I Maeded U a Lolcat Pikshur. Oar 2

An Ai hoeps teh sis-Tim haz nawt eated it.


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O. it jus eatid sum uv mah pikshur. O wear o were did it goe??


Heer iz an udder.



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It got eated sumwhut 2. O wels!!

Sloppy

There’s been snow on the ground the past week or so, hard, crusty snow that gets added to at irregular intervals.

Today’s addition was three inches of wet whipped cream, slushy and mixed with rain, falling in a temperature that hovered around 33 degrees . Your boots (tall ones, not the ankle kind) squelch through the gelid, pitted mixture, sploosh, sploosh, sploosh, even on the sidewalk you’ve attempted to shovel and then sprinkled with rock salt. It’s sloppier than Sandy Berger at the National Archives.

Well, I just took Llewellyn out for his night time constitutional. And between the old ice and the new semi-frozen puddles, I couldn’t get the back gate open more than 2"!

I pulled him up on the rock (and snow) covered mound next to the gate where my Norway maple is planted and convinced him it’s ok to pee there.

But he would not do his No. 2. Since October, he knows that’s done Outside. In the alley. He even went and sat down in the slush and looked expectantly out the gap.

So I tried taking him out and around to the alley via the side gate. And it’s frozen shut as well!

Okay, not totally. I could push it open enough for him to get out. And for me to get out, probably, too.

But I didn’t dare. I could see me not being able to squeeze back in. I could visualize impaling myself on the latch bolt. And the only unlocked door and the spare key are both at the back of the house, through that gate.

Gave up, pulled Llewellyn back in, and now I couldn’t shut the side gate, even to latch it!

Came back inside. But Llewellyn really needed to go. All right, I’d take him out and around the block by way of the basement door.

Oh, no, no! My dog wouldn’t let me do that! He knows he’s not allowed down the basement stairs! Not even I would be permitted to tempt him down them!

Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry, puppy.

So we went out the front door (the one that won’t latch), which meant using the key. Llewellyn was so thrilled with getting to go out front that he nearly forgot what the purpose of the trip was. As he hauled me splooshing along the futilely cleared sidewalks, I could just see him pulling me over and me falling down in a great frigid splash!

But we got past next door's house, and next door's to them, and along the side street, and around back with no more than wet paws and cold boots. Once he saw his usual strip of real estate between my fence and the alley, he did his business in short order.

And then waited to be let in through the back gate, as usual.

Not tonight, doggie. And if it freezes tonight as the forecasters say, not tomorrow morning, either.

Oh, joy.

Popular Culture

My friend Ruth* in Kansas City has sent me a Valentine's card, one of those computer-chipped musical ones.

It's a very big hit around the House of the Flying Furballs. As you may see:

Obviously, my kittehs and goggie really Love Lucy!

Shhhh!

The camera is never at hand when wanted.

Shhhh!

Right now, on my study floor, nine-year-old Rhadwen and seven-month-old Gwenith are sleeping peacefully, curled up together on the same bunched-up throw, about five inches apart.

(And darned if Gwenith doesn't appear bigger than Rhadwen!

(Yes, I know: It's all fur.)

Beside the Point

My Llewellyn is, as far as I can determine, a muttly mix of collie, beagle, and pointer. When he's indoors, the shepherd side of him rules his doggie behaviour: He's continually trying to herd the cats. I can see a kitten up on the wrong surface in another room and chide, "Huw! Get down!" and Llewellyn is immediately off after that feline, to nip him into line.

Outside, however, his hunting dog heritage comes into play. Especially the pointer part. I'll have him out the back gate in the alley at 2:00 in the morning in the freezing cold to do his business. And suddenly, he'll pick up the scent of something. What is it? Rabbit? Raccoon? Skunk?

No matter. His body goes stiff and straight, his tail takes a rigid right-angle curve, his ears prick up, his eyes shoot laser-like straight ahead, and up comes his forepaw in a steady, determined point.

It's a beautiful point, a focussed, concentrated point. Trouble is, when he points, he doesn't poop. He can be hunkering down into his squat, ready to do what we came out in the alley for, when suddenly the message of the nose overrides all else. Poooiiiiinnnnttt!!!!

And there I am, out in the back alley in the middle of a brass-monkeys frigid night, and my dog is homed in on some hidden rabbit, raccoon, or skunk. "Business, Llewellyn, business!" I stage whisper (so not to disturb the neighbors). But he hears me not: he's Pointing. I try gently pulling him over to an old pooping place, to give him the idea. No: Soon as I let up the tension, he's reassumed the stance and is resolutely pointing again. The only way to get him out of it is forceably to jerk his leash.

But by then, all hope of his producing anything is dried up and gone. I can only take him in and pray he holds his biscuits till we go out again in the light of day.

Nice to have such a talented dog. Too bad it's a talent I have no use for.

Breaking News

DATELINE-- House of the Flying Furballs-- At approximately 7:00 o'clock this evening EST, a surprise attack was launched by feline guerilla forces against Fort Christmas Tree.

The first and only casualty in the lightning offensive was brave Lt. Roderick Redcoat, whose shattered scalp and headgear were recovered from the callous batting paw of a pink and white floofy kitten. A further search discovered his hanging hook near Tree Skirt Plain and his torso at the foot of Bookcase Cliff.

It is not known why Lt. Redcoat was stationed in a position so vulnerable to capricious cat attack. An unnamed source has suggested it was due to a bad deployment decision made higher up the chain of command. A Congressional investigation may be ordered.

When asked to make a statement, the Commandant of Fort Christmas Tree insisted that the feline foray was an aberration and that the position was basically secure.

The remains of Lt. Redcoat have been removed to a safe place, where they await final deposition.

A Christmas Miracle

I brought a fresh-cut, live Christmas tree home and set it up in its stand a week ago on Friday.

I strung the lights on it on Christmas Eve.

I put on the decorations late on Christmas Day. (OK, so I'm time-management challenged! But it helps to celebrate Christmas during Christmas. Hey, I sometimes keep my tree up till Candlemas!)

And the wonder is, with one cat, two kittens, and a large dog, the tree is still up!

And there are no ornaments rolling around the floor!

Miraculous!

Maybe it's the distraction devices I set up on the other side of the front room. Gwenith and Huw have been a lot more interested in the dangly doggy toy with the little jingle bell hanging from the floor lamp and the great big jingle bell hanging from the music stand. Those they can do something with.

Since I put the two e-collars over the tree water well, der Tannenbaum has not been much fun at all.

Except for hiding behind. Always except for that.