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Monthly Archives: December 2015

‘I feel a very unusual sensation—if it is not indigestion, I think it must be gratitude.’ Benjamin Disraeli.

Over the last couple of days I have been struggling with what I should write next.  With the New Year now upon us it would seem the obvious thing to write about, but I have been hard pressed to come up with any ideas.

janus1‘I could write about the history of New Year,’ I thought.  Something like—the origins of celebrating the New Year can be traced back over 2,000 years to Mesopotamia, although the Romans really made it their own much later on.  Ancient Romans worshipped Janus for whom many believe the month of January was named.  He was the god of beginnings and endings, and for all the gates, doors and passageways in between.  Janus is usually depicted as having two faces, since he looks to the future and to the past.

Are you riveted yet?  No, me either.

resolutionsOr, perhaps I could write  something about New Year’s Resolutions?  Really?  Like that hasn’t been done to death.  Besides, I don’t make ‘resolutions’.  I learned a long time ago that I am lousy at keeping promises to myself.

So—what about writing something about the local celebrations?  Nah.  That wouldn’t work either.  I have no plans to be going to any of them.  Sigh.

If you hadn’t already guessed, New Year’s Eve always leaves me a little cold.  I find it all a bit difficult to get enthusiastic about.  All this happy, happy, rah, rah just doesn’t really ring true for me. For whatever reason ‘New Year’ usually makes me melancholic, and this year is no exception.

So, after sitting and staring at the blank computer screen for much longer than I intended I finally made the decision that I wouldn’t write anything this week.  I was not ‘inspired’.  (Besides, no-one would notice anyway as they would all be out partying.)

cutting_lawnInstead I would go and do the other thing I was feeling totally uninspired about—mow the lawn.  That alone should tell you how discouraged I was.  I hate mowing the lawn (or at least the patch of scrub and weeds that likes to pretend it’s a lawn).  At least I was managing to making myself feel slightly better about the task by having a good old bitch to myself as I mowed.  ‘Bloody thankless task . . . back and forth, back and forth . . . stop, pick up sticks . . .  back and forth again . . . stop, pull up weeds . . .  wouldn’t mind so much if it looked any different once I had finished . . .  bloody hell it’s hot . . . ‘

And then, as I marched ‘back and forth, back and forth’ and muttered to myself, a random thought‘At least I have a lawn to mow’ completely stopped me in my tracks.  (I swear it literally stopped me between a ‘back’ and a ‘forth’.)  

Whoa.  Where did that come from?  Well, actually, I know exactly where it came from.  I watched the TV news early this morning and it was all about the bushfire devastation in South Australia; and the flood, snow and tornado damage across the United States; and scenes of most of northern England underwater. Add to this earlier stories of the European refugee crisis and escalating terrorism around the world and 2015 was a truly horrifying year for a lot of people.

gratefulAnd here I was grumping about having to mow the lawn.  I should be ashamed. Unlike all those people on the newcasts, nothing horrible or traumatic has happened to me this past year.  I still have a roof over my head.  I have a job I like and consider the people I work with as friends as well as colleagues. My family and friends are all safe and well, and my girls and I are healthy and happy.  And I am grateful for that.  For all of it.  And I am also certain I take it all far too much for granted.  I apologise.  I am going to try and stop doing that.  (Damn—that sounded suspiciously like a ‘resolution’.)

smiling-dog-hurry-take-the-pictureSo where do I go from here?

I want to wish everyone well for  2016 but how do you say ‘Happy’ New Year to people who have lost their homes, their possessions, their loved ones?  It seems trite and insensitve.  So I won’t.

What I will do is wish everyone, from me and my girls, a ‘Safe’ New Year, along with the fervent hope that  2016 is a better year for everyone . . .

 
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Posted by on December 31, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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‘Merry Christmas, nearly everybody.’ Ogden Nash.

cat fight3.42am and I was woken by an earsplitting, inhuman howl which seemed, inexplicably, to be emanating from directly behind my left ear.  I peeled myself off the ceiling, flicked the light on and was attempting to calm the dogs down (who were by this time all running up and down the bed, barking and growling and snapping at each other in their fright) before I realised that the sound was actually a cat fight going on underneath my bedroom window.

Now I like cats but—damn—why does it always seem to happen outside my bedroom window.  Going outside to shoo the cats way only seemed to wind them up a notch, thus inciting dogs Harry and Sasha from next door, and Max, Storm, Caesar, Turbo and Rosie from further down the road to join in with the unholy racket. Somehow I don’t think I am going to be the only cranky-pants, bleary-eyed pet owner on my street today.

Eventually the caterwauling stopped. I guess they got bored—or realised they had successfully woken every person and every dog in a three block radius and had therefore done their work.  My girls went back to sleep immediately (so irritating) and I was left to lie there, waiting, hoping, to fall back asleep.  I didn’t.

By the time I was beginning to get sleepy again the ‘dawn chorus’ was starting up.   singingbirdOne lone kookaburra started to chuckle quietly to himself and I remember thinking, ‘Here we go’.  Sure enough, he was followed by an answering giggle and and then a full on belly-laugh, and before long they were all laughing hysterically—no doubt gossiping about the outcome of last night’s cat commotion.  Then the magpies joined in, in full voice, and once I heard the first black cockatoo screech I knew it was all over.  Who can sleep through that?  Time to get up.

garfieldchairIt was barely light yet but at least it was dry (we’ve just had four days and nights of absolutely torrential non-stop rain) so I decided to walk them down to the beach.  This morning Molly decided she wanted to come with us.  This was unusual.  Molly doesn’t ‘do’ mornings.  In the world according to Molly, mornings are for stretching, breakfast and straight back to bed. Mornings are definitely not for walking.  (Molly could give Garfield a run for his money when it comes to laziness and food).

But today she came running up and did her little ‘take me, take me’ dance.  In spite of the fact that she was so enthusiastic (and she definitely needs the exercise) I was hesitant.  I have been bitten before (figuratively speaking).  I like to stride out with Mabel and Maude in the morning and get a good long walk in.  Molly gets all gung-ho and raring to go—and then we get to the end of the road and around the corner, and she will suddenly stop dead, and sit.  And sit.  And sit.  Once she has decided she will go no further there is no moving (or dragging) her.  Believe me I’ve tried.

black stuffed toy1Once, in my frustration, I even dropped her lead and walked away with the other girls.  I walked blocks and blocks and when I looked back, there she was, a tiny black dot, sitting in exactly the same place I left her.  Stubborn as.  And by the time we got back to her she was still sitting, unmoved, like a little doggie stuffed toy—and, once she realised I was no longer going to try to persuade her to go further, she happily trotted all the way home.  I can still see that little smug smile on her face.

(Seeing how well it worked for Molly, Mabel tried the same trick once.  I dropped her lead and walked away from her and got maybe ten feet before she came hurtling up behind me, crying ‘Don’t leave me, don’t leave me’.  Bless.)

Anyway today Molly swore to me she would walk the whole way, so I gave in.  And, surprisingly, she was as good as her word.  She huffed and puffed a bit but she didn’t pull up once and we got to the beach, just as it was coming light.  I did a quick scan up and down and saw we were the only ones there so I let the girls off their leads so they could have a good run around.

spotty dog runningOr at least Maudie could have a good run around.  Maudie loves the beach.  As soon as she hits the sand she is away, and she runs and runs and runs.  No direction, no purpose, just pure joy.  Mabel (you may have already guessed this) is scared of the beach.  She will stay as close to my ankles as she can without tripping me.  The delights of the beach are totally wasted on Mabel.  And Molly, on the few occasions we have actually managed to get her that far, likes to potter around in the bushy, grassy areas of the dunes, looking for good smells and dead things to roll in.

So I was a bit taken aback with slow and steady Molly, whose top speed is usually a slow waddle, suddenly shot past me at full throttle and hurtled back the way we had just come.  It only took one look over my shoulder to see why.   #$%&*.   Kangaroos.  A small group of ‘roos  had silently appeared and were grazing quietly in the dunes close to the bush.

kangaroo on beach‘Oh how lovely’, you might think.  And you’d be right.  They are beautiful, gorgeous creatures.  When seen from a distance.  And when not being chased by a small, fierce, hopped-up-on-adrenalin Pomeranian.  Up close and cranky they are a lot bigger than you’d think and they can be pretty scary.  One could easily kill a Molly-dog if provoked.  Molly, of course, could give two hoots about that. Molly is a Wolf in Pomeranian clothing.

There was nothing for me to do but run along the beach after her, calling desperately for her to ‘Stop. Stay. Heel.’   All to no avail.  She was ‘in the zone’.  What a sight we must have made.  Kangaroos bounding gracefully along the deserted beach. Molly, little legs going ten to the dozen, pelting after them.  Maude, running after her, laughing, and looking over her shoulder at me—with no idea what all the excitement was about, but loving the game anyway.  And me, a long way behind (me—running on sand—dear God—seriously?) and carrying Mabel, who was so upset by the sudden dramatic turn of events she looked like she might need resuscitating at any moment.

Molly - Kangaroo Hunter

Kangaroo Hunter

And then, quite suddenly, the kangaroos and Molly left the beach and vanished into the thick bush.  #$%&*, again.  Even if I could have seen where they went I couldn’t take the other two girls into the bush after them, so all I could do was wait on the beach, pacing and calling, my heart in my mouth, and hope that Molly would soon reappear.  Thankfully, she did.

Fifteen minutes later she wobbled out of the bush, exhausted, covered in sand, bits of bush and other debris sticking out of her fur at all angles, and her little pink tongue hanging out about a foot.   I  was so relieved she was all in one piece I couldn’t even be cross with her.  Besides, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her quite so happy . . .

Of course, she was also so pooped I had to carry her all the way back to the house.

An hour later we were all safely home, clean, fed, and in the case of the girls, sleeping again.  What more could three little dogs ask for?

They got to shout abuse at cats in the middle of the night and and encourage all their doggie friends in the street to do the same.  The got to go to the beach in the early early morning and play in the sand and bark and run and chase kangaroosor at least, chase Molly who was chasing kangaroos.   They all got hugs and kisses from their Mum for being good brave girls during all the drama (even Mabel) and they all got a yummy Christmas breakfast when they got home. And now they are sleeping on their brand new Christmas beds, with their new Christmas teddy (which Maudie has killed twice already) and the remnants of the Christmas wrapping paper (which was Mabel’s favourite present).  Best.Christmas.Day.Ever.   And the day isn’t even half over yet.

dogpompomsSo they’re happy,  and that means I’m happy (and also in need of a stiff drink and lie down).  And I hope you are too.  Happy I mean—not in need of the drink and the lie down . . .  although it is Christmas.  I also, most sincerely, hope you had a gentler start to your Christmas Day.

So—from me to you— ‘Merry Christmas, nearly everybody.’  (I am not extending that greeting to the owners of last night’s cats.  I am still pissed off about those cats . . . )

 
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Posted by on December 25, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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‘Who’s the bane of Santa’s life? The elf and safety officer.’ Catherine Tate.

snoopyfishingSo that’s it.  The office phone is on ‘Leave a Message’.  The Gone Fishin’  sign is on the door.  Work is over for another year.

I am now officially ‘on holiday’ until after the New Year.  Yay!

All around it’s been a good year at work, but a very busy one, and I know it’s going to take me a little time to wind down.  But I am really going to try.  I do have a list (I know, I know, me and my lists) of things I should do over the holiday break.  It runs something like this: catch up on my reading . . . and sleep . . . do some writing . . . and sleep . . . go to the movies (‘Star Wars’, here I come) . . . and sleep . . . play with the dogs . . . and sleep . . . eat too much . . . and sleep . . .

I may, or may not, get to everything on that list.

hobbitApart from the fact that this was the last week of work and things should have been slowing down but in fact seemed to be doing exactly the opposite, we did manage to finish the week off  in a really nice way with our staff Christmas Lunch. We are a little college so it was only a small group of lunchers (lunchees?) who got together—only 11 of us, but, as Gandalf said, Oh, they’re quite a merry gathering. Once you get used to them.”

A number of our team don’t work regularly out of the college premises (they train students at other venues) so in some cases people hadn’t seen each other since the last Christmas lunch, and the newer staff members hadn’t met some of the others at all, so it was a really good chance to catch up on everyone’s latest news, talk about holiday plans—and swap our latest doggie stories.

wine-glass-cheersOasis by the River had been warned of our impending arrival, but in spite of that they had set up a lovely table for us, all decked out in Christmassy fashion with little Christmas trees, tinsel, Christmas crackers, tiny gingerbread men—and a great many wine glasses on the table.  (Like I said—they knew we were coming).  No really—I am joking—we were all very well behaved (it was only lunch after all).  Having said that, we did manage to get a good number of those glasses filled up, and emptied, and filled up again in very short order . . .  In our defence—although we don’t technically need a defence as the Christmas rules do state ‘eat, drink and be merry’we had to have something to wash down the very yummy ‘traditional’ Christmas dinner of roast turkey, ham and all the trimmings that was laid out before us.

(There was so much food that I don’t think anyone completely finished their meal, and the leftovers were all passed along the table to me, wrapped up in serviettes and went straight into my handbag to take home for my girls. Courtesy of the college staff they will be getting some extra yummies with their dinner over the next couple of days. Christmas is for dogs too, you know.)  

dog crackerBut—and there is always a ‘but’—for all the lovely table, and the food, and the drinks, there was one thing really not quite right—the Christmas Crackers.  It turned out that the Christmas crackers supplied by the restaurant, although very pretty and Christmassy and sparkly—TOTALLY FAKE.  Shock.  Horror.  No bang, no pressie—no joke!  It could have spoiled the whole day (or at least it could have spoiled Joneen’s whole day).  Just as well then, that Santa (Steve in a Christmas baseball cap) had also seen to it that the Santa Sack was not only stuffed full of Secret Santa pressies, but also an abundance of (fully functioning) Christmas Crackers. Phew.

cracker2So the crackers were passed around, cracker-pulling-partners chosen and then the usual bangs, shrieks and scrabblings about on the table as we all went search of our hats, jokes and prizes (which, after the explosion, always seem to shoot across the table and vanish into the table decorations).

Once all suitably decked out in our paper crowns (having swapped them back and forth across the table so as to make sure each of us had one that complemented our outfit) we all took it in turns to read our jokes out, tried to guess the answers, and groaned loudly in the appropriate places. Joneen actually came up with some better answers (and when I say better, I mean more groan-worthy) than those that came with the jokes.  It could be a new career path for her should she ever decide to leave the adult education sector.

chefTowards the end of the meal, when we had finished our desserts and were on to the coffees (or just one last glass) the chef came out to tell us that there was a hail in Port Macquarie and the storm was heading our way.  We didn’t think he was trying to get rid of us but it was enough to start breaking the party up. This turned out to be a very good thing as the chef was later vindicated when we did, in fact, get hit by a humungous storm, complete with lashing rain, wind and bone rattling thunder. With luck, everyone was home and dry, or very near it, by the time the storm struck.

So, now we are all done and dusted for another year.  We have now all gone our separate ways for the holiday season and hopefully it will be a happy and safe time for everyone.

I am going to do my bit to help with the safety side of things.

balloon kitAfter I sign off here I am going to go and write a very stern letter to Santa about a certain person’s Secret Santa gift—a Balloon Animal Making Kit.  Why? you might ask.  Surely a fairly innoucous type of gift you might imagine.  And you might be right—in the hands of any other person.  Judging by her enthusiasm for, and her antics with, her new toy at the Christmas lunch, the local ‘elf and safety officer’ is going to need to know where to find her.

I really don’t know what Santa was thinking . . .

 
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Posted by on December 19, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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‘I have a memory like an elephant. I remember every elephant I’ve ever met.’ Herb Caen.

question_clipartIt’s happened again.  I was having a bit of a sit down after having completed a raft of chores on Saturday when I thought, “I’d best just go and do that one last thing now before I forget”. I got up, walked through the house into the bedroom and completely forgot what I had gone in there to do.  I mean—completely.  Nada.  Not a clue. Not even a smidgeon of a clue. How does that happen?  I wasn’t distracted in any way.  I didn’t stop to pat one of the dogs, or pick something up off the floor, or put the kettle on first, or even (at least consciously) change my track of thought.  But there it was (or, in fact, wasn’t)—gone. Infuriating.

Although I admit that my memory ‘dropouts’ do seem to be happening a tad more frequently lately, I am not overly concerned just yet (just really, really irritated). They (the ubiquitous ‘they’) tell us it is quite normal to become a bit more forgetful as we age (thank you so much for that, so very comforting.)  So perhaps, and only just perhaps, I might concede that age may be a (very slight) factor contributing to these lapses, but I think it’s more likely to be that it’s been a long year, I’m tired, and I’ve got so much stuff running around in my head at the moment that sometimes the less important things just leak out of my ears—leaving more room for the things that I really need, and want, to remember. (Well, that’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.)

dorySo, rather than being annoyed, I should be grateful.  This occasional ‘leakage’ is actually a good thing.  It leaves room to remember to go to work, to feed and walk the dogs (fat chance of being allowed to forget that in my house), to pay the bills, to go to appointments, to return phonecalls and emails—all the stuff that gets me through my daily life.  And just as well too—l am not ready to morph into Dory just yet.

(Just a quick aside, while I am thinking of fish—and memory—and before I forget to say it—that thing we always hear about a fish only having a 3 second memory—not true.  In 2008 an Australian schoolboy Rory Stokes debunked that myth.  It seems that fish have hidden depths. (I give you leave to groan at that one—it deserves it.)  

I do know though, once upon a time, my short term memory was in much better shape.  I never used to have to write things down.  I could remember people’s names, ages, birthdays and anniversaries without having to look them up.  I travelled a lot and could remember itineraries and schedules easily.  I kept lists in my head and mentally ‘ticked’ the items off as they were completed.  Alas, no longer.

These days I seem to leave trails of crumpled ‘post-it’ notes in my wake (I especially like the bright, easily spotted, fluorescent kind—no comments please on my also having to start wearing glasses). There are post-its stuck to my fridge, my kitchen bench, my desk (at home and at work) and my computer. (Some seem to be in code and have been there so long I am no longer sure what they are supposed to be reminding me of, which is a bit of a worry, but they must be important or I wouldn’t have put them there.  Would I?) 

taking notesAnd I write lists—lots and lots of lists. I have actually become quite a fan of writing lists. There is something quite therapeutic about having a long list of things to do and being able to put a great big fat scribbly line through each item as you complete it. (Although, down side, I often seem to be putting three items on the bottom of the list every time I cross one off at the top—but, hey, one issue at a time.)

‘Use it or lose it’ is the catch-cry that immediately springs to mind.  So now I am wondering how much of my post-it-note-and-list addiction has contributed to my memory decline?  Maybe my brain being (hopefully) smarter than I think it is, knows of my tendency to commit to paper and so doesn’t feel the need to put itself out and remember these things as well (“Well I don’t know why I’m bothering if you’re going to write it all down . . .”)   Mmmmm.  I’ve got some holidays coming up.  Maybe I’ll consider going cold-turkey on the lists for a while and see if that will kick my memory into gear again.  Well, maybe not completely cold turkey, maybe I’ll just cut it down to a couple of lists a day . . .

Do you think elephants ever have these issues?  ‘An elephant never forgets’.  Everyone has heard that.  But is it actually true?  I know there have been remarkable studies done on the long-term memories of elephants.  Research has shown that elephants remember not only what they need to survive, like food and water sources, but also individual interactions with other elephants, and people, spanning great distances and many years. All without the aid of a diary.

elephant-never-forgets2And that’s all good.  Great.  But, what I am asking is—after a long day’s slow walk, when the herd pulls up to a waterhole for a long cool drink and a bit of a sit down—when they are just standing lazily around shooting the breeze—do they have those “Sorry dude, what was your name again?” moments?

Do they sidle up to each other and say thing like, “Mate—I know I had a message to give you from Doris but I can’t quite remember—it’s on the tip of my trunk . . . ”

I like to think so.

P.S—Did you know there was such a thing as an ‘elephant fish‘?  Wonder what kind of memory they have?

 
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Posted by on December 13, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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‘ “Meow” means “woof” in cat.’ George Carlin.

Silver is sleeping in the sun on his driveway. He’s a big beautiful old grey cat, and dozing on the warm asphalt in the late afternoon sun is one of his favourite things to do. We see him there most days as we go past on our walk. Mabel will ignore him, Maudie will rumble menacingly at him (only under her breath thoughI think she is a bit scared of him), and dog-barking-at-cat-336498Mollywell Molly will puff herself up to twice her usual size (which is still only about half the size of this cat) and frantically hurl doggie-insults about cats and their mothers until she is well out of earshot. Silver will occasionally open an eye to see what all the noise is about, but usually he will just yawn, flex his paws, stretch out full length, smile and go back to sleep. So not bothered. Silver is one cool dude.

I miss my cats. I think people often assume that if you only have dogs that you probably just don’t like cats. That may well be true for some people, but not for me. I love cats. Cats owned me long before I owned dogs.

black kittenA couple of weeks after I first came back to Australia after an extended period living overseas I found myself living in a city where I didn’t know a soul. One day I went into town to buy groceriesand came home with two tiny six-week old kittens and a bag full of cat food, cat litter and cat paraphernalia (I can’t remember whether I actually bought any groceries). It was impulsive, yes, but I never once regretted it. And I never felt lonely again. I loved those two little cats. I loved their big yellow eyes, their soft shiny fur, their insatiable curiosity, deep rumbling purrs and their tiny kitty-cat feet. I would sit and watch them for hoursplaying or sleeping, or eating, or chasing dust motes or just sitting blissed-out in the sun.

black cat stalkingThe girl, Cleo, grew up to be a lovely, gentle, even-tempered little girl who loved to be stroked and fussed and cuddled. Her brother, Jess, on the other hand, turned into a huge beast of a cat who liked to spend his time stalking the neighbours through their gardens, creeping quietly up on them and then suddenly exploding out of the bushes and frightening the crap out of them. I always pretended to be cross with him (for the neighbour’s sake) but, just quietly, it was pretty hilarious.

(Less hilarious was his penchant for knocking things off my dressing-room table when he wanted his breakfast and I wanted a bit of a lie-in. In my sleepy stupor I would hear him gently tap, tap, slide, slide, tap and slide the bottles and jars around, and when I continued to ignore him it would get all too much and—wham—off the table one of the bottles would go. I would be out of bed in a flash and he would be off and running (and laughing) all the way into the kitchen—where I would find him ready and waiting for breakfast with a big smug smile on his face. Used to make me crazy.)

When the cats were about 10 years old I decided it was time to add a dog to our little family. The cats would be fine, I thought. They were fat and happy and well-adjusted, I thought. It wouldn’t be a drama, I thought. Who was I trying to kid? I can still see the look of abject disgust on Jessie’s face the day I bought that six week old pup (Harry) into the house. Jess was 19 years old when he died and I don’t think he ever really changed that initial opinion of Harry one iota over the next 9 years of his life.

stuffed dog&catAnd it wasn’t one sided either. Harry didn’t like Jess, right back at him. Harry, my lovely, adorable, feisty little Harry came out of the womb hating cats. Sigh. There was constant hissing and spitting and growling and snapping, and I would cajole and plea and bribe and even get cranky with them, all to no avail. I would see pictures of other people’s cats and dogs, all cuddled happily up together on the sofa, or piled up in a doggie bed together, and conclude that either one or the other of the animals in these pictures just had to be stuffed. It was never going to happen in my house.

But, over time (and when it eventually became obvious to them that I wasn’t going to give anyone away) they did manage to work out their own set of rules. As long as nobody sat too close to anybody elseor went near anybody else’s food dishor pushed in for a cuddle while someone else was already having oneor inadvertently came around a corner unexpectedly and gave someone a frightthings eventually settled into a nice routine, and we all bimbled along fairly harmoniously.

So I got another dog.

Frankie and Harry were polar opposites. In his whole life Harry only ever really loved me and Frankie (and thank God he loved Frankie too, it would have been awful if he hadn’t). He couldn’t really have cared less about anyone else.

Frankie

Frankie

Frankie loved me and Harryand everybody else he ever met. And that included the cats. From the very first day he was enamoured of them. He would sidle up to them, wriggling from his nose to his tail, desperate to get close to them. They, naturally, were mortally offended (how dare he?) and poor Frankie got his ears boxed more than once for his trouble. He would then spend the next couple of hours doing his utmost to apologise to them for his crass behaviour, which only exasperated them even more. Bless. But he never gave up, and in the end I think he just wore them down. He had so much love to give and those cats were going to get some of itwhether they liked it or not.

Cleo and Frank became snugglebuddies and would often cuddle together in the doggie bed in front of the heater (miracles can happen—if you wait long enough). Jess, although less inclined to snuggle, stopped hissing and spitting and ear boxing and even occasionally let Frankie lick his ears (while also trying really really hard not to purr).

Harry

Harry

Even Harry’s hatred of cats eventually mellowed under the onslaught of Frankie’s love. Well, ‘mellowed’ is perhaps too strong a word. Harry became more ‘tolerant’ of the cats. He would even allow them to sit next to Frank as long as they didn’t also touch him in the process. And he would also protect ‘his’ cats from other visiting dogs—he was allowed to be mean to them, but no-one else was.  Earlier grievances between Harry and Jess were mostly forgotten on those freezing cold Armidale winter nights when they would all pile into bed with me, with only the smallest amount of grumbling if someone had to get up during the night and came back to bed with cold feet.

It is many years now since I have had cats in the house.  Jess and Cleo both lived to ripe old age, as did Harry and Frank, but somehow it was dogs that started to take over my life and now when I need a cat ‘fix’ I have to make do with the occasional smooch from a neighbouring feline. And, although I am perfectly happy with my three doggie-girls, occasionally I will see a sign at the local pet shop  ‘Kittens Available’, and I will remember my lovely cats and have to put my head down and walk away really, really fast so as not to be temptedbecause it would be so easy to be tempted.

Molly

Molly

Instead I will keep telling myself that when Molly has had her summer clip it almost feels like I am stroking a cat. And, if you pat her in just the right way, she stretches out full length and flexs her little feet like a cat too.

Sadly, she doesn’t purr. She does, however, snore—and loudly.

It’s not quite the same  . . .

 
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Posted by on December 4, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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