anniversary of a real pain in the ass...

7 years ago today I was in a horrific bike accident, and though it happened so long ago and I was in excruciating pain, I remember just about every detail from that day.  I was riding my bike to work in Kingston, coming down the big hill on Division Street to the Shopper's Drug Mart at Kingslake Plaza just before Division exits onto the 401, and was going the same speed as the traffic (about 40-50kph, I would say).  It had rained that morning, so the road was pretty wet, which of course made my tires pretty wet, and my rims pretty wet, and therefore my brake pads pretty wet.  So when some jerk in front of the blue Acura that I was following decided that he/she REALLY REALLY needed to stop at Tim Horton's, turning at the last second without signalling, the Acura driver slammed on his brakes, and without having time to think too much about it, I slammed my brakes on too (if you can 'slam' brakes on a bike).  Because it was wet and I was going so fast, my bike quickly fish-tailed out of control and sent me into a giant skid, and before I knew it, I hit the pavement, going 50, landing smack-dab on my right hip and then skidding about ten feet along the road.

The incisions in my hip.  Oh they get better, believe me.

I have read that the femur is the strongest bone in the human body.  It is as strong as concrete.  Apparently no one told my right femur that, because it broke upon impact as soon as I hit the ground.  I can distinctly remember hearing it break - it sounded like when you take a big fat thick carrot by both ends and snap it in the middle.  I'll never forget that sound for as long as I live.  The force involved in that fall must have been pretty substantial to do that kind of damage.  At the time, I remember hearing it, but it didn't really register that I had broken anything; I guess probably because I was in some serious shock.  I had also dislocated my knee, which was a whole 'nother ball of wax... just agonizing pain...  I remember standing up, dazed, and trying to walk on my broken leg to get off the road.  The sickly feeling of broken bones buckling under my weight was pretty gruesome, and it hurt a whole lot, so I lay down again in the middle of the lane to await the ambulance, whose siren I could hear in the distance.

3 days after

When the paramedics arrived (one was named Terry, and I can't recall the other guy's name), they were just amazing.  They cut my pants off in the middle of the street, which I'm sure was just thrilling to the ten or so gawkers who had gathered to watch me writhe in agony (hey, I can't say anything bad about them; one of them called 911 after all). They got me on a back board and immobilized my neck and asked me a whole bunch of questions, and then they told me they were going to put my knee back where it should go, and that it would be the most pain I have ever experienced in my life.  No one wants to hear any kind of medical professional tell them this.  Ever. But they weren't lying.  The other dude (not Terry) held my shoulders, and Terry got down by my feet, and after telling me to take a deep breath, he YANKED ON MY BROKEN LEG with all his might.  Oh it hurt.  I remember screaming at the top of my lungs for what seemed to be a lifetime, but was probably just a couple of seconds, and then all of the sudden, my knee popped back into place and it was like a wave of instant relief washed over me... my pain was gone... never mind the broken femur, it didn't seem to be an issue, as far as pain level was concerned.  Then the EMTs bundled me into the back of the ambulance (which was pretty darn cool, I must say), and off we whizzed to Kingston General.

Five days after.  Pretty sweet road rash, eh?

At the hospital, I was put on a morphine drip and they stabilized me in a little room to wait the eight hours until they could get me in for surgery.  During this time, I had x-rays taken and learned that my femur was broken about three inches above my knee; a long, jagged, ugly looking break.  The bone had snapped, but on an angle, and then one of the broken ends had cracked up the length of the bone.  Pretty nasty.  I gave one of the nurses Matt's work number, and they made the call for me.  After talking to Matt for a bit, he hung up to start the journey from Cobourg, where he was still working at the time, only coming up to Kingston on weekends.  He got to KGH in record time, and I felt much better.  I drifted in and out of drug-addled consciousness, and then awoke to find myself upstairs being prepped for surgery.  Before I knew it, I was counting backwards from ten (I doubt I made it past 8 or 7), and then I woke up in a semi-private room in the dark, with Matt there holding my hand, promising me he would return the next day (it was about 3am).

Six days after.  Gettin' all yellowy now.

During surgery my surgeon, Dr. David Yu, made an incision at the top of my hip, drilled a canal down into the middle of the femur, then rammed a titanium rod through the length of the bone, and screwed it into the head of the femur just above the knee (I have seen this procedure done on TV since then, and it does not look pretty.)  My leg swelled up to at least twice its normal size, and it was most uncomfortable, to say the least.  I  woke up the next morning at the crack of dawn with the bitchiest nurse on the face of the planet telling me to 'get up!' and yanking the covers off of me.  Get up??  Was this woman completely mad?  No.  Well, maybe.  She got me up and out of bed and standing with the help of a walker, and I shuffled gingerly to the bathroom.  I tried to get on the toilet to pee, but had some difficulty, which resulted in me pissing on the floor.  I did this several more times while I was there, and I think the orderly who came to mop the floor for the umpteenth time during my stay really really wanted me to die.  If looks could kill... sheesh...

One week after.  If there was a 'best bruise' contest, I would be a shoe-in.

After a few days of half-assed physio, when they were satisfied that I had mastered the crutches, I was finally allowed to go home.  I was given a prescription for some serious narcotics and was told that a physiotherapist would be by once a week to help me with my recovery.  The pain was horrific as Matt bundled me into our van and drove over the pot-holed streets of downtown Kingston to our basement apartment on Fraser Street.  I was dizzy and light-headed and weak; I thought I would never make it down the stairs to the pull-out couch which Matt had set up for me, as our bed was too low to get in and out of easily.  He took great care of me for several days after my return home, which was good, because I sure as hell couldn't.  My sweetheart is such a great guy... aww...

Nine days after.  Such colour!  Such texture!  lol

But then he had to leave.  Matt left Kingston for Cobourg, and I was on my own until the following weekend, when he could come up and see me again.  I was petrified.  I was all alone in a basement apartment in the middle of December, and was so sore and light-headed that even the most menial task like going to the bathroom or making myself something to eat took forever.  Everything was SO hard.  My leg was still swollen and puffy, and I could barely find it in me to do much of anything... if I had had a bedpan, I would never have gotten out of bed, because it was just so much work.  I realize that the best thing in such situations is to get up and get back to normal as quickly as possible, but that idea seemed totally laughable at the time.  I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat, I couldn't go anywhere, and I was all alone except for three cats (Spliff, Black Cat, and Frank) and our first rabbit, Zeus.  And while they did their best to take care of me (the three cats would not leave my side the entire time, and even Zeusie jumped up on the pull-out and stretched out beside my leg), it sucked, to say the least.

Frank (left), Black (behind my head) and Spliff (right) on nursing duty

Looking back, the accident and its aftermath has been one of the most challenging things I have ever had to deal with in my life.  But I try to look on the bright side.  If there had been a car behind me when I fell, I would be dead.  The shards of broken bone in my leg could have ripped through my femoral artery, and I could have bled to death on the side of the road before the ambulance arrived.  There is no end to the possible tragic endings that COULD have taken place, so I consider myself pretty lucky when it all boils down to it.  Definitely not something I want to do over again (I have been on a bike ONCE since my accident, but I am determined to ride the shit out of one the next chance I get).  Oh well, everyone has to have one exciting yet horrible story to tell for evermore, right?  In my case, I hope this is the one and only.  As for the titanium rod, it's still there.  I can have it taken out at any time if I want to, but it is totally unnecessary surgery, so I think I'll keep it.  I've grown quite attached to the dear little thing over the years, and it hasn't caused me any grief, so I see no point in having it removed.  

Plus, I like to tell the kids I am a robot.  

Attack of the Homicidal Jungle Cat...

I was most brutally savaged by a tiny tiger last week.  

You wouldn't think an eleven pound house cat would be able to inflict the sort of damage I have endured over the last eight days, but you would be sorely mistaken.  Last Tuesday I helped my dad take my parents' cats, Spot and Carol, to the vet for their annual check-up and vaccinations.  When asked a few days prior if I would help dad out, I agreed without thinking twice.  As it turns out, I should have thought twice.  While Spot is just the sweetest little cat you ever did see, his sister is a force to be reckoned with, and while I 'happily' take her abuse in the form of spitting and hissing and swearing when I go upstairs to cut her nails from time to time I seriously underestimated her sheer power and ferocity.  As a feral cat not much more than a kitten herself, Carol was rescued from a window well with her two tiny babies by a cat rescue agency and was put up for adoption, unwittingly taken in by my naive parents in their quest for a pal for Spot after our old dog Max had to be put to sleep.  She has always been on the wild side, and is never quick to trust anyone at all, but I had no idea she was capable of such carnage.  I mean, come on... it's a house cat, right?

After giving Spot his needle and putting him back in his carrier, Dr. Hall moved on to Carol.  The minute he touched her, she started muttering under her breath in that unearthly, eerie, demonic cat voice we are all familiar with; a foreshadowing of the hellfire that was about to be unleashed.  He checked her ears and mouth and heart and lungs and all that good stuff, then gave her her needle, and she was pretty well behaved, relatively speaking. I was duly impressed at her ability to keep her composure; I figured Dr. Hall would have long been disemboweled by this point in the proceedings.  Then he moved on to her nails.  Carol has trouble with her nails - sometimes they grow too long and curl around into her little pads, the poor thing - and since she is so violent and trimming them is a chore that involves me, dad, a towel, and lots of screaming and carrying on, we aren't as diligent about cutting them as we should be.  Since this was one of those times, and we were here to see Dr. Hall anyways and he probably happily cuts cats' nails all day long, dad asked if he wouldn't mind cutting them.  Like a fool, he agreed, and like a fool, I held her.  

I am no stranger to holding cats.  Whenever there are veterinary procedures to be done 'round these parts, I am inevitably the one to carry them out, and I do so quickly and efficiently with my pet's well-being in mind.  In fact, until I was eighteen, I lived my entire life believing I would become a veterinarian, and did my co-op in Grade 11 at this very clinic (the Dundas Animal Hospital), which is owned by Dr. Hall.  Needless to say, I like to think I know what I am doing when it comes to this sort of thing.  This soon changed, however.  As the vet started in on Carol's talons, her muttering turned to growling, which grew louder and louder with each toe.  Then the shit hit the fan.  When Dr. Hall tackled the nail that had curled over on itself, Carol EXPLODED.  

She screamed, she snarled, she spit and hissed and drooled and panted.  She wriggled and twisted and puffed herself up in a frenzy as she tried to get away from me.  I held her as tightly as I could in a futile attempt to keep her still, but she was like a rabid, cornered wolverine in a fight for her life.  And she bit.  She bit and bit and bit.  She sunk her teeth into my hands no less than three times; a not-so-serious chomp to the right wrist, and two bites so deep that her entire fang disappeared beneath the skin - once into the meat between the thumb and forefinger on my left hand, and on the other hand, she very nearly bit clear through my pinky finger.  At the time, sure, they hurt - I restrained myself from yelling 'FUCK!' at the top of my lungs in the vet's office, which I am very proud of - but the pain wasn't that bad, and I didn't think they would turn out to be so serious!  I'd been bitten by cats before; certainly not this badly, but I'd been bitten by cats before.  I was more concerned that Carol was ok, and that Dr. Hall was able to clip ALL of her nails, because I certainly wasn't going to finish the job after this little psychotic display.  It took dad (who was scratched for his participation) and I both to hold Carol down and cover her face with a towel, while Dr. Hall finished her nails, and then we shoved her back into her carrier and I assessed the damage.  

My hands were already starting to swell to an unbelievable size - they looked like inflated surgical gloves - and they were turning an angry shade of reddish purple.  They were burning and itching like crazy, and had started to throb painfully.  I didn't think very much of it, being preoccupied by the sheer amazement of Carol's ability to defend herself for such a wee beastie... dad and I drove home in awe at the fury and speed of her attack.  After coming back downstairs (mom and dad live above us), I looked up 'cat bite' on the internet, just out of curiosity.  Like an idiot, I was totally skeptical when all I read was how dangerous cat bites can be, and how serious they are, and how at least 40% of them turn out to be infected and require medical attention, so I did nothing right away except wash them really well and put Polysporin on them.  Surely they couldn't be that bad, could they?  It's only a cat, for pete's sake!  

But no.  I was wrong.  It seems cat bites are among the worst out there.  Their slimy, filthy, little cat mouths are teeming with bacteria, including Pasteurella, Staphylococcus, Streptococcus, and Clostridium, just to name a few.  And while they have little to no bite pressure (unlike dogs, which have teeth designed to crush bones, etc), and are unable to move their jaws back and forth to grind their food (cat jaws can only move up and down, not back and forth), the shape of their teeth contributes to the severity of the bite.  Because cats' teeth, particularly the long canine teeth, are long, thin, cone-shaped, and needle sharp, they are capable of penetrating deep into flesh and leaving puncture wounds that close up when the tooth has been pulled out.  While this may not sound so bad, the danger lies in their filthy bacteria-ridden saliva, which is essentially 'injected' into the hole and then left under the skin to fester once the wound has closed up again.  Cats are essentially venomous, it seems... like little komodo dragons, or little gila monsters... While I should have heeded the advice to head to the hospital immediately and get my wounds checked out, I was so tired and the thought of sitting in emerg for a couple of hours was so unappealing that I decided to wait until morning, and tried my best to get comfortable enough to go to sleep; no mean feat, let me assure you.  

The next morning, I woke up in excruciating pain.  My hands were huge and the flesh around each bite was a red, hot, blotchy, streaky mess.  I had Matt drop me off at St. Joe's on his way to work, thinking I would be out in an hour or so with a prescription for an oral antibiotic.  No such luck.  When I told the triage nurse I was there because of a cat bite, he rushed me through the intake process, and before I knew it I was whisked away for my first course of IV antibiotics.  I sat with an IV drip in my arm for half an hour, then a lovely, dreamy nurse named John unhooked me, taped the little lead tube to my arm leaving the needle in the back of my hand (after blowing out a vein in the top of my forearm... ugh), and bandaged my puffy freakish paws for the return home.  I came back twice more for more IV antibiotics and was given a prescription for ten days of clavulin (in pill form this time, thankfully) on top of that.  Finally, on Thursday afternoon, the IV and bandages were removed and I was told I didn't have to come back unless things took a turn for the worse.  I am finally able to close my hands in a half-assed fist (they still hurt like crazy and I can't make a tight fist, but seeing as how a few days ago I couldn't even move my fingers, I'll take what I can get), and the swelling has gone down almost completely.  It appears I am 'on the mend.'

If anything, I have gained a whole new respect for house cats through all of this.  I think a lot of the time we forget that we are living with what are essentially 'little big cats' and that above all commonly-kept pets, cats remain the most unchanged by evolution and domestication.  Cats command respect and will not be coerced, tricked, or forced into anything they don't see as worth doing, and for years and years human beings have learned to accept this, so I guess I should have seen this coming a mile away.  Carol's explosive reaction was phenomenal, and there is no doubt in my mind as to her ability to defend herself when faced with danger.  Seriously, I am still in awe.  While my initial feeling was something akin to wanting to boot her down the stairs (no, I'm kidding, I could never do that...), I have since come to terms with the fact that she was just doing what any cat would do, whether it be a pampered tabby or the most ferocious of wild beasts.  That being said, will I go upstairs to help cut her nails any time in the near future??


Not on your life.  

Evil, heathen Carol (left) and lovely, wonderful, well-behaved Spot (right)

Smokers are jerks... and I mean that in the nicest possible way

I am a proud non-smoker, and I always have been. Oh sure, I tried it in grade eight when the rest of the world (i.e. my group of friends) tried it, but lucky for me it just didn't stick. I am amazed that it didn't, but it didn't.  Two adults I lived with for the duration of my childhood who prefer to remain nameless smoked my entire life. My brother, who was my hero growing up (not that he isn't still or anything) smoked from the age of about fifteen until he found out he was going to be a dad five years ago. My husband Matt smokes. Most of my friends smoke. Why not me? What made me say 'Ew, this is disgusting, what is wrong with you people?' and not them? It puzzles me to no end. Not that I am complaining or anything; I've saved myself a lot of money, a lot of health problems, and a lot of hassle by choosing not to smoke, so I am definitely glad I never took it up.

That being said, I have never been one to rag on smokers all the time for their choice of habit. I am not one of those non-smokers that bitches about smoke from your cigarette going in my face, or one who will not hang out at certain friends' houses because they are nicotine fiends, and never would I NOT see a band or musician I liked because I might inhale a little second-hand smoke. I tend to avoid situations where I am unable to breathe, as a rule, but it isn't going to ruin my night if I have to deal with it. While it amazes me that people in this day and age STILL decide to take up smoking even with all the scientific evidence that suggests it just might not be a good idea after all, I am not one to go into some big spiel about how you are going to get any number of cancers, shorten your lifespan by about fifteen years, have disgusting breath and stinky clothes, nicotine stains on your fingers, an increased number of fine lines and wrinkles, end up with heart- and/or lung-disease, become impotent, increase your risk of stroke by 40-60%, increase your heart rate and blood pressure, or significantly decrease your circulation. That's your problem, smokers, not mine.

But what's with smokers thinking it is ok to chuck butts everywhere? Seriously, it's nearly as disgusting as the act of smoking itself. Maybe even more so, now that I think about it, since it affects the general public and the environment instead of just the health and wellbeing of the smokers themselves. Why is it so easy for people - even good people who pick up after themselves and recycle and sort their garbage and all that good stuff - to throw their butts on the ground? Do they honestly think it does not count as littering? Because it does... and nothing pisses me off more than littering. Cigarette butts, made primarily from a type of plastic called cellulose acetate lovingly wrapped in paper and rayon, take anywhere from 18 months to 10 years to decompose, depending on the environment they are so haphazardly thrown into. They are not completely biodegradable, only breaking down into smaller physical components. In addition to the 'visible' cigarette butt itself, each one contains toxic chemicals such as benzene, arsenic, ammonia, nicotine, tar, butane, cadmium, formaldehyde, copper, DDT, acetone, lead, turpentine, radon, stearic acid, methanol, toluene, and hydrogen cyanide (to name a few) that leach into the surrounding environment, stunting plant growth and invariably ending up in our waterways, where each cigarette butt pollutes 40L of drinking water. Cigarette butts are also a danger to wildlife who ingest them thinking they are food, and are responsible for millions of fires worldwide (90,000 yearly in the US alone). They are the most-littered item in the entire world, with billions of butts being thrown on the ground each year.

The world is not your ashtray. If you want to smoke, that's fine; that's your choice. But throwing it on the sidewalk, or on the road, or in a nice wooded area, has got to be the pinnacle of ignorance. Use the ashtray in your car, carry a bit of foil or a little container in your coat pocket to put them in, or use provided 'butt stops.' There is no reason for them to end up on the ground. Thank you.

gross.

Who do you wear YOUR poppy for?

Today, Remembrance Day, marks the 92nd anniversary of the signing of the Armistice between Germany and the Allies during the First World War.  At the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month 1918, key members of the Allied Forces met with representatives from Germany in a railway car in the Compiègne Forest in France, to sign the military agreement that would end the fighting on the Western Front and signify the end of 'The War to End All Wars.'   When I was a little kid in elementary school, I can vividly remember people making more of an effort to commemorate this important event, and to recognize the struggles and sacrifices made by those who fought and died for their country in The Great War and in all the wars and battles all over the world since that day.  I recall having a Remembrance Day parade at school that culminated in an assembly in the gym, where we all recited 'In Flanders Fields' and sang 'O Canada.'  We had visits from those who had fought valiantly in battle, then we coloured our own paper poppies in class, pinned them to our coats, and marched down to the Cenotaph in Gore Park for two minutes of silence - back when it was a full two minutes of silence - to honour the fallen and to give thanks to the veterans who were still alive to share their stories with us.  


But it seems as I get older, Remembrance Day does not hold the same clout it once did.  Is it just me?  Not having kids in the public school system, I am totally oblivious to what is being taught about the subject in school today, if anything, so please excuse my ignorance if I am totally wrong.  It just seems that now, or even by the time I was in high school (and was proud secretary of the History Club, thank you very much), students are not presented with the same volume of information they were when I was in my formative years, and if they are, learning about such important events is often optional.  When you are fourteen, are trying to be 'cool,' and are confronted with the choice between spending a couple hours in the library talking to a bunch of old dudes about wars that happened decades ago, or going home early for the afternoon to veg out in front of the TV or hang out with friends, unfortunately, for all but a few of us, the pull of after-school programming wins out every time.  With recent pitches to declare Remembrance Day a statutory holiday, I fear for the future of this solemn day of reflection.  It should not be a day to sleep late, or nurse a hangover, or go shopping, of all things.  The attempt by companies like Sears and Eddie Bauer to make a buck from someone's courageous loss of life with the advent of a 'Remembrance Day Sale' is an insult to our vets.


I remember my mom giving Justin and I a poppy each fall.  When asked why we wear our poppies, she would tell us the story of Onkel Arne, my MorMor's brother.  Arne Poulsen, 18 years old, was killed in Hans Christian Andersen Park in Odense, Denmark on 5 May 1945.  Arne dreamed of being an agricultural consultant and running a farm some day, and worked on a farm in a little village just outside of Odense to gain the experience required to get into agricultural college.  During the Second World War, MorMor - who was 14 or so at the time of his death - didn't see very much of Arne.  She thought it was because he was away at school, and he was... but he was also a freedom fighter; a member of the Danish Resistance Movement (Modstandsbevægelsen... don't ask me how to say this) that fought the occupation of Denmark by Nazi Germany and helped transport Danish Jews out of the country to safety.  In fact, Arne was part of the group that received and decoded secret messages sent from the Allies via BBC Radio and Danmarks Radio, notifying the Modstandsbevægelsen of where and when the next drop of weapons and munitions would be to help them fight the common enemy and regain Denmark's freedom from the Nazis.  MorMor didn't see very much of him, because Arne could have been arrested at any time for his involvement and imprisoned, sent to a concentration camp, or worse, as would anyone else in his company at the time.  He stayed away because he did not want to endanger his parents, two sisters and two brothers.  The last time MorMor remembers seeing her brother was the evening of May 4th, 1945.  The next day, May 5th, Denmark was liberated from German occupation by the Allies, but in a cruel twist of fate, Arne would never get to see a 'free' Denmark.  While ridding Odense of the last fleeing Nazi soldiers, Arne's friend was gunned down in HC Andersen Park.  Arne ran out to try to save him, and was killed on the spot.  He died beside his friend in the park on what is now celebrated as Liberation Day in Denmark.  When I was there in 1998, MorMor, Onkel Svend and I visited HC Andersen Park and saw the plaques that mark the places where Arne and his friend fell on that day, along with many other brave men and women who fought to keep their country free.  


On Remembrence Day, I wear my poppy for Arne Poulsen.  I will never forget his story, and I will share his story with my kids some day, so they never forget either.  If it weren't for people like Arne who fought so bravely, I wouldn't be here today, and neither would you.  This Remembrance Day, please pay proper respect to those who fought and died to defend their country and stand up for what is right.  Don't 'celebrate' by buying a sweater, or sleeping in... speak with a veteran.  Listen to their stories and hear the first-hand account of what it was really like to fight for what you believe in.  Hear about the sacrifices made and the lives lost and the victories won.  Because there will come a time when we won't be able to do that anymore, and sadly that time isn't all that far off.  According to Veterans Affairs, there are only 143700 Canadian veterans from the Second World War alive today, at an average age of 87, and 12000 veterans from the Korean War, at an average age of 78.  Twenty thousand Canadian vets die each year.  At that rate, by the year 2018, there will be no one left to share with us the stories of war such as we have never heard before in our lifetime.   At 11am today, take two minutes - a full two minutes - out of your busy day to think about what Remembrance Day really means to you.  To me, it means having the freedom to think, choose, and believe whatever I want to think, choose or believe, and live a life that is free of tyranny and oppression - thanks to brave souls like Arne who did their part to uphold these basic human rights.   

I hope I did the right thing... *sigh*

I always have such a hard time with euthanasia.  Not that putting a loved one 'to sleep' (how quaint!) should ever be easy, but I am always completely torn asunder when one of our beloved beasties is in so much pain or distress that there is nothing else to do but say goodbye.  While I would love to be writing about how much fun I had on my little adventure to see Billy Connolly at Massey Hall on Saturday night, I am just so darned sad today.  I can't even muster a single chuckle when I think about seeing my favourite comedian for the third time, this time at one of the world's most beautiful and historic venues.

Yesterday morning I had to have Norrie put 'to sleep'.

For those of you who are not familiar with my furry family, Norton (Norrie) was a beautiful, elderly tortoiseshell cat.  My gran adopted Norrie an amazing SEVENTEEN years ago from a cat rescue agency here in Hamilton.  A victim of population explosion, little Norrie (I named her Norton... gran and I were watching 'The Honeymooners'... ha ha) was looking for a quiet home after being an abused, neglected barn cat for the first year of her life.  Gran took her in and she lived a quiet happy life for many many years from the comfort of the back bedroom.  When I moved home from Kingston five years ago, and moved in with gran to help her out, Norrie and I became really good buddies.  It took her a while to trust me (it took her a while to trust anyone) but once we got to know each other better, we became the best of friends, so it was no trouble at all when Norrie officially became 'my cat' after gran moved into the nursing home.  She was so sweet and meek and timid.  She feared loud noises, sudden movements, and thunderstorms (among other things... ok, who am I kidding, she was afraid of everything).  She had the richest, most beautiful, most luxurious purr I will ever hear in my life.  She was such a good listener.  She used to mutter under her breath in a weird, rusty, squawky meow.  She used to sleep under the covers beside me.  She was a beautiful combination of black and brown and marmalade tabby that I have never seen the likes of before.  She had one orange toe that I just loved to bits.

But late Saturday night, when I got home from Toronto, I was confronted with a scene of pure carnage.  There were pools of blood on the carpet in the bedroom, and drops and splatters all over the hall and bathroom floor.  I thought Matt had cut a finger off in my absence, quite frankly, that's how much blood there was.  (The fact that he was sleeping peacefully didn't really register at the time... ha ha)  After coming to my senses a bit, I thought it was a rabbit fight, which can be pretty brutal.  But after counting long-eared heads and checking for obvious wounds, I checked the cats, and found where all the blood was coming from.  Poor Norrie.  She was trying to pee, and she couldn't.  Instead of peeing, she was bleeding; it was matted in her tail and all down her pants.  She wasn't complaining, or crying, just wandering around bewildered, trying to go to the bathroom.  And she was purring.

When I saw what was wrong, I felt just awful.  I had seen blood in Norrie's urine off and on for a little while, but Norrie was so timid and easily freaked out that invasive veterinary procedures would have been so stressful for her, and I fear would have done more harm than good at this point.  She just couldn't handle it.  After much research, we thought it was her food, and had been slowly changing foods to try and get to the bottom of her urinary issues (and to prevent similar issues in Black and Frank), with varying degrees of success.  Believe it or not, most commercial cat food is completely unsuitable for cats.  Unlike dogs, cats are strictly carnivores, which means they should eat nothing but MEAT.  Cats should not eat corn, or rice, or 'chicken by-product meal'.  Cats should eat meat.  Commercial pet foods do not provide this for cats, and it just isn't fair.  In fact, most feline health complaints are the result of improper diet, even when cat owners believe they are providing nothing but the best for their cats.  I am currently researching switching Black and Frank to the BARF diet (bones and raw food) for cats, but that is a blog for another day.  When it came to poor old Norrie, I realized that it was too late.  I had failed her.  On Saturday night, I cleaned her up as best I could, and gave her something good to eat, and we spent the night sleeping on the floor together, just camping out.  She got under the covers with me, and I patted her, and she purred and purred, just like she always did.

First thing Sunday morning, Matt and dad and I bundled up Norrie and took her to the Hamilton Wentworth Emergency Vet, and I held Norrie while they gave her the injection that would end her life.  I am just beside myself with grief.  Did I do all I could?  Did I do the right thing?  She seemed so healthy just days ago.  What if I could have saved her?  She wasn't crying or acting funny.  I know cats purr when they are in pain, and I know that Norrie was not the kind of cat to cry and wail, but she must have been in so much discomfort.  Right?  I know that at nearly eighteen, she had the longest, happiest life a cat could ever hope for or wish for, but euthanasia has always been the sort of thing that scares the shit out of me.

There are times when there is nothing else that can be done for a pet, and at times like that I am thankful that euthanasia is an option, because the alternative - watching a pet suffer and suffer until they die - is  positively unthinkable.  I myself have had to make this decision to end an animal's life way too many times, and it never gets easier, nor should it.  But so many people see it as such an easy choice to make, when their pet could be easily saved by a simple operation and/or medication.  Pets are not disposable.  Potential vet bills from illness and old age should always be taken into consideration when opting to welcome any furry critter into the home.  I understand that these things are not cheap and that, since there is no legislation determining the cost of veterinary medicine or procedures, vet clinics can pretty much charge whatever the hell they want for their services.  Vet care is expensive for any animal, and it is so hard to put a price on one's love for their pet.  Because of this, I always feel just awful when I have to make the decision to end a life.  What if I could have done something to save Norrie?  She didn't have a voice to tell me how she felt; if she was in pain, or if she was uncomfortable, or if she wanted me to take 'drastic measures' to save her.  Did she understand that I loved her and that I wanted to do what was best for her?  Did she know she was not 'disposable' to me, and that I wasn't taking the easy way out?

aaarrgghhh.  I hope so.  I'm so sorry Norrie-cat.

You know she is sick if you can take her picture; she used to think you were trying to steal her soul if you had a camera in your hand

Gone in the blink of an eye...

Today marks four months to the day since I lost the funniest, kindest, most original person I have ever had the privilege of knowing.  Four months ago I stood shocked around a hospital bed with Matt and the rest of our family, staring in disbelief at the near-lifeless form in front of us, lying so still and silent.  Four months ago, I held his hand and kissed his forehead and told him I loved him, for the very first and very last time in my life.  He was so warm.  His chest still rose and fell.  His heart still beat.  He looked like he was sleeping.  Four months ago, I thought he would wake up.  Four months ago today, I was in the ICU at Kingston General Hospital saying goodbye to my friend.  Not 'see you later,' not 'catch you at the next gig,' but goodbye.  Forever.
 
Four months ago today, on June 28th, Jesse Eammon Archer was shot in the head and killed, for nothing more (we'd all like to think) than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  That is such a cliche, and while I used to believe that you get what you deserve in this life; that good always prevails and that karma always wins out in the end, I can't possibly allow myself to believe such idealistic dribble anymore.  To believe in karma would be to believe that the eldest of my three 'little brothers' did something to deserve the hand he was dealt.  And while I'm sure there were many things about his life that Peck chose not to share with us, nothing he could have possibly been hiding would EVER warrant a death like this.

He did not play with guns.  He did not choose to befriend common criminals.  He did not deal drugs.  He did not believe in violence, or bullshit, or trying to be cool (he just was, without any effort at all.)  He did not believe in having to prove himself to anyone, or taking crap from people who didn't understand him, or copying others.  So I ask you, what could he POSSIBLY have done to deserve being executed like he was?  I have been asking myself this for months now, and I still come up with nothing, each and every time.

I try to tell myself that he died to remind us all that we take things - and more importantly, people - for granted.  I try to tell myself that he died so that the five recipients of his organ donations would have another chance at life, or so we would all realize how stupid and reckless it is to carry a handgun, for any reason.  I try to cheer myself up by remembering that he would not want me to be sad all the time, and that he would want me to remember the good times we all shared and all the laughs we had together during his life, and to not focus on the atrocities and injustice surrounding his death.  I try to tell myself all these things, but it still hurts so much.  It is still as fresh and as raw as it was when I had to look at him one last time and say goodbye.  I am not appeased by these optimistic notions in the very least.  I know I should be, and that there is some truth to them, but I am not.

I do not believe in God.  I do not believe in the devil either, for that matter.  I do not believe in heaven or hell or reincarnation or fate or unicorns or leprechauns.  I do not mean to anger or shock anyone by saying this.  I DO respect everyone's right to believe whatever they choose, and I know that while some people want or need religion to get themselves through this life, I am not one of those people.  That being said, I do not criticize or mock those who are.  If you want to believe that our 'savior' is a magical, all-knowing water buffalo, be my guest.  Believe what you want to believe, just don't try to force it down my throat.  Respect is reciprocal, in religion as it is in anything else.

If we are going to get all philosophical about it, when it all boils down to it, I believe in science.  I believe in the Law of Conservation of Energy, which states that energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transferred or changed into a different form.  I don't know anyone who will deny that 'life' is a form of energy, and I don't think I want to know anyone who would try to deny such a thing.  In that vein, as it pertains to the fundamental principles of physics, when we die, our energy does not.  Cannot.  They don't call them laws for nothing, you know.

Who knows what happens to it, this life energy.  Is it absorbed into the ground?  Does it dissipate into the atmosphere?  Does it just get passed around until it eventually sparks the beginning of new life?  We could (and have) spend centuries speculating, and still grasp at straws.  The truth is, we will never know.

All I know is, I want my brother back.

I love you, pecker...  I miss you so much... *sigh*

A GIANT Frank!??! As if he wasn't big enough...

While perusing the paper today, I came across something that made me do a serious double-take, and THIS was it:

Not Frank...

It wasn't merely the fact that this glorious cat, 48.5" long 'Stewie' from Reno, NV was inducted into the Guinness Book of World Records for being the longest domestic cat ever (read the article about Stewie HERE), but that he is a dead-ringer for my own good-natured, fuzzy-headed little tiger, Frank.  I know that cats are cats, and a lot of cats look like a lot of other cats, but this cat really REALLY looks like Frank.  Here, judge for yourself:

Frank!  (he looks much longer if you stretch him out...)

If you know Frank, you love Frank.  It's as simple as that.  Unless you are Matt, and then you just don't understand how marvelous he actually is.  Frank really does resemble a small-scale tiger.  He has big fat tiger feet that are about the size of my palm when he flexes his toes, he's stripy all over (some places more than others), and when he walks, his shoulders roll under his luxurious pelt in such a way that is reminiscent of his larger, fiercer cousins.  He is svelte, strong, lithe and graceful, and he packs quite a punch, if you are a catnip mouse.  He would pack a punch regardless, but the chances of Frank actually hurting someone are pretty slim.  He is a gentle giant, and he is my sweetheart. 

If you met Frank without first understanding how sweet he actually is, he might be a little intimidating.  The kids next door are petrified of him.  When I let him outside and he does his wild, careening victory lap around the backyard, they back up against the fence.  He is a BIG CAT.  Certainly not as big as Stewie there, but still, he is quite formidable, based on sheer size alone.  He is twenty pounds of muscle swathed in a whole lot of fur, and when you say hello to him, his standard greeting consists of flopping on his back and opening his mouth as wide as he possibly can to show you his pearly whites, which are pretty daunting, I must say.  Is this some feline salutation I don't know about?  I have never met another cat who does this, but maybe because every other cat I've ever met has better manners, or just isn't as confident about his dental care regimen...

He may look ferocious, but Frank is a big softie in every possible way.  Soft of fur, soft of nature, and, dare I say it, soft in the head.  He is not the sharpest tool in the shed by any means, but he makes up for it with his sweet, bumbling disposition and a big friendly smile.  He never seemed to grow up, and while that makes him pretty annoying at times - like, for example, when he used to open the kitchen cupboard in the middle of the night and liberate the potatoes (I walked into the bathroom one morning to find a five inch baking potato sitting on the bath mat, and upon further investigation discovered Frank rolling red potatoes around the kitchen floor with much excitement.  It wasn't the last time he was found playing with them, either.) - I find it most endearing.  The way he looks at me with those sea-foam green eyes, oh my heart just melts.  His deep, rusty, rumbly purr certainly makes up for all those mad dashes around the apartment at 3am, stalking twist-ties and paper balls and god knows what else...

Frank's athletic proficiency and hunting prowess is astounding.  While not welcome at 3am, it is almost always entertaining to see him execute his acrobatics, whether they be in the form of 180-degree turns in mid-air while chasing butterflies (yes, he chases butterflies!) or death-defying leaps after a bit of menacing string, or proudly trotting in and dropping a live mouse on my chest in a fit of ecstasy at showing his mom what he has caught (of course I told him what a good boy he was... after recoiling in horror and making little girl noises...).  While not the best hunter in the world, he sure keeps the flies and moths under control, and hey, maybe we just don't have that many mice in the first place.

Though now nine years old, Frank will always be my little boy.  He has come a long way, but he still channels 'baby Frank' on a daily basis.  Those nights when he purrs so loud and stomps on my chest bring back memories of his little kitten-self sleeping beside me on the pillow in our apartment in Cobourg all those years ago.  He would fall asleep with a grin on his face, only to wake up crying every time a train went by.  He still has a little wee kitteny meow too, which is so surprising coming from such a burly brute - when you hear it, you just have to laugh.  One would expect him to positively ROAR, but he has two voices... soft falsetto, or gnarly yowl. 

How could I NOT fall in love with this guy?

But where did he come from?  What's Frank's story?  A lot of people have suggested to me that he looks like he has some Maine Coon in him.  Certainly in comparing him to Stewie, the resemblance is quite obvious.  He has the size, the paws, the long hair, the tufts on the ears, the easygoing demeanor.  But we will never know for sure.  Truth be told, Frank is 100% Warkworth Barn Cat.  In 2001, the Archers' cat Pippa had three kittens - Frank, Brownie, and Wheezy.  Pippa was a horrid mother who never took care of her babies, and since I was there a lot of the time, I did the majority of her mothering for her.  When the kittens were old enough to open their eyes, they simply couldn't, due to a build-up of crusty goop that Pippa should have been cleaning away, so I would wash the kittens' eyes each day so they could see.  In fact, I was the first living thing that little Frank ever saw, now that I think about it.  Maybe that's why he's so attached to me.  (I like to think so.)


When it was time to find the kittens homes, Brownie and Wheezy were taken up to Cordova Mines, to our friend Sherman's house.  While a great lover of cats, Sherman is pretty boisterous - he subsequently scared the shit out of Wheezy and she was never heard from again.  Poor Brownie met with an unfortunate accident with a riding lawn mower shortly thereafter, but Frank was still kicking around at the Archers' place.  Matt and I even brought him to Hamilton to meet mom and dad and their cat Spot, but we ended up bringing him home again.  It was MATT, believe it or not, who said 'aw, he's so cute... let's keep him.'  I wasn't going to argue with that.  (Thank you Matt)  It was also Matt who gave him his name - after Zappa, of course, who seems to have an important role in almost all of my life's major events thus far. 

So Frank came to stay, and we developed the close bond that we share to this day.  He is the noblest, gentlest kitty I have ever known.  He takes everything in stride, my boy does.  From cutting his nails and brushing out mats, to cleaning his gunky ears, to riding in the car to visit the vet, he just sits passively without fuss or complaint.  He can always be counted on to make me smile, even when everything is falling apart all around me, and I know he will always offer not one, but two furry shoulders to cry on when the world has let me down.  He even gives kisses, if you count violently mashing his nose into your face with as much blunt force as he can muster (he has given me a bloody nose before, so you know he means it.)

At only 38 inches, Frank falls ten or so inches short of matching Stewie's length, but I certainly don't hold it against him.  Size isn't everything, after all.  He may not be the longest cat there is, but he is definitely the sweetest, and I wouldn't trade him in for all the Stewies in the entire world.  You're a very good boy, Frankofelis, and I love you.

Sleep tight, little tiger!

Thanks to the lovely ShannonP for the two head shots of my boy in the backyard... the toothy one and the dreamy one... 

I'm great at my new job... ha ha

Hey folks, so sorry for not posting anything lately, I'm so busy at work... ha ha.  After declaring my intentions to become a freelance writer, I have been bombarding myself (and bombarded by others, thankfully) with references and tips of all kinds, and I have been dutifully following up every lead with gusto.  So far, I have learned that:

A) This is harder than it looks... ha ha

B)  It is considered 'bad form' to submit any one article to more than one publication at any given time.  You must wait for rejection letters from the first publication before you can pass it on the the next one.  (I'm going to have to start writing more...)

C)  Editors that will actually pay you money for articles need to see that you have a few under your belt first, so you are going to have to give a lot of your work away for free, at least in the beginning (hopefully only in the beginning).

D)  I will likely not see a single penny for a long long time.

But Fear not!  I am not discouraged... I have already submitted an article, and I am working on my entry for the 2010 CBC Literary Awards (thanks, Maggie!).  If I win first prize, I get $6000.00, and wouldn't THAT be nice?!  I am writing away diligently - not as much as I would like, but I was sidetracked this weekend by seeing Roger Waters' production of 'The Wall' in Ottawa with Jane.  I would try to explain more about that, but I am still agog.  Only those who have witnessed this will understand what I mean... to still be agog, four days after the fact.

Anyways, I'm trying to keep up with the blog, I really am... once I get off the ground and the novelty wears off a bit, I'm sure I'll get right back on track.  Maybe when the agogness of seeing The Wall wears off I will return to my senses...

Until then, here's a picture of me in a bunny hat... Enjoy!

(yes, I realize I am not going to win the CBC Lit award with my first ever serious essay... but a girl can dream, can't she?)

Well, you asked for it... (sorry Steph and Ian... ha ha)

Recently I have been suffering from a long, painful bout of the worst kind of 'Writer's Block'.  'Writer's Block' has always been one of those mystifying afflictions that puzzles me to no end.  I can always voice my opinion; there is no 'Speaker's Block;' so why do I have such difficulty putting these words down for all the world to read?  (I am thinking it is 90% laziness... ha ha)  Anyway, at such times, thanks to the marvels of social networking, all I need do is ask for a topic and before too long, something interesting will present itself - for good or ill (in this case, ill.)  Don't worry, those articles about trains, migration patterns of Great White Sharks, the evils of cell phones, and Australian magpies are coming... I'll get right on them... ha ha

ugh

 Today when I asked for help, fortune smiled upon me in the form of one Jordan Samuel Newhouse, who suggested I write about 'your adorable lovely little cousin, me :) and my out look on the world from ur perspective :P'  Well be careful what you wish for, dear cousin... your time has come.  (...and I'm not even going to mention your horrific spelling and grammar...)

I feel I have to offer up a bit of background information here... Jordan and I have been locked in a battle of wits (although it's pretty one-sided - Jordie being on the losing end, the poor little thing) that started when I was just finishing high school.  I was often enlisted to babysit this now-adolescent nitwit and his two lovely, beautiful, angelic sisters Lauren and Alexa.  What I remember most from the times we shared during this period is a relentless barrage of questions from Jordie whenever I saw him.  Which doesn't sound so bad, except they were THE SAME questions, each and every time.  The same questions, barked one after another, as if I was being drilled by some tiny, pre-pubescent Spanish Inquisitor.

'Why is your hair that colour?  How many tattoos do you have?  Why do you have so many?  Does it hurt?  Which one's your favourite?  Which one's your second favourite?  Are you going to get more?  Do you have a boyfriend?  What's his name?  Do you kiss him?  Are you going to marry him?  Can I be your ring-bearer?  Where does he live?  What does he do?  Can I see your tongue ring?  Does THAT hurt?'

It doesn't seem so bad, but it was brutal.  Delivered in rapid-fire succession with little time for uncertainty, the only thing missing was a dangling 100W light bulb burning a hole in my retinas.

As a result, all throughout my youth whenever I had the 'pleasure' of crossing paths with Jordie, I promised him that one day he would get his... one day I would exact my revenge and make his life a living hell.  I would one day strive to annoy and embarrass him every chance I got.  And I'm trying.  I don't see him very often, but when I do, I'm all over him like nobody's business, plus I try to harass him online at every turn.  And I like to think of myself as being pretty handy when it comes to sarcastic jabs and snappy one-liners...  but so far, I don't think I'm doing much damage.

The problem is, he LOVES it.  He lives to be teased.  For a while there I thought I was seriously off my game, but I've come to the conclusion that he just has some twisted hardcore masochistic tendencies, and I fear that picking on him is just giving him what he wants (and we all know there's no fun in that.)  Dear Jordan seems to welcome ridicule and laughter wherever he goes, and it's just too easy sometimes.  He takes all of the enjoyment out of flippant insults.  It is a sorry state of affairs.  I can't decide if he really lives his life like this, or what?  Is this guy for real?  Seriously?

The boy is obsessed with Lady Gaga.  He has a Lady Gaga party room in his basement; he plays her music nonstop; he would even DRESS like her if he could, I'm sure of it.  You'd think it'd be easy based on that fact alone, but no.  To poke fun at Lady Gaga is to engage in a tiring hour-long discussion about how fabulous she is and what breakfast cereal she might be enjoying that day or what she uses to get stains out of her gimp masks and kermit suits, and frankly I just can't stomach it.

He calls himself JEWHOUSE.  While he gravely assures me that there is no Antisemitism behind it (he's not that kind of guy), and that he has merely replaced the first letter of his last name with the first letter of his first name - because I guess this is something 'the kids' do these days - I can't help but sincerely wish that some lovely Jewish person beats the shit out of him on a daily basis.  (Jordie, I mean that... from the bottom of my heart.)

Jordan invites abuse and mockery in everything he does, and I just can't fathom it.  How can someone be so annoyingly ridiculous yet so unflappable at the tender age of sixteen?  Oh his poor, long-suffering parents.  If they had known such a cherubic little boy would turn out to be such a toad, they surely would have drowned him in a bucket before the age of two.  Most importantly, what does this nonchalance say about me?  Am I losing my touch?  I'm really going to have to step up my game here.  There has to be some way to expose his tender underbelly... no one is THAT good.

I must say though, I do admire his self-confidence.  He reminds me a little of me in that regard (which hopefully offends him greatly.)  At sixteen there was very little anyone could do or say to get my goat either, and there still is.  My goat just can't be gotten, for the most part, and I hope Jordie can say the same when he is thirty years old.  As much as I love to bug him, Jordan can be very funny and even witty, and we do have a lot of fun together.  But nothing seems to faze him; all of my half-assed attempts to wound his pride or make a fool of him fizzle out before they can do much damage, which is not a bad thing by any means... so there's that.  I guess.

seriously?

Mind you, I probably shouldn't sell myself short just yet; he does have it made in the shade.  Life is pretty sweet for label-clad, well-fed Jordan in his Ancaster mansion, with his swimming pool and his happily married parents and his doting MorMor there to put up with his constant crap all the time.  I would love to hear about how Jordie can't make his rent or can't get his crops in or doesn't know how he is going to pay the electric bill this month... 

Yep, it's pretty easy to defend yourself in this world and not let things bother you when you are young, male, 6'2", blond-haired and blue-eyed, with lots of friends and no shortage of cash.  I would probably admire his imperturbability a hell of a lot more or give him a lot more credit if he didn't have his affluence and popularity to back him up all the time.  In my humble opinion, it's much more commendable to stick to your guns and be yourself when you don't have the majority of Ancaster High School dressing like you, acting like you, listening to the same music as you, and living the same pampered, spoiled life as you.  Which makes me wonder if Jordie really is who he says he is, or if he's just another small fry swimming with the stream in a school of conformity...

I guess only time will tell.  Until then, Lord Gaga, I refuse to admit defeat, and I await your next move...

...even his MOM can't stand him...

Potato-head Bobby was a friend of mine...

looky-here!  I'm a farmer!

Early this spring, I opened my 'potato-bin' (AKA pot lid drawer) and found THIS staring back at me:

...open three of his eyes in the food stamp line...

Ok, well he wasn't in a glass of water... and he didn't have the drawn-on eyes, nose or mouth... but you get the idea.  Because of his outrageous hairdo and the obvious facial features (and arms!), I named him Bobby and decided to let him flourish on the kitchen counter for as long as he wished (he was way too old for eating, anyways).

After about two months of 'flourishing,' Bobby decided he was destined to move on to bigger and better things... namely, ROTTING on the kitchen counter for as long as he wished.  Poor Bobby.  My affections for him ran deep, but when he started to fill the house with musty, moldy potato reek, I decided he had to get out and make his own way in the world.  Instead of tossing my dear friend unceremoniously into the green bin like so much common organic waste, I planted him in the garden beside the sage bush with his 'hair' sticking out, just to see what would become of him.  All in the name of science, you see...

As the summer waxed and waned, Bobby's hair grew into a viny mass of leaves and flowers, and I could only dream of what was going on underneath the soil that held him captive for the duration of his short life.  I tended Bobby with great care (ok, Matt tended Bobby with great care... I am not much of a gardener...) and took great interest in his day-to-day pursuits, so you can imagine how proud I was when tiny little potato nubs started poking their round little heads around his circumference.  I never imagined I would actually get anything edible from Bobby; it was more of a science project than anything else...

But!  Yesterday was the day.  I simply couldn't wait any longer: it was time to harvest Bobby's progeny.  As I carefully excavated the earth from beneath his yellowing hair, I was amazed to see the size of the crop that Bobby had bestowed upon me for all my love and devotion, perhaps in thanks for saving him from the compost heap:

...the bottom one's for you, Maggie... I know how you love mutant produce... ha ha

POTATOES!!  WOW!

Yes, I do realize that if you plant a potato that has sprouted 'eyes', you are going to eventually get little potatoes; I know how farming works... (well, I have some idea of how farming works, but let's be fair; I did grow up in Hamilton.  We aren't exactly known for being an agricultural mecca.)  However, I certainly didn't expect this!  All these tender, tasty tubers, just for me! A perfect plethora of potatoes!  A beautiful bounty of baby Bobbies! 

I am very grateful to Bobby for awarding me this starchy gift.  So grateful, in fact, that tonight Matt and I will devotedly devour each and every last one of his children after roasting them with olive oil and garlic... or maybe potato salad?  I'm sure Bobby wouldn't mind.  Why else would he have produced so many?  Did he think I was going to lovingly raise ALL of them in the eerie fluorescence of my tiny kitchen?  If so, well... sorry Bobby... must have been a miscommunication somewhere along the line.  Don't you worry though, I'll take real good care of them... mmmm... tubers...

The one you've all been waiting for... BUNFEST 2010!!!

On Sunday, Matt and I (and one of our rabbits, Petunia) spent what was possibly the most entertaining afternoon I have had in ages, at the third annual 'Bunfest', held at Huron Park Recreation Centre on Paisley Blvd in Mississauga.  We all had an AMAZING time (some of us more than others... ha ha), and I left after a couple hours with a huge grin on my face that I couldn't seem to shake for the rest of the day.  Though we were in attendance for the first 'Bunfest' in 2008, last year we missed out due to our friends' wedding near Algonquin Park, so I was totally pumped for this year.  If you know me at all, you know that nothing makes me happier than a warm, furry lagomorph, so how I could not have a good time at such a rabbity event, I'm not sure.  After counting down the days for the last few months, on Sunday my dreams finally came true... Bunfest day had arrived!  Hooray!

don't mind if I do...

 Ok, so just what is 'Bunfest,' exactly?  Oh I pity those who do not know... I really really do.

'Bunfest' is wonderful, that's what it is.  It is like a trade show crossed with an information fair-type thing (if someone can think of a good word for this, please tell me... ha ha) and is presented each year by Rabbit Rescue Inc. which is an amazing, compassionate, non-profit organization located not far from us, in Milton.  The group was founded in 2001 by Haviva Lush, who has since dedicated much time and effort to saving rabbits all across Ontario.  Haviva and her team rescue bunnies that are neglected, abused, unwanted, or just plain misunderstood (which happens ALL THE TIME with rabbits, sadly), but they also save the lives of unfortunate rabbits in desperate situations, such as ill-treated meat rabbits that have been confiscated from farms with population explosion issues, rescued or 'retired' lab animals, or buns from shelters that are about to be put to sleep.  They then have the rescued bunnies spayed or neutered, and find good permanent homes for them with experienced rabbit owners who will love, respect, and care for them for the rest of their lives.  In addition to finding new forever homes for buns in need, Rabbit Rescue Inc. focuses on providing programs and services that educate the public about rabbit welfare, health, nutrition, and behaviour.  This is a vital service, since so many rabbits are adopted each year on a whim and then abandoned when they do 'rabbity' things and not cat- and dog-type things.  Rabbits are rabbits.  Simple as that.  If you don't know anything about rabbits, find out.  Don't just go and get a bunny because it is Easter, or because they are so cute, or because you think they will make good pets.  Chances are, if you venture into rabbit ownership with an attitude like that, they won't.  Rabbits take practice, and patience, and consistency.  They have a very strict hierarchy and social code that must be respected and followed by rabbit and owner alike, and if it isn't, they simply have no time for you.  Most people don't get this.  It breaks my heart to think about all the bunnies that are neglected and abandoned, simply because no one understands them.  Rabbit Rescue Inc. really is a great organization, and it is the largest rabbit rescue in Canada.  I urge anyone seriously considering getting a rabbit as a pet to visit their website first.  You'll learn a whole lot, and if you STILL want a rabbit, they will help hook you up with one that is right for you.  Now, on to the 'Fest!

'Bunfest' combines learning new things, furry creatures, spending money and fun.  I like all of these things.  In fact, I like all of these things A LOT.  There was tons of information to soak up on topics ranging anywhere from rabbit housing; behaviour; bonding; nutrition; and toys, to exhibits presented by Mississauga Animal Services, the Donkey Sanctuary of Canada, The Toronto Wildlife Centre, and the WSPA (World Society for the Protection of Animals).  Two rabbit-savvy veterinarians from Campus Estates Animal Hospital in Guelph were on-site to answer any medical questions.  A knowledgeable rabbit vet is an invaluable thing, let me tell you.  Believe it or not, not all vets are familiar with the weird physiology and behaviour of our little long-eared friends.  In fact, rabbits are still considered 'exotic' animals in North America, even though they have been kept here as pets for over 200 years.  Matt and I are very fortunate to have a great vet for our buns - Dr. Janice Phillips, of Briarwood Animal Hospital in Stoney Creek - who has helped us out of many a jam.

This year's 'fest also featured a booth educating people on how to care for disabled rabbits, which was really neat to see.  I learned a lot about caring for a disabled bunny when we had dear sweet little Hops, who, with only one leg in the front and hind-end paralysis that robbed her of pretty much all control of her back legs, was very disabled indeed.  In spite of this, she lived an incredibly full life and she loved every second of it, spoiled bun that she was.  It was really great to see all the tricks people have found along the way to improve the lives and well-being of rabbits in need of a little special attention, instead of just assuming they are unhappy and need to be put down.  I always learn something new from these people... true rabbit lovers are ingenious when faced with adversity.  It brought back a lot of memories.  (Incidentally, my Hoppie tattoo was a real hit.  Several people took pictures of it... ha ha).

Hops in the backyard, before she got sick and lost control of her hind legs...

Of course, in the midst of all of this wonderful knowledge, Rabbit Rescue Inc. manned a booth that featured a few rabbits seeking permanent homes, as well as several additional binders full of the profiles and stories of other hopeful buns that couldn't make it to the 'fest.  They even had two gerbils for adoption - Angus & Zach - but Matt said no... It was hard to walk away; you know how I feel about gerbils. *sigh*

Then there were the 'fun' things.  Things like professional photographer Jessica Lam, who does rabbit portraits (her photography studio is called 'Studio Lapin...' hee hee hee).  Jessica will even come to your house and photograph your rabbit in its natural habitat, which is good, because rabbits are a notoriously uncooperative bunch for the most part, and are very much creatures of habit who are not necessarily interested in being plunked down on a strange little table and having a bright light flashed in their eyes over and over and over again... (go figure) ...but we made Petunia do it anyway... ha ha  (Have no fear; Petunia is pretty much the most laid-back rabbit on the planet - she rolls with all punches).  Here is her portrait, which perfectly captures her typical semi-worried optimistic indifference... 

'Huh?  Oh.  Ok.'

As well as the portrait studio, the 'fest featured a silent auction, and a raffle for a big basket of bunny stuff (which we did not win).  The first 150 guests received a free 'loot bag' full of rabbit goodies and coupons, which was definitely a nice touch.  There was a grooming area where you could get your bun's nails clipped; a carrot-eating contest (for humans, not rabbits); and a craft station where you could make one of two bunny toys - either a brown paper bag poked full of holes stuffed with hay and treats, or a 'rattle' made of a thick piece of twine strung with plastic bottle caps with a hole punched in the middle (We made one of those and brought it home; Chicken chewed through the twine after about thirty seconds, and that was that.  ...should have given it to Penelope; she lives to throw stuff around... ha ha).  In case your rabbit got stressed, they also had a quiet corner with some cozy little pens where he or she could get out and stretch or munch some hay or have a drink of water and chill out for a while, but Petunia handled it all like a pro.  If she is anything like me, she had more fun than one should be allowed to have on a sunny autumn afternoon in Mississauga, that's for sure.  (You would think there was at least a smidgen of sarcasm there, but no, I am dead serious... ha ha) 

In addition to all that fun and learning, there was a plethora of 'stuff' to buy.  Stuff for buns, like fantastically fresh, delicious-smelling-yet-insanely-overpriced hay; all-natural treats and snacks; unbleached wicker and sisal mats, balls, rings, and the like to chew; medical supplies and nutritional supplements; plus scads of toys, dishes, and even CLOTHES for rabbits (I saw a rabbit in a 'Superbun' costume, and several in dresses... I'm pretty sure Petunia was laughing at them).  There was also loads of bunny stuff for people for sale - clothes and bags and license plate surrounds and bumper stickers and stuffed bunnies and candles and jewelry and crafts and toys and and and... an abundance of rabbity goodness as far as the eye could see, all to be had by those willing to part with a few dollars for a good cause.

I must interject here and say that I am not a 'crazy rabbit person.'  Oh they're out there.  BELIEVE ME, they're out there.  I love my rabbits, I really really do.  I treat them as though they were my children and dote on them like they are the most fascinating creatures on the planet (and they are).  I talk to them all the time, sometimes in a little bitty rabbit voice that embarrasses even me, and I often prefer their company over that of humans.  I am perpetually amused by their weird little antics, and yes, I do need to share these quirks with others so they too can marvel at how awe-inspiring and magnificent my 'babies' are.  My rabbits never fail to make me feel better when I am having a bad day... but the day I start pushing them around in a stroller, or dressing them in tutus, please kill me.  (Yes.  Strollers.  Tutus.  This shit is too weird to make up).  What is it with people and their animals?  I know I am treading on seriously thin ice here; I have done some things in my time when it comes to my pets that make me sometimes question my own sanity (I am a member of 'Bunspace,' after all... ha ha) ...but some people go beyond the beyond.  I am not talking about your garden-variety obsession, either.  There is something much more sinister at work here, and it scares the living shit out of me.  If you put a dress on your rabbit, there is something wrong with you.  And that's all I have to say about that.

That being said, the majority of 'rabbit people' I have met are genuinely kind and caring.  They are more than happy to tell you all about the rabbits they have known and loved, and are eager to share tips and tricks they have picked up along the way.  Rabbit people certainly do love their rabbits, and are more than just a little bit odd, which suits me just fine.  They are people who have realized how interesting and truly unique rabbits are, and recognize the individual personalities expressed by each and every one.  Believe me, once you start learning about their seemingly odd behaviour and weird social dynamic, rabbits are pretty bizarre.  They are strange little critters who do strange little things, but if you keep an open mind and are willing to acknowledge that they are intelligent, sentient beings that will under no circumstances act like a dog or a cat, you will never regret getting one, and will probably keep rabbits for the rest of your life.  No foolin'.

Of course, without question, the best part of 'Bunfest' was seeing all the different bunnies.  So many bunnies - oodles and oodles of rabbits, of all size and shape and description!  But this was no mere rabbit show; there was no judging here... guests were encouraged to bring their rabbits with them, and they brought them out in droves.  There were big buns and little buns, fat buns and thin buns; lop-eared buns and 'helicopter' buns (one ear up, one ear down... ha ha); skittish little baby buns, grumpy old roly-poly buns, and disabled buns of all ages stoically persevering over their infirmities.  There were rabbits of pretty much every breed you could possibly imagine - big fluffy Angoras with funny tufts on their ears; patchy bi-colour Dutch buns and svelte, plushy, smooth-coated Rexes; tiny-eared Netherland Dwarfs (Dwarves?), colossal Flemish Giants and pretty pink-eyed New Zealand Whites; Lionheads with wily manes, black-speckled English Spots, and little white Hotots with dark eyeliner on.  There were buns on harnesses, and buns in wagons; buns in carriers and boxes and Snuglis (see above re: crazy rabbit people).  Such amazing variety!  What a celebration of lagomorphic diversity!  It was truly a sight to be seen, and I was in heaven.

'Bunfest' was awesome.  For five bucks, you couldn't ask for a better afternoon.  I had such a fabulous time, and, whether he wants to admit it or not, I think Matt did too.  He likes to grumble and groan and poke fun at me, but I have caught him talking to our bunnies in a questionable manner on more than one occasion, and he is no stranger to getting down on the floor and rolling around with a rabbit or two now and again, that's for sure.  Secretly, he is just as much of a rabbit fiend as I, and I wouldn't have it any other way.  And Petunia?  She had a great time, too.  She observed the wonders of 'Bunfest' from a fleece-lined canvas shopping bag hung over my shoulder, just as cool and calm a bun as you ever did see.  She started to get a wee bit stressed out in the car on the way home, but we were all tired by that point, so I couldn't blame her when she got home and ran for the quiet solitude of 'under the couch.'  Hey, if I could get away with it, I would hang out under the couch all the time.  Besides, it didn't take long before she was stretched out on the little rug in front of 'Rabbit Villa,' with her big fat snowshoe feet sticking straight out behind her, and a look of relaxed bliss on her furry little face.

me and Petu... 'festing...

So thank you, 'Bunfest'.  You truly made my day.  Plus, with all proceeds going to Rabbit Rescue Inc. to help find great homes for bunnies in need, much good was done for rabbitkind that day... and that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

rowr!  Lionheads!

(I miss you, hoppo-bun... *sigh*)