Book of the Night Club

You Guys...COME ON!

I would really like the dogs to embrace object permanence. Seriously. One of us moves from their line of vision and the other needs to assist the neurotic canine search party. It gets old.

Richard went up into the attic. Icky place, not a place I'm interested in being. But the point is that he was IN the house, and suddenly the was OUT (sort of) the house, and the dogs immediately became concerned. Overly concerned.

So we went outside into the back yard. Then we segued to the front of the house. Then I let Fes check out the basement and Julius was allowed to sweep the bathroom.

Once they were convinced that Daddy was not, in fact, in the house and doing something interesting that might require their input, they settled down on the bed. At which point Richard promptly returned from above.

I cannot win, and I will not try. Sleep now.

Don't Diss the Potato

Today was Fester’s first day in the office; Julius stayed behind to whinge at me and seek my help in identifying imaginary sounds. Fes was of course a big hit, but what I did not appreciate was the comparisons that would naturally occur regarding the dogs.

Mommy does not like to play favorites; true, one dog is hyper and playful and engaging and one has the overall personality of a slightly lumpy pillow, but statements like these are not okay with me: "Julius is like a shoddy amalgamation of parts of a dog: Fester is like a real dog."

Don’t mess with the Ji-Jou dog, people. You’ll regret it in the end.

And what's with this, "LIKE a real dog" crap???? Fester is a real dog...

Dawning Realization

The animals were shut in the spare room while the pods were being unloaded this morning. When they emerged, there were varying reactions: the cats ran the gamut from thrilled (stuff to climb on!) to somewhat baffled ("This smells familiar..."), while Julius acted like nothing had changed (his default setting). Fes, however, was not to be consoled. He ran from futon to bedroom furniture to the kitchen and back, and in one fell swoop he realized that he was meant to STAY here. In this flat. With strange noises and new smells and people who lived downstairs that he didn't know.

Fes has known no other home since our place in California since he was ten weeks old. Change is hard for him; even harder than it is for me, if you can imagine. Currently he's sprawled on the kitchen floor by a box of canning jars, alternately sighing and snapping at passing felines. I told him that I know how he feels, but I'm not sure he believes me just yet. For both of us, acclimation will come with time.

Sweet Baby Girl

Long before I lived in California, before it was even a possibility, I had another life.

It was not a bad life, really; just lonely. And I am accustomed to being alone. Actually, sometimes I feel safer on my own than with other people. People often irk me.

Anyway, when I lived in my small apartment in Nebraska I had two cats. Rigby came with me from Wisconsin, and Sophie came to me in Omaha. Rigby died last year; he was about 17 and very ill. I miss him a lot, but I was glad he didn't hurt any longer and was happy to have a chance to say goodbye.

On Wednesday, we noticed that Sophie had a cold. Nothing big, just watery eyes and she sounded a little congested. We made an appointment with the vet on Friday at 10:00, just to get her checked over. You can't be too careful.

By 1:00 afternoon on Friday, Sophie was dead.

I don't know what happened; nobody does. When they checked her temperature it was very low, and chest e-rays revealed that her lungs were congested. In spite of this, Sophie looked healthy; just a little out of it like you get when you have a cold. Normally, with the degree of congestion, they would just prescribe some antibiotics and send her home. But for some reason, Sophie couldn't breathe.

A friend took Richard and Sophie to the vet because I had to work. I assumed that I'd get a call from him later on to let me know that they were home, and that Soph would need extensive pampering. She loved being pampered. Instead I got a call at 11:00 saying that Sophie was in an oxygen tank and her condition was "extremely guarded". I called the vet and he told me he honestly thought that he did not think Sophie would live. For whatever reason, she could not breathe on her own; he didn't know why, but was doing everything he could to keep her okay. The clinic closed at 6:00; they couldn't keep the oxygen tent on all night, so she might need to be transferred to the Animal Emergency Clinic in Cordeila. We were okay with that, but what scared me is that the vet told me he did not think Sophie would survive the hour between the time their clinic closed and the time the Emergency clinic opened. I told him to do what he needed to do, and to let me know afterward. I did not want my Baby Girl to suffer needlessly while a phone call was being made.

At 1:00 Richard called to tell me that Sophie died. She was having so much trouble breathing that the vet, who had exhausted all other options, put her down.

In many ways I still can't believe it. I mean, she just had a cold. Friday morning she was asleep in her basket by the window, curled up with two of our other cats. She was breathing a bit heavily and sounded congested, but didn't appear to be in distress. I petted her gently and kissed her on the forehead, telling her that Richard would be taking her to the vet and I'd see her when she got home. And I never saw her again.

Sophie was a long-haired Siamese mix with a Liz Taylor come-hither gaze. A diva of the old school, Sophie spent quite a bit of time in the alley behind my apartment building, waiting for people to pet her and give her treats. She also liked recline on the hood of my Toyota; some mornings she'd look at me with a languid gaze and stretch luxuriously, then jump off and wander off into the yard.

She didn't have a collar and seemed constantly hungry, so one day when she followed me into the lobby and accompanied me to my doorway I didn't turn her away. Rigby was a good cat, but he had been badly abused and had trust issues for days (it was why we got along so well); I figured that a cat that seemed better-adjusted might have a positive effect on him. While this was not exactly the case, he didn't ever actually harm her physically. Sophie didn't mind, in part because her world view was very limited. Everything in Sophie's world was about Sophie; as long as you let her cuddle with you on the couch, read her stories, and fed her, anyone else was welcome. It just had to be about her primarily; if her needs were met, she was very giving with my time.

A small town girl with a fairly narrow world view, Sophie loved San Francisco. We had a huge yard on Oak Street, and Sophie soon discovered every inch of it. I don't know why I let her out at all since we lived so close to major streets, but somehow the idea that because the yard was fenced it was safe. Silly me! Sophie was a gazelle in cat's clothing, and was soon wandering freely in the neighbor's yards, making friends and garnering love and attention.

I miss my baby girl.

STOP LOOKING for agendas!

Sometimes a book about penguins is just a book about freakin' penguins!

Whale in Thames

So it seems that a bottle-nosed whale has decided to do some sight-seeing in Central London.

I just hope the water in the Thames doesn't make it ill...

The Very Best LJ Site Ever

I present to you...

http://www.livejournal.com/community/baaaaabyanimals/

This could get me through a lot of dark times...so glad I found it.

The Rrrrr Cat, 199?-2005

Today we put my oldest cat, Maxim, down. We actually called him Rrrrr, because he liked the sound of the rolling R's. I've had him since 1992, so he even predates the husband.

He found me at a Midwestern humane society on Halloween, 1992. I wanted a kitten to warm up my lonely apartment, so since Halloween is my favorite holiday I thought it would be a lucky day to begin my search. As I walked up and down the rows of cute kittens a tortie caught my eye. I reached up to put my fingers on the cage to call her to me, when the largest grey paw I'd ever seen came down on top of my hand. It was attached to the single largest grey cat I'd ever seen, with eyes that told me that I'd been chosen.

They thought he was feral, but still decided to give him a chance by putting him out for adoption just that day. He'd been abused; they knew that by the terror he showed when people came too close too fast and his fear of people wearing boots. But they saw something, I guess in his eyes that told him he deserved a chance. So they gave him one, and he picked me.

He was a large grey Maine Coon cat, somewhere between 3-5years old. He had a veritable boatload of emotional issues, so we matched. In time, he began to mellow and trust, and so did I.

It's been hard watching him go downhill the last year or so, stricken with a brain tumor and had to take Phenobarbital, which made him act stoned and unsure. But the decision we made to take him to the vet was the right one, and now he's in a happier place, free from pain.

I love you, Rrrrr. Thanks for taking care of me and letting me take care of you. I miss you.

Thor Kitten

Fostering animals is really rewarding, and sometimes can be very sad. Yesterday was one of the sad days.

About eight weeks ago we trapped and tamed five feral kittens. Four are healthy and happy, but one started out that way and suddenly began to go downhill. While he ate like a horse, he didn't gain weight and in fact began losing. We took him to the vet; they did tests and offered medications, but nobody knew what was wrong with him. This past week he caught a URI, and began getting rapidly worse. More tests, more medications, no answers.

Yesterday we put the kitten down. The vet had no idea what was wrong with him, but his white cell count was 45,000 (a "normal" high count in a cat is 15,000) and he'd lost weight even in the two days since he'd last been seen. She felt he had some kind of massive internal infection, which would be expensive to continue to combat. Even then, she said, his prognosis was highly guarded at best.

One of the sucky things about my world is that I don't have infinite financial resources. If we had, we may have spent them on him. But we don't, and the organization we work with doesn't, either. And sometimes you have to choose to save the ones you can.

We had a bottle-fed kitten die from failure to thrive last fall, but the mortality rate of bottle babies is pretty much expected. This kitten seemed as healthy as his siblings, and then suddenly he wasn't.

I feel very guilty about doing what I did. I cried a lot, and the vet hugged me and told me that I was really doing the right thing. Even with round-the-clock care he may still have died, but it just would have taken longer and he would have suffered even more than he already had. So I guess ending his suffering was the right things to do. I wish I could believe it.

When I pulled into the driveway, the kitten's mother was sitting in the vacant lot next door, staring at me. When we'd trapped the kittens I promised her that they would have a good life, and that we'd take good care of them. And I feel like I let her down.

So I sat in the car and cried for a long time. I cried for little Thor, who would never get to grow up and live in his own home with his own family. I cried for his twin brother, Loki, who looked for Thor when he came home from adoption. I cried for his mother, Endora, whose owner didn't care enough about her to get her fixed and carelessly abandoned her to fend for herself outside, where she became feral and terrified of people.

As I watched his siblings running around the house last night, I kept wishing that Thor was there playing with them. And tried to be glad that he wasn't sick and weak anymore.

Got Kittens?

If you don't, that's okay. I'm sure we have enough for everyone.

Right now, in addition to Black and Decker (our fosters who are old enough to be adopted), we have NINE foster kittens from two separate litters. One litter (four kittens) was inadvertently abandoned when the homeowner's dogs chased off their Mom. The other five are the product of a cat we call Black Kitten, who was from a litter of ferals last summer that we couldn't catch. We need to catch her now and get her fixed as well, but right now she's just missing her babies. Poor Mom Cat. I wish it could be different for her, but getting the kittens tamed, fixed, and adopted is the best plan overall.

The kittens all seem tameable, knock wood. We even have names for all of them, if you can imagine. In the first litter we have three boys and a girl, and they are called Rupert, Otis, Harry, and Stella. The second litter has two girls and three boys, so we have Sabine, Edie, Grendel, Loki, and Thor. The obligatory cute photos are forthcoming.

Bigfootville

Note to Husband:

I am a freak; you knew that when you married me. So don't try and make me not mock the characters on a Mockumentary, because that's what they're for. Especially a mockumentary as blatant as Bigfootville.

The premise of this UK production is that Bigfoot has been stalking various and sundry small towns in Oklahoma for several years. Perhaps they were blown in by a twister, I don't know. In any event, the "investigation" takes the "researchers" throughout the southeastern part of the state as they amble through the woods at night and hear hair-raising stories of farm equipment vandalism.

Told complete with jerky camera movements ala Blair Witch Project, the investigators interview such notable pundits as Skippy Smith, featured in full combat fatigues with his high-powered rifle and numerous other people who squint valiantly as they try to read their cue cards as they relate how they "seen" the creature.

When one is faced with this type of program, and it's presented as reality, I feel that it is completely appropriate to ad-lib additional dialog. Here are some examples:

• "I seen it. It was right over ther by Roscoe's pickup, and damn if the son bitch didn't run off with the batt'ry!"

or


• "Up ther useta be Elroy's still. Been in his family back to his granddaddy's granddaddy. And this big 'ol black hairy thing just up and stole it. Stole a still. Now, that ain't right. Heirloom like that. Piecea local history. What's he gonna leave his kids now?".

I was actually ordered to be quiet when, upon seeing one of the "sightees" randomly shoot his handgun into the darkness in which he has perceived a shape, I added, "Got this gun from my granpappy, he got it off a dead Kraut in the Big War. Kilt him hisself. Take that, you still-thieving bastard!".

Too much wine with dinner? Perhaps. But let a girl have some innocent fun, for Christ's sake!

Book of the Night:
Devil's Knot: The True Story of the West Memphis Three, by Mara Leveritt.

Gone, Baby, Gone

The While Shark who lived for several months in captivity at the Monterey Bay Aquarium was released back into the ocean earlier today. Basically she was getting too big to handle, which they said would happen eventually. I'm glad for her, but the news makes me incredibly sad for some reason.

They say they might look around for another one to exhibit, but I'm not sure that's a good idea. I feel like the opportunity to study her so closely for so long and to allow the public to see her, which was a dream come true for me, was an amazing thing that may never work the same way again. I know they've learned a lot about keeping them healthy in captivity from working with her, but I also can't help but think of all of the money they made while displaying her as well. I like to think they'll still put the animals well being first, and I hope they will.

I hope she has fun in the wide, oceanic world. I'll miss her.

Another reason to love the ocean

The oceans never cease to amaze me. Just when I think I've seen all of their cool secrets, it throws me another one.

This is sooooo incredible. And yes, I know that it could be the result of some hideous chemical that we thoughtlessly poured into the ocean, but I chose to think it's some kind of amazing evolutionary thing. Please humor me and join in my awe.

Shark Migration

Here is the Today Show piece about the shark migration taking place in Florida right now (if have Mozilla the link won't work; MSN loathes Mozilla). It happens every year about this time, but for some reason this year they can see them better and they're a bit closer to shore. NBC5.com also has some great shots of them as well.

Creatures swimming under the ocean are so beautiful. Sharks, rays, turtles, seals, they all seem to have this incredible grace and sense of peace as they lope around. If I could, I think I'd have a giant wall-sized aquarium in my bedroom, so I could fall asleep each night watching the creatures of the sea. Corny I know, but there you are.

Book of the Night: With No One As Witness, by Elizabeth George.

When bad things happen to good breeds

Well, maybe not good per se, since I'm not a huge fan of Chihuahuas. But still..

This is LuAnn. As a Chihuahua/Dachsund hybrid, I refer to her as a Dachuahua. The ears; I know. They kill me, too. Although I am sure she's a lovely companion, she also looks like a refugee from a Harry Potter film. She's available for adoption through ARF, which is another great organization that helps homeless animals. We talked about going to see her, but quite frankly we both decided that we couldn't adopt something that made us collapse in hysterical laughter when we looked at it. Ruins the whole Mommy and Daddy are the Alpha Dogs idea.

Book of the Night: American Massacre: The Tragedy at Mountain Meadows, September 1857, by Sally Denton.

Oh the shark babe, has such teeth dear

Crap.

Looks like we might be nearing the end of the white shark's tenure at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. For the second time in ten days she's gnawed on another shark in the Outer Bay exhibit where she's staying. At least this one lived, so that's a plus.

While the aquarists try to maintain that it's a personal space issue (the soupfins are merely violating the white's "space", and she got all pissy about it), I think it's in indicator that she may need to be released and they're in a bit of denial. I mean she is a wild animal, so technically she belongs in the wild. Either that, or get rid of the soupfins until she IS ready to be released. From a financial standpoint (the Aquarium has realized unprecedented income since she joined them), that's the more prudent option, and I hope they consider it as an option if it means the white can stay. As long as her welfare continues to be their greatest concern, which I believe it is.

As a White shark freak from way back I'd hate to see her go, but I have always known it would be necessary at some point. She does not belong in a fish bowl, no matter how large. It's been great having the opportunity to see her (we spent a huge amount of time at the Aquarium on our wedding anniversary weekend back in October), and I hope we get to see her before she is released back into the ocean. I'm too much of a chicken to actually dive with them (my fantasy 40th birthday present to myself), so getting to see one this close up has been a dream come true.

Better

note to cat...meet note from cat

I'm contemplating a note to french bulldogs myself. I'd be interested to see what people would come up with.

Book of the Night: The Twelve Little Cakes, by Dominika Dery

Possibly the best LJ community ever

Note to cat

Need I say more?

Puppy Bowl!

Animal Planet's Puppy Bowl was perhaps the most brilliant thing I've ever seen. I stumbled upon it accidentally and was instantly hooked (the cute Frenchie has surprisingly little to do with it). The whole thing was like a three-hour canine Seinfeld episode, where basically nothing happens but it's entertaining nonetheless.

And may I just add that here is no way that Bandit was the MVP. What's up with that? The freakish little thing spent the whole time trying to hump one of the other dogs (I think it was poor Amos). Itsy the Frenchie, who had much more style and finesse, came in 4th. Poor Its!

MORE Baby Pangolin!

And there's downloadable video, too.

Book of the Night: Leaving the Saints: How I Lost the Mormons and Found My Faith (review), by Martha Nibley Beck.

Screen Cleanin'

I could watch this pretty much all day long.

I think there should be a variety of cats to choose from, however.

Perhaps we'll make some.

Book of the Night: The Last Kashmiri Rose, by Barbara Cleverly.

Freakish Creatures o' the Day

Okay, this creeps me out. It reminds me of that scene from Invasion of the Body Snatchers where the guys head and his dog's body meld, remember? Apparently there are actually two of them! Shudder...

On a more cheerful note...

BABY PANGOLIN!

Don't care how much their little heads happen to resemble artichokes, I adore pangolins.

Book of the Night: Baker Towers, by Jennifer Haigh