We both heard it, so I can't be THAT crazy!

Ozzy has a special meow that he reserves for travel: as soon as we put him in his carrier or into a vehicle, he starts with his hollowed-out, rounded, mournful rowr! This morning, he had an appointment with the groomer to be shaved, so Bear and I wrestled him into his fancy blue soft-shell carrier with the mesh windows, backpack-style straps, and suitcase-style wheels and retractable handle. Of course, as soon as the zipper is shut on him, he starts his travel-meow. And as Bear and I are putting on our shoes, he has a little freak-out, rattling and bumping his carrier.

"Watch out Oz," Trent warned him, "You're going to fall on your face."

Sure enough, moments later, his carrier fell forward on its mesh-windowed front with Ozzy still inside. For a second, he was silent and still, then came the muffled complaint from inside the bag: "Ow!"

Bear and I looked at each other and chuckled a bit, and for a long moment, Ozzy was quiet and still in the overturned carrier. Then, clear as day, he called out to us (presumably to make sure we hadn't abandoned him in that undignified and helpless position):

"... Hel-lo?..."

It's Like... Well, It's Like Herding Cats!

Have I mentioned how gorgeous a Halifax fall is? September and October really are the best months of the year. And for her first fall as a resident of Nova Scotia, Mom is enjoying them, tourist style! Dolores has come to spend two weeks with Mom and already they've been to Peggys Cove, Grand Pre, and the three of us went to the Mahone Bay Scarecrow Festival last weekend (so much fun!). Today, they're off to Cape Breton.
This means that, while they're away, Trent and I are petsitting. Tilou is, of course, a very good dog, and Chai is an adorable kitten. But, in case you're not keeping track, we now have five--yes, five--pets in the house. Marlowe keeps following Chai around, Chai keeps alternately teasing and growling at Marlowe, Tilou is glad for the break from both of them, Enkidu is trying to mother Chai, Chai either lets her, growls at her, or tries to play with her; when Chai wants to play with Enki, Enki gets upset because she just wants to lick Chai's head, and Ozzy is just plain suspicious of the whole thing. Except when he's hissing at Tilou. Which Tilou loves. It makes him bark. Which makes Ozzy hiss more.
Too much monsters! Just too much monsters!!!

Pero El Mono Es Muy Loco...

So. Tiger for Marlowe, no tiger for Ozzy. And I feel pretty bad. After all, he's 0 for 2 now. I call Trent and work and tell him the story and ask him to please please please stop at Superstore on the way home and pick up the monkey I'd vetoed in favour of El Tigre. And I spend an anxious afternoon, coddling and apologizing to Ozzy, while secretly celebrating the fact that Marlowe is half-trotting, half-stumbling around with a little yellow catnip tiger in her mouth. And Enkidu gets in on the excitment, and starts carrying her plush mouse around, meowing through it to let me know what a mighty hunter she is.

Finally Trent gets home, triumphantly pulls the monkey out of the package, and presents it to Ozzy. Ozzy sniffs it and walks away distainfully, still eyeing El Tigre. Trent and I try the switcheroo: Mono for Tigre, but Marlowe doesn't want the monkey either. Nobody wants the monkey.

Ozzy did, however, display a brief interest in the plastic wrapper that Mono came packaged in...

El Tigre Es Muy Macho.

Last Fall, we got an exciting "birth" announcement: Greg and Nadine sent us a picture of their new kitty, Ruby Soho. ("Oh, cute! Trent, let's get a new kitten, too!" "No.") So we picked out a fuzzy little catnip toy for Ruby Soho (and one for James Brown, too-can't leave the older sibling out). Only, before I had a chance to wrap and send it, Ozzy found it and tried to make off with it. Unfortunately, there's not a lot of point in giving Ozzy cat toys, because Marlowe usually just gets them and eats them. Plus, this was Ruby Soho's toy. Sorry Ozzy.

Now, since Marlowe hurt her back, she's been too sore and weak to play much. And, while I was grocery shopping last week, I found some other cute, little catnip toys. I had trouble choosing between the yellow tiger and the brown monkey, but I eventually settled on El Tigre. I brought it home, took it out of the package, and gave it to Ozzy, who sniffed at it in his usual, cautious way. ("Mom wants me to have this. Is it safe? Can I betray my enthusiasm and bite it like I really want to, or do I have to maintain my dignity for another minute here?") So I start putting away groceries, and I hear Marlowe getting out of bed. (Since she can hardly move her hind legs, "getting out of bed" is actually a euphemism. She kind of drags her bed behind her until her hinquarters finally slide free.) A moment later, I hear her little nails clicking on the tiles much more quickly than they have been lately, and her collar jingle as she shakes herself. I look over, and Marlowe is looking much happier than she has since her trip to the Emergency Vet clinic: her tail is wagging, she's standing, not falling over, and her ears are perked up. Oh, and she's got El Tigre in her mouth. Ozzy looks from Marlowe to me as if to say, "What just happened here?"

You know what? I've just decided to serialize this post, a-la-Victorian-novel. Stay tuned for the continuation.

Cat Did It.

Marlowe is okay... sort of. After two and a half weeks of stressing and several expensive trips to the vet, we've leaned that Marlowe has slipped two discs in her back. This means that she won't be able to run, jump, or climb stairs for a few months, but she doesn't need surgery or a trip to the specialist in PEI. Thanks Nones, but we won't need to ask your clients for... er, business tips after all!

We still don't know what Marlowe did to hurt herself, and the cats are suspiciously silent on the subject...

Marlowe requests that get-well-soon cards be made of meat or grapes.

Taking Responsibility is for Suckers.

Trent and I have a saying. We reserve it for moments in which we don't want to take responsibility for something (tracking mud into the porch, leaving a cup in the TV room, forgetting to do something we'd promised to do, ...).

"Dog did it."

Now, this saying is pretty practical--after all, we do have a dog, and she has done a lot of things that we wish she hadn't. I'm thinking of the time she chewed all the pillows in the living room, or when she chewed Heidi's new shoe, or the time she chewed the vacuum cleaner cord... yes, there's a theme here. But, as an excuse, it also has its drawbacks. For instance, Marlowe is less than a foot tall, has no opposable thumbs, and doesn't leave the house or yard, except when we take her for walks or to the Emergency Vet Clinic (boy does she know that place well these days). So, for instance, forgetting to pick something up at the grocery store or not getting around to doing the dishes sometimes warrants a raised eyebrow when one of us tries to blame it on the dog.

However, during my last Study Break this afternoon, I was tooling around the Internets (still not a truck, people) and I came across some crazy guy's ("Uh, yeah, hello, Kettle? Hey, this is The Pot. Listen, there's something I gotta tell you...") Blog, where he announced the "Hot Excuse for 2007:"

"Wizards did it."

Oh my GOD! Imagine the possibilities! Accidentally hit "send" on the pretend death threat email to your ex-boss? Not your fault. Wizards did it. Late with your nephew's birthday present again? No, you weren't--wizards again. Messed around on Blogs so much that you gave up reading and failed your PhD qualifying exams? Nope--wizards did it.

My mind=blown.

It Tastes Like Stabbing

Well. Bear and I certainly had an eventful weekend. We did almost all of our Christmas shopping on Saturday. Then, on Sunday, in an effort to make Bear forget about his stress for a while, I talked him into coming for a walk at Crystal Crescent with me and Marlowe.

"Come on--we'll be gone forty-five minutes, an hour tops. You'll still have lots of time to get your work when we get home."

It was a beautiful day yesterday--all the snow from the day before was melted, and it was really warm. We had fun watching Marlowe play "Dig." It's an easy game--you start digging in the sand, and Marlowe gets excited and helps you dig a hole or six. Afterwards, we decided to walk over to the big rocks past the third beach. Marlowe kept disappearing into the woods. Bear and I sat on the rocks and watched the spray as the waves hit the shore. Marlowe had been gone a while, so I went to look for her so that we could head back. She came bounding out of the bushes and ran along the rocks towards Bear, and I followed her.

"Porcupine!" Bear called.

I looked towards the woods. "Where?"

"Here. In her chin. Marlowe tried kissing a porcupine."

Oh shit. Marlowe had a big prickle-beard. So we sat down on the rocks and Bear held her while I started pulling quills out of Marlowe's chin. There were a lot of them. Before too long, I got a little squeamish, and we traded off. Bear got most of them out before Marlowe started fussing and squirming. The last few quills had worked their way in deep, so we decided to take her home and pull them with pliers. (How the hell do you spell "pliers?" With a y or with an i?)

So, in order to try and keep her from working the quills further in, we carry her as far as we can. Guess what? That little dog is pretty heavy. Also, it turns out that Bear sat on some quills I'd pulled out while he was working on the rest. The stuck into his pants and stabbed his bum while he walked. Finally, we get her back to the truck, and I hold her while Trent drives home. Marlowe, of course, is so relaxed that she falls asleep almost immediately. I guess making new forest friends can really tire you out.

When we get home, though, she won't let us get near her chin. She keeps biting the pliyiyiers. By this time, only the tips of the quills are showing. We look up the emergency vet clinic. It's in Dartmouth. Joy. Everybody back in the truck.

I won't tell you about the long wait, the trip to Tim Horton's to kill time, or the crying guy in the vet's waiting room. Long story short, Marlowe got Surgery #4 (for those who are counting), and the vet removed three porcupine quills from her mouth, and three from under her tongue. Then we got to take our very stoned dog home for the night. She cried until I let her sleep cuddled up next to me on the bed.

The good news is, we'd done most of our Christmas shopping the day before, so if you were expecting a Christmas git from us, you probably won't be disappointed. Oh--and, by the way, we think Ozzy has a bladder infection, so he's at the vet today, too. Trent and I are giving each other healthy pets for Christmas.

Sweatercat

Since Ozzy sheds so much and has been having problems with hairballs, we decided to get him shaved a couple of months ago. He's happy like this, but I can't help laughing every time I look at him--it looks like he's wearing a tight, grey sweater over his puffy, black fur!

You Drive a WHAT?!

This is going to be a long post. If you don't have time to read it, you might want to come back later. Or scroll down and check out my Dragonerriers post--it's much funnier, anyway.
Our new house is out in the country. In Edmonton, suburbs are either a part of the city (as in Mill Woods or Callingwood) or else they're their own community, with stores and schools and malls (as in St Albert or Spruce Grove). In Nova Scotia, you leave Halifax, drive through the forest for a while, the suddenly, you're in a residential neighbourhood (as in Williamswood). The really cool thing about that is that you get to live in this beautiful, quiet area, surrounded by forest and lakes, but you still have neighbours. The unfortunate bit is you have to drive in to Hali to go grocery shopping or to rent a movie or to sit in a coffee shop and work. Which is not bad if you have a car, since Spryfield is only a few minutes away (and despite Jody's dire warnings, I haven't been mugged or shot there yet). However, if you don't have a car, you're a little hooped, since the buses don't run to the outlying communities, despite the fact that they're a part of the HRM (Halifax Regional Municipality). Needless to say, this makes Morag-less me feel a little claustrophobic. I COULD ride into Bedford every morning with Trent, take a bus into Halifax, then ride back with him in the evening, but I don't like being that dependent. Besides, if I decide to stay home one day, then discover that we need milk or lightbulbs or something, I'm stuck waiting until 6p.m., when he gets home. So we talk about it and decide that I really do need a car.
Gas prices are ridiculously expensive out here. In fact, the only thing more expensive than gas in Halifax is milk. (Ponder it.) So we decide that I need a nice, fuel-efficient small car. Except that one day it snowed, and all down the Old Sambro Road (the road that leads us to Williamswood) small cars are sliding into the ditch. Also, virtually the whole way into Hali is via highway, and though Grillface (i.e Trent's Toyota RAV4) is great on gas in the city, the engine is too small to be efficient on the highway. Okay. So we decide we need something heavier with a slightly bigger engine--maybe another Taurus or a small SUV. And we decide, yeah, a small SUV is a good idea. That way, when we start to do house repairs, we can fill up the back with lumber and drywall, and we can use it to haul wood for our 2 fireplaces. So Trent gets quiet for a minute, and he says, "I know you aren't going to like this, but a small truck might actually be more practical for that kind of thing. And if we get a 4x4, you'll be safer driving in the winter."
Truck? No way. I don't want someone yelling "Sorry about your penis!" at me. Forget it. I did NOT escape redneck, duelly-driving Alberta to drive a truck.
Except that it starts to make sense. And then on Christmas day, we go to visit Trent's aunt, uncle and cousins in Moncton. They own a Ford dealership there. Next thing I know, I'm signing lease papers on a Ford Ranger XLT extended cab. Sorry about MY penis, indeed.
This is not the end of it though. I am buying a gun rack for that baby, and I'm going to mount the giant Super-Soaker watergun that Trent's dad bought be on the back of it. Sorry about YOUR penis, you soggy jerk.