Yesterday, a strange kitty was in our backyard. I had no idea how she got in, but Jesper was close to having an apoplectic fit for half an hour until she extruded herself under the door in the 6-foot fence that walls "our" property off from the alleyway that runs behind the stone houses on our street.
I told Caspian about it, mentioning that our other cat, Kiska, would fit under that space, but he said, "She's a little chicken, she'd never want to leave." He has a point. She's tiny, snow white, and has been terrified every day of her 4 years of life that Caspian and I are going to catch her and eat her. The only "person" she trusts is Jesper.
Caspian lets both kitties out in the backyard every morning while he's getting ready for work. They love exploring and romping around, and until yesterday, I was quite sure that the entire garden was securely enclosed. I watched with trepidation as both kitties joyously zoomed out of the house, but I sat down to eat and do some reading and prepare for my day. Soon enough, Caspian was finished showering and dressing and making his lunch, and he went outside to forcibly get Jesper (who would never under any circumstances come back inside of his own volition). Jesper was easy to find, but he didn't see Kiska. Usually she scrambles back inside as soon as a person sets foot in the backyard. He hunted around a bit and I finally noticed that he couldn't find her. He came back in and looked under the bed, but no Kiska.
I about had a heart attack; I am ashamed to say that I was probably closer to fainting than I've been in a long, long time! I checked all of her haunts inside, no kitty, and then went out back in my bare feet. I said, "KIKA!" Just one repetition of her nickname and I saw four white paws on the alley side of the fence door, and then, to my endless shock and amazement, she squirted herself into the garden through the tiny hole under the door, galloped through the yard and disappeared inside.
Cats are not nearly as daft as I think they are. Mine seem ditzy at times, always silly, and, in Kika's case, so terrified of everything, including large moths, that I'd imagined she'd pop with terror if she ever escaped our little abode. But she's brave, curious... And apparently knows where her home is. She remembered! And even though she worries that I'm going to chop her up and stew her, she comes running when I call her name.
When I first adopted her over three years ago from her foster home, I took her home and set her free in my apartment, and that was the last I saw of her for three months. She was underweight and had been treated poorly by children. Her food disappeared, her poop appeared in the litter box, but as soon as I came into the room, she would hide as quickly as possible. I wasn't bothered by this; every kitty deserves a safe, clean place to live and eat, and a companion to play and snuggle up with, even the very shy ones. It irks me that few people choose shy cats. Apparently, only social, pliant animals are deserving of our affection because they fulfill our selfish desire for love and obeisance in return.
After three months, she finally realized that she wasn't in imminent danger of being devoured, and she allowed me to touch her. It was thrilling! I had courted her and watched her with love and spoken to her in a soft voice for so long; to pet her was like receiving a rare gift. It's always like this with her. It took her a year to be able to stand still in my presence, and another year for her to feel comfortable sprawling on the floor in the same room. She has become sleek and healthy and gently rounded. She is a quiet (except when we're eating dinner), wild thing, so beautiful and dainty. When she asks us for pets, it's such a special thing to realize that we are the only two people in the world that she loves.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Mmmmdnb...
And ubiquitous UK popjargon. Silver Spaceman gets me through the dishes in record time and sick stylee.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
In Which Cats are Shaved
Today I helped shave my first cat.
Not long after the misadventures of the previous post, I was rummaging around in Jesper's fuzzy orange fur and discovered many, many mats. They seem to be worse at this time of year, as he's shedding his cold weather coat. I decided that he required a haircut.
I called up the veterinary clinic that my landlord referred; they would give him a mandatory exam and then anesthetize him to groom him, all for the reasonable price of $140. There had to be a better way. Then, I remembered a tiny pet shop owned by a hilariously gruff yet completely softhearted Serbian man on Ste Catherine, and lo and behold, when I looked the place up on Google, it had been given 5 stars for excellent grooming services. I gave the store a call.
The owner answered with a blunt, "Yeah?" And I was like, "Um, I have a long-haired cat here with mats and --" and then he broke in with, "Yeah, bring him in right now, we'll shave him." Shave? I dunno about that; maybe they will negotiate? And so I loaded Jesper in his crate and meandered through the heat-shimmering streets. The pet store was a miraculously peaceful land of cats and dogs roaming freely; there are maybe 6 or 7 pet shop cats and 4 or 5 dogs of various breeds (there was a purebred husky, a boxer mix, a bichon frise or mini poodle mix and an indeterminate mutt) living in relative harmony. When he thought nobody was looking, the husky helped himself to some merchandise (a piece of rawhide) from a bin, surreptitiously and masterfully removed its shrinkwrap and ferreted it off to a corner. I think he's done it before.
As soon as the owner saw me, he yelled something in Serbian and a young woman my age emerged from the back. Yelena took me back to the grooming area, and she was so sweet and kind and gentle as she held Jesper and spoke to him as she worked. I held him in various positions so that she could reach his tummy and hindquarters. He wasn't happy and kept hiding his face in her chest, and growled if the grooming tool approached his privates, but in an hour, his body was completely shorn! He looks like a little lion, with big fluffy paws, a glorious mane and a skinny little kitty body. I was extremely pleased by the experience. Jesper... Not so much. He's quite infuriated with me. But now his fur will grow in much better and we will care for it properly to make sure it doesn't develop snarls again.
As we worked, I asked Yelena about her life. She and her family came to Canada fleeing the war, and she went to a French high school; she is fluent in English, French, Serbian and Russian. Really cool lady. I asked her if it was common for cat owners to bring their cats in to be shorn, and she said that she usually shaves 1 or 2 per day! Apparently, owners want to avoid omnipresent cat fuzz and hairballs, long-haired cats don't get so overheated in the summer, and Yelena claims that cats really enjoy the feeling of being pet over their little velvety shorn bodies. She shaves the 7 pet store cats every 6 months, in rotation.
Not long after the misadventures of the previous post, I was rummaging around in Jesper's fuzzy orange fur and discovered many, many mats. They seem to be worse at this time of year, as he's shedding his cold weather coat. I decided that he required a haircut.
I called up the veterinary clinic that my landlord referred; they would give him a mandatory exam and then anesthetize him to groom him, all for the reasonable price of $140. There had to be a better way. Then, I remembered a tiny pet shop owned by a hilariously gruff yet completely softhearted Serbian man on Ste Catherine, and lo and behold, when I looked the place up on Google, it had been given 5 stars for excellent grooming services. I gave the store a call.
The owner answered with a blunt, "Yeah?" And I was like, "Um, I have a long-haired cat here with mats and --" and then he broke in with, "Yeah, bring him in right now, we'll shave him." Shave? I dunno about that; maybe they will negotiate? And so I loaded Jesper in his crate and meandered through the heat-shimmering streets. The pet store was a miraculously peaceful land of cats and dogs roaming freely; there are maybe 6 or 7 pet shop cats and 4 or 5 dogs of various breeds (there was a purebred husky, a boxer mix, a bichon frise or mini poodle mix and an indeterminate mutt) living in relative harmony. When he thought nobody was looking, the husky helped himself to some merchandise (a piece of rawhide) from a bin, surreptitiously and masterfully removed its shrinkwrap and ferreted it off to a corner. I think he's done it before.
As soon as the owner saw me, he yelled something in Serbian and a young woman my age emerged from the back. Yelena took me back to the grooming area, and she was so sweet and kind and gentle as she held Jesper and spoke to him as she worked. I held him in various positions so that she could reach his tummy and hindquarters. He wasn't happy and kept hiding his face in her chest, and growled if the grooming tool approached his privates, but in an hour, his body was completely shorn! He looks like a little lion, with big fluffy paws, a glorious mane and a skinny little kitty body. I was extremely pleased by the experience. Jesper... Not so much. He's quite infuriated with me. But now his fur will grow in much better and we will care for it properly to make sure it doesn't develop snarls again.
As we worked, I asked Yelena about her life. She and her family came to Canada fleeing the war, and she went to a French high school; she is fluent in English, French, Serbian and Russian. Really cool lady. I asked her if it was common for cat owners to bring their cats in to be shorn, and she said that she usually shaves 1 or 2 per day! Apparently, owners want to avoid omnipresent cat fuzz and hairballs, long-haired cats don't get so overheated in the summer, and Yelena claims that cats really enjoy the feeling of being pet over their little velvety shorn bodies. She shaves the 7 pet store cats every 6 months, in rotation.
About Those Public Libraries You Have to Pay For
The United States has horrible infrastructure, virtually no public transportation, awful schools and an obesity epidemic... But at least its public libraries are free and open to the public.
I was up bright and early on this the final day of vacation, armed with ID and satchel, and strolled the 2 miles to Westmount "Public" Library. It's a beautiful place, right on the edge of a lovely park shaded by castles of the rich and snobby that meander up the slopes of Mont Royal. I breezed in through the doors with a herd of elderly ladies, found the circulation desk and asked the clerk what I needed to do to be a member of this elegant "public" library.
In this terrible, horrible nasal Canadian accent, she asked me with pursed lips where I lived. I told her the street, and she said, "That's in Montreal, not Westmount."
I looked at her in consternation. Sure, Westmount is a neighborhood, but it's in the very center of Montreal. So I mentally rolled my eyes and said, "And what does that mean?" She informed me that I would have to pay an exorbitant yearly fee to access the library, as I was not one of the privileged residents of The "City" of Westmount. Oh, and I'd also have to prove that I don't live in Westmount by presenting a utility bill. I guess Westmount is like a papal state, holy and with its own zipcode and shit. I asked her how much it costs for people who work and/or live in Westmount, and she looked at me haughtily and said, "Why, our library is free to Westmount patrons." Some effing public library.
That's socioeconomic, linguistic and geographic discrimination! So, the rich, white, English-speaking residents of Westmount get free access to one of the most beautiful libraries in the city, and us lowly so-called Montrealers have to break the bank for the same privilege? It should be the other way around! I stomped out of there ASAP and engaged in a bit of consolation shopping at Alexis Nihon.
Then I went home, fueled up with scrambled eggs and Gatorade, and marched my furious white butt to Atwater Library, an unaffiliated nonprofit library located in a beautiful heritage building. I discovered that this library charged a flat fee of $20 per year for all memberships regardless of neighborhood of residence.
I met D, a bizarre old British lady with an intense love for putting books neatly away. I also met D2, a short, rotund man with the fastest typing fingers in the West and the thickest glasses I've ever seen. There was also V, a formidable, heavily-rouged, jewel-encrusted lady who took one look at my long and outlandish first name and said, "I'm glad you're built like a brick house [she traced an hourglass figure with her hands in the air] and not a refrigerator; you totally own that name." I was shocked and amused for two seconds and then she was launching into an operatic rendition of some song (by whoever wrote "Leroy Brown" apparently) that refers to a roller derby girl "built like a refrigerator." How she made these connections I will never know.
And finally, I met L, the shyest, politest guy with the most obvious crush on me.
I made sure that everybody at the circulation desk at Atwater Library knew how much I enjoyed the hilarious experience of signing up for a membership, and I loudly pooh-poohed Westmount "Public" Library, Westmount proper and the posh old sticks who live there (AND PARTAKE IN FREE LIBRARY SERVICES).
AND I got the two books I wanted.
I was up bright and early on this the final day of vacation, armed with ID and satchel, and strolled the 2 miles to Westmount "Public" Library. It's a beautiful place, right on the edge of a lovely park shaded by castles of the rich and snobby that meander up the slopes of Mont Royal. I breezed in through the doors with a herd of elderly ladies, found the circulation desk and asked the clerk what I needed to do to be a member of this elegant "public" library.
In this terrible, horrible nasal Canadian accent, she asked me with pursed lips where I lived. I told her the street, and she said, "That's in Montreal, not Westmount."
I looked at her in consternation. Sure, Westmount is a neighborhood, but it's in the very center of Montreal. So I mentally rolled my eyes and said, "And what does that mean?" She informed me that I would have to pay an exorbitant yearly fee to access the library, as I was not one of the privileged residents of The "City" of Westmount. Oh, and I'd also have to prove that I don't live in Westmount by presenting a utility bill. I guess Westmount is like a papal state, holy and with its own zipcode and shit. I asked her how much it costs for people who work and/or live in Westmount, and she looked at me haughtily and said, "Why, our library is free to Westmount patrons." Some effing public library.
That's socioeconomic, linguistic and geographic discrimination! So, the rich, white, English-speaking residents of Westmount get free access to one of the most beautiful libraries in the city, and us lowly so-called Montrealers have to break the bank for the same privilege? It should be the other way around! I stomped out of there ASAP and engaged in a bit of consolation shopping at Alexis Nihon.
Then I went home, fueled up with scrambled eggs and Gatorade, and marched my furious white butt to Atwater Library, an unaffiliated nonprofit library located in a beautiful heritage building. I discovered that this library charged a flat fee of $20 per year for all memberships regardless of neighborhood of residence.
I met D, a bizarre old British lady with an intense love for putting books neatly away. I also met D2, a short, rotund man with the fastest typing fingers in the West and the thickest glasses I've ever seen. There was also V, a formidable, heavily-rouged, jewel-encrusted lady who took one look at my long and outlandish first name and said, "I'm glad you're built like a brick house [she traced an hourglass figure with her hands in the air] and not a refrigerator; you totally own that name." I was shocked and amused for two seconds and then she was launching into an operatic rendition of some song (by whoever wrote "Leroy Brown" apparently) that refers to a roller derby girl "built like a refrigerator." How she made these connections I will never know.
And finally, I met L, the shyest, politest guy with the most obvious crush on me.
I made sure that everybody at the circulation desk at Atwater Library knew how much I enjoyed the hilarious experience of signing up for a membership, and I loudly pooh-poohed Westmount "Public" Library, Westmount proper and the posh old sticks who live there (AND PARTAKE IN FREE LIBRARY SERVICES).
AND I got the two books I wanted.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
We're Home!
I just glanced at my last post to get oriented - June 5th?! Two whole weeks ago, and it feels like two days have passed.
Caspian and I rolled in at around 2 AM last night after a 14-hour drive from VA, where we stayed with Natty and Pepper for eight days. As soon as I stepped out of the car, I discovered a well-dressed young man urinating in my neighbor's beautiful irises.
I ate (and I am only listing the unhealthy stuff):
Caspian and I rolled in at around 2 AM last night after a 14-hour drive from VA, where we stayed with Natty and Pepper for eight days. As soon as I stepped out of the car, I discovered a well-dressed young man urinating in my neighbor's beautiful irises.
I ate (and I am only listing the unhealthy stuff):
- Chick-fil-a with biscuits
- Three or four generous pieces of ultra-dense death-by-chocolate cake
- Several homemade cookies crammed full of Ghirardelli dark chocolate wafers
- Plenty of ice cream with chocolate sauce
- A kilo of Twizzlers (not exaggerating)
- Tons of southern pork and chicken barbecue
- Boulder-sized hush puppies deep fried to a deep brown and slathered with marmalade butter
- White chicken chili infused with plenty of crème fraiche
- Chocolate pudding
- Mountains of movie popcorn with pretzel M&Ms and Skittles
- Chicken nuggets and a pile of fries
- At least a bottle of Prosecco, half a bottle of wine, half a pitcher of Newcastle, a margarita
- A box of Lucky Charms
My exercise:
- 5 or 6 miles hiked in the Cascades (or ran, since I had to pee really bad for almost that entire hike)
- 13 miles jogged along the Roanoke River and on the Roanoke Mtn. trails
- 1.5 miles wandered around the neighborhood, looking for cats to pet
- 1 hour of ultra-deep massage (I felt like I had lifted weights for 3 hours the next morning)
- Three hours of dancing
I gained:
- 1.5 lbs.
I feel like I made out okay! Not scot-free, but I definitely enjoyed myself without restraints (well, I did kick myself the whole time for eating crap, but if that was my payment for 1.5 lbs. gained, it was totally worth it). My parents gifted us with five additional 5-piece place settings of our Portuguese spal porcelain wedding dishware and had them expedited to N&P's house so we could drive them back to Québec ourselves. At the border, at around midnight, I was so loopy that I told the customs officer that they were worth $3000.
More later!
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Oy vey.
Despite oversleepings and apocalyptic nap dreams (naps are unavoidable after oversleeping) involving falling down a mineshaft in Arizona in a pitch-black, out-of-control elevator after being chased by sentient bulldozers speaking German (Hitler apparently won the war?), I will post. I'm not precisely in the most buoyant of moods, but there is chicken pie in the oven and Caspian and I will be making margarita-esque drinks in our new blender (we actually received about 10-15% of the stuff on our modest wedding registry and have been slowly acquiring the needed items ourselves, one by one). I say margarita-esque because we will be ditching the cointreau and adding puréed raspberries, and perhaps an extra splash of tequila beyond the 4 parts in the classic recipe.
Our car is rented, our taxes are belatedly done (US taxes are allowed to be quite late, due to our foreign address and the fact that we had to do taxes for two countries) with fabulous results, a kitty-sitter has been procured and I have one more week of work before a much-needed vacation.
I have seen a whole pile of movies in the past week: Iron Man 2 (fun!), The Orphanage (incredible and completely demented), Bridesmaids (I laughed until I cried), X-Men: First Class (I LOVED IT AND ESPECIALLY MAGNETO :X) and V for Vendetta (well, it was actually the 2nd time, but dayum, Hugo Weaving's voice is mesmerising). I think Hugo Weaving possesses the paragon of English-speaking voices.
Felix is speaking French more and more in person and over the phone, and I can't decide if he's doing it by accident or on purpose, to improve my ear. It sounds completely accidental, almost like he's taking for granted the fact that I understand him, when he used to meticulously translate each tiny phrase into English (to practice for himself, I think). I so desperately want to be bilingual. Unfortunately, I was getting a migraine in the car after our practice yesterday morning and he was relentless about making me pronounce rouge and rire properly. Which I can't. Arrrrgh, French.
We had a long discussion about the pragmatism of English vs. the conventions of French. For example, accents in English are common. It is, for good or ill, the language of international business. Hearing and accepting and enjoying accentation, even and especially within the realm of native English, is as natural to me as breathing, yet Felix insists that there is only one true way to speak each French word; anything different is not French. He told me his sister slightly rolls her Rs, and that it's wrong. His brother speaks through his nose, and it's wrong. Felix is such a purist. Caspian uses much harsher consonants than I do (which I had never noticed until Raomi pointed it out to me), but his version of English is just as valid. I think it has to do with culture more than language. I don't even notice accents half the time.
Oh man, this "margarita" is killer. Probably 5 parts raspberries, 8 parts tequila, 4 parts lime, and ice. And a smidge of sugar.
Our car is rented, our taxes are belatedly done (US taxes are allowed to be quite late, due to our foreign address and the fact that we had to do taxes for two countries) with fabulous results, a kitty-sitter has been procured and I have one more week of work before a much-needed vacation.
I have seen a whole pile of movies in the past week: Iron Man 2 (fun!), The Orphanage (incredible and completely demented), Bridesmaids (I laughed until I cried), X-Men: First Class (I LOVED IT AND ESPECIALLY MAGNETO :X) and V for Vendetta (well, it was actually the 2nd time, but dayum, Hugo Weaving's voice is mesmerising). I think Hugo Weaving possesses the paragon of English-speaking voices.
Felix is speaking French more and more in person and over the phone, and I can't decide if he's doing it by accident or on purpose, to improve my ear. It sounds completely accidental, almost like he's taking for granted the fact that I understand him, when he used to meticulously translate each tiny phrase into English (to practice for himself, I think). I so desperately want to be bilingual. Unfortunately, I was getting a migraine in the car after our practice yesterday morning and he was relentless about making me pronounce rouge and rire properly. Which I can't. Arrrrgh, French.
We had a long discussion about the pragmatism of English vs. the conventions of French. For example, accents in English are common. It is, for good or ill, the language of international business. Hearing and accepting and enjoying accentation, even and especially within the realm of native English, is as natural to me as breathing, yet Felix insists that there is only one true way to speak each French word; anything different is not French. He told me his sister slightly rolls her Rs, and that it's wrong. His brother speaks through his nose, and it's wrong. Felix is such a purist. Caspian uses much harsher consonants than I do (which I had never noticed until Raomi pointed it out to me), but his version of English is just as valid. I think it has to do with culture more than language. I don't even notice accents half the time.
Oh man, this "margarita" is killer. Probably 5 parts raspberries, 8 parts tequila, 4 parts lime, and ice. And a smidge of sugar.
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