Friday Follies - I'll Have Scrambled Eggs with My Star Trek Please

The exact living room of Star Trek and scrambled eggs.
Nothing screams 70's décor like red shag carpet.

When we were very young, Mum was mostly a stay at home mum.  As mentioned in a previous blog, Mum was always there for us before school, during school and after school.  It was a bit more traditional in those days.  Dad went to work and Mum looked after the household and the kids. 
Mum still wanted to get out of the house (and I am more than sure that she needed a break from the three of us), so on Thursday and Friday nights and Saturdays Mum would go out to work.  She worked at a department store (Sears) in the coat department.  And on these nights, our care rested solely in Dad's hands. 

Dad was/is a good father, but I'm not sure on these nights that his parenting skills were top notch.  Yes, we were fed.  No, we didn't die.  It was always scrambled eggs and toast.  Nutritious and consistent.  Surprisingly, we weren't served another of his staples for dinner, Cheese Thingies.  For those that don't know, Cheese Thingies are grilled cheese on toast.  And it was either Star Trek or Hockey Night in Canada night.  Like chicken noodle soup and the Flintstones, I will forever associate Star Trek (the original, of course) with scrambled eggs and toast.  The Hockey Night in Canada theme music will cause a sense of nostalgia to well up inside of me too, but I don't associate it with any food.

Scary Star Trek Monster. 

I don't know if Dad knew this, but Star Trek could be quite terrifying to a child of about 6 or 7 years old.  After I was tucked into bed, I would look helplessly at Dad as he left the room.  There was a sense of urgency while trying to fall asleep, making sure that no body parts were hanging over the edge of the bed with eyes squeezed tightly shut.  Everyone knows that if you can't see it, it doesn't exist.  It's funny how as a kid you could get yourself in to such a state - a sweater draped over a chair took on the silhouette of an evil being, ready to bite off fingers and toes with sharp pointy teeth, or to whisk you away, never to see your parents again.  Some of these childhood fears linger.  I still cannot fall asleep with a closet door open or even a little ajar.  The door must be closed.

Unfortunately my ever-suffering husband knows this, and thinks it's HILARIOUS to leave the closet door slightly open, and re-open it after I close it and walk away.  I always win by eventually shrieking at him 'No Open Doors!', much in the manner that Joan Crawford screamed 'No Wire Hangers!'.

Open closet doors are scary things.  And guess what?  Clawde likes to open any sliding closet or room doors that we have closed.  I will often wake up in the morning to discover that all of the doors are just slightly ajar (the exact amount ajar for monsters to peer out while you innocently slumber).  Which again proves my theory that cats are assholes.  With a wicked sense of humour.

Spock's cat was most likely an asshole too.

We Will, We Will Block You! A Tale of Two Hands

One expert, one novice, two best buddies

Blocking.  Chamois and Purrkins are experts, Manu and Clawde are novices.

I am limited by my two hands.  I have four pets - the math doesn't add up.  Unless you use my ever-suffering husband's approach to math.  He believes that 2 + 2 should equal 5, because you have to make a profit.  Hullo!!! I only have 4 pets, not 5.  I need one more.  A cat....please sir.

The competition for my two hands is never violent, but never subtle.  Manu - our rescue dog that came to us with a lot of issues - needs a lot of attention.  If he could crawl into our skin, he would.  Quite frankly, my weight has been creeping up the last few years, I don't need that shit - he's a big boy, I'm a short woman.

Manu will be having a quiet cuddle with me, my two hands gently playing with that velvety excess of skin sagging enticingly under his neck.  The next thing I know, Chamois has arrived, trying to get in a sneaky kiss.  I have two hands, as I said, one per pet is quite equitable in my books.  Apparently not.  Chamois is an expert at slowly and methodically pushing all 53 of her kilograms closer to me, while nudging all 58 of Manu's kilograms away from me.  And voila!  There she is, successfully between us.



One expert, one novice, two best buddies



While this is happening, Purrkins will be dead asleep somewhere in the house, curled up into a gorgeous ball of soft blue fur.  He has some internal radar that alerts the jealousy part of his brain, and he awakens with a stretch and a throaty grunt.  The next thing we know, Purrkins is at our feet, rubbing and scent marking us with a joyful squeak in his purr, like some over-worked engine in need of a bit of TLC.  The bigger the squeak, but bigger the happy.

As he rubs all over Chamois' face exchanging interspecies kisses, Manu senses a break in the block, and in he gently pushes, all mastiff smiles and waggy tail.

And so it continues.

Sometimes Clawde's interest will be piqued and he will stroll over to check things out.  He doesn't worry about it too much because he knows that during cold weather, my lap is his territory pretty much every night.  He is solid and unmoving at these times, and Purrkins doesn't stand a chance.

Add caption

It's not just me, all four of them are just as bad with any human. Chamois more so because she is a shameless tart.

And in all of this attention seeking, there is one body still jumping up and down for attention, tirelessly and hopefully.  He is quite aware of his place is in this family.   Let's just say if this family was a totem pole, he wouldn't be at the bit where pigeons like to perch. 

We all know that is where the cats would be.

Friday Follies - Summer Solstice

This week was the solstice - winter solstice in the Southern Hemisphere and summer solstice in the Northern Hemisphere.  It's too depressing to talk about the one I'm enduring at the moment.  I would rather focus on the summer solstice - the time of long days and short nights.  Quite honestly, it always felt a bit magical.

Growing up on the prairies, winter was dark and gloomy (and cold!), broken only by the bright lights and colours of the Christmas season.  Everyone looked forward to summer and the long days, with the light lasting well until 10 or 11 o'clock at night and the night never really getting dark.  How I miss those days.  We don't get to experience this in Australia - the days are longer in summer, but nothing like a prairie summer day.

It must have been a challenge as a parent, trying to put your toddlers to bed while the sun is still shining bright.  I can remember Mum and Dad trying to tuck us into bed, dark curtains drawn.  We certainly didn't feel tired, you could hear the sound of lawnmowers mowing and kids still playing outside.  You know, the kids that didn't have MEAN parents like we apparently did.

Long summer days for Mum

Who doesn't love summer?

As we grew older, you just learned to appreciate all of this extra time.  It wasn't really 'extra', but it certainly felt like it.  You could get so much more accomplished.  Of course, this time of year meant that the sun came up really early too, but it didn't seem to matter.  There was a renewed energy and joy of life.  Spring and summer on the prairies were just there to be enjoyed and cherished before the long, cold winter came.  A short period of time to cram in a whole lot of outdoors enjoyment.

As soon as the temperature hits above zero, pasty white legs can be spotted sprouting from the bottom of shorts.   The owners of the legs mistaken in their thoughts that this was warm weather and to be embraced.  You were always guaranteed to see someone in summer attire while there was still a nip in the air, and brown, dirty snow melting in the gutters.  The restaurants and coffee shops dusted off their outdoor tables and chairs and crammed them onto the sidewalk, soon to be filled by eager thawing Albertan bottoms.  When you live in what seems like eternal winter, sitting outside to enjoy a meal is something special.  I still haven't lost this - even now, living in Queensland, I still absolutely love sitting outside at a restaurant.  It still feels like a rare treat.

During my late teens, early 20's (what I like to call the Bar Years), it was always a surprise to leave the club at closing time and discover that the sun was close to coming up.  The trek home was never direct.  A much-needed stop at Boston Pizza was usually in order to top up the tummy before arriving home about 4 am.  And the sun was starting to glow on the horizon.  It felt a bit odd to walk into the house after a night out (and it was still night, wasn't it?) with the sun rising, and of course your mother was already up, having her first coffee of the day. 

The actual BP in Sherwood Park that we frequented

I realise now that I am in the midst of 'The Change' and that waking up ridiculously early is one of the trappings of this time of my life. That would have been Mum and she would have been the age that I am now. Despite trying to avoid it, I think I've just depressed myself.  I'm off to Google cute cat videos.....

For the Love of Roosters

Uno

This weekend I said my third goodbye to Uno, my boomerang rooster.  We have tried re-homing him twice at a home near us, but he keeps coming back.  I think it is mean-spirited, but council has stupid rules about having more than one rooster, so Uno had to go.  I loved Uno - he was a funny little rascal right from the beginning.  Out of all of the chicks that our promiscuous Electra came home with, there were only 3 yellow ones.  Within the first day, two were stepped on by the other chickens and died.  It is very sad to say, but I think Uno must have been the smartest - or the most agile. 

He managed to endure the countless attacks from butcher birds, crows and kookaburras that decimated the rest of his brothers and sisters, leaving only three.  And, as luck would have it, two were roosters. Bugger.

We always knew we could have only one rooster, and from the beginning I knew that I would keep the black and white one (previously named Dot and renamed Harvey HenBanger when his gender became apparent).  Harvey's colouring became more magnificent the older he got and he also had a more timid nature, content to let Uno be the first at everything.  This appealed to me after our last failed attempt at housing a rooster.  Poor old Joe Cocker had to meet an untimely demise when he decided that I was most definitely the enemy.  He was a big, big boy and had big, big spurs.   He liked to use these spurs often on me.  His beady little eyes would follow me, waiting for my attention to wander or my back to turn and then - BAM! - I would have blood running down my arms or legs or both.  I tried all of the tricks to get him to realise that I was the boss, but these only ever worked for a few days.  Then it was a return to bleeding limbs and my increasing trepidation at having anything to do with the chook pen.

Handsome Harvey HenBanger

Uno was definitely the boss of the other chickens, but Harvey would always get in a sneaky 'visit' with the hens behind his back.  Who was the smarter rooster?  I'll let you decide.

Despite much advertising and asking around, sadly nobody wanted a free, non-purebred rooster.  It looked like his fate was going to be the same as the fate of thousands of roosters.  At the last minute we discovered that there is a lady that lives in our area that 'collects' roosters from a nearby produce store and rehomes/rescues them to live on her property.  All we had to do was drop him off, and she would go in to pick him up.  Hallelujah!  Uno lives to see another day.  I sadly dropped him off, and had a little weep on the way home.  The little brat had managed to worm his way into my heart, even though I knew all along that he wasn't the rooster that would be staying with us.  I hope he has a happy life - apparently he'll be living with 50-70 other roosters, so he will be very busy bossing everyone around.

Harvey HenBanger is now the sole rooster and the boss of his flock.  I'll be honest - I was watching him for a few hours over the weekend - he needs to pick up his game.  He can't seem to keep all of the girls together and gets flustered when they wander into different parts of the yard.  Then there are those pesky helicopters. One flew over and he made his alarm call (I notice that the girls didn't pay much attention to it, he's going to have to work on his authority).  Harvey started running in one direction, then stopped, looked up in the sky, flicking his head back and forth, then ran a bit more, then stopped.  His confusion was obvious. 

He has also been running up behind the hens with his neck feathers all fluffed and then stopping at the last minute when they once again ignore him. The rooster dance has been performed around them with great gusto and yet they still ignore him.  Part of me hopes he figures it all out (he will, they almost always do), while part of me finds it terribly entertaining, and I just want to watch him all day.  He's a beautiful and handsome time waster.

But all is not lost, late in the afternoon I heard feathers flapping and saw him finally achieve his goal atop of Sesame. I must say, he did look pretty proud of himself.  And rightly so.

Mission Accomplished!

Friday Follies - Lunch Time Traditions Yabba Dabba Do!

We were chatting at work the other day about movies, and someone said that they loved the old movies where the characters were driving and just kept driving past the same scenery over and over.  It reminded me of The Flintstones.  Fred used to run through the house and would run past the same doorway and plant over and over again.  It looked like the house might be really big, but in the next scene you would see that it had a living room and a bedroom - that's it.   Other classic cartoons were the same and we loved them all - The Jetsons, Lippy the Lion and Hardy Har Har, Yogi Bear and Scooby Doo.

It felt like The  Flintstones were on TV every day of my early school days.  I remember watching the original Little Rascals (remember how much Alfalfa loved Darla?), but it was almost always the Flintstones. We would come home for lunch - does anyone do that any more? - and Mum would  have packet chicken noodle soup and a plate of Saltine crackers (with butter so that you could squish them together to make worms) ready for us.  So yummy on a cold winter's day. 

Those lunches must have made an impact - whenever I hear 'Flintstones, meet the Flintstones...' I can almost taste that chicken noodle soup.  Sometimes Mum would put a dash of curry powder into the soup to fancy it up a bit.  Yup, that was 70's cuisine for you.

Once the show was over, Mum would bundle us back up into our winter clothes - warm enough for Edmonton blizzards and puffy enough to feel like the Michelin man - and send us back on our way to school.

Not me, but an
accurate representation

One day in Grade 2 when the bell sounded for lunch, I left the school and made my way home.  This was when we attended Wye School in Sherwood Park. That has to be the most confusing name for a school.  People would ask where I went to school, and I would reply 'Wye'.   Then they would say that they just wanted to know.  I would say 'Wye'.....you can see where this is going.  It always took some time to figure out that I wasn't be a smart ass (that was my brother's department) and that I was trying to politely answer their question.  I finally figured out that I should say 'Wye School', but hey, I was in Grade 2, this kind of logic doesn't come quickly to a young child.

I digress. I arrived home, only to find that Mum wasn't there and the house was very quiet.  Being the good child that I was, I managed to make myself lunch (possibly a peanut butter sandwich which was my lunch staple when I had to take lunches to school), pour a glass of milk and sit myself down in front of the TV to watch The Flintstones.  I couldn't understand why the show wasn't on, so I watched something else, ate my lunch and put my dirty dishes into the sink. 

Then Mum arrived home.  Whoops.

It seems that it wasn't lunch at all - I had assumed that the recess bell was the lunch bell.  Mum just had a laugh and took me back to school.  I assume that there was a bit of a panic when it was discovered that I wasn't back in class.  It was all a bit embarrassing, and I needed a way to make the other kids forget what I had done.  Fortunately I was a resourceful know-it-all, with an untapped skill for deflection.

As small children do, Scott and I had quizzed Mum on where babies come from.  Being the good mother, she gave an age-appropriate explanation, with an admonishment not to tell the other kids as their parents probably wanted to explain it to them in their own way.  

Everyone knows that being a holder of knowledge means that you are a holder of power.  I certainly had the power as I gathered my classmates around me in the playground and with a great sense of theatre described with a horrified expression where babies came from.  Yabba Dabba Doo!  My recess debacle was forgotten.

Singing the Song of Her People

If you have ever had the pleasure of owning hens, you will know that they aren't quiet creatures.  They constantly chatter to each other and seem to have a different sound for every situation.  They make the most gorgeous noise when they are content, or when sitting on their little chicks, and it almost sounds like purr.  I never knew that chickens had such a rich social life and were this vocal until I had them.

When I first got the chooks, Mum told me that I would definitely know when they had laid an egg. It's not quite a crow, but it is a very loud announcement. "Look what I did!" "Can you believe it?" "I laid an egg again!".  Seriously, girl, you do it every day or ever second day, and so do all of your sister-wives, I'm sure it's not that great an accomplishment.  But I am not a chicken, cannot lay eggs, so apparently it is.

I read a phrase not that long ago and someone described the 'announcement' as 'singing the song her of her people'.  I absolutely love this - it is accurate, poetic and speaks of long history. If you haven't heard it before, click here for a good example.

Proud Manu with cat toy

Off the top of my head, I can't think of many other animals that are quite so proud of their achievements.  Sure, my dog gets the most goofy look on his face while holding a plush squeaky toy, but is that really an achievement? 

But you know what?  Cat's are pretty damn proud of their achievements too.  I am always serenaded with a specific, repetitive meow when Clawde and/or Purrkins are gifting me with one of they new acquisitions (aka dead things).  I can hear them as they come up the yard towards the house, pride resonating loudly, announcing the Great Gift that they are about to bestow upon me.  Usually under my bed (which is unpleasant).  Interestingly, my cats do not hesitate to use the cat door on these occasions. Purrkins has been known to haul his fat ass through the door while clinging desperately onto a very fat pigeon.  That day wasn't fun for me and Purrkins learned some new words from his mum.

Another of earth's creatures that likes to sing the song of their people are.....husbands ("I KNEW this was coming when you said you were starting this", exclaimed my ever-suffering husband.  Hmmm, he knows me well.)  I'm sure most women can relate to walking through the door and being pounced upon by the male in the house.  "I took the bins out.  Without you asking." he exclaims with an expectant and hopeful look on his dear face. Or "I put all of my dirty coffee cups in the dishwasher" he says with a smug look.

Whatever the achievement, it is always followed by "I think I deserve a blank (insert whatever your word is for special cuddles here)".

And that my friends, is the song of HIS people.

Friday Follies - The 80's. What Were We Thinking?

Before I start, I've been informed by my ever-suffering husband that I need to apologise.  Apparently my last blog post had a bit at the end that was dancing into journey territory.  Insidious, sneaky little things, these journeys.  I humbly apologise, but can't promise that it won't happen again.  I'm human, not a cat (sadly), and do fall prey to a little introspection once in awhile.

Nothing says 80's like big hair,
polka dots and a balloon skirt

Now on to better things. I saw one of those 'news' articles pop up on a website this week.  I'm not sure it's news, but big, curly hair is back!  Woohoo!!  My hair has lost a bit of curl due to the wisdom highlights that have taken over my mane, but I can still wield a can of hairspray.  There is nothing quite as great as the confidence you gain from a massive head of curly hair, solid in its stance and sturdy enough to withstand a tornado (and yes, we certainly did get those in Edmonton).

Of course, a massive head of hair wasn't the only legacy of the 80's.  There were the shoulder pads that could take an eye out, neon workout gear, including headbands and leg warmers. 

Women weren't the only victims of this outrageous fashion - I remember a lot of guys sporting a fine mullet - or hockey hair if you speak Canadian.  Sometimes it was hard to tell the males from the females.

The shoulder pads could never be big enough, just look back at any Dynasty or Dallas episode, and you'll see what I mean.  Angora sweaters (which of course now I would sign petitions and share Facebook posts to ensure this was banned), sweaters with glitter (and the obligatory huge shoulders), acid wash denim, double denim.....and the dreaded skin tight jeans.  Oh, the horror!  Remember Jordache, Fancyass, Sassoon, Guess, Vanderbilt and of course Levis.

Today's young fashionistas have no idea how good they have it.  Today's skin tight jeans are made of lovely, flexible and stretchy fabric.  We were built tough.  We knew what being a slave to fashion was all about.  Our skin tight jeans were torture.  When you sat down, you felt like you were being cut in two from your lady bits all the way up.  That is if you could even sit.  I remember looking around the room and the girls would have to sit in a sort of diagonal slouch as they didn't bend at the hip any more.  They were the really cool girls.

When you went shopping, you had to buy jeans that appeared to be painted on, and then take them in even more along the in-seams when you got home.  I am possibly the worst sewer in the world (my buttons have a lifetime of 2 wearings and involve a visible tangle of thread), but I still got out the old sewing machine and took those suckers in. 

As there was no stretch in the 80's denim, doing up the buttons and zipper took strength of Arnie proportions.  A big suck in of the gut and the button would just do up.  Then it was time for the zipper. 

Step 1 - Get a fork or wire coat hanger (just a tip - a fork is sturdier and won't let you down).

Step 2 - Lie down on the bed while trying to suck the front of your belly in to touch your spinal column, while simultaneously willing your hip bones to squish towards each other.

Step 3 - Insert the fork/coat hanger into the zipper.

Step 4 - Pull up towards your head with a firm and determined pressure.

Step 5 - (If you made it this far) Breathe!  Ah, the sweet, sweet joy of getting those suckers done up.  Quite an achievement and you are quite pleased with yourself.  But wait - you aren't done yet.  You have to get up.

Fortunately no one is usually watching this step as you wriggle and squirm and eventually become bipedal.  Yes!! (air punch).  There is a slight down-side - you can't use the amenities all day, although friends were always available to lend a hand.  I do remember that some girls actually carried forks in their handbags.  They were the resourceful mothers of the future.  We should have given them more credit at the time.

All was good until you sat in class and felt this sudden release as all of your internal organs fell into their rightful places.  Oh shit.  Zipper Blow Out.  Time to seek out those resourceful girls - they usually had some spare safety pins.

Todays clothing is much more comfortable, although I have spotted some high-wasted, skin tight jeans on some teenagers lately.  Not a shoulder pad in sight though - and let's keep it that way.

College Graduation on a Cruise with competing
hair and shoulder pads.  I would have put effort
into that.

The Redundancy of a Cat Door

Anyone that has ever owned a cat knows the particular pain of standing at an open door and waiting....and waiting....and waiting for your cat to decide if it really does want  out or if it really should stay inside for just a little bit longer.  Or if it should make a game of seeing how long the slave will stand there waiting, holding the door open.  I think the latter is the more likely in the cats' mind. We did install a cat door, but that seems to have changed nothing.

Purrkins has mastered the art of door indecision. He will sit at the door, staring, while looking back over his shoulder in a charming manner (much like a supermodel giving you the money shot - engaging yet still aloof).  As I said, he is good, and I think to myself, 'Ooo, look at my little Purrkins, of course I will get up to let him out'. 

Purrkins and Clawde have a cat door that is open almost all the time. I must remember this.  They suck me in with those beautiful jewelled eyes and I forget.  But I did buy the damn thing specifically so I wouldn't have to get up and down all the time.

Anyway, I do get up and hold the door open for His Highness to go through because I like to think I'm a good Cat-Mum.  Purrkins looks up at me lovingly, sniffs the air in his haughty way and looks back at me, unmoving. Sighing, I close the door, realising that I have been tricked yet again.  And then he decides that yes, indeed, he does want out.  I open the door again.  He hesitates.  I open the door wider.  He looks at me.  I look at him. He turns away.  I shut the door. He turns back.  I swear.  I open the door again (because yes, I am in idiot and apparently am the Cat Slave).  He hesitates.  I squint my eyes at him.

I've had enough - he's pushed me too far.  He's going out if it's the last thing he does.  And with that thought I gently place the instep of my foot against his ample posterior and apply a firm but solid pressure, launching him through the doorway into freedom.  I think he appreciates it because he starts purring and rubbing all over the verandah.  In reality, he knows that he has won the war again and pushed me closer to the edge.

Clawde has a similar routine but his involves some gymnastics.  He can't go in or out without several long seconds of contemplation of the doorway.  He is convinced that something in the doorway is out to get him - either on the way in or on the way out.  After the above-mentioned hesitations and game-playing (at the end of the day he is a cat, and the door thing must be in the cat handbook), he either goes in or out with a gazelle-like leap over the bottom of the doorway.  Every time.  He clears the air and touches down a good 1-2 feet on either side.  There must be hot lava that is only visible to feline eyes.

Clawde also has another talent at night if he doesn't want to use the cat door.  He jumps up the screen door to our bedroom and climbs up, making the most horrible noise with his claws.  When you finally haul yourself out of your well-deserved slumber because you can't stand it anymore, he slowly makes his way back down the screen and wanders in with the most satisfied look on his face.  I'd love to ignore him when he does this but it's unbearable.  And he knows it.

My dogs never do this - they go in and out with great gusto, often knocking anyone that is slightly in their path out of their way.  You don't appreciate that kind of immediacy until you have a cat.

As I was employed as Cat Slave last night and standing there, a slight breeze blowing at my hair and a slight cramp forming in my arm, I managed to find the good in the whole exercise.  I think this could be a metaphor for my life lately.  I've been standing at life's door that opens up to 'New Things' and I've been hesitating, afraid of what's out there in 'New Things'. Or afraid of the hot lava burning me on the way through.  Fortunately, there must be a 'Christine Slave' out there that gently launched me through the door with a whimsical nudge to my posterior and into my first gig at writing.  Thanks 'Christine Slave', whoever you are.  Hmmmm, could it be one of my previous cats, getting some payback for all of my foot shoves out the door.

Maybe.  I hope so.

Friday Follies - The Slippery Slope of My First Pet

According to my parents, I was deathly afraid of all animals when I was very young.  Hard to believe, I know, but true.


Hesiod wondering who this vision in red is.

Being animal lovers themselves, Mum and Dad did not want their child to be afraid of animals.  And so entered a cat called Hesiod into our lives.  Dad was a high school English teacher and a lover of odd pet names, hence Hesiod.  (If you get bored reading my blog or just like to fill your brain with more info or are completely inspired by ancient Greek poets, you can read more about Hesiod here Hesiod.)  Apparently our little Hesiod was a scruffy little black and white kitten, so tiny that Dad needed to give him a big name to compensate.  He grew up into a tough tomcat, with little nubby ears that had been frozen off because of the cold Albertan winters.



Hesiod lived up to his epic name - he made an epic journey.  Mum and Dad were asked to look after some friend's children on a farm west of Edmonton while they were away.  Shortly into the stay, Hesiod disappeared but then reappeared a couple of weeks later at our house in Sherwood Park, which is east of Edmonton.  Amazing!

Later our family moved to an acreage east of Sherwood Park.  Poor Hesiod must have decided that enough was enough, and left.  Mum did happen to see him one day while driving us to school in Sherwood Park.  She managed to catch the old tom, despite his best efforts to flay her flesh with his claws.  But after locking him up for about a week, he took off again, never to be found.

Personally, I like to think that he made his way back to the Sherwood Park house, charmed the new occupants and lived a life of luxury, cuddles and belly rubs until he passed away peacefully of old age.  That's what I like to think, please don't put statistics, probabilities or reality into it, I couldn't bear it.

And that, my friends, was my first cat.

I think we can all agree that this was the first of many parenting mistakes by Doug and Louise.


Anyone that knows me, knows that I am nothing without my pets and that my world would be very bleak indeed.  Since that fateful decision, my main aim in life is to love more pets.  More. Pets. Please. Please??  Growing up, our house was never empty of pets after that, no matter what side of the equator we lived on.  Dogs, cats, hamsters (oh, my beloved Peter Brady), fish, guinea pigs and rabbits all had a place in our family.  Dad always brought home the cats, and Mum really seemed to enjoy it when I asked for guinea pigs or rabbits.  I think she shed as many tears as I did when they met their inevitable end.  To us, a house is empty without a pet in it.  Somehow their presence fills the house with light and love, and a fair share of laughter.

Sam, the cutie.  Check out those slippers - they had
to have been crafted by a grandmother

Just to keep the universe in balance, below is a picture of our first dog, Sam.  He was lovely and we loved him to bits, but when we moved to Australia he had to be rehomed with friends.  He was no cat - that wasn't his fault, he was born a dog.  He was pretty great though.