Reading: Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita and Jane Smiley's The Age of Grief

Moving:

Listening: Blake whining

Watching: ABC news and "That '70s Show"

30 January 2001: Fixated

Blake spent today covered. This morning I released him and tried to encourage him to eat breakfast, mine or his own. All he wanted to do was perch on the very corner of the dining table closest to the bedroom (where the splint was). When RDC (and the splint) got up, the screaming began. He cannot be around RDC at all. He wants the splint so badly that he's furious with RDC for either wearing it, denying him it, or having fingers protude from the end. Yesterday he bit RDC's right hand and drew blood, for only the second or third time in his life (5.5 years). He absolutely cannot be at liberty.

If I could explain why the splint is sexy, the entire cockatiel mentality would be laid bare and the universe end.

So RDC covered him back up, uncovered him when he, RDC, walked to the hospital's Hand Clinic to get a proper cast, and returned to wonder whether the cast would be as alluring as the splint.

Answer: yes.

Operation Forlorn Hope thus ended.

The Donner party didn't call it Operation but Expedition Forlorn Hope. Or something. Anyway, we did hope that this other thing wouldn't be as attractive, but apparently it is.

Blake's okay with me, somewhat whiny, much more petulant than usual, but not violent, not so obsessed that he forgets to eat or defecate. So here we are, in my study, with Blake calmer and even remembering to preen, until either his own pea-brain reminds him or he hears, through the heating vent, RDC using his new speech-recognition software upstairs.

The Jane Smiley story "The Pleasure of Her Company" is one of the saddest things I've ever read. I know how it feels to be the less important friend, I know what betrayal feels like. This scenario was therefore familiar but, as far as I recollect, not one I've read before: woman meets neighbor couple and just adores them. They are close friends for months, and if she doesn't know them as well as she's allowed them to know her, well, maybe they're just more reserved. Then all of a sudden it comes out that they're miserable and separating and all her company has meant to them is pleasant chatter to distract them from their own unhappiness, and all her affection has meant to them is nothing at all.

Ouch.

I would like to know if Nabokov ever wrote a sane character. I'm only going on Pale Fire and Lolita here, but ooof.