3:30 a.m. Pounce Parade

"Prrrrrrowl?"

"Prrrrrrrowwl??" 

"Prrrrrrrrrowwwl??"

My eyes open.

"Prrrrrrowl?"

Why am I even surprised? Lola had been staring at the bottom of the refrigerator when we went to bed.

"Prrrrrrrrrrrowl?"

That's the sound of a cat with its mouth full of mouse.

Bat. 

Bat-Bat. 

Bat-Bat-Bat-Bat. 

And that is the sound of a cat playing with a mouse. On our bedroom carpet. At 3:30 a.m. I look down beside the bed. She's still batting at      And it just ran under the closet curtain.

Crap. Live mouse. Time to distract a cat. I leave the bed.

"Good girl Lola. Good girl. You are a such a great predator. We are very proud of you, but now it is time to    "

Mouse runs out from under the curtain.

Bat-Bat-Bat-Bat.

Mouse runs under the blanket box. Lola seems stymied. 

I crawl back into bed. 

Please, stay under the blanket box little guy. Wait it out. Hide there and then you can... eventually escape to the basement. I am delusional. It will probably die of heart failure, under that blanket box then two days from now, I will move the blanket box and give it a proper burial.

Bat-Bat. 

Bat-Bat-Bat-Bat. 

Crap. I'm going to have to    

"Prrrrrrrrowl?" Pah.

And that is the sound of a cat spitting out a mouse. I peer over the side of the bed. Even in the middle-of-the-night light I can see Lola gesturing to me. "See? See what I did for you here? I got it! You no longer have to worry about that mouse. I have kept you all safe... from that mouse."

"Good cat Lola." I keep my voice modulated in a sing-song-proud-of-your-accomplishment tone. "I know. I know you are a cat and this in your DNA. I recognize that this is what you do, but you are a serial killer, dude." Easily a dozen mice have been killed in this very room. Because why would she kill them in the living room? Or the kitchen? She has to SHOW us that she's killed them. In the middle of the night. 

I look down at the poor wee little booger. Lola continues to gesture proudly. "Yeah, yeah... You're brilliant."

I grab a tissue. I make the same walk that I do every few weeks down the stairs, through the kitchen to the back door and I deposit the mouse onto the deck. I don't do mouse burials until morning. "Sorry, buddy. I'm sure you were a lovely rodent."

Lola has followed me downstairs. "Prrrrrrrrrowl?"

"If I started making you write their eulogies would it be any sort of a deterrent?"

"Prrrrrrowl."

"No, yeah... you're right. You're a cat."

David cracks an eye open when I crawl back into bed. "Huh? What?"

"Go back to sleep. Lola gave us another mouse."

"Another one?" 

"Yep." And now all I can see is Lola, piloting a fighter plane with dozen rodents stenciled on the side.

"Prrrrrrrrrowl?"

Oh for the love of   

Do not approach the potentially rabid raccoon, do not approach the potentially rabid raccoon, do not approach the potentially rabid raccoon

Raccoons are mostly nocturnal. So if you're seeing one during the day, something is up. Ie: you might have trapped its kits in your eaves by sealing up the holes in your roof (Bring me your furry...) or... it might possibly be... rabid.

And yet... when a raccoon appears on my deck, my immediate impulse will always be to offer it afternoon tea.

"Hey there buddy! How long do you want your Earl Grey steeped?"

The raccoon today staggered across my deck and then sat on my patio sofa. I opened the door to say hello and the sucker didn't even move. Just looked at me and sort of wheezed. Not normal raccoon behaviour. At least not on our deck. It's not like I go out and feed all the random raccoons every night. They're supposed to be suspicious of humans. Unless... this particular wheezy raccoon is being fed by other people on their decks. 

While keeping one eye focused on the furry masked bandit, I google.

                     

It had staggered onto the deck. It was seemingly oblivious to my offers of Earl Grey tea, which, while polite, had been done in my public speaking voice. It had wandered erratically over the furniture. I wasn't close enough to see whether it had discharge from its eyes or mouth. Its entire body was wet and matted. But then again, it had been raining all morning. The wheezing might be high-pitched vocalization. At present, it didn't seem to be mutilating itself. It was trying to eat a large twig on the sofa, which it could choose to use for self harm.

Our cats, Steve and Lola are very interested in the visiting varmint. Usually, when there's a strange cat in the back yard, they absolutely lose their shit, and start attacking each other, but apparently they know that raccoons aren't cats, so they're just enjoying their viewing of Potentially Rabid Raccoon with Twig.

Even if it is rabid, it's probably hungry, so I offer it some gluten-free Breton crackers. With flax seeds, because it'll probably like the flax oil, for its... mangy, wet coat. 

I toss the crackers towards the raccoon - who is completely oblivious and more than a little intent about holding onto its twig. It's mouth is opening and closing. Is it eating the twig? No, still making the wheezy noise and not chewing, really. It is more spasmodically grimacing... annnnnnnd... it has fallen sideways. This is totally a rabid raccoon.

The raccoon slides off the sofa and staggers to the door and looks at me and the cats. It then staggers off the deck towards the driveway. Steve, Lola and I all run to the side door. The raccoon now staggers across the road. So much staggering. Once it's across the road, I open the door and watch it offer a matinee performance of Stagger and Fall.

First thing that comes up when I google who to call in our town, is a suggestion that I contact Natural Resources Canada. Seriously? I can't imagine that they have a branch close enough to deal with this in a timely manner. None of the Ontario Wildlife Rescues are close by either.

According to the provincial website they say to contact the... local police force or OPP (in case of emergency). This is not an emergency... yet. When kids start walking home from school it could turn into something emergency-like. In my head, I now have an animated raccoon attacking random children. 

The animal control line is busy. I call the non-emergency police line. They want my details in case they need to contact me. And my birth date. Why they need my birth date has me wondering how many times they get prank calls about potentially rabid animals and how quickly a prank caller can come up with a mature sounding birthdate. 

In the midst of my extrapolation, Police Services say that they'll call it in and a car will be around soon. Might be time to put on a bra. I poke my head out the door again. Rocky Raccoon is now making its way towards another neighbour's house. I will grab popcorn late afternoon showing of Stagger and Fall: The Sequel

Kev? Buddy. What did you do?

As I'm writing at the kitchen table, I intermittently glance out the window - enjoying flashes of flora and fauna in our backyard. The Engleman's Ivy lushly embraces the pergola, the grass is green, there are birds and squirrels, and... a... fox? As I lean to the side of my computer screen, desperate to catch a glimpse of the suspected fox, I almost fall off my chair. I see a fluffy orangey tail disappear around the bushes at the bottom of our yard.

Two thoughts immediately dance around my frontal lobe:

DID I JUST SEE A FOX?!?

HOW CAN I MAKE FRIENDS WITH IT?!?

I'm up on my feet and out the back door. Taking a calm breath, I nonchalantly make my way towards the bushes. I pause at the edge of greenery. I do not want to startle the fox. Our friendship should be predicated on trust and respect. Plus, if a fox is comfortable in our backyard, who's to say that there won't also be a deer, a family of racoons and maybe a couple of porcupines? All living together, like a John Lewis Christmas advert!!

THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER!!!

I peer around the bushes.

There, not 20 feet away from me, in my very own backyard... huddling against the shed is... a... dog. A mixed-breed-tail-like-a-fox-probably-a-longhaired-chihuahua-crossed-with-a-corgi kinda dog. I register a moment of slight disappointment before bright-siding that I'm still pretty frickin' psyched to have the opportunity to befriend a new dog.

"Hey buddy! How are you?" I make no sudden movements. 

Now that I'm close enough to look at it properly, I'm pretty sure the wee beastie belongs to the alleged "Pharmaceutical Rep" from across the street. When I've seen it in the past, it's usually tied to the front stoop. It softly growls at me.

"It's okay buddy. You're okay." I take a slow step towards him. More growls.

I reverse my step. "No worries, bud. You are O-KAY." I hunker down and make the typical "tch-tch-tch-tch" noises that one uses when one is desperate to attract an animal. The dog neither growls, nor does it scamper over to leap into my arms.

"Dude," I say. "Hold on a sec!" I run to the house where I have emergency dog biscuits. 

I grab a large-breed biscuit and snap it into three smaller pieces as I make my way down the yard once more.

"Hey bud," I say, holding out a piece of biscuit 10 feet away from the dog. "Do you want a cookie?"

It cocks an eyebrow at me.

"Cookie?"

The dog take two small steps towards me, wagging its tail. I take a step towards the dog and it backs up and growls.

"No worries. No worries." I step back and toss a cookie. The dog grabs it in mid-air, a canine pro. "Good dog!!"

I start moving towards the front yard. "Okay, bud, come with me. I'll walk you home." I toss another cookie, which is immediately scarfed up. "Good dog!" I hunker down and offer another cookie. The dog moves towards me, tail wagging and takes the cookie from my hand. "Good dog!! What a good dog!!"

I walk to the driveway. "Let's get you home." The dog refuses to set foot on the driveway. It looks at the driveway - past the gravel to the road - and then back to me with sad, frightened eyes before booting it to the back yard where it hides behind the bushes again.

Well, now it really seems like the dog doesn't want to go home. Which means that the alleged 'Pharmaceutical Rep' is probably a terrible owner. So I'm going to have to adopt the dog. OBVIOUSLY. Which might be a little awkward for walking the dog, on account of the fact that we share the street with the alleged "Pharmaceutical Rep." So that means that I will either have to spray paint the dog with Just for Men hair colour to disguise it... or dye its fur. Dying the fur will probably be a better long-term solution. First, though, I need to look at its dog tags so that I can use its proper name. For that I will need more cookies. I grab supplies from the house and head to the back yard.

"Hey bud," I say, crouching down to offer a cookie. The dog comes right up to me. We are now friends. I hold the cookie in my left hand and reach very slowly with my right hand to take a gander at the dog's tags. And that is when the dog takes umbrage at my forwardness and bites me. Twice. Because it didn't have the right angle the first time. 

"It's okay buddy." The dog  has retreated several feet away. "You're okay. You're okay. I'm so sorry, I should have not tried to look at that tag. I shouldn't have done that. I recognize that now." I glance down, happy that my hand doesn't really seem... to be... bleeding... that much.   I begin to suspect that the dog and I may not be destined for a long-standing friendship. I heave a heartfelt sigh. I probably need to head over to the alleged "Pharmaceutical Rep's" house and bring him back over here to get his dog. 

I cross the street. I'm about to knock on the door when I hear voices in the backyard. 

"Oh, hey! Hi," I say, giving a jaunty wave with my non-wounded hand. There are two men in the backyard. One is standing and looks like he's visiting his alleged "Pharmaceutical Rep." The other is sitting and looks like he is the alleged "Pharmaceutical Rep." Not that I should be making any assumptions about anyone.

"Is anyone here missing a dog?"

"I am!" says the seated gent. "Where is he?"

"He's uh..." I glance down at my hand, which I am keeping surreptitiously down at my side. There is now a fairly steady stream of blood coming from the bite. "He's in my backyard. Does he have his..." I look at my hand again. "Shots?"

"Yeah! Yeah, he does! Did he bite you?"

"Oh, just a wee nip," I say.

"I'm so sorry! He ran away last night during the thunder storm and he wouldn't come back."

"Awwwww, poor guy! No worries, no worries. Yeah, he's uh... he's in my backyard - he didn't want to cross the road with me."

We walk over to my house and head back towards the shed. There's the dog, looking very apologetic for having bitten me.

"Kev," the alleged "Pharmaceutical Rep" says. "Kev. Buddy. What did you do?"

Okay. The dog's name is Kevin. Can we just marvel at that for a moment?

The guy scoops up Kevin, who lolls in his arms, looking like a fox-tailed, teddy bear now.  My new neighbour thanks me profusely for my help.

"Any time!" I say. I then walk into the house to deal with the fallout from my morning adventures.

"David? Can you help me upstairs for a second ?" Upstairs is where all the First Aid supplies live.

"Sure! What's up?"

"I just have a minor dog bite," I say.

I'm in the bathroom rinsing my wound when David appears Kramer-esque in the doorway. "You have a what?"

"A very small dog bite," I say, gently applying soap to the wound. Now that the adrenaline of having saved Kevin has worn off, I recognize that I am feeling a wee bit of pain.

"Jesus! Heather that's a  BITE." He peers closer. "That's actually two bites."

"Two relatively small bites." I give him the scoop on the action he's missed. Once I finish recounting my Choose-Your-Own-Adventure, I proudly exclaim, "This is the first time that I've ever been bitten by a dog."

"Which, given how often you approach animals, is a fucking miracle," says David, grabbing antibiotic ointment and some gauze. He looks at the expiry date. "November 2012? Seriously?"

"The good thing is that we don't need antibiotic ointment that often," I say. 

David is now in full-on trauma physician mode. He finds another tube of non-expired antibiotic ointment, then pulls my hand from under the water to generously apply it to Kevin's love bite. It immediately starts bleeding again. He cuts off 6 feet of gauze and wraps my hand. I now have a club for a hand. David looks manic.

"Did Kevin have his shots?" he asks.

"Yep. That's what his owner said."

"The drug dealer from across the street? That owner?"

"Alleged!" I say. "We don't know for sure why he has so many visitors come to his door at all hours who only stay for 2 minutes at a time."

After I'm bandaged up, I call my doctor's office and confirm that I've had a tetanus shot recently.  (You know, just in case the bites get infected by all those Kevin mouth germs.) BOO YEAH! 2019 BABY!! Then, Dr. Google tells me that I should  keep an eye on the wound and look out for signs of infection. Check. Doing that right now.

When I tell my friend Meaghan about the incident, she stops me when I get to the part about going to find the dog's owner.

"Excuse me? Instead of going inside to give yourself much needed First Aid for dog bites..."

"Just two small ones!"

She rolls her eyes at me. "Instead of taking care of your BLEEDING DOG BITES, you cross the street to the DRUG DEALER'S..."

"Alleged!"

She snorts. "You go to the ALLEGED drug dealer's house, whom you have NEVER met and you make sure that the DOG'S okay??"

"Kevin was really traumatized. I scared him."

"Did it ever occur to you that you should go inside and get David to go to the drug dealer and you should have gone to do First Aid?"

"No." 

"You're out of your fucking mind."

***

One month later... it strikes me that I never did have proof of Kevin's rabies vaccine. It also strikes me that I haven't seen Kevin out on his front stoop in the last month. There is a small part of me wondering if Kevin has perished from rabies.

I walk across the road and knock on the door. No answer. I knock again. Maybe they're out back. I walk up the driveway. The alleged "Pharmaceutical Rep" is talking on his phone with his back to me. 

"Excuse me?" I say. He doesn't hear me. "Excuse me?" Still nothing.

Then, I see Kevin. He is neither foaming at the mouth, nor staggering wildly. He's just walking by the deck, looking pretty unconcerned with the world at large. He doesn't see me. I don't want to stress him out, so I back down the driveway. Very pleased that I won't have rabies.

***

20 minutes later... You know how sometimes a thought just gets stuck in your head? I suspect that I'll be wanting to catch a glimpse of Kevin in another month's time.

***

2 weeks later... I've seen Kevin outside again  - pleased to report that he is still not foaming at the mouth. 

 

Wrestling with Lola at 3:00 a.m.

Lola is the most erratic of our three cats. She's the one whose pupils dilate to an alarming size as she stares at a point, just over your left shoulder, where a knife-wielding maniac has obviously taken up residence. She goes from 0 to feline parkour in less than a second. And she loves, loves, loves kneading your chest and throat at 3:00 a.m. 

Last night, as Lola was aggressively palpating my jugular with her forepaws and digging her needle sharp back claws into my torso, I physically encouraged her to move towards the end of the bed. I suspect that, in my sleep-drugged need to redistribute said cat, I probably grabbed her under her little cat armpits and shot-putted her from my chest. 

As I was settling back in to sleep, there was an odor. In the midst of my near comatose state, I thought to myself "I just dragged her ass against my pillow." Doing my best to ignore the whiff of cat ass, I turned towards David's side of the bed and eventually went back to sleep. 

This morning? I discovered that in my late-night jouncing of wee Lola - she had panicked. With her ass. Channeling the Archbishop of Canterbury, she basically used her ass as an aspergillum and delicately sprinkled anal gland fluid (dry heave) around the area from which she was evicted. I give thanks to every deity in the universe that she is not a Jackson Pollock fan... and that we had bleach in the house. 

Because a cat's the only cat who knows where it's at.

"Hey there Handsome," says Rissa.

"Well, HE-LLO!" I reply, modulating my voice to a lower, much sexier, register.

"I am not talking to you," she says. "I am talking to Steve, obviously."

"Obviously."

"Because he is the handsomest being in this house," she continues.

"Yes. Yes he is."

"Did I just lose a beauty pageant to a cat?" queries David from the living room.

"You did. Sorry love."

"I am offended."

"You don't have to be. Few can compete with Steve's perfection."

Grumble, grumble, grumble... from the living room.

"If it's any consolation, your tummy is much more attractive than his, since he started licking it bald."

"I'm not sure it is."

CATMAGEDDON!!!

Sure, the sound of cats having sex is impressive, but nothing can beat the noise of cats out to kill each other. That alarm clock has you leaping from your bed, blood-pressure skyrocketing, arms gesticulating wildly before your feet even hit the floor. Special Ops units use this sound to train their soldiers to be ALERT.

We have three cats: Minuit (10 lb black female, 13 years of age, crotchety, still suffering the effects from temporary paralysis of her back end 6 years ago, frequent vomiter), Steve (18 lb orange tom, 9 years of age, goofy, snuggly and terrified of Minuit) and Lola (8 lb black female, 9 years of age, the Audrey Hepburn of cats, apart from her habit of over grooming her nether regions).

About a year ago, Minuit started to dip her toe in the pool of feline dementia. Every three weeks or so, she'd hiss, growl and generally sound like the world was going to end - but only at Steve. She'd spend 65% of the day cuddling with Steve and Lola and 35% of her day wanting to kill Steve before then grooming him (literally) for his next attack.

Three weeks ago that pattern dramatically shifted. Minuit now attacks Steve daily - sometimes several times a day. Because her back end still doesn't work well, Steve has the easy escape of jumping higher than she can to get away, but once in his 'safe place,' she won't let him leave.

It was time to take action. With dread I took her to the vet, suspecting that it might be time for Minuit to shuffle off this mortal coil.

You see, we've got this rule. Each of our pets gets one round of veterinary extraordinary measures. One near-death experience that costs us several grand in vet fees. They all get one. After that, if the bill is more than $500, I call my friend Narda, our Pet Decision Proxy, and she says, "Put it down."

Minuit's extraordinary measures occurred 6 years ago when she was inexplicably paralyzed from her mid-back down. We did the express blood-work, we did the x-rays, she stayed overnight and in the end, short of exploratory surgery, the vet didn't know what had happened.

I was frank with Minuit. "Dude, you won't be able to use a litter box. I'm not that selfless. I am not shutting off a room in which you may languish and use as your personal litter box. It's not going to happen. You've gotta get your shit together." 

I may have used a gesture across my throat with an accompanying sound effect. Minuit got up, stumped her way out of the cat carrier, meowed determinedly at me, turned around and stumped her way back into the carrier. She was totally channeling John Young from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, "I'm not dead yet!"

She'd had her reprieve and she mostly came back from the paralysis, so it was good that we hadn't offed her. But now, now that she was losing her mind? My hopes weren't high for her returning home after seeing the vet. Our incredible vet looked at Minuit, and gave me my options. We decided on express bloodwork and urinalysis, and I'd leave her at the vet's so that they could get a urine sample. 

After having been away for 3 hours, when Minuit came out of the cat carrier the other two cats lost their minds. She smelled different. Cats don't like different. Steve attacked Minuit, Minuit hit back, Lola screamed at Steve, who in turned looked at me as if to say "WTF??" It made what we'd been dealing with before the vet trip look like child's play. Dozens of cat skirmishes lasted well into the night.

It turns out Minuit has thyroid disease. That makes two of us. (She's hyper and I'm hypo, but at least we now have a commonality of language and can commiserate.) I was to give her liquid thyroid meds and capsule anti-anxiety meds which could be sprinkled in her food. I managed to wrangle Minuit to successfully give her the liquid meds. The powder from the capsules? Another story.

Day One: I mix the capsule with mushed up wet cat food. Minuit eats it. 3:00 a.m. we awaken to Minuit attacking Steve.

Day Two: I mix the capsule with mushed up wet cat food. Minuit refuses to eat it. I add sour cream. She eats it. 2:00 a.m. we awaken to Minuit attacking Steve.

Day Three: I mix the capsule with sour cream. Minuit refuses to eat it. I add grated cheese. She eats it. 2:00 a.m., 4:00 a.m. and 7:00 a.m. she attacks Steve.

Day Four: I mix the capsule with grated cheese. Minuit refuses to eat it. I add fish oil. She eats it. She still attacks Steve.

Day Five: I visit the local pet supply store and stock up on homeopathic Bio-Calm liquid, high end cats foods and purees. I mix the capsule with high end wet cat food. Minuit refuses to eat it. Steve eats it. She attacks Steve. I give all the cats Bio-calm liquid in high end puree. Minuit attacks Steve - Steve growls.

Day Six: I give the other two cats Bio-calm liquid in cat food puree. For Minuit I just shove the anti-anxiety capsule down her throat. After which, she can barely walk. Her pupils are the size of saucers. She still wants to kill Steve, but now Steve is growling and whacking her on the head as it's been three weeks of this shit and he's had enough.

***

Day Fourteen: Everyone gets Bio-Calm liquid in various doses, twice a day. We visit the pet store and get Animal Rescue Remedy to drop in their water. I enjoy bourbon. David has several glasses of wine. Minor cat skirmishes can be heard, but we don't care as much. I think we might be able to...

Oh for the love of... 

"Get off of her! You! Quit hitting her! Minuit! Minuit! Let go of Lola!"

A clump of Lola's fur sticking out her mouth, Minuit looks at me all innocent-like. Steve is lying next to the piano completely content not to be Minuit's victim this time. Lola has doubled her body size in fur puff. I calmly reach for the Animal Rescue, dropping it into my palm before smoothing it all over all three cats. I look at the bottle, drop more into my palm and then rub my own face. In the last 10 minutes there have been no fights. Of course all three cats are in different rooms and it's not near feeding time, nor the middle of the night, but I'm calling this a success. 

"David? Do you want me to rub you with this too? I think it might be helping."

When Cats ATTACK!

THE CHARACTERS
Steve  - An orange Tom cat - goofy, playful, more than a little             bit dumb

Lola   - A very petite black cat - nervous, silly, terrified if you           pick her up.

Minuit - A rotund, older black cat - crotchety, belligerent, sounds           like Edward G. Robinson

Heather & David - unsuspecting humans

***

INT. KITCHEN

STEVE

Hey guys! Guys! there's a cat in 

our back yard. Hey GUYS!!

LOLA

 Hmmmm?
(returns to licking her stomach bald)

MINUIT

 "M...YEAH."

STEVE

Seriously, guys! Super cute cat in
the backyard - she's black and white
and kind of stripey...

LOLA sneaks a peek over STEVE'S shoulder at the window. She sees the outdoor cat, then looks at STEVE

LOLA
WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!?

STEVE

 Hunh?

LOLA (hissing) 

WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!?
HOW DID YOU GET IN MY HOUSE?!?

STEVE

Lola, it's me - Steve - your brother.

LOLA
(growling and hissing at Steve)
GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!! 

HOME INVASION!!!  THERE'S A HOME 

INVASION HAPPENING RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!!!

LOLA hits STEVE on the head several times and runs away.

MINUIT

(now growling and hissing at Lola)

WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!?

STEVE

Hey guys?  Guys?

MINUIT & LOLA

HOME INVADER!!!!

Lola runs up the stairs, followed closely by a snarling, unexpectedly-nimble Minuit.

INT. HUMAN'S BEDROOM

MINUIT 

WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!?

LOLA

I'm your sister!

MINUIT

I'VE NEVER SEEN YOU IN MY 

FUCKING LIFE!!!

LOLA
 (hiding under the bed)

Minuit, I'm your sister! 

MINUIT

GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE!! 

GET OUT!!!

HEATHER & DAVID

 (startled out of deep sleep)
What the fuck?

MINUIT

HOME INVADER!!!

LOLA

YOU'RE THE FUCKING HOME INVADER!!! 

STEVE

Hey guys! Guys? GUYS. It's all good.
We're good here.

MINUIT & LOLA

HOME INVADER!!!!

HEATHER

Minuit - STOP IT!!! Lola - get out from 

under the bed - jump up on something high. She can't

 follow you if you're up on something high. 

Minuit! It's Lola. Steve, just stay 

out of their way.

Snarling and hissing, all three cats leave the room.

DAVID
What just happened?

INT. CAT THERAPIST'S OFFICE

STEVE

It was like I was Captain America and they 

were both Bucky. They didn't know me. They 

could see me, but they didn't know me.

The Squirrel Nurser

Steve and Lola are looking out the kitchen's east window. Staccato tails twitch back and forth in tandem - something is definitely up. I figure it's our resident chipmunk taunting them from below the window.

"What's going on guys?" I ask, giving them both a scritch behind their ears before looking down.

My hand cames up to my mouth. Not a taunting chipmunk. A dead squirrel. A dead little squirrel. Flat upon our gravel driveway.

"Oh no," I say.

"What? What is it?" David asks from the loveseat.

"There's a dead squirrel outside."

"Oh."

We allow a silent moment of commiseration to make its way through the room. I look back out the window.

"WOAH!"

"What?"

"Not dead. It's not dead!" I watch as the supposedly flattened squirrel struggles up before lurching to drag itself under our Honda Civic.  "Oh, buddy. Not there. Don't go under the car. It's not going to be safe under the car."

"Leave it be," says David. "Heather, do not touch that squirrel." (One episode with feral kittens and subsequent rabies shots and I'm no longer given a lot of leeway with wild animals.)

"I won't. Its mother might be around."

I wait. I wait an entire 17 minutes before I go out and lie on the driveway, feeling the gravel leave its imprint on my stomach. Squinting, I can see the squirrel tucked in by the front right tire. It is still, not making a sound. If it is dead I'm going to have to move it so that we don't inadvertently squish its little squirrelly corpse. I shudder at the thought.  I look around. No mother squirrel anywhere.  Our driveway is not close to any real foliage - no overhanging branches - just three car lengths of gravel. 100 feet to the south, the bottom of the yard has trees and then 100 feet to the north there are more trees.

I go back inside.  I sit. I try to read.  I play Scrabble on Facebook, comment on some posts before I walk nonchalantly towards the dishtowel drawer.

"Don't you even think about it," says David.

"If it is dead, I don't want it to get squished."

"If it's alive, you're going to get bitten."

Temporarily deaf, I grab a tea towel and head back outside. The squirrel has crawled out from under the car and is again lying flat on the driveway. It doesn't even twitch as I approach.  Using the dishtowel as a makeshift glove I scoop up the squirrel. It barely struggles. I cradle the towel against my chest. This is bad. Wild animals don't like to be touched - it's letting me touch it. This sucker is going to die and I'm going to see it happen.

"Uhhhhh... David? Can you, uh... would you grab another towel and maybe the cushions from the storage unit?"

David sticks his head outside, takes one look and rolls his eyes. He then disappears for a moment before coming back with a hand towel from the 1/2 bath.  He's shaking his head as he pulls the outdoor cushions out and places them on the outdoor sofa. I very gently wrap the second towel around the first one and lower myself onto the sofa. The squirrel doesn't move. I open the tea towel and look down.

I touch a finger to its head. Nothing. I contemplate asking David for a miniature hand mirror so that I can check that it's still breathing, when it shifts slightly. Still alive.

"Would you grab me a syringe with some water?" I ask. The squirrel opens its eyes, giving me a paralyzed look of horror. "It's okay buddy. We're just going to get you some water so that you don't become squirrel jerky." My suggestion doesn't seem to impress the critter. 

"If I were a syringe, where would I be?" David asks. 

"Maybe in the first aid kit?  Oh, or maybe above the stove where the pet pill crusher is."

He returns with the syringe.

The squirrel lets me drop water into its mouth before burrowing down into the tea towel, nuzzling into my cleavage and closing its eyes. I look down at him and I swear to God, my boobs start to tingle. 

"Oh, good God," I say.

"What?"

"You know how when I see a nursing Mom, my boobs get all tingly and I feel like I might actually have milk?"

"You're not."

"I am."

David winces. "Uhhhhh... You, uhhhh... You're not..."

"Dude, I'm not going to try and nurse a baby squirrel. I'm just saying that my boobs are going all maternal on me. Besides, if we're being 100% frank here, this sucker wouldn't get 1/8 of my nipple in its mouth. Plus... squirrel teeth."

"Just when I think you won't go past a line..."

I enjoy a squirrel nap in our backyard before Rissa and her boyfriend name the wee rodent Edwin Von Lichtenstein. We foster Edwin for the weekend before David transports him to a Wildlife Centre where he is placed with other adolescent squirrels. This was his last feeding before we said goodbye. Godspeed Edwin.

Cat Olympics

CRASH!!!

"What the???"  David, Rissa and I all turn towards the laundry closet, from whence the sound emerged.  When had we docked a ship back there and how had it broken free from its moorings?

"What was that?"  We all look at each other, on the cusp of Rock, Paper, Scissors, Lizard, Spocking  for who gets to discover the damage.

"I'll go," I offer.  I creep towards the area of the ruckus.  The box that holds the dryer sheets and lingerie bags is now on the floor - the accordion drying rack is askew on the wall.   On the stacked dryer sits Lola, the smallest of our cats.  The dryer sits at least 6.5 feet off the floor.  The upright freezer from which she obviously jumped, upon which the laundry accouterments rested, is at least 5.5 feet high (165cm).

"How did you get up there?" I ask.

 "Is that Lola?"

"It is.  She's on the dryer."

"How did she get up there?"

"I think she jumped up onto the freezer and then bounced from there to the dryer."  I look at Lola  "Is that what you did?" I ask.

Lola remains coquettishly silent.  She's our cat who can jump straight up in the air and then insert herself perpendicularly at that ascent.  No scrabbling, no clawing. It's kinda spectacular. 

Or at least I thought it was until I saw this video.  If Lola has a shot at the 2018 Cat Olympics we're going to have to up her game.

Those aren't moths.

I'm looking into the back yard.  Big, fluffy snowflakes are falling...

"It's snowing!"

"Seriously?"  The rest of the household does not appear as thrilled with early spring snow.

Strange though - it's only snowing in our yard.

"Wait, they're not snowflakes - they're not just falling down, they're sort of moving in other directions.  Moths?  Are those big-ass moths?"

"There are big-ass moths in the backyard?"

"Weird right?  Are we supposed to have massive amounts of moths at the end of March?"  I say, pleased with my own alliteration.

I look a bit closer.  Now the moths appear bigger and more oblong, like there are families of moths... and they all seem to be flying in from the left side of the yard.

"Those aren't moths."

"What are they?"

"Feathers.  They are white feathers."  I cock my head to the side, considering what I'm seeing.  "There is some sort of bird sitting on the fence, plucking another bird."

"There is what?"

"There is a small bird of prey - like a hawk, or a kestral or something and it is plucking whatever other bird that it caught... on our fence."

David and Rissa come to stand with me at the back door and regard this Mutual Of Omaha moment.

Rissa shudders.  "That's nasty."

David shrugs. "That's nature."

"That is repulsively cool," I say. 

"I have to say I'm a little bit impressed," says David.

"Why?" Rissa asks.  She looks queasy.

"The bird it's plucking is practically its same size. How did it get it up there?"

"Ewwwwwww!" from Rissa.

David and Rissa go about their morning business. I find myself unable to look away from the window. "How is it that it never occurred to me that a bird would pluck another bird to eat it?"

"Because WHY would you contemplate such a thing?"

"It makes perfect sense.  You can't get to the... uh... fleshy... red... bits...."

Rissa looks out the window. "Ewwwwwwwww!"

"...without plucking the feathers away.  That's a determined bird. Maybe it's a chicken hawk!"

"What is a chicken hawk?" asks Rissa.

"I'm a chicken hawk!" I say in my best Henery Hawks accent.

"Ahhh say, ahhh say, ahhh say, son..." says David.

Rissa looks at him like he's nuts.  "What are you doing?"

"Foghorn Leghorn."

"What's Foghorn Leghorn?"

"We've failed as parents.  Quick! Remedial cartoons!"

This teachable moment brought to you by ornithological carnage.

The reason for all those baby/kitten/puppy videos #2016Election

The stress of the 2016 Presidential election has my lower intestines in Stevedore Stopper knots.  I'm not even American.  The outcome of the election won't really affect me as someone north of the 42nd.  I mean, apart from all the anti-Hillary Republicans who are threatening to move to Canada should the Democrats win and the anti-Trump Democrats/Independents who are threatening to move to Canada should the Donald win.

If Trump wins and he builds a wall across the US/Mexican border - it won't affect me.  If Hillary wins and it turns out there are even MORE emails that she didn't safeguard appropriately -  it won't affect me.  If Trump wins and throws Hillary into jail - it won't affect me.  If Hillary wins and raises taxes on wealthy Americans - it won't affect me. If Trump wins and he repeals the Clean Air Act - it won't... wait a second...  If Hillary wins and there is a Second Revolutionary War - it won't... uh... I'm really close to that northern border.

It's the end of the world as we know it!! 
Deep cleansing breaths, deep cleansing breaths... 

Hey everyone look! Baby ostrich racing cars.






And these are ANIMALS jumping on TRAMPOLINES!

Kittens and puppies with babies!

Dogs meeting kittens for the first time.

It's a baby who laughs when you tear paper!

And then if you really start freaking out and you need to take control back - channel your inner Jesse Jane McParland.

Easy, Action...

"Hor-ORRR-ork!  Gaaaaaaag!  Pwaaaa!"

"You sound like you're doing "Cool" - the vomit version," says Rissa. *

I'm brushing my teeth.  Every morning, when I get to the brushing my tongue part, I can't seem to get past my gag reflex.

"Pwaaaaa!" I spit.    "We'd need some added percussion for it though.  It'd be like snap, snap, snap, snap... 'Haaaaaack!'  snap, snap, snap, snap... 'Hunnnng-ah!' and then the dude would be all, "Easy, Action" and rubbing the guy's back while offering him a bowl to puke into."

"Or it could be someone choking, virtually the same noises, but with a person Heimliching the dude..." Rissa chimes in.

Then, of course we need to reenact the entire song with barf/choking accompaniment, you know, 'cause that's what we do.

Once I make it big on The Great White Way, I'm totally going to do that for Forbidden Broadway - we'll have a revival show.  There will also be a chicken chorus singing Poulet-Vous.  

* One of the most memorable songs/dances from any musical.

How long have you been having sex with the octopus?

David asks.

"Hmmmm?"

"The octopus sex.  How long has it been going on?"

"Cupping.  It was cupping.  There was no octopus involved."

"Are you sure?  Evidence suggests otherwise."

"It was cupping."

"Cupping...?"

"Suction cupping.  At the massage appointment."

"She put suction cups on you."  He is appalled by this explanation.

"May I remind you of Exhibit A my friend?"  I point enthusiastically at my back  "EXHIBIT A."

"This was done by  suction cups?"  David looks horrified.  "No."

"No?"

"No.  We are going to say that you had sex with an octopus."

"Because why?"

"Because when you say suction cupping all I can think of is the Man in Black screaming in agony in the Pit of Despair."

"Fair enough.  So is it better to say sex with an octopus or sex with a giant squid?"

"OCTOPUS!!  OH MY GOD - OF COURSE OCTOPUS!!! GIANT SQUIDS ARE POSSIBLY THE MOST TERRIFYING ANIMAL IN THE UNIVERSE!!"

"Sex with an octopus it is then."

How did the serpent get in the frother?!?

"GAAAAAAAHHHH!!!  HOLY MOTHER OF...!!!" 
I flap the dish towel in my panic.

"What?  What is it?"  Rissa asks.

"Treacherous insect!!"

"What!?!"

"Okay, so you know how when you said that there was a cobra in the kitty litter?"

"I didn't say there was a cobra in the kitty litter," Rissa says, peeking around the corner from the stairwell.   "I said that it was very AMMONIA-Y.  Though that would be much worse than just the ammonia smell."

"So I had cobra on the brain.  And then in my peripheral vision at the sink, I see this red slitted eye in the frother - which was obviously from a red-eyed serpent..."

"...Obviously..." She continues to scoop litter.

"...although why a serpent would choose to crawl into a frother is beyond me - so it made me jump..."

"...and scream..."  She sprinkles the baking soda.

"...and scream.  But on second glance it was a ladybug on the rim of the askew frother lid just peeking out."

"How could you confuse...?"

"Some serpents have red eyes."

"Really...?"

I shrug.  "The tormenting serpents do."  I turn back to the sink to finish drying the--  "GAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!"

"Where is the ladybug now?"

"On the handle of the frother."

p.s.

So, when I went hunting for a picture of a red eyed serpent to prove my hypothesis - this movie poster came up right away... and I would just like to draw everyone's attention to the RED eyes of the sea serpent...

Plus... The tag line at the top is worth the price of admission my friends!

"FABULOUS!  SPECTACULAR! TERRIFYING!
The raw courage of women without men lost in a fantastic HELL-ON-EARTH!"

That there?  1950s pay dirt!

p.p.s.

And there IS SO at least one type of snake that has red eyes - the Ruby-Eyed Viper.



p.p.p.s.

Plus this one, which is pretty much the embodiment of the reason I was screaming in the first place.  And if there were more spots on its eye it could totally be mistaken for a ladybug. Or vice-versa.

Feline induced funk

"We need to kill all the cats."

"Huh?"

I am lying on my side in bed, eyebrows so low that I can feel them on my upper lip.

"WE. NEED. TO. KILL. ALL. THE. CATS."

"You don't mean that.  You love the cats."

"4:45!"

"Hmmm?"

"4 FUCKING 45 this morning Minuit with her fishy kibble cat breath and her petulant 'MEH' was in my face.  And then when I tried to ignore her she copped a feel and nipped at my nose."

"I'm sorry love."

"Why?  It's not your fault...  ...   ...  Wait, it IS your fault.  You closed the bedroom door last night and she was trapped inside with us which means that at 4 FUCKING 45 a.m. (because she is terrified of you) I was the only person she could wake up to let her out."  I open one glaring eye at David.  "And then... and THEN... fucking Lola comes in at 6:45 and breathes on me and fucking chirps at me."

"So this would have nothing to do with the fact that you didn't sleep well all weekend because you drank too much wine and it gave you hot flashes, and this just happened to be night three of poor sleep?"

"And what the fuck is THAT about?  All I want is to enjoy a good bottle of wine and by bottle, I don't even mean bottle, I mean two glasses.  Why am I being punished?"  I roll onto my stomach softly sobbing.  "I hate peri-menopause.  I hate cats."

"No, you don't.  You cross traffic to pet them."

"I hate cats this morning," I huff.   I think about what I've actually verbalized and reconsider my stance on cat euthanasia.    "We don't have to kill them all.  Minuit and Lola will be sent to Kitty Boarding School.  Steve can stay.  STEVE!  YOU CAN STAY, but your sisters are being shipped off to learn the error of their ways."

The House Hippo...

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!" from Rissa downstairs.

"What?  What is it?"  I bolt to the top of the stairs.

"This!  JUST. LOOK. AT. THESE. PICTURES!"

"What are you looking at!?!" 

"I signed up for the House Hippo Instagram feed..."

Oh thank God... She hadn't found any of those pictures...

House Hippos AKA Skinny Pigs AKA Hairless Guinea Pigs.  She has been obsessed ever since she discovered them at our local Buskers Fest's Crazy Creatures booth.  It was love at first sight.

"GAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!  It's SO CUTE!!!"

Even I have to admit that I dig them.  I mean, what's not to love?  They're like naked mole rats but so much cuter.

She devoted several hours one afternoon to finding house hippo names for a pet she will probably not have until she's in university.

Boys	Girls
Cédrique	Aurelia
Ignatius	Helena
Lysander	Hermia
Demitrius	Bambina
Constantine	Celeste
Aloysius	Edna
Wolfgang	Wilhelmina
Remus	Maude
Sirius	Harriet
Bartholomew
Bram
Elwood
Paco
Tom
Inigo (Montoya)

    


















By reading her list of names you can glean pretty much all of her media influences:  A Midsummer Night's Dream, Harry Potter, The Incredibles, The Blues Brothers, Love Actually, Studio 60, clowning, cartoons... My favourite: Inigo with (Montoya) in brackets because you know that although she would call it Inigo she would be thinking Montoya in brackets 100% of the time.