When are people going to learn that animals are not just fashion accessories?

Betty is not doing well. He went off his food last night and is neither eating or drinking. If it were not for his IV (antibiotics and pain medication) dehydration would be a real worry.

My morning navigation of the morass that is animal control in Canada was eye opening. The laws are not even consistent within a province, let alone the country, and a dog labelled dangerous and subject to immediate euthanization (no appeal, no anything) in one municipality cannot even have his record of aggression and unprovoked attack shared with other jurisdictions. So this dog (which was off leash off his own property--against the bylaws) and committed two unprovoked attacks on a restrained animal without any attempt of the owner to control him, can cross over the river to Ottawa without so much as a notation on his record. There is no way for the jurisdiction where the offense occurred to place a muzzle order on the dog: it is kill him or nothing. And even if they could, that order would cease to be in effect the moment the dog crossed municipal boundaries.

Most unsatisfactory of all is that the animal control authorities (animal control having been outsourced to the Humane Society or SPCA in most jurisdictions across Canada) has no interest in enforcing overly draconian laws (such as automatic and unappealable euthanasia orders) that run 180 degrees counter to their mandate. And where that is the only option available, that leaves the general public in a very uncomfortable position with an animal control enforcment department that will end up doing nothing.

I was very surprised to learn that no jurisdiction in Canada can impose mandatory obedience training (which trains both the dog and the owner) in the case of any animal bylaw infraction. I was also surprised to learn that by simply leaving a municipality, a dog's history becomes a complete blank. The owners of vicious or uncontrollable dogs will often leave an area of jurisdiction to avoid even having a pet muzzled, and the region that they move to will not even know that the animal newly introduced into their midst is dangerous.

Even more surprising, the same thing (a clean slate) is often accomplished just by changing a residence locally, getting a new vet and giving the animal a new name, or by handing the animal into the local Humane Society or SPCA under a new name, without divulging the animal's history of aggression, under some spurious pretext (such a new child with an allergy).

I now see why my friend Krys, and other responsible dog owners are so distressed by (not to say obsessive about) the pathetic state of animal bylaws in this country.

FYI: I could not get all the blood off my clothing.

Animal control? I am sorry, but ... Don't Make Me Laugh!

It is now nearly 24 hours Since Betty was attacked--twice--by an overly aggressive and uncontrolled black Lab. And for 18 of those past 24 hours I have been trying to lodge a vicious dog complaint with the people responsible for animal control.

It is now very much less than pathetic.

The municipality where the attack occurred, and the municipality where the owner and dog actually live, have both outsourced their animal control efforts to the SPCA (Quebec) and the Humane Society (Ontario).

The local SPCA (jurisdiction for the actual attack) at least gave me a number that I could call and leave a message with the complaint. (In the 18 hours since I left the message I have not heard back from them.)

The Ottawa Humane Society (responsbile for the area where the dog and owner actually live, and where they will be returning in about an hour or two after a nice weekend holiday at a cousin's cottage) does not even have a number listed on their web site, in the phone book, or in the voice mail complete listing of departments for their Animal Control department.

The fact that I cannot reach somebody to report two unprovoked and vicious attacks to anyone (I called the police in both regions first, and they said 'we don't do that any more') has me quite a large amount more than pissed off.

What angers me the most is that when I visited the cottage where the owner was visiting for the weekend to say that my vet had said that I must report the dog, or he would due to the nature of the attacks (the multiple atttack without provocation), I could not get out of my car as the dog was roaming free and unmonitored on that property. I had to wait in my car for somebody to come out and call the dog off. (To be honest, I cannot say he was behaving in a threatening manner or that I HAD to wait, but after what I had seen from that dog in the afternoon, there was no way I was getting out of my car until somebody had their hand on that dog's collar. You make think that wimpy of me, but so be it.)

Status report on Betty

First off, the funny bit.

I was kind of freaking. The place I took him (Alta Vista Animal hospital, an completely impressive facility) is very much like those ER programs you see on TV; where they keep the family members out of the doctors' way while the patient is being attended to. I have never taken a pet to the vet before where I was not with the animal for everything except Xrays and surgery, and I kept asking to see Betty. I finally got to see him once they had him settled into his cage for the night. The label on his cage was:

Betty
(Mr)

and that made me laugh. (First time since the attack.) From now on I will introduce him as Mr. Betty.

So, now the report ...

Betty is no longer huddled unresponsively in a little ball in his cage, but walking around (stiffly, but quite steadily). He is eating and drinking well. The puncture wounds are draining well but still tender and he was purring his little heart out during all of this morning's evalutation. He is still on antibiotics and pain killers.

He will be in hospital until the surgeon has reviewed the xrays. There is a rather large and disturbing lump outside his abdominal wall, but it does not have the characteristics of a hernia to the duty vet's eyes. Although the xray of the lungs was abnormal, he is breathing well (much better than he was yesterday, when the vet was quite concerned). It may simply be a serious contusion, but time is required before they can be positive on that score.

Because Betty is such a young cat (not quite 5 months old) and the growth plates on his bones are still active, the vet thinks that the pelvic fracture is along one of the plates, in which case the prognosis is excellent for perfect healing.

He will remain at least another day, so the surgical consultant can review a few of the things from the xray that are a bit worrisome, but the vet was very upbeat when he called me, so I don't think I will need to eat the last half of the chocolate cake I started on last night when I was still super-freaked. (Good thing too; I used up almost all of my vanilla ice cream with last night's freak-out cake binge.)

Betty has been savaged by a dog

I can't really say much now except the basics. As best as the duty vet can tell, Betty has a punctured lung, a broken pelvis, and some pretty serious puncture wounds. There are some things on the Xrays that he cannot read. Betty is staying at the hospital and being medicated for pain until the surgeon can come in and have a look over the Xrays and give Betty another exam.

I am a touch past distraught, and thinking massively evil thoughts about the person who brought an unleashed dog into an area where he was told there was a tethered cat. The dog attacked immediately, with the owner standing off to the side about 15 to 20 feet away saying 'Stop. No, Rufus.'. Others pulled the dog off of Betty. And the owner did not leash his dog at that point, and before I could get Betty out of the bush where he was hiding, the dog attacked again. Others had to tell the owner to restrain his dog: even after the second attack he made no attempt at restraining the animal.

It is going to be several hours before I can think of things milder than a tactical nuclear strike for that dog owner.

I will update on Betty once I get a status report from the clinic tomorrow morning.

I need to go and get the blood off my clothes before the stains set.

Betty .....

Betty is quite the character.

Yesterday afternoon he spent over 2 hours in the kitchen with me as I was cooking.
His big discovery was the 2 quart strawberry basket.

It was beyond funny.
The game lasted the entire 2+ hours.

Today I tried him out with a harness and lead so he could be out in the garden: but he got out of the harness (Fortunately, he didn't go far at all. I see a lot of trial and error until I get it so he can't get out of it.)

Sunday was a good day

Some days for me are just good days. I never know quite why: whether it is a better night’s sleep (bad sleep patterns is another ‘hidden symptom’ of the MS), the weather or the phase of the moon. This past Sunday was a good day.

I woke up pretty early (around 5:30 am) and wrote my last blog entry (which took a good deal of time and thought; that was not an easy piece to write, and I am still uncomfortable about it). I then had coffee and breakfast, and feeling pretty good, I started in on the chores.

I oiled 2 of the 3 pieces of wooden furniture in my garden (the table and one of the 2 chairs). I swept off the patio. I did 2 loads of laundry and a load of dishes. I did a complete clean up around the cat’s litter box area. I rewired the lamp I had bought at a junk shop for $10 on my shopping mojo day about a month ago. I deadheaded most of the plants in my garden. I installed a new VCR/DVD unit and programmed all my timer recordings into it. I cleaned and oiled the buffet (1920’s, walnut veneer over ash) that belonged to my grandmother. I collected up all the cat toys Betty had scattered in various nooks and crannies throughout the house and put them into an easily accessed basket for him. I made a potato salad, and sloppy joes. I turned the old VCR/DVD box into a lined cat bed. I made 8 new cat toys (some more appreciated than others).

About this time I decided to take it easy: it was about 5:30 in the afternoon. Dinner, and then I fell asleep.

How can you be yourself when you are no longer who you are?

That sounds rather pretentious (even I think so) but I cannot think of any other way to describe what I am going through, what I have been going through for the past 30-odd years, so please bear with me. I also have no clear idea of how this is going to present: will I come off conceited and self-absorbed; pathetic …

First off is, I guess, the conceited bit; for this I am going to quote family. Members of my immediate family have often said that I was the most generous and funniest member of the siblings. My mother once said something I took as the finest compliment I was ever offered: that I treated all people the same with the same consideration and generosity of spirit, Queens to street bums. I have always tried (with varying degrees of success) to be a kind, generous, fair and considerate person. My approach to people was ‘believe the best of everyone until proved otherwise’. I genuinely liked people and liked to be with people. I liked parties and large groups, and could do well in them. I had confidence in myself and my abilities.

My problem is that I am no longer that person. And it all came on so gradually that it took me a long time to realize it (denial and self-delusion are amazing things). Even now, I am way worse than I am aware of, excepting that other people tell me how bad I am.

I was diagnosed with Recurring/Remitting Multiple Sclerosis when I was 28, although the medical history done at that time pretty much determined that my first episode was when I was not quite 21. Because I mostly did not ‘look’ like I had MS (I did not use a cane, or a walker or a wheelchair), I was pretty well able to deny the fact of it for the better part of 20 years. Pride induced me to hide whatever physical manifestations the MS took from everybody for many, many years.

The hiding part was easy in many ways because most of my symptoms were of the ‘silent’ variety. There were two general types of silent symptoms; physical (incontinence, pain, numbness, blindness in one eye, extreme fatigue, hearing difficulties) and mental (emotional dyscontrol, an inability to concentrate, increased anxiety, rather radical personality changes, including extreme irritability, a diminished self-censorship ability and considerable reduction in general cognitive abilities, to name just a few).

The emotional symptoms of my MS were never a part of my conscious ‘hide it as best as you can’ coping strategy with my disease, mostly because I was completely unaware of them (except for the really obvious physical aspects of it, such as crying jags of an hour or more over a TV commercial). And that complete unawareness is itself a symptom.

I am increasingly inappropriate in my responses to people and situations. Sensitivity to social clues has gone right out the window, which means that interactions with people will go very, very badly for the most part. I upset, hurt and outright angry people at times, and am disconcertingly unaware that I have done so. Having the best of intentions, a kind heart and a generous spirit are no good when you cannot even perceive when you do things that are in direct opposition to your intent, wishes and spirit.

The last psychological assessment I had done of emotional and cognitive abilities was rather brutal, in that it rather baldly stated that the behavioural and emotional manifestations of my MS were contra indicatory of my being able to function effectively in any full time employment. That was a body blow.

Even harder for me to deal with is that these ‘silent symptoms’ are seen as personality defects that if I was only kinder, more considerate, more thoughtful, more motivated; if I would only exert a little will power, I could fix them. Surprise, surprise. I can’t make it go away, or be better, because none of this is my conscious choice. I am not intentionally cranky or rude or inappropriate. I just am and will never again not be: the brain damage has already been done and cannot be reversed. This is the new me, and I cannot like her.

The fatigue problem is also seen by others as yet another personality flaw. I am lazy, disinterested or unmotivated. This also has very negative repercussions on both personal and professional relationships.

So, where does this leave me? The people I am closest to and need the most understanding from are the people most put-off by my increasing irascibility and inappropriateness and inability to perform at my pre-MS levels. They cannot believe that all the horrible things I now am are not active and conscious choices that I am making about how to behave, or that I am unaware of the effect I have on people. They point out my social solecisms, sometimes lecture me, often yell at me, and I can cognitively recognize (after the fact) that I did probably commit the transgressions I just got reamed out for.

The overall approach of people is that if I just understood the effect my behaviour was having on people, I could correct it and never do it again; would become again the person they remember from 20-odd years ago, before the brain damage from the MS had progressed as far as it has. But being told that I have done something will never, ever mean I will not do it again: that is my reality.

The breaking of social and professional links 'ups' my stress level, which in turn exacerbates the symptoms that are making my being me increasingly difficult. I feel like I am a hamster on a motorized exercise wheel: I cannot get off and I cannot stop running in place while getting nowhere.

What all this is making me do is withdraw more and more from social interactions of any form, particularly if they are intense (large gatherings or noisy, for example) and that is unfortunately taken to be disinterest or dislike. I try to explain my reality, but is almost impossible to not reflect back the attitudes that you encounter: that you are just making up excuses for being a bad and inconsiderate person. (Besides, even I find it hard to believe that I am not just making excuses, and I resist being my symptoms, even though it is increasingly apparent that I am. Even I cannot believe that just a little exertion on my part won't make it all go away.) I can spend days, if not weeks, in flat despair (and deep shame and guilt) as I find all that I was and all that I wish to be slip away; as I become increasingly detestable and unloveable and am unable to halt, or even slow, that loss of me.

Who am I?

Multiple Sclerosis Society of Canada

Family! (argh)

My dad phoned me last night. He wanted to know how I made my tapioca pudding (one of the things he and I have in common is a like for desserts like that). He didn't quite believe I used the recipe on the Minit Tapioca box, but a few minute's conversation left him feeling able to take it on. Once we had crossed the making of tapioca pudding hurdle, we continued chatting ... the standard 'What's new' kind of stuff.

I thought long and hard, and finally decided to tell him about 'Betty'. (Yes, my new male kitten has a name now: he is Betty.) I knew what the reaction would be, but decided to give Dad the benefit of a doubt and told him.

The reaction was overwhelmingly negative (anticipated) and mildly disdainful (typical). The conversation rather degenerated after that, and I brought it to a close before he had totally overset my pleasure at no longer being the only living and breathing thing in my house. My friends are happy for me with my new kitten: my family sees it as a yet another action of the greatest folly and stupidity.

I wish interactions with my family did not always end with me feeling badly about myself and my life, but they do--and I do not think that will ever change. I wish it did not sadden me quite as much as it does.

I had forgotten

I had forgotten how totally committed cats are to their nap.






I had forgotten how totally they luxuriate and how cute their little paws are all curled up.

I had forgotten how nice it is to sit a read with a cat curled up in your lap. (I couldn't get a picture of that: I would have had to disturb him to reach the camera.)

I had forgotten how wonderful their purring is.

New kitten is wonderful: he already knows that hands are NOT cat toys. If I could teach him that my legs are not trees, I would be laughing.

In case you can't tell, I am completely thrilled. Now if I could only figure out what his name is.

I did it!!!!

I got myself a kitten yesterday; a lovely little black fellow about 2 months old, with a tiny patch of white near his naughty bits.

It has now been nearly 24 hours since I brought him home. He seems to be adjusting very well, is a very affectionate little thing and has the same habit Rocky the squirrel did of running up my legs. (Squirrel claws aren't nearly as pointy.)

I have no name for him yet. The naming of cats is a very difficult thing. All the names you had thought of before you got the cat are very obviously not that cat's name. You have to observe, test names out for response, and hopefully arrive at one the cat wants to answer to. There was a bit of a false alarm yesterday with 'Cakes': he did respond for about 15 minutes, but then ignored the name.

I have to be careful: I have been using the words pumpkin, puss, silly boy and ouch around him a lot. I need a real name before he starts answering to one of those.

I am feeling very cattish this days

It has now been over a year since I had a cat around the house. As I joked to someone today, this means my life plan of being a certified (certifiable?) eccentric old cat lady with 42 cats by the age of 57 very seriously off track. I only have 5 ½ years left! My record was 5 (my entire family thought I was nuts). Two of them were only temporary babysitting for almost-ex while he was in the US on business for an extended period.

All of my cats have been moggies: some from the Humane Society, a few rescued from friends who did not realize that a partner or child was allergic, an acquaintance who had not neutered their pet and were presented with kittens, or who were, for various reasons, no longer able to care for the cats any longer. One was abandoned in my neighbourhood (by someone who discovered that owning a cat takes work) and made the rounds from house to house (mooching beds and food like a champion) through the white-trash central complex of town-houses where I live for nearly 3 weeks before she moved in with me permanently.

I gave up my last two to a friend with a farm when I was supposed to be moving into a house my sister had bought. Her kids have allergies, so pets in the house was out. The house deal fell through, one of the cats was killed by a coyote, and the other was so well settled in I left her with Guy.

Life then got rather complicated for a while, and I resisted getting another cat (I am actually thinking 2 kittens) until I felt a bit more in control. I feel almost in control now, and I am really starting to miss having another living and breathing thing in my home. For a long time I have wanted a pair of Abyssinians (ruddy variant), but I also have a weakness for grey and black cats, and as much as I love the look of the Abyssinians, I would be happier giving a home to some cats who needed homes.

All that being said, here are some photos of my babies (apologies for the quality):

Me at 24 with one of my first cats. I named her Gandalf (I had just read Lord of the Rings), but my sister took one look at Gandalf's skinny 2 month old self and said "That's not a cat--it's a rat." and Gandalf very quickly became 'The Rat'. It was all she would ever answer to. (I am sure my sister's constant exhortations of 'Here, Rat. Here Rat.' had nothing to do with it.) An amazingly sweet tempered but rather stupid animal, she converted almost-ex from dogs to cats.

The Rat died of a heart attack when I was away on business at just a few months short of 20.

Before The Rat died, when she was about 15, the wife of one of the professors in the computing science department had found a stray kitten (only about 5 or 6 weeks old) in the alley beside their house and had adopted it. Her husband turned out to be very allergic to cats, and she was desperate to find a good home for it. The minute I found out this kitten was grey, I said I would take it. And this is how we got Luke.

Luke was a rocket scientist of a cat, gentle and affectionate as grey cats tend to be. (He demanded games of fetch from almost-ex every morning while Brent was having breakfast. I had made little balls from left over yarn for the cats to play with and Luke would throw the thing increasingly harder and harder at Brent's feet until Brent picked it up and threw it for Luke to fetch back.) We had to take the garbage out of the house whenever we had corn on the cob, or we would wake up the next moring to find all the corn cobs had been dragged under the buffet in the dining room and gnawed on. The only thing more unusual in cat tastes that I had ever run across was a cat of my sister's who had a passion, bordering on mania, for cantaloupe, and The Rat, who could not be trusted if date bran muffins were anywhere in the house.

About 6 months after we adopted Luke, Brent was away at a conference overseas. Luke was still playful, and The Rat was getting too old to be pestered: I wanted to get Luke a friend, so when I went to pick Brent up at the bus station, I greeted him with a present, Sophie, a 5 week old tortoiseshell from the Humane Society (found wandering in the road much as Luke had been). She barely covered the palm of my hand she was so tiny. She and Luke (pictured above) were the greatest of friends: there were rarely apart.

Very shortly after we got Sophie, The Rat died. A few months later, Luke got very sick (enlarged heart) and we had to have him euthanized. We were both devastated by this, and after not very much conversation, and in complete agreement, we decided to head off to the Humane Society for another cat.

When we got there, there was a grey male, a couple of years younger than Luke had been and the spitting image of Luke in both physical appearance and sweet nature (not quite the brains, but almost). In the cage next to him was a beautiful little 6 week old tabby. We took both, and they were even closer friends that Luke and Sophie had been. We named the gray male Matthew. I wanted to name the little tabby Marcia (Matthew, Marcia, Luke ... I would only need one more cat to complete The Joke, but Brent didn't find it as hysterically funny as I did). We toyed with Olivia, but settled on Kylie.

.....to be continued.....

Guerilla messaging

One of my sisters has the most annoying computer manners.

It is not terribly unexpected. She approaches most things in life the same way: her priorities are paramount, often to the exclusion of common courtesy, and she can get quite testy when you cannot see how much more important and busy she is than you are. For years I bought into it. I am still not very good at saying no to her, but my patience has been stretched very close to the breaking point. As with so many irritants it life, it is a lot of little things, all piling one on top of the other for nearly 50 years. The camel’s back is close to breaking.

The computer, with email and messaging, is only the most recent forum for the dysfunctional sibling dynamic we are locked into.

She IMs me at the most awkward times (‘Busy’ ‘On the phone’ or ‘In a meeting’ status mean nothing to her), and because my email ‘doesn’t work’ (subject for another day), she won’t email details on what she wants done, even though I have repeatedly asked her to. (I am very glad she stopped using that wretched wink of the little guy popping his head up and sticking out his tongue. It only took me a year to get her to stop doing that.)

All this is getting past the title of this article. Guerilla messaging is what I call her trick of messaging me with a question and then vanishing to go do something else, and it has become chronic. No ‘be right back’ or ‘Excuse me a minute. One of the kids just set themselves on fire.’ Just nothing! Then 20 minutes later another IM ... did I get her question? Argh!! I leave my home computer IM on permanent ‘Appear Offline’ to avoid getting irretrievably irritated with her, and am seriously considering blocking her on my work IM. The inconsideration is making me quite grumpy, and I don’t like to feel that way.

The Squirrel Lady of Herchmer Crescent

A couple of weeks ago, a former supervisor and I got into an email exchange about animal things, and it ended with my telling her my squirrel story. I thought I would share it. This is a good memory.
I did not have a digital camera at the time (I don't think they were even being marketed), but I ‘raised’ a family of squirrels once summer.

Almost-ex and I owned a house on a pie-slice shaped piece of property, and 3 properties backed onto ours. At the time, we had three cats. One backyard neighbour had 2 kids under 4: the almost 4 year old Brandon was hell on wheels, never supervised by his 19 year old mother and utterly fascinated with our cats. He also, for some totally unknown reason, thought I was totally great, and would escape from his yard and run over to ours whenever he saw me.

He came running over to me one afternoon, when I was out doing some weeding, and proudly announced that he had a kitty too. He was holding something tiny, black and furry. I asked if I could hold it. He said yes and handed it to me: it was a baby squirrel, eyes not even opened (under 2 weeks old).

I was tempted to freak, but stayed calm and asked him where he got his kitty. He took me into his backyard.

There had been a very big wind for most of the previous night, and tree droppings were scattered all over all the yards in the neighbourhood. Under the deck to his home, huddled in a corner, were 2 other baby squirrels. The branch their mama had built the nest on had obviously come down during the high winds.

I called Brandon’s mama (funny how I cannot remember her name), showed her the squirrels and offered to take them to my home. She agreed (there was a lot of talk about the germs, and not from me). I told Brandon that it was not a kitty but a wild thing called a squirrel and that because they it was a wild thing it needed extra special care. I told him I could take care of all of them very well, and promised Brandon that he could come and visit them any time.

This was how I became the Squirrel Lady: a sort of pied piper to the neighbourhood children (and to the kids of all of my friends).

There were 3 baby squirrels; two black, one gray.

If I remember correctly, it was a weekday mid-morning when I rescued the squirrels: 3 babies so young that their eyes were still closed and they were still totally dependent on their mother for nourishment. There was no ‘nest’ left to put the babies back into, and besides, squirrels are pragmatic beasts: if the nest and babies aren't where they left them, they just leave.

I got the largest of our cat carriers, lined it with an old bath towel, and collected the poor little things. When I got home I phoned the Humane Society to find out what to do. They said I could come in with them (although they could not take over—they are not allowed, by law, to take care of wild animals), but the vet was sweet. He looked them all over, gave me a mix for kitten formula and some little bottles I could use to nurse them. He estimated that they were about 1 week from their eyes opening, and about 3 or 4 weeks until I could start weaning them. I had to keep them warm, and for at least another 2 weeks bottle feed them every 2 hours. After the two weeks I could increase the time between feedings, and introduce Pablum. He also showed me how to use warm moistened cotton balls to stimulate their backsides and induce bowel movements (ick).

At this point almost-ex and I shared a rather large room in our house as office space. The cat carrier with the squirrels went onto a bookshelf between our desks by a window shaded by a huge Blue Spruce, resting on top of a heating pad, which I set to low, and put on a timer so it would cycle: ½ hour on, 1 hour off. I also shredded some newspaper and paper towels and placed it over the towel, so they could burrow and hide as they would in their nest.

The gray squirrel was obviously the most physically advanced, and even though his eyes were still closed, he had personality. He was immediately named Rocky (after the Rocket J. Squirrel character from Rocky and Bullwinkle). We weren't entirely sure what to name the two black ones, but that evening, while watching the new TV cartoon hit ‘Ren and Stimpy’ it came to us. One of the two was very small and quite retiring, rarely poking her head above the newspaper: she became ‘Wren’. The other black one had a very shortened tail: ‘Stumpy’ was the obvious name for him.

Rocky took to the bottle immediately. Stumpy was not as enthusiastic about it, but eventually hunger got the best of him. Wren, from the start, was a worrying little thing: it took her some time to get into the bottle, and she was awfully small and weak.

Not quite a week after I got them, Rocky’s eyes opened. Stumpy’s eyes opened about 2 days after that. Wren was still very small, and her eyes did not open until well after a week later. She spent most of her time hiding under the newspaper. Rocky would immediately go to the cage door when he heard me. Stumpy was not as forward as Rocky, but he eventually would join Rocky in the clamoring for the bottle. I had to feel through the cage lining to find Wren to give her her bottle.

Brandon and his little sister would come by the house every morning to see the squirrels. I would hold the squirrel in a towel on my lap, and let them hold the bottle.

After two weeks, I introduced a small dish of Pablum into the cage, and got one of those hamster cage water bottles. Rocky figured out the water bottle and the Pablum dish immediately. Again, Stumpy got the hang of it shortly afterwards, and Wren was still hiding, and not even trying the water or Pablum.

About this time I noticed that Wren was not just very small, she was starting to lose her fur in little clumps. Back to the Humane Society. Poor little mite had a type of mange, which could explain her slow development. The vet gave her a shot and a supplement I could add to the kitten formula for her bottles, and later to the Pablum.

She improved almost immediately, and within 2 days she was trying out the Pablum and the water bottle.

So, I now have 3 baby squirrels in a cat carrier who are starting to eat by themselves (very little, but it was a start) and getting increasingly active. I decided to take the carrier out into the yard on a warm and sunny day, to give them their bottle in the great outdoors. Brandon and his sister showed up, and three other neighbourhood kids (all under 5) also came to help feed the squirrels.

Trips of the carrier and contents to the backyard now happened every day, weather permitting. It was left outside as long as almost-ex or I were in the yard. I started leaving the cage door open. Rocky was first out to explore, with Stumpy close behind. Although it was shorts weather, I had to go back to wearing jeans, for the minute anything would startle Rocky, he would run up my legs. Stumpy would head for the cage, which he did not stray far from for the first few days outdoors, but within a couple of days I also became his escape route. Wren’s explorations had not begun yet … she was still very small and weak.

This photo is of me feeding Wren, and the child of a friend (Elizabeth … now doing a PhD in Engineering, if I remember correctly … God I feel old) feeding Stumpy. The son of another neighbour is sitting behind Elizabeth giving Rocky his bottle.

At the side of our house we had a large pile of cedar rails left over from building a fence. Rocky soon graduated from running up my legs to exploring the cedar rail pile. By this point he was off the bottle, and he had started eating ‘real food’. Within about a week and a half Rocky would not get back into the cage: he had moved into the pile of cedar rails. Stumpy joined him a few days later. Wren was still loathe to leave the cage, and was still on the bottle and Pablum with supplements.

We stuffed various crevices in the rail pile with various solid food (peanuts, sunflower seeds, etc.), but gave them Pablum first thing every morning, until they no longer came for it. Rocky was an incredibly messy Pablum eater (if I hadn't kept the bowls small, I swear he would have sat in it).

Our cats (we had three at the time) seemed barely interested in the squirrels. But the squirrels were cautious of them.

(Rocky in the wood pile with our tortoiseshell Sophie trying to feign disinterest.)

Within another couple of weeks Wren moved into the wood pile. A few days later Rocky vanished. Then Stumpy left. A couple of weeks after that Wren also left.

They did come back every now and then for a while, and did ‘answer’ to their names (particularly Rocky), but they were busy living squirrel lives, and people did not figure much in their world any longer. We could certainly spook them as easily as we could the ones we hadn't raised. But the goal had been to raise wild squirrels, not pets. So we were satisfied. And the memories of all of it are good.

Running into old friends

This past Sunday was the Queen's Alumni BBQ at Kingsmere Farm. The Speaker of the House of Commons is a Queen's grad, and he has hosted a summer event for many years now at the Speaker's official residence.

Last year was the first one of these events that I attended. I was never a big Tam wearing, Oil Thigh singing student, and Queen's student culture was ultra Rah-Rah (not at all my style), so I avoided Alumni events for years assuming that would be as annoying as the home-coming weekends I witnessed as an undergrad.

Anyways, last year, for some unknown reason, I decided to attend the event at the speaker's residence. I ran into a couple I had worked at the Queen's radio station (CFRC) with back in the mid 70's. We have crossed paths off and on occasionally since we all graduated, but this was the first time in about 10 years. I got to meet their kids, and catch up. There were speeches and the mandatory bagpiper at the event, but it was amazingly un-rah-rah for a Queen's event.

That experience decided me to try some other local Alumni events. I attended the Alumni bonspiel, the beer-tasting pub night, and although I rarely ever ran into anyone I had been at school with (and I did my degree part time while working full time, so I had a lot of years of people to choose from), I did get to meet some new people and have become a very big fan of the monthly pub nights as an excellent way to get out of the house (working at home can be very isolating). The last pub night I attended was totally great: I met a retired doctor (in his late 80's, who car pools into every pub night with the Alumni Ottawa branch social convener--Kleo) and Andy and I spent most of that evening chatting up a storm. He was beyond charming.

Anyways, back to the BBQ on Sunday. I wandered around looking for familiar faces, introducing myself to people in groups as I wandered, eating my green SnoCone. Almost-ex and his girlfriend were there, and so was Kleo. I chatted all around the event area for a while and finally decided to head back to the car and go home. As I was moving off, I was still glancing around at the various groups of people, just watching groups chatting and kids playing. Then a figure struck me as familiar, so I walked over, not sure if it was who I thought it was. It was. A couple that almost-ex and I had been friends with for some time before they moved away: I had not seen either of them in nearly 20 years. This was the first Ottawa branch Alumni event they had attended, having avoided previous events much for the same reasons I had. It was a total blast running into them, and we caught up until the event wound down. (In the small world category of conversation, it turns out that Carlisle and Marion live in a house about 1 block from almost-ex's house.) I hope to get them out to an Alumni pub night some time.

Speaking of which, there is another one scheduled for this Thursday.

Cha Cheil!

Busy week

My week has been busy, in large part because an old problem with gastro-enteritis has reared it ugly head, and I have spent the better part of the last 2 weeks feeling quite sick to my stomach, and having almost anything I eat come back on me. Saw the doctor (no huge help), and then remembered what a previous GP had done when I went through this: a diet of innocuous foods, phased in over a period of several weeks. This a) allowed the inflamation/irritation to heal, and b) a way to discover which foods I had developed an intolerance to.

The drill is nothing but plain rice, jello and plain water for 4 to 5 days, until I am no longer experiencing the symptoms of severe gastric distress. Then phase in new foods every other day, and watch for the signs. (It was this process that taught Dr. Lynn and I that sweet peppers should not make up any part of my diet: within 6 hours of eating them I would get very sick.) The hardest thing to eschew is my morning coffee, but not having coffee in the morning beats feeling ill all day long, and requiring long naps just to escape the nausea.

Got my 2 portable air conditioners (one for each floor) delivered in the middle of the week. They are currently sitting like great hulking beasts in my hallway. I cannot move them or install them: the job requires two people. I think I will have to impose on almost-ex if I am ever going to get them installed. And installation in my office is imperative: yesterday the office temperature (not humidity corrected) was 38. And it is not even summer yet.

I am geting a lot of nonsense banking done: transferring accounts, topping up GICs and RRSP. Also other assorted bookeeping and paperwork tasks done. Dead boring, but necessary.

Mr. Car Alarm seems to have finally figured it out (praise be).

Queen's alumni reception at the Speaker's (Arts'68) residence at Kingsmere tomorrow afternoon. I always love these events: a lot of good catching up gets done.

Making a friend

You can make friends almost anywhere. I made a new friend yesterday; online at work.

A lot of us at my company use Microsoft Messenger for quick communications (faster than email, cheaper than the phone). Yesterday I was updating the contact information for contacts that showed there had been changes, and I noticed on the contact information for one individual included a couple of book recommendations. One of the books recommended was Richard Dawkins 'The God Delusion'.

I have not read that book (it is on my every growing list of 'must read': I will need to live to be 150 to get it all read), but I am familiar with Dawkins' work, largely through a podcast that I listen to regularly. (See link at the end of this post.) Being a secular humanist can be tough and often very lonely, so seeing a recommendation like this immediately tweaked my interest, and I scooted off a message to Rik.

We had a lovely conversation, and I pointed him towards the Point of Inquiry podcast. He was thrilled to learn of it. As he flipped through that various episodes, he got more and more excited: "The Amazing Randi?" 'Oh, wow ... Anne Druyan!", and so on and so on.

We talked a bit about the difficulty of being a secular humanist in the midst of highly religious environments. I have a very large number of relations who are regular church goers and a sister who consults psychics for advice on her life with a degree of credulity that leaves me gasping. We talked about how we are both commonly addressed with the comment 'How can you not believe in anything?', to the point where both of are ready to scream. (He joked that I had probably heard the screams he voiced in the Maritimes at that question here in Quebec.)

We shared other discoveries with each other: favorite bands (he pointed me to an Arcade Fire video on uTube), best music for background to various work-related tasks, and generally had a very nice, if brief, sharing.

This is not the first work friend I have made through a connection to my peronal comment on Messenger. My first week at this job (August 2005) that comment read 'Free Cycle Rules'. Karen contacted me immediately to tell me she was also a fan of Free Cycle, and she and I have been chatting ever since. My friendship with her inspired me to blog: she has her own blog (http://sassymonkey.ca/) and also blogs on books for BlogHer.

I spoke too soon

I rejoiced over the absence of the car alarm way too soon. It went off 7 times after 3:30 pm yesterday--the last time at 2:30 in the morning.

As my cousin Lenore used to say (when she was getting really, really annoyed), "'Grr, Grr!' dit le tigre."

Cold nose

This morning I woke up to a cold nose, and it was quite delicious. The experience was not quite as transcendent as my cold nose of a couple of weeks ago (probably because it was a work day, and not a Sunday).

That Sunday was the best 'waking up' that I had had in a long time. It was just after dawn and the birds were doing their morning song thing. I was cuddled up in an incredibly cozy litle cucoon of warmth, with only my head poking out from under the covers. I just lay there, breathing in the cool, fresh air and listening to the birds. I snuggled into my covers, closed my eyes and just listened and breathed for about 20 minutes (maybe longer ... I am not sure ... I was just revelling in the deliciousness of it).

I then opened my eyes and just looked around; still snuggling and being very conscious of my breaths and how the cold air felt. From the center of the ceiling I could see a fairly largish spider letting itself down on a thread. It went on for quite some time (nearly 3 feet), and then he or she slowly climbed back up to the ceiling and headed off toward a far wall. I lost sight of it. After I lost sight of the spider, I finally convinced myself to get up.

This morning was not quite the same: no spider, no birds, and the morning traffic into Ottawa was already in noisy full force. I knew I had to roust myself to get up to my office and start working, so I did not have the luxury of reveling: but I still had a cold nose and cold fresh breaths, and a very warm and cozy bed.

Even better, the neighbour has finally figured out his car alarm. Life is good.

Things that frost my gourd (Part 4)

This one is now, officially, way WAY past annoying! Sometime last week a neighbour of mine got either a new car with an alarm, or had an alarm installed in their existing car.

I am forced to the sad conclusion that whomever owns this car has yet to figure out how the alarm works. I reached this conclusion after nearly a week of the alarm going off between 15 to 30 times a day (we just had the 3rd alarm since 5:00 am this morning).

This is not one of those beep-pause-beep-pause-beep .... at a medium volume alarms. This is one of those incredibly loud everything-but-the-kitchen-sink type alarms: a few loud chirps, followed by a bit of fire engine, a bit of police car, a bit of air-raid siren, a smidge of big truck "I'm backing up" alarm and one noise I can only describe as a high pitched sort of fog horn sound. Then begin again.

Average time from beginning to end: 1 minute, 45 seconds.

Longest alarm duration to date: 18 minutes.

Whoops .. thar she blows!

Time of alarm: spread out across the day quite evenly, but a few really nasty (as in more than 5 minutes) episodes between 1:30 and 4:00 am three nights this week.

I wish they would read the manual and learn how to set the sensitivity level, how to open their car to go to work at 5:30 in the morning without setting the alarm off, and how to shut the thing off when it has been triggered (under 30 seconds would be nice).

Crap! There it goes ... again!

Snarl. Argh! Spit!

Oh my God ... AGAIN!

Humours saves (cont)

I must acknowledge as a part of my indebtedness to humour (and people with senses of humour) in the workplace, Moni--a manager at a client company--who's ability to recognize the ridiculous is unmatched and who has an imp of slightly naughty mischief in his make-up, along with a low tolerance for ka-ka, an incredibly professional manner, and a work ethic that may end up doing him an injury if he is not careful.

Throughout an incredibly annoying couple of days at the beginning of the week, he was always considerate of our needs and requirements, he never left me hanging out to dry, he never failed to either make a joke or laugh at one of mine when things got beyond silly, and he never ceased to be supportive. What could have been stressful to the max became a mere bagatelle. I was never given the feeling that I did not have a say, that the effort involved was not understood and appreciated, or that I was alone in finding some things beyond ridiculous. He is a gem.