Did you ever see a big stupid fluffy white cat and think to yourself, "Say, I sure would like to see what that cat would look like shaved."

Well, dream no longer:

Posted by John Climacus at 04:33 | Permalink

[Funny thing: If I crop it like this she looks like a great dane.]

Posted by John Climacus at 12:38 | Permalink

It's that time of year.

Posted by John Climacus at 02:31 | Permalink

All good things come to a close, and since the world did not end the other day there's no risk of an egregious faux pas in referring to the "end of an era."

The Puppies Era, that is.

When you last saw us, we had two chihuahua-pomeranian male puppies tormenting their chihuahua mother who no longer had the proportional body mass to comfortably nurse her progeny. Mother had begun the weaning process in earnest because the little bruisers were collectively larger than her, so she was staying away for longer and longer periods of time.

The smaller pup left early in the week, given to the owner of the pomeranian/father, leaving the big brother to spend a few days alone here while his fate was being decided. Finally, we decided the boy needed more time and attention than he'd get around here. I got a few photos of his last night at home.

He is one sweet little dog, no question about that.

But it's no mystery why momma would have wanted him gone. Footnote: Momma is not exactly depressed with the empty nest situation.

I think this would make a good blog header graphic for the Puppy Forum (not "Puppy Burger Forum" mind you).

How do you spell "chihuahua + pomeranian = adorable"? I spell it like this:

We'll be able to say "I remember him when he was too small to climb the steps to the deck."

Here's the main thing puppies do: Chew on everything. You don't want it with power cords, though, no matter how cute it is.

Besides, they are just as content to eat wood, paper, bark, hamburger wrappers and bits of linen. Why try to stifle this natural curiosity?

So, as you must be wondering, what is the narrative logic of this post? There is no logic. It's just puppies. Everyone loves 'em and they'll visit here for no other reason. Google note: "Chihuahua and Pomeranian." Y'all come back now, y' hear?

Posted by John Climacus at 03:43 | Permalink

It's grueling work, chronicling the puppy saga, but someone's got to do it.

Here at week 6, we see a certain pattern developing: a rather cuddly pattern.

As our eldest daughter stated very matter-of-factly: "Well that's just the cutest thing I've ever seen in my life."

Alas, such it is.

But before we get carried away with the warm, squeaky furballs of it all, let's bear in mind one thing: Might there be an ominous underside?

Oh yes, there might be indeed.

But more imminent battles brew at the Climacus household. Existential conflicts. Rites de passage, if you will. The puppy blood feud we know as weaning has reared it's ugly puppy head.

When does the Momma decide to cut them off? Likely, when the little ones are big enough to literally eat her. Momma ain't no fool.

In keeping with the overall spirit of the puppy chronicles, I think Momma also might be saying, "I'm shooing away these overgrown canine brutes: When will you be booting all of the treasonous Muslims off of U.S. soil?"

The weaning will certainly take place this week. The booting should start very soon after.

Posted by John Climacus at 01:27 | Permalink

When I'm not out trying to round up backwards-thinking interlopers and ship 'em off to Saudi Arabia, you can be pretty sure I'll be here at the ol' homestead doting on our furry little bundles of love:

Posted by John Climacus at 02:26 | Permalink | Comments (2)

Maybe I'm just mellowing in old age, softened up by the inarguable cuteness of life. Sure, like every American, I have my "die Muslim scum!" moments. I'm not proud of them. The moments, I mean, not the Muslims.

Well, on second thought, I'm not too proud of the Muslims either:

A hospital spokesman said five women were brought in, and three of them are in critical condition. Three are in their 20s, one is 19 and the other is 43. The 43-year-old was shot in the abdomen. One of the victims is in her 17th week of pregnancy.

Namely, puppies:

UPDATE: That is one funny picture when you blow it up. It reminds me of the Firesign Theatre bit:

"I didn't breast-feed you until you were thirteen years old for this - Malcolm X John Lennon, come in here and dig your mother!"

"Aw Mom, I'm not hungry."

Posted by John Climacus at 01:35 | Permalink | Comments (3)

With the Tour de France over and not much else going on in the world, I am compelled to focus again on domestic events. The puppy and her puppies. Pardon me, please, if I happen to gloss over issues that you consider siginificant.

Older puppy news here, here, here, and here.

I just have to say: Can you believe both of these furry dudes came out of her less than three weeks ago?

We have been feeding her well, I must admit.

The father was a "Pomeranian" which means exactly diddly to me, but I'm guessing the species has a little more heft than your typical Chihuahua.

Funny how that works.

Anyway, the summer continues to be sweetness and light. Sure, I'm adding to my "deportables" list, as well as my total complete retards list, and one day I may act upon them, but the languor of the season, I suppose, has me feeling mellow for now.

So all I can offer is this little diversion of hope for the future, and peace, and puppies.

Posted by John Climacus at 03:22 | Permalink | Comments (1)

Enough of the war and bombs and bad guys. Enough I say. That is not why I blog.

I blog...because I love.

Without further ado, then, I shall don my smiley face shirt and sparkly-rimmed pink sunglasses, and take you on a brief tour of my real life shorn of all false bravado.

This is our cherry tree.

One day we were watering our hanging plant and guess what we found inside?

You can probably guess what we found in there a few weeks later.

Moving on now from the cute to the ridiculously cute, we check in on the puppy project.

Would you like to see another one? Sure you would.

This thematic oscillation reveals the inner truth of this blog: Deport the Muslims...puppies; loose the dogs of war...puppies; nuke our enemies...PUPPIES! Embracing both extremes is the yin and yang, the happy middle ground, of existence.

I'm pretty sure this makes me a moderate.

We'll end on a high note. Any of you bad mo-fo's may want to cover your eyes because this next one is hyper-cuteness of a degree it might screw with your head, make you giggle like a girl and leave you weeping on your Mac-5. Your homeys don't need to see that.

Posted by John Climacus at 01:40 | Permalink | Comments (6)

We had considered purchasing a shotgun for home defense but decided, truth be told, we didn't need it.

Posted by John Climacus at 01:46 | Permalink | Comments (2)

We had considered purchasing a shotgun for home defense but decided, truth be told, we didn't need it.

Posted by John Climacus at 01:46 | Permalink | Comments (2)

As evidenced in the comments to the previous post, it is difficult to find common ground between the most extreme elements of the U.S. right wing (i.e., me) and many of our fellow global citizens. But I think I have a solution.

I invited an audience of typical Europeans, representative of the citizenry across the pond, for a brief presentation on my proposal. Following is a transcript of the seminar.

ME: Welcome to our European guests, and members of the international media.

AUDIENCE: (grumbling, scattered coughs and squeaking of chairs)

ME: Despite our many differences on the "issues of the day," I feel heartened by the fact that we all are, in essence, joined by the common bond of humanity.

AUDIENCE: (grumbling)

ME: Therefore, I intend to show each of you that there is a middle ground between us on at least one very important topic. As most of you know, the Alpaca Burger Forum has recently opined that orthodox Islam is incompatible with western civilization...

AUDIENCE: (loud grumbling, scribbling of pencils)

ME: I know, I know, this is a "sticky wicket," as some of you might say...

AUDIENCE: (silence, a single "Harrumph!")

ME: We have suggested that Islam may not belong in America - whereas most of you have welcomed it into your own countries and in fact subsidize its growth with your own tax dollars. So the rumination here that Muslims might be encouraged to "self-deport" from American soil was met with doubtful, even angry responses from our friends in Europe...

AUDIENCE: BOO! BOO! (one voice: "You're a racist!")

ME: But I have given some serious thought to your concerns. I never suggested that Islam should be removed from the U.S. by force - although I suppose one could read that into some of the Alpaca Burger Forum posts - and I can tell you now, while I still believe Islam might best exist within a very different cultural rubric, I do not envision Muslim people being chased from this land by angry mobs wielding guns and scimitars.

AUDIENCE: BOO! (loud grumbling)

ME: Let me direct your attention to the screen. As we know, dogs are not highly esteemed in Islamic societies. Some might say, dogs are despised. Within our culture, broadly speaking, however, we love dogs. You see this puppy? We call it a "lap-top dog" because it is smaller than an i-Book.

AUDIENCE: Awwww! (scattered chuckling)

ME: She was pregnant in this photo, by the way - maybe that's why she seems pensive. Anyway, pet ownership is on the rise in America - in a big way. And this trend seems, if anything, to be increasing dramatically. So what about this: What if, throughout American culture, in every socioeconomic strata, we were to have a massive, ongoing PR campaign saluting and promoting the canine species as an integral element in our cultural lives.

AUDIENCE: (silence)

ME: I'm thinking: "Take a doggie to work" day - once every month! "Dog-friendly" public buildings as ubiquitous as fire hydrants. Obedience classes conducted alongside Sunday school hours (you see where I'm going with this?). And innumerable little fragments of popular culture - bumper stickers saying "I don't see a dog in your car, you ingrate!" "Real men dig puppies" and "No dog? No mercy!" - gradually forming a bigger picture: This is a dog-friendly nation. "America: Love dogs or leave it!"

AUDIENCE: (grumbling)

ME: Ok, ok, maybe I'm not doing a very good job explaining this...I'm not saying, all Muslims need to leave. I'm saying, they need to either CHANGE, or leave. They need to redact or edit or update that wicked book of theirs. They need a "New" hadith. They need a friggin' Reformation, is what they need. They need to either become fully westernized and roundly denounce the ideology of orthodox Islam, or leave the West. But how are we to accomplish this? I can tell by your grumbling you are hesitant to embrace the idea. But tell me: Would you embrace...

...these??

AUDIENCE: Awwww! AWWWW! (applause, relieved laughter all around)

ME: Ha ha, yes these are the PUPPIES of the lap-top dog: puppies of the puppy, if you will. How cute are they?

AUDIENCE: (Ewwing, ahhing, laughter and tittering conversation)

ME: Can't we get the Muslims on board with this? C'MON!! What kind of society do we want to leave to our children? What kind of day do we want to wake up and greet? What do these puppies say to you? They say to me, "Meep! Meep! Meep!" - cause that's what they really say!! C'MON! Where's your heart? Where's your soul? Where's the LOVE, Islam? Who loves puppies?

AUDIENCE: (tittering conversation)

ME: I said, Who. Loves. PUPPIES?! Let me hear it - do you love puppies?

AUDIENCE: Yes, yes (scattered giggling, one voice: "Quite right!")

ME: DO YOU LOVE PUPPIES?

AUDIENCE: YES!

ME: Ok, then. I love puppies. You love puppies. We ALL love puppies. That's the end of today's presentation. You'll notice on the table near the door is a large box full of puppies; I encourage you each to take one home with you, and do as we will be doing: Visit one of your Muslim neighbors, and bring the puppy. Let's melt that ruthless, legalistic ideology and those hearts of stone. I know they can change, they are human after all, just like you and me. At very least, we can separate the wheat from the chaff.

Also, please feel free to pick up some bumper stickers on your way out.

Posted by John Climacus at 09:27 | Permalink | Comments (8)

As evidenced in the comments to the previous post, it is difficult to find common ground between the most extreme elements of the U.S. right wing (i.e., me) and many of our fellow global citizens. But I think I have a solution.

I invited an audience of typical Europeans, representative of the citizenry across the pond, for a brief presentation on my proposal. Following is a transcript of the seminar.

ME: Welcome to our European guests, and members of the international media.

AUDIENCE: (grumbling, scattered coughs and squeaking of chairs)

ME: Despite our many differences on the "issues of the day," I feel heartened by the fact that we all are, in essence, joined by the common bond of humanity.

AUDIENCE: (grumbling)

ME: Therefore, I intend to show each of you that there is a middle ground between us on at least one very important topic. As most of you know, the Alpaca Burger Forum has recently opined that orthodox Islam is incompatible with western civilization...

AUDIENCE: (loud grumbling, scribbling of pencils)

ME: I know, I know, this is a "sticky wicket," as some of you might say...

AUDIENCE: (silence, a single "Harrumph!")

ME: We have suggested that Islam may not belong in America - whereas most of you have welcomed it into your own countries and in fact subsidize its growth with your own tax dollars. So the rumination here that Muslims might be encouraged to "self-deport" from American soil was met with doubtful, even angry responses from our friends in Europe...

AUDIENCE: BOO! BOO! (one voice: "You're a racist!")

ME: But I have given some serious thought to your concerns. I never suggested that Islam should be removed from the U.S. by force - although I suppose one could read that into some of the Alpaca Burger Forum posts - and I can tell you now, while I still believe Islam might best exist within a very different cultural rubric, I do not envision Muslim people being chased from this land by angry mobs wielding guns and scimitars.

AUDIENCE: BOO! (loud grumbling)

ME: Let me direct your attention to the screen. As we know, dogs are not highly esteemed in Islamic societies. Some might say, dogs are despised. Within our culture, broadly speaking, however, we love dogs. You see this puppy? We call it a "lap-top dog" because it is smaller than an i-Book.

AUDIENCE: Awwww! (scattered chuckling)

ME: She was pregnant in this photo, by the way - maybe that's why she seems pensive. Anyway, pet ownership is on the rise in America - in a big way. And this trend seems, if anything, to be increasing dramatically. So what about this: What if, throughout American culture, in every socioeconomic strata, we were to have a massive, ongoing PR campaign saluting and promoting the canine species as an integral element in our cultural lives.

AUDIENCE: (silence)

ME: I'm thinking: "Take a doggie to work" day - once every month! "Dog-friendly" public buildings as ubiquitous as fire hydrants. Obedience classes conducted alongside Sunday school hours (you see where I'm going with this?). And innumerable little fragments of popular culture - bumper stickers saying "I don't see a dog in your car, you ingrate!" "Real men dig puppies" and "No dog? No mercy!" - gradually forming a bigger picture: This is a dog-friendly nation. "America: Love dogs or leave it!"

AUDIENCE: (grumbling)

ME: Ok, ok, maybe I'm not doing a very good job explaining this...I'm not saying, all Muslims need to leave. I'm saying, they need to either CHANGE, or leave. They need to redact or edit or update that wicked book of theirs. They need a "New" hadith. They need a friggin' Reformation, is what they need. They need to either become fully westernized and roundly denounce the ideology of orthodox Islam, or leave the West. But how are we to accomplish this? I can tell by your grumbling you are hesitant to embrace the idea. But tell me: Would you embrace...

...these??

AUDIENCE: Awwww! AWWWW! (applause, relieved laughter all around)

ME: Ha ha, yes these are the PUPPIES of the lap-top dog: puppies of the puppy, if you will. How cute are they?

AUDIENCE: (Ewwing, ahhing, laughter and tittering conversation)

ME: Can't we get the Muslims on board with this? C'MON!! What kind of society do we want to leave to our children? What kind of day do we want to wake up and greet? What do these puppies say to you? They say to me, "Meep! Meep! Meep!" - cause that's what they really say!! C'MON! Where's your heart? Where's your soul? Where's the LOVE, Islam? Who loves puppies?

AUDIENCE: (tittering conversation)

ME: I said, Who. Loves. PUPPIES?! Let me hear it - do you love puppies?

AUDIENCE: Yes, yes (scattered giggling, one voice: "Quite right!")

ME: DO YOU LOVE PUPPIES?

AUDIENCE: YES!

ME: Ok, then. I love puppies. You love puppies. We ALL love puppies. That's the end of today's presentation. You'll notice on the table near the door is a large box full of puppies; I encourage you each to take one home with you, and do as we will be doing: Visit one of your Muslim neighbors, and bring the puppy. Let's melt that ruthless, legalistic ideology and those hearts of stone. I know they can change, they are human after all, just like you and me. At very least, we can separate the wheat from the chaff.

Also, please feel free to pick up some bumper stickers on your way out.

Posted by John Climacus at 09:27 | Permalink | Comments (8)

She was a good little pet, a good little ferret. Updates may follow...

Heaven must have needed some entertainment.

She was a goofy little thing when we first got her: always ON - in your face or, more likely, attacking any available extremity, unless there was a purse or pocket that might contain small objects which could be carried off and hidden behind the television. During her early caged years, each time she was first let out to play she would erupt into spasmodic paroxysms of sheer joy, jumping with these rapid-fire, half-pirouette hops that often as not landed her on her back.

She had the run of the house for a few years, and the 'happy dance' would then take place periodically with seemingly little instigation save for the presence of someone - or two - suddenly paying attention to her. This was usually when we got home from work or finished dinner and retired to the living room.

The 'geriatric' stage with domestic ferrets comes on pretty early - some vets will label it as early as the fourth year. Daisy was no exception. By the time she was three she'd been in the hospital for one major round of surgery: tumor removed from the tip of her tail and both adrenal glands removed. We were lucky to find the absolute best ferret vet in the entire world happened to be 15 miles away. No exaggeration: Dr. Tom Kawasaki practices in Woodbridge, VA and he is right at the top of the field. If you have a ferret and you're in the DC area, 'Dr. K' is definitely the man to see.

Anyway, we thought she was going to be dead that time, but Dr. K worked a miracle to bring her back from the brink. After that, there were several other emergencies mainly due to the fact that ferrets can be particularly slow in appreciating the danger of human feet. At least, this ferret was. After a couple broken bones it was back in the cage with Daisy: Either she was going to be stymied in her quest for continuous adventure or she was going to be smashed on the kitchen floor.

From age 5 onward the routine was to let her out for as long as we could, to mosey around the house, get her daily portion of ferret treats, and possibly fraternize with other local creatures, although she did not fancy herself in the same league as the feline or canine varieties. In her youth she would occasionally lope right over on into the cats and freak them out, but when she was older the puppy could poke and sniff and shadow her and she never paid a hair's worth of attention.

She did not have much in the way of strength or vigor, but even to the very end she could always keep the puppy flummoxed. (This was just taken in October 2005).

We thought we had lost her a few times. Earlier in 2005 she had lost nearly all of her hair and we thought at age 7 maybe this was it. But lo and behold she rallied in the fall, and for a couple months she seemed to be at 100%. By this time '100%' meant she was awake for treats and a little investigating maybe 2 hours a day and sleeping soundly the other 22. The routine was to let her finish her treats under the puppy's watchful, wistful eyes (leftover ferret-crunch nuggets were valued VERY highly), and then let her curl up in a blanket on the couch for an hour or so before putting her back in the cage.

She was semi-affectionate early on, often because after playing she would weasel her way under the covers or into one's pillow case or under one's shirt and fall asleep. Then in the middle years she was much less amenable to prolonged contact. You could hold her for a few minutes but after that she squirmed her way loose. But the last few months she was often a veritable lap-ferret and would curl up on your lap or inside your bathrobe for as long as you would leave her there.

We left on a business trip last Wednesday morning, and apparently that night she was suddenly unable to walk. One of our daughters was home and basically nursed her and kept her company through Saturday night, and she died just minutes before we arrived back. If I was there I might have rushed her down to Dr. K, and she might have died with strangers poking her with needles or in some strange cage. Maybe I wouldn't have, I don't know, but I would have been very conflicted. So although I wish I was with her at the end it probably worked out for the best. Our daughter, wisely, did not tell us a thing about it until we got home. Daisy was on the carpet, wrapped in a towel, peaceful. Thank God she did not die alone.

Well, I guess that's the eulogy. Though Daisy had personality to spare, there's no denying a ferret is not as high up on the sentience scale as a dog. You aren't going to have many 'shared moments' of mutual understanding. The only times I looked into this ferret's eyes were during the early years when she was attempting to gnaw the tip of my nose...and all I saw was sheer ferocity.

But over 8 years a lot can change in one's life. If one is living - as I have been - within the straight-jacket environment and sparse diversions of the 'all work, all the time' lifestyle, day in and day out, year after year, the limited elements of one's narrow daily universe tend to stand out more distinctly in memory. 'How far we've come' in a relationship or as a family; 'how much I've progressed' in career or personal growth; how much has been changed or lost or won or regretted - the richness of these reflections hinges on the details we have to draw from: a car, a house, a loved one's smile, a tirade, a meal, a garden, a rainbow, a song, a hospital, a party, a photo, a fearsome storm, a spectacular landscape, a peaceful day and, in this case, also a ferret. The span of time she was with us brackets a period when so, so much happened with our family.

Goodbye Daisy. We'll always remember you.

Posted by John Climacus at 10:35 | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (1)

She was a good little pet, a good little ferret. Updates may follow...

Heaven must have needed some entertainment.

She was a goofy little thing when we first got her: always ON - in your face or, more likely, attacking any available extremity, unless there was a purse or pocket that might contain small objects which could be carried off and hidden behind the television. During her early caged years, each time she was first let out to play she would erupt into spasmodic paroxysms of sheer joy, jumping with these rapid-fire, half-pirouette hops that often as not landed her on her back.

She had the run of the house for a few years, and the 'happy dance' would then take place periodically with seemingly little instigation save for the presence of someone - or two - suddenly paying attention to her. This was usually when we got home from work or finished dinner and retired to the living room.

The 'geriatric' stage with domestic ferrets comes on pretty early - some vets will label it as early as the fourth year. Daisy was no exception. By the time she was three she'd been in the hospital for one major round of surgery: tumor removed from the tip of her tail and both adrenal glands removed. We were lucky to find the absolute best ferret vet in the entire world happened to be 15 miles away. No exaggeration: Dr. Tom Kawasaki practices in Woodbridge, VA and he is right at the top of the field. If you have a ferret and you're in the DC area, 'Dr. K' is definitely the man to see.

Anyway, we thought she was going to be dead that time, but Dr. K worked a miracle to bring her back from the brink. After that, there were several other emergencies mainly due to the fact that ferrets can be particularly slow in appreciating the danger of human feet. At least, this ferret was. After a couple broken bones it was back in the cage with Daisy: Either she was going to be stymied in her quest for continuous adventure or she was going to be smashed on the kitchen floor.

From age 5 onward the routine was to let her out for as long as we could, to mosey around the house, get her daily portion of ferret treats, and possibly fraternize with other local creatures, although she did not fancy herself in the same league as the feline or canine varieties. In her youth she would occasionally lope right over on into the cats and freak them out, but when she was older the puppy could poke and sniff and shadow her and she never paid a hair's worth of attention.

She did not have much in the way of strength or vigor, but even to the very end she could always keep the puppy flummoxed. (This was just taken in October 2005).

We thought we had lost her a few times. Earlier in 2005 she had lost nearly all of her hair and we thought at age 7 maybe this was it. But lo and behold she rallied in the fall, and for a couple months she seemed to be at 100%. By this time '100%' meant she was awake for treats and a little investigating maybe 2 hours a day and sleeping soundly the other 22. The routine was to let her finish her treats under the puppy's watchful, wistful eyes (leftover ferret-crunch nuggets were valued VERY highly), and then let her curl up in a blanket on the couch for an hour or so before putting her back in the cage.

She was semi-affectionate early on, often because after playing she would weasel her way under the covers or into one's pillow case or under one's shirt and fall asleep. Then in the middle years she was much less amenable to prolonged contact. You could hold her for a few minutes but after that she squirmed her way loose. But the last few months she was often a veritable lap-ferret and would curl up on your lap or inside your bathrobe for as long as you would leave her there.

We left on a business trip last Wednesday morning, and apparently that night she was suddenly unable to walk. One of our daughters was home and basically nursed her and kept her company through Saturday night, and she died just minutes before we arrived back. If I was there I might have rushed her down to Dr. K, and she might have died with strangers poking her with needles or in some strange cage. Maybe I wouldn't have, I don't know, but I would have been very conflicted. So although I wish I was with her at the end it probably worked out for the best. Our daughter, wisely, did not tell us a thing about it until we got home. Daisy was on the carpet, wrapped in a towel, peaceful. Thank God she did not die alone.

Well, I guess that's the eulogy. Though Daisy had personality to spare, there's no denying a ferret is not as high up on the sentience scale as a dog. You aren't going to have many 'shared moments' of mutual understanding. The only times I looked into this ferret's eyes were during the early years when she was attempting to gnaw the tip of my nose...and all I saw was sheer ferocity.

But over 8 years a lot can change in one's life. If one is living - as I have been - within the straight-jacket environment and sparse diversions of the 'all work, all the time' lifestyle, day in and day out, year after year, the limited elements of one's narrow daily universe tend to stand out more distinctly in memory. 'How far we've come' in a relationship or as a family; 'how much I've progressed' in career or personal growth; how much has been changed or lost or won or regretted - the richness of these reflections hinges on the details we have to draw from: a car, a house, a loved one's smile, a tirade, a meal, a garden, a rainbow, a song, a hospital, a party, a photo, a fearsome storm, a spectacular landscape, a peaceful day and, in this case, also a ferret. The span of time she was with us brackets a period when so, so much happened with our family.

Goodbye Daisy. We'll always remember you.

Posted by John Climacus at 10:35 | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (1)

Lest anyone get the impression this site offers nothing more than idolatry and garden slugs, we offer this bit of Americana, demonstrating once again the sweet serenity making it all worthwhile:

[This is actually a test post because all of a sudden Movable Type started choking on me when I attempted to post, so I figure, if you're going to put up a 'Under Repair' sign, you might as well use a puppy. Now wouldn't this be a nice approach out on the Interstate for those folks who have been sitting in a traffic jam for 2 hours?]

Posted by John Climacus at 04:06 | Permalink

Lest anyone get the impression this site offers nothing more than idolatry and garden slugs, we offer this bit of Americana, demonstrating once again the sweet serenity making it all worthwhile:

[This is actually a test post because all of a sudden Movable Type started choking on me when I attempted to post, so I figure, if you're going to put up a 'Under Repair' sign, you might as well use a puppy. Now wouldn't this be a nice approach out on the Interstate for those folks who have been sitting in a traffic jam for 2 hours?]

Posted by John Climacus at 04:06 | Permalink

One more statement before I bow out, and maybe on a more properly humane note:

Draco was the best of a bad brood, the runt of the litter and the kid among criminals. The rather serious unpleasantness of last Fall came about because our other two cats were big, furry, stupid allergens who just about killed me. We had to move to a situation in which the cats could live outside our house (with a not-too-shabby cat shed as the primary abode).

We knew there would be risks, but none as severe as the one posed last October when we believed we would have to put them all to sleep.

Getting them a yard to live in seemed like the best possible solution - check that: it was the only solution short of putting them down.

But Draco was the smart one, and by far the most athletic, and he alas is the one who managed to scale the 6-foot fence. My wife circulated 145 flyers to every house in the neighborhood but now two weeks have passed and we only had one sighting reported right after he disappeared.

The irony is, Draco was the smartest and as a short hair the least of an allergen. Thus he was more like a dog, which I believe is what every cat should aspire to.

He was psychologically devastated by the 2-month period from October-December when the three cats had to be lodged before we moved. A very smart little animal, he did not easily accept the change from having run-of-the-house to living in a cage. (The other two, much less smart, were much less affected).

Once we moved, Draco had just become, after 6 weeks or so, acclimated to the new, semi-outdoor life here in the bigger yard, and seemed like he would love it. Running pell mell, stalking birds, killing mice, the whole cat-life-enchilada: Draco seemed to have rebounded completely.

Then, just days before we left for Vegas, he leaped the fence.

I hate it because he was the most interesting of the three, and the most redeeming of the species.

I also hate it because he was an incredibly intelligent, yet young, siamese, and any suffering he may be undergoing with the terrible rain we have had since he left, the cars he never learned to deal with, and all the other contingencies of life in the wild, would be multiplied in my mind. There's a much greater empathy factor for a smarter animal. You could carry on a conversation with Draco.

He is a very attractive chocolate-point with light blue eyes, so we hold out the hope that some family took him in and ignored the collar and tag with our phone number and just decided to steal him. That would be ok. But he was absolutely paranoid - scared of his own shadow - so we are being a little optimistic in thinking he might have allowed himself to be taken in.

Life brings a multitude of tragedies and regrets. The loss of a kitten is, in the big picture, not the type of thing to make you question the meaning of existence. But if our enjoyment of the time with him was real, then to lose him is by the same token truly sad.

Goodbye, kid. As far as cats go, you were one of the good ones.

Posted by John Climacus at 03:41 | Permalink

Oh, they're cute all right. Real cute.

But if you were five inches tall, she'd rip you to shreds just to watch you die.

Dr. Turner's ferret was not invited to live in his home, but rather was thrust upon it. Now, as the good Dr. is having some remodeling done, the animal has been thrust upon us. At six years old she is, I am told, at the geriatric stage of her life.

But she's a pistol nonetheless, quick and vicious. If I had a mouse infestation, I'd solve it with a ferret or two just for the entertainment value. I watched as one of the Wee Ones introduced the ferret to a mouse-ette who was about to be introduced to a boa. This little monster pounced on the mini-rodent and with a few lightning fast jabs and nips utterly marginalized it from the realm of the living.

I'll be away for a few days after this, but will attempt to persuade John to pitch in here with some non-stressful, non-political topic-meandering in my absence. Have a nice day.

Posted by hemmingway at 07:08 | Permalink