November 2015 – Hot Dog Cool Cats

All I Have To Do Is Dream, Dream, Dream

So Momma and I, we have lots in common but in some areas we are stone cold different – like, a big one, her pursuit of the unknown, seeking answers, like she is doing a scientific study that is going to end up winning a Nobel Peace Prize. Get over it Momma. Roll with the punches.

You can see a lot of strange things sleeping with 1 eye open.

For instance, I will be sitting in the living room, catching forty winks and RIP Daddy comes sauntering in and kindly, but firmly tells me to get out of his chair. I mean, I love you, RIP Daddy, but the rules have changed. Momma and I share that chair now. I do a low growl to protest, Momma comes running to make sure I am not manhandling the tattle tale, Diva Calico Gen, but there is no one or thing Momma can see so she asks me what’s the problem?

Oh yeah, Momma does not share that X-ray eye vision so can not see RIP Daddy in Real Time. What’s with that? I mean RIP Daddy hangs around a lot, in the sun porch, out in the backyard and he is often in his bedroom, watching TV, switching from CNN to Fox to MSNBC and just like when he was with us, he is lulled in to dream land by the opinionated talking heads. Sometime when I see him there, I whimper for Momma to put me on the bed beside him and I take a nap alongside him.

Hooded ghost angels. From Morguefile.com IMG_0796_xe.JPGBy ardelfin — Hooded ghost angels.
From Morguefile.com
IMG_0796_xe.JPGBy ardelfin

And it is not only me. The cats see RIP Daddy too. The Two Footed feel his presence, but that is where it ends. Momma says the organist from her church told her that as soon as he heard RIP Daddy died, he got a prompt from sources unknown, that there was a certain hymn that had to be played to make the funeral official. The amazing part was that the organist and RIP Daddy had never talked to each other before in their life. Their relationship was based on seeing each other at church dinners since RIP Daddy was not much of a church-going type. Go figure.

But not Momma. Oh, she tries. She talks to him as she works. He remains silent and distant, like an iceberg on a distant shore. No, for Momma, RIP Daddy only comes alive in her dreams. The funny thing is, Momma will drift off one night and meet up with a twenty-some RIP Daddy….and you guessed…she is that age group, as well. They will talk about things, long ago forgotten leaving Momma waking up, believing that the here and now is really the days long gone.

The dreams Momma like the most is RIP Daddy stepping in to today’s reality, discussing what the heck is happening in the Middle East, isn’t the neighbor’s baby a doll and how many did you say were coming for Christmas dinner? Momma says there is an ebb and flow to those conversations that you can step in and out with ease. Those were the days, oh yes, those were the days.

Still, Momma, being a woman and all, never satisfied with what she’s got, wants the threshold that I have, being able to see RIP Daddy in physical form, while she is in a conscious state. I don’t see it happening any time soon.

When you don scientific spectacles, you can miss the ethereal reality that there just some things that are inexplicable. I know one sure thing. If I get to Heaven before Momma, I am not going to willingly let another doggy share RIP Daddy’s chair with her. I got a plan. Just wait till you hear it.

Squirrels-Just-Wanna-Have-Fun

Look at those bushy tails. those ringed Martian Eyes, and those little paws, clutching there treasures. Darn, they are cute. I just wish they were not so squirrely. — Look at those bushy tails. those ringed Martian Eyes, and those little paws, clutching their treasures. Darn, they are cute. I just wish they were not so squirrely.

You remember. When RIP Daddy still was alive, one day he went to the Shed Room and there was Mama Squirrel, bold as brass, rescuing her Baby Black Squirrel. (AKA, L’il Rascal). Momma said they thought that Mama and Poppa Squirrel had things under control, but never kid a kidder. It seems this era of Squirrels-Just-Wanna-Have-Fun are part of the Millennium Generation, whose sense of entitlement is as large as the universe and as guaranteed as death and taxes. How would you know this, you ask? Well, we are so glad you took the time to ask (or did you)?

The next few days in the shed room were uneventful. Then all hell broke loose. Wonder Boy heard the shrill shriek of a squirrel, as he toasted his bagel in the kitchen. He opened the kitchen door and called, ‘Squirrel, shut up, already.’ There was total silence. He closed the door, went back to the toaster and then he heard it, again, more plaintive than demanding, this time. It was unmistakable hysterical sobbing, that would make anyone with an ounce of compassion ask, ‘What can I do?’

Gingerly, Wonder Boy and Momma stepped into the Shed Room and started looking around to see where the crying came from. It was not on the floor, not on the ceiling rafters, no, it seemed to be half way up the wall. Wonder Boy pointed. There was a plastic bag, stuffed with more plastic bags, hanging on a hook and from the way it was moving, it was either possessed by the Holy Spirit or had unexpectedly became the home of a squirrel who did not listen to authority figures when warned of the perils of unknown danger lurking outside the perimeters of the home base.

Wonder Boy, being a strategist, put on gloves, grabbed a broom and carefully lifted the bag off the hook. Momma’s job was to open the back door in order to release the captured prey in the back yard. Of course as Momma pushed the door open, it got caught on the carpet on the floor, which made Wonder Boy anxious and added traitorous seconds to a job that should have been swift, accurate and finished before it started. So, like the young Mr. Trudeau, Momma is just not ready yet (Canadian will get the meaning) to join the Green Beret, the CIA or JSOC.

However finally the door was opened, Wonder Boy manoeuvred the bags in a bag on a broom handle out the door and set it down on the back yard. Now from the shrieks we had heard, we expected it was Mr. Grey or Mrs. Black Grey Squirrel.

L'il Rascal using his well developed paws, like tiny hands, to eat. Black Squirrel.jpg From Morguefile.com By AcrylicArtist — L’il Rascal using his human like tiny hands, to eat. Black Squirrel.jpg
From Morguefile.com
By Acrylic Artist

No, out hopped L’il Rascal Squirrel, going like the proverbial Road Runner, somehow managing to find a pile of slabs and rocks that he squeezed his body through, then peeked out with a grin on his face, at the family cats, prowling around, sniffing disdainfully, tails in the air, obviously recognizing bad behavior when they saw it. Not that the cats ever seemed to attack squirrels but without the protection of Momma and Poppa, it can be a cold, hard, cruel world.

Mission accomplished. Wonder Boy and Momma went inside and worried. Would Momma Squirrel rescue him again or was L’il Rascal more trouble then he was worth?

They need not have been concerned. Next morning when they stepped in to the shed room, they were greeted with the purrs and coos of L’il Rascal, who hid behind the recycling bins, but with Wonder Boy’s encouragement (purring back, saying. “Hey, Little Buddy”) he would stick his head out and make eye contact. Apparently yesterday’s liberation from the plastic bag with bags inside was a bonding experience and the family had earned his trust.

Again the next morning L’il Rascal was back. This time he brought his grey sibling, L’il Scallywag. The L’il Rascal had to show off how tight he was with the family, as he would actually come out every time Wonder Boy called him.

L'il Scallywag has found a lookout to sit and stare with his beady little eyes. From Morguefile.com 080.JPGBy binks — L’il Scallywag has found a lookout to sit and stare with his beady little eyes. From Morguefile.com
080.JPGBy binks

However L’il Scalawag, with generations of caution bred in his DNA, kept hidden and purred and cooed only. Okay, okay, Momma likes wild life but is more her mother’s daughter in that she does not want them running over her feet when she stepped in to the shed room and never in the house. She imagines fleas on every surface, scratching as if she had a combination of chicken pox and measles. Her way or the high way, our Momma.

I have got to say, it is a good job this family of squirrels did not come around in my day. I would have put the boots to them. I can be so annoying that it can be a curse and a blessing. And I don’t care how cute you are with your beady little eyes and bushy tails, you are not living in my Kingdom come.

Daddy's Zanny with Tigger (who often deserved a sharp shaking). I know I know, she was to die for pretty - but like the Tin man- 'If she only had a brain'. — Daddy’s Zanny with Tigger (who often deserved a sharp shaking).
I know I know, she was to die for pretty – but like the Tin man- ‘If she only had a brain.’

However, in those long ago days it was Zanny territory. Her attitude was ‘If you can’t beat them, join them.’ You can’t encourage these types especially because well, because L’il Rascal was a rascal (as was Zanny). So stay tuned.

Not In Mr. Roger’s Neighbor Hood

Got my colorful kerchief around my neck, CHECK, got my leash and collar, CHECK, got my Momma, CHECK. Let's do it!! — Got my colorful kerchief around my neck, CHECK, got my leash and collar, CHECK, got my Momma, CHECK. Walk on!

Now I have been told everyone has a talent and well, I am Jakita, so I have plenty. I can be sociable, a BFF, or even an at your command Robodog, always ready for whatever action is required at any given moment. If it sounds frightfully demanding to keep all those balls in the air at one time, deciphering what I should do when, well, I am the Ultimate Earth Dog, remember:

One of my tried and true skills (which I have been told many dogs share) is that I can tell time. I know to the minute when it is walk time and should Momma find herself busy doing something else, I don’t let her get way with it. I speak right up, I register a complaint. I run back and forth from her to the door until I am dizzy. You’ll be happy to know it works. Momma puts aside her project, grudgingly it seems to me, all the while talking about art of compromising but I don’t listen. It is all good…. I got my way.

We saunter on our walk, along the path, passing big ole trees, whispering hope, whispering inspiration.

In the park we meet up with all sorts of Two Legged on the way from loving dog owners to the visually impaired soul that is guided with not one but two Caregivers, one on each side of him. Sometimes he takes off on them. He is very fleet of foot although he probably has no clue where he is headed…. do any of us really know what time it is? Now when I dart off, I stop and let Momma catch up with me….the things you do for love.

Street view and corner lot that sees a lot of action with back side of monument showing.

On our way home we pass a small flower parkette, that has a Memorial to honor those who lost their lives in Hurricane Hazel. Insignificant as it is, that little strip sees lots of shenanigans.

Sometimes the Ladies of the Night hang there, waiting for, well, maybe a ride home, while the police sit in their cars, in the parking lot not two hundred feet away watching, waiting for the next catastrophe to send them, sirens blaring, on duty.

Other times we may see a bicycle, propelled at maximum speed, whizzing past Momma and I on the sidewalk, no less, approaching a customer sitting on the little brick wall across from the parkette. Faster than the eye can see, hands press together, an exchange completed. The biker, like a mirage disappears, the customer casually, stands up, hops the wall and Momma and I are left thinking, ‘Did we imagine that?’

Telling the team what I see on my walks. Jakita recounts her tail, head resting on Tigger while Ruby, Charlie and Gen listen eagerly.

So my dear Watsons, it is a marvelous place to live because it stretches your mind, forcing a body to have its senses sharpened because otherwise you might miss something…and that is the whole idea….you don’t want to miss anything.

Just today Momma was reading that Alzheimer’s is more likely to strike an idle body and mind. Momma and I do not have to worry about that because we are a tad too nosy for that to happen….

Fiddle When I Can, Work When I Should

To quote, Charles Dickens, (and who doesn’t ☺), ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.’ There were plenty of people in the small community who lived in fear, after realizing Misfit Molly’s Journals and Ledgers outlasted her. Did she, could she, have something about…. them? After all, truth be known, everyone has secrets that they do not want to see the light of day. This place was a hotbed of the inappropriate and unfortunate.

Follow the path, turn to your right, walk 100 feet, take a sharp left...in to the unknown. — Follow the path, turn to your right, walk 100 feet, take a sharp left…in to the unknown.

Remember all those years ago Miss-I-Never-Did-Anything-Wrong-In-My-Life left town in a hurry? You know there were rumors….like she left pudgy and came back thin. Now, she was all legitimate, married to Mr. Investment Banker. Suppose he knew about it? Suppose it was foreseen and recorded accordingly in Misfit Molly’s journal? Shame. Shame. Double Shame!

And did you hear about the time, years ago, when the flag was removed from the local high school, then lit on fire? Boyhood hi-jinx or treason, do you think? The police were perplexed. No charges were laid. Still, the talk was it was the captain of the team, who now happens to be….. our sanctimonious, law-abiding Mayor. Do you suppose the Secret Scryers Society had been able to solve that mystery, even if the local police couldn’t?

What about the Fancy-Pants-Family, whose kids were too good to go to the local schools? Nah, they were sent to private schools where they lived on campus. Where did the parents get all their flashy money? Were they part of an organized crime family? Or maybe they were part of Witness Protection Services, buried so deep in the woods, even the bad guys would not find them? … Betcha the Secret Scryers Society could tell us the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

A distorted reflection of what we were, what we are and what we will be. From Morguefile.com p_mirr14_01a.jpgBy pschubert — A distorted reflection of what we were, what we are and what we will be, so help us God.
From Morguefile.com
p_mirr14_01a.jpgBy pschubert

Ah, but the locals knew. Without a doubt that magic pond, with its smooth surface, shaded by the century old fir trees held secrets that only could be revealed to those with The Gift. And how delightfully rich it was to find out that Misfit Molly had found her road to infamy and was able to get the attention in death, never bestowed upon her in life.

It was time to read those ledgers….but there is always someone taking the very joy out of your living. It seemed the Secret Scryers Society was taking the town to court, trying to get an injunction in place to deny the town folk the right to read the Journals….something about a person’s right to privacy in life, in death, in death after life. But never Kid a Kidder. Everyone knew that the Secret Scryers Society did not give a fiddle about Misfit Molly. No, they were all about the cause. A lot of folks started to realize, it would be a long, protracted, bitter battle, with lots of scrying along the way, before the proof was in the pudding.

All we can do is....Look at the past, dwell in the present and hope for a future — Look to the past, live in the present and hope for a future.

But, hey, biding their time is a specialty in a one horse town. Sooner or later, Pandora’s Box would open. The good and the bad would hover over them to free the innocent and to smother the guilty. It was worth the wait, even if it took till Kingdom come!

Rock-A-My-Soul, Oh, Rock-A-My-Soul

Happy days were here again...... — **Happy days were here again……**

So, who says trees don’t have a souls? Probably that same malcontent who said trees had no hearts either. But what do those folks know?

Who knew that an average size tree provides enough oxygen to keep a family of four breathing for a year? So my question to you, the Scurrying-Two-Footed, is…what have you done lately for mankind?

Yes, you Scurrying-Two-Footed walk by us, minds fixed on your petty little lives, like what kind of breakfast sandwich to buy or where to vacation to get the most bang for the buck. Yet, here we stand, steadfast deciduous trees, that mark the seasons, starting with the tiny green buds in the spring, to thick green leaves that provide shade and cooling down, in the summer, not only for the living but the Lived In Homes, when planted strategically. In the autumn our leaves turn a sea of bronze, gold and blazing red, before falling to the ground to compost the earth.

Shivering, stripped bare of protection but we will survive...spring cometh. — Shivering, stripped bare of protection but we will survive…spring cometh.

Then our bare bones of branches hibernate, waiting for the coming promise of spring. And we are always there for the wildlife, be it raucous squirrels, the sad possums, the stealthy raccoons, or the birds with feathers, fine, fair or foul. Even the deer may nibble at us, from time to time.

Our most amazing, sought-after gift is that we contribute a long life to the landscape. Still, every living thing has foes, even sturdy, strong trees with thick trunks and long roots that snake down to China and back. Our enemies are storms, with hurricane or cyclone winds, or ice storms, all which snap us down like we are match sticks. Sometimes part of us are salvageable – sometimes not so much.

A trunk may be left for the wildlife but poor little birds, returning after a long winter may find, not only their nests they have used year after year gone, but the very branches that held them. We hear some twittering then – like they blame us because we did not prevent the destruction. We tell them, ‘Talk to God…and get insurance.’ But do they listen to us? No, they are bird brains.

What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder...Our d-i-v-o-r-c-e becomes final today... — **What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder…Our d-i-v-o-r-c-e becomes final today…**

So this is how I found myself one day after a horrific little twister with thunder and lightning touched down…so humor me… allow Momma to write my obituary…put it in the Friday night Guardian so all those bargain hunters will read it and weep.

It is with great sadness that we tell you that somewhere between 10pm. June 27, 2015 and 2am June 28, 2015 our Majestic Life-Giving Deciduous Tree, was torn asunder by a wildcat strike of lightening, accompanied by gale force winds.

Our Majestic Life-Giving Deciduous Tree is survived by his Deciduous Family, various saplings and part of his Trunk, which will be the home for baby squirrels to use as a lookout. He joins his brethren in Nature Valley, where he will once again be restored to his imperial days of glory.

Although the branches reaching to heaven are no longer visible to the human eye, Momma pauses each time she passes the remaining trunk and she can’t say for sure, but it looks like our Majestic Life-Giving Deciduous Tree gives her a wink, to let her know he/she/them… is still….out there.

No flowers, please, but next time you walk past a big old deciduous tree, pause long enough to hear its’ leaves rustling, whispering hope, whispering health, whispering: Hallelujah… Forever…. Amen….. So-Be-It…. Amen!

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

Calico Diva Gen - Picture Perfect with white paws together in prayer. Who would not want to be me? — Calico Diva Gen – Picture Perfect with white paws together in prayer. Who would not want to be me?

Now being the Diva Calico Gen is WAY cool. I pick my spot on the back of the couch in the sun porch, stretch out and flex my front paws, holding them up, so that the rainbows cast by the disco crystal ball colors each claw nail a different shade of happy. I imagine the light weight diamond stud earrings that will one day be in my pointy ears will bring even more light in to a world that is burdened with unseen yet heavy dark forces.

It is my job to lighten up the world at large and live each day to contribute joy, love and peace, well sometimes. I mean, don’t ask for a reference from that little mouse Wonder Boy caught me tossing in the air and catching, just for a lark and a laugh….Yuck, I am not going to eat it….I’ve got a Momma to feed me.

Still, day in, day out, when I am not dreaming of changing the world of felines by giving them access to fingernail polish, glittering earrings and teeny tiny stiletto high heel shoes (still working out how we will walk in them), I nap a lot, on Momma’s bed and I beg a lot for food to be served in my food dish, right on that very same bed.

No Kidding, Charlie's clumps of humps of fur can bristle, when she is stressed. — No Kidding, Charlie’s humps of clumps of fur can bristle, when she is stressed.

But Houston, we got a problem because Charlie, who I would never refuse, has a notion she should be able to eat out of my dish….She looks at me with those unwavering green eyes, clumps of fur bristling, communicating, Momma loves me too. And Momma does. But Momma is hopeless. She loves strays and even those poor underfed orphans from down at the creek.

Momma loves the underdog and I am an ‘under’ nothing. No, no, no, I am more like what you’d call a going concern. This may sound conceited but still, true story. Every cat wants to be me….because who does not want to shed light in the world.

And I am savvy enough to know I am a lucky one…first plucked from a manufacturing bin where I would have been crushed by First Tier Metal Automotive Parts….then taken home by Momma…adopted by Wonder Boy…and kept in line by the gentle Jakita because, well, I can get frisky….like a wild stallion, leading a pack of horses, thundering across the fenceless fields. When I take off on a tear, chubby little Jakita takes off behind me. Sometimes I slow down so she can catch me. She leaps on my back, pinning me to the floor, nibbling my ears, as I complain just loud enough for Momma to hear and reprimand Jakita, troublemaker that I am.

However, I know the repercussions should Andy had been in the house, Big Bro though he is. If I woke him up racing around, the punishment would have been much more severe. He doesn’t seem to have the gift of play. He would have pounced on me and bit my delicate little ear lobes.

Here is Gen, sound asleep, behind her protection, Beau.

That is why I miss Bro’ RIP Beau. He would never have allowed Andy to board me, like a hockey player on steroids. In Beau’s eyes, I could do no wrong and Andy respected Beau’s muscle mass – no wonder I miss him. The solution is simple. I make sure Bad Boy Andy is outside before I go wild.

But you know how it is ….. as Cyndi Lauper says, ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.’

Ya with, me?

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