April 2015 – Hot Dog Cool Cats

Comments, We Got NO Comment

You know what those politicians say (through their Ivy League Blue Blood lawyer), when found dead center in the middle of a scandal of their own making, ‘We got no Comment.’ Well, neither does Momma. I will tell you why.

Great Minds Think Alike! From Morguefile.com IMG_0862_s.JPG By rosevita — Great Minds Think Alike!
From Morguefile.com
IMG_0862_s.JPG
By rosevita

No, Momma is no Einstein, just a creature of habit with a somewhat scientific, if fanciful mind, who expects today to follow tomorrow in an explicable fashion as long as:

The roof of her house has not caved in…well… recently.
Her computer system has not crashed in any foreseeable way.
No one has cast a bad spell that can only be reversed when the princess kisses the frog or is it the frog that kisses the princess. Momma is a bit muddled about that!

Pretty little Princesses, in breathtaking shades of tulle. May they never kiss a frog. From Morguefile.com mirrormirror.jp By kakisky — Pretty little Princesses, in breathtaking shades of tulle. May they never kiss a frog.
From Morguefile.com
mirrormirror.jp
By kakisky

You see, like most bloggers, Momma had a Spam Plugin so most of the comment spam did not reach her. Still, normally she would get about 25 to 30 spam daily that got past her plug-in, that she would analyse, than accept or delete if she was being enticed to buy purses or pills or adult themed paraphernalia (you hear me), which she ‘d not even know what to do with.

What happened, you may ask? Where does Comment Spam go when it does not hit a blog? Who does not want to know what their faithful followers are thinking? Should the blogger not be able to make the decision, to keep or to delete? Do Spam Plug-in firms have servers full of Spam that will one day dump a lifetime of comments on unsuspecting bloggers?

Momma does not really understand it, but a mere six months ago she would have some spam, and a lot less malicious login attempts. Now the pendulum swings – the blocked malicious logins out rank comment spam. Where is this world headed? What evil forces are trying to enter a G Rated (General Audience – Suitable for all ages) Blog which is only to provoke thought and amusement, since it is not even fact checkable?

We’d tell you send us a Comment if you have the same dilemma, but it probably will not get through. You could always try emailing Momma but, well, good luck with that – they do not seem to arrive alive either.

My own deserted island... From: Morguefile By: pedrojperez — My own deserted island… From: Morguefile By: pedrojperez

We gaze into the Stars, we watch teeny flowers push their little stalks out of the earth in spring, in essence, we see miracles daily. But this Cyber Space stuff, you just got to go figure. We have been in contact with our Spam Busting Plug-in Staff and they are the Best. Yet they are perplexed at why Momma thinks it is not working. They think we should be giving them GOLD Stars for spamming all the comments but Momma is the fretting kind. If it was working before (yup, it was, says Spam Busting Plug-in Staff), why do we no longer get any Comments?

If you have an answer Momma truly, sincerely wants to hear from you. She feels all alone on a deserted island. She misses your input.

UPDATE: So happy to report that once again Comments are flowing – well not exactly flowing but at least trickling in at a brisk pace. Don’t ask Momma to explain it. It is beyond her pay scale!

You got to have faith, faith. faith, you got to have faith!

Email: housekeeping@hotdogcoolcats.com

Whispering Hope, Whispering Inspiration

Look into this deep forest of twigs, vines, birch, maple, and cedar trees, so innocuous in one hundred shades of green. But you know and I know the secret. It is the Home of the Forest Freak. — Look into this deep forest of twigs, vines, birch, maple, and cedar trees, so innocuous in one hundred shades of green.

Hey, do ever think about the trees? They live a hundred lifetimes in comparison to a dog like me, but what respect do they get?

What ever life sends their way, they just stand there and take it, no talking back. They are not the youth of today :), or like Momma’s Aunt Malvina, who had enough tongue for ten rows of teeth. And they are not similar to me, whining, groaning, barking at the first offense.

I just don’t know what I would do, how I would react if some male dog lifted his hind leg and watered my trunk…..or dribbled on it. I would be fast and furious, like those Butterflies in South America would hear me.

Mighty Oak Tree with branches devoid of foliage, hanging in after the life storm. — Mighty Oak Tree with branches devoid of foliage, hanging in after the ice storm.

Now some trees are a freak of nature, like the oak tree whose acorns may be scattered by a wind that plants its seed in an unsuspecting, fertile flower bed. And then again, some are saplings from a greenhouse, transplanted under perfect conditions in parks, in lawns, or graveyards, where ever there is a need for a big, old tree that is going to be a home for nests, hidden among the thick leaves, that see the same birds return, year after year.

It is a Magic Kingdom for chatty squirrels who zip up tree trunks, away from barking, snarling dogs or even roaming cats that can’t find a bird or mouse to chase. That the like of Mr. Grey Squirrel and his ilk, hide among the leaves, screaming, ‘You can’t catch me,’ is an aberration and just not acceptable. I give up. I am not going to waste my breath chasing them anymore, no matter how they try to seduce me by dive bombing me, leaping over my back to the tree trunk. When I was younger, I fell for it. Now, I give them that sanctimonious stare I am famous for. More than that, I am sure I saw a Raccoons kit or was it an itty-bitty opossum, in a tree trunk hole, peeking out to see what all the fuss was about, as the squirrels were racing up the tree trunk, screaming like banshee.

Now oak trees do not sprout over night. They can be massive in height and width of branches, providing shade from the scorching summer sun. It appears to me the bigger they grow, the more likely they may be taken down by high winds from snow storms, hurricanes or, as in our case, an ice storm that left trees as brittle as bones without calcium. I swear, I covered my ears with my fluffy paws to drown out the crackling, booming noises as the branches succumbed to the weight of ice the day of the storm, and the whole week after. It is as close as I ever want to be to a war zone.

What was remaining of a mighty oak tree after the ice storm and the Arborists.

There was one tree that always intrigued me. It seemed to whisper as I walked past, ‘Hi Jakita, good to see you, caught any squirrels lately?’ I am ashamed to tell you, I ignored the tree, sailed by it, my tail in the air. And now, well it is history, Gone, Baby, Gone, because after the storm blew through, it took conservationists and arborists to decide the fate of which trees were damaged beyond salvation.

First walk after the Big Ice Storm, (it took months of clean up we were left back in the graveyard), I noticed an orange circle on the tree trunk. A few weeks later, it had been cut down. Yet the trunk still is about eight feet high, with a massive hole so little animals, birds, opossums or kit can hide away from danger. It is not a perfect solution but there is no stopping Mother Nature and the Two Footed are big on Elmo, The Safety Elephant. At least the Mighty Oak Tree can say, ‘I Lived and I laughed, Saw sunsets glow.’

Jakita considers the the life of a tree. — Jakita considers the life of a tree.

Life comes in so many odd and peculiar ways and it is our job to embrace them all.

So…. next time you see a tree, tell it how much you respect its’ contribution to society.

Trees not only whisper, they listen, they inspire. Listen closely and sometimes they even SHOUT!.

Ae Mere Nicht (One More Night)

A few years back Momma told me we were going on a trip, to the land of her forefathers, deep in the country, where forests hide fields of dreams and sometimes even black bears.

New World very similar in its breathtaking beauty - only has more trees! From Morguefile.com DSC_0053_01.jpg By Ericviel — New World very similar in its breathtaking beauty – only has more trees!
From Morguefile.com DSC_0053_01.jpg By Ericviel

I was not expecting to like it so much, being an urban suburban myself, but hey, I admit, I was smitten. The grass was so long and green, the mountains high, the ocean waves so inviting. I could sit on the top of an easy chair, taking it all in, staring out the bay window hour after hour, without blinking. It made me curious, tell me

The land our ancestors left behind. From Morguefile.com By: Macieklew — The land our ancestors left behind.
From Morguefile.com
By: Macieklew

more.

Momma’s great great grandfather’s family actually left the majestic Kintyre behind and traded it in for the beauty of another peninsula in the New World, with very similar scenic views.

Their new home hugged the bay to the south, the majestic mountains to the west, the ocean to the east and the dense woods to the north. Years earlier the settlement had been named ‘Dark Capes’ supposedly because of the massive cliffs that jutted in to the Bay. Those on board the ships from the crew to weary passengers saw the massive, menacing cliffs on shore, wave carved and shiny black, from the tides rolling in.

However there was another story (isn’t there always) about how their settlement got named. It would seem that a Captain that manned a ship from the ‘old country’ had a beautiful but wilful daughter that went to sea with him, after the death of her mother. Unfortunately kids were expected to do as they were told in that era. She refused to conform to her father’s authority. Although forbidden to befriend the crew, she fell in love with a lowly deck hand.

The Captain pleaded with her to desist, to no avail. With the fear that the rest of the crew would spot a weakness in him, the Captain felt he had no choice except to throw his beloved daughter and her lover overboard. Say What? If they reached the shore, they could live together happily ever after. The story goes that they never made land. At least, in a community where everyone knew everyone and their business to boot, no one in the new world ever claimed to meet the live version of the Captain’s daughter or her Lover.

The Captain returns to Seek the Lost From: Morguefile By: Penywise

However, it is said, even today, when the bay is calm, the ghost ship returns with the Captain, her Father, periscope in hand, searching the water and the beach beseechingly, for his daughter.

Although, Momma never saw it, she was told, when the wind whips up the white caps on the waves, the Captain’s daughter and her Lover have been spotted by the locals, walking back and forth on the sandy beach, their Dark Capes flowing behind them, as they wait for Father to have a change of mind and return. But when you look again, it is already too late. Have they melted in to the shadows to become one with the Dark Capes or have they found shelter in the cave, as they wait patiently for their ‘ship to come in’?

Wow, that is hard-core, they practised tough love to the extreme in those days, Momma! It is sadder than our Sophie Alert. No Daddy can be that heartless…can they??? Don’t tell me stories like that again, okay, Momma because I can’t handle the truth….or even old wives tales…..

The Grim Reaper Strikes Again

Is the shadowless form the Grim Reaper? From Morguefile.com street_ghosts.jpgBy hotblack — Is the shadowless form the Grim Reaper?
From Morguefile.com
street_ghosts.jpg By hot black

Even a dog like me knows the Grim Reaper is ‘for real’, on a Mission, always looking for his next victim. Yet Momma’s family would never have bet Aunt Spanish Marilyn Munroe (Buddy’s Mom) would be on the short list.

Married to Uncle WW2 Sergeant, she was as strong as an ox, and funny as any stand up comedian. More importantly not only was she a Gold * mother, sister, daughter and auntie, she also had the gift of wisdom which was especially noticeable to all those who walked down the road of Life with her.

Momma thought her auntie had the body of Marilyn Munroe but with a much more captivating face. She had shiny black hair that she always kept short, high cheek bones, sparkly brown eyes and a smile that launched ships. Aunt Spanish Marilyn Munroe was always tanned from working outside in the garden and on the farm. She could easily and with no complaint, do the work of three men on any given day. Her ability to amuse and entertain listeners with stories of what she had seen and where she had been, endeared her to everyone she met.

When Momma’s family would visit her on a Sunday afternoon, she would promise that the minute she got some time, she come up to take them berry picking. Later that week, bright and early, when they were still in bed, true to her word, she would arrive. They would all fetch a berry pail. Then the kids would pile in the back seat of her car, (again, no seat belt laws – a wonder folks made it to today), while she and Momma’s mother (Grandmama) got in the front.

Uncle Clem's turkey. From: Morguefile By; Imboo Too — Uncle Angus’ turkey. From: Morguefile By: Imboo Too

Back the unpaved road the family would hurtle, hitting every pot hole, so Aunt Spanish Marilyn Munroe could ‘test that her car springs were working.’ She would tell us the latest gossip from her neighbor hood, of how Cousin Clem was mad at Uncle Angus, whose turkeys kept chasing Cousin Clem’s bull in the pasture, so it no longer could ‘perform’. Uncle Angus snorted, ‘Don’t blame the turkeys. The bull is as useless as his owner.’

Grandmama would direct Aunt Spanish Marilyn Munroe where to stop at and suggest parking on the alley and walking in. Not Aunt Marilyn Munroe. No worries. She’d point the car to the right, and in the field. They would lurch, car and all, swooping over downed tree trunks, and small bushes, as the wildlife scattered to Save their Souls. You could hear the long grass getting caught in the under body, but Aunt Marilyn Monroe would drive till the car spun like a top and stopped. Once the pails were full to the brim with berries, she’d get out her considerable tool box, slide under the car with her handy scythe to cut the grass, and get the car running for our return home.

Uncle WW2 Sergeant refused to believe the local doctors (who knew nawthing about nawthing, according to him) when Aunt Spanish Marilyn Munroe was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He took her to The Big Smoke’s Number-One-Cancer- Hospital. Sadly the diagnosis did not change.

Strong both mentally and physically, Aunt Spanish Marilyn Munroe insisted she would go back home to pass through the portal to the other dimension, surrounded by family and friends rather than in a hospital setting. She left the earth plane as she had lived, ‘she did it her way’, accepting her fate, making everyone comfortable in her transition. Though she was mourned by all, it left her son, Buddy without an anchor, careening from one bad choice to the next. For Buddy, you could say, his ship buffeted by the waves of time, never achieved an even keel again.

That Aunt Spanish Marilyn Munroe would appear to Momma in a dream to warn her Cancer was fermenting in her body, was a further confirmation in life that we are just scratching the surface of the Mystery of the Reality.

Ruby and Charlie listen to Jakita as she tells them about Aunt Marilyn Munroe. — Ruby and Charlie listen to Jakita as she tells them about Aunt Spanish Marilyn Munroe.

As a dog, I know little about many things. However, although I did not know what my intuition was all about, I tell you, I felt the Grim Reaper’s presence the day RIP Daddy left us.

So believe me, it is out there, stalking the unprepared, meeting its’ quota to satisfy an unknown target. So be on guard because it is out there!

Like this? Also in this series: Dream Weaver Jakita Beau-Be-Gone and the Hereafter

Email: housekeeping@hotdogcoolcats.com

Those Were the Days

Those were the days, said the Baby Boomers. When Men were Men and principals (and most parents) believed in Corporal (not Capital) Punishment.

School desks. Fr:Morguefile By:Sgarton — School desks. Fr: Morguefile By: Sgarton

And by the very power invested in them, back in the 50’s and 60’s, the school principal had been assigned the duty to carry out corporal punishment by the school board, with the parents’ consent in order to make certain that the students who passed through their hands turned in to outstanding citizens, at some future date. If that was their mandate, by God some of those law-abiding, go by the Good Book principals, would comply, come hell or high water.

Enter Mr. Spare-the-Rod-and-Spoil-the-Child. Momma said they all lived in fear of him, except for a First-Cousin-Twice-Removed. Cousin, who was maybe ten years old at the time, absolutely lived to torment that poor man. The principal, after all, was only trying to fulfill what he had signed on for.

Now you could be sent to the principal’s office for a multitude of inconsequential actions as well as what side of the bed your teacher got up on. Your first office visit, Mr. Spare-the-Rod-and-Spoil-the Child counseled you, the second time, maybe a cuff in the ear to get you listening to him, but the third time through his door and if you were unfortunate enough to have been born a boy, you were guaranteed a lying on of the leather, a good strapping.

One day, Momma had the misfortune to ask for permission to use the facilities, when First-Cousin-Twice-Removed came running, no, thundering, down the hall, big grin on his face, yelling, ‘Catch me if you can’, Mr. Spare-the-Rod-and-Spoil-the-Child, in hot pursuit.

Shining floor, deserted hallways. Where do you go from here? From Morguefile.com IMG_2999.JPGBy ArielleJay — Shining floor, deserted hallways. Where do you go from here?
From Morguefile.com
IMG_2999.JPGBy ArielleJay

I swear, Cousin even slowed down so the principal could catch up with him. Mr. Spare-the-Rod-and-Spoil-the-Child, was a lot bigger and meaner than Cousin. He grabbed Cousin in his arms to take him to his office to finish his just reward. In a flash, Cousin had grabbed both ends of the principals’ tie and was strangling the poor man. As his face turned every colour in the rainbow, he tossed First-Cousin-Twice-Removed to the floor, sat on his chest, pummeling him with his fists. Once he had gained control, he dragged Cousin up the long hallway, in to his office, slammed the door and probably beat the bejeebers out of Cousin, if the wailing we heard accounted for anything.

We never knew for sure because First-Cousin-Twice-Removed never was a “kiss and tell” sort and he in no way held it against the man – just a case of, “You do your thing, and I’ll do mine”. Incidents such as these probably turn into a forgotten memory that make weaker folk end up on a shrinks’ couch. Well, at least, in today’s world, it is good for the economy.

Momma heard Mr. Spare-the-Rod-and-Spoil-the-Child meted out punishment to a son of a prominent citizen who felt they were doing a fine job of bringing up their kids, and did not need his help. The end result was Mr. Spare-the-Rod-and-Spoil-the-Child was encouraged to leave and he did, although he came back about ten years later, less punitive (maybe medicated??) but still largely feared since his snapping point was so unpredictable.

Yes, we had many principals, some wise, some well versed in child psychology and able to mentor us into what we have become today. One of them would make boys burn excess energy by running laps, rather than using straps. It was a self punish for unacceptable behavior.

Those were the days....From: Morguefile By: Seemann — Those were the days….From: Morguefile By: Seemann

Yet I tell you, First-Cousin-Twice-Removed turned out very well indeed and maybe some of it was because of the attention Mr. Spare-the-Rod-and-Spoil-the-Child gave him. And I can’t say for sure, but Momma was told the prominent citizens’ son made a complete bullocks of his life, so maybe they too could have used Mr. Spare-the-Rod-and-Spoil-the-Child’s help.

I’m no shrink, I am just saying……..who knows for sure?

Puppy Love, It Was Only Puppy Love

No I am not the Gift...I am Gifted... — No I am not the Gift…I Have ‘The Gift’…

By now you know, I am a Hot Dog with ‘The Gift‘. So one day Momma got out the photos and showed me pictures of Tammy and Teddy and their puppies. Just by looking at the pictures, I know the stories, even before Momma lays them down.

What always strikes me first, is that in many of the pictures both Teddy and especially Tammy have big grins on their faces, like the cat who swallowed the cream. Meanwhile, Momma tells me I look sanctimonious in most shots, like I feel superior to the Two Footed and definitely the Four Footed. I am and do!

To die for cute. Our ears are still making their way north. — To die for cute. Their little ears are still making their way north.

I am of two minds when it comes to puppies. I know, I know, what is not to love, still… are they cuter than me? Would I look like yesterdays leftovers if I stood beside them? Would they give me the respect a five-year old Havanese with questionable pedigree deserves? Would I be expected to share my Toys, my Momma and my Wonder Boy? If you are a Google Analytic Graph freak like Momma or just insecure like me, there is a lot to ponder.

When I saw the photos of Miss Tammy’s and Sir Teddy’s puppies, my heart stopped. They were like little fluffy munchkins from a light cream to white to bright white with black rimmed brown eyes, shoe polish black snouts and ears trying desperately to stand up straight. Then they develop those beautiful full tails that fan over their backs as they get older. I tell you, if I had been here when they were born, I would not have been able to resist them. It just makes me wonder why (okay, maybe I question, when I should listen) Momma decided to buy a Havanese instead of an American Eskimo? Oh, yes, the Havanese have the added bonus of not shedding. Phew! There are just some things in your DNA that are a blessing, although your own contribution to the cause was non-existent.

In any case, first came Angel Dog Teddy, then Tammy. Next there is Tammy with a baby carriage – not that fast. About one year, lots of vet visits, Teddy’s contribution and nature took its course. Tammy, although small, was very capable and had four puppies, in her whelping box, one day, when all the family was away at work and / or school. No one knows if Teddy contributed much to the process, but let us say this. When Daddy and Wonder Boy came home that night, Teddy was laying outside the whelping box head between his paws, looking majestically proud, his eye balls following the stumbling puppies as they found a comfortable spot and suckled their Mama.

Mama Tammy, days after her puppies were born, in Wonder Boy's Baby Basket. Even at this stage she is not looking at her sleeping puppies. — Mama Tammy, days after her puppies were born, in Wonder Boy’s Baby Basket. Even at this stage she is not looking at her sleeping puppies.

Within a short while, four very distinct personalities developed and the puppies were named according to what they brought to the table. There was Lucky-Plucky, always happy and involved in whatever mischief he could find. A good day was when he could get his siblings to join him. Casper the Friendly Ghost was the runt of the litter. He had all Teddy’s good looks, with Tammy’s petiteness. Casper went to the family of Momma’s Sister-Who-Taught-Her-Most-the Things-She-Knows. Though small, he was fierce and felt every bit as big as a Dalmatian or a German Shepherd and was quick to get the upper hand (but not bite it).The only female was Ba-Ba-White-Sheep, so named because she followed her Mama Tammy every where she went who followed Momma everywhere she went. Tammy was always ready to jump in and help out with women’s work, while Teddy, laid in the corner, ignoring that work existed and staying as far as possible from any involvement. Finally came Woolly Bully, a Gentle Giant of a puppy who resembled a Ram without the horns. At birth he was twice as big as Casper. His light cream fur was thick and luxuriant. RIP Daddy was his chosen Master. It was heart wrenching for Daddy when Woolly Bully left for his Forever Home.

Once they had all found their new family, a meeting was called in order (blame Momma and her need to analyse past data scientifically, to move forward). Momma, RIP Daddy and Wonder Boy sat around the kitchen table, Angel Dog Teddy at Momma’s side, Tammy between Wonder Boy and RIP Daddy. The family cats sat up straight, a couple of feet back, following the conversation carefully.

Momma said no more puppies, look how tired and skinny Tammy was. Daddy, said, ‘please’, then he looked in Tammy’s weary eyes. She had been a good Mama to new-born puppies but when they found their sea legs, they exhausted her, like her male siblings had so many years ago. Teddy had stepped up and set them straight when and if it was the right day, the right time and if he felt like it. Other times they just were not on his horizon. He ignored them. Also Momma could not sleep at night, worrying that the new families would not be able to give Tammy’s puppies the home they deserved.

Once the puppies were older and being fed kibble, come afternoon Tammy would go nap with Angel Dog Teddy on their large pillow. The Family Cats would take over… grooming and cuddling up with the puppies in the dog cages. They all would fall to sleep in a state of bliss, where all mankind recognized the goodwill created in steadfast homes. If only, I could have, I would have, helped Tammy with those precious little balls of fluff. Could poor Tammy have suffered with those postpartum blues some Mom’s get? I’d better investigate if that is possible!

Daddy with his four puppies, Teddy watching RIP Daddy in case he drops one, Mama Tammy in rear (looking the other way, again!)

And so it was decided, so it was written, read my lips, ‘no more puppies’. It was off to the vet for both Angel Dog Teddy and Miss Tammy, to remove their baby making apparatus. Now Tammy could look forward to a life of leisure.

So many asked Momma was Tammy upset when her last puppy left. No, no, no. To paraphrase the Great Martin Luther King, Jr., Tammy seemed to be expressing, ‘Free at last, Free at last. Thank God Almighty, free at last!’

Till the Cows Come Home

See Diva Gen willing Jakita to wake up. It appears Ruby and Tigger are asleep, as well.

No, no, say it’s not so, it can not be morning already! Didn’t I just fall asleep? Waking up is hard to do. Momma, please turn off the bedside lamp. Gen, stop being so positively Unbreakable Kimmy, even if we girls are as tough as h…ll.…I can not take a cheer leading Rah! Rah! Never Say Die Attitude in the morning. I am grumpy. Let your Leader Sleep. No fair, no grooming me. You know how I like that stuff. Between you and Momma, it is hard for a dog to get the rest she deserves. I drift back to sleep remembering my dream so like a story Momma told me.

Now Momma really did not live on a farm when she was a kid. I mean, can you count some hens, a couple of cows and a pig (sometimes), a farm? The hens were just a nuisance, although, Momma could abide them when they were peeping chicks or they laid an egg in the nest for her to find.

But what is it about cows? Momma could not connect with them. Even when she tried to bribe them with fresh clover as a treat, they would chew their cud and flick their tails in disdain, at her feeble attempts to nurture them. Getting them to move was like dancing with a Douglas Fir Tree. They went when and where they wanted, at their own pace. And so behind their backs Momma called our two cows, Bossy and Pansy, Dim and Dimmer.

Maybe it was Momma. Maybe they saw her sitting on the fence, admiring the neighbors’ sheep and horses who contributed nothing to her well-being. The cows felt under appreciated. They gave their milk, from which came cream, yummy homemade ice cream, and butter. In return, Momma gave them attitude. However, no matter how many times Momma looked in their eyes, set so far apart, they always appeared devoid of any emotion, unreachable by human contact.

Momma would sit on the fence, mezmerised by the horses grazing in tandem. — Momma would sit on the fence, mesmerized by the horses grazing in the grass, (such a gas) in tandem.

Another thing, it seemed nigh to impossible to keep those two cows in a paddock. They lived for the Great Escape to Greener Pastures. Or maybe Grandpapa bought the wrong color cow lick…if it was a blue; they went in search of a pink cow lick…or was it the other way around? Whatever it was, Momma could not tell you how many times she and her Sister would go out to the field, to take them back to the Halfway Brook for water and they’d be, like Gone. Baby. Gone!

Now, they were big, they were clumsy, how they got the fence knocked down and plodded down the long gateway, without anyone noticing, is still a mystery. But they would be off, roaming across the two lane highway, with cars, swerving to the left, to the right, to the centre, to avoid them. I mean, who wanted to tango with a full-grown cow. Imagine the damage to the car, not even taking into consideration that it might be the driver’s unplanned ticket to the Pearly Gates. When Bossy and Pansy turned into Runaways, bent on a Suicide Mission, Momma’s family would invariably hear car horns, and someone yelling, “Sacre Bleu, Tabernac”, so they would head in that direction to round them up and bring them home, dragging their tails behind them. On other occasions, the cows went to the woods, ending up catching their horns on the thickets. Their continuous ‘Moo’ was a great GPS locator. More often than not, they took the back road to the alley and plodded on, stopping for an occasional feed of grass, to sustain them along the way.

Momma says this is the one of the days Pansy (middle front) and Daisy ran away, taking the neighbor's cows with them. From Morguefile.com DSCF9355.JPGBy milza abc03.jpgBy inkogutto — Momma says this is the one of the days Bossy (middle front) and Pansy (right) ran away, taking the neighbor’s cow with them. **Dim and Dimmer’s Great Escape.**
From Morguefile.com
DSCF9355.JPGBy milza
abc03.jpgBy inkogutto

The only thing Momma liked about cows was the possibility of a calf. Now Bossy was a good-looking orange brown cow but all the years of battling to load her in the truck, getting her in to the Bull’s pasture, was just for naught. She was just so ornery that no bull, even on Viagra, was getting close to her. Pansy was smaller, more even-tempered, a black and white cow with pansy shaped splotches. She stepped smartly in to the truck, let the bull do his thing, once she was in his field and came back with calf.

At Pansy’s first twinge of labor pain, instead of going back to the barn, she managed to jump a fence and took off, deep into the forest. She had not been anticipating the kind of pain that this particular birthing caused. Once Momma’s family saw she was missing, the search was on. Poor Pansy was too weak to moo. After two days of searching, she was located, laying down in a clearing, dwarfed by massive trees, chewing her cud, a set of twin calves, one moving around on unsteady legs, the other no longer living, by her side.

It was quite the ordeal to get Pansy back to the barn and interested enough to let her calf, Willie, suckle. Since the Local Farmer‘s Bull who serviced the neighbor hood cows, was getting up there in years, Willie was sold to the Farmer once he was old enough, to continue the ‘family’ business. Also, it was decided that Pansy would be retired – no more trysts with the Bull. Pansy had more than earned her keep.

One day Momma’s parents decided to just give up the farm. There would be no more melt in your mouth, egg yellow, rich homemade to-die-for ice cream. That ended the day the hens, the (sometimes) pig, along with Bossy and Pansy were put out to pasture, to live happily ever after in the green field at the Local Farmers’ homestead.

Born to annoy, nip at your heels, herd... honestly.... — Born to annoy, nip at your heels, herd… honestly….

You know, I could have herded those cows for Momma. I got a way with cows (and hens). Like Lady Ga Ga, I was born that way! I long to get back to my roots to visit an Animal Farm and outfox all those in subordinates. I’m game, as long as it is not before nine o’clock in the morning!

Pretty Little Earrings

As you know by now, I am the Diva Calico Gen. I have a great appreciation for all that glitter and glow. That is why Jakita kindly let me tell this story. It is the truth, nothing but the truth so help me Hannah.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, (oh, you heard that one already?), Momma had very smart niece, named Lovie, with a mouth that flowed, like a river, to the vast oceans, taking everything in its path. Lovie knew it was her cross to bear. That is why to this date Momma says, ‘As Lovie would say, I have got to learn to keep my BIG, FAT mouth shut.’ Don’t we all?

So listen up as I show you point and case. RIP Daddy’s sister was visiting with her son, at the same time as Lovie. The son in question was a virtual Jack in the Box (before kids were prescribed mood stabilizers), jumping on and off the couch, flapping his arms, crowing, throwing cushions on the floor – just creating general mayhem. Lovie was maybe four years old. She looked at Momma’s sister-in-law and said, ‘If I had a kid like that I would not take him anywhere.’ She told it as she saw it. Yet still she was a bit of a manipulator, she never missed a chance to strategize ways for her own will to be done.

When Lovie was 3 years old, she wanted pierced ears.

Lovie's Gold and glittery hoops. — Lovie’s Gold and glittery hoops. From Morguefile.com **DSCF9355.JPG**By **milza**

All her French cousins and girl friends had pretty little earrings but English Protestants were told that if God wanted holes in ears to stuff glittery earrings in, they would have been born that way. Lovie’s Papa was French Catholic, she was baptized at his church. She deserved pierced earrings as much as the next little French Catholic girl did, even if she was only half and half.

Well, you know parents – they have places to go, things to do. They largely ignored her pleadings. That is why Lovie lamented daily to her grandparents, her Momma’s Mother and Father, who thought that anything Lovie wanted was what she should receive, no questions asked. One day, after lots of Lovie’s complaining and cajoling to see if her grandparents would bite, Momma’s father came up with a sure-fire plan.

‘Just wait a second Lovie, I will go get the hammer, you go get those pierced earrings of yours that you got last Christmas…. I’ll tell Grandmama to hold you down, because I know you are going to be hollering and carrying on something fierce, then I will hammer those suckers in your ears. Done and done’ Now Lovie knew when she was being teased so she left in a huff (the Lovie-Boom-Booms) and said not another word to her grandparents about pierced ears but she indignantly told her mother about Grandpapa’s plan.

After hearing Grandpapa’s creative solution to the dilemma, it was somehow decided to set up an appointment at the one and only jewelry store in town, so as to ensure

Lovie’s nightmares of being chased by a hammer wheeling Grandpapa would cease. A plan was made and executed to get Lovie’s ears pierced by those who actually knew how to pierce ears (without a hammer).

That is how, Lovie told us, she got those shiny, golden hoops, that wink and shine in the sun, in her ears, like all of the pretty little French girls. Ah, yes, Lovie may seem to live a charmed life but she had her battles, along with the glory. It is a long story but there was a lot of laughter along the way.

Our beautiful blue eyed blond that had the boy hearts a-twitter. Although she looks like an angel, she always outwitted us. Although she looks well here and cognitive, she had just gone through six months of radiation for a brain tumor. — A beautiful blue-eyed blond that had the boy hearts a-twitter.

Now, I am just a feral cat, from humble beginnings (even if I am the Diva Calico Gen). You know, (big sigh), I would love to have teeny tiny pierced earrings to go with my pink petal eyelashes and peak toe kitten sling-back-heels. How can we achieve this? Lovie would find a way. Any suggestions, good and faithful readers?

Email: housekeeping@gmail.com OR

The Wanderer, I Wander Round & Round & Round

Since I came to live with Momma, I pretty much have lived the Life of Riley, with an abundance of love, food and walks…and baskets full of toys. I am indulged but I am useful.

Here I am Frou-Frou Jakita, freshly groomed, a pink bow on top of my head, a jaunty scarf and my signature toy beside me.

How so, you may ask? I drive off the squirrels, raccoon, I have even chased bats. The truth is, wild life is awe-inspiring, yet you can never be sure what their reaction may be depending on how hungry they are, if they are protecting their young ones or the herd, in general. And the funny thing is the Two Footed who lived among them kind of turn out the same. Just ask tell-all Momma. Point and case: The Wanderer.

There is always colourful individuals that do not seem to fit the boundaries imposed upon them, by etiquette most of the Two Footed subconsciously, like breathing, abide by. One of Grandpapa’s first cousins was a rare individual who was bitten by the wander lust bug. He was a big, burly man, with a cheerful disposition, who kept the youngsters entertained by frequently sprinkling his conversations with cuss words that they would have loved to say but could not only because of double standards dictatated by their religious upbringing…and of course, goes without saying, by the fear of their parents, at that time.

The Wanderer fell in love with the Indigenous way of life and lived for months at a time in the most Northern parts of Canada. He was a survivalist before it became in fashion, embracing the Kyoto Accord, long before it existed. He believed one must fish, hunt and trap to sustain life and carry forward no carbon footprint. Everyone envied his fine leather coats, fashioned by his Inuit companions, beaded in a bright colors, with special detail to show the character of the wearer. There were sacred eagles, wings spread out to show their vibrant plumage, and exquisite sun sets that would make a body think it had reached Nirvana. Like Joseph’s Coat of Many Colors, the beading bewitched them, while the numerous leather tassels reminded them that there was a different life beyond their own limited horizons.

That would be the Wanderer, holding a can to feed the black bear. See Photo -developed August 1961. — That would be the Wanderer, holding a can to feed the black bear. See Photo developed August 1961.

Usually once a year The Wanderer, who never owned a car, would take various trains and buses in order to come back to see his family still residing in our part of the world. He always made it a habit to stop at Momma’s place where Grandmamma would give him a free haircut. They would catch up on the things he had seen. There were photos of him feeding a black bear, as well as a grazing in the grass moose, who was more interested in eating, than worrying about a human and a den of wolves, hunkering down for the long game. They seemed to glare at the camera, with a silent but well communicated message to ‘back off.’

Wow, wolves. From Morguefile.com 111751225913.jpg By dyet — Wow, wolves.
From Morguefile.com
111751225913.jpg
By dyet

The conditions in which the Wanderer lived were not conducive to family life so his wife, we will call, Live-for-Today and her offspring did not accompany him on his escapades. They only saw him when he came home to visit. Now Live-for-Today also did not fit the mould of the early 1960’s wife. She was small in stature but still good-looking so you could easily see how she would appeal to the opposite sex. Even so, with her ability to carry a lively conversation with anyone, she could also get along with the woman folk. However, what set her apart was she championed her own set of unwritten rules to ‘live for today because tomorrow may never come.’ She was a story in her own right which we may visit another day. The old folks said, she couldn’t help herself, you know, because she was from ‘down the bay’. That is how they roll ‘down the bay.’

Now The Wanderer, as he aged, missed the comforts of home. It brought on the need to develop his spirituality, make it right with the Lord before he entered the Pearly Gates. He returned to the comfort of his four-poster bed and started going to the local Evangelical Church that he had been brought up in. Oh, there is so much more I could tell and I pinkie promise, I will be back.

The town folk still miss The Wanderer and talk about how with his travels, like National Geographic, he brought them to another world outside their limited realm of existence. He was an untitled diplomat and ambassador, far ahead of his time, able to live under any condition, blending with the culture or situation at hand.

In their hearts they all long to be as strong and as original, taking up the torch where he left off. But you know the adage that time waits for no man. It is said that our egg-timer is set in the Book of Life up yonder, a mystery, but a reality. The Wanderer would be buried where he was born, not in the land of the midnight sun, but far away from the First Nation’s beating drums as the wolves howled. The Wanderer would wander no longer. Praise God Almighty, free at last!

All things being equal, I don’t want to hang out with the wild life just south of the Arctic Ocean. No, I am the four-poster bed, don’t surprise me, live by Policies and Procedures for All Creation type.

Still, it would have been cool to be able go just once on a journey of an unknown destination with The Wanderer.

Like this? Also in this series: Those Were the Days Jakita Recalls Jack Jack

Email: housekeeping@hotdogcoolcats.com

Beau-Be-Gone and the Hereafter

I don’t understand about the Hereafter because I am Beau-Be-Gone, not the Brainiac Bad Boy Andy-Long-Legs. One minute I was moseying along, the next I was deathly sick, not the garden variety $300.00 at the vet to fix all your troubles, no I was the thousands of dollars at the vet and no guarantees on recuperation type of sick. Not a good scene!

Look, it is all. And I am keeping my eye on you now that I have been taught the Golden Rule - Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Why didn't Momma teach me that so that I would not have lived by the Law of the Jungle. — **Beau-Be-Gone** is keeping his eye on the earth plane, now that he has been taught the Golden Rule – Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

The last thing I remember Momma is stroking me, then boom, I catapulted through space to heaven, landing in RIP Daddy’s arms as if we had practiced in advance. Winding around Daddy’s legs were all the cats I had lived with through the years.

I always (well, sometimes) wondered where they had gone….. but would never have believed it if I had not seen it with own two eyes. There was the once psychotic Cat Mandu, friendly and welcoming. Gee, would I change that much? Also there to greet me was, our feral cat Casey, who like Humpty-Dumpty (and me) could never be put together again, and look, shy little Cat Mao, with her Raccoon Friend. Well, I be!

You probably are wondering about the passage from this world to the next. It makes me want to share a story Momma told me about she was growing up in country in the 1950’s – just don’t tell Jakita I told you. She thinks that the privilege to share the Mystery of the Reality belongs to her solely. But hey, I am in heaven, she can not jump on my back and chew my ears now.

It came to pass, in Momma’s small town that a father left his family behind and the Single-Mother (unheard of in the 1950’s), had to find a home for herself and four children. She heard there was a three bedroom bungalow, close to the beach that stood empty. No one had lived in it since the end of the Second World War.

Made of white clapboard, with a black thatched roof, the house made you think of a cottage that may have been found nestled in any New England town on the Eastern Seaboard. You could watch the sun rise and set, painting the water in magnificent hues, different colours, every day. As storms came in, you could see the waves turn menacing, watch the ice floes in the winter, or marvel at the shadows the full moon blanketed the water with, on a moonlit night.

Life is a beach party.... — Life is a beach party….

It was a location city folks would have given their eye teeth to own. How could any one have left this Paradise behind? The challenge was to locate the owners, to see if it could be rented.

The owners were found and a deal was worked out. The family moved in, a new segment of life to begin. The youngest child, Little Lilly, was still taking daily afternoon naps. One day, after a nap, she asked her mother, ‘Can you see the Soldier Boy in the room with us?’ Single-Mom looked around and saw nothing. ‘Not over there, sitting crossed leg at the foot of my bed. He seems confused about why I am in his bedroom, although he never talks to me’, her young daughter explained.

Single Mom thought maybe she should find out more about this family who had rented them what she thought was a God sent home. She established that the couple had only one son that went off her World War Two but never came home. The room her youngest daughter slept in, was Soldier Boy’s bedroom. It was whispered that after his death, he started making visitations to his parents, in their home on the beach, according to the old-timers, who claimed they had been sworn to secrecy.

Totally appalled and with total disbelief that the dead would appear (even if it was their son), the parents had abandoned the only home they had ever lived in as a family. But those in ‘the know’ said, ‘don’t tell anyone but’ even after the parents had moved, Soldier Boy still found them at their new home, appearing to them until such time as his parents joined him in Paradise…. Kids, eh????

Single-Mom decided that it was probably better to move her family on. She had no way of knowing the long-term effect this could have on her youngest daughter and the older children longed to have eyes to see (but they didn’t). Meanwhile the owners, without being told, intuitively knew what had driven the family from their former home. They felt they had no choice but to have their bungalow pulled down, clapboard by clapboard, then two by four by two by four, so as to prevent other families from being exposed to the unknown, that they themselves struggled to put their heads around.

But still, it was said that their son’s apparition could be seen by some of the locals, (not sure if there was some sippy juice consumed before the sightings) on Moon lit nights, a lone figure, with a bayonet, sitting on the rocks, as the waves crashed on the shore. It seemed our Soldier Boy was looking out toward the bay, wiling away the time until he could join his parents, extended family and friends in the hereafter.

Crashing waves. From Morguefile By: Pellini — Crashing waves.
From Morguefile
By: Pellini

We have it (on very good authority), that since his parents passed on to their glory, no one has seen him sitting on the rock, looking out at the bay, or anywhere else in Momma’s little town. They all believed he has crossed over into the light, with his parents to his greater reward.

What we know for sure, is the waves still crash on the cliffs and the tide still goes in and out, without him.

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