Okay, like, I acknowledge that Lake Lyn is an actual lake in The Shadowhunter Chronicles. But what if it was a salt flat instead? It WAS a lake but then it dried up, which explains how the mirror was lost over time. Then the rain comes and, for a very short while, it becomes a mirror again. And salt flats, when the rain comes and turns them into the worlds largest mirrors, are called the border between heaven and earth which is also perfect for the mythos of Lake Lyn. And, I mean, just imagine a giant fucking angel with golden wings covered in eyes and moving runes appearing in the middle of this:
“The water had taken its hallucinogenic effect, turning the sky electric. They had lain on their backs side by side, imagining falling stars carving neon tracks across the clouds and dreaming themselves into a stranger world” so in other words Michael Wayland and Robert Lightwood got high together during school…
Yesterday evening Sheila and I went to the Lyn-Lake area of Minneapolis for dinner. Ella and Oliver were with us. We strolled around looking at menus and patios, deciding which restaurant to choose (which ended up being the very good Lyndale Tap House).
As we walked several people pet the dogs. Ella and Oliver love the attention because apparently Sheila and I leave them starved for affection. Or so one would think.
As sometimes happens we bumped into a person who asked THE question. With her greasy-haired head tilted down and eyebrows raised, she looked at us over her eyeglasses, and said with the same tone of smugness of someone describing their solar powered toaster, “Are they rescues?”
I always want to say “Heck yeah, we found ‘em in a dumpster full of toxic waste” or “They were saved from a burning puppy mill.” But we had the guts to admit we got them from a breeder. That got us “the look.”
Our third dog is a rescue. Carson doesn’t come out to dinner because the sound of a passing bus or motorcycle would send him up the wall faster than a monkey snorting cocaine. He likes his daily trips to the park and playing with dogs. Loud and busy street traffic, not one bit.
We tried to get rescue Aussies but the people always told us “Oooooh, there’s a man and a teenage boy in the house? Oh no! That won’t work. This dog is afraid of men.” Every time.
Well screw ‘em. I wanted Aussies. I got Aussies. They couldn’t be living any better of a life unless I got some sheep for them to herd.
Are there rescue sheep? Probably doesn’t matter; there’s a man living in the house.