November 2014 – Hot Dog Cool Cats

Sir Andy Serves Vengeance

Something I have been meaning to bring up…I am so glad I was born a cat. We have it made in the shade, especially, if you have a Momma in your life. She can be tough, not even raise her voice, just point the way to the door, out of here, when I do something I shouldn’t, like chasing and terrorizing Gen or our Stray Grey Clem (What ever made Momma think I would welcome another MALE cat in to my domain?) .

Then there is that other ‘whoops’, when I spray on the wall to show ownership, and mark my territory. Since Momma has to go around behind me, cleaning, on her hands and knees, trust me, I am giving myself a short rope. I look in her eyes, see her disappointment in me, race to the door and literally eject myself, so she doesn’t do it for me.

It was long ago and it far away but I am sure I am benched for some good reason. No, wait, I remember, I was enjoying the spring breeze and watching the squirrels scurry back and forth, up and down. They kind of reminded me of Momma. — I am sure I am benched for some good reason.

Still, it is a good life. Clem’s a bit paranoid, a wild card, so it is easy to rile him, but son of a gun, that Jakita, who I have sniff air kissed every day since she came on board, has a system. She gives a piercing one bark only, to warn Clem I am just around the corner, destroying the surprise attacks, I so meticulously work on. I couldn’t believe it but one day when I was skulking around, I saw both Sister Gen and Jakita give Clem the sniff air kiss.

At least Charlie doesn’t welcome the Stray Grey with open arms. No, Charlie just lumbers off when she sees Clem approach, unless she has to take sides. It happened again last week.

On this particular day, I was not even being mean. I saw Clem sitting at the top of the stairs so I stopped to sniff, just sniff, his tail. Well, Clem is always in attack mode with other cats. He turned around so fast, using his massive right thumping paw to flip me on my back. His sharp claw, like a razor blade, hovered at my neck. As I looked into his blank stare, it was as if a trained Ninja warrior held my fate in his hand.

It is an oasis of calm. Charlie on the left, on guard duty with Ruby in the middle, while Gen to the left, Jakita and Tigger at the bottom of Momma's bed do siesta. — The Team at rest.

Absolutely appalled at his reaction, Jakita, along with Charlie and Gen, came running, forming a barrier around me. Meantime even Clem appeared shocked at his reaction. He jumped back on the food shelf and sat down, not snarling or growling, but crying, like a sad,little kitty as if to lament, ‘So sorry. Sometimes I just lose it. Please don’t hold it against me.’ It was pitiful!

So you know by now, I am no ‘forgive and forget kitty,’ more a tit-for-tat and learn-your-lesson type. Fair is fair. I was delighted to see the loyalty that I inspired in my sibling Gen, my step sibling Charlie, Jakita, the Author of The Policies and Procedures of All Creation, but I had been humiliated and I am not like Sweet-Baby-Jesus, as far as turning the other cheek, you understand.

Next day, bold as brass and let-bygones-be-bygones, Clem came marching in when Momma held the door open. He ate, I waited. He slept under the table, on a dining room table chair, I waited. I needed a good clear space to do my damage. Feeling confident, Clem went to his favorite perch on the back of the arm-chair in the sun porch. That meant this eleven year old Brainiac (not Muscle) Cat could jump him fair and square, in the open so all the household could see his humility, except Momma who would be busy doing this or that. In any case, she would not approve of or condone my Guerrilla Warfare attack.

So what happened? The All knowing, all hearing (remember the butterflies flapping their wings in Africa) Jakita, barked once. No response from Momma but Clem got it, very quickly. He dived behind the chair, ears flat on his head, claws clinging to the yellow/gold/white afghan and arm-chair fabric, giving Momma enough time to hear the commotion and get an EXIT plan going.

Check it out! Check it out! On my favorite arm, Check! On my favorite knitted afghan, Check! In the sun porch, Check. Back to wall, eyes to front, Check, Check! So bring it on! — Check it out! Check it out! On my favorite knitted afghan, Check! In the sun porch, Check. Back to wall, eyes to front, Check, Check! So bring it on!

I sauntered over to the door, proud that I let him know who was boss and that once again my mates rushed in but….

Hey, wait, are they protecting me from Clem or Clem from me? No worries, I got my eyes on that situation but I am thinking, it’s all good now.

Welcome to Jakita’s Neighborhood

Bad fur day...should wore a hat, Momma. — Bad fur day…should wore a hat, Momma.

Out of the cemetery and down the street Momma and I march. We meet up with that friendly couple who have cats (I won’t hold that against them) but always have time to discuss me.

Next we pass the big red Canada Post Box that Momma drops envelopes in. I am not sure what that is all about. She explained its use one time but I was eying a brilliant yellow buttercup patch with a white Butterfly hovering over it – should I lunge and snap? Uh, nah, bad Karma, especially around Momma. ‘Let nature run its inevitable course’, she says, she does.

Finally we are at the corner and turn left, where a little Mom and Pop Store sell all those lottery tickets, as well as baskets of flowers every summer and odds and sods that are going no where fast. I wonder about this enterprise because I heard Momma speculate, that maybe it is a front for some illicit den of iniquity because they do not seem to sell enough to stay in business. The store opens when the owner shows up and closes when he feels like calling it a day. It is not a very reliable schedule for the customers, least those who are just trying to buy milk for their kiddies’ cereal. Even the homeless are perplexed about how it stays in business since it never seems to be open when they pass by. I know this because one day, a customer, new to Brampton asked Momma, what gives, what time does the owner show up? All she could do was shrug apologetically (she is Canadian, after all) and say, ‘You got me on that one. No one has a clue….least of all the owner.’

As we mosey on down the street I see The Hat Lady coming, long before Momma recognizes her. My tail starts wagging, a Friendly, Momma will stop to chat. The Hat Lady’s property also backs on to the cemetery. As a matter of fact, she can go outside and wave at RIP Daddy, she is that close to his gravestone. She lives in the old homestead, built by her father, over sixty years ago. The Hat Lady is a devoted Presbyterian. ‘What’s that, Momma? Oh, yeah, a do-gooder with a different umbrella, hers being under the Presbyterian banner. Didn’t some of our ancestors march under that, till they broke away and merged with another Church?’ Water under the bridge, water way under the bridge.

Although The Hat Lady seems to approve of me, she doesn’t have time for a pet, in her life. As they chat, I tire of the wait, and start complaining in a mournful warble, to Momma who, understands and chooses to ignore me.

Finally we are on our way, and cross the road. ‘Oh, there is Ms. Portugal, you know, her property backs on to ours – let’s talk to her, for just a minute, Jakita, I promise’, says Momma. ‘Mr. Portugal (her husband) is fine’, says Ms. Portugal, ‘But he still drives me crazy, wanders all over, someday, he will get himself killed in the traffic’, she says, she does. So true, we have seen him absolutely totter across four lanes of traffic, cars changing lanes on the fly, to avoid hitting him, horns blaring, no one stopping, least of all Mr. Portugal who apparently is on auto pilot and angel wings. I am so glad I have not been assigned to be his protectee.

We say farewell for today, see ya tomorrow, and move on, turn right at the corner, past our neighbour to our left, who are always in

Downtime Don't come between a dog and her bone, especially now, since I figured out how to hold it! — Don’t come between **a dog** and her bone.

transition. We can not figure out who the owners are, who is in and who is out. It seem to be a never-ending parade of unfortunates. But it is all good because now we are, home again, home again – and there is no place like home.

Get out of my way kitties. I am on a mission to find a place for some water and some downtime.

Just give the dawg a bone!

Email: housekeeping@hotdogcoolcats.com

Charlie Gets A Life

Look at Me. I am not vain (well, hardly) but have you ever seen a kitty with so many shades of green in her eyes? — Look at Me. **I am not vain** *(well, hardly)* but have you ever seen a kitty with so many shades of **green** in her eyes?

Oooohhh, I love Momma, I love, love, love Momma. Every day I still ask myself, what possessed me to behave so radically, when I could have had a life of ease? Maybe my brain waves became scrambled from breathing the rancid air in the crawl space . I believed I could tuck myself in to secret crevices where the Two Footed Foe could not even find me.

Then there was the all knowing Kat Mandu, who kept me captive and believing. How was I to know I was a classic Stockholm Syndrome victim? It makes me shutter to think that the only reason I would approach Momma, dear, sweet Momma, was to have her go to the door in the middle of the night to let that self-serving little Mandu back in the house to sleep with me. But Mandu passed and along with her went her stories of horror from her life on the Moraine where she was abused, starved and rejected by both the Two and Four Footed that walk among us.

No. Charlie will not back down. Andy, you are out-of-here. — No. **Charlie** will not back down.

Give me a break. Tell me to shake my head a time or two. When did a Two Footed abuse you, you may ask? I have to admit…..well, never. They fed me, brushed me, petted me, looked disappointed when I hissed, horrified when I would emit a deep-throated growl at other cats and totally mesmerized when I purred. So what exactly made me believe a psychopath cat? Maybe because she mothered me – she looked out for me and she played the best chess game of divide and conquer, winning each game but losing the battle to live in harmony with all that share the earth plane.

The very day Mandu got sick, I dragged my solid body supported by my arthritic legs, upstairs and started to survey the lay of the land. I had a feeling I was going to have to be not only the Quarterback, but the whole team.

Momma was no problem. She did what all good Momma’s do, combing me, scratching me, talking in a loving manner. However, sneaky Momma had a plan to keep me upstairs. A month or so after Mandu passed, Momma had someone close off the crawl space. Not only did that keep me out, it kept all the cats from being sucked into the vortex whenever they were sick or in a moody mood. It was not a popular choice at first for any of the cats who felt their privacy was being invaded. However, in the long-term, we have come to recognize the wisdom, in this decision, Momma, since isolation leads to neurosis be it Two or Four Footed Critters.

Still, I had some mending of fences with the other cats since I had routinely denied them access to food dishes, the water and even the staircase, like the Troll under the Bridge, refusing safe passage. I hissed, I snarled and even attacked the other cats when they had the nerve to enter the basement, my sanctuary.

I kept a wary eye on Puppy Jakita. She was so sweet-natured, while still very protective of all the household and it menageries, that I quickly felt comfortable around her. We played a game of keeping our eyes down yet inching closer and closer to each other as we fell asleep, both trusting in this new relationship.

Brave Charlie now shares Momma's bed with a kitty's best friend Ruby, the Exquisite Stuffed Monkey. — Brave Charlie now shares Momma’s bed with a kitty’s best friend Ruby.

Now that I did not have a crawl space, I wanted a comfortable place to wile away the hours, where I could see what was going on, without having to part of the action. I chose the bedroom of my RIP Daddy, laying my head on a pillow, my body on the duvet, which I routinely burrowed beneath, to stay toasty warm. And that was good but I was starting to want to have more time with Momma. All day long she ran around, doing this and that, so it did not matter where I slept, she was constantly in and out and all about. However, at nights, she slept in her bedroom with Jakita – no problem – Jakita and I were buds, weren’t we?

So I devised a plan to share the inner sanctum. I laid at Momma’s bedroom door. I pushed my paw under the bottom of the door, trying to miraculously open it, but that was a no-go. Guess I had the wrong tool box. Then I threw my solid body at said door, until, like ‘Open Sesame’ the knob complied and I rapidly skittered in. I hid under the bed, then in one leap, sprang out on top of Momma, waking her from a deep sleep, sending her into shock and awe, all at the same time. I was so proud of myself. I purred so loudly, that Jakita, at the foot of the bed, whined at me to settle down.

Rule Number One, if I was sharing the bed – Jakita was not like the cats, napping all day. She had a lot of responsibility, so she needed her rest at night….so settle down, already!

Okay, okay, I get it, I will settle down for now but I got some plans Jakita, we’ll talk in the morning……

Senorita Jakita and The Graveside Walks

Here I am, out at the cemetery, resting as I watch those cemetery squirrels dart up the trees. — Here I am, out at the cemetery, resting as I watch those perpetually in motion squirrels dart up the trees.

So truth be told, it being stranger than fiction, but all was well with a daily romp in the cemetery, until, Daddy, well, you know, died. Then all bets were off the table. I think just last winter, I taught Momma a lesson. Remember, how I complained that she dragged me down to his grave, deafening me as she punched holes in the crust, sinking in to thick snow, because she had to fix the flowers and windmills she so lovingly left. She is so proud (isn’t that one of seven deadly sins) of the amazing silk bouquet of tulips and roses and then that Christmas Bough with cream lilies, adorned with silver ornaments on an evergreen branch because:

1) There were no other footprints in the snow so Momma must love Daddy better than other people who never visited their loved ones (at least not in the Arctic Vortex Season),

2) Momma’s bouquet with windmills that spun merrily, and stood out so succinctly, would ensure everyone knew that you must be Dutch, Daddy. As you used to say – ‘You’re not much, it you’re not Dutch‘ – uh, where does that leave our Momma, Daddy?

The ice storm had left the grave yard like a war zone, branches falling 150 feet from two hundred year old trees, which up to this point in history had stood the test of time. It must have been frightful in the cemetery that night as trees and branches crackled, laden with ice, falling heavily to the ground, uprooting the tributes, such as bouquets and Christmas boughs. At Daddy’s site, the Christmas Evergreen, thick with ice, was left lying horizontal in front of the gravestone.

You Praise God. RIP Daddy's flower arrangement. — You Praise God. RIP Daddy’s flower arrangement.

So on this day. Momma became distracted, trying to manipulate the Evergreen Branch upright again. I saw my opportunity and, I disappeared. She can lead the cow to water but she can not make her drink.

Who knows how many minutes had passed before she looked around for me? At first she called my name, in a relaxed manner. I never go far, I must just be behind a gravestone or a monument or maybe crawled under a bush. Momma laughs and says I walk like I got my mosey on more often than running these days. (What is my mosey Momma?). She says it is when I walk like Stockard Channing in Grease, with a slow-moving hip swivel, to gain the attention of the John Travoltas’ of the world). Huh?

Then from my vantage point I could see Momma move to where kids were playing with a big dog on the other side of the cemetery fence. Had they seen me, she asked? Like I would hang around where kids were screaming and another dog was barking. Give your head a shake Momma. You should know me better than that.

A towering monument by a big old tree to mark the prominence of some long gone family, with the pointed end of the pillar pointing the way to heaven. — A towering monument by a big old tree to mark the prominence of some long gone family, with the pointed end of the pillar directing traffic to heaven.

I saw as Momma went one way, then another, like the cemetery is a huge place that a little dog like me could stay hidden for a long time. As I have said, I have those bionic ears, I can hear the butterflies in Africa and could easily read the panic and desperation as Momma plowed her way through the snow, dreading the thought of going home, and telling Wonder Boy that she had managed to lose me, her Jakita-Boo-Boo.

I was not lost. I was waiting. I know Momma like the back of my paw. I made my way back to the paved driveway where I knew Momma would exit, I laid down on the road, head resting on outstretched paws, waiting for her. Because of my size in comparison to the high snowbanks, I was hidden from her line of vision. I may never understand the level of relief Momma felt when she saw me there waiting, waiting patiently for her to return. It was a good life lesson, my eyes told her. I would never desert her but there comes a time in life, when No-Means-No, Momma.

It was a somber march home. We exited on Church Street, hung a left, greeted the couple whose property back on to the cemetery. They are so fine and polite. He is a Union Man, Momma tells me, with his work boots, blue jeans, plaid shirt and lunch box while she teaches pet grooming at a local college. I don’t believe she teaches manners (at least to her dogs) because her little Jack Russell mix barks, snarls and growls his way through life. Oh, and don’t get close, he bites as well, admit the embarrassed owners. Now what possible use is a dog like that?

I must bring him a copy of my Policies and Procedures between the Doggies and All Other Creatures That Inhabit Earth Plane.

Email: housekeeping@hotdogcoolcats.com

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