January 2015 – Hot Dog Cool Cats

Stray Cat Style

Trees buried in snowbank...Momma is happy...she is on her way inside! — Momma …so easily tempted!

Momma is at it again – flirting with a stray cat that she promises me will be an Outside cat. Where did we hear that before – oh, yeah, Casey and it did not turn out well. He drove a little stake in Momma’s heart, creeping closer every day, until he reached the front door but even so, it was Momma (blame Momma) who actually carried him through that door to the horror of all the Indoor, Indoor / Outdoor Cats and me.

Oh why, oh why must this happen again? Is there a sign up down at the Cat Colony, Homeless Shelter for Stray Ferals, with a picture of Momma and arrows pointing the way to our house? Probably not. It is just when Momma realized that we had non paying guests seeking shelter in our garage, in the sub-zero winter weather, she did what all good hostesses do. She put out food. Now one of them for sure is a sibling to Casey, a luxurious striped tiger gray, wearing a white tuxedo shirt. But the stray who has the most staying power is a hard-headed tortoise shelled cat with tortitude, not willing to succumb an inch to the members of the Kitty Club Med. Me, he ignores, as if I am invisible, in his cat-i-tude world.

Too late! Clem already is an Inside / Outside Cat, blissfully asleep, gasp on Momma's bed? Where was I? How did this happen? I demand answers! — Too late to shut the farm door! Clem already is an inside blissfully asleep, gasp! on Momma’s bed? Where was I? How did this happen? I demand answers!

Oh why, oh why can Stray Cats not be like Roman Catholic Secular priests and nuns used to be, wearing far-reaching habits that would cover their frost-bitten ears, their matted fur and starving bodies with bones sticking out. That way, only their eyes would be revealed to show their desperation. (Ok, don’t freak, I know very few Orders still dress that way today). You know how Momma can not abide suffering, even for the ugly old slugs in the basement. I believe if Momma could not see what dire straights the strays were in, she would not go in to rescue mode.

Indoor, Indoor/Outdoor Cats, I promise we will do our best, trying to scare that stray back to the Colony but this one is clever and getting nervier – even with me barking annoyingly and Andy Cat hissing, snarling, and caterwauling, it is flipping its’ tail at us and standing his ground, like a Floridian we all heard about – showing up more often, waiting for his food and water bowl to be filled, biding his time while the glow from the pine, makes a fool out of me. Next thing you know, Momma will be setting up a comfortable place for him to sleep with a pillow and a heating pad, in the garage. Will she never learn?

PS: Andy Cat is so two-faced – I told you, I told you, dogs and cats are day and night. Here I am trying to run the stray off, using techniques Border Security employs between the United States and Mexico, (though I don’t have guns and detention lock-ups), thinking I have full feline support on my side. However, as Momma opened the door today to take me for my afternoon walk, there sat Andy Cat with the Stray Cat, like two steps from inside. There was no hissing, no snarling, just two cats, finding a patch of sun to snooze in.

I will be conducting a full investigation and filing a complaint with the Federation of Worldwide Registered Canines and Felines. We are not going to take it any more!

Jackita Recalls Jack Jack

So long ago, Gen, when Moses was a pup, Momma lived on the old homestead, in the country, far away from the hustle and bustle she faces today, with her Urban Suburban life. It was not better, it was not worse but it was radically different. Do you have some time, you want to hear, Gen, oh, you too, Tigger and Ruby? You’ll enjoy this.

Ground Zero for Momma. Not everyone is born in deep forests with rainbows casting shades that change as the sun rises and sets.

Jack Jack was a local character, born in the back woods, that even today’s Google Car would have struggled hard to locate and map. He was beloved by the adults and children alike. There were so many Jack’s in every family, Big Jack, Little Jack, Peg Legged Jack, One Eyed Jack…you get the picture. His fathers’s first name was Jack so it was only befitting he be anointed Jack Jack and so he remained till death did he part.

A natural-born raconteur of tales, he talked a form of Gallic. An entrepreneur bachelor before his time, he invested in a Dream Team, two horses, Nessie and Nestor, who were both large, and placid, chestnut brown coats with long, black, feathery tails and manes that gleamed in the sun. Jack Jack went from farm to farm in the district, plowing and planting gardens, than gathering the hay, and finally cutting and storing the harvest for the long winter months ahead. The Dream Team and their owner, just reaping what they had sewn.

They would hear him in the fields calling, ‘Gui up a ha, Nessie, Gui up a ha, Nestor’ and the horses would respond in kind, plodding slowly but unquestionably forward, hauling plows, or what ever wagon or farm tool was needed, for the job at hand. Come Christmas, on a moon lit night, Jack Jack would put bells around Nessie and Nestor’s necks, hitch a sleigh on his Dream Team, and take all the neighborhood kids for a ride back the snow packed alley wherein they sang all the season’s songs, at the top of our lungs, waking the dead from their peaceful slumber.

However, just like Our-Favorite-Uncle would say, ‘There’s always something to take the joy out of your living.’ To that end, even in Shangri–La some mean-spirited person lurked, who would take a run at him, but Jack Jack would more than likely put him in his place, right smart. Such was the occasion when Jack Jack went to the local store and the owner, Fred, decided to tease him about being a bachelor all these years, like it was a disease to be treated before it killed you, so every time he’d ask, ‘Getting married soon, Jack Jack?’ Jack Jack caught the eye of another shopper. ‘Fred’, he drawled with a dead pan face, ‘I was wondering, was there any more of those long toothed hags, where your wife came from, that I could marry?’ No one ever heard Fred ask Jack Jack about his marital status again.

On Halloween night, after finishing trick or treating, all the neighborhood kids would go back to his house and beg him to tell ghost stories. As they sat around his kitchen table, the candle light flickering, casting long shadows, on the oil table-cloth and the cosy kitchen, he would tell of the disasters that always occurred when any one saw the Headless Horsemen, as it galloped through the meadow to disappear in to the black of the forest. Floods, failed crops, loss of life followed in the Headless Horsemen’s track. It was a common denominator among them that would not go looking for any Headless Horsemen to invite havoc in an already chaotic life.

Jack Jack recounted a legend passed down through the generations about his Great Aunt Matilda, how she buried her pot of gold, then died the next day and to his knowledge, it had never been found. He swore if they went back the alley, across from the Half Way Brook, in the field to the right, where they planted their potatoes, up the hill to the quarry they would see her routing around the blue berry bushes, looking for her pot of gold. But don’t even blink, Jack Jack cautioned, because she may evaporate, before their very eyes, leaving them wondering if it was all in their imagination or maybe, just maybe, there were unknown realities that they had to glimpse, just to give them a yearning to see more.

Paradise awaits you. From Morguefile.com ruined_doorway.jpg By hotblack — Paradise awaits you.
From Morguefile.com
ruined_doorway.jpg
By hotblack

Momma says that they all sat there, transfixed yet addicted to the tales, knowing next year, the very same stories would leave them wondering again if Jack Jack was not just a simple farmer, but maybe a graduate of higher learning from another dimension of the world, that they fervently believed ‘was out there‘.

Jack you were Special… We did not know it then…We’ll see you up in Heaven….Where stories never end!

Email: housekeeping@hotdogcoolcats.com

Mr. Grey Squirrel Moves In

Here I am, under the cherry tree, in the Rock Garden, looking for and hiding my chestnuts.

They (the Two Footed) knew it was bound to happen because, I, (Mr. Grey Squirrel) and my kind are doggedly persistent in all we set out to achieve. No way would some fly by night homeowners with our long-established squatters rights, keep us out. The difference was we were here for eternity. They were here until they tired of us, sold the property and moved on.

I cased the joint. I traveled every inch of the roof and awnings to find the most strategic point of entrance. I found a couple of places that when I put my eye to a thin crack, I could see the unfinished attic, a paradise for winter living. The first place I gnawed at day in and out for three days (but who is counting, what else does a squirrel have to do?). However, when it came time for evaluation versus effort, I had to admit I had not made any headway through the plank. Maybe those demon Two Footed creatures who constructed this home, had put in steel two by fours, just to discourage squirrels.

So I went to my second choice – second because it was on a slippery slope and it was hard to get a grip, so to speak. Many times as I gnawed, I lost my balance, fell to the ground, had to climb the tree and start all over again, but by golly, that is life and they were not keeping me out. Finally I had made an opening that I could flatten myself like a pancake (a blessing from the Higher Power who realized squirrels need a roof over their heads too, especially in those frigid months from December to April) and squeezed in.

Mrs. Black (Grey) Squirrel Fr: Morguefile By: AcrylicArtist — Mrs. Black (Grey) Squirrel
Fr: Morguefile
By: AcrylicArtist

And once in the home I invited my Significant Other to take up residence with me– a shiny black bushy-tailed Mrs. (Black) Grey Squirrel. The owners of the home would have had to be deaf not to know that they had free loading borders in their attic. They could hear us scurry, no, run to and fro, to and fro. The Two Footed Family tried to fall sleep in vain as we set up housekeeping.

Then there was the bowling balls that we, the Grey Squirrel Family chased down the timbers. Chestnuts, that I swear sounded like they weighed ten pounds which we had harvested diligently, all summer long, for winter staples. On top of that was the usual moving in noises. You know – the dragging and positioning of furniture for our abode to be more comfortable. What furniture, you ask naively? Well, Momma had left a corrugated box high up on the rafters.

Spoiler Alert for the Home Channel Marble Counter Top Millenniums. You may have nightmares after seeing the ceiling of a Shed Room in a house 140+ years old. But its rafters form perfect highways - and just look at that Knob & Tube wiring, we can swing across. — Spoiler Alert for the Home Channel Marble Counter Top Millenniums. You may have nightmares after seeing the ceiling of a Shed Room. Just look at that Knob & Tube wiring, we can swing across.

Once in the attic we could access our Shed Room in all of it’s’ splendor. Momma saw that box, disappear, one corner at a time, as our sharp teeth ripped and our able paws dragged it away, in pieces.

We were busy to bust and not going anywhere soon!

Part of the Mr. Grey Squirrel Series.

SOS READERS SOS

Dear Readers

Who Ever You May Be

Where Ever You May Be

In The Wonderful World of

BLOGS

WE NEED YOUR HELP!

Sometime, Somewhere, Somehow, Momma managed to TRASH Comments that had been sent since the beginning of January. She is very sorry and vows to be more careful going forward.

Many of you had questions which she intended to address. Some of you gave your insights, opinions, and even praise, which is truly appreciated. If you could be so kind and send them again, it would be greatly appreciated because readers:

You’re Da Bomb.

Senorita Jakita

Official Record Keeper

and Creator of

Policies and Procedures of All Creation

PS: I had a stern talk to Momma and set up a time line to ensure compliance. She seemed to listen attentively and accept my improvements to the system, but you know our hard-headed yet tender-♥’ed Campbell through and through and out the other side Momma. (Is that where I get it from?)

I will keep a careful eye on her.

Black and White Beau-Re-Gard is On The Road Again

We all draw a lot, or spin a wheel or engage in some other game of chance that decides our fate. That Momma decided to take me, when my two other brothers looked just like me, was the first random act of luck.

Look at my earnest eyes! How can a kitty so handsome be so vindictive with poor, helpless Mao and Mandu. I didn't mess with Charlie - she was bigger and meaner than they were. — Look at my earnest eyes! How can a kitty so handsome be so vindictive with poor, helpless Mao and Mandu? And, trust me, I didn’t mess with Charlie. She was bigger and more menacing than I was..

There were five hungry little kittens but it was the cries of Andy, The Brainiac that alerted a couple of Two Footed (the General Manager and his Assistant), that a Rescue must be arranged. We were fished out of a deep and wide automotive parts bin, trundled in the office and passed to any takers. No one wanted or needed us. Kittens under four weeks are a lot of maintenance. Momma stepped up to the plate and volunteered to take 3 – she snapped up Diva Calico Gen and The Brainiac, Andy then looked at the three left. It was like we were triplets, with our marking so similar – thick black shiny fur, white toes with a white star at our neck, a broad zigzag blaze of white down our bellies.

Yet instantly I felt Momma’s inner spirit and knew, I had to make her realize, Two Footed or Four Footed, we were soul mates. So sad to say but my other two triplet brothers were not so fortunate. They were taken in by the receptionist, who was very kind but after a week, or so, because of a volatile personal relationship, took them to SPCA, so their fate is unknown. It satisfies me to think that they were adopted by Momma clones. Or maybe they were adopted by eccentric billionaires who feed them caviar from crystal bowls.

Life was good. At the very beginning, there was talk about finding us Forever Homes with other families once we were eight weeks old. However as a willing adoptee came forward, Wonder Boy evaluated and eliminated all takers. They were too young, too old, too lazy, too shiftless. No one fit the bill of prerequisites that Wonder Boy had crafted.

Well, that was just dandy for us because, you know Momma, RIP Daddy and Wonder Boy had lots of experience with cats. They were more than willing to let the cat in, let the cat out (once we were spayed or neutered). It made for a better adjusted, mentally happy cat who spent most of the out time on the front steps, in the back yard on comfy chairs or in the garage. Then of course we would take a walk on the wild side when we crossed the street to go to the ravine, where we lay out in the sun, on slabs of cement. We had full exposure to the sun, water to drink, and even better, we could see the Colony Cats, hiding in the bushes. Looking back, we were a hoity–toity threesome, with me having the most attitude because it was my job to keep The Diva and The Brainiac safe from all takers.

Are we not the sweetest, most innocent kitties ever. Do you wonder why everyone wanted us?

But at night, when we were all inside the house, I could revert to the baby kitty I had been when I first met Momma (albeit a scheming baby). When she sat on the couch, trying to read the paper cover to cover, I would use my head as a battering ram and knock the paper out of Momma’s hands. That competed, I buried my head on her lap. Purring contentedly, I would lay on my side, begging Momma to rub my belly, don’t stop, forget the paper, the news is too distressing to take seriously anyway. But Momma, you were mentioning, you had read, pets bring down the stress level in humans. If only they could learn how to do that with their fellow felines.

I know, like a giant tiger in the jungle, or maybe just a bully, I gave, both Black and White Mao and Calico Mandu a life of terror, hiding under bushes, dive bombing them, while I emitted frightening snarls. They were both small cats, who I easily could pounce on, gaining complete control. Looking back that was not a period of my life worthy of celebrating. Although I never actually fought them, there were no scratches or bite marks, just emotional scarring, shame on me. I would never do that to Andy The Brainiac or Calico Gen or Phantom Charlie, or even Senorita Jakita. I ♥’ed that puppy.

Look at us, Jakita with her worries, me with slit eyes pondering sleep, both of us drawing near to soothe the other. — Look at us, Jakita deep in thought, me with slit eyes pondering sleep, both of us drawing near to soothe the other.

And like it begins, so it must end and after ten fun-filled years of life, in a matter of a short week, all of the sand, ran through my egg timer. With my Momma at my side, I grabbed the first blue cloud and sailed to heaven, into Daddy’s waiting arms. A forgiving Mandu and Mao were standing on either side of Daddy, with flip charts and overheads.

Apparently they have lots to teach me to ready me for my next life. I’ll keep you posted.

Jakita Introduces Paddy

It is a ritual. Every night after supper, it is outside time for me. Once I come back in, Momma cleans and cleans my paws and tail and belly and back and head, with baby wipes, then rubs me down with a fluffy towel, while I lick her fingers. Gen waits patiently for this routine to finish because, once Momma is done with me, it is play time for Gen and I.

I chase Gen around, she hides under the bed, I follow, then as I tire of the wait, she jumps out at me. I shrug her off, chase her round and round the kitchen, down the hall, to the living room, all the while barking and complaining. Gen comes to a complete halt, I somersault over her and pounce on her back, chewing on her ears. Girlie style, Gen emits mournful cries that brings Momma running, ready to protect the victim, and eject the antagonized. I jump on the couch out of harm’s way.

Every night, same routine, Momma admonishes me, and comforts Gen, who jumps up beside me on the couch, lays down, her head resting on her milky white paws, purring and sidling closer to me to show she has no hard feelings.

After the nightly chase, Jakita rests on the pillow and Gen snuggles next to her.

Now you know Momma is open to possibilities and holds dear the thought that she will one day be united with her loved ones and her hot dogs and cool cats, in heaven.

You will not believe me but I swear I see RIP Daddy in the living room on occasion, putting his hand on Momma’s shoulder. He has even patted my head on occasion. I can see him but it is quite apparent Momma doesn’t. Matter of fact, she says she has never seen a ghost but she heard one, she says, she does.

Apparently, it was a well-established fact that my Grandmama grew up in a haunted house. They were told that the owner of the home, Paddy was on the roof with his hired help, when a fight broke out. Somehow Paddy either slipped or was pushed off the roof to his death. From that day forward he haunted the home, bought at a (killer…LOL) good price, since no one else would go near it. Paddy would turn on and off lights, kill flies with an invisible fly swatter and continually, relentlessly hammer shingles on the roof, trying to complete his task before the first snow of winter flew.

The old schoolhouse: Perfect for hotel, bar restaurant. — The haunted??? house? From Morguefile.

Momma said she well-remembered, when she stayed overnight at my grandparent’s home, sneaking in bed with Aunt-Second-Sister, knowing she was the only person in the home with her, yet hearing the persistent hammering on the roof. Bewildered by what her eyes could not see, but her ears could not deny, somewhere near dawn, Momma drifted off into a restless, troubled sleep.

Momma is told, even today, Paddy is still keeping her cousin’s family awake, as he works to finish the roof before the first snow of winter. The roof has been re-shingled many times since your death, Paddy. Everyone will long remember your existence and pass your story on, for generations to come.

How about it, Gen, should you and I urge Paddy to ‘go in to the light’. He has surely earned passage to his eternal rest. Meanwhile when I am staring in to the distance, my tail wagging, it probably means I can see RIP Daddy, big smile, bending down to scratch my ears. I just wish Momma could see what I see.

Jakita & Gen, staring in to the unknown. Do they see RIP Daddy or are they listening to a Momma discuss the Mystery of the Reality. — Jakita & Gen, eyes wide open, staring in to the unknown. Do they see RIP Daddy or are they listening to Momma discuss the Mystery of the Reality?

So, what do you think Gen? Oh, you ‘want more’ as Wonder Boy said, at fourteen mouths old – ‘more – want more’. No worries, I got lots to tell . You wonder if we should share this with the other cats. No, Brainiac Andy, would scoff at us and Charlie would hide away in the basement for weeks, not wanting to embrace the ‘unknown’ since the ‘known’, is even more than she can handle.

But we could tell Ruby, the Wide Eyed Monkey. She is so wise and all-seeing.

Trust me, I have heard plenty, so listen up, okay?

Gen and Her Plan

Here I am, cute as a button, the Ruler of the Free World, NOTE TO SELF: Female, of course… or is that more like the Ruler of My Own World of Felines and a Manipulator of Others, able to sashay around with tail held high, as I purvey the world through my glittering green eyes.

Gen shows her pretty white belly with a black belt separating the north from the south, the splotches of various colors weaving a map in her rich fur.

But there are things I was born without. Still, it is easy in this world of ours, to build your own war chest (and other kinds of chests that plastic surgeons provide) paid by, you got it, plastic cards with outrageous interest rates and credit limits. Still there is one thing I ache for and mean to have one day. It is long, thick flower petal eyelashes, (hot pink would do) with silver and gold sparkles to accentuate my pea green eyes. It would be so amazing. I could start a trend.

Any venture capitalist’s interested in bank-rolling start-up costs – let’s say an 80/20 split? I am sure I can talk Momma in to donating to the cause. She is such a pushover for a well thought out, profitable Five Year Business Plan.

Also, after realizing the Two Footed wear shoes which protects their feet as well as glamorize them, I have put my creativity to use. What else would accentuate the Diva Calico Gen’s individualism, but a pair of itty-bitty-kitty, bejewelled high heels so I can prance coquettishly on the Cat Walk, capturing and keeping the attention of all living creatures.

Again it might be a jackpot of an idea in a world troubled by recession, if lots of kitties, what the heck, maybe even some puppies, what about birds and butterflies, all ordered itty-bitty-kitty high heels, and pink petal eye lashes, paid for with a plastic card by the Millennium public for their Millennium pets.

I know, I know they are not for everyday wear, mercy, I might blind myself or break my pretty diva neck if I had them on when I am having a game of tag or being Canadian, playing a round of floor hockey, with my buddies, but I want them, okay.

The Five Year Business Plan Gen considers options to get those pink petal eye lashes and itty-bitty-kitty high heels. — The Five Year Business Plan Gen considers options to get those **pink petal eye lashes and itty-bitty-kitty high heels.**

And I will leave it up to the Alpha, High Alert – Type A Personality, Ultimate Mother Earth doglet, Senorita Jakita (my BFF) to come up with any necessary additions to her Policies and Procedures for All Creation – I mean, don’t tell anyone, Jakita may have a higher IQ than me, still, I shouldn’t boast, but I am a creative genius.

So think about it. If you want to set up crowd sourcing, (kidding) let me know. I want ideas to find the best way to move forward. I am ready to take suggestions – and remember, for copyright purposes, you heard about pink petal eye lashes and of itty-bitty-kitty bejewelled high heels for the Four Footed HERE first.

Got It???

Jakita – All in My Family

Tell me, do you know, what is life, what is death, is there a purgatory for (sometimes) naughty puppies? — Story Time!

So, you have heard lots about my Two Footed family, what about my Four Footed? Are you kidding, in this family, where everyone has dogs and cats they inherited or rescued? They can not bear to watch those heart wrenching advertisements that SPCA run in their attempt to find forever homes for the unfortunate canine and feline orphans.

Poor Ming had a rough life at the start. First rescued by Auntie Itty-Bitty, then passed on to Auntie No.1 Sister, Ming now has the life of Rileyr and is an experienced Snowbird traveller. — Poor **Ming-Ming** had a rough life at the start. Now has the life of Riley.

Yes I have Cousins. Auntie No.1 Sister has Ming-Ming, a similar color to me but a Shih Tzu with that round head and kind of pushed in, serious countenance. But boy, she has springs in her back paws, leaping though the air, jumping on furniture, or tables. Her potty training is still hit and miss but I blame that on her first owner who tired of her and asked Auntie Itty Bitty to pick up the torch and other things Ming-Ming left on the floor, or the bed or the couch. You get it. Still I am amazed and impressed by her ability to fly from the chair to the couch or from the floor to the kitchen table. Our cats are totally puzzled and disoriented by this flying dog. The kitchen table belongs to them, not some visiting canine cousin with bad ‘table’ manners. Tell me, how could I not like that doggie?

Next comes Misty, a cream-colored Maltese, Auntie Goodie Two Shoe’s Dog. Like Momma’s former dog Teddy, she is perfect – well except when her Momma walks out the door, leaves the room or is just not in sight for a moment. Then like a wailing banshee, the warbling and whining commence, climbing to an ear-splitting crescendo. This is just not an acceptable response, especially when you are a guest in someone’s home. I say Misty needs a few retraining sessions with a stern dog behavior expert. Momma tells me to be understanding because it is separation anxiety. My best advice, ‘ Well, boo-hoo! Get over it, Misty’. I try to distract her by encouraging her to join me on the back of the couch in the Sun Room so we can do ‘The Neighborhood Watch.’

I am so jealous because Misty is so cuddly and cute. You can tell she is loved to death by Auntie Goodie-Two-Shoes — I am so jealous because **Misty** is just so **cuddly and cute.**

Anything that moves in the neighborhood outside, be it birds, critters, dogs, cats, people, butterflies, even leaves, we watch. Their sure are some interesting scenarios that we get to see, in our free front seat row vantage point. One particular day, a man went up and down the sidewalk having a fight with himself, swearing like a drunken sailor (no offense meant to sailors). We are not sure who won, but it was very intense. Teens walked three abreast in the middle of the street (as usual) and an angry, stressed out driver stuck his head out their car windows to chastise them. Suburban Urban Warfare!

We cannot forget Auntie Taught-Momma-Almost-Everything-She-Knows dog, Cousin Cooper, a little black Yorkie-poo who acts like he could be one of the Three Little Rascals. Just maybe he has a tiny devil with pointy ears, a long tail, and a pitch fork, living inside him, the same as me. Whatever! We are compatible and rush around, looking for trouble, followed by reinvigorating nap, so we can think up more mayhem and chaos.

The Coopster - so sweet, so BAD! — The **Coopster** – *so sweet, so* **BAD!**

Cooper also has a beautiful black with white splotches sister, Daisy. She is cut from the same bolt of cloth as Misty, good to the bone except one time on a walk, marched over to another dog and nipped his master. What is in our doggie DNA that makes us so inscrutably amicable one minute and an ‘unsub’ the next? Then we hang our heads in shame as our masters rack their brains for a solution that they never thought would be a problem.

So do I have a Doggie Family? Do I??? You could say, I got it covered.

Cute (Misty) and cuter (me). Misty looks so permissive while I look dominant, willing to wage battles to claim territories. But that was when I was younger. Now I am four years old and have better manners. Honest! — Cute **(Misty)** and cuter **(me)**.

And, just in case you are wondering, I am still the best trained. None of them can do the tricks I can do, (like counting or waving), the brightest, (who else wrote a Policies and Procedure Manual), the most nurturing, (just ask the Tigger and Babbie – more on them on the way).

I am also amazingly gorgeous and of course modest. Just realize, I am the ‘don’t take my word for it’ unquestionably questionable pedigree dog….ever!

Email: housekeeping@hotdogcoolcats.com

Tigger

Okay, okay, okay. I know, already, I am the opposite end of the spectrum from Ruby, the Incredible Wide Eyed Stuffed Monkey.

Look at me - Remember, in this photo, I am 12 years old. It is easy to see although I have been groomed to perfection by my doting playmates and... at least I still have all appendages and my right ear. — Look at me – Remember, in this photo, I am 12 years old. It is easy to see although I have been groomed to perfection by my doting playmates and… at least I still have all appendages and my right ear.

I am nothing but a Third World stuffed toy, created by Third World child labor, somewhere in Asia, by Capitalistic, yet unregulated manufacturers who find anything for a dollar buyers in the North American market place. But first, how did I get here? Easy, breezy – Shipping containers, chock full of merchandise totally flood the North American market and end up in various stores where they sell all their products at one price. You know what chains of stores I mean.

Somehow, somewhere I ended up in a store, east of the Big Smoke. My Auntie Goodie-Two-Shoes was buying stocking stuffers and grabbed me, without any real intent, except to fill a Christmas Stocking. But what was me, you ask?

Gen tells Tigger all about Lovie. — Is it just me or do I look like Gen?

A little golden-brown striped tiger, with cream tipped toes and tail, the size of six-week old kitty, with felt ears, small glassy eyes and a will to survive. Oh and the inside there was no plush filling. It was straw I bled, (like the Scare Crow in The Wizard of Oz, you ask?) when RIP Zanny, the family pet, disciplined me, frequently. It seemed I had a lot to learn!

And so, Christmas Morning 2002, stockings were distributed and I was pulled out and placed on the coffee table as other gifts were being opened. That was when, Zanny, buried in tissue paper, chasing bows and balls, and all things that glittered, spied me. Quick as a wink, this little rat snatching Yorkshire Terrier, a product of her breeding and DNA, kidnapped me, from the table and trotted to her dog pillow in the kitchen and deposited me down. All those Two Footed cooed, ‘Isn’t that so cute?’ It seemed no one heard my silent screams as her teeth trapped me firmly in her little mouth. Even Teddy, the American Eskimo, who held me in contempt, because he had no time for toys, and would never come near me, shook his head. These Two Footed are so naïve, his dour expression read.

Zanny takes Tigger to wherever she is headed. Note how she shows no mercy in her method of transportation. Poor Tigger. — Zanny took Tigger wherever she went. Note how she showed no mercy in her method of transportation. Poor Tigger.

Once I had the dubious honor of being claimed, it seems I had to be named. Momma looked at those fine stripes and decided, a teeny tiny tiger like me, should be called Tigger, like Winnie the Pooh’s pal. This time Teddy rolled his eyes around and around. What gives? Does Momma not know tigers are ferocious? It seems to have escaped her general knowledge . I know that I never won any battles with Zanny but on the other hand, I am still here to tell the story. I just don’t have that Tiger-takes all-killer instinct. I suspect I am just a kitty that looks like a Tiger.

Trust me, I am sure, Zanny meant no harm when she shook me till her brain rattled, gouged my ears, and my underbelly so that I bled straw. I was so small, easy to transport, so bite size, you might say. I fit perfectly into her mouth. You know, maybe she was trying to be kind when she took me outside with her (or was it punishment because if she had to go, so did I? Who knows?) But then, blonde that she was (no, she was actually a beautiful silver-gray and tan Yorkie), she would leave me outside. Now it is a known fact tigers live in jungles in countries that the equator run through, where it is hot, hot, hot. My blood is too thin to appreciate the usual land of snow banks and icebergs that are omnipresent in a Canadian winter. Anyway, is there not laws against abandoning dependents in snow banks? I will have to ask Jakita to check that out in her Policies and Procedures for all (somewhat) Living Creatures.

But then something happened to Zanny. I heard rumors, (little pitchers with big ears). All I know was a sad Momma sewed up my holes, reattached what was left of my left ear and placed me on top of a harvest horn brimming full of fall flowers, on her book shelf where I had a clear, unrestricted view of Ruby on Momma’s bed. Each day Ruby would be removed at night, put back in the day. I wondered if Ruby knew how much I longed for Momma to pick me, just touch me but she was busy, I know and I was safe. Why was I so ungrateful?

Months went by, then years and I was almost resigned to a life without adventure. I mean, Zanny, for all of her faults, included me in all her activities. She even took me to bed at night to cuddle, carried me to the doggie pillow every morning, so there was a certain gain,

Tigger tells a serious Ruby a thing or two about a thing or two. — Tigger tells a serious Ruby a thing or two about waiting and waiting, then waiting, some more.

if I could take the pain. Still, and I am not complaining, days were long and nights were longer when I was in wait mode. Then, a miracle – one day when…what was that? Did I hear a little yap, a whimper, a concentrated effort to actually bark? My pulse quickened. I felt a Rescue coming down and I was so ready. I wanted to live again, I’d even settle for a Zanny type but please Dear God, make this puppy a little more genteel, teeth just a little more forgiving. Oh, and I hate staying out on cold dark nights so as the Scare Crow in Wizard of Oz laments, please Dear God, if it is in your power could it be arranged for the puppy to ‘only have a brain’. Thank you, God. Amen.

Little did I know my world was going to be changed irrevocably…and it is all good!

Ruby – The Incredibly Wide Eyed Stuffed Monkey

And so, cute and cuddly as I may be, I am still an inanimate prop, in an animated world. But I am a being , in my opinion, in my own right. Don’t I serve as a pillow for weary pets, bring flash to Momma’s bed and even cry invisible tears from my wide open button eyes? I know a lot about me. Momma was in the hospital so to make her feel better, her sister, Itty Bitty took her son, Super Boy to a Fantasy Land where he could create a Stuffed Toy that would surely cure her of her various ailments.

Look at me, in my beautiful tutu with the very best seat in the house. See my lace, sparkle and stars. Thanks Super Boy and Momma. — Look at me, in my beautiful pink tutu with the very best seat in the house. See my lace, sparkle and stars. Thanks Super Boy and Momma.

First an outer shell must be chosen. Super Boy surveyed the inventory, selected, then discarded shells, based on texture, shades, sizes and shapes, like it was a project that his very life depended on. At last, after taking all possibilities in to consideration, he chose me, a caramel colored monkey, (hm, what exactly does that say about Momma?) with beige hands and toes, a long tail with a beige tip and mahogany bubble gum ball eyes.

I had an amazing shell but no body until Super Boy went about choosing between cubes of plush or free range fleece. To this day, like all of you, it is a mystery what is on the inside of me because, like you, I can only see my outer shell and I am well satisfied with Super Boy’s choices.

Ready, Set, Go to our Annual All Things Plush Picnic. I am holding my best buddy Lightbulb. Babby is in the centre while Ruby cradles Tigger. Notice how my fur is so dark that you can only see one eye. I have two, honestly! — Ruby with some of her inanimate friends.

However, like Adam and Eve from Genesis, once I had knowledge, I felt shame and wanted my body covered. And Super Boy out did himself. With the most minute attention to detail, Super Boy chose a light pink tutu with lace and sparkles (Momma later sewed on satin cushion stars). The final step was to assign a name because I was Pedigree and would be forever Registered at the Fantasy Land of Stuffed Animals.

Jakita tells the tale of Peter Cottontail to Calico Gen and the Adorable, Wide-Eyed Stuffed Monkey, Ruby, who shares all hopes, dreams and secrets of all those who sleep in or on Momma's bed - (Ruby was a gift given to Momma many moons ago, by Super Boy). — Ruby shares Momma’s bed with Gen and Jakita.

And that my dear is how I became known as Ruby, the Incredibly Wide Eyed Monkey.

Now I awaited delivery to my new home where Momma showed total respect by assigning me the best seat in the house on her fluffy bed pillows.

But…this is just the beginning of the story to be written. There is some one else you must meet.

Like this: Ready RUBY TUTU

or Email: housekeeping@hotdogcoolcats.com

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