Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Poverty is Bad for Your Blog
I meant to blog about Poverty on October 14- I really did. I wanted to make a point about this global issue and raise awareness. Unfortunately, because I am now working three jobs to try and keep myself out of foreclosure and bankruptcy, I just didn't have time. But despite this, I still consider myself fortunate to struggle where I struggle. Millions live in conditions unimaginable to me. So, I'm a bit behind the curve here, but I'm adding my small voice to the others - do what you can to help global poverty - it's a bailout for everyone.
Monday, September 08, 2008
Batting Clean Up, Or, Always Have a Back-Up Plan
Sometimes the best game plan doesn't go so well. Sometimes, it goes perfectly. In either case, when you are the clean up batter, you know you are either going to be the hero or the goat. So it pays to have a back up plan.
I really thought that last week, my experience with a bat in the house was an isolated incident. My clean up batters arrived, and cleared the bases - nary a bat was left in my house. Or so I thought.
Last night, it only took one swoop of the dark winged invader to set off the dog and send me packing. i was about to reach for the phone and call up the troops again - but seriously, how embarrasing. I then spotted, in the corner, my back up plan. Standing, at the ready, was my leopard print kitchen broom, the brush end covered with a hot pink towel.
Last week, in my flurry of cell phone calls and text messages, a more bat-experienced friend had messaged me to just knock the thing out of the air with a towel covered broom, Hit it like a baseball, or maybe a badminton birdie. I rejected the idea in favor of letting someone else chase the critter, but filed the advice away. So,last night, when i found myself on my own, the broom was ready. As the bat and the dog continued to swoop around the house I grabbed my weapon. At the best the vermin would go out the window as soon as I opened it. At the worst I would hit a line drive with the critter, and my dog would make the diving save.
I race to the front door and slid open the window. Yelling like a celtic warrior I swung at the flying rodent, missing it like it was a 90 mph curve ball, until it got the idea that flying out the open window was the best action. "Out of the park!" I said to the dog and slammed the window shut.
Now, I'm now sure if I need to call an exterminator or a baseball team.
I really thought that last week, my experience with a bat in the house was an isolated incident. My clean up batters arrived, and cleared the bases - nary a bat was left in my house. Or so I thought.
Last night, it only took one swoop of the dark winged invader to set off the dog and send me packing. i was about to reach for the phone and call up the troops again - but seriously, how embarrasing. I then spotted, in the corner, my back up plan. Standing, at the ready, was my leopard print kitchen broom, the brush end covered with a hot pink towel.
Last week, in my flurry of cell phone calls and text messages, a more bat-experienced friend had messaged me to just knock the thing out of the air with a towel covered broom, Hit it like a baseball, or maybe a badminton birdie. I rejected the idea in favor of letting someone else chase the critter, but filed the advice away. So,last night, when i found myself on my own, the broom was ready. As the bat and the dog continued to swoop around the house I grabbed my weapon. At the best the vermin would go out the window as soon as I opened it. At the worst I would hit a line drive with the critter, and my dog would make the diving save.
I race to the front door and slid open the window. Yelling like a celtic warrior I swung at the flying rodent, missing it like it was a 90 mph curve ball, until it got the idea that flying out the open window was the best action. "Out of the park!" I said to the dog and slammed the window shut.
Now, I'm now sure if I need to call an exterminator or a baseball team.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
Friday, September 05, 2008
The House of Rhyming Pest III
The Night I Almost Slept in My Car
It was a usual night. Just as soon as I settled in my bed with a book, the dog started pacing. She started at the window fan, which conveniently sucks in lots of smells for her to sample. She can stand in the middle of the room, raise her nose, and know immediately what is going on for miles.
Unfortunately, this means she is aware of every cat, ground hog, toad or large moth in the area. She knows what neighbors are getting in late and whose baby is crying for a bottle. Normally, she keeps her reactions down to growls, grunts and snorts, unless something gets really close. Then the barking begins. Sometimes, I just have to put on her leash and drag her into the bedroom, and muscle her into lying down and shutting up.
So, when on this hot, end of summer night, she began her usual pacing, sniffing and complaining, I ignored her. She wasn’t barking, I had the radio on, I could go to sleep. In fact, I was drifting off when she woke me – not with barking, but with the sound of her feet racing, cartoon-like, in place on the kitchen floor. She actually fell over, got up and started running again. Kitchen, living room, bathroom and back – sniffing, snorting and panting, but not barking.
I yelled at her to stop, she didn’t listen. Then, the cockatiel began beating her wings furiously inside her dark cage. With a big sigh, I got up from my bed, turned the light on in the hall, opened my mouth to yell at both my pets, when something large and dark swooped in front of my face. The dog was hot on its trail. At first I thought, another moth got in the house, but then it came back at me, and I threw myself back in my bedroom and slammed the door. A BAT! A bat was flying around in my house!
My dog scratched at the door, and I could see the long hair of her tail peeking out from under it – but I didn’t open it. Call me a coward, but she has a rabies shot, I don’t.
I used my cell phone to try and call for help. Typically, I had no service indoors. So, I was either trapped permanently in my bedroom, or I had to get out of the house. The open crack above my door made me realize that the bat could zoom right through it and corner me. I hitched my pajama top over my head and dashed out of my bedroom and, in Olympic record-breaking time, sprinted to the front door, again leaving my dog behind. She was on her own. Time to make good on all those threats she was always barking at the cats and squirrels.
I sat in my car. It was midnight. I faced the real possibility of sleeping in the car. I called one friend for help – no answer. They were asleep of course. I called my sister who lived nearby. She was awake all right, partying with her neighbors in celebration of the Labor Day holiday. They soon arrived in jovial spirits, with a net.
We went back in the house. I crouched down behind my sister who had her hood pulled over her head. There was no sign of the bat. I asked the dog, “where is it, where is it?” and she bounded toward the bathroom, the only room where I hadn’t turned the light on. We approached, the neighbor with the net first, and my sister and I creeping behind him. His wife opened the kitchen door and said “Chase it out here!”
But the bat was elusive. Just when we thought it wasn’t in the bathroom, we moved the shower curtain and it flew directly at us at top speed. My sister and I screamed – I must admit - we screamed like little girls – and we threw ourselves to the floor. I latched onto my sister’s leg and we screamed again as the bat flew over us one more time. Of course, my sister’s neighbors were laughing at us hysterically.
Finally, the bat headed for the living room and my sister bravely stood in the doorway waving a pillow to keep it from coming back that way. The front door was opened, and out it flew, but it turned around and came back in!
More screaming, more hitting the floor. That must have convinced the varmint that this was hostile territory and it turned around and went out, this time for good. I slammed the door. I thanked my rescuers who thought this was the funniest thing they had done in a long time. The dog and I collapsed and didn’t wake up until the sun was high in the sky the next day.
I am paranoid now about any rustling, flapping or squeaking sounds I hear after it gets dark. I open and close my exterior doors quickly, all the time my eyes watching over my head. I’m hopeful that this is the last attack of the rhyming pests: rats, cats, and bats, but I can never be sure. I’m checking the rhyming dictionary now, looking for hints.
Hey, what’s that cloud of flying things hovering in my yard – could it be gn---?
It was a usual night. Just as soon as I settled in my bed with a book, the dog started pacing. She started at the window fan, which conveniently sucks in lots of smells for her to sample. She can stand in the middle of the room, raise her nose, and know immediately what is going on for miles.
Unfortunately, this means she is aware of every cat, ground hog, toad or large moth in the area. She knows what neighbors are getting in late and whose baby is crying for a bottle. Normally, she keeps her reactions down to growls, grunts and snorts, unless something gets really close. Then the barking begins. Sometimes, I just have to put on her leash and drag her into the bedroom, and muscle her into lying down and shutting up.
So, when on this hot, end of summer night, she began her usual pacing, sniffing and complaining, I ignored her. She wasn’t barking, I had the radio on, I could go to sleep. In fact, I was drifting off when she woke me – not with barking, but with the sound of her feet racing, cartoon-like, in place on the kitchen floor. She actually fell over, got up and started running again. Kitchen, living room, bathroom and back – sniffing, snorting and panting, but not barking.
I yelled at her to stop, she didn’t listen. Then, the cockatiel began beating her wings furiously inside her dark cage. With a big sigh, I got up from my bed, turned the light on in the hall, opened my mouth to yell at both my pets, when something large and dark swooped in front of my face. The dog was hot on its trail. At first I thought, another moth got in the house, but then it came back at me, and I threw myself back in my bedroom and slammed the door. A BAT! A bat was flying around in my house!
My dog scratched at the door, and I could see the long hair of her tail peeking out from under it – but I didn’t open it. Call me a coward, but she has a rabies shot, I don’t.
I used my cell phone to try and call for help. Typically, I had no service indoors. So, I was either trapped permanently in my bedroom, or I had to get out of the house. The open crack above my door made me realize that the bat could zoom right through it and corner me. I hitched my pajama top over my head and dashed out of my bedroom and, in Olympic record-breaking time, sprinted to the front door, again leaving my dog behind. She was on her own. Time to make good on all those threats she was always barking at the cats and squirrels.
I sat in my car. It was midnight. I faced the real possibility of sleeping in the car. I called one friend for help – no answer. They were asleep of course. I called my sister who lived nearby. She was awake all right, partying with her neighbors in celebration of the Labor Day holiday. They soon arrived in jovial spirits, with a net.
We went back in the house. I crouched down behind my sister who had her hood pulled over her head. There was no sign of the bat. I asked the dog, “where is it, where is it?” and she bounded toward the bathroom, the only room where I hadn’t turned the light on. We approached, the neighbor with the net first, and my sister and I creeping behind him. His wife opened the kitchen door and said “Chase it out here!”
But the bat was elusive. Just when we thought it wasn’t in the bathroom, we moved the shower curtain and it flew directly at us at top speed. My sister and I screamed – I must admit - we screamed like little girls – and we threw ourselves to the floor. I latched onto my sister’s leg and we screamed again as the bat flew over us one more time. Of course, my sister’s neighbors were laughing at us hysterically.
Finally, the bat headed for the living room and my sister bravely stood in the doorway waving a pillow to keep it from coming back that way. The front door was opened, and out it flew, but it turned around and came back in!
More screaming, more hitting the floor. That must have convinced the varmint that this was hostile territory and it turned around and went out, this time for good. I slammed the door. I thanked my rescuers who thought this was the funniest thing they had done in a long time. The dog and I collapsed and didn’t wake up until the sun was high in the sky the next day.
I am paranoid now about any rustling, flapping or squeaking sounds I hear after it gets dark. I open and close my exterior doors quickly, all the time my eyes watching over my head. I’m hopeful that this is the last attack of the rhyming pests: rats, cats, and bats, but I can never be sure. I’m checking the rhyming dictionary now, looking for hints.
Hey, what’s that cloud of flying things hovering in my yard – could it be gn---?
Thursday, September 04, 2008
The House of Rhyming Pests II
PART TWO – Yowls in the Night
I never take sleep for granted, and I know ahead of time that every night my eyes will be opening several times before the sun comes up. Whether its some sort of pain (like when my ear somehow gets folded over and after sleeping on it a while, it suddenly explodes with pain), Graves-disease induced night sweats (I’m dreaming that I’m swimming…) or the noise made by the refrigerator kicking on (and rattling whatever things I left on top of it) – there is never a night of unbroken sleep for me. And now, the dog doesn’t help.
She used to sleep soundly at the foot of my bed, or sometimes under it. The noise and shaking of the train going by rarely disturbed her. If for some reason I had to turn the light on in the middle of the night, she would squint and hide her face. But, that is no longer the case.
It started after a long winter, a time in which I keep all the windows and doors of the house securely closed. My house is made of cinderblock and it takes a lot of noise outside for me to hear it. Of course, that changes when the warm weather sets in. Then I am beset by the cacophony of birds, insects, neighborhood dogs, neighborhood arguments, souped-up cars, car radios, and backyard parties. The din usually dies down at night, unless someone has forgotten to bring a dog in, or leans on an alarmed car.
I didn’t mind that the dog barked at the occasional night noise, and felt secure that she was protecting me. I admit, I encouraged her. By the time the CATS moved into the neighborhood, it was too late. The dog was set on high alert.
The first night of yowling was a terrifying thing. At first it seems like a baby is crying, then screaming, then being torn end from end. A few minutes of this and you know you are dealing with feral cats, doing what feral cats do on a moonlit night. Soon the cats and my dog were involved in an earsplitting duet.
I went outside in my pajamas and chased the cats away. I yelled at the dog to stop barking. She continued to pace the house, nose at window level, sniffing for cats. The next night they were back. More yowling. More barking. More me chasing them in my pajamas.
Of course, as a natural result, then came the kittens. Why a mother cat would pick my yard with an obviously hostile canine is beyond me, but she did. She brazenly sunned herself and her litter on my deck, right on my cushioned lounge chair. When I came obliviously out of my back door, dog in tow, it was like a cat explosion, with mother cat and kittens flying in all directions. My dog practically took my arm out of the socket lunging after them.
And they just don’t leave. I don’t know if it is the third or fourth generation of cats that have chosen this neighborhood as their territory. I never know if I open a door whether I will find one laying on my stoop, or crouching in my bushes, or hiding under my car. My dog spends hours sprawled on the floor, her nose pushed up against the tiny space under the screen door. She can scent a cat at a hundred yards. And now, she is so proud of her herself for sounding the cat alarm, she now regularly barks at squirrels, falling leaves, cars going by and thunderstorms that are 40 miles away.
So, it is only logical what critter decided to drop in on Noreen’s House of Rats and Yard of Cats.
NEXT: The Night I Almost Slept in My Car
I never take sleep for granted, and I know ahead of time that every night my eyes will be opening several times before the sun comes up. Whether its some sort of pain (like when my ear somehow gets folded over and after sleeping on it a while, it suddenly explodes with pain), Graves-disease induced night sweats (I’m dreaming that I’m swimming…) or the noise made by the refrigerator kicking on (and rattling whatever things I left on top of it) – there is never a night of unbroken sleep for me. And now, the dog doesn’t help.
She used to sleep soundly at the foot of my bed, or sometimes under it. The noise and shaking of the train going by rarely disturbed her. If for some reason I had to turn the light on in the middle of the night, she would squint and hide her face. But, that is no longer the case.
It started after a long winter, a time in which I keep all the windows and doors of the house securely closed. My house is made of cinderblock and it takes a lot of noise outside for me to hear it. Of course, that changes when the warm weather sets in. Then I am beset by the cacophony of birds, insects, neighborhood dogs, neighborhood arguments, souped-up cars, car radios, and backyard parties. The din usually dies down at night, unless someone has forgotten to bring a dog in, or leans on an alarmed car.
I didn’t mind that the dog barked at the occasional night noise, and felt secure that she was protecting me. I admit, I encouraged her. By the time the CATS moved into the neighborhood, it was too late. The dog was set on high alert.
The first night of yowling was a terrifying thing. At first it seems like a baby is crying, then screaming, then being torn end from end. A few minutes of this and you know you are dealing with feral cats, doing what feral cats do on a moonlit night. Soon the cats and my dog were involved in an earsplitting duet.
I went outside in my pajamas and chased the cats away. I yelled at the dog to stop barking. She continued to pace the house, nose at window level, sniffing for cats. The next night they were back. More yowling. More barking. More me chasing them in my pajamas.
Of course, as a natural result, then came the kittens. Why a mother cat would pick my yard with an obviously hostile canine is beyond me, but she did. She brazenly sunned herself and her litter on my deck, right on my cushioned lounge chair. When I came obliviously out of my back door, dog in tow, it was like a cat explosion, with mother cat and kittens flying in all directions. My dog practically took my arm out of the socket lunging after them.
And they just don’t leave. I don’t know if it is the third or fourth generation of cats that have chosen this neighborhood as their territory. I never know if I open a door whether I will find one laying on my stoop, or crouching in my bushes, or hiding under my car. My dog spends hours sprawled on the floor, her nose pushed up against the tiny space under the screen door. She can scent a cat at a hundred yards. And now, she is so proud of her herself for sounding the cat alarm, she now regularly barks at squirrels, falling leaves, cars going by and thunderstorms that are 40 miles away.
So, it is only logical what critter decided to drop in on Noreen’s House of Rats and Yard of Cats.
NEXT: The Night I Almost Slept in My Car
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
The House of Rhyming Pests
Part 1 – The Walls Are Alive
Literature is full of works that feature a house in the title. Bleak House, Little House on the Prairie, The Fall of the House of Usher – even The House that Jack Built. So, I feel comfortable in presenting my contribution to this literary tradition, my story of The House of Rhyming Pests.
At first, the tale sounds as if it will be about irritating poets gathering under my roof, reciting terrible poetry nonstop at all hours of the day or night. It isn’t (but that does give me an idea for a horror story). The story of my house, and the parade of literature-inspiring critters started ten years ago when I moved into this cozy (translation: tiny), underappreciated (translation: undermaintained), vintage (translation: everything in it is old and not working) house in what my real estate agent described as a transitional neighborhood (translation: as long as I was willing to sit on my front steps with a broom, looking like the Crazy Old Lady, the drug dealers wouldn’t conduct business in my driveway.)
The first pests I encountered may well have considered me the intruder. After all, they had been in possession of the premises for at least the several years the property had been vacant, and possibly for quite some time before. Their presence wasn’t immediately visible as we cleaned and painted and moved in the furniture. I’m guessing that the main part of the house was not interesting to these crawl-space and wall dwellers. Not interesting until I did two things – turned on the heat and put food in the kitchen cabinets.
The first signs were scurrying noises in the kitchen. The dog would start barking, and I would get out of bed, to (as Clement Moore would say) “see what was the matter.” It became evident quickly that this wasn’t Santa or his reindeer, but some kind of vermin who had easy access to the interiors of my cabinets and drawers. We assumed mice. That was until my son discovered a giant hole chewed through the back of his closet, and we captured something very large and angry in a plastic garbage bag that we hustled outside without looking in it.
“Rats,” said the exterminator. “And big ones.” He turned and looked at my pet cockatiel, preening herself in her elevated cage. “They’ll try to get in there and eat that bird,” he said. The war was on.
Thus began the saga that contributed to my house being called “Noreen’s House of Rats.” They were everywhere, in the crawlspace, in the walls, in the closets, in the attic. In the kitchen they had chewed away the wallboard behind the cabinets to a height of about 3 feet. They sent plumbers and carpenters running for cover as I tackled all the mandatory home improvements to the house. We filled gaps in the walls with a combination of steel wool and expanding insulation foam. Eventually, the scurrying noises died down, no more packages of macaroni in the cabinet were ripped open, and the dog and I started sleeping through the night again.
NEXT: PART TWO – Yowls in the Night
Literature is full of works that feature a house in the title. Bleak House, Little House on the Prairie, The Fall of the House of Usher – even The House that Jack Built. So, I feel comfortable in presenting my contribution to this literary tradition, my story of The House of Rhyming Pests.
At first, the tale sounds as if it will be about irritating poets gathering under my roof, reciting terrible poetry nonstop at all hours of the day or night. It isn’t (but that does give me an idea for a horror story). The story of my house, and the parade of literature-inspiring critters started ten years ago when I moved into this cozy (translation: tiny), underappreciated (translation: undermaintained), vintage (translation: everything in it is old and not working) house in what my real estate agent described as a transitional neighborhood (translation: as long as I was willing to sit on my front steps with a broom, looking like the Crazy Old Lady, the drug dealers wouldn’t conduct business in my driveway.)
The first pests I encountered may well have considered me the intruder. After all, they had been in possession of the premises for at least the several years the property had been vacant, and possibly for quite some time before. Their presence wasn’t immediately visible as we cleaned and painted and moved in the furniture. I’m guessing that the main part of the house was not interesting to these crawl-space and wall dwellers. Not interesting until I did two things – turned on the heat and put food in the kitchen cabinets.
The first signs were scurrying noises in the kitchen. The dog would start barking, and I would get out of bed, to (as Clement Moore would say) “see what was the matter.” It became evident quickly that this wasn’t Santa or his reindeer, but some kind of vermin who had easy access to the interiors of my cabinets and drawers. We assumed mice. That was until my son discovered a giant hole chewed through the back of his closet, and we captured something very large and angry in a plastic garbage bag that we hustled outside without looking in it.
“Rats,” said the exterminator. “And big ones.” He turned and looked at my pet cockatiel, preening herself in her elevated cage. “They’ll try to get in there and eat that bird,” he said. The war was on.
Thus began the saga that contributed to my house being called “Noreen’s House of Rats.” They were everywhere, in the crawlspace, in the walls, in the closets, in the attic. In the kitchen they had chewed away the wallboard behind the cabinets to a height of about 3 feet. They sent plumbers and carpenters running for cover as I tackled all the mandatory home improvements to the house. We filled gaps in the walls with a combination of steel wool and expanding insulation foam. Eventually, the scurrying noises died down, no more packages of macaroni in the cabinet were ripped open, and the dog and I started sleeping through the night again.
NEXT: PART TWO – Yowls in the Night
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Are You "Gas-Worthy?"
Forget the dollar, the yen or the euro. The new unit of measure for determining something’s value is a tank of gas. Car dealers are telling you how many tankfuls of gas you can buy with their rebates. Electronics web pages are advertising pages of items that cost less than a tankful of gas. And some office workers are comparing pay increases and salaries for other jobs by how much more gas they can buy. Sad is the employee whose annual merit increase doesn’t even equal one tank of gas.
It won’t be long before social engagements are judged on whether or not they are “gas-worthy.” Will a wedding or other celebration rate two or three gallons of gas? Will sports teams gain or lose attendance based on the “gas-worthiness” of their win-loss records? And exactly how many gallons of gas can that NBA superstar buy with his salary?
I envision single people rating their dates on the gallon scale, with no one wanting to be rated as a one-gallon date. Movie ratings will switch from stars to gas cans, and 4-star hotels will become 4-gallon getaways.
Once, the gold standard was used to determine the value of things. Today, it’s the gas standard, a truly liquid currency.
So, how "gas-worthy" are you?
It won’t be long before social engagements are judged on whether or not they are “gas-worthy.” Will a wedding or other celebration rate two or three gallons of gas? Will sports teams gain or lose attendance based on the “gas-worthiness” of their win-loss records? And exactly how many gallons of gas can that NBA superstar buy with his salary?
I envision single people rating their dates on the gallon scale, with no one wanting to be rated as a one-gallon date. Movie ratings will switch from stars to gas cans, and 4-star hotels will become 4-gallon getaways.
Once, the gold standard was used to determine the value of things. Today, it’s the gas standard, a truly liquid currency.
So, how "gas-worthy" are you?
Saturday, July 19, 2008
What are some doctors up to now?
Check out my recently published content on AC:
"Concierge Service" in the Doctor's Office - Is This Where Medical Care is Headed?
"Concierge Service" in the Doctor's Office - Is This Where Medical Care is Headed?
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Dealing With Leftovers
She’s not even my cat. In fact, she’s no one's cat, being part of the gang of feral cats whose population has exploded in my neighborhood. She isn’t a nice looking cat either, in fact, she is a crazy quilt kind of cat, her fur a wild combination of every other cat in the area. Around her neck she has puffy orange fur that is a combination of an orange tabby cat and a long-haired cat, her back end is more smooth and is gray and white striped, while her face has the white and brown spots you see on a calico cat. She’s odd-looking, wild and for some reason, won’t stay out of my yard. In my mind I’ve started to call her “Lefty” because she really looks like she was put together from leftover parts.
I have a dog. A fairly big dog. A dog who considers cats, squirrels, birds and toads as fair game. When she is in the yard, she is on a chain because I can’t trust her not to run off, chasing critters. One unfortunate incident is all it took to show me what can happen if she actually catches something. It is quite possible that Lefty was actually a witness to that incident, as it involved another female cat, and several kittens who had gotten into the habit of sleeping on my lounge chair on my back deck. One morning they didn’t move fast enough as I was bringing the dog out in the yard. During the ensuing unpleasantness, I seem to remember one of the kittens looking like it was wearing a coat made out of leftover cat parts.
All winter the lounge chair was off the deck, the cushions stored away, and I eventually forgot about how it had been used as a cat bed. Cats continued to drift in and out of the yard, sometimes teasing the dog by standing just out of the reach of her chain, making her bark furiously. Mostly, they just seemed to be passing through. I have some neighbors with severely overgrown yards, so I figured the cats had moved on to more friendly domains.
Two days ago, my dog started getting extremely agitated every time I put her outside. It is spring, and squirrels are darting loudly and clumsily in the maple trees at the back of my yard. My dog gets a sight of them and just won’t quit. Sometimes they run along the fence and down the driveway, driving her mad. But this time, she was directing her bark back at the house, toward the deck, especially on the side where I have a small lawnmower shed.
After wrestling her back into the house, I decided to take a closer look at that area of my yard. And then I noticed, there on my deck, perched on the back of the lounge chair was a single, defiant kitten. The kitten looked at me calmly, then jumped down from the deck and dashed behind the little shed.
I followed the kitten and then found, to my surprise, a veritable carnivore’s den between the back of my shed and the wall of the house. The remains of several birds, reduced to mostly feathers, and an obvious fresh kill – a pretty substantially sized squirrel. I wondered if this was some sort of super hunter kitten who had taken down all these animals. A kitten who defiantly sat on my deck the entire time the dog was out there. A kitten to be reckoned with, I thought.
It was a weekday morning, and I was dressed for work, so I planned to return later that afternoon and clean up the carcasses. In the meantime, I sprayed the whole area with an organic repellant spray, hoping the kitten would be turned off by the stench and leave.
At the end of the day, I steeled myself for the distasteful job of cleaning up a dead squirrel. I approached with a rake and a shovel held in gloved hands. A bandanna was tied around my nose in case of foul odors.
The squirrel was gone. Completely. Just as if it had suddenly gotten up and run away. I thought that perhaps the kitten, after encountering the stinky repellant spray, grabbed its meal and moved out. I was wrong.
The kitten had grabbed the squirrel alright, but only dragged it around to the far side of the shed. And there it sat, calmly, with its little white paws tucked beneath it, next to what appeared to be now about a quarter of a squirrel. Did this kitten eat almost an entire squirrel that was almost twice its own size? Again I though, a kitten to be reckoned with.
A noise by the deck startled me. There was the cat I had been referring to as Lefty, multi-colored tail swishing. In an instant both she and the kitten were gone.
I brought the dog out again, happy that the squirrel remains were out of her line of sight, and decided to leave what little was left for the cats. This weekend I am going to cut the grass very short around that shed and see what I can do to make the back of the shed less hospitable for Lefty and her kitten. I’ll store the lounge chair cushion and turn the chair upside down. I’ll put the dog outside more often during the day to emphasize that this is not a cat yard.
I hope it works. But I just saw now Lefty strolling down the walkway in the front of my house, her scent drifting under the screen door right into my dog’s flaring nostrils. I had to close the heavy front door to get her to calm down and stop barking and scratching at the screen door and trying to get out.
I think it’s going to be a long summer.
I have a dog. A fairly big dog. A dog who considers cats, squirrels, birds and toads as fair game. When she is in the yard, she is on a chain because I can’t trust her not to run off, chasing critters. One unfortunate incident is all it took to show me what can happen if she actually catches something. It is quite possible that Lefty was actually a witness to that incident, as it involved another female cat, and several kittens who had gotten into the habit of sleeping on my lounge chair on my back deck. One morning they didn’t move fast enough as I was bringing the dog out in the yard. During the ensuing unpleasantness, I seem to remember one of the kittens looking like it was wearing a coat made out of leftover cat parts.
All winter the lounge chair was off the deck, the cushions stored away, and I eventually forgot about how it had been used as a cat bed. Cats continued to drift in and out of the yard, sometimes teasing the dog by standing just out of the reach of her chain, making her bark furiously. Mostly, they just seemed to be passing through. I have some neighbors with severely overgrown yards, so I figured the cats had moved on to more friendly domains.
Two days ago, my dog started getting extremely agitated every time I put her outside. It is spring, and squirrels are darting loudly and clumsily in the maple trees at the back of my yard. My dog gets a sight of them and just won’t quit. Sometimes they run along the fence and down the driveway, driving her mad. But this time, she was directing her bark back at the house, toward the deck, especially on the side where I have a small lawnmower shed.
After wrestling her back into the house, I decided to take a closer look at that area of my yard. And then I noticed, there on my deck, perched on the back of the lounge chair was a single, defiant kitten. The kitten looked at me calmly, then jumped down from the deck and dashed behind the little shed.
I followed the kitten and then found, to my surprise, a veritable carnivore’s den between the back of my shed and the wall of the house. The remains of several birds, reduced to mostly feathers, and an obvious fresh kill – a pretty substantially sized squirrel. I wondered if this was some sort of super hunter kitten who had taken down all these animals. A kitten who defiantly sat on my deck the entire time the dog was out there. A kitten to be reckoned with, I thought.
It was a weekday morning, and I was dressed for work, so I planned to return later that afternoon and clean up the carcasses. In the meantime, I sprayed the whole area with an organic repellant spray, hoping the kitten would be turned off by the stench and leave.
At the end of the day, I steeled myself for the distasteful job of cleaning up a dead squirrel. I approached with a rake and a shovel held in gloved hands. A bandanna was tied around my nose in case of foul odors.
The squirrel was gone. Completely. Just as if it had suddenly gotten up and run away. I thought that perhaps the kitten, after encountering the stinky repellant spray, grabbed its meal and moved out. I was wrong.
The kitten had grabbed the squirrel alright, but only dragged it around to the far side of the shed. And there it sat, calmly, with its little white paws tucked beneath it, next to what appeared to be now about a quarter of a squirrel. Did this kitten eat almost an entire squirrel that was almost twice its own size? Again I though, a kitten to be reckoned with.
A noise by the deck startled me. There was the cat I had been referring to as Lefty, multi-colored tail swishing. In an instant both she and the kitten were gone.
I brought the dog out again, happy that the squirrel remains were out of her line of sight, and decided to leave what little was left for the cats. This weekend I am going to cut the grass very short around that shed and see what I can do to make the back of the shed less hospitable for Lefty and her kitten. I’ll store the lounge chair cushion and turn the chair upside down. I’ll put the dog outside more often during the day to emphasize that this is not a cat yard.
I hope it works. But I just saw now Lefty strolling down the walkway in the front of my house, her scent drifting under the screen door right into my dog’s flaring nostrils. I had to close the heavy front door to get her to calm down and stop barking and scratching at the screen door and trying to get out.
I think it’s going to be a long summer.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Approaching the Family Expiration Date
53
Three of four grandparents and one parent
didn’t see this day and
one parent lasted a mere three years longer.
Two of three uncles did not reach it
one remaining aunt holds the current survival record.
Matriarch of this bloodline, I reject the family’s short shelf life,
determined to go down in the family lore and legend
as the one who beat the odds.
The cardiologist says my arteries are pristine,
surely a sign of longevity.
But the broken parts of my heart he can’t see,
the parts that make it hard to turn 53.
©2008 Noreen Braman
Three of four grandparents and one parent
didn’t see this day and
one parent lasted a mere three years longer.
Two of three uncles did not reach it
one remaining aunt holds the current survival record.
Matriarch of this bloodline, I reject the family’s short shelf life,
determined to go down in the family lore and legend
as the one who beat the odds.
The cardiologist says my arteries are pristine,
surely a sign of longevity.
But the broken parts of my heart he can’t see,
the parts that make it hard to turn 53.
©2008 Noreen Braman
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Saturday, January 05, 2008
So, Mitt Romney, 45 Million Uninsured Americans Just "Don't Want to Play?"
I can't believe what I just heard, my blood pressure must be sky high. If I go to the hospital tonight, please send my bill to Mitt Romney.
For years I have railed against draconian HMOs, health insurance bureaucracy, inefficient medical providers and inequities in a system far sicker than the patients it serves. I have watched politicians debate where changes should be made, where money should come from, and whether or not the government should be involved or not. I have fought my own personal battles to obtain proper health care for myself and my children, and listened to the stories of many others fighting similar battles. I have seen the results of families being shut out of health care because of "pre-exisiting conditions," "experiemtal treatmemts" and exorbitant cost. Unless you are fortunate enough to work for a company that helps defray the cost of health insurance, or pays you enough for you to shoulder the group premium yourself, you are out of luck. Work somewhere that health insurance isn't offered, you will most likely not be able to afford to buy insurance on your own, because the cost could be 1,000 a month and beyond. Work at a minimum wage job and even a group premium of 300 a month could be beyond your means. Possibly, if your wages are low enough, you may be able to get state-funded health insurance for your children, but if you, the breadwinner gets sick, you are out of luck. And I really thought that most politicians knew and accepted this, but only differed on how to solve the problem.
Tonight, Mitt Romney presented another view, and a view that I suddenly realize may be held in secret by many people in this country. According to Mitt, the 45 million Americans who do not have health insurance are simply refusing to pay their share and are expecting the taxpayer to foot the bill. 45 million are "refusing to play" with those who are. His answer was simple, pay for health insurance or pay your own way.
This is a dangerous attitude that shows a person, intending to lead this country, while being completely out of touch with how the common person is struggling today. It shows a person with no concept of how one illness or injury can devastate a family - yes, even those with so-called insurance. No, he thinks that 45 million pesky uninsured Americans are just refusing to be insured. I really expected to hear a version of Ebeneezer Scrooge's words "And if they would rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population!" come flying out of his mouth.
For years I have railed against draconian HMOs, health insurance bureaucracy, inefficient medical providers and inequities in a system far sicker than the patients it serves. I have watched politicians debate where changes should be made, where money should come from, and whether or not the government should be involved or not. I have fought my own personal battles to obtain proper health care for myself and my children, and listened to the stories of many others fighting similar battles. I have seen the results of families being shut out of health care because of "pre-exisiting conditions," "experiemtal treatmemts" and exorbitant cost. Unless you are fortunate enough to work for a company that helps defray the cost of health insurance, or pays you enough for you to shoulder the group premium yourself, you are out of luck. Work somewhere that health insurance isn't offered, you will most likely not be able to afford to buy insurance on your own, because the cost could be 1,000 a month and beyond. Work at a minimum wage job and even a group premium of 300 a month could be beyond your means. Possibly, if your wages are low enough, you may be able to get state-funded health insurance for your children, but if you, the breadwinner gets sick, you are out of luck. And I really thought that most politicians knew and accepted this, but only differed on how to solve the problem.
Tonight, Mitt Romney presented another view, and a view that I suddenly realize may be held in secret by many people in this country. According to Mitt, the 45 million Americans who do not have health insurance are simply refusing to pay their share and are expecting the taxpayer to foot the bill. 45 million are "refusing to play" with those who are. His answer was simple, pay for health insurance or pay your own way.
This is a dangerous attitude that shows a person, intending to lead this country, while being completely out of touch with how the common person is struggling today. It shows a person with no concept of how one illness or injury can devastate a family - yes, even those with so-called insurance. No, he thinks that 45 million pesky uninsured Americans are just refusing to be insured. I really expected to hear a version of Ebeneezer Scrooge's words "And if they would rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population!" come flying out of his mouth.
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