I have three dogs, as you know, my darling Dweebe having left for the Rainbow Bridge some time ago. Lucky, my lab cross, who looks for all the world like a miniature lab is an old boy, and I am assuming that it will not be long before he follows Dweebe. As an aside he got his name because he was the only survivor of my neighbour's litter of puppies who all perished after their first set of shots. They began to fade fast, and my neighbour called me in a panic for help. I held Lucky in the palm of my hand and stroked his chest while he gasped for breath. He survived, I am not sure if it was because of my attention to him or because he was meant to survive, but survive he did and 11 years later he is still here. My "girl" and my "boy" are Judy, my red boxer, who is such a tiny delicate girl that you would not even realize she was a boxer, she is not to put too fine a point on it the most beautiful example of the breed that you would ever care to see. I sometimes regret that we got her fixed, but then, it was never our intention to breed her and I didn't want her in an endless cycle of puppies. But I really feel that here genes should have been passed on, as beautiful as she is.



and then of course we have "the boy" Cueball. You will be surprised to know that we went through a whole boat load of names before we came up with this one, Snowflake, Casper, Ghost until finally I came up with Cueball. And Cueball it was. When we first got him, he was a teeny tiny little bundle of white fur with paws the size of meat plates and Judy thought it was the best toy she had ever been given. But then of course he grew, it is unfortunate however that all of his muscles grew, the most important muscle in his body (ie his brain) didn't. So we now have the equivalent of a 600lb gorilla with a brain the size of a pea. Okay so let me explain here. One particular day Cueball was running around the garden at approximately 120 miles per hour, chasing Judy, who, being slimmer and more efficient was running around the garden at approximately 140 miles per hour. At one point Judy ran past the bird bath (which is solid concrete I may add) and in her very classy skills veered right past it, Cueball on the other hand, failed to zig nor zag and hit the concrete bird bath head on, the pedestal went in one direction the bowl in the other and Cueball sort of shook himself off as if to say "did I hit something?" Cueball however does have his uses, I mean he is the best security alarm there is, if you heard him barking you would swear that it was the Hounds of the Baskervilles barking at you. While Judy has a gentle, girly bark, Cueball has a bark that sounds like is has come from the very depths of hell and sounds for all the world as if there is some sort of Jurassic dinosaur type dog in the house. It would be a brave person indeed that would hear that bark and decide "hmmmmm I think I will break into that house" (only a burgler with the brain power of Cueball would contemplate such a thing). But just as we would love a child no matter what, my husband and I love Cueball for all his faults (and there are many of them). Only this weekend he discovered that he could smash through the plastic trellis by the vegetable garden and get out to the front yard. Once he was out however he decided that he didn't like it that much and headbutted open the front door and came right back in but you know, such is life.

The self righteous cat.

As most cat owners know almost all cats are to a degree self righteous. It appears to be a specific trait that cats possess that other pets (dogs for example) do not. As far as a cat is concerned any horizontal surface in its home is “nap appropriate” whereas you would not find a dog lying asleep on the bookcase. Most cats (or perhaps mine in particular) are the masters of finding the most difficult place to nap. It matters not to a cat that in the search for the most difficult place to nap one might have to say, push aside something that is in ones way, be it the cheapo souvenir from the Eiffel Tower that you bought ten years ago or the priceless antique that just this morning Christies was begging you to let them sell at auction for the price of the national debt. Cats care little for the mere inconveniences of the fact that the precise place that they wish to take their twenty seventh nap of the day happens to be occupied by something else, in the cat universe that simply means that said offending object simply has to be pushed away by a well aimed swish of the rear end. This is despite the fact that a cat has been informed that it “shouldn’t do that” and this is to be understood considering that “shouldn’t” is not translatable into “cat language”. Just as there is no word in Welsh for TV there is no word in cat for “shouldn’t”. Of course the professional self righteous cat will sleep in the most uncomfortable of places simply to assert his or her self righteousness. A prime example of this particular madness is the cats propensity of sleeping in the sink. The question “why do cats sleep in sinks” is an age old one and sits right up along those other age old classics such as “what is the meaning of life” and “why can’t a man change a toilet roll” as the “top ten questions you ask the old geezer who sits at the top of the mountain contemplating.” My cousin had a cat once who, when staying with her parents for any amount of time, used to steadfastly sleep in the downstairs toilet sink (my aunt and uncle were those posh kind of folks, they had two toilets one upstairs and one downstairs.) The cat (I am afraid that memory escapes me as to whether or not it was “Seven Oaks” or “Bam Bam”) would quite self righteously sleep in the sink and would growl and hiss at anyone who dared to be so bold as to use that particular toilet to say, go pee. It was a brave soul indeed who tried to wash their hands after visiting said toilet since trying such a task could result in at least minor plastic surgery and at most several weeks in intensive care and a couple of blood transfusions. Of course the “nap appropriate” place is also climate specific, in other words, whichever is the coolest place to nap in the summer, (hence the sink) is whichever is the warmest place to nap in the winter (also strangely enough hence the sink). If one were to follow these rules and carefully observe where cats nap during any given season, a cost conscience human in my house may very well be found in the dead of winter watching TV curled up on the very top of the computer armoire directly under the heating vent in the ceiling. Of course the self righteous cat never allows such silly conventions as “valuable” and “useful” to interfere with their napping locations. In winter it would appear that one of the favourite places to nap is directly on top of the computer monitor as it appears to give off quite a nice bit of heat. (also the printer). Now observing this one would expect that my central heating thermostat is set to “arctic” and therefore the poor cats are simply forced to find heat anywhere they possibly can. This is simply not true, at worst my thermostat is set to 60 so the house is nice and comfortably warm even when outside the seas are freezing and fish are being served up prefrozen as you catch them. Self righteous cats are also particularly fond of sleeping upon the most important document in the house. Mail has arrived, the canceled deed of trust for the house has been opened and before being carefully stored away has been placed on the dresser while other tasks are accomplished. When one finally returns to said deed to place it in its proper place it is without surprise that one finds a cat asleep on said deed, sand, cat hair, drool, paw prints and whatever else now staining said document. This of course also goes double for bills. Most cat owners have now got used to and indeed have shed the embarrassment of, sending in the “return” portion of the water bill which is covered in muddy cat paw prints. Another favourite place for the self righteous cat to sleep is on a pile of laundry. It is amazing however, that given the choice of the pile of dirty laundry waiting to go into the washing machine and the pile of neatly folded clean laundry waiting to be put away the self righteous cat will inevitably always choose the clean laundry, which as a result of the cats napping will of course immediately revert to dirty laundry which has to be done again (the top layer at least.) Of course the most self righteous of cats, those who have got self righteousness down to an art form will of course insist on sleeping on your head. No matter that you toss and turn during the night, no matter that you sigh and “huff” all night, no the ultimate self righteous cat will find to its absolute delight that the ONLY place to sleep the ONLY place in a house full of horizontal surfaces, fluffy pillows, nice sofas, comfy sinks etc., will decide in his or her wisdom that the ONLY place to sleep is directly on your head where his or her tail can dangle down and “swish” your nose during the night, where as you turn over the claws have to be dug in to ensure that their place on your head is not dislodged..... and where, during the night, the most silent and deadly cat farts can be released so you wake up in horror having just had a nightmare of being trapped in a cesspool surrounded by elephants who, on a diet of baked beans and cabbage have suddenly all pointed their arses towards you.

The troublesome cat

The troublesome cat is often recognized in kittendom. In fact many owners, recognizing that particular glint in the eye will, in a startling show of foresightedness, name the aforesaid kitten “Trouble”. Having a trouble in one’s house is actually not as difficult as it sounds. It actually makes things simpler. The mere mortal woken at 3am by an enormous crash in the living room would spring from their bed in sheer panic grasp the gun, candlestick or baseball bat and run into the living room expecting to find a burgler or at least a 300lb gorilla smashing up the place. Trouble owners have no such problems however, trouble owners can hear a crash in the living room at 3am and wake, slightly bemused, then turn and pat down the pillows knowing that tomorrow in the cold light of day they will no doubt find great auntie Edna’s priceless vase in pieces on the floor. Trouble owners are so used to trouble that they simply brush it off as a mere annoyance. Trouble owners watch in fascination as “Trouble” spends an inordinate amount of time trying to catch a bee. Owner knows that no matter how many times owner admonishes “Trouble don’t do that” Trouble will in fact “do that” and eventually catch the bee and eventually be stung in the mouth and eventually will require a dose of child strength Benadryl to take down the swelling. Trouble owners are also blessed in that the minor transgressions of their other cats become blurred in the general noise that is created by Trouble. While it may be an annoyance that other cats merely scratch at the wallpaper it becomes simply pedestrian compared to Trouble climbing up the wallpaper as far as he possibly can. A “trouble” cat also possesses a particular “air” about him, a gait, a stance that says quite plainly to all who are watching him “what can I get up to next?.” Whereas other cats simply meander through life with the languid wave of a tail “trouble” cats scurry through life, tail swishing back and forth, eyes constantly search out for something to engage. Trouble cats are also a complete nuisance to more languid cats. A trouble cat, bored with terrorizing the neighborhood squirrels and bored with the latest cat toy will turn his attention to the other cat members of the household as a form of entertainment. This of course does not go down well with Languid cat or with the older cat population. This of course is why Trouble often sports scratches on his nose. Trouble cats also have a strange way of showing affection. For the most part they will purr and knead and behave like any normal cat, but, at precisely the moment that you are petting your trouble cat the way you would pet any normal cat the trouble cat will decide to bite your nose. It would appear that nose biting is a “trouble cat” way of saying “I love you mummy” however it is not a language that human beings understand. Nose biting, in any culture, is pretty much considered “not the thing to do in polite society” therefore “trouble cat” will no doubt be admonished for his behaviour. It matters not however, as trouble cats have the attention span of a five-year old child on speed and therefore by the time you have finished the admonishment trouble cat is biting your nose to apologize.

The Languid Cat

The Languid cat is quite possibly the coolest cat on the planet. The Languid cat goes through life in a state of semi consciousness that is so profound that one wonders how its brain can generate the energy to put one foot in front of the other. The Languid cat spends an inordinate amount of time sleeping, even for a cat, and, when not sleeping , the languid cat is grooming itself in such a slow and lazy fashion that, quite often, without warning, it falls asleep during the grooming session. The languid cat quite often has his or her tongue stuck out of his or her mouth simply because the energy required to withdraw said tongue to said mouth is simply more than the languid cat can muster to be quite honest. The Languid cat walks as slowly as is possible without actually standing still, and yet eventually Languid cat gets to where he needs to be. (usually dinner dish or a nice horizontal place to sleep). Languid cat is usually (to use the politically correct term) physically challenged, in other words Languid cat usually has a belly that is perhaps a nth of an inch off the floor when Languid cat sidles up to the food bowl. When Languid cat sits on his or her butt to wash those back legs one is reminded of Buddha.... not the peace and tranquility part but the really fat bloke with the belly that goes on forever part. Languid cat wants nothing more than to eat and sleep, and anything other than eating and sleeping is, to be brutally honest, a complete waste of time. Languid cat’s main annoyance is “trouble” cat as mentioned above. Trouble cat insists on “moving” a concept that languid cat simply cannot accept and mores the point “doing stuff” again a concept that languid cat finds utterly repulsive. “Doing stuff” is something that Languid cat has long erased from the cat language of its brain and now languid cat’s vocabulary consists entirely of “nap” and “dinner”. Garfield is a Languid cat.

The Queen Cat.

It can’t be easy you know, being the Queen cat of the pride. Lari, my queen cat, is mother, grandmother and great grandmother to every cat in my house (except one) and she takes the responsibility on her shoulders like a trooper. Unfortunately Lari was also fixed during the middle of a menstrual cycle and therefore she is in a permanent state of PMS and is now the meanest piece of work in the Universe. Lari is now 11 years of age and has got to that point in life where she really doesn’t give a **** what anyone thinks. It has come to the point where any other cat in the household even looks at her she will get nasty on them and someone is going to end up with a scratch mark and it isn’t going to be Lari. Lari also has the “moses effect” on a room. If there is a room full of cats (dinner time for instance in my kitchen) Lari will walk in and the seas part.... every single other cat in the room will give her a wide berth knowing that one never can tell when Lari’s PMS is at its height and someone is going to get their nose smacked. Occasionally the other cats in the pride will decide in their ultimate wisdom to challenge Lari for the role of Queen cat but they are usually short lived fights and end up with someone slinking off into a corner, licking their wounds and their pride. Another aspect of Lari’s queenness is her desire to obtain the highest place in the room to sleep, where through a half open eye she can survey her domain and all in it. At this moment in time that happens to be atop the computer armoire, and this is simply because she has not yet figured out how to get on top of the entertainment center. From her perch Lari can watch as the other cats meander around the floor below her. This presents several problems. Living in a two story house where the master bed and bath are both located down stairs the only time the upstairs bedrooms and bathrooms are visited is when guest are staying. Of course this also means that the only time that the top of the computer armoire can be viewed is when going up the stairs to direct guests to their rooms. It can be quite embarrassing to be merrily chatting walking up the stairs and casually glancing over to the top of the computer armoire only to discover that Lari at some point in the last week or even month has decided to vomit and there for your guests to see is a large pile of regurgitated cat food lying dry and mouldy. It can also be the source of some classic “eek” moments. During a snow day in winter I was merrily watching BBC America and decided as I had a free day off that I would clean all the pictures in my house (and there are a lot of them.) I worked my way around the living and dining rooms and eventually made it to the pictures above the door (which are to the right of the top of the computer armoire.) I climbed my step ladder and retrieved a montage of photographs of cats from above the door and happened (looking back I have no idea why) to glance sideways at the top of the armoire. The eek that escaped my lips was due to the fact that I found myself staring into the cold lifeless eyes of a dead mouse, which no doubt Lari had left up there for safekeeping. Of course Lari’s propensity of sleeping in the highest place is seen as a challenge to the other cats who are constantly on the lookout to “out high” her. Nelson (you remember him, one eye no depth perception) decided in his wisdom that to “out high” Lari it would be a great wheeze to climb the staircase and perch, precariously, on the balcony. It can be quite unnerving to watch a one-eyed cat clamber up a bannister which is at most one inch thick and at least twenty feet off the ground. After a great deal of slipping, sliding and holding on with claws Nelson decided better of it. Lari of course just watched in amusement from her perch on top of the armoire and then went back to sleep, secure in her queendom.

The Timid Cat

Every once in a while you encounter a timid cat. Mine is called “Con”. His full name is “Amy’s Con” because we took him as the result of a “con” pulled by one of my husband’s students - Amy. Con is not related to any other cat in the house and is therefore considered a paraiah amongst the other cats. From the moment he arrived he has been an outsider but he has held his own and managed to survive. He keeps his distance from all the other cats because he is well aware that they don’t like him. Con was once picked up by animal control and placed in the pound. (As an aside I have no idea why other than the fact that there was a particularly nasty gray cat down the street that terrorized everyone and I think someone must have reported said gray cat and animal control, not being able to distinguish between them, picked up every gray cat in the neighbourhood. Which I imagine we should be grateful does not happen in the real world, an assault has taken place, the suspect is a white male, 5‘ 10“ tall with black hair and blue eyes...., imagine a world where every male that fits the description is thrown in jail until someone can come along and vouch for him. Well that is what happened, HELLO he was wearing a collar and is very obviously fixed, you didn‘t have a clue?) After he had not been home for dinner for two days I began to worry and, on a whim, stopped by the pound to check. I was initially not allowed into the “cat room” because I had open toed shoes on (what is up with that?) anyway as I couldn’t see into the cages properly from outside the window the nice person at the pound allowed me in to check the cages. I looked at all the gray cats and could clearly see they weren’t Con. Eventually the nice lady showed me to a cage that had a large red sign on it that read “WILD.” There appeared to be nothing in the cage but I squatted down and peered in. Right in the back corner, cowered as far back as he could go was Con. I squealed on seeing him “Con, sweetie pie I thought you were dead”. He immediately came from the back of the cage and started rubbing his cheeks against the bars, I tickled him, he purred. The nice lady at the pound laughed “well there is no doubt who Mommy is is there”. I completed the paperwork and ran home to get a cat box. On my return the nice lady passed me off to a volunteer to retrieve Con. On entering the room the volunteer grabbed a pair of large leather gauntlets. Nice lady smiled “let her get him out”. Volunteer handed me the gauntlets. I smiled at him, “I won’t need those” I said. I opened the cage and Con fell into my arms and immediately began nuzzling my neck and purring. The volunteer looked at me aghast. Incidentally Con now lives on top of the computer monitor and comes down only to eat and pee. He is a very timid cat and wants to make sure that he never ends up in the pound again.

The Vocal Cat

The Vocal Cat insists on telling you, in infinite detail, everything that has happened to him or her since he or she saw you last. It may be a tortuous tale of the walk from the forest to the kitchen, it may be how she or he went to the cat food bowl and, horror of horrors, found it empty. It may be a story of how, when lying asleep on the deck the dogs came up and disturbed her or him it matters not, what matters is that you are required to listen to the entire thing, not knowing what on earth said cat is saying. The vocal cat does not realize that you simply cannot understand the collection of mews, cries, howls and trills that are her or his vocabulary and that they are completely foreign to the human ear. It matters only to the vocal cat that you listen, and appear to be interested. Of course you will have realized by now that I am talking about a specific cat. Alpha, my vocal cat will come into the kitchen through the cat door with such a plaintiff howling and mewing that it is a hard hearted owner indeed that can resist the urge to leap off the couch and find out what the problem is. Of course once Alpha has got you off the couch she will regale you with such a story that it is quite a task to believe that one’s journey from the garage roof to the kitchen floor could generate such a long and tortuous description. Of course Alpha has a right to tell tall tales. She has a history. Alpha to begin with is black and white. One week prior to Halloween I got home and found blood at the front door. I was of course horrified. I walked into the house and found another trail of blood leading into the bedroom. There sat Alpha on the end of the bed, covered in blood and crippled. I immediately phoned the vet and told him we were coming in. Meanwhile, my mother (who was visiting at the time) answered a knock at the door and was greeted by a neighbour. The neighbour told a tale of such horror that it assaulted my ears to hear it. A pick up truck full of teenagers had driven down our road. After they had passed Alpha decided to cross the road. On a whim, the teenagers reversed and ran over her.... once they had hit her with the truck they got out to view their accomplishments..., they found her lying in a ditch, they kicked her in the head, and bent her legs to make sure they were good and broken. Then they left. So when I came home Alpha was pretty much on deaths door. I took her to the vets and almost unable to speak explained to them what had happened to her. They told me to leave her and they would call me “if there were any developments.” (obviously not expecting her to live.) They did surgery, wiring her jaw which had been broken (as well as several teeth). It was when they were doing the x-rays to figure out if there was other damage other than her jaw and her legs that they discovered she had blood in her lungs. They did not expect her to last the night. As it was when I called the next morning she had made it through the night and they were more confident than the day before. One front leg was okay but the other one was completely useless. The vet explained to me that they could amputate the leg and she would be fine, there were lots of three-legged cats running around, in fact they had one as the surgery cat. I took her home with instructions on how to feed her her liquid diet and to be a good nurse. A week went by and I was still feeding her her liquid. One day, as she was sat on my lap while I was feeding her I noticed that the toes of the “bad” leg were trying to “knead” me. I made a mental note to tell the vet. On her next follow up I told the vet. He got a pair of pincers on the “bad” leg and sure enough when he squeezed she drew the leg back. It was going to be alright. Okay so she is not the prettiest cat in the world, her jaw set crooked so now she looks a little like a bulldog chewing a wasp but she is fine, she can walk on all four legs and her only problem is that she cannot retract her front claws. Of course that is not a problem for Alpha that is a problem for anyone who is the recipient of Alpha’s kneading. So whenever Alpha comes into the kitchen telling me the most tortuous tale of her journey from the deck to the food bowl I tend to listen. I mean any cat that has been through what she has deserves to be listened to.

The “faux” Tom Cat

The “faux” tom cat is a tom cat that has been fixed but doesn’t realize it (after all he was asleep at the time and no one told him right?). The “faux” tom cat struts the neighbourhood for all the world as if he had a fully functioning set of testicles and is capable of impregnating every female cat within a ten mile radius thank you very much. In fact the “faux” tom cat finding a pregnant “nesting” female will immediately set up shop close to the nest and lay claim to the kittens as his own not knowing that there is no way on earth that they could be. The “faux” tom cat will peer into a box of kittens with a proud, knowing look congratulating himself on the sheer power of his tomness. The “faux” tom cat will also protect his pride from other tom cats with the same fierceness that would an unaltered tom. Any strange tom coming into his territory will be greeted with growls, hisses and possibly a serious fight. The “faux” tom cares not that a marauding tom entering his territory appears to have all of the equipment he was born with, the “faux” tom simply smacks the **** out of the interloper anyway and cares not for his apparent lack of “wedding tackle.”

The Manically Maternal Cat

The Manically Maternal Cat has to have kittens, despite the fact that she can no longer have kittens due to her having her “status in society changed” by the vet. A Manically Maternal Cat will find kittens and immediately adopt them as her own. Making her own nest, transferring the kittens one by one to said nest and trying her best to nurture them despite the major disadvantage of having no milk. Of course in a cat household (which I am not proud to say) had four litters of kittens at one time Manically Maternal cat was not content with her own litter of four, she would feel the need to go and steal the other three litters and adopt them as her own the nano second that their mother went outside to go pee or went to get something to eat. I would quite often find Bravo with sixteen kittens in her nest all battling for a nipple. It was quite a task sorting out which kitten belonged to who. (I would just like to point out that all my cats are fixed now and this will not be happening in the future). Once the Manically Maternal cat has run out of kittens (as happens when all one’s cats are fixed) Manically Maternal cat will then adopt grown cats as her kittens and at a push will adopt dogs as her kittens. It is not surprising to see Manically Maternal cat holding down a fully adult cat with a strong paw to give fully adult cat a well deserved bath which fully adult cat neither wants nor needs thank you very much but which fully adult cat is going to get anyway cause Manically Maternal cat is not going to take no for an answer so live with it. The Manically Maternal cat will also adopt stuffed toys, small change, and dead mice as “kittens” depending on her mood. The Manically Maternal cat cares not that her charge is perhaps purple, small and silver, and perhaps smells a bit, the Manically Maternal cat cares only that she is taking care of her babies.

The One Eyed Cat

The “One Eyed Cat” is seriously depth perception impaired but it matters not to him. Our one-eyed cat “Nelson” (natch) has yet to understand that his depth perception is seriously impaired therefore jumping anywhere is not really a good idea. Cast your mind back, it is the flood of 1999 I mean THE FLOOD of 1999 Hurricane Floyd, most of North Carolina is under three feet of water, my house like many others is under three feet of water. We had (under the misguided impression that it would keep the water out) placed large objects at our front door. Nelson is stood atop of one of said large objects and is considering (with one eye) the tree in the bed just beside the front door. It is one of those “should have thought better of it moments” that one sees that Nelson is actually considering jumping from “large object” to tree in an effort to escape from the rising waters. In a gargantuan leap Nelson sets off and lands *splat* in three feet of water. Being a cat Nelson is not quite happy with this scenario.... and immediately starts scrambling for the first piece of “dry land” that he can. As it happened it turns out that the dry land that Nelson finds is the tree he was aiming for in the first place. Soaking wet, his tomhood and reputation in shreds Nelson shivers in the tree looking totally pathetic. I pick him up (braving the floating nests of fire ants that inhabit the water) and carry him upstairs to the completely dry and safe upstairs bedroom where there is a) dry land b) food and c) drinking water. It would be amazing to cat owners if Nelson learned from this mistake however, as any cat owner knows the one thing that is a cat learns is not to learn from its mistakes. Therefore, to this day Nelson will be sat on an object and decide in his ultimate wisdom to jump from said place to another, inevitably Nelson misses and there is a very loud clattering of objects falling to the ground and Nelson walking away, tail in the air, looking for all the world that whoever caused that ruckus it CERTAINLY wasn’t him.

The Possum Cat

The possum cat has a particularly unnerving habit of lying asleep on the front lawn in a position that looks for all the world as if he is dead. Most cats, when sleeping, curl up in a neat ball, or stretch out on their stomachs, or simply lay, looking peacefully asleep, not the possum cat, the possum cat assumes a position that looks for all the world as if rigor mortis has already come and gone and the body is about an hour away from decomposing. Nelson, as well as being a one eyed cat and a faux tom is also a possum cat. Recently my neighbour looked out of her dining room window and saw Nelson lying “dead” on her front lawn. Distressed she went to the front door, distressed not only because Nelson was dead but because she was going to have to tell me the bad news. She walked up to him, hoping to be able to see why and how he had died so that she could at least tell me. She got within a few inches of him and Nelson, (the consummate possum cat) suddenly leapt to life and ran back across to my yard. This of course made my neighbour almost have a minor heart attack and elicited a great deal of cursing. Nelson has worn out his welcome with the neighbour because of course now she knows when there is a dead cat lying on her front lawn it is no doubt Nelson doing his “possum cat” thing. However, Nelson’s trick still fools lots of neighbours who are simply walking past the house on their evening stroll, and the resultant “eeeek” as they realise Nelson is not in fact dead, but is simply sleeping like the dead is quite amusing. In fact I came home only the other day and found Nelson “dead” in the driveway, no amount of honking of my horn would force him to move, therefore with a heavy heart I got out of the car and approached him prepared to pick him up to bury him and “bam” like a shot he was off up the pathway and it was my turn to say “eeek”.

The Gardening Cat

The “gardening cat” has a fascination for a human being’s gardening tasks. They will watch intently as their tame human being digs a hole for a plant to go in and the nano second that their human being turns their back to retrieve said plant to put in said hole they will squat and plant something of their own. The gardening cat also finds weeding fascinating. They will lie, like a lion on the serengetti, in the shrubs or leaves of a flower bed, peering through the leaves at their human being’s hands as they pull out the pesky weeds, then, at the precise moment that the gardening cat decides is right, they will pounce on the weed or the gardener’s gloves. The gardening cat is also very hedonistic (even for a cat). The gardening cat will watch intently as you plant several flats of annuals in your flower beds then within moments of you having finishing the planting will either a) dig up the plant and deposit something in its place b) decide that the plant is the ONLY place in the world to roll around and eventually sleep, c) decide that the plant is a new version of cat nip and eat it.

The Vampire Cat

Well enough said:

I am a huge fan of vines, having almost run out of horizontal space in my gardens I decided to begin gardening vertically. However, most vines that I am familiar with are, not to put too fine a point on it, antisocial and agressive. My wisteria is a case in point, not content to grow up the trellis on my miniscule front porch she decided in her wisdom to take off up the trees in the triangle bed. I was pruning it today, due to the fact that I am hoping to have vinyl siding put on my house in the next couple of weeks, so I had to make room for the work crew. As I was doing it, it reminded me of the last time I pruned it and what happened.

One sunny afternoon I decided in my wisdom that the Wisteria at my front door simply had to be pruned. I had a conversation with it whereupon it sent out some more fronds gently around my throat and we discussed the situation. “You are getting out of hand” I told it, whereupon it grabbed one of the cats, put it in a strangle hold, and told me in no uncertain terms “you prune me and the kitty gets it.” After a long standoff, consisting of much negotiation, the Wisteria consented to be pruned, so long as I didn’t go too far. So with pruners in hand I began the task. At one point I had to remove a particularly stubborn shoot that, in a strike out for independence, had taken off running up the tree in the triangle bed. I clipped the shoot and then proceeded to tug on it to dislodge it from the tree. I managed to get a large portion of it, but at one point having stripped the bark from the shoot and most of the skin from my palms I turned to wipe the sweat from my brown and take a drink of my tea before I continued. As my back was turned I heard a rustling sound above me, uncertain as to what it was I turned and watched bemused as a possum fell from the sky. The possum landed on the pathway much to the surprise of Alpha the cat who had been sat there, half sleeping and half watching what the idiot human being was doing. The possum, on landing on the pathway, shook itself into consciousness and then wandered off through the triangle bed and then into the garage, followed, at a slow ramble by Alpha, who half-way through the pursuit decided that licking her rear end was far more important. By the time Alpha had finished the vitally important task of licking her rear end, the possum had found sanctuary in the garage and Alpha forgot that she was following it. On seeing this bizarre scene unfold before me, I took another drink of tea and looked up into the tree. The possum was obviously a baby, although by no means still needing the help of its mother, it was by no means a full size possum. As I gazed at the tree I wondered several things a) do possums climb trees? b) how many more baby possums are up there c) what are the chances of them landing on my head? At this point I decided expert advice was in order so I went into the house. Husband was sat at the computer playing a computer game and Phlexia was at the piano practicing. “Do possums climb trees?” I said as I walked in through the door. Husband and Phlexia looked at me, promptly ignored me and went back to what they were doing. “I’m only asking because it appears to be raining possums outside” I stand in the doorway, waiting for a response. Silence. “Never mind” I said. “What” says Husband, barely able to drag his gaze away from the computer screen long enough to inquire. “Well you know” I say, getting more and more irritated “perhaps raining possums is a normal thing where you come from, but you know I am from England and not only does it not rain possums but we don’t even have possums, I was just wondering if it was normal for it to be raining possums”. Husband and Phlexia look at me with the man look, you know the look that says “the woman is being a woman again” and both go back to what they were doing. I go back outside and proceed to duck every time a leaf moves.

As it was when I pruned the wisteria to within an inch of its life today there were no possums raining from the sky. But, after that exhausting task I had to relax by taking some photographs of the birds getting familiar with the posing table.

So on Tuesday evening I was cooking my husbands dinner, steak and eggs, and I turned on the oven to cook his steak. Nothing, zip, zilch, nada. Nary a light, not even a flicker, my oven was dead. It had turned up its toes, it was an ex-oven, it had ceased to be, it had shuffled off this mortal coil (apologies to Monty Python). So I casually mention to my husband (who was practicing his Thanksgiving routine early by slonking on the couch channel surfing), "the oven is dead." The look of sheer terror which crossed his face could only be classified as priceless. In a brief moment the entire "going out to have thanksgiving dinner" and "no thanksgiving dinner" crossed his brain and he reached for the phone book. "what time does Furniture Fair close?" He asked. I responded that I had no idea, having never been struck with the urge to go furniture shopping on a normal day, let alone after it was dark. Within minutes he was out of the door, in the car and on his way to furniture fair to purchase a new stove. Of course then he realized that said stove would have to be delivered and that a) there was no way I would be home in time the following day to greet the delivery persons and b) SOMEONE had to take out the old stove and clean behind and under it cause you know that is not something that gets done on a regular basis (at least not by me you know out of sight out of mind sort of thing) and WHO KNOWS what the cats and dogs had stuffed under there in the meantime, toys, loose change, dead mice, you get the idea. So it was he who made arrangements to get off work and do the icky deed. I really enjoyed cooking thanksgiving dinner with my new stove as it turned out (the oven is so big in this one you could hold a small party in there) As I was getting bored having done all the cooking things that there was to do I was seized with the idea to create a "posing table" for my birds to hang out on, an idea I must admit, I gained through my Birds and Blooms magazine this month. So armed with nothing more than an idea and a dangerous desire to get shots of my birds in a more natural setting I gathered a couple of branches, a scrap piece of plywood and a long-discarded landscape timber. A few screws later and a hole dug, my new creation was in place.

by the time I had finished my new creation I had other cooking duties and it was getting dark so I didn't have the opportunity to see how the birds liked it. Today I had to work for a while, so I only had a couple of hours to camp out in front of my open kitchen window (freezing my butt off) to see if the birds had got used to the new contraption. It would appear that they have, and once I get used to where they are most likely to perch, I can clip of a few of the useless twigs and clear up some branches that are just in the way and hopefully get some stellar shots. Oh boy, am I going to be dangerous now.

I don't know about you but personally I hate housework. It is simply soul destroying. You can spend all weekend cleaning your entire house and within a week or so (or in my case with the dogs and cats a couple of days) it goes right back to looking like you haven't touched it for months. Add to this the fact that I am married to one of those "messy" types (and to be honest, so is he) then the place doesn't stay clean and tidy for long. I used to spend every weekend I had doing laundry and housework, being firmly of the belief that having a messy house made me a bad person, which left perhaps an hour or so for me to engage in what I enjoyed. Then one day (it would be about a year back) I had an epiphany. I was outside hanging out laundry and I realized that I was missing some incredible butterfly shots because I was inside cleaning and doing laundry. I thought to myself at that time "you know I can pretty much guarantee that when I am lying on my death bed I will not say - gosh I wish I had done more housework, whereas I will be saying I wish I had got that perfect shot of the Eastern Tiger Swallowtail." At that point I realized that I was using up all my free time living up to standards set for me by someone who had no right doing such a thing and basically I was working seven days a week with only the location changing. So what if I have cobwebs like cotton candy? Who cares? I realized at that point that I didn't, and the only person who probably would, probably would never be visiting my house. Now don't get me wrong, I go by the adage "my house is clean enough to be healthy but dirty enough to be happy", and I have never heard tell of cobwebs killing anyone (Harry Potter stories notwithstanding). So now on the weekends I give my house a quick "cats lick and a promise" do the laundry that has to be done (why do men insist on wearing the identical five outfits week in and week out despite the fact that they have 37 pairs of pants and 40 shirts in the closet?) and spend the rest of the weekend actually NOT working but doing things I enjoy, like gardening and taking photographs. Of course if a "mum" visit is imminent I clean like there is no tomorrow, which, to be honest is a bit stupid because she spends her entire visit here, yup you guessed it, cleaning. So if you are like I once was, caught up in the "housework circle" then think to yourself, when I am on my death bed what am I going to regret not doing? I can pretty much guarantee that it won't be "gosh I really wish that I had got my floors clean enough to eat off." So what ever it is you want to do, learn the tango, take up pottery, capture that beautiful sunset on canvas, or write a novel, go ahead and do it, I mean really, the housework will wait, it's not like someone is going to come into your house and steal it and deprive you of the chance to do it. Go ahead. Stop and smell the roses.

As a friend of mine once quoted on the HGTV site (thanks Sweathoggraduate)

"LIFE IS NOT A JOURNEY TO THE GRAVE WITH THE INTENTION OF ARRIVING SAFELY IN A PRETTY AND WELL-PRESERVED BODY, BUT RATHER TO SKID IN BROADSIDE, THOROUGHLY USED UP, TOTALLY WORN OUT, AND LOUDLY PROCLAIMING, "WOW, WHAT A RIDE!"