Critic on the run after trashy Review

photo (2)Fur is flying after numerous catty responses to the handling of a recent book. (For the full review from Lucy, pictured at left, please visit yesterday’s blog post.)

“I trusted my instincts and did what came naturally,” insisted Lucy, the literary agent in the doghouse. “Yes, I trashed the book, but that’s part of my job.”

Not so, said well-known publicist ValKyttie (shown here with the book in question). “What would a bitch like that know about good writing? Crap. That’s all she produces, is crap.”valkyttie with her cover

Speculation has arisen that ValKyttie, who is CEO of the book’s subject (a second-hand book store in a small town somewhere in SW VA), may be personally motivated in her criticism. However, several other voices have joined the caterwaul of protest.

Tallulah, a Southern Literature expert, dismissed Lucy’s comments with a sniff. “This is nothing more than a dogged determination to leave her mark. But I tell you one thing, that pup has ruined her career. This review will dog her every step from this day forward. Her boss will shriek protests if she so much as approaches another book this year.”tallulah

Tallulah is currently visiting The Little Bookstore of Big Stone Gap with her children: (from top) Clyde Edgerton, Amy Clark, and Silas House.

clydeAmy Housesilas house

Of the trio, House was most sanguine. “Meh,” he was overheard to say.

When she heard of House’s dismissive remark, Lucy suggested they meet face to face to settle their differences. House has not yet responded.

Perhaps the final words on this dog-eat-dog saga belong to Starbuck, a veteran newshound from Richmond, VA. Those who follow the literary world’s movers and shakers may remember when Starbuck made news herself by becoming the first dog under the age of six months to learn to read. starbuck

The Buckster howled with delight when told the story, then sobered to growl, “Lucy better be careful. Biting off more than one can chew is dangerous. These young pups,” she said, shaking her head and returning to her drink. “You try to train ’em, but…”

Editor’s Note: Louise Malpas, normally all ears regarding reviews of Welch’s book, is vacationing in the Hamptons and could not be reached for comment. Friends suggest she would have bounced with enthusiasm at the publicity.

Owen Meany in Love (or something like it)

We foster a lot of cats here at Tales of the Lonesome Pine, and this month we took in a teen mom and her three infants. The babies (Clyde Edgerton, Anne River Siddons, and Silas House) are thriving, and Tallulah (the mom) is putting on weight and getting a healthy shine back into her beautiful dark fur. She has russet undertones to her smoky brownness, and a very warm personality. As Jack said, “Easy to see why the boys went for her, eh?”IMG_3529

Indeed it is.

Tallulah’s a good mother, but even the Supermoms want some off-duty time. So the other day, when I opened the nursery door, she made a break for it–and ran straight into Owen Meany’s chest.

Owen Meany is our cheerful adolescent kitten. We’re not sure if he’s an eejit, or an evil genius; it’s amazing how he’s carved his place into the bookshop staff hierarchy in just six short months. For instance, he’s made friends with ValKyttie (something almost no one can do) and she lets him finish her morning snack right off her plate. Nobody else tries that, believe me.

Owen is also a big boy; think defensive lineman. So when Tallulah fell into his arms, he wasn’t even winded–but he was bowled over.

Nose to nose the pair gasped, Tallulah against Owen’s massive chest in a classic B-movie scene, gazing up at him from beneath long black lashes as he stared down in besotted amazement. Then Tallulah backed coyly into her nursery, while Owen, blinking, gazed at the closing door.

He looked up at me, golden eyes round and glassy. “Who? Was? That?

Well, it was inevitable. What did I think was going to happen when the linebacker met the homecoming queen? He’s in love. Or something very like it.

Owen now spends a lot of time passing by the nursery door in an overly casual way–“just out for a stroll, oh look, how did I happen to get here?”–listening in case his beloved wants anything. Last night I caught him sitting atop the phone directory, open to florists. We’re expecting a catnip bouquet delivery any moment.

I’ve tried to explain to him that she’s not staying, there’s no point in getting his heart broken, that she’s got kids and those relationships can be complicated for a boy just starting to date….

owen writing poetryBut he’s writing her poetry. We found him with this pen, looking pensive. I’m sure it will end in tears. There’s that little matter of Owen’s having been neutered.

Still, the course of true love never did run smooth.