Mascara was a very bad idea.

Today sucked. Specifically, the time frame from 9 am to 9:45 am. Crying still gives me a headache. And puffy eyes are a lovely look.

Some days, I don’t want to be the adult any damn more. I hate having to make decisions like the one to end Cookie’s life. I hate that I feel guilty about it, even though she was not in great shape - losing weight, unable to see much of anything, etc etc. The vet was very nice (same guy as when I had to put Ziggy down 4 years ago), and he did comment that she seemed quite old. The simple truth is that the addition of 3 new cats to the household would have been the end of her anyway. Her stress level would have escalated, and she would have been deeply unhappy.

I just have to keep telling myself I didn’t take her in because of the other cats….it truly was because of her overall quality of life. The somewhat nice thing about the sedative they give before the final injection is that she finally allowed me to truly hold her and pet her. Cookie was not a cuddly animal, and I have often wondered what she suffered in her life to make her so tense when being picked up. She & I had worked out the parameters of what touches she could handle, but she was by far the most prickly animal I have ever met. I know that her last years with us were happy - she was a fearless hunter of birds and squirrels, and she & Rastis ruled the household.

I still cannot believe how fast the injection works. She was gone in seconds, and the vet left me alone to deal with her body. I had briefly considered cremation, but decided that she should be buried in what has become our kitty graveyard (a corner of the front lawn).

Yep, today really sucked.

Answering the “is she CRAZY?” question for the last time.

Yes, it turns out she is. Certifiable, that is.

D had some “issues” with his neighbours, and his cats have had to move here. He was going to stand his ground, but the gun-related threats made him think twice. That, and the fact that his cats like to lounge in the quiet laneway, and it’s not that much of a stretch to imagine one of the neighbours “accidentally” running them over. So, a day after the kids & I returned from visiting him, I drove halfway back to meet him and the cats.

Let’s do a head count, shall we?

Rastis, Cookie, Gizmo, Birdie - the original crew
Mouse, Alex, Dante - the new guys
Wiley, Goldie - the requisite dogs

Good lord.  I have seven cats.

Truth be told, we’ll be down to six tomorrow.  Cookie is going to the vet for the last time.  She’s losing it, I fear.  Not only has she taken to crapping on the lino by the front door (where the dog can eat it…GAG), but she crept up and peed on the floor right next to me last week.  On the lino, thankfully, but still.  It’s time.

Wish me luck.

Only in my neck of the woods…

….is it possible to follow up the “I hate snow!” post with a report on my sunburn. Yes, indeedy. I have a sunburn. My left arm and the left side of my upper chest took the brunt of it - perhaps sitting my chair to read a book and watch the fire die down was not the best idea. I spent part day burning dead trees (something else that’s getting old), but for once it was sunny. And warmish. The kids were their ever-helpful selves, which means they rode their bikes, brought out all the big toys from the backyard, ignored my requests to help, etc. You know, the usual. D didn’t make it home this weekend, so I could only do so much. He is in charge of the chainsaw; although I can use it, I certainly can’t start the damn thing.

Miss Fat Dog took an unscheduled trip to the vet yesterday. She has calluses on her elbows, mostly because of her weight. She lays on the floor, which puts pressure on them, blah blah. Well, one of these calluses has been damaged, and she bled all Friday night. Not much, but enough to stain the bedroom carpet, and enough to make me worry. She was not thrilled to go to the vet, but she survived. Of course, I got the vet call, and he used that slightly condemning tone that some doctors and vets seem to master. Goldie “has to lose weight”, should “sleep on a softer bed” and “is in dire need of a dental cleaning.” At the risk of sounding like a heartless bitch, does he really think I’m going to drop $300 on a dental cleaning for a dog that is likely at least 11 years old? Oy. And the weight thing. Well…she’s currently 97lbs, which is probably 20-30 lbs less than when she first came to us. I have tried to walk her, but it breaks my heart to see the stress it causes. Yes, I know it would get easier if I kept the walking going, but it’s hard enough to find time to walk myself, let alone a dog. And the softer bed? I made her one, and she won’t fucking lie on it. She likes to be as near to me (or D) as possible, which means the floor is it. Her new bed of pillows & blankets is right next to my bed, but she is making a point of cramping herself into the spaces left beside it. I think it’d be pretty tough to teach her to sleep on the bed….she wouldn’t even get on it for a treat!

So. I’m going to be a bad dog owner, and let her cruise for a while. The best part of this is that her bloodwork came back totally normal. No kidney issues, no diabetes, etc. I was actually a bit surprised by that one, but it’s good news. For now, she’ll continue as usual. I’m going to try & walk her as often as possible - just up & down the driveway should help (it’s 100 metres long).

Damn. Gotta go. Kids are in the tub, creating a new mess for me to clean up. Little do they know that bedtime is 8 minutes away.

The hits just keep on coming….

It’s fun times around this place.  No, really.

Jack has this weird reappearing/disappearing fever thing going on.  Friday night = fever.  Saturday = nothing.  Sunday night = fever.  Monday night = nothing (well, it was really low, and was gone all day).  Tonight = fever.  Tomorrow = DOCTOR.  The child slept 16 hours on Friday night, was passed out on the couch at 6:30 last night, and has been asleep for over an hour tonight.  Gahhh.

We couldn’t take our usual route home yesterday due to a rock slide.  Had to take the toll highway, which is just annoying.  And takes longer, especially when one stops in the big(ish) city en route to see if, just maybe, the shoe store has those shoes one was too stupid to buy when one saw them last month.  Not that this happened to me.  Uh, yeah.

I bought some foundation on the weekend, thinking it’s about time I made it a part of my daily routine.  I know, I know, no foundation?  I’m just lazy, and haven’t felt a burning need until recently.  I tried it on half my face yesterday afternoon, and then proceeded to have a conversation with the father of Austin’s friend when he came to take A to karate.  I’m sure he didn’t notice, but come on.  I have no dignity.

Upon arriving home yesterday, we discovered two spots where the goddamn fat dog had peed, and she’d also shit just for good measure.  This is the dog who will not ask to go out, unless you count standing around looking stupid as asking.  GRR.  Tonight I found a pile of cat shit in the bedroom - Cookie’s Official Protest as to the state of the kitty boxes - and the fat dog shit in the living room when I shooed her out of the bedroom so I could vacuum.  Fuuuuuck.  I swear, I’m an animal lover, but those two aren’t going to last much longer with the shitting & pissing in my house.  And they never use the fucking lino.  What is UP with THAT?!

The house has now been de-cluttered, the animal messes cleaned, the upstairs vacuumed, the bed stripped, and laundry started.  Fun times on a Tuesday night.

Oh, and as a final cherry on the top of my shit sundae, I’m sick.  AGAIN.

The animals, they annoy and amuse.

Birdie is a funny cat.  No need to buy her fancy cat toys - she’s perfectly happy with the Ultimate Freebie:  the milk jug pull tab.  Seriously.  She chased one around this house for four days before it finally landed in the water bowl.  Water bowl = no cat’s land, because she won’t go in & fish it out.

Goldie is just sweet, but kind of gross.  If she’s not licking her chops (bleh) loudly, she’s farting.  Or eating the food as fast as she can so Wiley won’t get any.  Or slurping down water.  I swear, I need earplugs just to survive a full day at home with her.

Rastis is going to lose a kitty life pretty damn soon.  Middle of the night scratching on the door jambs?  NOT great for my sleep.  And how many times can I toss his fat ass off the bed before he gets the message?  Urgh.

Cookie.  Well, she’s the pity case.  I’d guess she’s 80-90% blind now, in both eyes.  She creeps around the house, navigating through the old bump-and-redirect method.  Her biggest peeve is Birdie, who views her as easy prey.  I think she hides most of the day, and then comes out at night.  Not surprisingly, nighttime is filled with her hissing.  Fun.

And Gizmo.  Our mouser has finally started to bulk up, now that the meese have gone to ground and he’s not hunting.  He’s enjoying a warm & cozy winter, and he’s probably the least annoying fur-bearing mammal in the house these days.

Wiley is the same as ever.  He’s scratching a lot, which makes me think he needs a bath.  I just don’t have the energy to give him one….such an Ordeal.  He’s a happy dog as long as he can sleep on a couch.

Feathers.

I’ve probably mentioned how my previously sweet kitten Gizmo has morphed into a killer. He’s ruthless, taking down all manner of birds, mice and voles. Unfortunately, he feels the need to deliver them unto me like sacrifices. Or meal contributions.

ICK.

Most of the time the poor victims are dead, or nearly so. On occasion, my children cheer him on when he has a mouse in his clutches (for some odd reason Lorne Greene’s Wild Kingdom voice comes to mind…..I am so weird).  Some, however, stand out:

The mouse he brought in that was easily 3 times the size of the others.  That thing was LOUD.  He was pissed and let us know it.  I could hear him squeaking two rooms away - he was squished between the side table leg and the couch, giving Gizmo the what-for.  Gizmo was patiently awaiting the mouse’s attempt to leave the spot.  I intervened, scooping the mouse into a plastic container.  Sadly, Mr. Mouse had a badly broken back leg, and he got the flush.

The half-dead bird he brought in one morning.  I had to fight the cat for the bird, who was chirping madly.  Again, the bird was too far gone to release, so he joined the Big Mouse in our septic tank.

The dead mouse on my bed one fine morning.  Yeah, I loved that.

Overall, I’m lucky my stomach is iron-clad.  I can pick up dead things (with paper towel or plastic) and flush half-dead creatures without much problem.  I feel bad, but really?  It’s more merciful than allowing Giz to finish the kill and chow down.

The one thing that I just can’t get used to is the feathers.  They’re everywhere.

Crispy dog.

D’s home after his first week in the new job, and in true D style, he invited the neighbours over for a hangin’ balls night, bbq included. We played until I managed to lose a set of balls - looks like I’ll have to start cutting the brush in that part of the yard - and then we got the open-fire cooking going. The usual neighbours came over, and then we invited the ones on the other side, mostly because Neighbour Dave* was nice enough to lend us his sledgehammer for proper hangin’ ball rack placement.

In addition to the people, there were extra dogs that tagged along: Elmo (cocker spaniel with a serious case of Little Dog Syndrome), George (big goofy mutt), Jag (young black lab), and Babe (older female shepherd). Thrown in our two, and it was quite the doggy daycare.

There were some minor skirmishes amongst the dogs, all of which had the following theme: George & Jag play fight, Elmo attacks because he feels George is being picked upon, and Wiley (ours) decides to jump in because Hey! everyone else is doing it!

Stupid dogs. The bad ones were all male, and all neutered. Didn’t matter. Babe was mostly ok, and Goldie (also ours) hid in the house because of all the Scary People Who Don’t Live Here. Yeah, she’s never going to change her chickenshit ways.

We ate at about 9:30, and then we were all just sitting around the fire, shooting the shit and drinking more wobbly pops. There was a brief plan to have one of the neighbour boys stay over with Jack (Austin was elsewhere for the night), but he ended up being too nervous. I put Jack to bed at about 10:30 or 11, and when I came upstairs, D immediately said:

“Ohmigod, he’s burned badly. Fuck, Jen. What the hell are we going to do?!”

I’d heard someone come in the sliding glass door while I was downstairs, and it was D & Wiley. It seems that yet another dog skirmish had occurred, and this time? Wiley ended up in the fire, pushed there by the other dogs.

IN. THE. FIRE.

D says he yelped a little, at which point D pulled him out, and started patting him down. Because he was on fire. I still cannot wrap my head around this.

His entire back left leg is crispy with burnt hair, both on the outside, the paw, and up into his groin. His tail has also been shortened. When I first looked at it, I thought the burns were all the way down to his skin, but his fur protected him completely. It certainly explained why he wasn’t limping or crying at all.

So now we have a crispy dog who smells like burnt hair. Fun times abound.

*Neighbour Dave is what my kids call him. Since we moved here, they have been fascinated by ND and his toys: tractors, power tools, welder, etc. Both of them will run outside when they see ND in his yard, just so they can have a chat. And ND is so cool about it, and says he loves to take the time to talk to them, because they crack him up.

I love weekends.

I wish they were longer, that’s all

Spent the day at an SPCA garage sale yesterday - a local storage facility asked us to help sell stuff that people have abandoned, and holy shit was there a lot of stuff. I ended up with a bunch of stuff for free, because they wouldn’t take my money. (I feel badly about this. Will probably have to add to the donation we’re receiving. Can’t live with my conscience otherwise) Best items: almost-new skates for D (I’m 99% sure they’ll fit him) and legs for the table I’ve been wanting to swap out for our current dining table. They’re not quite perfect, but with a little work, they’ll do.

Two foster cats should be arriving soon. One of them lived with us as a kitten at two different times last year, and the other is a female almost exactly like the last adult female cat we fostered: gray, long haired, and named Missy. Bizarrely, I’ve confirmed she’s not the same cat. Can’t be. Weird stuff. Perhaps this is the third time lucky for Spot (the male we had last year) - I bet we end up keeping him. Don’t tell D.

The hardest part of yesterday was the fact that I had four kids from 9 am until 11 am today. Sure, they all have a good time together, but DAMN, I am so fucking grateful D had the snip-snip and there’s no chance of me losing my ever-loving mind and procreating again. I love my kids, and if there were more, I know I’d love them just as much. But really? Two is completely & totally enough for me.

There are no words.

What the fuck is wrong with people?

THIS makes me want to vomit.

And then it makes me want to do to the perpetrator what was done to that poor dog.

And cry.

Four days.

A moral conundrum of sorts.

A small, frightened dog is found and turned into the local vet office. Nobody seems to have come forward to claim her. She is thin to the point of bony, scared out of her mind, but very cute. Going by the SPCA guidelines, you have to advertise her as “found” for at least 4 business days.

Well before that time is up, you discover that there is a good home waiting for her.

So.

Do you hope that the rightful (and possibly neglectful) owners claim her? Or do you hope that nobody comes forth and she can go quietly to her next home, which is guaranteed to be wonderful?

As much as I hate the thought of a family missing their dog, my heart is pulling for option #2.

And yes, she’s living with us at the moment. I almost cried today, watching her shake all the way home.