May Day Round Up

So I feel like something of a fraud. There I was promising all sorts of crafts, reviews, family stories, cat related hilarity, randomness and the odd kitchen disaster thrown in for good measure and now, here I am, full time job, parading as some kind of yuppie. Hrm, from hippie to yuppie in one easy step...

I'd like to think we'd have more money from this little experiment, I'd *like* to, but it wouldn't be the case. One, because hubby and I had a brief little plunge into consumerism in an 'ahh, fuck it' way and two - because of the vet. It is also because of the vet that I find myself with so little time even after the job, cooking, shopping, washing, ironing and general miscellanea that fills my once carefree and loosely planned days.

As far as the consumerism goes, well, that's over. Hubby handed over the financial reins to me and I have put us on a strict economic diet. We get our pocket money each month which we can spend as we choose. Anything over that and there'd better be a *damn* good reason why. I sanctioned the bicycle helmet for Hubby who cycles to work, for example, especially with the nutso Coventarian drivers - in the event of a collision I would quite like his brain area protected, at the very least.

As far as the vets, well, that's still ongoing. Bramble decided to get a blocked bladder, cue one post-work trip to the vets, followed by a late night trip to the emergency vets, followed by a return to the regular vets, followed by a holiday home, followed by a Sunday afternoon trip to the vets, followed by an early morning transfer back to normal vets on Monday, followed by emergency transfer to specialist animal hospital in Birmingham on the Tuesday, right in the middle of the day. All in all several disrupted days, many hours of work lost (more of a problem for me than them since I'm on a pay-per-hour casual contract) and many hours of stress. Most especially when, Wednesday morning, Barley presented with the same symptoms: cue hysterical Milla. My mum, Gods bless her, drove straight up and stayed till Saturday, for which I was most grateful, even though Barley turned out to only have a short term virus and not the major drama of an illness Bramble is suffering from.

So far Barley has cost us about £260 and Bramble roughly £5011. Thank everything that exists that we had insurance. Especially thank Karen, the boys' Cats Protection Foster Mother, that we have higher level insurance so he's covered to £7,500 over his lifetime for each condition. What a pity that he's managed to burn through nearly his entire lifetime's cover in one week. At the moment we're still debating whether to go ahead with a potentially preventative operation to remove his penis. It's the 'potentially' that bothers me. We'd spend the rest of his insurance and some of our own money (it could cost as much as £3,500) if we knew that it would definitely help his chances, but that's not guaranteed by any means, so we're waiting until we talk to the vet on Tues.

Right now I am taking the piss out of the cat on a regular basis, and yes, I mean that literally. Every two to three hours I have to use a syringe to draw the urine out of his bladder through a tube sewn into his little pink shaved tummy. He's a very good boy about it, rolling onto his back for me and purring. Such a sweetie. It's weird the things you can get used to. His gentle nature and sweet temperament just reminds me how close we came to losing him and why we're willing to do these things for him. I just hope we can resolve this happily.

Happy Scratching!

Hubby and I finally found what we were looking for today - a scratching post for our boys! The one we bought before we got them is far too small: kitten sized and wobbly and they pull it over on top of themselves. Poor kitties. Now we have a glorious black and sisal three tier cat scratching post which we got for a song and]'# <>M:? (sorry, Bramble wanted a cuddle and didn't care that the laptop was already on my lap) is nice and sturdy.

The pet store sold it to us with £10 off because all the screws were missing, which hubby thought he could fix at home, turns out, when we got it home, that all the screws were screwed into place and only one was missing: evidently someone had bought it previously, tried to assemble it and failed. Oh well, bargain for us. The three tier post is currently a two-tier post while we wait for F-i-L to find us an appropriate bolt for the top-tier! Until then the kittens already adore their new toy and are fighting over who gets to go on the uppermost level so they can bat their brother on the ground floor level! They also immediately started scratching the scratching portions of the post - hurrah! Long live our wallpaper (and bed, and sofa and carpet...) - they've finally found an alternative to sharpen their toenails on!

The Sixth Sausage

I can only assume the sausages from yesterday were left in somebody's rubbish, as today -certain that I was free of Sunday's sausage horrors - I found yet another sausage on the lawn. Smack dab in the centre just as before. Only rather more chewed.

I am in some kind of horrific, bizarre sausage-related time loop.

Photo: Caught in the act!

A Perfect Sunday and the Strange Incident of the Sausage in the Garden

So today was a beautiful day. We woke up at 8 and lay in bed dozing and cuddling for half an hour. Compared to most days when Hubby is out of the house by 7am and cuddling is definitely off the menu this alone was bliss, but add to it the stunning sunny morning that was revealed when the curtains were drawn and I was a happy happy woman.

Next stop was our Sunday treat breakfast - a full English, but done the healthy way (I just can;t square all the grease of a 'proper' fry up with my dietary conscience!) - poached eggs, homemade wholemeal bread toasted until just warm, grilled sausage and bacon, hash brown hot from the oven, fresh tomatoes and real coffee. I'm drooling just thinking about it now.

Anyway, so I was standing at the sink filling the kettle for the coffee when I spot the cats outside gnawing on something pale and sausage shaped. Uh oh. I raced outside with my trainers shoved on over my bedsocks (yes, I was still in my PJs) and confiscated what turned out to be an actual sausage. How strange. Hubby and I inspected it, but luckily it was only slightly chewed, so it's unlikely they'd get too sicky from the salt content. I chucked it in the bin and assumed a fox had dropped it after fishing it out of someone's bin.

We sat down to enjoy our breakfast, then got dressed and went to pick up a newspaper from the local shop. Next stop was the garden centre for some potting compost, then a local country park (Coombe Abbey Park, review coming soon) for a long walk in the chilly, crisp sunshine. At 11am only a few families were out and about - just enough to make the place seem alive, without being so busy that we couldn't walk along without getting our feet run over by kids on bikes. It was stunningly beautiful weather, chill but not freezing and so sunny. I took macro photos of tree bark, moss, shrivelled leaves and pine cones, held hands with my husband, enjoyed the fresh air and his undistracted time and attention. All topped off with fresh, hot cinnamon doughnuts.

Gardening when we got back - the cats were so happy to have us outside with them again after the long cold spell. On the way back from the garden shed I spotted a familiar pale shape in the centre of the lawn - another sausage: what the hell?

Over the course of the afternoon a third sausage materialised right smack bang in the middle of the lawn - very peculiar. By now hubby and I were suspicious of our neighbours, a friendly family with a pet bunny they allowed to roam free on sunny days. Were they trying to entice our boys back into their own garden with sausage-shaped bait? Or, even more sinister, perhaps there was poison in it (what can I say, hubby can get a little paranoid and cynical). By now we were on full sausage alert - keeping an eagle eye on the fence that bordered our garden. Typically, in the watched pot never boils fashion, the fourth sausage arrived when we were otherwise engaged with drilling drainage holes in a window box. Now this really was bizarre.

I inspected the sausage carefully, it was utterly lacking in chomp marks, then was just one single puncture wound, as would be made by something like a skewer pushed into the sausage. They definitely weren't being dropped there by a fox, it must be the neighbours flinging them. Well, by now I had utterly abandoned any hope of getting something useful done. I stayed staring at the fence, waiting for one of the cats to go over it in the hopes that it would antagonise the culprits into another sausage-slinging attempt. After twenty minutes or so Barley took the plunge and cramponed his way up the fence that bordered the neighbours'. For several long minutes he teetered at the top, sharpening his claws, licking his foot thoughtfully, one eye apparently on the view the whole time. Eventually he tipped forward and leapt down into next door. I watched through the kitchen window, waiting for the next move.

Hubby wandered into the kitchen as I stood there, washing up in hand but perfectly motionless. I turned my head to talk to him and then some instinct (probably intense curiosity) instructed me to turn back to the garden. There, sneaking over the fence with a mouthful of sausage was our slinky black Barley cat. He trotted over to the middle of the lawn, dropped the sausage in the exact same spot as the previous four and disappeared down the back of the garden. Hubby and I went racing outside and examined the sausage - blemish free except for one, round puncture wound, most likely inflicted by one of the black devil's little white fangs.

Well hubby and I stared aghast at each other for a few moments.
"Have next door left their back door open?"
Hubby, whos almost a foot taller than me stood up on tiptoes.
"Nope, but the one beyond them have."

That settled it. Both our boys are inveterate food thieves at the best of times, but this took the biscuit (or sausage...). Barley could only have been waiting for an opportunity to arise when the kitchen of next-door-but-one's house to be free so he could nip in and grab yet another sausage. It conjured up a mental image of these poor people leaving a pack of sausages out to defrost and returning each time to find them steadily diminishing until they were left with just one lonely little sausage (unless it had been a pack of eight, but still, three lonely little sausages ain't much of a meal either!).

Hubby and I met each others gaze and then, as one, fell about laughing in a guilty, slightly hysterical manner. We would never be able to explain to our neighbours what had happened, or make recompense because from then onwards Barley (and us) would be blamed for everything that went missing from their house. Nope, we would have to shut Barley in, pretend ignorance and hope against hope that he'd actually been stealing them out of the rubbish.

Personally I blame Barley's predilection for any pencil shaped object. Pens, batteries, knitting needles, cotton reels, small torches and, apparently, sausages. He doesn;t even like eating sausage because I've offered him some in the past! Right now, for example, his favourite toy is a tampon he stole out of a drawer. I don't use them any more (Mooncup) so I didn;t mind too much, but was slightly concerned when I discovered the shredded wrapper that he'd materialise with it clenched between his teeth when my in-laws were round for tea. Luckily that didn;t happen, but hes been having a whale of a time carting the damn thing round the house with him and defending it from all comers, especially his brother. Hubby thinks its the tail, but I can't shake the idea that he's got some phallic fixation. After all, the reason we got his balls chopped off was because he kept raping his brother...

The day ended with cheesy oven chips, biscuits, a hot shower and a snuggle on the sofa in front of Sex and the City DVDs - on hubby's request. What can I say? He's quite a guy, and very secure in his masculinity it would seem :-)

A perfect Sunday, what a rare thing.

Remember Remember...

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,

The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,

I know of no reason

Why the Gunpowder Treason

Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent

To blow up the King and Parli'ment.

Three-score barrels of powder below

To prove old England's overthrow;

By God's providence he was catch'd

With a dark lantern and burning match.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

Yes, it's that time of year again when us strange English gather in a muddy field, usually in the rain, to enjoy overpriced junk food commodities served from a dubious vending van whilst watching with apparent enjoyment a 5 minute fireworks display and uttering "Oohs" and "Aahs" in massive unison, all to commemorate an attempt on the government some five hundred years ago.

Now don't get me wrong, I actually love fireworks and Guy Fawke's Night and every year until this one would find me out on that selfsame muddy field. The only reason I'm not going this year is because I'm still coughing my lungs up and hubby is still a bit wobbly from his gastroenteritis: neither of us in a fit state for the long walk, even longer time standing still and long return walk afterward that a big fireworks event entails.

Instead, for the first time since we've been together, we'll be at home, perhaps watching fireworks through the windows, or possibly ignoring it all together. This, however, is not the focus of my blog today. Instead I want to spare a brief moment to think about the cruelty some people inflict on animals. I know, I know, a bit of a non sequitur, but stay with me here.

Years ago my mum worked with some people who lived in a very affluent area on the outskirts of London. They had a sweet cat who was very much loved and all the neighbours looked out for each other. One day the cat didn't come in for his dinner, neither did he appear by bedtime. By morning the enxt day they were frantic, calling the neighbours, the vets, putting up posters - anything they could think of.

Later that day they had a call from a local vet. After confirming that they owned a cat, and that it was currently missing, he gently broke the bad news to them. Their cat had been found in a very bad state after a group of youths had captured him and affixed a number of rockets to his tail using Gaffa Tape. The poor cat had, in desperation, tried to remove the lit fireworks and had been so badly injured on his face as well as his tail that the vet had had to decide on the kindest route and put him down.

To this day I dislike seeing fireworks in the hands of anyone but official events organisers and, when one went off erroneously behind our garden earlier I freaked out and called the cats in. They're not fond of the noises, though they bear them with more equanimity than my mum's rescue cats ever did, but I want them inside the house if people are going to let off fireworks nearby.

Too protective? Maybe, but I couldn't bear for my little boys to suffer the torture that that other poor cat went through. No matter how kind most of this nation is towards animals, there are a few people who are downright sadistic.