Something unbelievable has happened: the house is quiet. It’s still early and everyone is asleep but me. I am the one who should have passed out hours ago but I guess that ol’ second wind never really dissipates after you’ve worked retail for over 20 years. Yep, I feel like I’m workin’ the second shift and loving the fact that I can sit here and listen to the wind howling outside my window, accompanied by some really bad commentary blasting in from a dog show on some obscure cable station.

Ever since I saw the movie, “Best in Show”, I’ve loved watching these things. I can guess most of the breeds (which astounds S and reaffirms with the boys that I actually DO know everything) and love to dish on the commentators comments. It’s really funny to me that they ask each other questions, back and forth, and take turns being knowledgeable, or not, about each breed. I like to rephrase their questions with sexual innuendos. I’m thinking I should write this stuff down and send it to Mattel as an idea for a new board (bored) game. It would go something like this:

“Tell me, Hank, how much time goes into shaving and shaping the balls on that Standard Poodle? Do they wax it or actually take a razor to it? I would imagine you’d have to tranquilize a dog with balls that size.”  Of course, I’m talking about how that dog is groomed but, you know, whatever!

But really, I’m just in the concept phase…

I really love it when I correctly call the winner and S will look at me like I’m Cesar Milan’s kissing cousin. Tonight, she kept insisting that the Bichon Frise’ was going to win in the non-sporting class. I felt the Tibetan Terrier was a better show of breed (like I would know but, hey, I’ve been following the lead of these phony commentators and, if they can do it, I can do it even better… especially if I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine.) The cute little Bichon really put on a show. Her little feet were moving so fast that she looked like she was happily gliding along singing a Melanie song. (“I’ve got a brand new pair of roller-skates; you’ve got a brand new key!”) She did win the online vote for most popular. This made S happy as she yelled out, “Told ya so!” and called Mojo over and give him a hug and a kiss. Mojo had no idea what was going on but ate up the sudden attention.

It is interesting when Mojo does know when something is happening on the television. Last night, we were watching a dog program and he stopped what he was doing, looked at the TV, and then jumped up on the entertainment center to have a better look. He was fascinated by it and kept tossing his head from side to side. It was really cute and S and I laughed and laughed at him. However, he does this when he sees his own reflection in the sliding glass doors so; I have no idea what he’s really thinking. The only time he has ever barked at anything (other than just playing) was when he saw himself in a reflection on the dishwasher door. I happen to know that he thinks the dishwasher is a place to find free food so I found it odd that he would bark menacingly at it. If it was me, I wouldn’t be growling at it like that, but that’s just me, and, I am, after all, only a dog-kissin’ distant cousin of Cesar Milan. (My “Shhh” sound has a whole lot more panache and my finger snappin’ has a decidedly more samba-like rhythm. Eat your heart out, Cesar. You are still my bestest boyfriend and don‘t you forget it!)

I’ve always been a dog-person and have had dogs since I was a kid. When I was about ten years old, our neighbor, Yvonka (she was Yugoslavian) came over and told my mom that she saw my father riding in his car with a blond woman. The story goes that my father had been in court all day (he was a police officer) and someone was suing someone or owed someone money regarding a dog. The judge ruled that the owner would have to give up the dog and then he tried to find someone who would take it. My dad volunteered to take the dog home and keep him. The dog was a nine year old, show quality (and former champion), blond, Afghan hound, named Zak. He’d been abused and neglected and, I’m sure my father initially saw him as a potential investment or, at the very least, a really cool dog for show. In other words, he knew nothing about it but the dog seemed like he would have been expensive so he took him. To give him some credit; he’s always been an animal lover but, really, this was an impressive looking dog. Imagine Yvonka’s surprise when he pulled up into the driveway with that “blond woman” in the car and it turned out to be Zak. It was a good laugh.

This from the man who’d also brought home a little, two-toner, black ‘n white kitty, which we named oh-so-creatively, “Bootsie” that eventually, had kittens in my closet on my sisters’ faux fur winter coat. He’d been walkin’ a beat, or something, and this little kitty kept following him and his buddies were giving him a hard time about it. He brought that kitty home and never gave it another thought. God… My poor, poor mother… This is the same cat that climbed up the telephone pole that was in the far-back corner of our yard. I, of course, climbed up that pole, wiggling carefully through the wires and transformers, and “rescued” her.  I could have fried myself into oblivion. I heard my mother yell my first, middle, and last name so frantically that I practically jumped down off that pole. Once again; God, my poor, poor mother…

I, of course, took immediate possession of Zak. He was my best friend and I included him in everything. You could never let him out off the leash. He would run and the only way I could catch him would be to jump on my bike, ride like the wind, and hope he had to stop to poop. Then, I’d have to walk him and my bicycle home and we were usually a pretty good distance away as he was quite the runner.  I loved that dog.  In fact, I loved him so much that, when he turned 10, I got my mom to let me have a birthday party for him.  I invited all of the neighbors and had bones for the dogs (um, not really such a good idea) and homemade brownies and some milk for the guests.  Amazingly, all of the neighbors and their dogs show-up and they even brought him cards and presents!  I particularly liked the “Doggie Donuts” which tasted exactly like real donuts only were really, really crunchy.  Tsk!  Of course I tasted them!  They were donuts, for God’s sake!  No other doggie treat would ever compare!  Ever!  Ahem… Anyway…

Zak had a girlfriend, (ironically) named Lulu, that lived down the street. Theirs was a tragic relationship in that he was a golden-haired, graceful, TALL, Afghan Hound while she was a small, nay-TINY, mixed breed of the Chihuahua variety. She was all black with a jutting lower jaw exposing crooked little teeth that extended far past her nose making her look like she was should be chomping on a cigar. Her cutest feature was her curly-Q, piggy tail. It was a riot to watch them do “the dance.” I used to fantasize about them having puppies but thought it would kill Lulu so I watched them very closely to ensure nothing ever connected. Yes, that’s right; that is how I used to while away the hours when I was ten years old. Do things suddenly make sense for you now, gentle reader? *Laughing*

As an Afghan Hound saunters around the dog show arena, the commenter says, “Check out the grace and beauty and the way his hair flows like wheat blowing in a field.” That’s as close to waxing poetic as it will ever get on one of these shows. If it were me, I’d be saying, “Wow, lady; don’t let that dog off the leash or you won’t catch him until you hit Nebraska and then, well, he’ll be lost in the flowing fields of wheat: pooping.”

Yes, I really should have passed-out hours ago. I’ve been sick for the last several days. Well, not really full-blown sick but just sick enough to feel tired and miserable during my days off from work. Why does it always happen that I feel this way on my days off but am perfectly healthy when I go to work? It should be the other way around, dagnabbit! Maybe I’m not really sick. Maybe I’m just under-caffeinated while at home.

Must. Remedy. That.

Tomorrow. At work.

Happy Thursday!

I can no longer come home, kick off my shoes, flop down on the couch and just relax after work. Mojo has suddenly discovered that I actually work for a living. He has definitely decided, through his extreme actions, that he loves my new job.

Dogs are simple creatures. Our dogs make emotional decisions based on the shoes we’re wearing. If I’m wearing my boots, it’s just another day in paradise and they figure they can sleep on the couch all day. My boots mean I’m saying home. If I put on my hiking boots, Lulu’s tail begins doing that gyrating-helicopter-whirly-thingy and she gets so excited that, I swear, she might just lift off. My hiking boots mean we are going for a walk. My work shoes, a lovely pair of Doc Martins that I purchased specifically for my new job, used to mean I was going to work and the dogs would then completely ignore me as I walked out the door.

Mojo, however, has discovered my work shoes upon my arrival home from a long hard day of slingin’ mocha, pumpkin spice, vanilla, and other assorted flavor drinks. Both dogs greet me by barking as soon as I set the alarm on my truck. They have a decidedly Pavlovian response to the horn honk alarm and greet me at the door, salivating, wiggling, whirling, and standing on the arm of the couch, ready to lick my face off.

But it’s the shoes… those very expensive, black leather, non-slip, Doc’s that lil’ Mojo goes for almost immediately. Sure, he’s a short lil’ guy and almost everything, for him, is at ground level. For once, being short is to his advantage and, brother, let me tell you; he acts like he’s hit the mother lode!

I guess, in a way, he has considering how much “stuff” gets poured, dropped, trickled, and drizzled onto my shoes. Last week, I had pumpkin spice plop onto the top of my left shoe and, I swear, from the orange-ish color, it looked like someone or some thing threw-up all over My Left Foot. It was gross and when I stopped to visit my mom, I sheepishly looked down and promised to take my “baby shit shoes” off before walking on her beautiful carpet.

Last Friday, usually our busiest day and that day was no exception, I was working the bar and the other barista accidentally dropped an entire pitcher of hot half n’ half between us. It’s a tight working space and we generally don’t take too many steps outside of it to make drinks. It didn’t hit my pants (which I’ve experienced and it burns like hell) and didn’t exactly hit my shoes. It went right into My Left Shoe as if ladled in on purpose. Hot as hell, steaming, and now puddling in my high arch, I stood there grimacing while the barista was staring at me for response and apologizing profusely. We had about 15 drinks waiting to be made and at least the same number of customers staring at us; waiting. So, the show went on, we laughed about it, and I slogged around the rest of the day with one milk soaked sock sloshing in my pretty Doc Martins.

Mojo’s Mother Lode in the Making. That’s the only “nice” title I could give that situation. He’s been licking my shoes clean for days and on that particular day, he began licking the insides of my shoes. Dogs are simple creatures and apparently not too discerning when it comes to food health and safety guidelines.

Much to Mojo’s chagrin, I’m one of those dorks that actually cleans and polishes my shoes. I have some special stuff that keeps the food products from penetrating the leather and I do my best to clean and polish my shoes as much as possible. I refuse to wear cheap, ugly, non-slip shoes and then just replace them once they get caked-up with grunge. (I mean, have you seen them? They look like old-lady-orthopedic-mall-walker shoes.)

Oh, no, and now that I have my little helper; we keep those shoes, literally, spit-shined.

Although… I do worry about his teeth and, well, since all of this messin’ with my shoes business, Mojo’s breath has gone from, um, doggy-like to something akin to buffalo-breath. I won’t even go into the toots he’s had recently. Let me just say this; for a little thing, he could clear the entire room in 7 seconds.

I’m starting to wonder if he’s lactose intolerant. As a result, I do still let him greet me with a lil’ shoe-lickin’ but then I make sure to put those shoes away. Truth be told; it’s S that always puts my shoes away because once I flomp down on the couch, well, that’s it; I’m stuck there.

I never knew the life of a barista could be so doggy entertaining but then, they are simple creatures.

The cat, never wanting to truly be aligned with the dogs, has secretly tried to lick my shoes but does so from the stealthy place of under the couch.  He thinks I haven’t noticed him, with his arms and paws wrapped around a shoe, slowly licking the top while his eyes roll to the back of his head.  It reminds me of those kids who were licking frogs to get high.  Yeah, Q, I see you and your addictions and I’m pretty sure, there’s a twelve step group for that albeit you’ll have to substitute “milked and mocha’d shoes” for “catnip” at those meetings. 

“My name is Q and I’m a milked and mocha’d shoes addict.”

“Hi, Q!”

I’ve only ever been arrested once in my life. I know; hard to believe, right? HA! I was 19-20 years old and belonged to a group named, “Abalone Alliance.” It was an anti-nuke group and we were protesting the building and opening of Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant in San Luis Obispo (technically in Avila Beach), California. We were protesting at the gates of the plant when several hundred of us were rounded-up and arrested. We were then taken to the local community college and held in the gym. I remember it well… it’s a story akin to, “This one time, at Band Camp…” because there was a concert the day before put on by Jackson Browne and Bonnie Raitt, bonfires on the beach, and lots of partyin’ goin’ on. The charges were eventually dropped and we were set free. That, at the time, pissed me off because I really wanted to be arrested for protesting. Having the charges dropped felt like it invalidated everything we were doing. I mean, c’mon, they built the second reactor backwards!

I continued to work with Abalone Alliance for a short time until I finally figured out that they were like any other group and would implode at some point. I learned about group dynamics, politics, divisiveness, and a whole bunch of hanky-panky, from a disheveled group of patchouli wearin’, dreadlock-sportin’, surfer-dude/dudettes. It was fun while it lasted.

These days, my mantra isn’t so much “No Nukes!” as it is “No Knickknacks!” Having a bunch of knickknacks cluttering the bookshelves, mantel, baker’s rack, counters, desks, cubbies, night stands, or any other available surface, is a crazy and time consuming work detail. Hello! I live in the southwest and every surface is covered n dust; daily.

If I were to dust today, you wouldn’t know I’d dusted by this same time tomorrow. It’s kind of like the argument of, “Why make the bed? I’m just going to sleep in it again.” However, if I don’t dust, it piles-up until the cobwebs, wiggling across the surface from the heater fan; begin making their own (Kenner’s!) Spirograph designs. The thought of that seems kind of cool but, really, it’s not. It’s just dusty.

The TV will have strange shadows across Gil Grissom’s face, depth were there isn’t any, and dark, soon to become 3D images, pop out at you in a very fuzzy way. That is, until one of the kids runs his finger across the screen and then you absolutely have to dust it. Here in the southwest, you have to dust the entire entertainment center including the inside walls, under the cubbies, along the perimeters. Kitty Q has climbed into the bottom cubbies, now empty because I took my stereo out, and has helped us dust a few times. Mojo will chase him into cubby, Q will sit in the far back out of Mojo’s reach (’cause his little sausage body is too big to follow), and whisk his tail, up and down, back and forth, until, Voila! Dusting is complete. At least Q is doin’ chores and helping with the housework. I can’t say the same about the other two poopers. Then Q sneezes and shakes and all of the cubby-dust is redistributed. It’s a never ending cycle.

Ah… Back in the Day! I’ve gone from “No Nukes!” to “No Knickknacks!” What, exactly, does that say about me? Well, it’s a certainty that I don’t want to be arrested, anymore. I’m sure glad I out-grew that little notion. I am, yes I am, a law abiding citizen. Unless you count the fact that I still, at times, drive and talk on my cell phone. And sometimes I drive over the speed limit but never, ever, while I’m talking on my cell phone. I still subscribe to the motto, “Safety First!”

The knickknacks I do have are of the natural variety; I have lots and lots of rocks. These dust quite easily because, well, you know, they are of the earth. However, in a few places in our house, like the kitchen and the office, the dust accumulated is definitely not “of the earth.” It’s more like, “of pork chops ‘n applesauce” or “of coffee, smokes, cat/dog dander” or “of human bondage.” Yes, we all shed; this is a fact and truth.

But, when it turns up on my TV screen, well, that’s just gross.

It is my day off and, yes, I will dust The Piggies, the rocks, and all shelves but I will not go anywhere near that Creepy Barbie. She is accumulating cobwebs, as I type, but I refuse to vacuum her. Speaking of vacuums; we have a Dyson. I love that Dyson (although we paid much more for it, at the time. Gah!) It is really amazing. I could vacuum all day and all night, over ever surface in the house, two or three or ten times, and it would still have a compartment full of… Dust.

I live in the southwest. It is now my personal mission to eradicate all dust from the house. This is a futile mission but one that does not cause me to be arrested; yet. You’ve heard of “The Twinkie Defense”, right? Well, I’m workin’ on “The Dust Defense” because all this dusting is making me crazy, and so much more. You see, I’m working on the house while S works from home and all the while I’m having to listen to her tell me all about her geeky, code-stuff. She proofed this post for me and I had to “humor” her and take a look at her code. Again, way too much (Kenner’s!) Spirograph stuff for me!

The words of the day are, “Bless You!” Because, all of this dust, also makes you sneeze. Envision, if you will, me, still in my robe and yesterday’s clothes, sporting an unusually spiked bed-head, listening to Bonnie Raitt, smelling slightly of patchouli and mocha mix, running around the house with a rag and Windex (‘cause Windex cures all), sneezing, dusting, and swearing.

Oh! How far I’ve come! Methinks I protest too much!

“Bless You!”

Kitty Q cannot fool me. He acts all big and tough but the fact is that he’s falling in love with sweet, gentle, happy-go-lucky Mojo. I caught him rubbing up against Mojo and purring but once he realized that I was observing him, he swung out his paw and boxed poor, confused, love-struck Mojo on the nose. Theirs, obviously, is a dangerous love… and I’m hopeful that it will grow and someday ol’ Mr. Q won’t feel it necessary to defend his ability to love outside his species.

Well, it appears he can love outside his species as long as the thing is two feet tall or less. He’s a discriminate lover-man but who can blame him? Lulu, who is about the size of a coyote, towers over him and when she lunges, it’s all just a little too tall and overwhelming for him. The reality is, and he may get this yet, Lulu simply wants to sniff his mighty fine smellin’ booty. Such is the cat-on-dog action in my house. It’s all about the butt-sniffin’.

Driving home from work last night, I turned the corner into my neighborhood and some Chupacabra lookin’ thing tumbled out of a small grove of oleander bushes. It stumbled into the street and looked right at me. My headlights shone into its eyes making it look evil and menacing. The fact is this poor creature was simply a very sick coyote. Its haunches were raw, open and bleeding. Almost all of its hair was gone, probably due to mange, and its skin looked gray and sickly. It was standing on wobbly legs, confused on which way to go, and walking in circles. It lay down on the street and crawled on its belly back into the oleanders. It actually looked like he was trying to scratch his belly on the asphalt.

The car behind me honked so I pulled off to the side. Just before that car drove around my truck, the creature came out from the oleanders and plopped itself down into the middle of the street. The impatient driver stopped suddenly, sat there for a second or two, backed-up, and then headed up a different side street. Yeah; that’s right, buddy… Chupacabra is comin’ for you only it’s gonna take a while ’cause the little guy is just a wee bit disoriented, itchy, and smelly. I felt very sorry for this little guy and called the city’s 311 line to report him. They told me they would send animal control out to try to capture it and put it out of its misery.

As I hung up the phone, I watched this creature stumble around in the street and fall over several times. I knew I had done the right thing but felt bad for it, nonetheless. I wondered how many other coyotes were in this condition and roaming the streets of our neighborhood. All of the dogs in the neighborhood have been howling and barking into the wee hours of the night for the past week. At first I thought it was just because they were outside, barking at every little sound, or maybe all of the Halloween activities. Now I reckon it’s because coyotes, probably including this little guy, were running (or stumbling) through the streets, looking for food and water.

Seeing this sickly animal really made me glad I took in Kitty Q; effectively ending his ramblin’ days and giving him an opportunity to pounce on a small, white, curly-haired d-o-g. We haven’t let him outside since he‘s been here and he‘s pretty pissed that the dogs can go outside as much as they want. He sits, looking through the sliding glass doors, and meows at the dogs in such a forlorn tone. I’m thinkin’ he would never go near that door if he was seeing what I saw on the street earlier in the evening. Just like the Chupacabra link above (albeit, full-bodied and still alive), this creature was grotesque and something made for bad dreams. Q would have been a tasty morsel for any coyote but to think his fate may have been aligned with Chupacabra, well, that’s just too much to think about. For now, our little kitty will remain hermetically sealed in the confines of carpeted floors, cozy couches, and a conveniently located kitty box.

Finally, I had a hankerin’ for a caramel apple spiced latte’ last night. I actually drove to the Starbucks near our house and ordered one for me and one for S. I’m addicted to them. As I was driving down our street, I saw a nice family walking their dogs. I pulled over and told the man what I had seen wandering the streets of our neighborhood not an hour earlier. They were very nice people with five dogs and two kids. All of their dogs were “rescues” including one greyhound, three pitbulls (Which, ironically, looked almost Chupacabra-esque.  Don’t get me wrong; I love pitbulls and think they are much maligned.  And this link is about as hideous as it comes because of WHO it is… Outkast?  Yikes!), and a mutt. I was explaining the situation when the little girl spoke up and said, “Well, my mom rescues animals. She’ll probably want to rescue this one, too.”

I went into my “sick, wild animal” speech and watched the girl’s eyes when I said, “…looked just like a Chupacabra…” She stepped closer to her mom and asked to go home. Urban legends like Chupacabra and La Llorona (ditch witch) run deep in these neck of the woods. These are the very things of bad dreams as well as some pretty awesome disciplinary tools for just about every parent in Albuquerque. “Stay out of the ditch or La Llorona will get you!” or “Put the animals away or the Chupacabra’s will get them!” are sayings I’ve heard for years. Although the legend of Chupacabra has been debunked for me, the sight was still scary enough to enter my dreams and cause me to scoop up our little kitty and remind him of his good fortune.

He repaid me by later jumping up on the table and trying to eat my breakfast while I wasn’t looking. Too bad he doesn’t speak English other than, “No!” and “Off!” (and that’s a stretch, still) otherwise I would have said, “Boy… You’d better get off that table or Chupacabra will get you!” Instead, I resorted to the next best thing: the dreaded spray bottle.

Nothin’ like a good squirt in the face, first thing in the morning, to remind all animals who is in charge… they all scrambled under the table and waited until things settled down. Just to make a point, Kitty Q slapped Lulu across the face, adding injury to insult.

One thing is for sure: watching our little menagerie is better than any sitcom or drama show on T.V. and seeing a Chupacabra in our neighborhood was scarier than anything Wes Craven could come up with. Unless, of course, you count his 1999 digression from horror films, Music of the Heart; now THAT was scary!

Oh… The Drama! Kitty-Saga blew into a full-on nosy-neighbor-clash. It turns out that this lil’ kitty was SUPPOSEDLY being taken care of by the crazy-lady’s neighbor and he wanted the cat given back. This guy is a real *winner* of a dude, no job, always scammin’, and when he talks to you (when the “you” is a woman) he won’t look you in the eye; he fixates on boobs. Can’t stand the guy. Instead of simply stopping by to speak to us about the cat, he took the tact of yelling at S and calling her names. NIiiiiiiiiice…

It turns out that our little buddy Q has a microchip. However, the name attached to the microchip doesn’t exist, the phone # is bad, and the address is nowhere near our neighborhood. Q has been on the run for a while, it seems. I took him to the vet to get his shots, check his health, and get him on path to be neutered. I got all of the necessary information for updating his microchip, paid the vet bill, and brought him home.

Then I went to Mr. Lecherous’ house and presented him with the bill. I was calm when explaining everything that was “wrong” with Q and told him that I was concerned for the animal’s health and welfare and have taken possession of the kitty. Of course, when presented with the bill, the guy backed right off, apologized, and started stuttering something about the cat being a “stray” that crazy lady didn’t really want, what with everything going on in her life. Interesting how everyone backs the hell off when it comes down to money. I gave him a piece of my mind about his actions and let him know that he can speak to me anytime, as long as he keeps is civil, and that yelling and calling anyone names is totally inappropriate. He shook my hand and took his 13 year old mentality back into his house. Chicken-shit. Sure, it’s true that S called him a “Nosy Bitch” but that was after he’d slung a slew of obscenities at her while she was getting the kids on the bus. God. What is wrong with people? Anyway…

…That’s that about that.

I’ve been fighting a cold all week. I’d been winning the war until the final straw of stress occurred Thursday night. I got a phone call from someone (S answered, I had no idea who it was) saying, “Hi, Natalie. We’ve just been robbed at gunpoint.”

Okay. Not really what I was expecting and I had to ask who it was a couple of times because the person on the other end of the phone was so freaked out that I didn’t recognize her voice. I spent the next four hours in a very tense situation. They caught the guys, which is great, but it was, to say the least, a scary expenditure of my time. There was one point in which the detectives took my employees to I.D. the “perps” and they were supposed to leave an officer there with me. Well, the officer that was supposed to stay with me was suddenly gone and there I was, by myself, alone in the store. I locked the freakin‘ doors and waited it out; scared to death and busying myself with cleaning up, doing dishes, mopping floors, etc… It was the longest (and probably most productive) 45 minutes of my life. When it was finally over, we all hugged each other and talked about how glad we were that no one was hurt. And then it began to sink in… everything we‘d all just been through… and we acknowledged what a scary process it all was and how my staff had handled themselves so professionally. It was the sinking-in process that caused all of us to have trouble sleeping. It wasn’t until afterwards that tears fell and a nervousness took hold. I didn’t get home until after midnight. And then I had to be back at the store at 5AM the next morning. It was surreal. (And, yes, this was all over the news which only added to my headaches in this process.)

I have to say that everyone in the company was really terrific about the whole ordeal. I’m not going to go into specifics here but let’s just say that shifts had to be covered, stuff had to be fixed, and I worked a close/open that about killed me. I haven’t slept much and this cold has found a weak spot and taken hold. Insult to injury is what I’d call that…

Things will hopefully settle down and get back to normal this upcoming week. I don’t feel any safer and I am definitely weighing my options about this job. This whole thing was handled terrifically but I’m wondering if it’s worth it to work in a situation in which I (and everyone I work with are) am put, so directly, in harm’s way. It’s not the company’s fault but, still, it makes me wonder… ponder… and think… what the hell am I doing? Well, now I have yet another mouth to feed so I’d better get busy thinking about either committing or finding another possible commitment. My boss has been terrific and there has been so much support and truly caring attitudes from everyone. I’m going to mull this over and continue doing my best but all of this does not leave the mind peaceful. A little meditation is in order. I’ll have to pencil that into my schedule which is full to the brim. Eh.

Today we are having our “Holiday Meeting” and I have to be all-upbeat-and-Holiday-cheery. My ears are ringing and I could sleep for two more days. I’m going to have to fake it. That’s okay ‘cause us Pisceans are good at acting (and acting-out) and I’m thinkin’ today is going to be an Academy Award Winning Performance.

My next day off is Halloween. Oldest had, once again, been in trouble at school and we’d taken away his ability to trick or treat. Then we got their report cards and the kid has been trying so hard that we told him that he just earned the ability to trick or treat with us. Up and down and all around; that’s what this is and we hope he stays the course until Wednesday. We took them out for pizza to celebrate their grades and a good time was had by all. We discussed our conferences with each of their teachers and it was all very encouraging. Now we can move on, put on our costumes, and eat a bunch of candy. Whew!

There’s the silver lining…

Have a frightfully terrific (and safe) week!

I am such a sucker.

Last night, we were watching TV, hanging out, when we heard some kind of ruckus going on next door. Our neighbor had company and they’d been drinkin’, a wee bit, and there was some kind of commotion going on in the foyer. Evidently, there was a kitty sitting outside their door asking to come in but our neighbor, in her funny, not-so-ha-ha-way, wasn’t havin’ it. She was worried about her own cat and could be heard rudely shushing and hissing poor lil’ kitty away… and then she slammed her door shut. We looked at each other, rolled our eyes, and went back to viewing CSI.

And then I heard it… “Me..ahh…ahh… ow…”

At first the sound came quietly and then became more insistent. Of course, Lulu and Mojo went wild and began tossing themselves at the front door in a clearly menacing manner. So, I went outside to see what all the commotion was about and shush the critter back to its own house.

I first saw this kitty the other day as I was driving home. I saw a woman walking to the mailbox and her kitty was following her. It was very sweet and cute and he’s a very pretty kitty. I was worried he’d run out in front of my truck so I drove very slowly, keeping my eye on him the entire way. I remembered this as I finally caught sight of this same kitty now hiding in the bushes just outside our front door.

I coaxed him over and he came eagerly, purring, meowing, and rubbing against my legs. Oh, what a pretty little boy! Well, I pretty much knew that he belonged to the crazy lady who lives four houses down and, although I knew I should take him back, I really didn’t want to because this woman is so nuts. Her husband died three weeks ago at the pickled young age of 35. He suffered from cirrhosis of the liver and cancer. Both of them are alcoholics and since his death, this woman has been a holy terror. About three weeks ago, just after his death, our street was being paved causing all of the residents to have to park on an adjoining side street. S, and a few other neighbors, came upon this woman, half in/half out of her parked car, looking as if she were dead. She’d taken a bunch of drugs and had been drinking and was totally passed out. This wasn’t the first time and by the looks of it, wouldn’t be the last.

We’d noticed that her daughter was no longer living with her (thank God) and that she suddenly had this cat. This crazy woman had also done some weird things to our immediate neighbor that just cracked us up. One day, some months ago, this woman was all lit-up and walked into our neighbor’s house, up the stairs and into her bedroom, and surprised her by lifting her dress over her head and then asked her to have sex with her. When our neighbor told us this story, it took everything we had to not laugh our asses off because, really, it’s sad and freaky and an awful way to live. However, that hasn’t stopped us from referring to her as our neighbor’s “girlfriend”, much to our neighbor’s chagrin.

So, here I am with this kitty and now I have to go confront “the girlfriend” and give her back her cat without getting asked to have sex or a drink or engage in some weird conversation. I walked up the walkway to the house and dogs started barking. I didn’t know this woman had dogs and wondered what the heck was going on in that house.

A woman answered the door and, although she looked vaguely familiar, I didn’t recognize her as the crazy lady. It turns out that I had the wrong house and hadn’t gone down the street far enough. This nice lady told me that she’d been feeding the little kitty because the crazy lady had stopped feeding him, had thrown him out of the house, and he’d been wandering the streets for a couple of days. She’d tried to find him a home without any luck. She would have kept him except for the fact that she already has two dogs and two male cats. She implored me to take him in and give him a good home.  It turns out that it was this woman I saw at the mailbox and he’d been following her around for days.

At that point I felt I just couldn’t refuse and would, at the very least, bring him in from the cold and danger of coyotes (and they’ve been out in force lately) until I could find him a good home. She gave me the box and old towel she’d made for him, a baggy of food, a half of a container of kitty litter, and sent me on my way.

When I got home, I yelled at S to put the dogs outside so I could bring him into the house. He immediately made himself at home on the couch. I decided to test the waters and let Mojo into the house. Suddenly, kitty was hissing and spitting and puffed-up twice his original size. Well, Mojo really dug that and decided to take a closer look. As Mojo crept toward him, kitty took a swing and caught Mojo squarely on the nose. Well, that was enough of that! I took kitty out to the garage, made his lil’ bed, gave him some food and water, and set-up a makeshift kitty box. He stayed in the garage last night and seemed perfectly fine.

This morning, after the kids had gone to school, I let him in because I could hear him mewing for some attention. He was happy as a lark to get out of that stinky, ol’ garage and planted himself on my lap and the warmth and comfort of my blanket. Damn him for having such a sweet little purr, soft, silky hair, and adorable little white toes. He’s a really pretty little kitty and I just can’t help myself… I want him to stay with us and have a forever home. He’s still just a baby, about four-five months old, and could easily get used to being in our home.

That is… if he can get along with the dogs and the dogs can get along with him and, he actually uses the kitty box and doesn’t tear-up my furniture. He’s a smart lil’ guy and listened when I’ve Cesar-Milan’d him for putting his claws into my couch. We let him be with us all morning (the dogs were outside) and he’s taken up residence behind S’ computer monitor. It’s a nice, safe place for him while he and the dogs get used to each other. We just let the dogs in and they’ve finally settled down. They are very excited to have another species in their house and are dying to sniff-butt. What they don’t know (and will probably soon find out) is that this lil’ guy has stickers in his paws and isn’t afraid to wield them.

S has decide to name him “Q” because, a) it’s her turn to name something; b) she’s appealing to my ego by naming him that (Q used to be my moniker on another blog); c) she’s all about Star Trek and I wouldn’t let her name him Jean Luc or Chakotay.

She’s written about him over at her blog… and it’s pretty funny. She also has a photo of him posted.  (Just a reminder that her password is the same as mine.  If you can’t remember it, just email me.)

We are still undecided (yeah, right, sure, uh-huh) whether we will keep him but one thing is for sure: we are not giving him back to the crazy lady. Her kid has been taken from her and there’s no way in hell we are going to let her neglect and abuse this little guy. It sounds like we live in a really wacky neighborhood but, really, it’s a nice area; we just seem to have a few nut cases down the block. Thank goodness for the kind-hearted animal lover neighbor whose house I went to accidentally. Everything happens for a reason! She and I totally bonded over this kitty and I really appreciate that I woke her up, she responded (in her pajamas), and helped get this little guy out of harms way.

The really weird thing is… just two nights ago I had a dream about a cat I had years ago. Her name was Pepper and I’d adopted her from the Humane Society. She was the best cat I’ve ever had and I’m not much of a cat person. She had a great sense of humor, didn’t use a kitty box (went outside), and if she got locked in the house, she’d pee down the bathtub drain. She ruled the roost and used to punch my dog in the snout, as if boxing, just to get her attention. She never hurt my dog but did that boxing thing whenever she felt the dog needed to be reminded who was in charge. Great cat! I had her for a very long time and always think of her very fondly.

And now we have “Q” whose personality is very much like Pepper’s. I wonder if she showed up in my dream to let me know he was coming. In my dream, I was looking for her and worried about her and being chased by bad people. It was clearly an anxiety dream (probably more about work than anything else) but in the end, I found her. She was sitting atop a fence, tail wagging in communication (she was quite a tail-talker), and purring.

With the exception of the fence, that’s almost how I found Mr. Q.

Welcome to the family, buddy. Just wait until you meet the boys; you may want to reserve your desire to live with us until after 2:15PM today. This house is not as quiet as you may think… and the dogs may be the least of your worries. HA!

So far, since moving into this house, we’ve been given two puppies and have had several stray animals just show-up at our doorsteps. We are also a second home to a neighbor dog that is quite the escape artist anytime there is a thunderstorm. I don’t know what it is about this house but it seems to be a magnet for stray animals. Must be the good Karma, dogma, catma, whatever… There’s certainly never a dull moment around here!

It’s no secret that I have a love for animals. I’ve got two bird-brained-dogs that keep me constantly amused. Not only are they goofy but I just love how excited they are when we all wake up in the morning. They act as if they haven’t seen us for days and jump around and lickity-lick-lick everyone.

I have, and have always had, a tremendous love for horses. I am of the opinion that they are just like big dogs. I love they way they nicker-whinny-neigh when they see you comin’. I always nicker-whinny-neigh back at them. This usually starts an entire nicker-whinny-neigh conversation which leaves my lips numb.

I don’t follow horse racing and, in general, do not like what the sport represents. All too many times, I’ve heard/read stories of neglect, injurious tragedies, and slaughter house demise. I can remember being really little and my dad took me behind the scenes at the racetrack. I have an awful memory of a handler beating a horse upside her head with a bridle. He kept hitting her, over and over, until finally jerking on the halter, pulling her head down, and forcefully shoving the headstall on while she danced on her hooves in protest. Not a pretty picture in my memory download.

However…

Yesterday I found myself silently cheering a little “You Go Girl!” to the tenth degree of Girl Power when I found out that Rags to Riches won the Belmont race. She’s a gorgeous lil’ filly and I hoped she wouldn’t be run into the ground, broken, faltered, etc… and suffer the same demise as Ruffian. I cried and cried when Barbaro was put down and I just couldn’t handle the thought of another shattered leg, career, and life. I couldn’t even stand to watch, “The Horse Whisperer” and cried through most of the movie. I could not get over the scene of Pilgrim under the bridge, standing there shivering and bleeding with half of his shoulder hanging off in a horrible, horrible moment of the film. Ugh.

But win she did and what a magnificent animal!

I began cruising around the internet looking for pictures and stories of famous horses. I’ve always been partial to cutting horses and, at one point, came across information about famous cutting horse and stud, Poco Bueno. I once owned a horse and she was out of the Poco Bueno line. (She looked just like him, too.) I had no idea that he was the link to Hereditary Equine Regional Dermal Asthenia (HERDA) in today’s stock horses. Breeding is a funny thing. My horse, Penny, was a Quarter Horse brood mare and I had planned on breeding her. Now that I know this information, I’m glad I never did. She was a beauty and an absolute sweetheart. I have several writings that I did on another blog about how I got Penny. I think I’ll post those over the next several days.

In my quest for horse information, I found a horse rescue ranch in the Edgewood area. That’s only about 45 minutes from here. They do great things out there and one of them is that they are having a “Hug a Horse Day” for Father’s Day. I emailed them and asked if this event was solely for Dads or whether S and I could attend as we are both moms and dad to these boys. We’ve been invited and I can hardly wait to take the boys out for the day.

If you get a chance, stop by my buddy, Karen Fayeth’s blog, Oh Fair New Mexico. She has a post about her excitement over a local author’s new book about horses. Check it out.

Here’s an old photo (Thanks to S for cleaning it up as best as she could!) of Penny and me. I was much younger and she was, at the time, 18years old. I miss lots of things about her but most of all… I miss her smell. She was a great smellin’ horse. You horse lovers out there probably know exactly what I mean.

Ain’t she a beauty?

This was taken just after Penny had been wormed and she was not too happy to have me runnin’ her around the paddock. I usually rode her with just a bareback pad and hackamore. She was rein and leg trained and very well behaved. Except in our intial days when she was terribly barn sour.

We are up and out the door early this morning with doctor’s appointments and DMV mishaps. I hate going to the DMV. It totally sucks. I was up earlier than planned because I heard someone crying at 4 this morning. I found little one, sitting up in his bed, crying and carrying on… he had a bad dream and was very, very upset. Then, I didn’t turn the lights on and scared him half to death. Poor little guy. I settled him down and got him back to sleep and now here I am, all coffee’d up with no where to go… yet.

It’s Spring Break; you’d think these kids would sleep-in a little but nooooooo… they just want “real breakfast” every morning as if S and I have nothing better to do but fry up some bacon, scramble up some eggs, and make some cheesy-grits (their fav’s) and toast. Sorry, bud; yer gittin’ cereal and juice. Although yesterday, S went to all the trouble of making sausage and pancakes. I was up late; yeah, me… the one who gets up at 3:30 in the morning just to have some quiet time was up at 8:30. I always miss the good breakfasts.

I was watching Animal Planet last night and could not tear myself away. Animal cops in Houston were seizing a bunch of animals kept in horrible conditions. These things make me really mad and weepy and I don’t want to watch them but I am compelled to watch, for some reason. I really don’t understand how anyone can treat kids or animals so badly. It makes me want to chain them to a post and leave them outside in the elements without food or water for, hmmm… what was it last night? Months? Bastards. What is wrong with these people? All the dogs had mange, infections, worms, heartworms (all 67 of them), the horses were skin and bones, the cow was skin and bones, the pigs had maggots eating away their tails; it was disgusting. And these people were living in the house with all of these dogs and cats and stench! Man. Uck. I can’t watch these programs but then I can’t tear myself away from them. I WANT to know they’ve been rescued. *sigh*

I had to watch a butterfly program just to settle myself down.

It’s a beautiful Spring morning here… and the birds are chirpin’. Everything is starting to bloom and this dusty ol’ town is starting to get a little color again. This does two things: makes me happy and makes me sneeze. Constantly smilin’ and sneezin’.

Our new motto is, “Have Kleenex; Will Travel.”

Time to Head “em up and move ‘em out!
Enjoy your day!