Sexual Frustration

Our scruffy staff mutt Bert is the wee bit confused. And our gorgeous long-haired foster Tallulah is frustrated.

IMG_3625Tallulah came to us two months ago after giving birth to three sons, all of whom have now been adopted into loving homes. Accent on loving. Because–as most Mommy Cats do–Tallulah waited a couple of days after closing the milk bar, then went back into heat.

She has a spay appointment next week–the first available on the Margaret Mitchell van that services our area with discount “fixing.” PAWS, the rescue we foster for, has a standing arrangement with them.

Meanwhile, Tallulah isn’t doing much standing. She’s flinging herself about in a “take me, take me now, sailor” kind of way. And she’s mostly flinging herself at Bert.

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Bert is trying to be a gentleman about the whole thing. At eight years old, he’s flung his flings. Plus, as responsible pet owners, we had his reproductive equipment removed.

We’ve tried talking to Tallulah, explaining that females certainly do have more options these days, but maybe dogs aren’t one of them. Cross-species is still a hard sell; LGBT acceptance doesn’t really cover it. If she’d focused on Beulah, our in-store cat, the neighbors wouldn’t be talking now. IMG_3627

But the heart wants what it wants.

Meanwhile, staff kitten Owen is taking it hard. Naturally, he feels he should have been the first choice for Tallulah’s affections–or lust, as the case may be. Owen hangs around in a heartbroken kind of way, just in case Tallulah, umm, changes course.

IMG_3634So far, she hasn’t noticed.

And so it goes. Just another day in the bookstore. Yes, we do sell books now and again, but right now all eyes are on the soap opera unfolding before us. Friends drop in just to see the floor show. Tallulah never fails to entertain. We should record the noises she’s making.

No, on second thought, we shouldn’t.

Poor befuddled Bert. And poor wee Owen, offering unrequited love to a disinterested Dulcinea. Y’all send them good wishes. And spay your cats, or this could happen to you.

Satur-ruptus

The past week has been incredibly busy with work away from the shop. I’ve been organizing a conference and running around trying to figure out how to channel a whole lot of powerful people with opposing agendas into a productive dialogue while not ticking anyone off, and between one thing and another, let’s just say I was REALLY looking forward to getting my head down Saturday and puttering amongst the bookshelves.

Books may have personalities and after-the-shop-closes lives, but they tend to enjoy revealing truth rather than obfuscating it. A leisurely Saturday morning coffee, followed by stacking and straightening and stocking and shelving, and for dessert, some serious contemplation of how to divide Finance, Gender Studies and the –ologies into Self-help/Career and Everything Else…ah, bliss.

When I got home and told Jack of my heart’s desire, a funny look crossed his face. “Well, you’ll have plenty of fodder to work with,” he said. “We got in a few donations while you were away.”

books in shopbooks on porchTo paraphrase Scotland’s national bard, the best-laid plans of mice and board directors and bookslingers gang aft agley (go skittering sideways). Put another way, be careful what you wish for. Inner peace,  here I come.