June 2016 – Hot Dog Cool Cats

Because…Winter Is Coming

Oh, I am so happy because it is summer. The snow is long gone, icicles that hang like daggers of doom from eaves troughs, are melted and it is time….to prepare because just like in Game of Thrones….Winter is Coming, warning us to be constantly vigilant, warehousing food for the winter for the family.

What is yours is more...what's mine in mine own! — What is yours is mine…what’s mine in mine own!

I consider myself a one-of-a-kind strategist with a plan, because I have every intention to live for the twenty-five years allotted squirrels in search engines.. as long as my enemies or road kill does not shorten my lifespan…not that Momma is much help…let me tell you what she did to me and my fine family of outstanding squirrels from a long line of impeccable heritage.

Last summer, when we were satisfied with our living conditions, living off the land, plump on sweet red cherries, I noticed (because on top of those lofty century old trees, I see everything that moves in this neighbourhood), I saw Momma talking with, oh, no contractors, who shinnied up ladders to her roof (also know as my ancestors’ roof since 1867 – but whose counting?), walked all over, came down with a clip board, handed her a piece of paper that made Momma gasp when she read it, then leave.

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

Now, silly Mr. Grey Squirrel that I am, I predicted Momma was too cheap to go through with getting a new roof….but I was wrong…because one day, a huge truck came, packed with shingles, all manners of tools and hardware on its flat-bed, as well as in keeping with today’s environmental green requirements, a bin for the disposal of the old.

I knew the signs. I gathered my family and told them we were moving to the park for a day or two because the noise was going to be deafening. Hammer, hammer, hammer then….more hammer, hammer, hammer. And you know how these things goes…it brings out the gawkers…passerbyers who Momma never saw before, stopped to chat. They needed to know the who, what, when, where and how, right now and had to stop the contractors immediately in order to gain information to be filed and forgotten under, ‘We should get that done, too.’

Still, it was entertaining to watch a team of four tight rope walkers, who made Cirque de Soleil look like child’s play. A Foreman down below shouted orders, keeping the ball rolling and the hammers flying. It was actually amazing how quickly and succinctly, we were barred from the attic and the shedroom of our very own McMansion that still had the furniture we had dragged in place with Martha Stewart perfection.

Ready, Set, Go for the game of tag with Andy-Long-Legs. — Original Squatter Squirrel, **Mr. Grey Squirrel**

There are some things Momma can not control. To paraphrase the Night-Watchman motto (Game of Thrones), ‘We are the Squatter Squirrels. We are the Watchers of our Century old McMansions, stolen by competing claimants. We are the Sustainers of Life to our families….and we pledge our honor to the watch, for now and forever…..’

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Momma. Ah, you don’t smoke? Pity, that!

We Didn’t Start the Fire

It is an oasis of calm. Charlie on the left, on guard duty with Ruby in the middle, while Gen to the left, Jakita and Tigger at the bottom of Momma's bed do siesta. — Charlie on the left, Ruby in the middle, Gen to the left, Jakita – **Girl Power.**

It is like this, …it’s Girl Power and in our home, we rule…there is Momma, Charlie, Gen and me of course….oh, and Ruby, the Incredibly Wide Eyed Monkey…I think, because she is wearing a decidedly pink, frilly dress….but let’s not tell our Testosterone Toms, Bad Boy Andy, Clem-Kadiddle-Hopper or our Wonder Boy.

Now, long before today’s feminists shattered, nay broke that glass ceiling, (You Go.. Hillary… We’re so proud of you, We’re so Proud of You), there were homes, school yards, universities, workplaces where women were surreptitiously changing the balance of power as boys climbed trees, played war games and beat each other up, just for, the just for…

Momma does not lay claim to be being the first generation to push the envelope. No, Grandmama could have run the world, one hand tied behind her back, according to Momma. She was so strong and ferocious.

Big Sisters & Cousin Buddy, BFF — Big Sisters & Cousin **Buddy**, BFF

More importantly, Momma learned a lot, (the most) from her older sisters, who it was hard to best. They may beat on you one day, but would die on a cross for you the next. They laughed with you and cried with you…and above all they were loyal, taking secrets to their graves that could have seen you grounded for life. Still, don’t get us wrong. And…it is not like Momma didn’t like the X Y chromosome gender. Momma adored her beloved esoteric father.

Big Bro and Momma — **Big Bro** and Momma

Her Big Bro’ was totally amazing and Cousin Buddy was so cool, her BFF, if there had been such a thing in the day….

Yet in the late sixties the eastern world…it was exploding, … and maybe it started on the play ground in the 1950’s. In Momma’s day, there was no kindergarten. You learned to color, cut and paste at home and got right down to the serious business of reading, writing and arithmetic in Grade One. Pity the poor little boys, who had problems just sitting still. Of course, the girls did better, read first, got the hang of 1,2,3 easily…and always were the teachers pets. It was a No Brainer. As in all settings, in all corners of the world, the cream rose to the top, so La Crème–de–La Crème Society was born, then bonded in a tight-knit clique and no surprise, no boys need apply.

Mean girls, give me a break…they have been around a long time, even in (especially in) bucolic country settings. It is not like La Crème–de–La Crème Society especially went out of their way to terrorize the six boys in a class of twenty-seven but to the members, they were so pathetic….one little guy wore his snow pants summer and winter, making a swishing noise every step he took, another one would cry when the teacher asked him a question, another, through no fault of his own, looked just like his nerdy forty-five year old father, which was so scary in a six-year-old and so one and so on. As one of the respected members of La Crème–de–La Crème Society, Momma said it was so easy to judge, and never a challenge to find imperfections.

La Crème–de–La Crème Society were a tight-knit, yet diverse group who swore no allegiance, made no blood pacts, were never BFF’s, yet seamlessly continued the ground work for girls worldwide to radically transform from caterpillars to butterflies. They ran the relay race and passed on the baton, laying the groundwork for a more equal tomorrow.

So Little Sister Millennials, keep the ball rolling, do your part…but don’t kid yourself…We didn’t start the fire…it was always burning since the world was turning (Billy Joel)….. Remember, I mean like, who can forget… Queen Boudicca, Emeline Pankhurst, Sister Teresa? (Check them out!!)

PS: Oh, one last thing Momma asks on behalf of La Crème–de–La Crème Society for all the boys who suffered them, like a Justin Bieber song…. ‘Is It Too Late Now To Say Sorry?’

Momma Tried…Momma Tried

I am a Play–Girl–Kitty. No one is Game-On like I am Game-On.

Who comes? Who goes? Ask me. I know! — **Andy** surveys!

Take Bad Boy Andy. He is like a Right Wing Conservative Neo-Con. He is much too mature to play, but still dive bombs defenceless mice to their early grave. They are not for consumption. Who knows what you could catch from a field mice? No, the dry and soft label name diet Momma provides, will do just fine, thank you very much (my thoughts exactly). Sometimes I think Andy’s Plan Check Do List includes lofty spreadsheets and Graphs, wherein he sets Goals and constantly manipulates the data so that his Graphs are always on an upward growth pattern. Truth be told, Bad Boy Andy is all about Mind Games not Play Games.

Take me on, at your peril. — **Charlie** is all about seeking shelter.

I try to inspire poor, sweet Charlie to play, but she is hopeless. When I get my gallop on, racing around my kitty made coral, she takes off just as fast, seeking cover under Momma’s bed, peeking out to see the calamity headed her way. So I slow it down, join her under the bed, peering out alongside her, our hearts racing in sync, tails twitching, waiting to see our imminent destruction.

Do you see the gleam in my eyes and the wildly divergent shades of black tipped silver, gold, beige, and browns with a white shirt. Look at those creamy paws and that feathery tail -Do I look 'mavellous dawling'? — My way or the highway **Jakita**

Then there is Jakita. She tries, as long as we play by her rules – the ‘my way or the highway.’ I effortlessly hop on the table, bat a pen to the floor (Blame Momma – she so carelessly left it in my path). Before I can hop back down, Jakita grabs it and heads straight to her Doggie Pillow. No, no, Jakita, it’s suppose to be a good old-fashioned hockey game. The pen is the puck. We got to shoot and score Jakita. That is when the growling starts…..it’s mine, mine, mine and since I know where this ends every time, I move back, sit down, watching her chew through the plastic, then blue ink spurts, on her little pink tongue, her whiskers, her chinnie, chin chin. Momma hears her little yip and comes running (of course) and sees Little Jakita has done it again. I cover my Cheshire smirk behind my Calico and White Paw as Momma starts the clean up process with Baby wipes, no less, chiding her a little too gently, for my liking. But hey, that is a Game in itself!

That is why I have come to cherish our Stray, Feral Papa Was A Rolling Stone Clem-Kadiddle-Hopper. When I run, he will chase me. When I leap to catch flies, he soars higher. Sometimes we collide, fall to the ground, shake ourselves off and start all over again. When I go on the prowl, crouch behind bushes, he tags along in tandem. When I tire and go find a seat on the bench to cat nap outside the door, he follows and sleeps under the bench. I mean, that is a partner. Just too bad Clem-Kadiddle-Hopper is so independent because he is a bit unreliable. Days can go by and just when I think I will never so him again, he pops out of the peony bushes, ready for Game On.

Ok, Ok, I know, Gen is a Diva, Charlie has amazing different shades of green eyes, Andy is sleek with black fur that glistens red in the sun but none of them can compete with my unique coloring and shadings. I am spectacular. — **Clem** knows how to Rock, he knows how to Roll.

Now maybe you know of a solution, a way that I could entice Papa Was A Rolling Stone Clem-Kadiddle-Hopper to grow roots, to unpack his bag, give up his globe-trotting ways.

Momma tried, Momma tried to Raise Him Better – That Leaves No One Left to Blame…. because Momma tried…. (oh, and Wonder Boy too).

There Are Strange Things Done

True. Story. So. Help. Me. Hannah. I have mentioned before, yeah, we got some interesting folks who cut though our street to access downtown, where there is always something happening.

Being just a tad high-strung myself, I try to suss them out at a distance and figure a change of direction so as to avoid them because I am so sensitive to frequencies other than a calm Zen State. Momma does not like it when I get anxious and over react so she tries to correct me…and sorry, that makes me spin more out of control.

It reminded me of when all the cats would accompany Momma and I on our walks. It was a disaster with my head going in three directions, like the Exorcist, trying to make sure everyone was safe.

One hot summer day, a normal enough looking man, came to our door. I sensed no frantic energy level. He stood there with a big pink box in his hand, all bedecked in ribbon, very pretty. However, something from inside his pink box was dripping, all over our front porch, all over his nice white shots, even on to his toes sticking out of his leather sandals. Now we had never seen this man before (to our knowledge). What ever did he want?

A Welcome to the Neighborhood ice cream cake. Fr: Morguefile File # 0002081437875 By: earl53 — A Welcome to the Neighborhood ice cream cake.
Fr: Morguefile
File # 0002081437875 By: earl53

It seemed our visitor wanted us to take the dripping box, which contained an ice cream cake, and put it in our freezer. Then the minute we saw the folks across the street come in, we were to take the pink box over to them to welcome them to our street. Very peculiar, since it just so happened our new neighbors had kept their heads down when they moved in, kept their heads down when they came and went so they weren’t really the join in the fun in the neighbor hood type. Oh, and as is usual when you encounter these Martian like individuals, one morning, we woke up and they were…you got it…Gone, Baby, Gone.

Momma tried to explain she did not know them, had no idea about their schedule and did not have room in our freezer for such a big pink box. Our visitor – from that point forward known as the Ice Cream Cake Man, left with his dripping box, but he was not happy at Momma’s poor attitude. He was the one who had put out the cash, why couldn’t we do our share? Momma, well, you know…she is Quite Contrary.

Yes, the Martian neighbors are long gone but not the Ice Cream Cake Man. We see him often walking along, always neat and tidy, well dressed, carrying a black back pack, like a mature student. Momma and I always used to try to take an alternate route when we saw him coming. It got tricky because he had become a friend with Scooter Man, who really gave me a good scratch behind the ears every time we met so I did not want to miss out on that. As usual, I like Scooter Man better than I like his little grey black terrier dog. And, as time went on, I came to even like the Ice Cream Cake Man.

One of RIP Daddy's Masterpieces - like a Van Gogh Renaissance...well, he was Dutch, you know. — Our front garden just invites fairies and angels.

Yet, you know the truth… ‘There are strange things done in the Midnight Sun…the Urban trails have secret tales…that would make great stories told. (paraphrase R. Service). The Ice Cream Cake Man, always so debonair, had history. I did not understand its relevance, Momma did not believe it but t gave you cause to pause. Apparently, like the Four Footed, the Two Footed are not always the package presented. According to the Ice Cream Cake Man, he said, he did, that he was first cousin, once removed to a musical genius.

There is more to come…it is just that Momma is pondering the possibility. This is the same Momma that channels dogs, cats, squirrels, birds, bees, and even trees. What can I say? We’ll. Be. Back.

Let Me Tell You About the Bees and the Bees

Feature Moon Beams ….And the flowers and the fleas and the Moon up above and a thing called…

Spring has sprung…it is actually at the tipping point of summer. The dead brown grass magically pushed its way out of the earth and turned a lush Irish green. Flowers appeared, perfectly formed, like a paint by number canvass set strategically created by an artist of nature, with a vision. Buds, like little fists, opened on branches of the trees, once again dressing the limbs in glorious green and red leaves that shade the heat of summer. It is what we wait for through the trials of snow, ice, and those dreadful Arctic vortexes.

And yet, it also brings, well, you know, the undesirables. I am talking about bees, big as humming birds, noisy as jet fighters, on a mission. I know, they are part of God’s plan. I know they pollinate our food crops, produce sweet honey that is consumed, added to baking, used in healing processes. Still, I am not feeling them.

Now, if those bees want to flit from cherry blossom to cherry blossom,

Bee hones in on blossom. Fr: Morguefile By: ranbud 11/l/1447552342mwa60.jpg — Bee hones in on blossom.
Fr: Morguefile By: ranbud 11/l/1447552342mwa60.jpg

no problem. I am on the down low, they are high in the tree, doing whatever they do. Or if they are in our flower garden, buzzing and pollinating, I will stay out of their way. I mean…it’s their thing…do what they got to do. But don’t go crowding my front door, trying to enter the minute an unsuspecting Momma holds it open for the Kitty Club Med members to leisurely saunter in. Momma is not as fast as she used to be and as fast as she is, she can not match your top speed of 15 miles an hour.

A summers day. Got the garden, check, the grass to chew, check, the flowers to sniff, check, the stone steps to nap on, check. Paradise, check. — Gen on Quality Control duty, looking for birds and bees to catch.

Just today it happened. Who knows how you entered…you are like a stealth jet when you invade our air space. However, as soon as you see a light, you are drawn to it and dive bomb it, going around and around it, at dizzying speed, emitting that high-pitched buzz…and that annoys me. Even more infuriating, Diva Calico Gen Cat goes leaping in the air, trying to catch you, but p–l–e–a–s–e, she is thirteen now so she lands back on the floor with a thud, winds herself up and tries all over again.

I start whining and warbling, ‘Momma, do something.’ I know Momma always has a plan. She grabs a bar stool and a squeeze bottle and starts squirting water at the bee…mostly she misses and there is water on the ceiling, the walls, the kitchen floor, the stove, the dishwasher, the microwave. I take off for the living room. I was already groomed once today. I am not looking to be blow dried again today, even if I get more treats for my outstanding behaviour.

Finally, Momma connected, stunning the bumble bee which fell to the floor still buzzing and complaining. Momma covered him with a glass, slid a piece a paper under and released the unwanted trouble making, peace disturbing, jet propelled wonder of nature, outside.

Is that a Bee headed for the door? Do something, already, Momma!

Bees will be Bees. Just no breaching security put in place to keep you out…Not-In-My-Neighborhood. Read my Policies and Procedures for All Creation and get with the program. So, are you with me or are you going to be a problem?

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