Suzy Says

View from the bookstore

In addition to picking up unglamorous necessities at the unglamorous Rite Aid (why do I always run out of all my drugstore items at once?), I also stopped off in Mendocino to pick up the organic, free-range Thanksgiving turkey from Mendosa’s. Fortunately for me, my sister had prepaid it, so all I had to do was put the box in my cart along with the last minute T-Day items: a bag of fresh green beans the size of my head, and equally fresh cranberries for my (in)famous cranberry-bourbon relish.

The last time Meg and I were at Mendosa’s, we noticed that they had ribbon candy for sale. Hand-made ribbon candy. My grandmother, whose wedding photo you recently admired, used to keep ribbon candy in a cut-glass covered dish at the holidays, and looking at the bright candy curls instantly brought me back to her wonderfully festive holiday celebrations. We bought some of the clove flavor, and it was even better than I remembered. I looked for it this time but alas! Others seemed to have discovered it, too, and they were out. They did have candy coal, though, which might be good for Christmas stockings. We’re all a lot naughtier than nice.

With that out of the way, I decided to stop by the bookstore, which has the view you see above. It also happened to have Christmas cards by the wonderful Snow & Graham, so I picked some up, while resisting buying new books, including the latest by Michael Connelly, even though it was autographed. It’s a great place to browse.

I spent much of today being shockingly domestic. I set the turkey to marinate in the brine I made while simultaneously making syrup for the bees (more later on that subject); made a shepherd’s pie with ground turkey also bought from Mendosa’s; did about 5,000 loads of laundry (some for Rob, some bedding for our T-Day guests, and some of my humble own); made lunch for the boys, who started digging a well on the property today; walked Schatzi on the logging road, and etc.

The plan is to brine the turkey overnight, rinse it and let it rest tomorrow, and either smoke it, if Jonathan isn’t on well patrol, or roast it if he is. Tomorrow I’ll cook the cranberries. Erica is bringing the pies and stuffing made with chestnuts she harvested herself, so all we’ll have to make on the day is the turkey, the mashed potatoes, and the green beans.

The first Thanksgiving in my new house! And no travel required.

I could have borrowed the title of this post from the title of Haven Kimmel’s delightful memoir She Got Up Off the Couch: And Other Heroic Acts. Yesterday, I performed my own heroic act by getting up off my own couch and accompanying Megan (and, more importantly, Princess Schatzi) to the Mendocino Headlands.

The quaint town of Mendocino is perched on rocky bluffs which jut out into the ocean. The trees there are windswept and bent into fanciful shapes from years of wind and weather. The headlands are bordered by blackberry bushes and rose brambles, and there are trails all along the rugged coastline.

It was a beautiful day, and there was a high surf advisory, so the ocean was even more spectacular than usual. Schatzi bounced happily along, wearing her cozy sweater (pit bulls have very thin fur and really feel the cold. Schatzi literally dances on her hind legs for joy when Megan gets a sweater out for her) and sniffing the exciting smells. I walked along more slowly, careful to look for unexpected rocks and gopher holes. It was good to move again, even if it was somewhat painful. I loved the sea air and the spray on my face and the sun on my aching bones. And the company.

Yesterday, Megan and Rob came by, bringing Princess Schatzi for the first time.

Henry declined to appear – he has a dim view of society in general and visitors in particular – and June retreated to the top of the stairs so she could look down on the intruder.

Adventurous Audrey, on the other hand, sat on the leather bench in front of the couch, where Schatzi was sitting between Meg and me. The cat and the dog sniffed each other, but there was no growling or clawing. Possibly all we need to do to settle that little problem in the Middle East is to have the Palestinians and Israelis come to my house. No fighting ever seems to go on here. It’s like a Mystery Spot of peace.

Later, Audrey sat on my lap, napping and purring, with Schatzi right beside me, just inches away.

Schatzi in her “Happy Halloween” sweater, which glows in the dark!

Megan and I ventured to Lu’s new house for a party on Friday night.

The new house is near a small town called Gualala (variously pronounced Gwa-la-la and Wah-la-la). It’s about an hour’s drive away, on twisty and turny roads (there seems to be no other kind around here). It was so foggy most of the way that I was spared the horror of looking down the precipitous cliffs to the ocean below, and it had an appropriately horror movie feel, with the fog drifting out from wind-bent trees. Megan, having often driven the ambulance down this road in storms and icy roads and other adverse and perverse conditions, was unperturbed as usual.

On the way, she pointed out the sign for the Beacon Bar. Apparently, it’s a guy who turns his barn into a bar when he feels like it, and when he feels like it, he lights a beacon to alert the drinking and driving public. The fog had cleared enough by the time we came back to see the light.

En route to the party, we stopped off in the charming little town of Point Arena for coffee. It has a nice old movie theater showing new movies, some cafes and little shops, including, surprisingly, a record store.

The sun came out as we approached Lu’s house, which is set on four acres in the woods. We were greeted enthusiastically by the humans and canines, including little Harlow (aka my puppy), who Lu and Rick adopted a couple of weeks ago. Harlow helped to carve a Jack-o-lantern:

while wearing a ballerina costume. Later, she managed to get out of the outfit and had a nap in her fancy bed:

I think she’s done pretty well for herself.

The party was fun. Lots of people, kids and dogs running around. Rick had made his famous jambalaya and beer bread, and we ate at a bonfire near the house. After dinner, we went through the haunted house Lu and Rick had made in the woods. I thought it was great, though they have made much more elaborate ones in the past. The perfect touch was added by one of the kids jumping out and yelling “Boo!” at me, making me jump and scream in a satisfying manner.

Up next: experiments in gravity. Turns out ol’ Isaac Newton knew what he was talking about.

Can you spot the puppy?

Well, not really my puppy.

Megan and her partner in pit bulls, Monica, are time sharing “my” puppy, who can be seen here. Megan takes her from Thursday to Sunday, and Monica has her the rest of the week, when Megan is working those twelve hour night shifts and sleeping in the daytime like a vampire. So fashionable!

During the next couple of months, M&M will socialize and train the puppy. She will also get used to other dogs, since both Ms have them, and go to puppy school. It seems that early schooling is not limited to people these days*. The idea is to make the puppy as adoptable as possible and lower the chances of her being returned. The fostering lasts two to three months, so there’s a temp puppy in my future. Yay!

If this works out, Meg will keep doing it, so there may be a parade of temp puppies in my future!

So far, Queen Schatzi seems unconcerned by the invasion of her domain, while the puppy is her most loyal servant (next to Megan, that is). I was reminded of when my brother got his puppy, Jed, and Jed was so relieved to find his dog Heidi in residence. Here’s a teeny picture** I found of Jed and Heidi when they first met:

During my Beat the Heat week, we went to the shelter, walked the puppies’ mama, and checked out the pups, who are now two months old. “My” puppy immediately recognized me and came running, snuffling my fingers through the cage mesh. She also stared at me as I left, though the other puppies were playing in complete unconcern. I’m convinced she remembered me.

She is the runt of the litter, and in keeping with being “my” puppy, she is a little obnoxious, so M&M are hoping to make her nicer, too. If only someone had trained me at a young age! Her name is Harlow, as in the gorgeous and glamorous Jean, which is my middle name, too. What better name for a little starlet?

*Kids go to preschool really young now, at least by my antiquated standards. I didn’t go until the age of five, when I arrived at kindergarten already able to read and write. The idea of preschool kind of fills me with horror. I mean, aren’t 12+ years of school enough?

**It appears that a chair or table leg is growing out of Heidi’s head, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t.

Gratuitous Schatzi picture, which has nothing to do with this post, except she’d be my neighbor if I move. And she looks so pretty!

Really, this alone should be enough to make me move, if the puppies weren’t. I found it fascinating, yet scary, and spent way too much time playing with it instead of working today. I was interested to note that my area seems to specialize in car thefts and burglaries, which makes me feel especially lucky that my neighbor B keeps an eye on my place on the rare occasions I’m away. She brought over my mail on Saturday (which included the September Issue of Vogue – yay!) and mentioned that I had left my car window open.

I need a nanny.

If I do move, the house I’ll live in has no locks at all. No worry about forgetting house keys! And most people up there leave their car keys in the ignition. So they know where they are.

I was going to take pictures for you, but the house wasn’t looking its best. The owners have removed the old balcony railings in order to replace them, so there’s a pile of old wood in front. Inside, the owners are still in the process of dealing with their late mother’s things, so it was a little on the disordered side, and it seemed disrespectful somehow to take pictures. It was so poignant to see Rose’s mail still on the coffee table, as if she’d be back anytime.

The room downstairs has a living space and a kitchen area. You can tell a guy built the house, since there are no closets and the kitchen* is almost an afterthought. I’ll have to be ruthless in getting rid of furniture and kitchen accessories. But the counter space isn’t much worse than my current kitchen, and there’s enough room for a table and chairs.

The stairs have a wonderful railing made from a single sinuous tree branch, and lead to the sleeping loft, which has a skylight and a door to the balcony. Outside, I discovered that the balcony wraps around to the side of the house. It’s big enough for a party up there.

There’s also an attached garage with sliding glass doors which Rose used as a pottery studio, and has plenty of room for storage. There’s also a washer and dryer, which is good, since the nearest laundromat is a half hour drive away.

Rose had the bathroom built on, so it’s new and nice. Also much better than dealing with an outhouse and an outdoor shower, which was the original arrangement. Again with the guy house, n’est-ce pas?

The house is heated with propane, so I won’t have to buy wood and chop it, which is great. All in all, I really like it, and all that really remains now is to negotiate the rent, since no-one has ever rented it before. Rose’s kids are having a memorial for her in a couple of weeks, so I’ll probably go up for that. Especially since they’re getting a mariachi band to perform. Now, that’s a funeral!

*I have to admit that I love watching those HGTV shows where people buy fabulous houses or renovate them. I’m always amazed by how, well, spoiled the people are. They always think kitchens that look perfectly fine to me need updating or aren’t big enough. Their heads would fall OFF if they saw Rose’s kitchen or my sister’s. Also, I can’t understand the obsession with stainless steel appliances, which show every single fingerprint, and granite countertops, which I find ugly. Also the need for two sinks in a bathroom. I don’t want anyone else in there while I’m getting ready, so why do you need two sinks?

Backseat Bale

On our way home, we stopped off and bought a bale of straw. Little did I know that there is a difference between hay and straw, and that there would be a choice of straw. Whenever I run an errand for my brother, I’m always lacking an essential piece of information, so it’s good I had my little purple cell phone handy.

The winning straw was rice! Though fairly modest in size compared to some of the bales on offer, it refused to fit into the trunk of my sister’s trusty and dusty Saturn. But it did settle nicely into the back seat (see above). The straw seller kindly placed a sheet of paper on the seat before depositing the bale, but the car, our hair, and our clothes were soon as straw-strewn as the March Hare on a particularly maddening day.

If you’re wondering why our brother required a single, smallish straw bale, it’s because he’s planning to build a cob oven with the straw and the clay on the property. If you’re curious about these ovens, you can read all about them here.

We unloaded the straw and other BBQ fixin’s at his place, then went on to Megan’s. I stowed the groceries while she created the pie. She makes them so quickly it looks like a breeze. She does something with almond meal that makes the crust magically delicious. And with four pints of fresh local strawberries going into her pie, you can see that she doesn’t hold back.

Pie perched precariously on my lap, and Schatzi in the now vacant backseat, we made our way to our brother’s place. Friends gradually assembled, including Lichen, who brought Schatzi’s good friend Padawan. They play together at least once a week. Padawan is another terrifying breed, a Rottweiler who immediately cuddled up to me, then lay down and allowed me to rub his tummy until my arm felt like I’d pitched ten innings. I guess that’s the real danger!

As Padawan and Schatzi ran off to play, I perched on the straw bale while Lichen cut my hair. He had the cape and the fancy scissors and everything. It turns out that he used to be a stylist in Beverly Hills in a former life, working his magic on stars and starlets. I bet they never had their cut on a straw bale! He refused to let me pay him, even though my hair looks Hollywood fabulous.

In the meantime, my brother was barbecuing free range chicken breasts and farmers’ (thank you, Mike!) market corn, so dinner was ready. There was also salad and cheese buns which my brother had made earlier. For dessert, there was the pie.

As we sat around the dying flames of the barbecue, with the sun dipping lower in the sky, I thought how lucky I am to have such a wonderful family and friends.

Schatzi enjoys her garden

Undaunted by the banana slug (well, slightly daunted), my sister and I made our way to the local shelter the following day.

Megan inherited her dog, Schatzi, from our mother. Mom was walking her other dogs (who have since passed away) one day when she still lived near San Diego when she heard a sound coming from a Dumpster. She investigated, and found Schatzi. The dog had clearly suffered a lot of ill-treatment, and had also recently had puppies, who were nowhere to be seen*.

Mom cleaned her up as much as she could and took her to the pound, since she already had two dogs. The pound informed her that Schatzi would be killed immediately, without even trying to find her a home. Why, you ask? Because she is a pit bull terrier. A 35 pound, brindled bundle of love, but still, a pit bull terrier.

Mom now had three dogs.

She named this one “Schatzi”, which is German for “sweetheart” or “treasure”, and she is both. And as as Mom said, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

Schatzi is definitely Megan’s treasure. She adores that little canine princess, and as her love for Schatzi has grown, so has her interest in Schatzi’s breed – possibly one of the most misunderstood breeds in the world. She is an ardent supporter of Bad Rap, an Oakland rescue and rehabilitation organization, and works at least one day a week to help train and socialize pit bulls at her local shelter.

This was one of those days, so I got to meet three of the PBs: Tulley, Davis, and Patch. Tulley’s baby, Echo, is deaf and is being fostered by a family who is teaching him sign language. The shelter is holding an adoption day in August, and the staff hopes that if the PBs are well-trained and friendly, they’ll find good homes.

All three were incredibly affectionate, kissing me, wagging their tails, and leaning against me and looking up at me with the heartbreaking affection only a dog can show. And I was a total stranger!

We walked the dusty, rocky roads for more than two hours. Tulley responded well to the clicker, and all the dogs did well, though their natural ebullience broke through the training from time to time.

I was sorry to see them go when it was time to return them to their kennels, but it was an honor and a privilege to work with and cuddle with these beautiful animals, even for a short time. The only reason to beware of these dogs is the serious danger of falling in love.

*Later, Mom learned that Schatzi had been seen around the neighborhood with her puppies, and the general consensus was that they had fallen prey to coyotes. Mom was astounded that not one person thought to help the dog and her babies.

It’s raining a little more now than it was earlier today, and I was happy to see Henry curled up in his blanket on the couch when I closed the blinds for the evening. I wish he’d actually get under the blanket, but I guess having it at all is better than the way he spent the other winters before he had his faithful servant.

This morning, the air was just atomizing my face gently, like an Evian mister during a first class trip to France, when I ventured out to do some shopping. I didn’t realize how much I had overdone my mental provisions (the library) and physical ones (Safeway) until I started trudging up the hill towards home. My bags seemed to get heavier with every step, and the mile stretched before me. Was it getting darker? Would I be soaked to the skin before my arms fell off, or after?

As these gloomy thoughts drifted through my gloomy head, a man passed me with two dogs. I remarked on their beauty, which was considerable: one a long-legged lady, a grey and white Great Dane and the other a handsome lad, a black Lab/Shepherd mix. It turns out they are both rescue dogs, the female being fostered until a home can be found, and the male belongs to the man. We fell into a conversation, and he walked me most of the way home. My bags had magically become lighter along with the skies as all four of us walked companionably together. I hardly noticed them by the time we parted ways.

As I neared my house, I noticed a beautiful black cat sitting on a fence, gazing at me with huge, golden eyes. She stood (or sat) her ground (or fence) as I passed, telling her how lovely she was, though she clearly already knew this and accepted it as no more than her due.

It’s amazing how total strangers, human and animal, can really make your day. Even a rainy one.

Joy asked for more Schatzi photos, so here they are. Again, I apologize for the complete lack of skill on the part of the photographer. You can see the adorable star on her chest, her French manicure with the white tips on her paws, and the affectionate look in her eyes. She’s a brindled pit bull, though they come in many colors and sizes. She’s a ladylike 34 pounds!

Schatzi, with the sun on her fur and love in her eyes.

My sister pointed out that there have been, to date, no pictures of her beloved dog, Schatzi, on my blog. I endeavored to redress this egregious wrong by taking some pictures at Thanksgiving, but, alas, the sun was too sunny and the photographer too inept to give Schatzi her considerable due.

In this picture, she is looking up at my sister, and I think it’s pretty clear that there is love in those big brown eyes. The whitish thing in the background is either the glare of the sun or a ghost passing through in a hurry – you decide. I wish I had taken a better picture, since she really is a beautiful dog.

Those who are not Germanically inclined may wonder about her name. It’s only fair to say that our mother had the worst taste in pet names (and men, but that’s another story). Her cat L’il Bit and dog Baroness von Hershee (known by the slightly less embarrassing diminutive “Bear”) spring to mind. Anyway, Schatzi means “treasure” or “sweetheart”, and she is both.

Mom was walking the unfortunately named Bear one fine day, when she heard a noise coming from inside a Dumpster. Peering inside, she saw an emaciated young pit bull, whimpering for help. Mom flagged down a couple of passing guys, who hauled her treasure out of the trash. Mom cleaned her up and brought her to the local shelter. On being told that the dog would be euthanized immediately for the capital crime of being born a pit bull, Mom of course turned around and took her home.

Although Schatzi had been through things far too terrible to relate here, she is, true to her name, a total sweetheart. I can tell you this from personal experience, when I had her stay with me for a month while Mom was away. Eventually, Mom and her dogs moved in with my sister, and time has now left Schatzi in charge. She and my sister are devoted to each other, and there could be no happier ending for the little dog who went from being one man’s trash to one girl’s treasure.

With all this kitten talk, I realize I have never filled you in on what became of the Lovely Rita.

In preparation for the long trip from There to Here, I took her to the vet. Dr. Jill said she wouldn’t recommend putting a dog of Rita’s vintage and dignity through the horrors of being packed up and treated like baggage, but she wouldn’t refuse me the certificate saying Rita was healthy enough to travel, either. Because Rita is in excellent shape, even for a dog far junior to her.

This put some doubts in my mind, but I went to tell Actual Owner that Rita and I were off on a new adventure together. He was visibly shaken, and asked if I would consider leaving her with him. Even a heart as stony as mine melted when he said, “I was there at the beginning of her life, and I’d like to be there at the end, too.” Because we both knew that he’d never see her again if she left with me.

The truth is, she is his dog. She spent the first ten years of her life with him, and only three with me. He’s home, I’m the summer camp.

I won the battle, but I lost the war.

So I did the right and painful thing. Actual Owner came over one evening, and I loaded him up with all her accessories, things I had acquired for her over the years, ranging from her travel water bottle (she was the best travel companion: always happy to go anywhere, never bored) to her beloved bed to her hip treats (prevention!). I also gave him all her vet records. He thanked me for taking such good care of her, and put on her leash.

I hugged her good-bye, burying my face in her thick fur once last time. She walked off with her guy, tail wagging, looking up at him with love I’ve never seen on her face for anyone else.

It was the right thing to do, but it was one of the hardest I’ve ever done.

Now that I’ve been in Oakland for six months, I am completely sure I did the right thing. She would not have been happy here with the constantly barking dogs next door, the complete lack of parks, having to walk on a leash on cement sidewalks with shopping cart people instead of being Queen of the Dog Park, running free with the sun on her fur.

And her extended vacation at Camp Suzy was not in vain. Her Actual Owner definitely appreciates her more now. He takes her everywhere, from the store to the Tai Chi classes he teaches, and she is happy and healthy. I will always miss her, but I’m happy she’s happy. And I’ll always have the memory of my Dog Days with the Lovely Rita.

Last night’s lunar eclipse was eclipsed by clouds here and sadness at my sister’s house. After a battle with acute leukemia, her beloved 14 year old dog Bear was laid to rest in the red moonlight, beside our adored Jed. They are together under a big tree in a sunny meadow where the wild irises grow. And my sister’s little house seems so empty now.

Yesterday morning, I had the kitchen door open, and the baby gate in place to keep the dog and kittens in place. My “office” is also in the kitchen, and my desk faces the door. I was sipping coffee and checking my email when a guy walked up to the gate and asked if he could have a look around. Turns out he was interested in my eccentric apartment (the former wood working shop of a Victorian coffin factory) for a TV show pilot. This would be, and is, the heroine’s cool loft.

As he walked around taking pictures, I pulled a sweater on over my pajamas and tried not to be too embarrassed about the fact that I wasn’t dressed, the bed wasn’t made, and the place was in a more chaotic state than usual. He assured me that they could see beyond the untidiness.

June tried to help him set up his tripod. He thought she was adorable rather than annoying, and said that in the show, the star has a cat. But considering what happens to most child stars, she should probably remain a beautiful unknown who keeps getting asked why she isn’t in show business.

In the evening, my neighbor dropped by with a bag full of hot gingerbread she’d just made. You have to love a neighbor like that. She also wanted to see the kittens, who were sleeping cutely and pretending that they weren’t complete maniacs. After the usual petting and fussing, I walked her to the door and said good night, and resumed watching the final season of Gilmore Girls with Audrey on my lap. Audrey loves the Girls, but June finds it all too Girl-y for her, so she never watches it with me.

As I passed through the kitchen an episode later, I heard a cat meowing and scratching at the door. I assumed it was Quince and that she couldn’t get into her house, so she came here. I opened the door, and a small cat shot in the door at an illegal rate of speed. On closer inspection, it turned out to be June!

She must have slipped out unnoticed during the neighborly goodbyes, and I had taken her absence for her usual scorn of anything girly. Horrified that I hadn’t noticed and thinking of all the terrible things that could have happened, I swept her into my arms and warmed up her cold paws. She purred happily, as if nothing had happened. I gave Rita and the kittens some salmon treats to celebrate June’s safe return, and had a vodka treat myself.

The Priceless Puppy

Summer’s lingering longer than usual this year, though not outstaying its welcome. Is that even possible?

To welcome the sun and spicy fall air into my otherwise dark and windowless kitchen, I have the front door open and the baby gate up. This keeps Rita and the kittens from escaping into the Wide World, but they can still watch the pigeons and people passing by. It’s kind of like television with Smellovision.

Today’s surprise guest was none other than Quince, the kittens’ mother. She came swaying over to the baby gate, her bell ringing jauntily, and sniffed the kittens, who sniffed back. Then she left. I don’t think they recognized each other, but it was fun for me to watch. A close encounter of the kitty kind?

Rita and I had a couple of odd encounters last night.

We were on our way to the big park (the little park is the other way) and passed a guy sitting outside the slaughterhouse. He didn’t look like the regular slaughterhouse workers, with their rubber boots and gloves, who often sit outside when they’re on a break so they can pet Rita and/or share their lunches with her. He looked like just a regular guy smoking a cigarette.

“Nice dog,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Give you a hundred bucks for it.”

We got as far away from him as fast as possible.

When we came back, he was gone, but Rita started jumping up on a guy I had never seen before, acting all thrilled to see him. “How are you? Where have you been?” her tail asked. I asked her to cease and desist (though without much hope), but the guy said he was Former Owner’s brother and knew Miss Rita. He added that she had never looked better or healthier, which I’m sorry to say made me all smug, since I’m secretly convinced that I take better care of her than FO and that she’s happier with me, too. If anything, FO’s brother should think the opposite, so it was a nice vote of confidence.

Yay.

Quince

This past week, I had the pleasure of Quince’s company while her owner was in Spain, the poor thing. Quince is the beautiful mother of my beautiful kittens. My neighbor took her in as a pregnant stray who was a kitten herself – barely 9 months old. She was essentially a pregnant homeless teenager, so she was lucky to find Patrisha. It seems to me that cats and dogs choose us, not the other way around.

Every morning, Rita and I would go to Patrisha’s little Victorian rowhouse (an endangered species on our street, as the soulless, expensive condo boxes encroach). I’d leave Rita in the little front yard and go inside, where Quince was always waiting for me. Patrisha left a window open, so Quince could go in and out at will, but I think she spent a lot of time inside, waiting for her girl to come home. Surely a formerly homeless cat appreciates a warm and happy home even more than cats who have never had to kill their own dinner.

So I’d feed Quince, walk Rita, and in the evening I’d go back, feed Quince her dinner, and curl up on the soft velvet couch with my book (Away, by Amy Bloom). Pretty soon, I’d hear Quince’s little paws and bell as she trotted into the room. She’d hop up and make herself comfortable on my lap, purring away merrily. Eventually, she’d leave for her evening stroll, and I’d leave, too.

I realized how lucky I am to know my kittens’ mother and to be able to spend time with her. I can see where June and Audrey get their supermodel long legs from, their funny, swaying walk. I can see how Audrey has the same sharpness to her delicate face, how June has similar coloring.

Patrisha brought me a present from Spain to thank me for taking care of Quince, but I should have thanked her instead.

The kitten formerly known as Dennis

Well, it’s just been one thing after another since I got back from Detroit.

One thing:

The $350 vet bill.

Rita lives to sniff things, and it looked like she might have sniffed the wrong thing. She and my kind neighbor Charlie were enjoying each other’s company while I was enjoying Kathleen’s company in Detroit. The enjoyment came to a rapid and horrifying halt when Charlie noticed Rita investigating some mouse bait which he had overlooked in his kitchen.

Of course, this occurred on a Saturday evening, so he had to take Her Loveliness to the emergency vet, which is much more expensive (but not more luxurious) than the regular vet. While Charlie imagined how he was going to tell me about this, Rita had her stomach pumped twice, and even though it didn’t look like she had ingested any poison pellets, they gave her Vitamin K just in case*. I’m not sure who had the worse time. But Rita is healthy and happy, unlike our collective bank accounts.

Another:

A couple of days later, at a different (and slightly less expensive) office down the street, I learned that Dennis is, in fact, a girl. Apparently everyone who saw Dennis from Day One onwards had the same hallucination, including the vet, because no-one noticed the whole “Dude Is a Lady” thing on the first visit. This time, the vet got a second opinion from her partner, and said they’ll check again on the next appointment (kittens go to the vet approximately as often as Lindsay Lohan goes to rehab), so stay tuned.

Years of living in San Francisco and walking to work through the Tenderloin in the early morning hours has given me a remarkable ability to tell when a girl is really a guy, but not, apparently, the other way around.

*I learned far too much about how mouse poison really works. I’d stay in ignorance if I were you. ~shudder~

I was making dinner last night (green curry chicken, grapefruit salad with toasted coconut and fresh mint, and jasmine rice from my well-worn copy of Quick and Easy Thai*) when Mister showed up. He was not alone, having the fire alarm inspector as his small but efficient entourage.

As I opened the door to let them in, Rita shot out of the kitchen as if fired from a slingshot. I looked around for the kittens, who for once were minding their own business and staying out of trouble (almost as good as quick and easy), grabbed them, summarily dumped them in the bathroom and shut the door. Then I chased Rita down the street. She was already past the slaughterhouse. At the time, I was far from amused (and far from Rita), but in retrospect, it’s reassuring to know that she can still outrun me.

I finally caught up to (and caught) the errant dog, and dragged her home. Passing my neighbor Mike’s place, I noticed that he was lounging in his hammock, getting enjoyably hammered while listening to Sam Cooke. The fact that Mike is hovering around three score years and on his way to the “and ten” part only made it more endearing. He toasted us with domestic beer as we passed.

When I got home, I learned that I’m not the only dumb bell in the place. My fire alarm bell was as dysfunctional as the House of Windsor, but, unlike them, had been replaced.

When I took Rita out for the final walk of the day (her Michael Scofield imitation didn’t count in my book), one of the guys who lives in the building came out and handed me a mirrored disco ball. Thus, even more oddly accessorized than usual while strolling Miss Rita, we went to the park.

*If there are two things I love, it’s quick AND easy. They belong together! If you can’t have sparkly and fabulous, quick and easy is the next best thing.

Gratuitous kitten photo which has nothing to do with this post.

I wonder if Rita is getting senile, or is possibly protesting the recent arrival of the kittens to her Queendom and is letting me know that she objects.

Lately, she’s taken to peering in the bathroom door and staring at me when I’m in there peeing. When I leave, she leaves. Show’s over. But weird. Who ever heard of a Peeping Rita?

The past couple of days, she has barked in her sleep, waking both of us up. I don’t know who’s more surprised. But I know who has a harder time getting back to sleep, and it ain’t Miz Rita, whose peepers close almost immediately afterwards.

Rita may not be the only senile old lady around here. Twice in the past few days I have left her outside and not noticed until:

1. Rita whined and scratched at the door, which is dog for “Let me in” (sometimes it means “Let me out”, though – you have to take each situation individually;
2. The building dentists knocked loudly at the door. By the time I got to the door, Rita was standing there looking up at me. I thought the old dog had learned a new trick. But no.

I’m almost as good a parent as Britney.

For those who are wondering who the building dentists are, they arrive at a very early hour and then start drilling out the old bricks and filling in new ones, much like dentists do with teeth if you let them. At least dentists don’t make house calls. The BD’s have replaced quite a few century old bricks, including the wall under the stairs which lead to the main building. It was not reassuring to hear them call out from the inside that they hoped the ceiling wouldn’t cave in.

So far, so good.

Update: When I was making dinner last night (pecan-crusted sole with citrus salsa, lemon-herb risotto, and asparagus), there was a frantic pounding on the door. Rita was getting under my feet in the traditional manner when I cook, so I knew it wasn’t her or the building dentists.

It was Charlie, who dashed into the house when I opened the door and ran to the bathroom. I didn’t like to follow him, not being a Peeping Rita kind of girl, but he came racing out with a pail of water, gasping, “Fire!” and sped outside.

Turned out one of the building dentist tarps was on fire right outside my door. Charlie soaked it down, leaving a smoldering pile of plastic and cloth (burning plastic smells really gross) and a freaked out girl. Have no idea how the fire started, but am very glad it’s ended. And if you can’t be rescued by the incendiary Denis Leary, your nice neighbor is the next best thing.

Everything was fine in Rita’s Queendom. She had trained the people pretty well. They didn’t take her out quite as often as she’d like, but with age comes wisdom, so Rita knew that this is what happens when you’ve been living with someone for a while. Other than that, though, she loved her comfortable bed, her routine, and all that attention.

Those days are over.

For some reason, two – two! – obnoxious little furballs have entered the previously peaceful Queendom. They are crazy bananaheads, in Rita’s opinion, and completely unnecessary. For some reason, the people actually seem to like them and coo over them as if they were cute or something. Also, they stink the place up with their food and the results of the food. They don’t go outside, like normal beings.

Honestly!

As if the invasion wasn’t bad enough, that blasted neighbor dog with his obvious Napoleon complex saw fit to attack Rita while she was out for a stroll. She stopped to greet him in the usual polite butt-sniffing way, and he bit her nose! Really hard! There was blood involved. The Girl was horrified and applied gooey stuff to the wound. Rita tried to lick it off, but some of it stayed on, and at least it helped to temporarily mask the kittenstink. Now Rita and the Girl will have matching rakish scars. The Girl is already telling people that Rita had a nose job.

Rita is not amused.