Quinn’s Adventure

OK. Dis is me, Quinn. I is a cat.

I live with new peeps, wit 1 of my sisters. (Not crazy about her, but sheeze OK I gess.)

So, it isn’t dinner yet, so I goes out to take tha air. On a ROOF, you know? Cuz I’m a cat. I like high places.

Then new mommy startz calling me, cuz she cant find me.

Big deal. I iz da  Col. Flagg of cat world.

So then the new DADDY getz goin.

I just sittin’ on da  roof next door. I SWEARS I did nUTTIN but sit.

Now, all dese brite lites an noises – big thing against the house, Daddy climbin’ up.

Sheesh.

I was just takin’ da  AIR, hoomans!

They lookin’ for me on ONE side. So I go off the UDDER SIDE. Right? Iz what I do.

Dey all lookin’ for me – I jus drop down over the fence, into the yard, stroll in thru nice kat door, lie on kitchen floor like usual, waitin’ for nums.

Mama – she SAW me. She SAW me jump down.

Daddy was on big metal ting, lookin’ for me on da roof. HA!

So now Still sittin’ here waitin’ for nums.

Dirty look frUm da mom. Dirty look frum da sis.

Dogs just happy. Dese dogs are weirdos. I kinda like ‘em doe…

Daddy swore a lot. Den went back to watchin’ sumpin on da big window.

Mommy! Where da yums?

Still waitin’ *sigh*

The Tails of Two Kitties

Wow. I had not realized how much time had passed since I last wrote here.

Our darling cat (aka the evil “Dos”) passed away about two months after I wrote that last entry about him. We think he was 4 or 5 when he “adopted” us, and we had him for 14 years.

He passed suddenly and peacefully. We all got lucky there.

We went without a cat for quite a while, thinking we didn’t “need” another pet – we already had two puppies.

But, as time went on, as people who love both dogs AND cats, we came to feel something was missing.

We assumed we would be “adopted” by another cat. It didn’t happen. We then figured it would be easy to “find” one in a box of kittens outside the grocery store or something. That didn’t happen.

So, we finally got it in gear and visited the Maricopa County Animal Rescue facility.

I was expecting the horrors I had experienced when visiting many Los Angeles shelters, so I was dubious.

I went from dubious to stunned when we entered the facility. It is LOVELY. The people are so caring. The place is bright and clean, and smells nice – and not of disinfectant or chemicals.  The air is cool and fresh. The cages are spotless. The “cattery” is nice and quiet, far removed from noisy dogs. More on that later, maybe – but meanwhile, kudos to Maricopa County, AZ.

So, we go in to adopt ONE kitten. We adopted two – because hey – oh, heck – no excuses. We just wanted both and couldn’t choose between them – incredibly different as they are – so we chose both. As it happens, they came from the same household – not the same litter, but brother and sister, if you will. Apparently the person who had to give them up had 8 or 9 cats. We didn’t dare look at the others, or WE would have probably ended up with 8 or 9 cats…

Anyway, they are leading us – I include the puppies – a merry dance. Personalities both! We are now a family of 6, and would not have it any other way.

The little girl cat was previously named “Harley”, so we kept to that.

The boy cat, however, was called “Chunky”. Perhaps because at 11 months he weighed 15 pounds.

We felt “Chunky” was just a RUDE name. He’s all black with green eyes. Sleek and, yes…rather large. But he can climb a tree (John found out, to his sorrow) with ease. (Insert story of giant cat in tree, afraid to come down, and John on a ladder retrieving him. Cat was shivering, afraid to trust John – then John just grabbed him, hugged him close, and went far enough down the ladder so the cat could jump to the ground. Amazingly, said cat never even extended his claws. In fact, he NEVER extends his claws unless he is stretching.)

Anyway, “Chunky” was not a good name for him. So I thought, and I thought. One day, I was looking at him, and a song came to mind. It was a Bob Dylan song, but made famous in the 60’s by a group called “Manfred Mann”. It was titled “The Mighty Quinn”. “Come on without, come on within – you’ll not see nothing like the Mighty Quinn.”

I think in the back of my mind, I had wanted to name him something that would go with his sister’s name, Harley. Because when we adopted Lucy, she was already named, so we kept the name, and when her little brother came along, we named him “Desi”.

So, I had thought of naming him “Davidson” – Harley Davidson, yes?

But I knew in my heart that we would end up calling him “Dave” or “Sonny”.

And face it – even if a cat DOES respond to its name, it had better be a fairly short one!

So, when I thought of Quinn – I think it was my subconscious.

Because – Harley and Quinn – when I yell for them to come in, I yell “Hey! Harlequin”!

I loved it, and even John smiled at the idea.

So Quinn the Mighty he is and will remain.

We have had them since the first week of June. They both turned a year old in July.

By the way – these are the first and ONLY cats that have ever owned me who not only RESPOND to their names, but who actually COME when I call – even if coming does not result in getting food. Amazing!

As is my wont, I have written a poem about them.

It will tell you a lot about them in fairly few words.

Poem for Two Kitties

Little Harley,

no longer small;

oh, how swiftly

she enraptures all.

Shy and quiet,

more loving than most –

but turn your back

and she’ll filch your toast.

Quinn the Mighty,

he’s so cool;

if you don’t love him,

you’re an obvious fool.

Oh, so laid back,

oh, so sweet –

may not mean to trip you

as he winds around your feet.

Harley and Quinn

(who cannot read),

would not in any case

be much surprised indeed

to learn their humans

know full well

that if dinner is late –

they will make our lives Hell.

Dos, the Evil Cat Who Came to Live with Us

True, Dos. But here’s a newsflash – we don’t like you, either! And I don’t WANT to be your “real” mom. And we do know that your ACTUAL mom was a SLUT. Does that sound harsh? It’s just that of the six kittens in your particular batch, NONE of them even RESEMBLED one another. Genetics, Dos. More than one father – six, in fact. If my kind readers think I am being mean – you ought to hear how Dos has talked about US for the past decade and more. FOURTEEN YEARS, people! We didn’t ASK for him. He just MOVED IN; he got peeved when his first 2-legger parents adopted a dog he didn’t like – so he just moved next door – to us…where he has stayed for 14 years, complaining EVERY DAY about the food, the company, and the accommodations. Dos is a jerk, pure and simple. He won’t let us do the dishes!

No, you may NOT do the dishes right now. I’m washing my paws.

He scatters crud from the back yard all over his “area” to discourage others, then takes up all the space on the couch right by the ARM REST.

You people are SO SPOILED! You don’t really need to lean on something in TWO directions at once. Suck it up, buttercups – and don’t even THINK about trying to move me.

He tries to keep us from using the mouse; it is his opinion that all mice are his.

MINE! And the keyboard as well.

He’s devious. He kills birds, and mice, and lizards, leaving them around as warnings to keep us under his control. So why not us? He insists on keeping a close eye on us as we sleep; it’s unnerving to wake up in the middle of the night and see his eyes gleaming in the darkness from the bottom of the bed – or on your chest. A couple of claws to the jugular as we sleep, then jump down and bathe in the bloody results. He’s a menace, and he rejoices in it.  Must close – to judge from the yowling, Dos needs a treat RIGHT NOW; I live to serve him.

Memories of Joe the Crow

The small town where my grandparents lived had a pet crow. Yes, the ENTIRE TOWN. His name was Joe. Yes. Joe Crow. No sarcasm or racism implied. They just called him Joe. (As the “bad” name is “John Crow”,  we will let them off the hook on this.) Joe was a pistol. In the beginning, when he first showed up in town (and we have no idea from where), he lived for laundry day. This was when everyone put their clothes out on a clothesline to dry. Usually a Monday. Joe would come by and pluck EACH AND EVERY clothespin from the lines in the entire area, thus allowing all the laundry to drop to the ground. Housewives were furious. Husbands, on the other hand, came to love Joe. He would walk – not fly – into the domino parlor “downtown” (i.e. the “main” small street that had a few small crossing streets) most days, and strut around on the counter, doing a dance for peanuts and otherwise making himself welcome. My grandmother – one of the few housewives who found Joe’s antics rather amusing – decided that Joe was just being Joe, and refused to get mad at him. Instead, she put out her laundry one morning, and just waited. It didn’t take long. Joe showed up. He started to remove the clothespins. Then, she called him. (She’s the one who named him, actually. She just yelled: “JOE CROW! Come over here!”) And after a bit, being curious above all, he wandered over close to the lawn chair she had parked herself in to wait for his arrival. She had PEANUTS. Just like at the domino parlor! She threw a couple on the ground. Joe was a goner. He LOVED breaking in to those peanuts! He followed her to the front door, hoping for more. She told her neighbors the trick. Soon, Joe was always stuffed full of peanuts, and laundry remained on the lines. But that’s not ALL. Oh, no. Turns out, Joe had just been bored. Once people made a fuss over him, he never hit another laundry line. All people had to do was talk to him, admire him, stroke his feathers a bit. He was a major affection junkie. Obviously, at some point in his life, Joe had been “domesticated”. Well, that may or may not be the correct description, because although he had obviously been someone’s “pet”, it also became apparent that his tongue had been “split” at some point, so that he could learn to “talk”. I find that horrifying – and don’t even know if that barbaric action did what it promised. I didn’t want any details, even as a child – but that’s what my grandfather told me. And Joe COULD talk a bit – many words, actually. He could certainly mimic sounds. And he seemed to enjoy doing so – often, and loudly. He also liked to ride on the hood of my grandfather’s car, all the way downtown. When I was little, the roads were still packed dirt, so cars could not travel fast on them. And “downtown” was only about 3 blocks. But Joe loved it. He would perch on the hood, one claw grasping the windshield wiper, and ride magnificently into town. Joe lived for many, many years, fed and coddled by everyone who knew him. Sheltered in the winter in various garages; stuffed with peanuts (and healthier food) year-round; and sprayed with garden hoses in summer – which he LOVED. I was lucky to know him for 2 summers in my youth.

My short story has been published!

My short story has been published! I must admit, it’s exciting. Thank you, Lorie!

http://kingsriverlife.com/category/kings-river-reviewers/terrific-tales/

Downsizing – the Movie

Was looking forward to watching my screener of “Downsizing”, which we did tonight.
Anyone who knows Hollywood history will immediately understand my upcoming reference to one and two “reelers” – also known as “shorts”. Forgive me for preaching to the choir, therefore; but for those who might not understand, let me explain that the average “reel” of film back in the silent era took about 10 minutes to unfold. And, back then, these were very popular short movies – usually presented before the “main” movie (six-reelers!) Think Mack Sennett’s Keystone Cops, Charlie Chaplin, and the adorable Mabel Normand. 

Also, although the short story seems to be an orphan genre these days, sometimes an idea that makes a GREAT short story, when stretched beyond its breaking point makes a too-attenuated and annoying novel. I’m sure you have all read one of those.

Put those together, and you have “Downsizing”. A movie that could have been a decent 90-minute film, but which was extended, to its detriment, into 2-plus hours. Adding insult to injury, the powers-that-be took a pretty good idea and presented it so ham-handedly and superciliously that this viewer is insulted. We GET it, dudes! In fact, we GOT it immediately! No need to bang us on the head with it. Don’t try to make a two-reeler into a six-reeler. Just don’t. It never works.

Ngoc Lan is charming and oh-so-talented. She rises above the cheesy insistence by the writer/director/who knows upon Pidgeon-English and stalwart “frozen-face”; she is the bright spot in the film. Kristen Wiig is non-existent after the first 20 minutes, which is a darned shame. Niecy Nash provides a bit of fun early in the movie (but how can she not? She’s wonderful, no matter HOW you cast her!) 

As to Matt Damon – I have long believed that as an actor, he’s a pretty good writer.

Bread and Circuses

In light of the deeds being “promised” – or, in my opinion, threatened – by the administration currently in power, consider, if you have a moment, the observations of a Spanish poet who died in 1936, at the age of 38. Reading his short but devastating comments are well worth your time. Many of us are asking for the truth. What we are getting is bread and circuses.

“The terrible, cold, cruel part is Wall Street. Rivers of gold flow there from all over the earth, and death comes with it. There, as nowhere else, you feel a total absence of the spirit: herds of men who cannot count past three, herds more who cannot get past six, scorn for pure science and demoniacal respect for the present. And the terrible thing is that the crowd that fills the street believes that the world will always be the same and that it is their duty to keep that huge machine running, day and night, forever.”

“The day that hunger is eradicated from the earth there will be the greatest spiritual explosion the world has ever known. Humanity cannot imagine the joy that will burst into the world.”

“A nation that does not support and encourage its theater is – if not dead – dying; just as a theater that does not capture with laughter and tears the social and historical pulse, the drama of its people, the genuine color of the spiritual and natural landscape, has no right to call itself theater; but only a place for amusement.”

Federico Garcia Lorca

There’s a new “beat” poet in town.

Finally – a new poet explodes upon the literary scene. Her name is Lucy, and she’s a puppy. She has taken pencil in paw and written her first opus. Enjoy.

“Dey say a cutie pi izz what I am.
I KNOW it!
I OWN it!
ShaZAM!
A cutie pi
izz what I am!”

 
Dis my furst origgonal pome. Sorry for da spellen. I izz puppy, you no. Spellen not on da list of tings I knead. Treats are on da list. Also bones, my blankee, an lotza kuddles. (O – an my minkey and da bare. I chace dem when Mommy trows dem. (I nevr bring dem bak, doe.) But spellen izz not so much big deel.

I just want to tank da nice people who tink I izz cute.

Because dey izz rite – I izz frickin adorbs.

Mommy sez I can’t say dis, because izz narssisstick… naresizisick… narsiktik…self-centurd an rood.  But Mommy is wrong, becuz I reely IZZ frickin adorbs. Dis izz a fak, and faks izz reel.

Or dey were – befor dat weird orange two-legger started orduring eveyboddy aroun and sayin deres faks and den deres alturnet  allternent not reel faks, dependin’ how he feelz at da moment. I tink heez mor narssissizzik  selfie-centurd an rood dan ME!

Fur sure.

Lader, peeps.

Luv, Lucy

 

Why don’t I care? What’s wrong with me?

My husband has just been reading to me a FB post.

Apparently, Melania Trump had lunch.

And for some reason, this is important.

Well, of course, lunch is important. Breakfast, I hear, is MORE important, but I won’t make an issue out of it.

I asked him whose page he was reading.

He didn’t know. But he knew this post was a post from Sara Palin, who thought we weren’t paying attention to the fact that Melania had lunch. She said we didn’t care – that it would not be on the news.

Thanks, Sara, for telling us that Melania had lunch.

Or something.

I read this back to my husband, asking him if mine was an accurate assessment.

He replied, “Close enough.”

I think our brains are all turning to melted cheese.

Which, of course, you could eat for lunch.

A Poem for Toot

Our wonderful friend (and author) Kate Thornton wrote this poem to commemorate the passing of our sweet little girl. It is a tribute not only to Toot, but to every beloved pet anyone has ever loved and lost, so I share it with you now.

“They transcend the barriers
of language, thought, culture, species
To remind us that they are not really individuals
but a long line of successful succession
An unbroken parade of that which we hold most high
that for which we all strive, that which is right there
All the time. Every time.
Missy, Coco, Toot, Spot, the single names we give them
Their real names unknown
Lady, Tippy, Caesar, Spooky, all the gentle spirits
Who reflect us in all our broken disarray and love us
They love us. They cannot do otherwise.
They would do anything for us
Except live forever.
And hurt us only once, when they leave
But return again and again, the succession of dogs unbroken
Though our hearts may be, until the next wet nose reminds us
that they are still here”