LIVING & MOWING IN A GREEN WORLD

How many of you have heard or even said it yourself, “If it weren’t for all the weeds in my lawn being green and growing like, well, like weeds, I wouldn't have to mow at all?

C’est moi! That’s me and my lawns.  Back, front, sides, doesn’t matter.  If it weren’t for the abundance of weedy green things, I really wouldn’t have to mow at all.  I long for the good ole’ days when I first moved to Sandycove Acres, from the Town Down Under. 

I push back in my over-stuffed blue tweed recliner, pop up the foot stool thingie and lay back with a tired sigh (even before coffee this morning, I weed-whacked all the naked dandelion stalks and then mowed) and remember back to when I first moved into New Dodge, aka Sandycove Acres.

Sofie's Little Pink Belly

The front lawn had been sodded long before moving day (good thing – it had been a mud pit when I bought the house) and had taken rather well and not a weed to be seen.  I’m thinking either Mother Nature had been extraordinarily generous with spring rain (it was, after all, only very early June), or maybe someone had been watering it.  The what wasn’t really important, just the result.  EXCEPT that Sofie, The Wonder Dog, although big of heart, is small in stature and can’t stand to tinkle if the grass is tickling her cute, little pink belly.  So, that leaves?  Yep, you guessed it!  My neighbours immaculately maintained lawn.  Her grass abuts my grass and, on the other side, my grass abuts my neighbour’s grass and so on and so on and so on.  I had to get my grass mowed and tout de suite!  I spotted my neighbour, Rich, toiling on my neighbour’s lawn across the street and made a bee-line straight for him.  In no time he was over at my house, mowing back my new-sod-gone-wild in the front yard to a height that Sofie would pee on instead of my neighbour’s.

Well now, three years later, my front lawn, especially, is a weedy hot mess.  Mostly it’s because my neighbour to the east of me, whose lawn abuts mine, does not believe in weed control at all.  Oh, and the neighbour I had when I first moved in with the immaculate lawn?  Well, didn’t she move out a month after I moved in?  The new neighbour, besides being a Water Rat (that’s another story for another day), also didn’t seem to care much about the outside of her property as much as she loved playing cards, scrabble, bingo and pretty much any kind of game you can name.  So, she sometimes had someone mow her lawn but nothing else much beyond that. 

 So now, with neighbours on both sides of my house with abutting lawns, who not only ignore weeds but actually seem to encourage them, my lawns didn’t stand a chance.  Before too long, we all had a good sunny crop of gaily waving dandelions, which I’ve heard, are good for the bees, and are considered to be the bee’s spring savior. 

Why all the pondering 2 years later?  Well, the game-playing neighbour moved out last year (I pause to sniff my pits), the second neighbour to move away in my three year tenure here.  The new neighbour, who besides having a huge sense of entitlement, has an ‘Alzie’ husband and a penchant for strict order, at least on the outside.  After spending months having her ‘new’ house renovated (and alienating her neighbour – yes, me, with a constant stream of contractors, etc. most of whom thought nothing of parking in my parking spot – another story for another time), finally finishes and now seems to be determined to whip her lawn into military-like preciseness.  So just when I think ‘her’ work is done, lawn guys roar up our quiet crescent early in the morning, spring from their jacked-up pick-up trucks with their young, perfectly working knees, all manner of tools at hand.  Other trucks deliver load after load of rich, black dirt and the outside makeover commences.  Sigh, it seems like ‘her’ work here will never be done.

Oh well, at least all this lawn work might actually encourage grass to grow, instead of  green, weedy things.  Well, after about what seems like a week but is probably only 2 or 3 days, the lawn guys leave in their tricked-out trucks.  Ahh, peace and quiet reigns again on Marlin Court.

Sofie just being cute

It doesn’t last long.  I’m guessing my neighbour was not satisfied with the lawn guy’s work, so now The Weed Guys start coming.  One day when I went outside with Sofie,  The Wonder Dog, my porch was littered with these small, white, pellets. Hmm, say I, peering rather nearsightedly at these strange things on my porch, where did this all this s*^t come from?  It didn’t take long before the birdie chirps and I figure out that ‘she’ had had her lawn done.  The sign on the edge of ‘her’ lawn is a dead give-away too.  Not happy am I.  I really don’t believe in all the crap ‘they’, the Lawn Companies, use on the lawns, even after the pesticide ban.  ‘They’ have come up with something ‘they’ claim is safe for dogs but the girl who was spraying today couldn’t tell me what was in the s*^t she was using, only the name of it.  I, nicely, asked her to make sure that crap was sprayed only on my neighbour’s lawn and not mine.  Oh, and the strange, white pellets which were on my porch – still don’t know.

Well, to make a short story just a titch longer, yesterday when I left the house for a client’s, ‘her’ neighbour on the other side, Ringo (not really) was mowing ‘her’ lawn.  When I got home, I noticed quite the swath had been cut entirely around my birdbath and Ringo likes to cut short.  I’ve been told that you’re supposed to keep your grass at a 3” height (7.6 cm for those metrically in-the-know) and so I do.  After I mowed today, you sure can tell who knows about the 3” rule and who doesn’t.  It looks odd.

Bald as a monk's head

I saw Ringo this morning and called over to him about his mowing job.  His excuse?  He didn’t know where the lot line was.  I pantomimed it to him with hand and arm signals, feeling like one of those guys who guide the gargantuan planes into their parking space at the airport, and a verbal explanation.  He didn’t look happy.  I have to believe that my neighbour, ‘Her’ had given him his mowing orders and had instructed him to go around the birdbath rather than just mow it on her side.  She had been at me a couple of times this week about its location and the weeds around it.  She thought it was hers (left behind by the previous owner, Water Rat) and was going to move it to Her backyard.  She did have sense enough though to ask me, though, who it belonged to before doing that.  ‘She’ also didn’t like the golden flowers I had let grow up around it, enjoying the contrast between the sunny yellow dandelions and the drab concrete.  The area now resembles a tonsure.               

I am territorial about my parking spaces, porch and yes, even my weeds and if Ringo ever mows my side again, I’m guessing ‘She’ and I will be having a nice chat about boundaries – again (and yes, that’s another story for another day).

© 2015 Phyllis Mahon - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”

A SANDYCOVE MOMENT

Recently I started going to bingo nights at The Wheel here in SCA South Park – residents only allowed, although security is kinda of lackadaisical and the odd outsider probably sneaks in, especially former residents who used to attend but have now moved out of SCA, north or South Park.  

A relative newcomer to The Park (I knew her in my old life in The Town Down Under) invited me to go with her a few weeks ago for the first time.  Funny how life can take you places you never thought you’d go.

When I was a child, bingo was a very popular delivery method for giving kids their loot bags at birthday parties.  It was simple - you played until you won your bag.  As soon as you won, you stopped playing.  Ah, I can still remember those days.  I had to play to the bitter end and even then, most of the time, the party hostess had to give me my loot bag ‘cause I hardly ever bingo’ed.  What kind of karma is that?  And why, with that kind of history, would I even go to bingo as a grown up?  Am I a closet masochist?  And now I even have to pay for the pleasure of playing? 

Here in the land of the Adult Lifestyle Community, the silver hairs get off relatively lightly when it comes to buying bingo ‘cards’ (not cards anymore - with the invention of the dabber, they’re printed on paper now and discarded after each game).  I can just imagine how many trees die for the bingo cause.

The basic package, which includes a set of warm-up cards and the mutli-paged main games, costs $7.00, commonly referred to as the $7.00 special.  You can spend more if you like.  You can buy as many of the warm-up sets as you want, @ $1.00 and the main games.  Extras of the last game of

the night, which is the jackpot card, can be purchased for $1.00, as many as you want or, more precisely, can keep up with, dabbing at the speed of a very fast tortoise.  The many long, rectangular tables are a-blur of colour as the bingo caller murmurs into the microphone, “B4” and the bingo dabbers march robotically down one set of cards and then up the next.  It kinda reminds me of a well-choreographed dance.  Groans of disappointment rise, a palpable cloud as someone in the far back corner, screams “BINGO”.  Then another groan, as someone else yells, “BINGO” from the opposite side of the cavernous room. 

The ‘Confirmers’ as I think of them, trundle across the room, some with a rolling gait which reminds me of the sea, as fast as they can to the bingo players and with admirable clarity and speed, call out the winning numbers, via battery operated microphones.  You can tell that they have had a lot of practice and each have developed a certain style over the years.  One of the Confirmers kinda goofed the other night and read out a few numbers which didn’t ‘go’ and then got us laughing by exclaiming, “Oh, silly me.  Those ones weren’t the right ones.  No doubt it won’t be my last mistake of the night.”  Peter, sitting one person down from me and the owner of the large container of fresh gummy jujubes and big, brightly coloured bubble gums balls, brought to share with our table, said, “Ah, Martha must be having a Sandycove Moment!”  A smile twitches my lips as I instantly relate to Sandycove moments, having had one or two or maybe a few in the last couple of years since moving to South Park, Sandycove Acres and it feels good that I have ‘em in a place where everyone knows what having a Sandycove Moment feels like. 

How many Sandycove Moments have I had?  Hmmmm, let me count the ways…on the other hand, maybe not count, lest my Power of Attorney for my health, which includes mental, feels that there are way too many ways and decides to commit me to the nearest Looney Bin!

Martha gets back on track and the card is declared a “Good bingo” by the official Bingo Caller (who just happens to be my new(ish) next door neighbour, bringing a few sighs and a couple of groans and play resumes.

My first game is a bewildering blur, as my bingo mentors try to ed-u-mi-cate me on the finer points of bingo organization.  For, as you can see by the ‘Game Plan’, it’s not that simple.  Other than the basic four warm-up games, which you can win by dabbing 2 lines ‘anyway’, all the other games have multiple winning possibilities, so that your $7.00 special will bring you hours of playing pleasure for the price of a pack of cigarettes (maybe less these days?).  Speaking of cigarettes…back in the ‘olden’ days, smoking was not only allowed in bingo halls but accepted as a lifestyle choice.  A thick greyish cloud of smoke hovered

above the bingo players’ heads, who hacked and coughed a discordant melody accompanying the bingo caller’s sing-song cadence.  Now-a-days, smokers make a frantic run for the exit doors when break is called and return reeking of their guilty, carcinogenic pleasure.

One ‘card’ can bring many minutes of bingo ecstasy.  For instance, on the regular games, say #7, Olive (each game has its own colour) and depending on the complexity of the winning criteria, depends how long it’ll take a player to cry out a triumphant “BINGO”.  For this game, you first need to dab each of the 4 corners.  That doesn’t usually take too long.  The second game on ‘Olive’ is the 4 corners (so if you’re the 4 corners winner, you’re already ahead of the game) and now you add the inside square.  That’s 8 more numbers, bordering the FREE square in the centre.  This takes a bit longer and usually, just when I’m within the win zone on one my of cards, someone else beats me to the punch.  Big groan.

A few weeks ago, I did win with one line, the top one on Orange ($15.00 whole dollars), and haven’t been back since.  I figured I’d go out on top!  Like Seinfeld.

© 2015 Phyllis Mahon - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”

YOU KNOW YOU’RE HAVING A REALLY ‘DUH’ MOMENT WHEN…

you’re standing on a virtual stranger’s porch, clutching a hell-fire cat and wondering when your knight in shining armor will show up on his white steed, or in our case, Nigel in his tan van. 

As Pricilla, me, Puss Puss, now known as Daisy Duke, Baby and Sofie The Wonder Dog, all crowd together on The Lady From The Corner’s porch, I ask Kathleen (aka The Lady…) if she has anything to put the spitfire in while we wait for Nigel, The Cat Whisperer, to get there.  Kathleen, looks around her porch and shrugs, says “No”, when I ask if she has a box, a cat carrier (since she has 3 cats of her own), ANYTHING!  You can just see her unhelpful attitude colour the air a shade of puke brown. 

Kathleen has suddenly gone from someone who seemed to care about what happens to the little ‘stray’ she’s been feeding for a year, to this ‘Why are you bothering me, I don’t want to be involved’ kind of person.  It was something I would have to ponder on later, as I desperately look around for something in which to contain Daisy Duke until Nigel can get here.  Finally and with obvious great reluctance, Kathleen unearths a beat-up plastic container which stands about 2 feet tall by about a foot across and about 18 inches long (about 60cm x 30cm x 45cm for the metric measure crowd), fire-engine red with a lid and a handle.  How did it magically appear on the peeling porch deck, wonders I but feel so relieved that we finally have something to put petrified Daisy Duke in, at least temporarily. 

As Kathleen moves toward me, she says, “Here you can use this.  I usually keep cat food in it.”   I remember thinking how appropriate that is and working in tandem, she peels the top off, I stuff Daisy Duke in, towel and all and Kathleen flips the lid on with a limp wrist.  Whew!   The lid is mostly on but doesn't close snugly where the towel spills over the side.  Of course, there is Daisy Duke inside too and I’m not sure that all her limbs are in a comfy position.  Meanwhile, Pricilla perches precariously on the porch steps, clutching Baby’s and Sofie’s leashes, one in each hand and cranes her neck around various bodies trying to see the action.  Both dogs, not too sure of the goings on, are panting in unison and hip-hopping around, anxiously trying to avoid being trod upon in the melee. 

The lid suddenly flies up a couple of inches on one end and a brown foot, with talons extended, curls over the edge of the container, getting a pretty good grip with needle sharp nails.  I absently note that Daisy Duke could use a manicure and probably a pedi, push the searching paw back inside with a little more of the towel, jam the lid down as far as I can and then, for good measure, sit on it!  Not the sturdiest thing in the world to be perched on, when I, a BBW (big, beautiful woman), attempt to balance my weight so I don’t crush the contents and topple over but with enough oomph keep the lid on. 

It’s awkward and my knees start to ache in no time.  I ask Kathleen if she could please drive Pricilla down the street to get Nigel and hurry him up to our location.  Kathleen’s face twists into a moue of displeasure and it looks like she’s going to refuse.  But she starts wobbling towards the door to put her shoes on and get her keys. At the rate she’s moving, it’s should take an hour for her to get anywhere.  Rather desperately I look around for an alternative.  I spot the man next door (rather new to SCA) but necessity is born out of desperation and I call out to him.  He looks up from what he’s working on, rather startled.  I fill him in on our situation and without a moment’s hesitation he drops what he’s doing, runs into his house, emerges wearing a jacket and jumps into his pick-up. I think it took him about 30 seconds.   Pricilla thrusts Sofie‘s and Baby’s leashes into my hand and jumps into the passenger side.

They take off with a whoosh, as I rather tiredly lean against the porch railing and plant my foot on top of the container.  That seems to do the trick, keeping the lid on, and, as I stand there, it finally sinks in, that since I have captured Daisy Duke, the likelihood of having to undergo rabies shots (a series of 8 in major muscle groups closest to the bite site), has vanished.  Yay!  Although exhausted from the night’s events and the sleepless ones preceding it, I feel better already.  It’s quite obvious that Daisy Duke is in good health and the only one foaming at the mouth, at that moment, is me.  Where in the heck is my back-up?  

I have to wonder where in the hell Pricilla and the neighbour man are, and more importantly, Nigel, keeper of the cat carrier.  I also have to wonder why in the hell I didn't think to stash a crate in the area before-hand, oh, and what about saving Nigel's cell phone number in my cell phone and bringing that along?  A double DUH!

A rumble brings my head up and sets the dogs quivering.  The pick-up truck rounds the corner and right behind, a tan van.  The Calvary has arrived!  Nigel jumps out of the van and comes up onto the deck.  He’s pretty pumped from the events of the evening already, having captured a big boy who’d been hanging out at another resident’s place, a far piece down the road.  Nigel was so excited that he started back to the van so he could show off Frankie, so named by the lady of that house.

Rather exasperatedly, I yell, “Stop!  Let’s get this one into a crate and then you can show off the boy.”  Trust a man not to notice how precarious the situation is with the wobbly red container.  My foot is sliding off and it takes all the oomph I have left to keep the bucket upright.  Nigel continues to the van, grabs a black, soft-sided carrier and comes back to the porch.  Realizing that opening the plastic bin outside is probably not a good idea, he says, “Carry the bin to the van and put it on the front passenger seat.  I’ll get in at the driver’s side and get her into the carrier.”  Well, so I do, and, as soon as I slam the van door shut, the lid pops off and Daisy Duke pops out, reminding me of a wind up jack-in-box I’d had as a kid.  She leaps onto the dashboard and crouches there, really bent out of shape, literally.  Oh, just kidding, all her limbs appear to be working fine, despite being crammed into the red bucket.

Nigel can’t reach over that far to nab Daisy Duke and says, “Bang on the window and scare her over here.”  I reach out and tap the windshield and sure enough, Daisy Duke skitters right into Nigel’s hands, and he plunks her into the carrier.  I can’t believe my eyes – boy, where is the little hell-cat I saw when I tried to get her into a crate a few days ago? 

I think she’s as exhausted as I am and finally gives up the good fight.  I have to believe that after all the months of living on her own, hungry, tired and wet from the soggy summer we’d had, she is finally ready to come in.  Being pregnant, too, might have had something to do with it.

TO BE CONTINUED…

© 2015 Phyllis Mahon - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”

DON’T PEE ON MY LEG...

and tell me it’s raining!  It’s a lot harder than you may think to pull the wool over my eyes, being a good ole’ half-Irish girl from Montreal.  Or maybe it’s the Romany part of me (passed down along my mother’s roots), which makes it harder.  Or it just could be my almost 60 years of living, 25 of those years in the male-dominated industry of specialty publishing and most of those men the best prevaricators on the planet, second only, perhaps, to many politicians

After getting absolutely nowhere with the Town of Innisfil and their contracted employee, K9 Pest Management Group Inc. which has a contract to handle Animal Control in my town, to have someone other than myself capture the little hell cat that bit me so that I wouldn't have to go through rabies shots, I knew that I was going to have to try again.  I have to say that I am so less-than-impressed with the inertia and apathetic response to my dilemma. I was further disgusted by Animal Control’s pathetic attempt to cover up their reprehensible lack of action in such a serious matter.  And that the Town Hall designate Animal Control overseer, Daniel Rodgers, who finally called me back 8 days after I left him a message, stated to me that I was supposed to call ‘Dawn’ (Animal Control) back and let her know if my ‘neighbour’ would allow a live trap to be set.  Boy, talk about misrepresentation of facts.  I never spoke to ‘Dawn’ and the woman I did speak with, Diane, wasn't sure that Animal Control could set a live trap and take the cat into quarantine; would have to check with an ubiquitous ‘someone’ and call me back, which she never did. 

I told Dan Rodgers that his offer to have the cat trapped was a day late and a dollar short and that I would take care of the problem myself.  Mysteriously, about 2.5 hours later, Brad, from Animal Control, called me and offered the same story about who I spoke to and that he was following up because I said I would call back and hadn't.  Who are they trying to kid?  Not only do I take notes when I feel there may be issues but they are hand-written notes and so, if altered, would be obvious.  Unlike, perhaps, Animal Control’s notes and/or other documentation which are probably kept in a digital file and easily edited.  Hmmm and which story makes more sense?  As Judge Judy (I just love her) would say, “If it doesn't make sense, it’s not true.”   

***********

THE TAKE DOWN

Four days after my rescue attempt, I tried again, this time bolstered by Priscilla, who had also been in touch with Nigel (the local volunteer cat whisperer) about the same stray.  And further bolstered by the knowledge of what I should have done differently the first time and avoid the aftermath of being bitten and scratched.  I brought along an extra-large, extra thick bath towel, willing to sacrifice it to the greater good of capturing the little hell cat, whom I now call Daisy Duke.

This Take Down went a lot better.  As Pricilla and I walked our dogs along Daisy Duke’s known territory and hide out, Pricilla shook the small plastic container of cat crunchies (or maybe they were dog crunchies? since Pricilla doesn't have a cat).  I didn't think Daisy Duke was at all fussy what the hand-out was.  Sure enough, she emerges from the wooded area, runs down the gentle slope to the shallow drainage ditch, hesitates

for a couple of seconds and with a mighty leap, clears the barely-there rainwater, jumping high as if it was a raging stream during spring run-off.  She comes running over and immediately butts up against Sofie and then makes a beeline for Pricilla’s dog, Baby.

I’m surprised that she even comes near me, given the circumstances of our last encounter and as I bend over to stroke her, she arches her back under my hand and starts to purr.  My heart goes out to this obviously once much-loved pet who seems to love people, especially those with little white dogs.

I can feel the hard ridge of her spine and my heart cracks a little more.  As my hand moves over her petite body, I feel her bony rib cage and realize that Daisy Duke has become a mere shadow of herself over the past couple of months, since I first saw her.  As the days grow shorter, she is growing thinner and more raggedy looking. 

Even after being shredded and bitten by her, I pick her up and wrap her in the towel.  Again, she is not impressed or happy with the manoeuvre and struggles to get away.  I sure am glad that the towel contains her, although only about half-way wrapped.  Also, I have on a light jacket so at least my tummy area survives Daisy Duke’s escape attempts.  She is bewildered and terribly scared and her growls and yowling warn me to be on guard.  It’s a good thing I’m already on antibiotics ‘cause if she bites me again, at least treatment is already well under way. 

As Pricilla and I walk toward the house on the corner where the lady says she’s been feeding Daisy Duke for about a year, Daisy Duke becomes even more agitated.  She almost manages to leap from my arms as she hears the voice of The Lady From The Corner House.  No love lost there.

Kathleen does not seem to be happy that Pricilla and I have landed on her porch with Daisy Duke.  She seems almost hostile.  I can’t figure that one out.  When I had spoken with her previously (before rescue attempt #1), she seemed to be concerned about the cat and said she’d been feeding her for a long time but that the cat wouldn't come into her house.  Nuh huh.  I don’t think Kathleen speaks the whole truth.

I had made arrangements with Nigel, The Cat Whisperer, to meet me in the wood shop area where Daisy Duke was known to frequent but he got held up trying to capture another stray quite a bit further up the same street.  Yep, no lack of cats here in Sandycove Acres, The New Wild West.  So here I stand on a stranger’s porch with one very pissed off (and petrified) cat in my arms.  What to do?

To Be Continued …

© 2015 Phyllis Mahon - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”

ALL YOU EVER WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT CAT BITES & MAYBE A BIT MORE

Have you ever had occasion to wonder what happens if you get bitten by a cat?  Nope, me either but since it happened to me 7 days ago, I have learned a lot not only about rabies but also about the inner workings of local politicos, Public Health, altruistic saviours and ambitious entrepreneurs.  I’ve also learned that most of the people I talk to, either know someone, or maybe it’s themselves, who’ve had a run-in with a cat.  End results of these skirmishes are not pretty for the people, some who apparently have come “THIS CLOSE” to losing their appendage ++ which suffered the bite.  Scares the bejesus out of me.

Everyone seems to have an opinion of how and what you should do after being bitten.  Heard most often, “Clean it up really well and see what happens.  If it doesn’t get red and swollen or you don’t see a red line (indicating blood poisoning) creeping up your arm to your shoulder within 24 hours or so, you should be good.”  Sounds logical and I really like the idea of NOT having to trek to the emergency room or the doctor.  Not to mention the anxiety of how much a prescription may cost or paying for parking at the hospital emergency, which would probably cost more than the medication.  Oh and I wonder how long I would have to sit in emerge and should I bring my jammies and maybe a pair of clean undies for the next day?

My friend, Lorna, gets me back to her house and administers prompt and competent first aid.  At first glance, the bite in the pad of my left thumb doesn’t look severe and I am relieved that I probably won’t have to go to the hospital.  After Lorna patches me up, she and Nyla walk Sofie and me home.  Surprisingly, I’m a bit on the shaky side and it’s good to have Lorna’s company.  We sit and have tea and talk about Puss Puss and wonder about her health.  Lorna leaves me  strict instructions to call her, no matter what the time, if my hand starts looking funny or swollen or becomes painful.  I spend most of the night online researching cat bites and rabies.  I finally stumble to bed around 4:00 a.m., after peeling the bandage off and checking for a creeping red line.  Nope, all clear, albeit still bleeding a bit and somewhat sore.  I finally fall asleep but am up after just a few hours.    

The next day I speak to Nigel, who is someone I’ve spoken with in the past about stray nuisance cats who had been tormenting my girls at my patio door when I first moved to Sandycove Acres, aka The New Wild West.  He seems to have dedicated his life to saving cats not only here in SCA but almost anywhere in the general area.  He reassures me that there hasn’t been a case of rabies in Ontario for years.  I am further relieved to hear that and make a mental note to check that out after we hang up.  I’m feeling much more optimistic until Nigel asks if I have any antibiotics in the house.  “Ummm, no”, I respond, “Why?”  “Oh it would probably be good to take some, if you have if you have any laying around “, says Nigel.  With that, I change my mind and decide to see my family doctor tout de suite.  I figured a pre-emptive course of antibiotic was the smartest thing to do. 

Well, doncha know it’s Friday – the one day of the week my doctor’s office closes at 12:00 noon.  It’s already 9:45.  Being a born optimist (not really, but I learned how) I called and explained the situation to his assistant.  She told me that since it was their early close day, the doctor was already double-booked.  And my doctor, bless him, is actually one who is pretty punctual and likes it that way.  I would have been more than happy just to go and pick up an Rx but she said she would talk to the doctor and see if he wants me to come in and would call me back, which she did pretty quickly.  Uh huh – a return call that fast usually bodes no good and yep, I have to go in and be there by 10:30. 

I lay in my supplies – a book, a bottle of water and an apple and head out, prepared for a long sojourn.  After about only 20 minutes, I was ushered into the exam room and prepared for to wait some more.   But not too long after, my doctor arrives and takes a look at the wound.  He is not impressed either with the gash or the circumstances surrounding it.  He said that it was already swollen and I would need to take a very strong antibiotic for 14 days and it was a darn good thing I had come in to see him.  Oh, and the antibiotic is very hard on the stomach.  Fun.

Cat bites are nothing to fool around with, as I came to learn from one of the stories someone told me about her brother-in-law who sustained a cat bite.  He did nothing about it except basic first-aid and apparently ended up in the hospital for 2 months, on the strongest intravenous antibiotics known to human-kind AND he came pretty damn close to having his arm amputated anyway. 

As I have learned over the course of the past 7 seven days and nights, in addition to basic first aid, which includes stopping the bleeding, cleaning the wound with soap and water, and applying an antibiotic ointment and bandage to the bite, you should call your local animal control agent, health department, and/or doctor to see if you are at risk for:

• a bacterial infection - many cats, although they don't have symptoms, have the Pasteurella multocida bacteria in their mouth.  From what I’ve researched, it will cause infections in about 80% of the cases
• tetanus - especially if it has been more than 5 years since your last tetanus shot and the cat bite is very deep or is contaminated with dirt, etc.   Luckily my tetanus shot is up-to-date, since I am such a notorious klutz and had to have one just 3 years ago for a pruning shears stabbing incident (self-inflicted), don’t ask
• rabies - Reported rabies cases in Ontario, 2011-2013, involving either cats or dogs, is higher for dogs – that’s nice to know.  Although the risk of getting rabies from a cat is fairly low, with most cases of rabies occurring in wild animals, such as raccoons, skunks, bats, and foxes, about 7 percent of rabies cases overall in Canada occur in domestic animals, including cats and dogs.

Oh joy!  Because my war wounds involve a rather nasty bite, my doctor is mandated by rules & regs to report the incident to the Public Health Department.  Since the cat is a stray and not in anyone’s custody, there’s a good chance that I may have to undergo a series of rabies shots and it's up to Public Health to make that determination.  Oy vey!

TO BE CONTINUED …

"NO GOOD DEED

goes unpunished.”  Boy, Judge Judy sure says it concisely.  I’ve heard her on numerous occasions, sharing this golden oldie, along with a couple of other sayings, which I don’t hear as often, one of which is, “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining.”  I like that one too.  I have to say she has reality nailed down pretty tightly.

What precipitates my sudden onset of cynicism and jadedness you ask?  Well, tonight I tried to save a cat.  Uh huh, a cat who obviously did not want to be saved, to which my various scratches and one rather jagged thumb puncture will attest.

Hmmm, so how did that situation evolve?  During my daily walks in SCA, oh for about the past month or so, when Sofie, The Wonder Dog and I would get to a certain area, near the Wood Shop, a little brown striped tabby would make a run for us.  At first, I was apprehensive that she (and no, I didn’t get to check that as fact), would take a swipe at Sofie and I shooed her away.  After all, they are both around the same size, at least height-wise.  Sofie’s a bit longer, I think.  If I had to choose who would emerge the victor in a confrontation, the cat would win hands down. No wonder with the shredders they have at their fingertips.

Pretty soon, Puss Puss, as I had started to think of her, would inevitably appear every time we went that way and she would stalk us for a good piece down the road, trailing us respectfully, not too far behind.  I felt honoured that she liked us enough to do that.  Being owned by three mature felines, all strays who have been rescued by a local shelter and adopted by me in two moments of insanity, I can honestly say that I understand cat behaviour more than the average joe.

A few weeks go by.  Sometimes, she doesn’t appear and I start to worry (natch!) that something, like a coyote for instance (see my earlier story, Sandycove, The New Wild West) managed to catch her napping and make a meal out of her. 

I speak to a few of the people who live in her neighbourhood and it turns out that Puss Puss seems to be known to most of them.  All of them, like me, are worried about her and the fast approaching cold, wet weather.  One man I speak with, Randy, really likes Puss Puss but says it’s up to his wife, Esther, as to whether or not she’ll get taken in by them.  He’s concerned about their upcoming annual road trip to Florida for the winter and being able to overnight with a cat in a motel.  I’m not quite sure why, they have two dogs, Chihuahuas both and they travel fine with them.  So, what’s one more?

The other night I meandered over to the Wood Shop for my weekly dose of carving and the company of two old codgers, whom I have grown rather fond of, over the past couple of years.  Both in their eighties, I feel oh so young and limber when I hang around with them.  Even with hearing aids, the one old fart doesn’t hear very well and when you talk to him, full volume is required.  Some of the conversations are rather interesting but grotty as I get to listen about prostrate problems, heart attacks, having to get up 5 or 6 times a night to pee.  Sometimes I think they don’t remember I’m there.  Oh and gotta love the special viewings of extra long, extra, extra thick and yellowed, raggedy toes nails in ancient sandals.  Gosh, can winter come soon enough to hide those suckers?    

As I get out of my car and gather my things for the trek into the Wood Shop, I see Esther striding down Lake Trout Lane and it sure looks like she’s searching for Puss Puss.  I called over to her and asked her if she was going to take Puss Puss in and give her a forever home.  She said she couldn’t because they go to Florida every year.  I still don’t get that logic. 

After carving’s finished, the two men enjoy their ‘guy’ time by sipping on really bad cups of instant coffee, black (no cream ‘cause there just wasn’t any and usually isn’t).  They always ask me if I want a cup and I always decline.  I drink instant at home but can’t stomach the thought of drinking the ink they call coffee.   I drive home and formulate a plan to help Puss Puss find a forever home.

I call a new friend of mine, Lorna, when I get home and explain about seeing Puss Puss again and ask her if she was serious about taking her in (I had filled Lorna in a few days earlier), if we could catch her.  Lorna, who has had cats in the past seems to be a bit hesitant, I think because of her dog, Nyla but concurs that Puss Puss probably won’t make it through the winter.  We agree that the capture would be attempted two nights hence and make a plan to meet around 6:00 p.m.

Life changed that evening and hasn’t been the same since.

To Be Continued …

© 2015 Phyllis Mahon - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”

SUPER MOON

Super moon so bright

I can reach out and touch it 
Mother Nature's gift

© 2015 Phyllis Mahon - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”

DELUSIONS

Felicia drags her weary butt into the dreary office and plops into her saggy office chair which belches out a breathy whoosh.   A small burst of greyish stuffing springs out the side and then slowly drifts downward, adding to the light coating of dust on the thin, industrial gray wall-to-wall carpeting.  Hmm, thinks Felicia, it kinda matches.  

Sighing mightily, she just sits there for a few minutes before she begins the ush - opening blinds, allowing the drippy day to invade the chilly office; booting up the thermostat to counteract the drippy drearies; giving the old, squat coffee maker a thump to start the water flowing and the other ten or twenty things that she’s done so automatically, for so many years.  Just the ush, ma’am, just the ush.

Finally finished with the every-day start up crap, Felicia resumes her slump in the weary chair.  The telephone rings, startling her so much that she almost slides out of her chair.  Sitting up straight, she reaches for the phone and jumps again as the fax machine rings, almost under her hand.  Just as she gets to the phone, she hears someone pounding on the entry door, screaming, “Let me in, PLEASE!”

The hand reaching for the telephone freezes as the screaming voice reaches a pitch only dogs could hear and then slams into silence.  With a whiny screech, the fax machine starts chugging out its message.   Felicia jumps to her feet and starts running to the front door.  A garbage can someone has thoughtfully emptied and put down right in her path and not back in its usual spot under her desk, almost does her in, but with a powerful leap she sails over it by just a hair’s width.  “Whew, almost tripped over that!”  A fleeting thought crosses Felicia’s mind.  “I coulda been killed if I hadn’t gotten over that!”  Small and cluttered, the office is fraught with potential landmines – large, old-fashioned gray, melamine desks with sharp corners, tables on wheels, also with corners capable of taking out an eye, drills and saws and cutting blades taking up most of the horizontal surfaces – tools of the office furniture installation trade.  Falling in any direction would have resulted in a cracked skull against something nearby.  Hitting a razor-sharp corner would definitely result in massive bleeding, along with a concussion.   

Felicia reaches the entry door in a flash but it seems to take forever.  One hand on the push bar and the other on the dead-bolt lock, she peers out.  No one’s to be seen.  Something below waist level catches her eye and she glances down.  A  half-smoked cigarette lays on the damp stoop, smoke lazily drifting upward in the still air.  A reformed smoker, the smell is making

Felicia feel a bit queasy as it reaches her noble nose, causing her nostrils to flare in a most dramatic way.  It smells kinda weird and looks funny too.  An arrogant looking eagle is at the top of the white tube just below the brown, speckled filter top.  Faint pinstripes wind around the white part, hardly discernible to Felicia’s squinting eyes.  Hmm, she ponders, I wonder what kind of cigarette this is.  I’ve never seen an eagle on any Canadian cigarette I’ve ever smoked, or American or Danish (one mad-cap vacation she took ages ago) for that matter.  

Running back to her desk, this time swerving around the garbage can, she grabs a tissue from the box in her drawer and a large paperclip from the magnetic holder on her desk and goes back to the door.  The cigarette is still there and has inexorably burned down almost to the weird looking eagle.  Felicia squats down, calf muscles protesting at the unexpected exercise, and carefully pinches out the burning end of the butt with the paperclip, pressing it against the cement stoop.  Still using the paperclip, Felicia teases the now-extinguished cigarette onto the tissue and retreats into the sanctuary of the office, eyes darting back and forth trying to spot the woman (she thought) who screamed.   It sure sounded like a female voice.  Who else could have emitted that ear-splitting shriek?

Back at her desk, Felicia fishes around in the top drawer, trying to find the plastic baggie she saw there a few weeks ago.  It would be perfect to keep the butt in.  Reaching to the very back of the over-stuffed drawer, Felicia’s straining fingers finally feels the thin plastic, which is almost over the edge of the back and carefully teases it to the middle of the drawer where she can finally pick it up.  She carefully scoops up the white tissue the cigarette is resting in, folds it neatly at all four corners towards the centre, making a trim square , cautiously inserting it into the baggie, zipping the top closed with a schhhhhhhh sound. 

Sitting back in her under-stuffed chair, Felicia stares at the ‘evidence’ centered in the middle of her otherwise empty green blotter and then wonders what in the hell she’s going to do with it 

now.  No crime has been committed, as far she could tell.  There’s no body, bleeding, dead or otherwise that she can see.  Had the screaming woman been kidnapped by the Russian mob?  Even if I call the police, thinks Felicia, what in the heck would I tell them?   Just call me Spade - Felicia Spade - and she gives a  sharp tug on her imaginary snap-brimmed hat, giggling all the while.  Just the facts, ma’am, just the facts.   

Lost in thought and not quite sure what, if anything, she should do next, Felicia drifts into a slo-mo day-dream, which flits across her slightly out-of-focus bright blue eyes.   Five minutes goes by, then ten, not that Felicia notices.  Just around the fifteen minute mark, Felicia once again almost topples out of her well-worn chair, as a sharp rat-ta-tat rattles the thin glass on the front door.

Felicia scrambles out of the wobbly chair, almost toppling it over as it shoots out from under her well-padded behind and makes a break for the wall, which is very close behind her.  Catching it before it can punch a hole in the thinnest drywall Felicia’s ever seen, she puts the brakes on it and then rushes toward the entry way.  Stopping suddenly, Felicia plasters herself flush to the wall so that she can sneak up to the door without being seen until the last possible moment.  Who knew who was out there?  It could be the homicidal maniac who’d been after the screaming woman earlier. 

Felicia peers around the corner and sees a well-groomed, mature, stylishly attired woman, flaming red hair (it just couldn’t be real at her age), and youthfully styled bob, which defies the damp day and clings to her head like a helmet, instead of frizzing out in a full-blown Afro, like Felicia’s.  A lit cigarette dangles languidly from impeccably manicured French-tipped fingers and smoke slowly drifts up as the stranger waits patiently by the door. 

Deciding that this older woman does not pose an immediate threat, Felicia straightens up to her full 5’ 8” height, squares her considerable shoulders, made even wider by the out-dated shoulder pads sewn into her well-worn black and white hounds-tooth blazer, which tops clean black jeans and slowly approaches the outside door.  She pauses before throwing back the well-oiled dead-bolt and scanning the surrounding area with suspicious eyes, mostly just acres of wet asphalt parking lots, serving the many industrial units the neighbourhood is comprised of.  

Not seeing any shady characters lurking 
about, Felicia unlocks the door and asks, “May I help you?”  The older woman turns to face Felicia full on and says, very slowly, “Do you speak Romanian?”  Now, that’s a stretch, Felicia thinks to herself.  She shakes her head, and repeats her question.  The drifting cigarette smoke teases Felicia’s nose and she looks at the cigarette it's coming from, spotting  the arrogant eagle up near the top.  Ah ha!  It’s the screaming woman from before.  Now, it’s the stranger’s turn to shake her head and she says, in stop-and-start English, that she just wanted to let Felicia know that she had been the one who had been banging on the door earlier.  Continuing in sparse English, she explained that she really had to use a bathroom.   When the door wasn't answered quickly, she had dashed around the corner to the next-door neighbour and went in there.   Apparently, when you gotta go, you just gotta go!

Closing the door and snicking the dead-bolt into place, Felicia returns to her gloomy space, reclaims the runaway chair and settles her bum in the dip in the middle, which her toches and a few other’s over the years have carved into the centre of the faux leather.  A chuckle escapes her generous lips, which rapidly turns into full-blown guffaws   Pretty soon, she laughs herself silly, tears stream down her face, and she clutches her aching stomach.  So much for kidnapping and murder and what a great way to start an otherwise dreary day!

      

 © 2015 Phyllis Mahon - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”