“You’re gonna have to kill him,” were the words I uttered to Rod as we watched Charlie lying on his side, barely moving and breathing erratically.
We had gotten attached to him in the last day or two. Our ‘relationship’ started two weeks prior . . .
It was a sunny day. I was sitting on the couch and looking outside the window when I noticed Pele The Cat ‘flirting’ with something in the backyard. I knew he was flirting - - he was flicking his tail and rolling on his back and casting his wide eyes at something in the grass not too far away.
I went to inspect.
A baby hedgehog was the love interest apparently. Freaked out by small, wild animals (wha, huh, do you even follow this blog, people?) I didn’t get too close. But I had to admit he was a bit cute. He was only as big as my hand and slow as a snail, so I wasn’t too worried about a vicious hedgehog attack.
As the days went on, I got used to seeing Charlie skitter across the yard. He seemed to be happy slowly meandering around the lawn and gardens – surely in search of some sort of grub or other hedgehog delicacy.
Pele continued to flirt and often was caught sitting beside Charlie the hedgehog at different places in the garden.
Fast forward to Saturday. Charlie was in the grass and Rod and I were doing a bit of a project – some brick work and seed sowing. Charlie had a bit of a nap in the grass for a few hours, which we found rather odd. Especially since we were walking past him continuously. No sign of him curling up into a defensive ball as they do. But, he perked up as the sun went down and proceeded his wandering ways around the yard, checking out our new brickwork along the way.
He did seem a bit out of sorts, however. He just wasn’t quite right. At one point we tried to feed him cat food – that apparently isn’t something hedgehogs normally eat. He turned his nose up – literally!
That night, the last we saw Charlie he was heading under the deck with Pele close behind watching his every move.
The next morning, I opened the blinds to find Charlie sleeping right by the back door. I did a close inspection – yes, he was breathing, but his breathing was definitely ‘laboured.’ I didn’t feel good about this.
That’s when I said to Rod, “I think you’re going to have to kill Charlie.”
It was the only humane thing to do. . . .
That led us to discuss – how do you properly kill a hedgehog? Several different methods were discussed. But, Rod was pretty defiant. After his killing spree last spring (wha, huh, really, seriously, do you follow my blog??), he was jaded and refused to kill any little backyard friends ever again.
So, Rod went to work and I started my hourly vigil of reporting to the cats on Charlie’s fight for life. “He’s still breathing!,” I’d yell from the living room to the cats who were sleeping in the bedroom.
At one point, Pele went out the cat door and lay down beside Charlie. He then stretched out in the sun with his paws nearly touching Charlie’s spikey little head. I think Pele was hoping Charlie would get up and shuffle about for his amusement. Wasn’t happening . .. .
1:00 came and I checked Charlie one final time and left for a meeting. 3:00, back from my meeting, time for a Charlie Check - - -dead. I yelled to the cats, “Charlie’s kicked it!” They kept sleeping. I phoned Rod and left a message, “Charlie’s dead.”
Well, a few hours later, Rod got home, got the shovel and buried Charlie in the veggie garden. He asked me to say a few words in memorial – my eulogy resembled the ‘few words’ by Chevy Chase in National Lampoon’s Vacation when the family leaves Aunt Edna at the cousin’s back door . . . . I find a bit of laughter after death makes everyone happier . . . .
The upside is Charlie did not die in vain. Our little Charlie will give us good nutrients for growing our tomatoes next summer.
The irony, however, is . . . the cats love to poo in the exact location where Rod buried Charlie. Later that night, Pele wandered in the cat door with dirt on his paws. I think he pooped on Charlie.
There’s a life lesson in there somewhere - - just not quite sure what it is yet.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
A Rat Tale
It was 2am and my parents, our friend Virginia, Rod and I were fast asleep on Kawau Island in our friend’s beautiful bach. Such an idyllic spot, I could never have imagined the night time scenario that was about to unfold. . .
I’m known to be a light sleeper and was awoken by the sound of bottles clanking together as if someone were rummaging through the empties. Below our bedroom is the rubbish bin, and I immediately thought of racoons in the garbage back home in America. No racoons here, but possums are equally leftover lovers. I had to go investigate.
I venture down the two steps that lead to the kitchen and the side door and see the door has accidently been left ajar. I pull it shut without a further thought and turn on the outside light. As I squint to see if there are possums licking spaghetti and tuna tins, I hear the rattle of bottles coming from just behind me.
I swing around to see the pantry door is open and in the corner where all the liquor bottles sit is something big, brown and hairy slithering around in the corner.
With no thoughts of causing the older folks a heart attack, I scream at the top of my lungs, “ROD, THERE IS SOMETHING IN THE HOUSE!!”
I burst up the stairs, passing Rod and barely giving him time to exit the bedroom before I slam the door shut.
Dreary eyed and no doubt with a racing heart after being awoken by a screaming lunatic of a wife, Rod descends into the kitchen as I yell through the safety of the door. “What is it?”
“You’re crazy, I don’t see anything.” I am now starting to cry and laugh as the whole thing is both scary and funny at the same time.
As Rod fumbles for the pantry light, he answers my question very matter-of-factly, “It’s a rat.”
Okay, now . . . as background info you must know . . . . during the past five years or so, I have developed a phobia toward rats. But the funny thing is I have NEVER actually SEEN a rat . . . . until TONIGHT.
At first I think he’s actually attempting to joke with me at 2:05 in the morning. He’s just said that because it’s really nothing, and he is trying to get me going.
I have the door cracked open and say again, “What is it?” because his answer certainly can’t be true. He annunciates more clearly this time. “It ... is ... a ... RAT.”
I look at my mother who is across the hallway standing in her bedroom doorway. She just loudly exclaims, “Oh no! It could get in our rooms!” And she slams the door real fast. That’s the last I see her that night.
When the excitement began, my father had the urge to pee (no surprises there). Now he emerges from the toilet and wanders downstairs ‘to help.’
By this point, the rat has come out of the pantry and scuttled behind the fridge. I imagine Rod standing in the middle of the kitchen floor wondering what move to make now, when my father says, “Well, of course there are rats around here. That’s no surprise.” And he wanders back to bed leaving Rod alone in the kitchen.
Now, at this point, I know the rat is a reality and I believe I actually suddenly escalate into a true state of hysteria for the first time in my entire life. I am standing on top of the bed, laughing, crying, sobbing, shaking and sweating from fear.
I can hear Rod in the kitchen banging things around and I’m not sure what is happening. He comes into the room and my state, I think, actually scares him more than the rat (not that he’s scared of a stinkin’ rat...).
He tries to console me . . . “Is it gone?,” I ask. “I think it got out the door,” he says. “You’re lying,” I sob. “Well, I’m not actually entirely certain but I’m pretty sure it’s left the building,” he soothes.
“How (sob, sob) . . . . big (sniffle, sniffle) . . . is it,” I choke out. “Just this big,” Rod says, and holds up his fingers to show it’s the smallest rat in history.
“You ARE lying,” I cry. He just hugs me because he can’t retort.
“I can’t (sob, sob) . . . . sleep (sniffle, sniffle) with that thing in this house,” I weep.
So, Rod goes out for round #2. He puts any scrap of food away, closes pantry doors, bangs on the fridge a few more times and comes back to bed.
“I do think it did go outside when I wasn’t looking,” he says and comes back to bed. I just roll my eyes with a ‘yeah, right’ and then start in on some deep breathing exercises. I’m trying to resume some sense of calm while Rod gives me a bit of a cuddle (with the lights on, just in case the rat can slip under the door...).
Now, my mind starts to invent any number of scenarios. I begin to be especially worried about leaving the room with the possibility of the rat scampering about the house. I suddenly feel like I might have to use the toilet, “What if I have to pee later?,” I whisper. “Wake me up and I’ll go with you,” Rod says. My hero.....
We finally turn the light off and Rod resumes a soft snore while I lay completely awake, blanket pulled up to my chin. Within about 15 minutes I start to hear noises. A crinkle of a paper bag, tap-tap-tap of little rat feet (oh, goodness, is it scraping at my door!?), and then suddenly the crash of a broken glass.
Let the screaming begin again . . . .“Rod, it’s still down there! On the shelf with the drinking glasses!” He quickly appeases me and gets up with haste and goes to investigate.
Yes, a wine glass is broken. Evidence that the little hairy sucker is STILL in the house! Ah-hah! Rod was lying to me.
The folks get up again. The whole house is awake because of this stupid rat.
My father actually finally contributes something to the night and has an idea . . . bait. Rod sacrifices a slice of bread, putting it out on the deck just outside the door the rat originally came in. The lights are turned off, glass cleaned up, and we retire to the bedroom where we can watch if the rat exits the house and takes the bait.
It doesn’t take long till the furry monster scampers out the door and starts munching on the wholegrain, no doubt thinking the night’s hunting has really paid off.
With the rat safely back in the bush, we all finally got back to sleep around 4am. Two hours of rat antics. Not my idea of a relaxing weekend at the beach!
I should mention this entire time Virginia has been sound asleep in the boat shed....
When the sun came up, the hysteria was forgotten and it was all just a funny story we kept retelling throughout the day. Needless to say we bolted all the doors shut each night from there on out – we weren’t taking any chances.
Now there is talk that my family want to put me into rat therapy (I worry, hoping there isn’t actually such a thing). And Rod’s even talking about getting us a rat for a pet . . . . apparently he’s already named it ‘Snuggles.’
I’m known to be a light sleeper and was awoken by the sound of bottles clanking together as if someone were rummaging through the empties. Below our bedroom is the rubbish bin, and I immediately thought of racoons in the garbage back home in America. No racoons here, but possums are equally leftover lovers. I had to go investigate.
I venture down the two steps that lead to the kitchen and the side door and see the door has accidently been left ajar. I pull it shut without a further thought and turn on the outside light. As I squint to see if there are possums licking spaghetti and tuna tins, I hear the rattle of bottles coming from just behind me.
I swing around to see the pantry door is open and in the corner where all the liquor bottles sit is something big, brown and hairy slithering around in the corner.
With no thoughts of causing the older folks a heart attack, I scream at the top of my lungs, “ROD, THERE IS SOMETHING IN THE HOUSE!!”
I burst up the stairs, passing Rod and barely giving him time to exit the bedroom before I slam the door shut.
Dreary eyed and no doubt with a racing heart after being awoken by a screaming lunatic of a wife, Rod descends into the kitchen as I yell through the safety of the door. “What is it?”
“You’re crazy, I don’t see anything.” I am now starting to cry and laugh as the whole thing is both scary and funny at the same time.
As Rod fumbles for the pantry light, he answers my question very matter-of-factly, “It’s a rat.”
Okay, now . . . as background info you must know . . . . during the past five years or so, I have developed a phobia toward rats. But the funny thing is I have NEVER actually SEEN a rat . . . . until TONIGHT.
At first I think he’s actually attempting to joke with me at 2:05 in the morning. He’s just said that because it’s really nothing, and he is trying to get me going.
I have the door cracked open and say again, “What is it?” because his answer certainly can’t be true. He annunciates more clearly this time. “It ... is ... a ... RAT.”
I look at my mother who is across the hallway standing in her bedroom doorway. She just loudly exclaims, “Oh no! It could get in our rooms!” And she slams the door real fast. That’s the last I see her that night.
When the excitement began, my father had the urge to pee (no surprises there). Now he emerges from the toilet and wanders downstairs ‘to help.’
By this point, the rat has come out of the pantry and scuttled behind the fridge. I imagine Rod standing in the middle of the kitchen floor wondering what move to make now, when my father says, “Well, of course there are rats around here. That’s no surprise.” And he wanders back to bed leaving Rod alone in the kitchen.
Now, at this point, I know the rat is a reality and I believe I actually suddenly escalate into a true state of hysteria for the first time in my entire life. I am standing on top of the bed, laughing, crying, sobbing, shaking and sweating from fear.
I can hear Rod in the kitchen banging things around and I’m not sure what is happening. He comes into the room and my state, I think, actually scares him more than the rat (not that he’s scared of a stinkin’ rat...).
He tries to console me . . . “Is it gone?,” I ask. “I think it got out the door,” he says. “You’re lying,” I sob. “Well, I’m not actually entirely certain but I’m pretty sure it’s left the building,” he soothes.
“How (sob, sob) . . . . big (sniffle, sniffle) . . . is it,” I choke out. “Just this big,” Rod says, and holds up his fingers to show it’s the smallest rat in history.
“You ARE lying,” I cry. He just hugs me because he can’t retort.
“I can’t (sob, sob) . . . . sleep (sniffle, sniffle) with that thing in this house,” I weep.
So, Rod goes out for round #2. He puts any scrap of food away, closes pantry doors, bangs on the fridge a few more times and comes back to bed.
“I do think it did go outside when I wasn’t looking,” he says and comes back to bed. I just roll my eyes with a ‘yeah, right’ and then start in on some deep breathing exercises. I’m trying to resume some sense of calm while Rod gives me a bit of a cuddle (with the lights on, just in case the rat can slip under the door...).
Now, my mind starts to invent any number of scenarios. I begin to be especially worried about leaving the room with the possibility of the rat scampering about the house. I suddenly feel like I might have to use the toilet, “What if I have to pee later?,” I whisper. “Wake me up and I’ll go with you,” Rod says. My hero.....
We finally turn the light off and Rod resumes a soft snore while I lay completely awake, blanket pulled up to my chin. Within about 15 minutes I start to hear noises. A crinkle of a paper bag, tap-tap-tap of little rat feet (oh, goodness, is it scraping at my door!?), and then suddenly the crash of a broken glass.
Let the screaming begin again . . . .“Rod, it’s still down there! On the shelf with the drinking glasses!” He quickly appeases me and gets up with haste and goes to investigate.
Yes, a wine glass is broken. Evidence that the little hairy sucker is STILL in the house! Ah-hah! Rod was lying to me.
The folks get up again. The whole house is awake because of this stupid rat.
My father actually finally contributes something to the night and has an idea . . . bait. Rod sacrifices a slice of bread, putting it out on the deck just outside the door the rat originally came in. The lights are turned off, glass cleaned up, and we retire to the bedroom where we can watch if the rat exits the house and takes the bait.
It doesn’t take long till the furry monster scampers out the door and starts munching on the wholegrain, no doubt thinking the night’s hunting has really paid off.
With the rat safely back in the bush, we all finally got back to sleep around 4am. Two hours of rat antics. Not my idea of a relaxing weekend at the beach!
I should mention this entire time Virginia has been sound asleep in the boat shed....
When the sun came up, the hysteria was forgotten and it was all just a funny story we kept retelling throughout the day. Needless to say we bolted all the doors shut each night from there on out – we weren’t taking any chances.
Now there is talk that my family want to put me into rat therapy (I worry, hoping there isn’t actually such a thing). And Rod’s even talking about getting us a rat for a pet . . . . apparently he’s already named it ‘Snuggles.’
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Great White Cotton Crisis of 2010 Hits New Zealand
“This is Roving Reporter, Aech Kleicombe, live (online), reporting from downtown Hamilton, New Zealand.
"I am reporting tonight on a little-known-crisis that is threatening homeowners in this city with a shortage that is predicted (by myself) to rival the proportions of last century’s great oil shortages in the 1970s.
“I have been researching this crisis for some time and, although I do not want to panic the city’s homeowners, I do feel it is my duty to report the facts. Just the facts.
“My colleagues and I have been growing increasing panicky as we’ve searched city-wide for what one would assume is a common household item. Yes, that’s right, the all-too-familiar and unexceptional white pillow case.
“And, it’s important to note, readers, that this is only the white pillow case. There is no need to panic if you need ecru, ivory or taupe. No, it is only the WHITE pillow case. Something so incredibly common that homeowners have been able to purchase them since the dawn of the textile age. In fact, white was the first colour of pillow case ever produced in Manchester, UK in 1824 (or thereabouts).
“But, now, it seems you can no longer purchase the common white pillow case in this city – the fourth largest in New Zealand and one well-known for its plethora of shopping outlets. You heard it first here folks, ‘If you can’t get it in Hamilton, you soon won’t be able to get it anywhere.’
“My colleagues and I believe it is only a matter of time until the Great White Cotton Crisis of 2010 (as it is now known) spreads like the wildfires of Australia, to every corner of the earth (kind of like Swine Flu, but slightly different).
“To see just how dire the Great White Cotton Crisis of 2010 really is, I followed a woman from store to store today, chronicling her desperate attempt to find the rare white pillow case. She went from Briscoe’s in Te Rapa to Briscoe’s downtown, to the Warehouse, K-mart and beyond. She went into every store she could possibly think would stock such a common item. Blue, black, and various shades of cream were available in arguably grotesque quantities. However, white was nowhere to be seen.
“At two distinct times the woman, formerly of American origin, was heard saying in her loud twang, ‘This is the type of thing that makes me want to move back home! All I want is a simple white pillow case! Is that such a crazy thing to ask?!’
“The readers will be relieved to note that finally, after gleaning the shelves of every known linen retailer in the city, the woman of note did find white pillow cases at the local Farmers department store. So relieved was she to find the rare treasure, that she bought more than she actually needed, leaving only two on the shelf.
“This leads me to believe hoarding white pillow cases will soon become common practice, meaning the item may soon become totally stocked out (yes, extinct).
“This is Aech Claycomb, signing off to research my next assignment . . .. ‘Why Supermarkets Stock the Shelves with An Item One Week, Never to be Seen Again?’ The American woman mentioned this was another irritating factor that often tempted her to pack her bags.”
"I am reporting tonight on a little-known-crisis that is threatening homeowners in this city with a shortage that is predicted (by myself) to rival the proportions of last century’s great oil shortages in the 1970s.
“I have been researching this crisis for some time and, although I do not want to panic the city’s homeowners, I do feel it is my duty to report the facts. Just the facts.
“My colleagues and I have been growing increasing panicky as we’ve searched city-wide for what one would assume is a common household item. Yes, that’s right, the all-too-familiar and unexceptional white pillow case.
“And, it’s important to note, readers, that this is only the white pillow case. There is no need to panic if you need ecru, ivory or taupe. No, it is only the WHITE pillow case. Something so incredibly common that homeowners have been able to purchase them since the dawn of the textile age. In fact, white was the first colour of pillow case ever produced in Manchester, UK in 1824 (or thereabouts).
“But, now, it seems you can no longer purchase the common white pillow case in this city – the fourth largest in New Zealand and one well-known for its plethora of shopping outlets. You heard it first here folks, ‘If you can’t get it in Hamilton, you soon won’t be able to get it anywhere.’
“My colleagues and I believe it is only a matter of time until the Great White Cotton Crisis of 2010 (as it is now known) spreads like the wildfires of Australia, to every corner of the earth (kind of like Swine Flu, but slightly different).
“To see just how dire the Great White Cotton Crisis of 2010 really is, I followed a woman from store to store today, chronicling her desperate attempt to find the rare white pillow case. She went from Briscoe’s in Te Rapa to Briscoe’s downtown, to the Warehouse, K-mart and beyond. She went into every store she could possibly think would stock such a common item. Blue, black, and various shades of cream were available in arguably grotesque quantities. However, white was nowhere to be seen.
“At two distinct times the woman, formerly of American origin, was heard saying in her loud twang, ‘This is the type of thing that makes me want to move back home! All I want is a simple white pillow case! Is that such a crazy thing to ask?!’
“The readers will be relieved to note that finally, after gleaning the shelves of every known linen retailer in the city, the woman of note did find white pillow cases at the local Farmers department store. So relieved was she to find the rare treasure, that she bought more than she actually needed, leaving only two on the shelf.
“This leads me to believe hoarding white pillow cases will soon become common practice, meaning the item may soon become totally stocked out (yes, extinct).
“This is Aech Claycomb, signing off to research my next assignment . . .. ‘Why Supermarkets Stock the Shelves with An Item One Week, Never to be Seen Again?’ The American woman mentioned this was another irritating factor that often tempted her to pack her bags.”
Thursday, December 10, 2009
The Prime Minister Pees Too
An airport is always a funny place to see all kinds of people. I was at the Hamilton Airport today for a meeting and while standing in the queue to order a coffee, I saw a man sitting at a cafe table donned in a French beret. The proper, real kind with the little tab on top that makes you want to pluck it right off his bald little head.
But, that wasn’t all: he also had a very French-looking handlebar moustache with the ends twisted tightly and pointed up toward the sky (oui!). And, to top it all off, beside him sat his carry-on luggage that was, in fact, a shopping bag with the words ‘French market’ screen-printed on the side alongside images of various fruits.
“Okay, this guy’s not for real,” I thought to myself. And, while I stood in line, I could tell others were thinking the same. But, after he sat there for a really long time leisurely reading a book and sipping his café au lait from a paper cup, the more I realised he was real - - - a REAL Kiwi trying to be REALLY French .... ah well, no harm in being delusional, I suppose.
So, with MY café au lait in hand, I headed toward a comfy couch for my business meeting. However, only a few minutes into a discussion with my client and I nearly spit my ‘morning drug’ on the sofa.
In walks the Prime Minister – yes, the Prime Minister of New Zealand (yes, my American friends, the same one that appeared on David Letterman recently). The one who was just in Copenhagen meeting with 150 world leaders – yeah, THAT Prime Minister!
He is walking alone through the cafe – right past my French friend – not looking where he’s going and texting like a wandering teenager. Not one person looked his way (“What? Who? Prime Minister? Huh?”) I’m having flash backs to the infamous ‘Phil Keoghan Encounter of 2007’ and the nonchalance Kiwis have toward celebrities (see my posting Dec 22, 2007).
He did have two ‘minders’ (yes, equal to the Secret Service my American friends) who followed not-so-closely behind him. One of the ‘body guards’ (I use the term loosely) was carrying a backpack. I wondered if his mother had packed him lunch and a few magazines to read on the plane ride up from Wellington? The other ‘body guard’ wandered not-so-closely behind the first, gazing out at the plane on the tarmac. Both had those little earpiece thingies with a curly wire disappearing down their shirt collars, but I strongly believe these may have been simple pieces of plastic wire rigged up to look official (Who could possibly be talking to them through the earpieces? Would the two of them talk to each other? Come on!).
As John (hey, there’s obviously no need for formalities here) texted his wife about dinner plans and nearly walked into a few passersby (who didn’t notice who the heck he was, by the way), I soon realised he was heading straight for the loo (the restroom, my American friends).
That got me thinking . . . will he use the urinal? What if it’s one of those long ones that are meant for multiple users (okay, I’ve only seen these in movies, boys, but I’ve got an idea of the setup). Wouldn’t that be a surreal moment . . . relaxin’ for a moment, takin’ a leak, gettin’ ready to do the polite head-nod to your neighbour (this is how I imagine the scene - men, does this happen?) and there’s the leader of your country! “Hey, how’s it hangin’?” What IS the appropriate greeting in such a situation?!
Anyway, as I tried not to envision my Prime Minister peeing but not having any luck, I noticed one minder went in with him while the ‘body guard’ with the backpack stood watch at the doorway. I soon noticed this ‘PM Protector’ was actually chewing gum (aren’t there rules for body guards that state ‘no chewing of gum while guarding the life of our nation’s leader?’ hmmm...).
Soon after John entered the loo, a young man quickly exited the facilities. I’m thinking he was asked to leave – politely I’m sure (“please, don’t rush, just when you’re finished”). Now I’m thinking the Prime Minister has an issue with pee fright. Hey, we share a character flaw - a brother from another mother – don’t worry John, happens to the best of us!
Finally, his business attended to, the great and powerful leader of my country emerged into the cafe area once again . . . . STILL texting (‘Gr8 my luv. Wld enjoy a nice lamb roast for dnr. It is the nat’l dish afta all – LOL xoxo, C U l8r’).
Ah well . . . see these are the joys of living in New Zealand. There’s never too much pomp and circumstance about much of anything. And, most importantly, the Prime Minister can pee in the same toilet as you and me. Gotta love this wee (ahem...) little nation!
But, that wasn’t all: he also had a very French-looking handlebar moustache with the ends twisted tightly and pointed up toward the sky (oui!). And, to top it all off, beside him sat his carry-on luggage that was, in fact, a shopping bag with the words ‘French market’ screen-printed on the side alongside images of various fruits.
“Okay, this guy’s not for real,” I thought to myself. And, while I stood in line, I could tell others were thinking the same. But, after he sat there for a really long time leisurely reading a book and sipping his café au lait from a paper cup, the more I realised he was real - - - a REAL Kiwi trying to be REALLY French .... ah well, no harm in being delusional, I suppose.
So, with MY café au lait in hand, I headed toward a comfy couch for my business meeting. However, only a few minutes into a discussion with my client and I nearly spit my ‘morning drug’ on the sofa.
In walks the Prime Minister – yes, the Prime Minister of New Zealand (yes, my American friends, the same one that appeared on David Letterman recently). The one who was just in Copenhagen meeting with 150 world leaders – yeah, THAT Prime Minister!
He is walking alone through the cafe – right past my French friend – not looking where he’s going and texting like a wandering teenager. Not one person looked his way (“What? Who? Prime Minister? Huh?”) I’m having flash backs to the infamous ‘Phil Keoghan Encounter of 2007’ and the nonchalance Kiwis have toward celebrities (see my posting Dec 22, 2007).
He did have two ‘minders’ (yes, equal to the Secret Service my American friends) who followed not-so-closely behind him. One of the ‘body guards’ (I use the term loosely) was carrying a backpack. I wondered if his mother had packed him lunch and a few magazines to read on the plane ride up from Wellington? The other ‘body guard’ wandered not-so-closely behind the first, gazing out at the plane on the tarmac. Both had those little earpiece thingies with a curly wire disappearing down their shirt collars, but I strongly believe these may have been simple pieces of plastic wire rigged up to look official (Who could possibly be talking to them through the earpieces? Would the two of them talk to each other? Come on!).
As John (hey, there’s obviously no need for formalities here) texted his wife about dinner plans and nearly walked into a few passersby (who didn’t notice who the heck he was, by the way), I soon realised he was heading straight for the loo (the restroom, my American friends).
That got me thinking . . . will he use the urinal? What if it’s one of those long ones that are meant for multiple users (okay, I’ve only seen these in movies, boys, but I’ve got an idea of the setup). Wouldn’t that be a surreal moment . . . relaxin’ for a moment, takin’ a leak, gettin’ ready to do the polite head-nod to your neighbour (this is how I imagine the scene - men, does this happen?) and there’s the leader of your country! “Hey, how’s it hangin’?” What IS the appropriate greeting in such a situation?!
Anyway, as I tried not to envision my Prime Minister peeing but not having any luck, I noticed one minder went in with him while the ‘body guard’ with the backpack stood watch at the doorway. I soon noticed this ‘PM Protector’ was actually chewing gum (aren’t there rules for body guards that state ‘no chewing of gum while guarding the life of our nation’s leader?’ hmmm...).
Soon after John entered the loo, a young man quickly exited the facilities. I’m thinking he was asked to leave – politely I’m sure (“please, don’t rush, just when you’re finished”). Now I’m thinking the Prime Minister has an issue with pee fright. Hey, we share a character flaw - a brother from another mother – don’t worry John, happens to the best of us!
Finally, his business attended to, the great and powerful leader of my country emerged into the cafe area once again . . . . STILL texting (‘Gr8 my luv. Wld enjoy a nice lamb roast for dnr. It is the nat’l dish afta all – LOL xoxo, C U l8r’).
Ah well . . . see these are the joys of living in New Zealand. There’s never too much pomp and circumstance about much of anything. And, most importantly, the Prime Minister can pee in the same toilet as you and me. Gotta love this wee (ahem...) little nation!
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Racing the Dog
This past August I was coming out of my typical ‘winter funk’ not having exercised much over the rainy season. So, I thought committing myself to run Hamilton’s 12 kilometre Bridge to Bridge fun run would be the trick to get myself in shape by training . . . . I had 3 months to do it. Easy.
Last week, on Wednesday, it’s 4 days till race day and I’m wondering, ‘if I ran the next 3 days, could I possibly get in shape for a 12k run?’ Nope - - so, I downgrade my expectations, ‘I’ll just run the alternate 6k race, thanks.’ Piece of cake.
Is it also too late to train for 6k? Thursday comes, ‘I should really go for a run and see if I can do it...’ Friday rolls around, ‘Run? Hmmm.... kinda rainy...’
Now it’s Friday night and I discuss my dilemma with a friend . . . do I run tomorrow (one day before the race) to see if I can actually run the whole distance, or do I just wing it on Sunday? The risk is I may be too sore on Sunday if I run Saturday after so many months of being such a lump. The overwhelming consensus (by us both) is that it would be madness (MADness I tell you) to run on Saturday and risk injury. Just wake up and go on Sunday. Okay, then, that’s the plan.
Not feeling sufficiently carbed up after 6 months of a bread-heavy diet, I ensure I’ll have energy for the big day by eating a bit of pizza on Saturday night. I do limit myself to one wine, though. Gotta be clear-headed for the big race (hey, I’m all about being kind to my body as it is a temple).
I rise on Sunday early so I can have my high protein breakfast (why I don’t go for more carbs, I can’t say). I inspect the skies . . . looks like rain and gosh, it’s a bit chilly. One thing you must know about me - - - I am a fair-weather outside sport kinda gal. If there is a hint of rain, even a slight percentage chance of showers, there’s no way you’re getting me out to run, golf, play tennis or perform any other outside activity. Perhaps I was a ‘wicked witch’ in a past life? Who knows? All I do know is rain and sport for Heather are not a happy mix.
So, I’m not delighted at the prospect of running this race in rain. But, too late to cancel now...
Anyway, the cats wish me luck and I take off. I register among the 4000+ runners, don my race number and affix my timing device to my shoe. This is all seeming quite ‘real’ now (damn, I should have trained!).
I hang around the start line and wait for the cue to queue. At 9:25 it comes and I squeeze into a place among the crowds. It was like standing in a crowded elevator . . . . I wonder, ‘how am I supposed to take off like Usain Bolt in this mess of people?’ Then my mind switches from annoyance to worry, ‘If I go too slowly, will I get run over in the stampede?’
As the one-minute-till-racetime notice is given I suddenly have one last thought, ‘should I have stretched a bit?’ Oh well, too late now. If I attempt to stretch my quads I risk kicking the guy behind me in the whatsits.
The buzzer sounds and the race begins. . . at a snail’s pace at first, picking up speed every few meters . . . . okay now I’m feigning a run at grandma speed . . . . oh, yes, here we go that’s a better pace. And I’m off! No Bolt, but it’ll do.
As I find my pace, I turn on the ole’ i-Pod Shuffle with my 850 songs. What I need is a good motivational, fast-paced mix to help me keep my mind off my unfit body. First song, slow. . . . second, too slow. I start fiddling with the darn fast-forward button, trying to keep my pace, but it’s hard to concentrate on running and i-Poding at the same TIME. I click 3 times and WHY IS THIS DARN THING PLAYING NEIL DIAMOND OVER AND OVER!!! This is not good for concentrating on the race at hand. I keep clicking 3 times trying to fast forward to the next song, TRYing to find a fast song. THERE ARE 850 SONGS on this darn thing, why are they all so darn slow!! AND WHY does the same Neil Diamond song keep playing over and OVER!
Ah. . . . okay, calming down . ... I suddenly realise it’s TWO clicks for fast-forward, THREE clicks for rewind. Right, that’s how long it’s been since I ran with my i-Pod. Okay, after listening to Neil 3 times over, it’s about 1.5k into it and I finally get some fast motivational music going.
Now, I’m in a groove . . . uh-huh . . . gooday nods all around . . . . feeling good . . . smilin’ a bit . . . lookin’ good in the colour-coordinated running outfit I must say . . . . surprisingly not too tired . . . sun is shining . . . hey this is kinda fun.
It’s now time to eye up the competition. I’ve got my eye on two. A schnauzer and his owner seem to keep one step ahead of me at all times. Even a stop for a poop and scoop doesn’t keep them behind me too long. Always just in front of me. Kilometre 4 comes around and my goal now is not to be beaten by the dog.
I’ve got one eye on the dog and one eye on an older lady who keeps walking a bit and running a bit and each time she runs, she passes me! The nerve. I keep thinking, I can’t be beaten by a dog and I can’t be beaten by walk/run lady (as she’s now known as)! Surely I should be rewarded for: a) being human and b) running the WHOLE race without stopping . . . .
Kilometre 5 comes and we’re getting toward the end now. And, just when I think I’m gaining on the darn dog, he and his owner turn right when I turn left . . . . the dog has decided to run the 12k race. Oh . ... he must have been training since August! Grrr...
Okay, well, that leaves me and the walk/run lady. She’s still at it – wimp . . . .
Now, we’re on the home stretch, I’ve just come off a big hill that leads to the finish line. I can see it in the distance and the walk/run lady is AHEAD of me. No, I can’t let this happen. So, I find that last bit of energy (this must be what the carbo loading was for??) and pick up my speed for the last hundred metres, leaving her IN MY DUST! Huh, take that walk/run lady!
So, I did it. I didn’t stop. I finished 446 out of 1500+ people who did the 6k, so I wasn’t in the bottom half! When I told Rod about my finishing time he said, ‘that’s what is called a benchmark (irritating fingertip quote marks happening on the last word!).’
So, I raced a dog who was fitter than me, but beat the walk/run lady. But, more importantly, I enjoyed myself and am determined to run regularly once again.
(However, forecast for today is heavy rain at times.) Tomorrow, then, TOMORROW we start the new running regime!
Last week, on Wednesday, it’s 4 days till race day and I’m wondering, ‘if I ran the next 3 days, could I possibly get in shape for a 12k run?’ Nope - - so, I downgrade my expectations, ‘I’ll just run the alternate 6k race, thanks.’ Piece of cake.
Is it also too late to train for 6k? Thursday comes, ‘I should really go for a run and see if I can do it...’ Friday rolls around, ‘Run? Hmmm.... kinda rainy...’
Now it’s Friday night and I discuss my dilemma with a friend . . . do I run tomorrow (one day before the race) to see if I can actually run the whole distance, or do I just wing it on Sunday? The risk is I may be too sore on Sunday if I run Saturday after so many months of being such a lump. The overwhelming consensus (by us both) is that it would be madness (MADness I tell you) to run on Saturday and risk injury. Just wake up and go on Sunday. Okay, then, that’s the plan.
Not feeling sufficiently carbed up after 6 months of a bread-heavy diet, I ensure I’ll have energy for the big day by eating a bit of pizza on Saturday night. I do limit myself to one wine, though. Gotta be clear-headed for the big race (hey, I’m all about being kind to my body as it is a temple).
I rise on Sunday early so I can have my high protein breakfast (why I don’t go for more carbs, I can’t say). I inspect the skies . . . looks like rain and gosh, it’s a bit chilly. One thing you must know about me - - - I am a fair-weather outside sport kinda gal. If there is a hint of rain, even a slight percentage chance of showers, there’s no way you’re getting me out to run, golf, play tennis or perform any other outside activity. Perhaps I was a ‘wicked witch’ in a past life? Who knows? All I do know is rain and sport for Heather are not a happy mix.
So, I’m not delighted at the prospect of running this race in rain. But, too late to cancel now...
Anyway, the cats wish me luck and I take off. I register among the 4000+ runners, don my race number and affix my timing device to my shoe. This is all seeming quite ‘real’ now (damn, I should have trained!).
I hang around the start line and wait for the cue to queue. At 9:25 it comes and I squeeze into a place among the crowds. It was like standing in a crowded elevator . . . . I wonder, ‘how am I supposed to take off like Usain Bolt in this mess of people?’ Then my mind switches from annoyance to worry, ‘If I go too slowly, will I get run over in the stampede?’
As the one-minute-till-racetime notice is given I suddenly have one last thought, ‘should I have stretched a bit?’ Oh well, too late now. If I attempt to stretch my quads I risk kicking the guy behind me in the whatsits.
The buzzer sounds and the race begins. . . at a snail’s pace at first, picking up speed every few meters . . . . okay now I’m feigning a run at grandma speed . . . . oh, yes, here we go that’s a better pace. And I’m off! No Bolt, but it’ll do.
As I find my pace, I turn on the ole’ i-Pod Shuffle with my 850 songs. What I need is a good motivational, fast-paced mix to help me keep my mind off my unfit body. First song, slow. . . . second, too slow. I start fiddling with the darn fast-forward button, trying to keep my pace, but it’s hard to concentrate on running and i-Poding at the same TIME. I click 3 times and WHY IS THIS DARN THING PLAYING NEIL DIAMOND OVER AND OVER!!! This is not good for concentrating on the race at hand. I keep clicking 3 times trying to fast forward to the next song, TRYing to find a fast song. THERE ARE 850 SONGS on this darn thing, why are they all so darn slow!! AND WHY does the same Neil Diamond song keep playing over and OVER!
Ah. . . . okay, calming down . ... I suddenly realise it’s TWO clicks for fast-forward, THREE clicks for rewind. Right, that’s how long it’s been since I ran with my i-Pod. Okay, after listening to Neil 3 times over, it’s about 1.5k into it and I finally get some fast motivational music going.
Now, I’m in a groove . . . uh-huh . . . gooday nods all around . . . . feeling good . . . smilin’ a bit . . . lookin’ good in the colour-coordinated running outfit I must say . . . . surprisingly not too tired . . . sun is shining . . . hey this is kinda fun.
It’s now time to eye up the competition. I’ve got my eye on two. A schnauzer and his owner seem to keep one step ahead of me at all times. Even a stop for a poop and scoop doesn’t keep them behind me too long. Always just in front of me. Kilometre 4 comes around and my goal now is not to be beaten by the dog.
I’ve got one eye on the dog and one eye on an older lady who keeps walking a bit and running a bit and each time she runs, she passes me! The nerve. I keep thinking, I can’t be beaten by a dog and I can’t be beaten by walk/run lady (as she’s now known as)! Surely I should be rewarded for: a) being human and b) running the WHOLE race without stopping . . . .
Kilometre 5 comes and we’re getting toward the end now. And, just when I think I’m gaining on the darn dog, he and his owner turn right when I turn left . . . . the dog has decided to run the 12k race. Oh . ... he must have been training since August! Grrr...
Okay, well, that leaves me and the walk/run lady. She’s still at it – wimp . . . .
Now, we’re on the home stretch, I’ve just come off a big hill that leads to the finish line. I can see it in the distance and the walk/run lady is AHEAD of me. No, I can’t let this happen. So, I find that last bit of energy (this must be what the carbo loading was for??) and pick up my speed for the last hundred metres, leaving her IN MY DUST! Huh, take that walk/run lady!
So, I did it. I didn’t stop. I finished 446 out of 1500+ people who did the 6k, so I wasn’t in the bottom half! When I told Rod about my finishing time he said, ‘that’s what is called a benchmark (irritating fingertip quote marks happening on the last word!).’
So, I raced a dog who was fitter than me, but beat the walk/run lady. But, more importantly, I enjoyed myself and am determined to run regularly once again.
(However, forecast for today is heavy rain at times.) Tomorrow, then, TOMORROW we start the new running regime!
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The Birds are Back
After my last blog post, ‘I’m Living With Killers’ . . . .what’s the worst thing that could happen after Rod skips town for Las Vegas. UGH!!!!
I get home from working out, step in the hallway and feathers everywhere. I wander, carefully, into the living room and there is Mitzer, lying on the carpet in the sun like a drunken misfit. He lifts his head slightly as if to say, ‘did ya want something?’ I keep looking for the bird . . . . until I retrace my steps back around to the hallway and here it is hovering in the corner by the garage door – I nearly squished it when I came in the house.
It’s breathing heavily but looks scared stiff. As much as I really don’t think of myself as a ‘girly girl’ something about birds just freaks me out. So, there’s no way I can pick up the thing. I’m kind of whimpering to myself and cursing the cat as I walk around the house saying out loud, ‘what am I going to do?!’ Trying all the while not to have a full blown panic attack.
I know! I’ll call our friend and former pastor, Mike, who lives around the corner! Surely this is a pastoral matter!?
I call and he’s not home. . . . but, his 15 yr old daughter, Tamsyn, says, ‘I’ll come get it!’ So, she trots over and without hesitation she picks up the bird. However, unlike Rod, she didn’t need any ‘kill kit.’ She was going to let the bird go. So, I just said, ‘make sure you put it somewhere where our cats can’t find it again.’ You can see now where this is going . . . .
Just before Tamsyn slips out the door, the bird poops in her hand, landing on my carpet which distracts her for a moment and she loosens her grip on the bird. When it escapes from her hand it darts STRAIGHT toward my HEAD! It’s at this point that I totally lose it, making total fool of myself in front of Tamsyn and her mother, Janene. I scream bloody murder and run toward the farthest corner of the house. Tamsyn just calmly goes and gets the bird again and takes it outside.
I vacuum quickly, shower and am off to a friend’s house for dinner. Fast-forward to 9:30, walk in the door. ‘Hmmm..... didn’t I vacuum before I left?’ More feathers on the floor. I search and search and search and can’t find a thing. I am now hopeful that Mitzer did bring the bird back in the house, but THEN decided to take it back out again. Whew.
I go back to our bedroom and I’m in the ensuite getting ready for bed and happen to peer out to the bedroom where Mitz is hunkered down and staring under the dresser. Oh no! So, I get down on all fours with him. I can see something in the corner - - a blob in the dark. It’s not moving. At this point, I think there’s only a 50% chance it’s actually a bird. I’m thinking coincidentally, Mitz just saw this long-lost toy of some sort under there. I go get the torch (flashlight). It’s only shining at 30% capacity . .. . it doesn’t help much. Now, Mitz, Pele the scaredy cat, and I are all three hunkered down looking under the dresser. I see a slight movement. %$#^&*! It’s a friggin’ bird!
Now it’s 10pm. Who is going to rescue me at 10pm? For a brief moment I do consider actually sleeping in the room with the bird under the dresser. It probably would just stay under the dresser, wouldn’t it? I can’t see it creeping forward while we’re all asleep. Okay, ooooo, that thought lasted a VERY BRIEF MOMENT! I think of that Hitchcock movie and decide against sleeping in my bed with a bird 6 feet awat. I could just close the door and make up the spare bed and sleep in there . . . . the cleaning lady is coming in the morning, maybe she’ll help me get the bird? She’s used to doing dirty stuff......
I think about Mike again. The closest male living in the neighbourhood. But, it’s 10pm . . .. I don’t want to phone his house. And, my heroine, Tamsyn, is probably in bed by now. Mike is often on Facebook so I take the gamble to check if he’s online. HE IS! I chat to him and ask if he’ll come over and get the bird.
He does . . . . . with a plastic bag in hand, he reaches far under the dresser and gets it. I’m in the hallway peeking around the corner. When he finally gets it out he has a ‘Tamsyn moment’ and relaxes his grip on the thing and I swear it started flying STRAIGHT toward my HEAD once again! I make a fool out of myself yet another time by squealing like a crazy woman. All the while, Mike is relaxed and calm and saying, ‘it’s okay, I’ve got it’ over and over. He calmly just marches out the door with it . .. . . I’m left there alone with feathers all over the house and a heart beating madly.....
I watch him go, taking the bird to his house apparently so that it’s far away from Mitzer. He just about gets to his car when he turns back around and walks back to the window and says thru the glass, ‘when there’s one of these, there’s probably more.’ That’s it. That’s his motivational, comforting (pastoral?) last words to me . . . . . As I go ashen, I just say, ‘thanks for that.’
So, 12 hours later, no more birds yet. I REALLY can’t wait for Rod to get home!
I get home from working out, step in the hallway and feathers everywhere. I wander, carefully, into the living room and there is Mitzer, lying on the carpet in the sun like a drunken misfit. He lifts his head slightly as if to say, ‘did ya want something?’ I keep looking for the bird . . . . until I retrace my steps back around to the hallway and here it is hovering in the corner by the garage door – I nearly squished it when I came in the house.
It’s breathing heavily but looks scared stiff. As much as I really don’t think of myself as a ‘girly girl’ something about birds just freaks me out. So, there’s no way I can pick up the thing. I’m kind of whimpering to myself and cursing the cat as I walk around the house saying out loud, ‘what am I going to do?!’ Trying all the while not to have a full blown panic attack.
I know! I’ll call our friend and former pastor, Mike, who lives around the corner! Surely this is a pastoral matter!?
I call and he’s not home. . . . but, his 15 yr old daughter, Tamsyn, says, ‘I’ll come get it!’ So, she trots over and without hesitation she picks up the bird. However, unlike Rod, she didn’t need any ‘kill kit.’ She was going to let the bird go. So, I just said, ‘make sure you put it somewhere where our cats can’t find it again.’ You can see now where this is going . . . .
Just before Tamsyn slips out the door, the bird poops in her hand, landing on my carpet which distracts her for a moment and she loosens her grip on the bird. When it escapes from her hand it darts STRAIGHT toward my HEAD! It’s at this point that I totally lose it, making total fool of myself in front of Tamsyn and her mother, Janene. I scream bloody murder and run toward the farthest corner of the house. Tamsyn just calmly goes and gets the bird again and takes it outside.
I vacuum quickly, shower and am off to a friend’s house for dinner. Fast-forward to 9:30, walk in the door. ‘Hmmm..... didn’t I vacuum before I left?’ More feathers on the floor. I search and search and search and can’t find a thing. I am now hopeful that Mitzer did bring the bird back in the house, but THEN decided to take it back out again. Whew.
I go back to our bedroom and I’m in the ensuite getting ready for bed and happen to peer out to the bedroom where Mitz is hunkered down and staring under the dresser. Oh no! So, I get down on all fours with him. I can see something in the corner - - a blob in the dark. It’s not moving. At this point, I think there’s only a 50% chance it’s actually a bird. I’m thinking coincidentally, Mitz just saw this long-lost toy of some sort under there. I go get the torch (flashlight). It’s only shining at 30% capacity . .. . it doesn’t help much. Now, Mitz, Pele the scaredy cat, and I are all three hunkered down looking under the dresser. I see a slight movement. %$#^&*! It’s a friggin’ bird!
Now it’s 10pm. Who is going to rescue me at 10pm? For a brief moment I do consider actually sleeping in the room with the bird under the dresser. It probably would just stay under the dresser, wouldn’t it? I can’t see it creeping forward while we’re all asleep. Okay, ooooo, that thought lasted a VERY BRIEF MOMENT! I think of that Hitchcock movie and decide against sleeping in my bed with a bird 6 feet awat. I could just close the door and make up the spare bed and sleep in there . . . . the cleaning lady is coming in the morning, maybe she’ll help me get the bird? She’s used to doing dirty stuff......
I think about Mike again. The closest male living in the neighbourhood. But, it’s 10pm . . .. I don’t want to phone his house. And, my heroine, Tamsyn, is probably in bed by now. Mike is often on Facebook so I take the gamble to check if he’s online. HE IS! I chat to him and ask if he’ll come over and get the bird.
He does . . . . . with a plastic bag in hand, he reaches far under the dresser and gets it. I’m in the hallway peeking around the corner. When he finally gets it out he has a ‘Tamsyn moment’ and relaxes his grip on the thing and I swear it started flying STRAIGHT toward my HEAD once again! I make a fool out of myself yet another time by squealing like a crazy woman. All the while, Mike is relaxed and calm and saying, ‘it’s okay, I’ve got it’ over and over. He calmly just marches out the door with it . .. . . I’m left there alone with feathers all over the house and a heart beating madly.....
I watch him go, taking the bird to his house apparently so that it’s far away from Mitzer. He just about gets to his car when he turns back around and walks back to the window and says thru the glass, ‘when there’s one of these, there’s probably more.’ That’s it. That’s his motivational, comforting (pastoral?) last words to me . . . . . As I go ashen, I just say, ‘thanks for that.’
So, 12 hours later, no more birds yet. I REALLY can’t wait for Rod to get home!
Thursday, October 8, 2009
I'm Living With Killers
It’s a relaxing Tuesday evening . . . . Rod has just cooked me dinner (as per usual, I’m so spoiled). As we settle ourselves down with our plates and a nice wine, all of a sudden, our cat Mitzer bowls through the cat door and all I can hear is a loud, urgent ‘peep, peep’ of some small animal!
I scream, “Rod, it’s yours!” and I proceed to the highest point in the room. I am now standing on top of the chair in our lounge, half-eaten chicken breast forgotten in my mouth as I scream for Rod to ‘get it.’ Whatever ‘it’ is.
You have to understand, I am a bit of a wimp when it comes to furry creatures brought home by the cats. Rod never lets me forget the morning I woke up and stepped on a large black thing in the hallway, ran screaming into the toilet AS HE WAS DOING HIS BUSINESS mind you . . . . in a hysterical mess screaming and crying that there was a rat in the hallway. After Rod zips up quickly in order to rescue me from this horrible beast, he saunters back from the hallway to the bathroom where I had squeezed myself into the farthest corner . . . . .. he was carrying a large leaf. “Is this it?”
As my hyperventilation calmed down, I realised I may have slightly over-reacted.
Okay, so back to the present . . . . I’m reliving that horror in my mind as squeals emanate from the living room.
“It’s a baby bird,” Rod yells. He knows I’m a sucker for baby animals, but this time it is not going to work – I’m not going all mushy. He picks it up in his hand and starts walking toward me.
“I don’t want to SEE it,” I scream, wishing this damn lounge chair was two stories taller. I think he’s going to try to touch me with it. An irrational fear . . . . I’m yelling loudly as he looks at me like I’m a freak and slowly, calmly takes it outside.
But the baby bird can’t fly. Obviously “Mitzer the Killer Cat” has stolen it from a nest.
For the next few minutes, we discuss what to do with it. Rod decides to put it on a high bench and pray those flying instincts miraculously kick in withn the next few minutes!
So, the baby bird is outside and now so are both cats – this is way too much excitement for them to ignore, of course.
We settle back down to our dinner. . . every few moments we hear the baby bird SCREAMING again (eating chicken while listening to the screeches of a dying bird - all too ironic and somehow appetite dampening). Mitzer is playing with it while our older, anxiety-ridden cat, Pele, stands guard with his famous, “should you really be doing that, Mitzer?” look on his little face.
For another 30 minutes, Rod and I take turns peeking out of the blinds at the scene in the backyard, reporting on Mitzer’s proximity to the bird and status of the bird’s liveliness.
“Is he flying away, yet?”
“No chance.”
“This is torture!” Rod finally admits. We decide that we are in danger of being reported to the SPCA for animal cruelty if something is not done soon.
Rod looks at me with a look of appeal . . . .. . “Hey, I’m not doing anything, you’re the boy!” This is the line I use several times a week, usually when it involves having to do something dirty or gross or kinda scary.
We both know what must be done. End the madness.
We live in the suburbs, so unlike where we both grew up in the country, you can’t just throw the bird over the fence or down in the woods . . . . I can see Rod’s analytical mind thinking, “hmmm, how to end this?” He ends up grabbing a paper towel (he suddenly doesn’t want to touch the bird anymore – don’t blame him) and a Ziploc bag (the big freezer size is best for this job apparently).
By this time, Pele the fraidy cat is inside on my lap and Mitzer is sitting by the doorway with a furrowed brow wondering what the heck Rod is about to do with his new toy. We all watch him as he walks outside . . .. . closes the door behind him. I swear all three of us were each holding our breath. I wasn't quite sure of his exact plan but I knew it wouldn't involve a happy ending.
Before we know it, there’s a dull but loud ‘THUD’ against the house. . . . we jump and the cats and I look at each other . . . .a few seconds silence . . . a second dull, loud thud. I swear to you it sounded like those scenes in scary movies when the bad guy kills someone with a silencer on the end of his revolver.
Rod opens the door to the three of us, our human and cat eyes staring at him with awe and fear. No one says (or meows) a word. Rod looks at me with a look of remorse. I just let out a nervous giggle and say “I’m so glad you’re the boy!”
Fast forward 12 hours . . . . Rod has decided to have a little sleep in this morning. Me too. It’s 6:45 or so. All of a sudden, from the hallway we hear that same loud, ‘peep, peep!’
“You’ve got to be kidding me? Damn, cat,” Rod says. “It’s all yours!” I say and immediately assume my usual ‘evacuate to higher ground’ position on the bed.
Rod races out of bed. This time, there’s no fooling around. He knows that he can’t save this baby bird. As he walks by it in the hallway he says, “it’s opening and closing its little beak like it wants the cat to feed it! I think it’s hungry. Maybe we could save it?”
Again, he’s trying to appeal to my love of baby animals, but long ago I put this thing in the same category as mice and rats. I have no love for this little bird. “Are you kidding me?! I’m not nursing it!” I really do think he was serious for a moment.
Rod looks at me with that “please don’t tell me I have to do this again” look in his face. He starts the long, slow march to the kitchen and proceeds to get his ‘kill kit.’ We had just watched Serial Killer Sunday on the Crime & Investigation channel a few nights prior where I learned about this technical term - - usually the ‘kill kit’ involves such items as rope, a knife and Vaseline - perhap some chloroform. But, Rod’s ‘kill kit’ is two paper towels (a double barrier from baby bird cooties) and a large, freezer-size Ziploc bag.
As I listen I prepare myself for the inevitable . . . .the same two dull thuds against the house.
I’m now back under the covers for protection and can see Rod taking the body to the garage to put it in the rubbish bin. He looks back at me with sorrow and remorse in his eyes (he wasn’t born to be a killer, it was just unfortunate circumstances that drove him to it!).
I yell, “I’m glad you’re the boy!” I giggle. He says it’s not funny. No, it’s not....
To top off the experience, that very morning, there is an animal expert from the University of Colorado on the morning breakfast show talking about how animals are generally kind to each other in the wild and us humans could learn a thing or two from them. I hear Rod mutter an adamant, ‘bullshit!’ Yep, I agree. Nature is cruel.
Let me just say how happy I am that baby birds normally only come two to a nest. No further signs of carnage in the neighbourhood. No need for the ‘kill kit’ in recent days. Thank goodness.....
I scream, “Rod, it’s yours!” and I proceed to the highest point in the room. I am now standing on top of the chair in our lounge, half-eaten chicken breast forgotten in my mouth as I scream for Rod to ‘get it.’ Whatever ‘it’ is.
You have to understand, I am a bit of a wimp when it comes to furry creatures brought home by the cats. Rod never lets me forget the morning I woke up and stepped on a large black thing in the hallway, ran screaming into the toilet AS HE WAS DOING HIS BUSINESS mind you . . . . in a hysterical mess screaming and crying that there was a rat in the hallway. After Rod zips up quickly in order to rescue me from this horrible beast, he saunters back from the hallway to the bathroom where I had squeezed myself into the farthest corner . . . . .. he was carrying a large leaf. “Is this it?”
As my hyperventilation calmed down, I realised I may have slightly over-reacted.
Okay, so back to the present . . . . I’m reliving that horror in my mind as squeals emanate from the living room.
“It’s a baby bird,” Rod yells. He knows I’m a sucker for baby animals, but this time it is not going to work – I’m not going all mushy. He picks it up in his hand and starts walking toward me.
“I don’t want to SEE it,” I scream, wishing this damn lounge chair was two stories taller. I think he’s going to try to touch me with it. An irrational fear . . . . I’m yelling loudly as he looks at me like I’m a freak and slowly, calmly takes it outside.
But the baby bird can’t fly. Obviously “Mitzer the Killer Cat” has stolen it from a nest.
For the next few minutes, we discuss what to do with it. Rod decides to put it on a high bench and pray those flying instincts miraculously kick in withn the next few minutes!
So, the baby bird is outside and now so are both cats – this is way too much excitement for them to ignore, of course.
We settle back down to our dinner. . . every few moments we hear the baby bird SCREAMING again (eating chicken while listening to the screeches of a dying bird - all too ironic and somehow appetite dampening). Mitzer is playing with it while our older, anxiety-ridden cat, Pele, stands guard with his famous, “should you really be doing that, Mitzer?” look on his little face.
For another 30 minutes, Rod and I take turns peeking out of the blinds at the scene in the backyard, reporting on Mitzer’s proximity to the bird and status of the bird’s liveliness.
“Is he flying away, yet?”
“No chance.”
“This is torture!” Rod finally admits. We decide that we are in danger of being reported to the SPCA for animal cruelty if something is not done soon.
Rod looks at me with a look of appeal . . . .. . “Hey, I’m not doing anything, you’re the boy!” This is the line I use several times a week, usually when it involves having to do something dirty or gross or kinda scary.
We both know what must be done. End the madness.
We live in the suburbs, so unlike where we both grew up in the country, you can’t just throw the bird over the fence or down in the woods . . . . I can see Rod’s analytical mind thinking, “hmmm, how to end this?” He ends up grabbing a paper towel (he suddenly doesn’t want to touch the bird anymore – don’t blame him) and a Ziploc bag (the big freezer size is best for this job apparently).
By this time, Pele the fraidy cat is inside on my lap and Mitzer is sitting by the doorway with a furrowed brow wondering what the heck Rod is about to do with his new toy. We all watch him as he walks outside . . .. . closes the door behind him. I swear all three of us were each holding our breath. I wasn't quite sure of his exact plan but I knew it wouldn't involve a happy ending.
Before we know it, there’s a dull but loud ‘THUD’ against the house. . . . we jump and the cats and I look at each other . . . .a few seconds silence . . . a second dull, loud thud. I swear to you it sounded like those scenes in scary movies when the bad guy kills someone with a silencer on the end of his revolver.
Rod opens the door to the three of us, our human and cat eyes staring at him with awe and fear. No one says (or meows) a word. Rod looks at me with a look of remorse. I just let out a nervous giggle and say “I’m so glad you’re the boy!”
Fast forward 12 hours . . . . Rod has decided to have a little sleep in this morning. Me too. It’s 6:45 or so. All of a sudden, from the hallway we hear that same loud, ‘peep, peep!’
“You’ve got to be kidding me? Damn, cat,” Rod says. “It’s all yours!” I say and immediately assume my usual ‘evacuate to higher ground’ position on the bed.
Rod races out of bed. This time, there’s no fooling around. He knows that he can’t save this baby bird. As he walks by it in the hallway he says, “it’s opening and closing its little beak like it wants the cat to feed it! I think it’s hungry. Maybe we could save it?”
Again, he’s trying to appeal to my love of baby animals, but long ago I put this thing in the same category as mice and rats. I have no love for this little bird. “Are you kidding me?! I’m not nursing it!” I really do think he was serious for a moment.
Rod looks at me with that “please don’t tell me I have to do this again” look in his face. He starts the long, slow march to the kitchen and proceeds to get his ‘kill kit.’ We had just watched Serial Killer Sunday on the Crime & Investigation channel a few nights prior where I learned about this technical term - - usually the ‘kill kit’ involves such items as rope, a knife and Vaseline - perhap some chloroform. But, Rod’s ‘kill kit’ is two paper towels (a double barrier from baby bird cooties) and a large, freezer-size Ziploc bag.
As I listen I prepare myself for the inevitable . . . .the same two dull thuds against the house.
I’m now back under the covers for protection and can see Rod taking the body to the garage to put it in the rubbish bin. He looks back at me with sorrow and remorse in his eyes (he wasn’t born to be a killer, it was just unfortunate circumstances that drove him to it!).
I yell, “I’m glad you’re the boy!” I giggle. He says it’s not funny. No, it’s not....
To top off the experience, that very morning, there is an animal expert from the University of Colorado on the morning breakfast show talking about how animals are generally kind to each other in the wild and us humans could learn a thing or two from them. I hear Rod mutter an adamant, ‘bullshit!’ Yep, I agree. Nature is cruel.
Let me just say how happy I am that baby birds normally only come two to a nest. No further signs of carnage in the neighbourhood. No need for the ‘kill kit’ in recent days. Thank goodness.....
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