Guyday Friday: brunch with LW

It was a first for Sir Guy. His first reduced-sodium hot Spam sandwich with two thick slices of juicy home-grown tomato, accompanied by a glass of Coke and a dish of chilled (and equally juicy) watermelon. Ladywriter had to indulge her brunch cravings, and Sir Guy shared it with her.

olivesandokra.com

(actual sandwiches looked better than this, but LW failed to take photos)

~~~~

Even with the paper towel he’d tucked into the front of his Floppy Black Pirate Shirt, the juices were rolling down that handsome stubbled chin of his. Ladywriter’s favorite Dark Knight raised a brow, that pink tongue darting out to capture the flow as he reached for his towel. “God’s tears, these are good and ripe, LW!”

~~~~

Ladywriter gave a longing inward sigh. She’d have been glad to lick that pesky juice away for him . . .

“Uhmmmm . . .  oh, yes. I do love a proper tomato and the watermelons have been just lovely this year . . . I will miss the fresh fruit and veggies.”

Sir Guy took another bite of his sandwich, chewing with his customary gusto before giving a great swallow, followed by a mouthful of Coke.  What a pleasure it is to watch that man eat . . .

“This–spam?–is rather tasty. What an amazing assortment of foodstuffs you have in the 21st century . . . ”

LW smiled. There was an endearingly boyish side to her favorite SO Not Dead Character, that part of him that delighted and took wonder in so many things she took for granted.

“It’s not exactly banquet fare a la Nottingham Castle, Sir Guy.”

He gave her a lop-sided smile, just a hint of sadness in those kohl-rimmed blue eyes. “Better a spam sandwich with a true friend than a feast with the Treacherous Troll and a fickle, foolish, foppish prince, my lady.”

Ladywriter returned his smile, lifting her Alabama Crimson Tide thermal glass. “I shall drink to that, my dear Dark Knight. And what do you say to a walk with a ‘leper’ and her plebian canines a little later while this glorious sunshine holds?”

Sir Guy’s eyes positively twinkled as he gave her a courtly bow. “I would be honored to accompany you, my lady, along with the beauteous Lady Seabee, Sir Rascal and the young petit couchon-chien.”

Oh, how the French rolled off his tongue!

“The little pig-dog will be thrilled. He’s really taken to you, Sir Guy . . .”

A dark chocolate chuckle. “He’s a friendly little fellow. And one knows where one is with a dog . . .very loyal, they are  . . . ”

Happy (if slightly belated) Guyday Friday to all!

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Storm clouds at Ladywriter’s: Thorin vs. Guy

Forget Black Sky. There were storm clouds a-plenty at Ladywriter’s house. Thorin Thursday had a collision with Guyday Friday, as it were.

“Thorin, Thorin, Thorin. Is that all the fangurlz want to talk about?” Guy was grumbling beneath his breath, a long-haired pussycat tucked beneath his arm as he absently stroked her soft brown and cream fur.

“When will we get to see Thorin? Is it December yet? OMG, he’s so HOT.”

The Dark Knight tossed back his dark locks as he mimicked those annoying Thorin fans in a high-pitched, breathless tone.

Since he was his CReAtor’s er—CreAtion, Sir Guy managed the imitation of a female’s voice extremely well. It just looked rather ridiculous coming out of the mouth of a strapping fellow with an excess of stubble on his jaw.

Guy rolled his kohl-rimmed eyes and gave a distinctly disdainful (but nonetheless manly) sniff.

“Now this damned book is out. Did I ever get an—an annual?  No.”

“I know, Gizzy. It’s most distressing,” said the kitty, who was, as you might have guessed, the So Not Dead Puddie.

“After all, you were here first.” She gave her own disdainful sniff with her dainty pink nose. “I know how I felt when Mother and Father started bringing in those other cats . . . why did they need anyone other than ME?”

Guy gave another stallion-like toss of his dark mane. “Exactly.” He sighed. “You and I understand one another so well, Puddiekins . . .”

“You should not forget that today is, actually, my day at the blog,” a deep, booming, authoritative voice said.

Guy stiffened. Puddie gasped. Could it be—

It was. A bearded figure, short and stocky but nonetheless regal, entered the room, clasping an extremely large and shiny sword at his side. Flicking back his long, lustrous locks—yes, even longer and more abundant than Sir Guy’s—he fixed his piercing gaze upon the knight and cat.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” he announced with a small bow to the cat. “I do not believe we have met before, my lady. You have recently joined this company?” (He had briefly met Sir Guy, Dear Reader, on an earlier visit.)

Puddie gave a small nod of acknowledgement. “Indeed—having joined the ranks of the So Not Dead.”

“Ah.” Thorin said. “I cannot yet claim membership in that particular group.”

Guy, whose eyes had been transfixed by the sight of Thorin’s very large, gleaming, lethal-looking sword, lifted his chin and looked down his handsome aquiline nose at the dwarf king.

“It is a very exclusive club. Membership is earned—the hard way.”  Guy and Puddie looked at each other and gave a wistful joint sigh.

Thorin drew himself to his full height of (roughly) five feet, two inches, give or take a half-inch, and cleared his throat.

“I have no difficulty dealing with that which is hard, painful or dangerous, of taking on the most harrowing of challenges.  I am of the finest dwarven stock, after all.  The heir of Durin, uncrowned king under–”

Guy’s eyes quickly began to glaze over. “Yeah, yeah—I’ve heard it all, Oakenshield.”  He eyed Thorin’s blade once more.

“Nice weapon,” the Dark Knight said.  “Looks as if you spend a lot of time polishing it,” he added with a smirk.

Thorin’s mouth curled into what might have been deemed a smug smile.

“It looks as if your weapon is—non-existent?”

Guy’s face took on a thunderous appearance. “It just so happens I have an extremely large and shiny sword with a magnificent jeweled hilt.”

Thorin tilted his head, blinking slowly. “Oh, really? Where is it?”

Ah. The very question Guy did not wish to answer. Because, of course, Ladywriter had removed it once again just in case Guy got a bit—carried away. Which was horribly unfair.  What was a self-respecting dark knight to do?

“It is out—being sharpened. And—polished.”  Puddie suddenly piped up in her breathy southern accent.

Guy flashed his gleaming white teeth at Thorin as he gave the cat a small squeeze of thanks. “Yes. Exactly so.” He expelled a breath and raised a single dark brow. “We shall have to compare our weapons—later.”

Thorin gave a conciliatory nod. “Agreed. I must take leave now as it is, after all, Thorin Thursday and I do believe Ladywriter has more fanart of me to post? And I must see more of this annual . . . I bid you both farewell.”

And with a majestic air, Thorin turned on his booted heel and strode away, every inch the uncrowned king.

Puddie gave a small sigh. “He really does have the most amazing hair. I wonder how much time he requires for grooming every day?”

Guy sneered. “Pretty boy. Dwarfy pretty boy.”

Puddie glanced up at him. “But—you are the one wearing eyeliner, Gizzy. And—if I am not mistaken—a touch of eyeshadow, too?”

He sniffed. “But it just makes me look more magnificently virile and sexy.” His brow furrowed slightly. “Doesn’t it?”

Puddie smiled and butted her head against the Medieval Menace’s side.

“Of course it does, Gizzy. And now—some Blue Bell ice cream?”

Guy nodded. “Excellent idea. I could murder a bowl. It’s been, what?—two hours since I last ate . . .”

He flicked back his mane, his head held high. After all, he’d had the lustrous mane first. And the total glamour look. AND the big, shiny sword–

Somehow, Puddie suspected this wouldn’t be the last near-skirmish between her beloved Gizzy and the new Alpha male in town.

That little braid of Thorin’s really was most fetching . . .

Ladywriter and the furry visitor

Ladywriter felt something tapping her nose. Something—furry?

Her eyes flew open. A pair of sea green eyes were gazing down at her.

“Mother . . . wakie, wakie.”

LW’s mouth dropped open. Not only was her SND cat Puddie standing on her chest, looking as fluffy and gorgeous and diva-like as ever, she was also—

“Talking. You can talk now, Puddie?”

Puddie gave a twitch of her gloriously plume-like tail. “One of the perks of achieving So Not Dead status, it seems. Now I don’t have that wimpy little meow, as you used to refer to it, Mother dear.”

Puddie gave a somewhat disdainful sniff of her dainty little pink nose and twitched her tail once more. That sniff reminded LW of somebody . . .

“Wow, Puddie . . . you sound like a cross between Marilyn Monroe and Scarlett O’Hara. Sort of breathy, sexy and softly southern all at the same time.”

Puddie licked her paw and began to wash her face. “It’s the voice you always imagined me having, remember? If I had been able to speak before I crossed over, of course.”

LW nodded slowly. She was feeling slightly addle-pated, to be perfectly honest.

“So, let me get this straight—when Thumper and Callie cross over, Thumper will sound like a female version of Peter Lorre playing a mad scientist plotting to take over the world, and Callie will sound like–”

“Yep,” Puddie interrupted. “A flighty teenager hyped up on too much Red Bull.”

Ladywriter grinned. She’d always carried on conversations with her pets, but they did tend to be a trifle one-sided.

“Cool!”

Puddie settled down on LW’s chest. She still put out some serious BTUs (Beauteous Tabby Units) and she still had her lush V-8 Caddy purr. LW could have done without the warmth (it was, after all, Alabama in August) but she was truly glad to hear that deliciously smooth purr.  She would love to have a car with an engine that purred so deliciously.

“Gizzy thought you’d be pleased. About me having a voice.”

LW raised her eyebrows. “Oh, Gizzy, is it? Are you getting chummy with the Dark Knight?”

Puddie smiled (cats can and do smile; they just don’t show their teeth like those silly dogs) and gave a slight incline of her pretty head.

“He’s been lovely. He gets me my own bowls of Chocolate Moo-llineum Crunch to enjoy. Another perk of being SND. I can eat as much Blue Bell ice cream as I like—including chocolate!—and never get sick or gain an ounce.”

Puddie was so smug, she now looked just like the cat that swallowed the canary.

“Sounds as if Sir Guy is spoiling you rotten—well, rottener.”

Puddie blinked. “Well, you did it first, you know.”

Ladywriter stroked Puddie’s fur—oh, how soft and luxuriant it was once more!—and shrugged. “Yes, I suppose I did.” She paused. “Thumper really misses you, Puddie.”

“Really?  She was always up for a good cuddle, weird kitty that she was . . .” Puddie gave a small sigh. “So—she really does miss me?” There was a certain wistfulness in her voice now.

Ladywriter nodded. “Yep. She’s been crawling into bed with me on a regular basis, looking for a cuddle. You know that isn’t typical.”

Puddie smiled. “Too true. Wait until winter. She’ll be glued to you, Mother.”

LW chuckled. “Yeah. Guess it will help cut down on the electric bill, though.”

“Puddie . . .” A certain deep, dark chocolate voice called out.

The kitty’s eyes brightened and she stood up and stretched.

“That’s Gizzy. He’s going to make us banana splits.”

Puddie butted her LW’s face with her head, rubbing her cheek against her mother’s.

“I love you, Mother,” she whispered and then bounded out the door,  plume-like tail held high, plenty of spring in those four fuzzy paws once again.

LW felt something suspiciously like a tear rolling down her cheek.  “I love you, too, you big ol’ fuzzy cat, you,” she whispered.

She heard an odd scrabbling sound. A black and white head popped up, bright green eyes goggling at her, and a rotund body hurled itself clumsily onto the bed.

LW smiled and crooked her finger. “Come here, you weird kitty, and get some lovin’.”

Thumper, the three-legged tuxedo cat, was only too glad to oblige.

Sometimes, you just have to lean on each other.