I had a fantastic time reading with Margot Livesey last night at Newtonville Books.  Her novel, The Flight of Gemma Hardy, is gorgeous, as is her reading voice.  I was entranced.   We had an awesome crowd and I was bowled over by the devoted friends and readers who showed up.  Thank you!

But as soon as I got into my car to drive home, the glory was gone.  It was 9 PM and I hadn't had dinner.  I fished around in my bag and found a box of stale raisins.  Mmm.  Then some gas station coffee...and off into the dark night, speeding down I-90.  Around 11, I recall doing what I thought was a compelling version of November Rain, Axl-like voice and all.  Around 11:30 the universe gave me a gift, just as I approached Austerlitz (home to Millay's homestead, which tugs at my soul):  George Michael's Father Figure.  If you know me, you know my adoration of all things Millay and George Michael; please imagine my bliss.

Today:  bleary-eyed and underslept, I am doing radio interviews, first at WAMC.org, then VPR (WBTN).  During my first interview, which I greatly enjoyed, I stared at my father-in-law's pencil, which struck me as so beautifully old school, and true (see above).  

After the first interview, I came into the kitchen to find an honest and hilarious note from my heroic sitter, who not only loves my girls, but also, as you can see, isn't afraid to roll her sleeves up and put half of a chipmunk in a bag.  Bless her.  I guess I'll go, uh, dispose of that bag.

Keeping it real,
MMB

Six years ago, the Dogtor invited me to see a kitten he'd come across during a rotation at the shelter.  I held the tiny gray cat in my hands and she batted my face. We took her home and named her Greta.  (Listen - I'm a sucker. Mean, dysfunctional, sick, old - I fall in love with nearly everything.)  I've had a love/hate relationship with her ever since.  We fight and make up all day long.

Here is a picture of Betsy Spaniel nurturing what turned out to be a hellcat.   Greta, despite medication and pheromones, likes to growl at herself in dark corners.  And sleep underneath the woodstove.  

I love this image and relate to it - Betsy forcing Greta to suffer through her maternal instincts.  LET ME TAKE CARE OF YOU; I DEMAND IT.
xo
MMB

Readers will notice I mention goats often in my work.  One reason is that we own two goats of our own, Oliver and Olivia.  The other reason is that we are near-neighbors to a goat dairy, Polymeadows.  On sunny days a hundred of their goats dot the fields.  When I run past the farm, the goats scamper away from the roadside fence.  (I'm very intimidating.) 

What has always inspired me most about goats is that they come out so sturdy.  They are up on their feet in minutes, punching their mother's udders with rock-hard heads until they find what they're looking for.  Goats spring forth ready for the world.

You can watch a video about Polymeadows below.  It's long, but it's also worth watching a minute or two so you can see the baby goats scampering around.  Enjoy a piece of my writing inspiration!

My husband, the Dogtor, is a very patient muse.  He has brought me to some beautiful material, such as the blood donor cats at the veterinary school he attended.  

You can read my Ode to the Bloodbank Cats, published in the Oxford American, below:

You live at the end of a winding cinderblock hall lit by fluorescent bulbs, in what feels like the catacombs of the veterinary school. Nearby, sick dogs cry out from kennels. Their anesthetized moans are drowned out by Gregorian Chant music on NPR, which blares from a small radio hanging from the doorknob of your room.

But this is a worthy soundtrack: You are whiskered angels, mewing cherubs, givers of platelets and life.  
 
There are ten or more of you, plucked from the shelter's death row, or unwanted circumstances. Orange tabbies, Maine Coons, gray domestic shorthairs crammed into a glorified closet. Sublime orphans, street cats, discarded pets. You have been chosen for your generous size, your temperament, your ability to give large amounts of blood. Gentle giants all, you are the kind of cat that takes a needle in the jugular at moment's notice and resumes purring. 

Read More.

(Picture of Noir, our very charming clinic cat)