Make my day

Today is National Hairball Awareness Day. I’m not kidding, check it out. Now that is a wasted national day. The only people who need to be aware of hairballs are already way too familiar with the whole concept. We step on them in the middle of the night, clean them out of the carpet, and pretend oblivion when the cat whorks, cacks and gags up a whopper right behind a guest’s chair at dinner. If, like us, you have three cats, you could open up a hairball bowling alley.

Who gets to decide these “days”? What moron snagged May 8 as No Socks day? Or National Talk Like a Pirate day on September 19? Did some 15 year old geek hack into all the calendar companies so that May 1 is now designated National Teen day? I’m quite sure no parent proposed that one. The person who approved May 27 as National Grape Popsickle day needs a good shake and a real job.

This has gone too far. What stupid day will someone come up with next, National Beer Appreciation day?

“What? It falls on January 24?” Huh.

Actually, I could get behind that one.

Today's dream travel destination: Bavaria, the place to be next January 24.

Reigning Cats and Dogs, Part 3: Squirt

I wrote recently about my encounter with a gang dude. But the truth is, we have a gang member living right here in our household. Well, sort of living here. He buggers off for days sometimes, and never calls us to say where he's gone. He is nicked and scarred from gangland brawls. We suspect he sells crack catnip out of the garage. His name is Squirt.

Squirt lived with my Beloved before we met. He was a free spirit, usually preferring the freedom of outdoors over the comfort of a warm couch. When B and Squirt moved in with me a few years ago, Squirt took off within a week. For two or three days we didn’t worry, but then we started searching the neighbourhood. After a week or so we put up “LOST CAT” posters. We got phone calls from many kind people, but none of the sightings turned out to be Squirt.

After two months we had pretty much given up hope of ever seeing Squirt again. I missed the little guy, but I was heart sick for B, who had loved Squirt since he was a kitten. I don’t know why, but I got the idea that if we took in a cat that really needed a home, some of the resulting good karma might help poor lost Squirt, and he would find a loving home too.

So I went to the SPCA and asked if they had any cats that were hard to adopt out. They had one all right. He was a pathetic, desperately unhappy tabby that had been abandoned by his owners. He was freaked out and had not touched food since arriving at the shelter several days earlier. He was covered in shit, having lost control from the trauma of being caged. He hissed, spat, and clawed at anyone who came close. I paid, thinking "hell, they should pay me," and took him home. After a little patience and TLC, he turned out to be a wonderful cat. And Henry's best friend.

Five days later the karma jackpot paid out. We got a phone call from a man called George whose neighbour had seen one of our posters. George lived in an apartment building on the edge of an oceanside park, a couple of kilometers and a busy four lane highway away from our former home. A cat lover, he put daily food out for a gang of feral cats living in the park. When his neighbour showed him our poster, George thought a cat that had joined his Vanier Park gang a few weeks earlier could be Squirt. It was.

We hauled his ass home, but he escaped twice more over the next few months, both times returning to his wild gang. Squirt quit that gang only when we moved to our current house 4 years ago. The Vanier Park gang is now 20 kilometres away. We had to get him deprogrammed, have his tatoos lasered off, and promise he could park his little Harley in the driveway, but he more or less stays around home now. And his rough gang days were not a total waste: He is now teaching little Snuffy how to guard our beer at parties.

Reigning Cats and Dogs, Part 1: Henry & Oliver

Pets outnumber humans in our household 5 to 3. How that came to be still baffles me sometimes. Tika and Henry are the dogs, Squirt, Snuffy, and Oliver the cats.

Henry and Oliver have been best friends from the first day we brought Henry home as a puppy 13 months ago. It’s an unlikely match. They are from enemy species. Henry now weighs 85 pounds and is still growing. Oliver weighs 9 pounds, if he has had a big breakfast. Oliver is the smartest creature in the household, humans included. Henry is spectacularly stupid. (My Beloved, always the optimist, says Henry is gifted and just needs to mature a little. Nonsense. The only thing he is gifted at is farting. I mean Henry, not B. Although, when we have taco night…….well, never mind.)

In spite of their differences, they adore each other. Oliver gets Henry. In return, Henry smothers Oliver with drooling, doe-eyed devotion. They sleep together. Wrestle and play together. Take walks together daily, Henry on his leash, Oliver voluntarily running along side. Rain or shine. When their paths cross in the house or the yard, they stop whatever important dog or cat work they were pursuing to give each other a little lovin’ and affection. Oliver rubs up under Henry’s chin, Henry licks and nuzzles. Oliver comes out of these sessions soaked in drool.

If Henry and Oliver could go to the UN they would demonstrate profound lessons about acceptance, understanding, and triumph over prejudice. Humankind would learn to live in harmony. And drool, and fart.


Today's dream travel destination: UN headquarters, New York