The other night I dragged myself up to bed, feeling good about the progress I had just made on the Christmas knitting. There was the husband, all tucked in, reading about the financial situation at Singapore investment firms. (Yeah, it would put me to sleep, too.) I noticed he looked vaguely guilty. There was a studied air to his casual flipping of the pages. Then the blanket wriggled and I realized why:

Discipline has clearly gone to the dogs. And I have been supplanted. He denies it, but I swear he said, “Come on, girlfriend,” to the dog when he took her outside last evening.

Nobody here looks pleased with himself.

(And don’t worry, responsible pet owners. We don’t actually let her sleep with us. This was a one-time, invitation only, special privilege thing.)

Many of you know I used to edit children’s books for a living. It was work I mostly loved, and it carved my affection for children’s literature into a lasting passion. That means I’m snobby about the quality of books: of course I want kids to fall for reading, and if that means they devour a lot of trash on their way to the good stuff, so be it. But I hope they’ll develop palates discerning enough to tell the difference and appreciate well-written, thoughtful books with something worthy at the core. I want those stories and their characters to live on in children’s imaginations after the last page is turned. And I jealously guard my own experiences of good books.

So I greet the current parade of adaptations for the big screen with a healthy dose of distrust and chagrin. The Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter seem to have inaugurated a veritable gold rush to mine the children’s literature canon for blockbusters. When the former head of Dutton Children’s Books made the decision to sell merchandising rights to Winnie the Pooh, he privately referred to it as the Rape of Pooh. I can’t help but see a Rape of Children’s Classics underway. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Bridge to Terabithia, Charlotte’s Web. I can hardly bear to mention The Polar Express. And according to the previews, they’re plowing through the contemporary best-sellers next: Inkheart is next on the block, and there were posters for The Spiderwick Chronicles all over the theatre. This is not to say that good movies can’t be and haven’t been made from children’s books. (I’ll skip, for now, the tangential argument that having the experience handed to you visually is far less fulfilling than animating the story yourself as you read.) But too many attempts to capture the worlds and characters that live in our hearts fall desperately flat, and I’m afraid I have to pronounce The Golden Compass just such an effort.

I probably should have known better. It lured me with its fine cast and promising visuals. I love the story, and I wanted to see if Hollywood had taken the care to do it right. They didn’t. The directing, screenwriting, and editing are poor. I’m not sure I’d have been able to follow the story at all if I didn’t know the book. It’s choppy; it’s a madcap dash from one plot point to the next in order to squash the tale into feature length. Countless subtleties that slowly dawn on you in the book are dumped out in expository dialogue like Spam from a tin. The CG isn’t convincing except in a few scenes (the bear fight, notably, and for some reason the forms of transportation) where they clearly spent the extra money to dazzle us. And the movie isn’t convincing, either. Mostly, it’s just frustrating. You catch glimpses of what it could have been: Lee and Hester are pitch perfect, Fra Pavel is unctuous and creepy, Lyra is forthright and brave and doesn’t overact, Lord Asriel is suitably haughty, Serafina Pekkala is luscious and otherworldly (and boy can she fight without mussing her hair). Nicole Kidman is a reasonably good Mrs. Coulter, although she looks disconcertingly like Renee Zellweger in many of her costumes. Unfortunately, the golden monkey is such a lousy piece of digital work that I was distracted from her performance.

So what’s the silver lining of two wasted hours? Peter Jackson just keeps looking better and better. I may have to do my evening cashmere lace knitting to one of the Lord of the Rings movies.

P.S. If you’re set on seeing The Golden Compass despite my warnings, at least do yourself the favor of sprinting from the theatre as Lee’s balloon sails off into the sunset after the fight at Bolvangar (yes, that’s really where the film ends), before the soul-sucking treacle of the Original Song oozes stickily over the credits. It’s quite honestly the worst piece of music I’ve heard in years. My ears and stomach have not yet recovered.

I spit on the notion of Christmas beginning directly after Halloween, or directly after Thanksgiving. The Overlords of American Commerce can beset me with carols and tinsel and leering snowmen and corpulent Santas; I shall resist. I shall not turn my thoughts towards Christmas until the proper month has arrived, except to think about knitting presents. I also want to see some snow before I really begin to feel that the holidays are around the corner. And so it felt auspicious when I staggered out into the grey morning with the little dog on the first day of December and a few lonesome flakes were swirling down. The apple tree was full of chickadees, and their little calls to each other seemed tender and solicitous: the snow is coming, are you warm? Are there bugs on your branch? I filled the bird feeder with sunflower seeds for them. Later came purple finches and juncos and jays and sparrows, but I knew I’d have to carve chickadees for this year’s linoleum block. Later, I strung lights on the front porch amongst my Japanese fish kites, and then I brewed up a gallon of spiced cider and spiked it with many glugs of Jim Beam for a little birthday shindig we had for Mr. G. (He’s 30 now. Shhhh. He’s also ironing my white collared shirt for a Shibui modeling gig right this moment. Yes, I have the finest husband in the land.)

Seriously, try the hot toddies. They’re so delicious they could be habit forming. Just the thing for rain or snow or whatever part of the nation-wide storm system you’re experiencing right now. And definitely the thing to get into the holiday spirit.

Western Oregon gets a lot of rain. The native children gravitate toward puddles like so many ducklings, and while it’s less convenient to be an adult with no one to call you inside for a dry set of clothes and a mug of hot chocolate, most of us at least accept airborne water as a fact of life and the reason for our lovely green environs. People from away, however, sometimes find the persistent damp demoralizing, depressing, and downright dreadful. Turns out little dogs from away can have exactly the same reaction.

Monday evening brought our first earnest precipitation since Lark came to live with us. It was about 40 degrees, and the rain was coming down in icy slugs. The look on the pup’s face when we took her out in it said she thought this was the rottenest trick anyone had ever played on her. She pinned her ears, tucked her tail, and scuttled for the house as fast as she could. We tried again. And again. I brought her an umbrella. I threatened her with foo-foo doggie raincoats. Raincoats with rhinestones. But she wasn’t having any of it, and we ended up with three mistakes in the house. (I tell you, that pup can execute a fly-by peeing in the barest second of your inattention.) Thank goodness the weather let up later in the night.

Overall, she’s been a good girl, though. She can walk on a leash, sit, lie down (sometimes), come to her name, and charm the pants off anybody. Just now she’s doing laps around the living room, growling and snorting through her mouthful of ball. And the knitting? Still occurring whenever she’s having quiet time in her crate. And all you parents of human babies have even more of my sincerest respect. Now I’m off to nurse my cold, cast on a new Christmas present, and watch another episode of Rome (or what I like to think of as Sex in the Ancient City). I’d be lying if I said I watched it for the excellent cast, although it has exceeded my expectations. Doesn’t everyone need a little trashy TV to knit holiday gifts by on rainy nights?