendered graphics in Nintendo's delightful plastic/squishy silicone playmobile aesthetic is actually fun. This series is the purest, greatest spoop, silly and cute and aesthetic and charmingly detailed.

My personal highlights: 1) Luigi humming the theme/bg music when idling in the second game, just like me. 2) That the singular annoyance of boo-catching in the first game pays off in the third game, when you cathartically whip the boo back and forth.

⁂

But the months themselves have been a blur. We lost early autumn to, you know, terrifying Oregon wildfires. We lost a week of mid-autumn when our upstairs neighbor's washing machine exploded and flooded our bathroom & ceiling, leaving us with three industrial fans and a dehumidifier in the central hallway where there was no escape from the sensory hell of heat, noise, and teeth-achingly dry air. Autumn came stop-motion: the smoke cleared and suddenly the leaves had changed; the fans were removed, and suddenly it was cold.

And then the election, which by singular blessing/curse I now almost entirely through a Destiel lens, which is not how I wanted or expected to remember those fever-dream days but here we are! And now Oregon goes back into lockdown that everyone will violate for the holidays, as I wish I could violate it too because being denied the chance to visit family, and the particular loneliness and fear of quarantine, makes me want to despite that I usually avoid it.

Two days ago I made a quick call to my uncle, who asked about the wildfires since that was the last thing we had talked about. Were they contained? had we stayed safe? And time slowed and I took a brief trip out of my body as I tried to recall the crisis before the election but after that COVID and before this COVID which took place in that distant time called ... two months ago—just two months. Strange, long months in a strange, long year.

Part 1 of 2 or 3. I'm glad that my 265 books in 2019 goal inspired me to read more picture books, because it's scratching that autumn/Halloween/advent of the spooky season itch—more effectively than trying to read a horror novel might. Most speculative or gory horror relies on visual descriptions, which my aphantasia makes inaccessible. I have to search hard for horror with more dimension or with psychological elements that don't slip into the thriller territory, since I don't love thrillers. And I've been finding some, but! picture books have pictures! the onus of visualization is on them, the visuals are ideally their strength.

Not all of these have been successful, but some are, and there's a cumulative effect in dozens of miniature spooky or spoopy or autumnal stories.

That said, CW for spanking in Bedtime for Frances below.


Title: Lenny and Lucy
Author: Philip C. Stead
Illustrator: Erin E. Stead
Published:
Rating: 2 of 5
Page Count: 40
Total Page Count: 332,620
Text Number: 1191
Read Because: from this list of scary picture books, hardback borrowed from the Wilsonville Public Library
Review: I feel like I should have liked this more. It has the right elements: shadowy, sketchy art and the haunting woods over the bridge; the unaddressed pretend elements could work, the ending has a cozy, autumnal warmth. But this never got its teeth in me, never felt particularly haunting or cozy. Maybe I do need the pretend elements to be weirder and more present—the emphasized power of the imagination might also bring the woods to life.


Title: Bedtime for Frances (Frances the Badger Book 1)
Author: Russell Hoban
Illustrator: Garth Williams
Published: HarperFestival, 1995 (1960)
Rating: 1 of 5
Page Count: 30
Total Page Count: 332,650
Text Number: 1192
Read Because: from this list of scary picture books, hardback borrowed from the Wilsonville Public Library
Review: I was on board with the sympathetic, deceptive power of the imagination and the balance of haunting to cute to relatable. But this falls apart when "your only worth lies in your job/social obligations" is followed up by ( spanking reference ) There's plenty in children's literature that hasn't aged well, and some of it I imagine can still work if provided in context or as a teachable moment; alternately, creative editing could rewrite the spanking mention. But, frankly, why bother when it's such a big part of the text and there are so many other books of equal quality.

(What really flabbergasts me is that this was on a modern recommendation list without any caveats! What the fuck!)


Title: The Wolves in the Walls
Author: Neil Gaiman
Illustrator: Dave McKean
Published: HarperCollins, 2003
Rating: 3 of 5
Page Count: 55
Total Page Count: 332,925
Text Number: 1195
Read Because: from this list of scary picture books, hardback borrowed from the Wilsonville Public Library
Review: I love McKean's art: unrestrained by proportions or logic, it creates immersive dreamworlds. The narrative is similarly unexplained, never make-believe, more of an extended metaphor. When those elements work well, they're remarkable—particularly the building tension of the hidden wolves. But when the wolves show up this takes a turn, in sketchy art and comic tone, towards a low-stakes resolution. It feels like an intentional decision to make this more child-friendly, which is an understandable and regrettable impulse. I wish Gaiman stuck to his guns re: writing horror for children, because his kid's books can be so good—and there is a perfect book hidden in the walls of this one, but it's not allowed out.


Title: The Dark
Author: Lemony Snicket
Illustrator: Jon Klassen
Published: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers, 2013
Rating: 4 of 5
Page Count: 40
Total Page Count: 332,965
Text Number: 1196
Read Because: from this list of scary picture books, hardback borrowed from the Wilsonville Public Library
Review: The use of repetition to build tension and the use of negative space—particularly placing the dark's dialog in ... the dark—is effective and satisfying. This is also one of the rarer creepy picture books that doesn't resolve itself completely: rather than breaking the tension, it smoothly channels it into character growth. I have nitpicks (like the affected, unproductive ink splatters) and this isn't as remarkable or memorable as the best of children's literature. But it's successful, and the sort of thing I'd hope for from Lemony Snicket.


Title: It's Halloween!
Author: Jack Prelutsky
Illustrator: Marylin Hafner
Published: Greenwillow Books, 1999 (1977)
Rating: 2 of 5
Page Count: 55
Total Page Count: 333,020
Text Number: 1197
Read Because: from this list of Halloween books, paperback borrowed from the Wilsonville Public Library
Review: I prefer these poems when they're Halloween- or spooky-adjacent rather than literally being about something like trick-or-treating. The issue poems don't age up well for an adult reader, but poems like "Countdown" or "The Goblin" age better, stand alone better, and maintain that charming Halloween vibe while also being quietly but sincerely haunting. The accompanying sketchy art and autumnal palette is effective but unremarkable.

I woke to rain outside, and kept hearing it, on and off, through the day; hearing it because I've been able to keep a window open and the fan off for a few days now. The window here is behind a substantial bush, so the light is gentle in the mornings (the birdsong, on the other hand, not so much). Yesterday morning, I sat under that open window and peeled and cut apples while watching Supernatural. (Every year about this time I catch up on Supernatural; every year it's still awful, but the kernel of the show it could be, the 11.4 "Baby" show, the AU werewolf!Claire show, the show of ambiguous landscapes of denuded, earthen British Columbia forests pretending to be the Midwest, the show of flannel and bunkers and overnight drives, always leave me wistful.)

The apples came from the back yard, half-feral apple trees that produce tart, hard, dry green apples with just a few bugs. When I taught Teja how to make applesauce, I told him "peel, chop, boil over medium heat"—it's impossible to screw up. This year made me wonder if I was wrong; the first batch was prone to scalding and awfully tart, and required a cup of water (I'm used to ladling off excess fluid instead) and half a cup of brown sugar (there are greater sins). And it wasn't ruined, it turned out fantastic. Homemade applesauce always is.

Anyway, I moved last month. Moving is objectively always awful, but this went fine, even if it left me wishing I owned zero physical objects—despite that it was making a place for objects (specifically, an overhead shelf with nothing but blankets and plush and treasured figurine) which made me feel settled in.

August and Gillian are settling in too, decently well. The stress of the move, and the smaller space and relative isolation, has made them much more companionable. They've lived together for five years, with tolerance but no intimacy. Now, they're touching all the time! They share a blanket! This morning, August licked Gillian's face three small, sweet times. I'm not getting invested in the future of this intimacy, but feel blessed to witness the little signs of it.

I've been taking a few shitty snapshots of the cats, and you can find them over on my Tumblr; here are some cat-touching highlights:






Their peace and comfort, and also mine, has been interrupted by a fairly severe flea infestation—with which we are dealing, but which may be an ongoing/reoccuring battle for reasons outside my control, and I'm mad about that. They're just so uncomfortable, and only have the energy to groom and eat and then nap; not eager to play, too sore for most cuddles. Hopefully things will improve as the medication does its thing.

Autumn is the season of my heart, and the weather report says the rain is not just today, it is the next five days, and by then it's late September; 70 degree days after that will just be sunny days in autumn—the season is here. Most people don't get such a clear cut-off date! But ours was September 17, and rain, and rain, and rain.

I had a dream last night that I made a deal with a witch so that she would spare my family, the price for which was unrelenting pain in my lower back, like the witch's thumbs digging into the muscles at the base of my spine, a localized, piercing, unremitting pain. (Last night was also the onset of my period; cramping means the first 24 hours of my period is reliably my worst back pain of the month.)

1) This is beautiful imagery; it's not actually how my pain presents but my internal mythology still wants to internalize it as a metaphor for my back pain, to live alongside the black dog as a metaphor for my crazy. 2) But if that's the case, what bargain did I make and why have I not got shit from it? 3) I suppose this is the thing about chronic conditions: to assign them meaning seems to give them purpose or justification, but the valid truth is that they have none—and pointlessness is a big part of the experience. 4) Apparently Hexenschuss (literally: witch shot) is a German word for lower back pain.

I had a quiet Halloween: I took Odi for a walk while listening to Tanis, and on the way home we passed a lovingly-decorated yard, including a cluster of human-tall handmade carnivorous plants; someone was out finishing the decorations and I was able to compliment them on it. We only had four groups of trick or treaters, and Dee answered the door. One day I'd like to be energetic enough for Halloween as an event, I suppose, but I've grown content with Halloween as a season, September through the start of December, and then the long dead spread of winter after that.

My only regret, then, will be watching social media make an immediate left turn to Christmas Town. I think stretching out festivals of light (especially in modern times) deadens their effect, and would much rather embrace the dark seasons so that they have something to contrast. There's still so many haunted stories for this time of year! Sleepy Hollow's bare branches and leaf litter is best in November; there's so many books about the punishing, barren wilderness of winter (the second of Cherryh's Finisterre books is waiting on my shelf for then).

I just got back from a week visiting Devon in Corvallis, and the return journey was lovely. Mist over the fields and river out the train window; dense fog as we reached Portland, with the city and its bridges shadows in the gray. The 6am train trips in autumn are consistently my favorite of all things: the clear dark cold at the train station, the slow sunrises, the mist and the changing leaves.

August was ridiculously clingy when I was preparing to leave (she even followed me and my luggage downstairs to hang out by the door and look concerned) and she's been inseparable since I got back, because she loves me and also because it's autumn and she wants to sit on me and be warm. I held her on my tummy and sang Can't Take My Eyes Off You to her, my wonder keeping the stars apart.

It was a fantastic trip, and I appreciate the reminder that I have those—and that last month's misery visit was a birthday-related anomaly rather than a trend. I timed my visit for the Fall Festival; I accidentally slept through most of Saturday, but we stopped by on Sunday. It was too sunny and I am pale and pathetic, so we made but a brief circuit. My favorite of what I saw was Fantasy Figurative Art dolls by MARCA—I like my art dolls creepy/cute rather than Froud-esque, but there were blue goblin children and humaniod bird monsters and of that I approve. We also went to the library's book sale, and by the time we got there they had entered the $5/bag "please, take them away" final phase; slim pickings but a joy to comb through, in no small part because it was indoors this time. I picked up paperback copies of books I own in hardback (hardback is a pain to read, and I'm a big rereader), some new-to-me books by authors I'm familiar with, and a few random picks—because at a flat rate, mistakes are free.



The Cherryh I picked up on another night out. After dinner and dark, we got Starbucks and walked across to the Book Bin—bless their late hours. The checkers were looking at pictures of baby goats, there were no other customers, and because I'd already made a book run I wasn't working off my to-buy list: the laid-back book browsing I've always wanted. Having credit there allows me to make impulse purchases without stress.

One final highlight: a moment when Devon and I both walked down the hallway and Gigi the puppy, the best baby dog with the most love, came in from the kitchen, saw us both, and barreled past Devon to get to me because Dev is everyday and known and boring where I am Important Dog Auntie, and also the only one that will hold her paws.

I didn't see my family and other than the Fall Festival had no to-do list, which I think contributed to the successful visit; it was the private, quiet time that we needed.

Provided in bulk to cut down on spam. I am so behind in book reviews, as in all things. I've been quiet and I had some things going on around my birthday, and as soon as I was ready to write again I was hit by a few (ongoing, but today I'm stubborn, fed up, and working to spite it) days of unremitting back pain that medication just will not touch. But I've been reading a lot, and have more to read, and have been writing my notes in a fresh, new, larger Moleskine—5x8 inch; my last two were 3x5 inch, and there are benefits to both, but this larger size is so much easier to structure and to hold, and I'd forgotten how much I like it; summer is most definitely winding to a close, and I know because it rained today and Dee and I took Odi walking in it; I want to at least pretend to turn all that into some sort of record before the month is up. Ergo:


Title: The Geek Feminist Revolution
Author: Kameron Hurley
Published: New York: Tor, 2016
Rating: 3 of 5
Page Count: 385
Total Page Count: 200,115
Text Number: 590
Read Because: personal enjoyment, ebook borrowed from the Multnomah County Library
Review: A collection of short essays, most harvested from blog posts, about intersectional feminism within literature, media, and other geek spheres. This intersectionality is intentional, valuable, and imperfect—I wish it stretched to include mental illness, which is instead equated to bigotry in problematic ways. But on the whole, this is a step above white feminism or feminism 101, although it fails to say anything truly revolutionary. I'm not sold on the tone: anger is a valid and valuable tool, but the swearing combined with the repetitive style and content smacks of what it is: blog posts, edited but still informal and unrefined. I appreciate the intent of this collection, but as a published work I don't think it's particularly successful.


Title: Sword of Destiny (The Witcher Book 2)
Author: Andrzej Sapkowski
Translator: David French
Published: London: Orbit, 2015 (1992)
Rating: 3 of 5
Page Count: 380
Total Page Count: 200,495
Text Number: 591
Read Because: continuing the series, ebook borrowed from the Multnomah County Library
Review: Six short stories, largely chronicling the dissolution of Geralt's relationship with Yennefer and his first interactions with Ciri. This collection is less enjoyable than The Last Wish, mostly because it has a slow start—"The Bounds of Reason" and "Eternal Flame" ("petty politics instead of dragons" and "a comedy of financial errors," respectively) in particular run overlong. It's also, arguably, braver, offering more in the way of overarching plot, reoccurring characters, and a dense emotional register. But that last is a strange: the gritty, crude worldbuilding grates against the persistent coyness of Geralt's emotions and even his actions. His character could be profound—but the production of profundity grows tiresome.

And the sexism, in the worldbuilding and the narrative, of course persists; that Yennefer's infertility is her sole motivation is predictable and simplistic. Again, in contrast, the female character themselves are complicated and strong, especially willful child Ciri—she's lovely in the title story, which also offers complex, solid worldbuilding and an evocative atmosphere.

I will continue these, and look forward to starting the novels proper. But I can't recommend this collection and, oh, does this series have problems.


Title: Cold Fire (The Circle Opens Book 3)
Author: Tamora Pierce
Published: New York: Scolastic, 2011 (2002)
Rating: 3 of 5
Page Count: 350
Total Page Count: 200,845
Text Number: 592
Read Because: continuing the series, ebook borrowed from the Multnomah County Library
Review: Daja and Frostpine are working in the snowy city of Kugisko when a rash of devastating fires breaks out. The structure of this quartet remains formulaic, but this installment is surprisingly good. The setting, fire against snow in a well-defined woodworked city, is evocative; the plot is simplistic but the characters are not—gracelessly in the antagonist's case, but the supporting cast is strong. The nostalgia is toned down and the themes of maturation are less clear-cut, which gives Daja room to shine instead of slotting her into the series's formula. I still don't love this quartet, but this is one of its better installments.

Real autumn broke a few weeks back, and was a long time coming—so many sunny days—but we have rain now, and deep blue skies behind the yellow foliage. Gillian has been out and about for an hour or three every day, while August is busy with her daytime sleep and locked safe in my room. I have played American McGee's Alice: Madness Returns while sipping hot apple cider and buried under a blanket, with an open window (letting in wind and the sound of rain) at my back and a cat in my lap.

Indeed it feels as if lately the only thing I've not done sans lapcat is breathe. Cool weather brings August to me; at night she curls up between my legs while I read or watch TV before bed, finding the most awkward possible spot on the bed (hogging as many blankets as she can) so that when I finally turn off the lights I must twist myself around her into whatever space and bedding is left. When they're not cuddling, they're yowling: Gillian mostly, who—now that he has discovered the world outside the bathroom—complains mightily whenever he's trapped in that stifling prison. He has another month of quarantine, and so he shall just be forced to cope.

Odi is afraid of Gillian, who weighs eight pounds and is front declawed. We're not sure if this is because Gillian has the scary confusing soft e-collar of doom, or because Gillian has a few times actually gone after Odi when Odi gets too close. (Mind, August has swatted at him with actual, albeit blunted, claws, and he's not the least bit scared of her).

Autumn is for walking dogs. Dee's been walking Odi in the rain since the first day of it; I finally went with them a few days back, on a day when threatening rained turned into sprinkles turned into a jean-soaking downpour, and I would not live in any other climate in the world than this. Yesterday we walked down to St. Johns proper, went to Starbucks and took our drinks and the dog to the Willamette waterfront, blue and cool; we went to the library where we each had a book on hold, because autumn is for reading.

It's not all beautiful: my wrist issues have been flaring and thus I have a lot piling up that I want to do and can't—and moreover the fact that my body's throwing up yet another chronic issue just frustrates me—and the needy cats are lovely but also draining my energy. But: autumn. I can't argue with that, wouldn't want to; it is so beautiful, here.

Gillian is exceedingly frustrated. He's probably been an over-groomer for some time, which is precisely why he's wearing an e-collar now—so he can't groom his irritated skin and so make it more irritated and so make him want to groom it. The first few days of the e-collar were awkward, because he wasn't quite sure how to function with this odd addition to his body; now he's just a tail-lashing beast of frustration and misery, because the raw sections are scabbed and the scabbed sections are flaking and hair is growing back everywhere and I imagine it all itches like mad.

I'm reading a particularly enjoyable book which is perfect for bite-sized consumption, so I often go into the bathroom—we've moved him to the second-floor bathroom, which is larger and has a window and gets more use, so he gets more company—and sit on the floor and read a chapter or two. He used to be content to fall asleep in my lap, e-collar and all; how he paces and tries to groom and ends up licking the collar or the two inches of tail he can reach. If I go to leave, though, he makes a dive for my ankles and meows plaintively.

When I'm in there, August sticks her paws under the door. Sometimes she bats at any of his toys which are in reach. Always she mewls most pathetically. They've met under the door and through an almost-closed door and once when August managed to dart into the bathroom. Who knows how they'll get along, but he is desperate now to get out into the land of free-roaming cuddles, and she's desperate to get in to the magical off-limits home to the second bowl of cat food.

He's already learned to clear his dish twice a day because if he doesn't, the rest of the food goes away. In the long run I'll probably still feed him in a closed bathroom, since he takes about ten minutes and August takes three, and she will eat his food too given half a chance.

August has kept her cute level set on high for days now—maybe a bit of anxiety or jealousy, or maybe just a steady reminder that "I am also a perfect cat and you love me too right." And I do. It's finally truly autumn here: the overcast cool weather has held for days, and any sun that breaks it from now on will be a lovely crisp and bright autumn day, not a return to summer. August wants nothing more in the world (excepting the hours leading up to each meal) to sit on a microfleece blanket that is next to or on top of me and kneed it and go to sleep, and for that matter I would rather nothing more than same with addition of a video game or book.

About this time last year we were thinking how lovely Halloween would be with a beautiful black cat in the window. This year there could easily be two, and while August is certainly the more regal—she sits with her back arched and her tail wrapped neatly around her front paws—it does seem like particular happenstance to have a matching set. They're mirror-cats to one another: black and green but midsized fluffy bright-eyed; black and green but small short-haired pale-eyed. She meows in consonants and he in vowels.

This is not how I expected things to end up, and I spent a few days in a haze of disbelief—cultured by stress and the numbness that follows it—where he wasn't really a pet, just a project: a creature to be rehabilitated and taken to expensive vet visits. But he is, you know—a pet, I mean; a family member—and before long we'll be worrying about things like cat pheromones and peaceful first meetings and group socialization, and who knows how many black cats will be keeping watch come All Hallows' Eve.

And a black dog, too.

I noticed today, sitting on the front porch with Mamakitty, that the dark fur in her calico motley will make her look quite lovely against black.