Would You Like Kitty Treats With That?

Okay, I confess, it’s late. I’ve just come back from a shift at the petstore, and any moment now will be settling down with Holmes and Watson to help them solve “The Sign of Four.” So most of this entry won’t be my own writing. It’ll be stolen from Do What You Are, 4th Edition (Paule Tieger and Barbara Barron, Little, Brown, & Company: New York, 2007).

The first edition came out in 1992, and I’ve read it several times over the years in one employment counseling office or another. It’s based on the Myers-Briggs Personality Type Test. After answering 3.5 zillion preference questions, one ends up with a set of four letters.

You are either:

• E or I — Extroverted or Introverted;
• S or N — Sensing or iNtuitive;
• T or F — Thinking or Feeling; and
• J or P — Judging or Perceptive.

Well, I’m an INFP — a solitary, indecisive, emotional mess. Oh wait, that’s not a quote from the book. What is a quote is the following list of 10 things that spell career satisfaction for me. I’d like you to think about how true they sound to you. Then I’m going to leave you with the one-sentence conclusion I gave E.g. when I read this list at the bookstore this morning.

As An INFP, career satisfaction means doing work that:

1. Is in harmony with my own personal values and beliefs and allows me to express my vision through my work;
2. Gives me time to develop substantial depth to my ideas and maintain control over the process and product;
3. Is done autonomously; with a private work space and plenty of uninterrupted time, but with periodic opportunities to bounce my ideas off people I feel respect me.
4. Is done within a flexible structure, with a minimum of rules or regulations, letting me work on projects when I feel inspired.
5. Is done with other creative and caring individuals in a cooperative environment free from tension and interpersonal strife.
6. Lets me express my originality and in which personal growth is encouraged and rewarded.
7. Does not require me to present my work frequently in front of groups of people or be called upon to share before it is completed to my satisfaction.
8. Allows me to help others grow and develop and realize their full potential.
9. Involves understanding people and discovering what makes them tick; allows me to develop deep one-to-one relationships with others.
10. Allows me to work toward fulfilling my ideals and not be limited by political, financial, or other obstacles.

• (pp 159-60)

I showed the list to E.g. and said, “No wonder I love blogging.”

PS A big thank you to Alyson, of “Laugh in the Sun”, who passed along a Kind Blogger Award to me on Saturday! (See # 3, 5, & 6 above. )

The Virtual World Peace Potluck

With special guests.

.
Welcome everybody, to our potluck party!

‘Way back on June 20, having noticed how many people in my blog klatsch said they like sesame halvah, I suggested a game: post a recipe hailing from one of the countries claimed, by a Wikipedia article, to specialize in halvah.

Noting that many of the halvah-favouring countries have had a lot of wartime strife, I also suggested that the common love of halvah might be a good basis for a peace organization. This morning, I found an unused acronym. Suggestions for alternatives are welcome, but here’s my idea:

CHAPLIN: Creative Halvah Appreciators’ Peace League INternational.

I don’t mind the acronym’s association with Charlie Chaplin (fondly nicknamed “Charlot” in halvah-loving Greece, Romania, and Turkey) either. Chaplin began his life in London, in abject poverty. His childhood experiences include the breakup of his parents, a mentally ill mother, and a stint in a Victorian workhouse. And yet he never lost his own gumption, and went on to conquer the world — through humour. His politics were left-leaning, his film The Great Dictator a brave swipe at fascism, and his refusal to give a hoot when “accused” of being Jewish a breath of fresh air. We could do worse for a muse.

To find the recipes for the foods listed in bold, head over to the comments section (and one recipe in the main blether) in Part II of last Friday’s post.

 But for now, c’mon in, grab a plate and a glass, and help yourself! Charlie and Mohandas are over there in the corner by the sweets table, enjoying some tea.

 

Table 1: Beverages

alcoholic:

- a selection of red and white Israeli wines

- Skopsko lager from Macedonia

- arak, a Lebanese anise liquor. Be sure to thin it, 1/3 arak to 2/3 water, and add some crushed ice.

non-alcoholic:

- lemonade scented with orange-blossom water and mint

- ayran/tahn/doogh, many names for one beverage of yogurt thinned with water, seasoned with a little salt, and jazzed up with some minced cucumber and a few mint leaves

- Parsi Cola from Iran

- check out the sweets table for hot beverages

 

Table 2: Savouries

cool:

- garlicky green olives from Albania

- pickled turnip

- lavash from Armenia

- pita bread wedges from Syria

- hummus from Iraq

- kiopolu, an eggplant-based “poor man’s caviar” from Bulgaria

- koupepia, stuffed vine leaves from Cyprus

- Mediterranean potato salad (see comments below), with olive oil and sundried tomatoes

hot:

- village eggs, an eyepleasing Greek hot dish of herbed eggs on toast

- a mound of rice with nuts, almonds, and raisins

- hot potato pancakes with sour cream from Ukraine

 

Table 3: Sweets

- lokshen kugel, a sweet noodle pudding from Romania

- baklava, a Greek phyllo-pastry goodie

- pomegranite wedges from Palestine

- melon slices

- spicy fruit compote from Serbia

- halvah

- sweet mint-infused tea

- Turkish coffee; and if you like, Madam Irem will tell your future from the residue in your cup!

The Good Kitty Award

With all the awards flying over the blogosphere waves lately, I think Cuca deserves an award of his own. So today, I’d like to say a few words in praise of Cuca, our Curious Cat.

First, Cuca was born on the streets of Toronto, and left his mama at a tender age when Jack found him and we brought him home to stay.

When Cuca grew up, we spent a few months with a woman who doesn’t particularly like cats, and never let Cuca into her room.

Before Cai the puppy came home, Cuca suffered a bad scare from the unsecured exercise pen crashing to the floor beside him.

Subsequently, a strange beast came to live in the cage, eliciting first fear, then curiosity, and verry grradually a purring affection from our street kitty. I think it was the first time puppy Cai washed Cuca’s ears that Cuca’s heart finally melted.

Then we moved.

We have more friends now, including Julie the cat-chasing foxhound, who stays with us Monday evenings while her daddies go out to supper.

Lately, we’ve gotten another little monster. Cuca was just getting used to Fergus when we took away Fergus, Cai, and ourselves for ten days.

Shortly after the family reassembled, workers came to wreak havoc on our eardrums by sawing, drilling, and hammering replacement railings onto our building.

And just to put its two cents’ worth in, when the construction noise finished for the night the sky would rip open and pound us with thunderclaps.

And through it all, Cuca has stayed cool. Incredibly cool. He has nibbled his kibble, shown delight in his morning half-tin wet food, hopped on the table for his treats. When the noise has escalated to racket, he has crouched beside my computer for my companionship. He has accepted Fergus with little fuss, knowing already what a friend the puppy will grow up to be. Cuca has never once thrown up or missed his litter box. I AM SO PROUD OF CUCA!

Here, then, is his “Good Kitty Reward Award”. For all of you who think your cat might deserve one too, feel free to steal my picture and tell the world about your wondercat!

Mums, and the Women Who Love Them

Toronto house: Cute. Little. Price: Not cute. Not little.

.

So I was looking at real estate offerings this morning. Just for fun. Something outside Toronto. Something with maybe an acre or two. Something where the neighbours couldn’t hear my dogs barking and complain, where I wouldn’t risk a $260 fine just to play ball with my boy, where I could open a door early in the morning or at bedtime to let them pee without meeting a drug dealer or a bicycle thief. I’ll show them. I’ll show them all!

So, the listings.

For $35K, we could move into a trailer park.

For $60K, we could have a house, 35 acres, and a home business! That’s ’cause most of the acreage is a gravel pit. I can see myself now in a Muskoka (=Adirondack) chair at the end of the driveway with my buckets of gravel, waiting for passing tourists to be lured in. “Gravel! Why, I haven’t had any country-picked gravel in years! C’mon, dear, let’s buy two gallons!”

For about $100K, I can get absolute privacy on a small lot in the middle of nowhere. The ad chirps, “And if you like 4-wheeling, there are trails right outside your door!” And if I wanted that kind of noise, I chirp back, I would live beside the train tracks. Not to mention all those good neighbours, the ones with the Harleys and — they must be deer hunters, is that what those rifles are for?

For more still, I can get 370 feet of frontage. It doesn’t mention how often the basement floods.

Some of the ads show five pictures of the outside, and none of the inside.

This place is offering their pool table and built-in huge TV and sound-surround unit. Oh goody, someone’s second-hand electronics! I’m starting to whimper…

This place has an area of 350 square feet. That one’s is 2,000. How much does that mean? How much do we need?

Four bedrooms and one bathroom. One bedroom and 2 1/2 baths. Eh?

Ah, finally, the perfect place! Finished; less than 20 years old; mature trees on a 3-acre lot. Only $280,000. Perfectly reasonable if I can pull off a decent full-time job, and keep it for twenty years; then we’ll have a lovely home for the dogs, who will live crated in the living room for twenty hours each day. Not quite the plan…

I leave the computer and take the dogs out. They bark. A lot. For no apparent reason. I yell at them and bring them back in. WhaaaaaaaHHHHHHHHhhhhhh! Sniff.

I call my mum. She’s home. We discuss real estate. A few years after Dad died, Mum bought a little  house with a little backyard in a little village. She can walk to everything, she can play in the yard with her dog and let him out to pee in safety, she has lots of friends, and a nice strollable country road is less than half a mile away. The area of the house was originally 600 square feet, and the addition she ordered has expanded it to 800. The property is about 1/4 of an acre, and holds a fruit tree, flower beds, and little-dog running room. She told me how much it cost to buy, and how much to renovate. And I started to breathe again.

Mum warned me about all the hidden costs — surveyor’s fees, lawyers, appliance hookups, new appliances themselves, former owners’ reno goofs. She explained various factors that raise the tax: frontage, square footage, number of bathrooms. And she gave me a piece of motherly advice.

“Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face, honey.” Meaning, don’t isolate myself in the middle of nowhere because of a few grumps who didn’t realize, when they moved into our building, that dogs are allowed and that dogs will bark.

One day soon, I’ll probably be seen at the local bookstore, trolling the shelves for a Canadian version of “house ownership for dummies.” Just for fun.

 

And I was There when it Happened

Cai at 8 months, Spring 2007

Hi, everybody!

I wanted to take a photo of the scene where Something Nifty happened this morning, but E.g. has the camera, so I’ve chosen an older photo for its illustration of Cai leaping for a ball (in the case of the photo, one that hasn’t even left the chuckit stick yet! )

This morning I took the doggies to the front yard, tethered Fergus to the big Silver Maple there, and played ball with Cai. He’s very good at, and enjoys muchly, catching pop flies, and it makes me feel good to throw them. I extend my arm fully and use my whole upper body in lobbing it in a high arc, and Cai gets under it. The throw and catch aren’t difficult for (or hard on) either of us, but passing strangers are often impressed. Neighbours have seen it again, and again, and again…

Anyway, whether on purpose or by accident, Cai often bounces the ball off the end of his nose, and continues on after it. Occasionally he’ll nose it two, maybe even three times before chomping down on it.

This morning, getting under one of the lobs, Cai nosed the ball over the wrought iron fence that surrounds the front yard. on the other side is a pedestrian walkway and then several front doors with teeny gardens and two-foot-high garden walls. Well! The ball got nosed over the fence, hit the top edge of one of those teeny walls, arced straight back up and over, and Cai caught it! I was thrilled at that slim probability. Forget agility classes — Cai should learn to play snooker!

Gotta go now — it’s time to brush my teeth before work, and since I had garlic bread for lunch, I really should. Have a great day!

(Wordless Wednesday) Rubber Rocker Puppy Bumpers

Six Degrees of Integration

Clothes Tree. Red-wash variety.

.

Look at that: it’s Laundry Day!

Things aren’t quite back to normal yet after our trip to Paris. A Welsh neighbour comforted me by saying that it takes her a month to recover from a trip home, so I’ll try to go easy on my expectations for another week. Anyway, it’s Laundry Day, so it’s List Day; and I have a very nice list to ponder today.

And just in time, too. I have a relative who cut me off twenty years ago. Unfortunately, being family, I occasionally hear about him, and just yesterday heard that he’s still being actively uncharitable towards me. Beats me why he’d bother; but it still does hurt. So there, that’s off my chest, a type of conflict at least as old as the First Children and as widespread as dandelions. Now on to happy things!

 James Viscosi’s Vizsla Dennis, over at Dennis’s Diary of Destruction , has presented me with my first blog award, the Tree of Happiness. First, I want to thank my parents, Gautama Buddha, and the state of California… oh, it’s not that kind of award?

The proper acceptance speech for a Tree of Happiness award is apparently to, first, list six things that make me happy; second, to name six blogrollers as recipients of this award; and third, link to the giver and the givees. All right! It’s a double-list day! I’m feeling better already.

I. Six Things That Make Me Happy

1. Digging into a pile of refried-bean-and-cheese-smothered corn chips, a favourite TV supper, while watching a movie or Time Team with E.g. and Jack, while all the animals snooze around us.
2. Walking in the woods. And camping. And maybe taking a dip in the lake. And birdwatching. And roasting marshmallows. And possibly a bit of canoeing. And looking forward to another vacation at Bon Echo this July!
3. Taking daytrips, or sometimes overnighters, into small-town Ontario with E.g. Watching out the windows while she drives. Remarking on what we see. Singing harmony with her to the radio or CD. Inventing silly road-kill songs. Having a chance to talk without interruptions.
4. Having gotten the dishes done or the apartment swept. (Note the perfect tense here. ) Having gotten any other annoying necessity out of the way. Ever notice how much lighter your arms feel after you’ve carried out the garbage?
5. Blogging. I’m so grateful for this new medium of an online writing venue that attracts strangers who become anonymous friends. I’m so happy to be writing. I’m so amazed that I haven’t missed a day yet since I started on February 29th.
6. Supper at our favourite local. A hefty pint glass of Wellington Dark. Shepherd’s pie or steak-and-mushroom pie or something else hearty and nostalgic. Recognizing the waiters, being recognized by them, and often seeing neighbours we know. Watching E.g. relax as she sips her Bass ale and chews her sweet-potato fries, and we review the work week and dream about the future.

I’m an ordinary kinda guy, really.

 Now, for the new recipients. This is tough, because I have so few names on my blogroll (I’m a slow reader), and I hate to leave anybody out. But since I’m new to the awards game, I’ll keep it within the WordPress community, and stick with blogfellows who have posted within the past month. The rest of you (including my partner! ), know that you are loved.

II. Six Trees for Six Blogfriends

1. Checkers’ World  ’cause Cardis and trees together just make sense.
2. Cody Bear’s Friends  for Goodbear who, if she were a tree, would like to be a boojum.
3. Laugh in the Sun  because reading Alyson’s humour is always a tree-t.
4. One Little Detail for Livingisdetail who, if she were a tree, would like to be a red gum.
5. The Marvelous in Nature, who knows how trees live and what things live in trees.
6. Yasashiikuma, for the Cardi-tree thing, and Shelley’s love of the Bruce Trail.

I hope that’s okay with everybody. And don’t forget to come to the virtual potluck!

Sunday Supper on the Balcony

What goes around, comes around. I mentioned halvah a few days back and got a bunch of nostalgic comments regarding it, so I’ve got an online potluck  game happening. Come on over, and bring a recipe!

Because of the potluck game, I guess I have the eastern Mediterranean and Middle East in my subconscious. And because of her nonstop activity for nearly a month, yesterday evening E.g. became crabby and whiny. Those of you who know her personally are aware of how rare this is for her. Me, it’s my normal state, and E.g. is very kind and accommodating. So — what goes around comes around — yesterday evening I set her out in the summer sunshine with a fresh bottle of Wellington Special Pale Ale, and set to work whipping supper together.

We had just been to the local meat market and purchased salmon fillets and small lamb chops, bread and tinned tomatoes, and a container of zingy orange gelatto. Our original intention had been to make chicken cacciatore tonight, but once home we realized we were out of garlic. Hmm…

I put a few inches of water in the kitchen sink, snipped the end off a small head of leafy lettuce, swished the leaves around, and tossed them in the colander.

I also swished the rest of the fresh thyme ( a packet of three-inch stalks) and divided them into two little piles (which would soon become eight pilettes).

Setting the four little lamb chops on the broiler pan, I spread out some thyme stalks over each chop and popped them under the broiler with the timer going for ten minutes.

Shaking the water out of the lettuce, I sliced it up with the big knife and put it in a bowl. Then I sliced up a few dried apricots and shelled about ten pistachios. These went in the lettuce bowl, and the salad was tossed with some bottled raspberry dressing.

I put a cup of water on to boil in the smallest pot, along with a handful of raisins and a smaller bunch of dried currents and about half a teaspoonful of ghee. Meanwhile, I discarded the burnt thyme, turned the lamb chops over, sprinkled them with a little salt, and lay the rest of the thyme sprigs over them. Back under the broiler for another ten (or a bit less — I didn’t want the smoke alarm to go off) .

When the water in the small pot came to a boil, I turned off the element, stirred in 2/3 cup couscous, and put the lid back on. It was done in about five minutes. I gave it a stir, set it on two plates, arranged the salad on the other half of the plates, and set the chops leaning against the couscous.

I brought the supper out to the balcony. E.g. asked for a second bottle of beer (which she almost never does normally), and heaved a sigh of satisfaction as we tucked in. The zingy orange gelatto worked just fine as a dessert.

And the dogs didn’t even bark.

 

 

Doggerel From a Dog’s Age Ago

Cai looks something like Alfie did.

.
When I was a child — last Tuesday or so — I used to write poems. They were about as good as any 12-year-old’s poems, but I remember one or two of them, and I’m ready for bed, and I’m darned if I’m gonna miss a day of posting.

Anyway, to save my sinking sanity, my mum got me a dog when I turned 12. Alfie was a collie-mix, a medium-little dog who would accompany me on walks and sleep on my bed at night. Here are two poems I wrote about him at the time.

Tumblebug Alfie

• Tumblebug Alfie, my little mutt,
• How do you get so covered with smutt?
• I looked at my dog, and soon I found
• It’s because he’s built so close to the ground.

(There was a now-forgotten second verse. Then…)

• Tumblebug Alfie, a-chewing on bones-some,
• with Alfie around, I’ll never feel lonesome.
• Happy and funny, but truly aboveable,
• There’s only one word to describe him: it’s “loveable”.

 

The second poem doesn’t make such strenuous efforts to rhyme. It also contains a bit of early-adolescent philosophising.

Alfie

• I look at Alfie, lying there,
• Comfy, cozy, in a chair.
• “You shouldn’t be there, Alf,” I say.
• “I bet you feel guilty, eh?”
• He gives me such a sheepish stare,
• I wish I had a camera there.

 

• My bed’s another matter, though,
• And if you see the scene, you’ll know.
• When man from beast can’t be defined,
• Then neither has the stricter mind:
• When Alf is sleeping at the head,
• I’m on the other end of bed.

 

These writings from my youth no longer embarrass me as they once did. I must be ancient.

Chick Lit

Another lazy Saturday morning…

This is what happened.

I got to work three minutes late yesterday. My co-worker, Linda, was talking to a woman at the cash while holding a five-gallon plastic storage bin and a bag of aspen wood chips. “Here, Lavenderbay, could you open this?” she said, handing me the bag. I could. I did. Then she instructed me to dump about two inches’ worth into the container. That done, Linda set a songbird nestling in the bin and added a tiny fleecy kiwi-shaped puppy toy, into which the  baby bird immediately nestled.

All the while this habitat was being set up, the customer (?) was telling her story, taking photos, and naming the bird. Customer had seen another woman on the main drag holding the bird, and then the bird had fallen from the main-drag-woman’s hand, so Customer retrieved it. I still don’t know whether either coins or blows were exchanged in order to complete this transaction. But Customer has cats, so she brought the bird to us.

Linda, then, was at least Human Number Three since the nestling lost its avian mama, and she agreed to do something with it. Of course, every last employee at our store has cats. Linda has a few boundary issues to work out.

Customer left us her e-mail address and took our business card, promising to call about little Billy. “No problem, we’ll figure something out, you have a good day now!” called Linda cheerily, as the door shut behind Customer, at which point Linda turned to me with vanished smile and levelled eyebrows and muttered, “That bird’s gonna die.”

Customer called an hour later. She had been trying to phone everyone she could think of. Her vet said they don’t do wildlife. The Humane Society cut her off twice. Someone said they needed to know what species it was. I at first suggested she look for an e-mail address from the Tommy Thompson Bird Research Station, figuring that she might e-mail her photos to someone to identify it, but she couldn’t find the web page. Then I hit on the idea of Themarvelousinnature — but there’s no internet at work. So I gave Customer E.g.’s work e-mail, to send E.g. the photos, so E.g. could contact TheMarvelousinnature for ID and maybe suggestions.

So let’s see, Linda was Human Number Three. I was Four, E.g. Five, Themarvelous Six. Miraculously, Themarvelous was at her computer and replied immediately to E.g.’s query and forwarded photos. Themarvelous guessed it might be an American Robin, but she wasn’t sure. After all, the bird consisted of a little dark down, some bluish pinfeather shafts, a great gawping beak, and big pink legs. And its photos had been taken with a telephone.

Themarvelous also informed us that technically, it’s illegal under the Migratory Bird Act to try to raise baby Robins. But she also told us where the closest Wildlife Rehab places are, and she thought the one uptown might actually see us without an appointment. That was good enough for me.

Meanwhile, Linda nipped home and returned with her electric heating pad, which we set under the nesting bin in the staff room. Another employee, Dan, who has raised baby pet tropical birds at home, took time off from his time off to bring powdered parrot formula and a feeding syringe, and showed Linda how to use it while I served customers. When Jack met me after school, Linda showed Jack how to feed the bird.

So Dan was the eighth human involved, and Jack the ninth. Jack was feeding the nestling at 6 pm when Customer called to see how Billy was. I told her that her photos suggested a Robin.

Jack and I stayed at Jack’s house that night, since he doesn’t have a cat, and he coached me in feeding the itty-bit without drowning it. (A baby bird’s epiglottis and trachea are really close together, and it’s very easy to kill a nestling by accident when feeding it. Just so’s you know. ) I fed it at ten pm and at six this morning.

At 08:15 this morning, E.g. drove over to pick us up. Off we went to the Rehab Centre north of town. We arrived at 9:02. Human Number 10 was very, very kind. The Rehab Centre has no more room for songbirds right now, and yet she was very, very kind. They have been inundated by phonecalls regarding baby songbirds and can’t get much work done because of it, and yet she was very, very kind. Billy was examined and found to be a Starling — the most insanely common songbird, non-native, classified a nuisance bird by some authorities — and still Human Number 10 was so very, very kind. I made a donation of a shift’s pay. They deserved it.

We all got back in time for me to go to work. I hadn’t been at the petstore ten minutes when Customer phoned, asking for me. I reported cheerily that the Wildlife Rehab Centre had taken “Billy”, and all was well.

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Customer gushed. “I finally got through to the Humane Society this morning, and they apologized for the phone  trouble yesterday, and they said I could bring Billy there.”

The Humane Society is six blocks from home.

At least, from now on, we petstore employeees will be able to dissuade further kind-hearts from giving us abandoned birds, squirrels, raccoons, or aardvarks by stating that it would be illegal for us to take them. Thank you, Themarvelousinnature!

Although I’m sure Customer was well-meaning, this nestling that under normal circumstances would have been killed by a cat or a car within half an hour, has been suffering overhandling and dehydration (parrots need feeding every four hours; songbirds, every hour) for a day and a half, and — counting gas, plastic bin, unpaid-for wood chips and puppy toy, and donation — cost about $80. E.g. desperately needs a day off, and didn’t get one today. The beleaguered Rehab staff were overfull, but took the bird anyway. What cost to E.g. and the wildlife workers?

The whole incident really makes me wonder, anyway. Our store doesn’t even sell animals, only pet products. If you found a child lost in the shopping mall parking lot, would you drop her off at the grocery store check-out?

Here’s a shot of an adult Starling, courtesy of Goodbear.