Dude meets the Prince

A little while ago, "Dude" came in to place a travel order. We were yapping about something, got around to the subject of London, and he said, "Did I ever tell you I got to meet Prince Charles?" He had, actually, but the Boss hadn't heard the story & said so.

He was in San Francisco when he noticed a crowd gathered around & went to see what all the fuss was about. In the middle of the crowd stood Prince Charles & Camilla. Deciding that he wanted to meet the Prince of England and his new bride, he tried to get past the barricades surrounding the throng only to be accosted by some cops who either didn't realize who he was or just didn't think he should be there. Then, the mayor of San Fran spotted him & recognized him. And, since Gavin what's-his-face is a big fan of Dude & had been to a couple of his shows, he interrupted the cops, shook Dude's hand & asked if he wanted to meet the Prince. Of course he did!

Mayor Gavin introduced Mr. Dude to Prince Charles & they shook hands. The crowd cheered. At this point during his story, he gave a look over each shoulder as if to say, "What the hell is this crowd cheering about?" Then he said, "Thank you - I'm Rick James, bitch!" (which is something I never thought I'd hear him utter since he seems to be haunted by that phrase). And he grinned & bounced at us to let us know he had just made that up. But he said "the whole thing was fuckin' weird". I think it's pretty fuckin' weird that Dude recounts these kind of stories to me, not to mention the level of awe & humility he shows. Except the time he met Paris Hilton. He said he actually wasn't sure who's reputation would be more damaged if they were photographed doing the obligatory celeb hug which he demonstrated by tentatively hugging the air, giving a sheepish, uncertain grin towards an imaginary camera, and a "yeah, okay, let's get this over with" pat on an imaginary Paris back.

It is nice to get your own private comedy routine while at work tho'. One time he did a little happy dance in front of my desk & I said, "Do that again!" And he did!

Out of Their Element

Altho' we live in town, we're on the last street before the fields start. A rusty barbed-wire fence separates us from the field stretching behind, and just beyond that is what we refer to as "the sinkhole". It fills up with water, looking like it really really wants to be a pond whenever we have a lot of rain, and floods the backyard of the yard next to us which is a lovely park-like area belonging to a woman who lives on the next street up. I don't think this pleases her. Anyway.

Canada geese are regular visitors as are mallards & coyotes - we can hear the wild dogs singing away at night sometimes, especially during the summer when the windows are open. Scott even spotted three deer out there one night, but that was a one time thing. And, of course, opossums, skunks & raccoons swing by for a drink, too.

About a month ago we noticed four large birds standing on the far edge of the water. I eyeballed them, squinted at them, fetched the binocs & ogled them. Blue herons? I just didn't think so, but the day was hazy & they were hard to see. The way they stood wasn't the same as a heron, which stands more upright, and these birds stood with their backs more parallel to the ground. When I saw them flying one day with necks outstretched, I knew they were something else indeed.

Two weeks ago on a clear day I busted out the binoculars again. I could see a red patch on their heads and shaggy little butts. I was excited & ran back in for the Audubon bird guide. The only thing comparable was a Sandhill Crane. But if that's what they were, they were lost as the Sandhill's range is Canada & maybe the upper Great Lakes region. They summer in California or Florida - can't remember, but it was somewhere much warmer than Ohio in winter.

Then, the snow came. The poor birds stood framed against the white, miserable with one leg tucked up & heads buried under their wings. I debated getting a plastic pool of some sort & filling it with water & guppies. When the sun came out, they looked much happier. They cavorted, squawked, cooed, took short flights to the edge of the water & came running back to their comrades with wings flapping. This past Saturday morning I stood in the freezing cold for about 10 minutes in sweats & a fleece shirt, fascinated & thrilled to have the opportunity to watch them.

I told Mom about it. Before we decided to meet in Springfield for lunch, she wanted to drop a recipe off to me. She stopped by the house to put it in the door and, since she'd been yearning to see the cranes ever since I first told her about them, she strolled out to the fence to see if they were there. When I left the house, the four had gone whereever they went when they weren't at the sinkhole so I didn't think her chances for crane-viewing that day were good.

Mom called me all atwitter. "I saw the cranes! But there were EIGHTEEN of them!" I said, "Say what? Eighteen? Behind our house? Are you sure they weren't geese?" She seemed offended. "I know geese when I see them!" I didn't doubt this, I just doubted there were eighteen giant, foreign birds prancing around our dismal sinkhole when up til now there had only been the same four. And, if there were eighteen of them, why'd the damn things have to wait until I left to visit?

But, when I got home, there they were just as Mom had said. I stood there for a moment, disbelieving, but they were raising a tremendous ruckus with their odd calls - "ker-AH! ker-AH!" I can only imagine what the non-nature loving neighbors must've thought. If they noticed.

I trotted inside to get the camera. But, even tho' the regulars were accustomed to me standing by the fence & watching them & taking their picture, the newcomers found a human in such close proximity unsettling, and, with a loud beating of wings, they launched themselves into the air, heading north away from the house. I managed to snap a picture of them in flight, capturing nine of them.

And they haven't been back since. This makes me sad, but they're probably on their way to their sunny spot and a full belly so that makes me happy. And, maybe they'll come back next year. Maybe the four were lost or hanging out to wait for an injured buddy to heal. I'll never know. I just hope to see them again.

Mom's Finest Moment

Mom coerced me into going out to lunch with her on Saturday because we were both in Springfield at the same time. I really just wanted to get my shit done & go home. But, I felt I should do my daughterly duty. We went to a so-so Mexican joint, El Toro, and sat down for lunch. The waiter came by & asked if we'd like to start off with a beverage. I had already made up my mind to have a beer - it was Saturday, after all. I asked what was on draft while Mom looked startled that I was going to order a beer at 5 til noon. In my world this is completely normal. The waiter went thru the list, none of which were Mexican to my great dismay. I decided on Amberbock.

"Small or large?" asked the waiter.

"Better make it large. It's breakfast."

Breaking & Entering

This morning, Mom called me at 9:45am & said her place had been broken into. She had spent the night at her man's & just arrived home. She was hysterical, freaking out, then, while I'm on the phone with her, she sees puddles of blood on the tubs & stuff under the broken window. She tweaked. Ran in the house, couldn't think, tried to count kitties, couldn't even think of their names. I was already at work & I drove like a crazy woman to her place. A sheriff was already there, she was calmer because she had managed to account for all the cats, some of whom were a little wild-eyed and some who had wedged themselves under the sofa, but all were unhurt. But she wasn't exaggerating - there was blood literally dripping off things. So, the culprit damaged himself quite badly. And GOOD! I was absolutely furious. Ready to kill someone. They came in the garage because that's unlockable, hurled one of Mom's large rocks thru the top pane of the window between the garage & the trailer, pushed the TV & DVD (both were okay) player onto the floor, apparently whacked the crap out of themself while crawling thru the window - there was blood all over the curtains, but not dripped on the floor oddly enough. They stole a couple of random knicky-knacky things that they probably thought were antiques - little did they know Mom had given a couple bucks for each item, probably at thrift stores & garage sales. Then, they went into the bedroom, rifled thru her closet but didn't steal her very-important-filebox, bled on her security guard uniform, dripped blood on the brand-new sheets I just got her, stole a pillowcase (which, she was quite glad about, was NOT one of the flannel ones but rather an old one she had put on so she could wash the new ones), stole a curtain (????? a single curtain ??????? perhaps to staunch the blood????), went thru her jewelry chest, which would be the jackpot because Mom is a jewelry fiend, & took a pair of diamond earrings along with several other earring sets, her expensive antique garnet necklace that Grandma gave her, and her precious lightning charm necklace that her boyfriend, Eddie, gave her. She was very upset about the garnet necklace, but when she started thinking about Eddie's necklace, the ol' chin started quivering & she started crying again. It was very sad. BUT. We both had to agree that it could've been a LOT worse. If kitties were damaged, I would be armed & dangerous right now, on the hunt.

Her friend Carol came over while the sheriff was there & we all milled about & offered what we hoped was helpful advice. He seemed to get a big kick out of us. And he kept referring to Mom "the victim". Sounded kinda grim. Then Detective Brumfield showed up, complete with his long black Columbo overcoat & CSI kit. Swabbed at the blood (the sheriff & detective, not to mention all of us, were quite pleased with the amount of blood - in fact, the detective said he could find the robber laying dead down the street & "it wouldn't bother [him] a bit"!), dusted the boombox which the burglar must've abandoned or forgot before bolting, a garden trowel that the jerk used to pry at the door before he decided to bust the window, and the back door. Only a partial print was found, but the detective said it might be enough to force a confession out of the criminal but was not complete enough to provide any sort of identity. And if the fingerprint didn't work, "that's when they take them in the back room & beat them". Gotta love cop humor. And, he said, contrary to what the TV show CSI always shows, it could take up to a year & a half to get the results back! A year & a half! I was hoping to have a name & ambush the guy this weekend with a length of rope & drag him behind the truck down a gravel road buck-naked for ruining my mother's peace of mind. Dammit.

After the policey fellows left, Carol brought over her hammer & Shop Vac & beat the rest of the glass out of the window. I picked up the big pieces & sucked up the smalls. We all worked in the garage to wipe it down & put it back together. Blood was all over several of Mom's coolers, a couple boxes & the floor. I mean, it was running off these things! And fairly fresh. So it must've happened earlier this morning. And the dumb brute rootled thru Mom's basket of dirty cat laundry, bled all over it, & must've swiped something out of there to wrap whatever he lopped open. Which is why we're uncertain about the reason for the curtain theft. But, we're really really hoping he ends up with a lot of cat hair, pee, and hairball in his wound which will confound the hospital folks if the idiot happens to show up for medical attention.

So, I reek of bleach, have fingerprint dust all over me, but we got to watch the detective work his CSI magic which we all found quite fascinating. He admitted he watches the show CSI to make fun of it. Ha!

I'm heading back over there tonight to ... I dunno, moral support I guess. Carol was helping her jimmy-rig something for the window so I hope that works out okay for her. I'm not sure what else to do other than buy her a pit bull & big fat lock. She did at least have the trailer locked - I felt bad because as soon as I heard she'd been broken into, I barked, "Mom! THIS is why I want you to keep your doors locked!" & she started sobbing more. I felt, meh, this big: - . Then she said she did have it locked & I apologized profusely then apologized again when I got there & gave her a big squelch. Poor thing. As if she doesn't have enough to worry about! And she had to call into her new place of work but they understood completely. She offered to bring a copy of the police report & the guy at the office said, "If I couldn't believe you about something like this, we wouldn't have you working for us. You just take care of yourself for now." So that was a relief to her. I feel absolutely terrible for her. I was trying to think of a nice cheering gift to bring her this evening. Chocolate is good, but I want something keepable. And I'm getting Carol something, too, for being a good friend.

I'm still feeling bloodthirsty tho'. It was probably some punk kid from the trailer park, but Mom seriously thinks she's been being watched for a while now. Cigarette butts in front of her place, someone crunching around in the frost-crusted grass at 4:30 am several weeks ago, freaking out the kitties & waking Mom up. This makes me want to KILL someone. KILL! Getting a gun license & a gun is an idea. Parking my truck down the street & then parking myself in her living room & waiting with said gun is then feasible. I'm a vengeful, vicious soul anyway - which might be obvious what with all my frothing at the mouth, and the thought anyone doing something to my mom OR her cats is enough to fill me with a raging madness.

Fucking thieves. Why can't they just go get a job like the rest of us? Is a life of crime really that much easier? Or is prison just that tempting? I'm just hoping the asshole doesn't return when Mom IS there. Hopefully he only felt secure in breaking in because there was nobody home. My only bit of comfort in regards to that is that Carol is going to loan Mom her mega-volt industrial-duty cattle prod/shocking device. Mom is small, but boy, she can get pissed!

Crazy Cats

Man, it's been some time since I put a new post up, hasn't it? Yeesh.

I have to tell about Batovan. This kitty is one of the weirdest little animals I've ever seen. He still has the big googly blue eyes & super-fluffy tail, but he's getting bigger. I can't really tell by looking at him because I see him every day, but he's definitely weightier & Stace said he's getting big.

When I get home at night, he's always sleeping on the bed. I usually change my clothes right when I get home to get rid of the nancy-girl workwear & I try VERY HARD not to wake him while doing so. Because, if he does happen to wake up, he absolutely demands attention. There's no getting around it. He stands on his hind feet & stretches his little white paws towards my face & wants picked up just like a little kid. I pick him up, back feet hit my chest & he flops over to nestle his back under my neck. It's a ritual. Then I tote him around for a while, murmuring into his fur & stroking his silky little head, and he purrs. When I try to put him down, he refuses to put his feet down so he gets laid on his side. Immediately he POPS back up & trails after me, squalling & yowling. And sometimes, when I'm trying to change & have had the misfortune of rousing him, he'll actually jump into my arms. That's always interesting when your arms are encased inside a shirt straight-jacket style.

Mornings are somewhat the same except he doesn't get to sleep in the bed during the night. If I let these cats sleep with me, I'll end up on the floor and never get any sleep. He's always waiting for me outside the door along with Mickey the Pickle, who will escort me to the kitchen so that I can fill the food bowls that the dog emptied (I have no proof of this but I'm certain it's happening) the night before, and Bella the bitchy one who eagerly awaits my morning rituals so she can stand on the side of the tub & bite at the shower water. If you've never seen a small, ugly, flat-faced cat with a sopping wet head, it's enough to make you nauseous first thing. So I give her mohawks to make me laugh.

Batovan trails after me, poofy tail erect, smacking at my leg with a persistent foot until I scoop him up & carry him around so he can look out the windows. Then he dozes & I put him down somewhere.

He's vocal. Very, very vocal. Shrill & squeaky. My other deaf cat is somewhat talkative, but not like Bato. If he's around, he's making noise. Also, he takes it upon himself to beat the snot out of the other cats. If he can't get Winston to play, he stomps Miguel. If Miguel flees, he grabs Bella. Bella is not one to put up with such antics & she will growl & hiss like she's a vicious tiger. She'll smack him in the head & then he moves on to Pickle. Pickle whines & hides under the bed. Then it's Tailless Wonder Wilson. Now that's a funny one. Since Wilson is as round as a ball, Bato will tip him over & leave Wilson pedalling the air like a giant fuzzy beetle. Indignant squawks & wheezes fill the air. This amuses Scott & I quite a lot. The only one he really doesn't mess with is Vincent, the other deaf cat. Vincent tends to emanate a regal, no-nonsense aura that throws even young Bato off. I've seen Bato tag Vince once. Vince wheeled around with an amazing speed & ferocity for a cat his age & WHACKED Bato upside the head. Batovan looked confused & took off down the hall and, as is his usual way when he gets disciplined or smacked, started crying.

Last night I had a bowl of dried fruit & chocolate chips on the coffee table. I was curled into the sofa with Tom Wolfe when I heard a familiar snortling, sniffing noise. This is the noise Batovan makes when he has found something of interest, whether it be a leaf on the floor, a turd nugget that one of these disgusting little mammals has flipped out of the box for a toy (I'm not kidding - I've actually seen them playing with poo - and there's no shortage of toys around either), an eyeball, or apparently a bowl of food on the table. He's never bothered anything on the table so this struck me as odd. I pulled the bowl from under his questing snout. He continued nosing around so I picked out a raisin & tossed it at him. He bit it, spat it out, bit it again, then ate it. A cat who eats raisins! He looked around for more. I fished out a chocolate chip & offered it to him. Gone. Inhaled. He looked at me, inquiring, but I was all done with the handouts. Really I didn't expect him to eat either thing. Sometimes I'll give them a pea or an olive just to see if they'll eat it. He seemed satisfied, ran the dog off his bed, and washed himself thoroughly before nodding off.

Raisins!