cats

Flowers, Cats & Weeds

June 23, 2015

Bouquets in my house are cyclical: snowball viburnums (my favorite), followed by lilacs (my favorite), then peonies (my favorite)… and then there is a lull. I’m in the lull. I cobble together whatever I can make look good. I’ve got a couple borage blossoms with some immature hydrangeas (my favorite), Lady’s Mantle (my favorite) and two stems of peonies that — if you bump — will fall apart because they are pretty much almost dead. After this, I’ll hope for lots of sunflowers (my favorite). But, as summer progresses, I’m less good about cutting flowers. Not sure why. I always regret it when they are gone.

Anyway, on to another subject: I’m done picking the asparagus. It was a good run. I was toying with the idea of replanting some new crowns, since mine are almost 20 years old now and seem to be slowing down. But seriously. I give 7/8ths of it away. My asparagus could get a whole lot worse than it is now and I’d still have enough to force on the UPS man. So that items gets ~~crossed off the list~~.

I love crossing things off the list.

I think I might have mentioned weeding the asparagus in the last post. Something to the effect that I would weed after the next significant rain. Since it has rain significantly just about every other day in the past month, I really have no excuse.

I began the process this weekend.

This is not weeding for the faint-of-heart. It requires digging and lifting and shaking and swearing. Lots of swearing. Cuz that’s what you do when the weed breaks off instead of: slowly… slowly… giving way as you pull… pull… it’s coming… uhhhhh…. slowly… YES!

[That’s what successful weeding should sound like in your head.]

When it sounds like this: slowly… slowly… giving way… it’s coming… SNAP. Then you yell, “SHIT.” And wipe your dripping face off with a muddy glove (so it looks like you are reeeeally working hard when your Dave comes out to see what you are doing).

I didn’t finish all the beds because we had a grad party in another time zone to blast off to.

I don't know if it makes any difference, but I don't throw weeds in the compost. I let it rain into the wheelbarrow, then wait for them to start to decompose, then wheel them into the woods. Why don't I do it right away? — I don’t know if it makes any difference, but I don’t throw weeds in the compost. I let it rain into the wheelbarrow, then wait for them to start to decompose. When the whole mess gets really, really stinky, I dump the now 3x heavier load into the woods.

Leaving weeding unfinished is always a bit of a gamble. Will it ever get done? I’m going to try to finish it up today because, well… it rained another inch this morning. So I have no excuse.

This is where I left my tools on Saturday. Today, they are muddy and wet from another inch of rain. Why don't I ever put my toys away? — This is where I left my tools on Saturday. Today, they are muddy and wet from another inch of rain. Why don’t I ever put my toys away?

But here’s the thing about weeding — any weeding, really. It is so supremely SATISFYING. Who among us has not spent an afternoon weeding who didn’t then go way, way out of their way to walk past the weeded area and stand there and simply admire it? In my case it goes on for several days.

I tend to stop doing that about the time the weeds show up again.

Actually. This whole process pretty much sums up the definition of insanity, now that I think about it.

Mooshie comes in for some hot and humid fur-to-skin transfer

In an effort to appeal to a wider audience, here are some more cat pictures.

Ollie helps me fold the blanket — Ollie helps me unfold the blanket

Ollie helps me put new sheets on the bed — Ollie helps me put ‘clean’ sheets on the bed.

Murder at the Menke’s. A Cat-astrophe!

March 16, 2012

I needn’t belabor nature’s harsh pecking order. You know it, I know it. We can choose to close our eyes to the gore, to the unflinching honesty of it all. We can TURN THE CHANNEL. QUICK. TURN THE CHANNEL, dammit!

Why men love to linger, while surfing channels to utter distraction, on the bucolic scene of baby quail bobbing along behind their mother, is beyond me. YOU KNOW THEY ARE GOING TO DIE! TURN THE CHANNEL!

And yet.

They don’t.

So, we are forced to either watch or get up and leave.

Recently, I’ve noticed that Dave isn’t even accidentally watching nature shows – he is actively seeking them out on YouTube. He even laughs sometimes and says, “Here, you gotta watch this.” And I’m like, “No, I don’t. I don’t need to.”

“It’s funny. Watch it.”

And I proceed to watch a Rhino peacefully grazing alongside a couple of wild boars, suddenly scoop one of the boars up with his tusk, goring him. He flies high, high into the air and lands on flat his back from a height of about 15 feet. And the movie cuts out.

“What happened? Is he dead?”

“I don’t know. It’s that funny? Rhinos are tough.”

And I’m left to wonder: is he dead? Is he suffering? Why did the Rhino do that? Why did the movie cut out? That poor wild boar…

It affects the rest of my day. Or the rest of my night. I have thought of that wild boar often since then…

Until I had something new to consume that space in my brain. If there was ever a misguided thought that cats are adorable, cuddly pets to be simply loved and protected, think again. They are the domesticated animal equivalent of the homicidal sociopath. The killer no one ever suspects. “He was always our nicest neighbor. Always helpful and kind.” …while he quietly racked up heads in his basement.

Cats are like that. You lull yourself into thinking, “not my cat” only to walk into a scene like this:

A murder scene.

For, no other description fits.

This wasn’t a cat eating a bird.

This was a death scene. This blood spattered high on the wall, the victim clearly pleading for his life.

I ask you: What in the Sam Hill was going on here?

Terror. Carnage. A miniature CSI scene.

What poor little — or not so little — animal met it’s end on Dave’s beautiful new garage floor?!

I think this one know’s and he isn’t talking.

A [Current] Day in the Office with Jennie

November 8, 2011

I had more flies yesterday. A lot more.

But when Ollie Cat came in looking for dinner around, oh, 2:30 pm — daylight savings is a real stretch for my 4-legged friends — and I didn’t respond to her meows, her sitting on my keyboard effing everything up, her move to a spot on my wacom tablet, directly in front of my screen. –Well I finally responded by pushing her aside and she settled down for an apparent nap on my paper cutter.

(Still meowing pathetically.)

It took me a while to register the sound she was soon making: the sound of eating.

And I realized she was eating my flies that I had been saving to make myself feel better about my accomplishments for the day. She ate about half of them before I screamed at her to, and I swear this is verbatim: “HEY! STOP IT! THOSE ARE MY FLIES!”

And I find I have little else to show for, or to say about this day.