NoodleDog

Packing commenced Thursday afternoon. Actually, packing SHOULD have commenced Thursday afternoon, but when I got home from work, I was tired and hungry, and chose to eat dinner instead, so I cooked up a little food, and watched Dr. Phil. Then I took the NoodleDog for a walk. Then I played with the cats. Then I realized what time it was (evening), and packed in a frenzy, shooing cats out of the way and tripping over the NoodleDog several times as he watched, confused as to why I kept throwing things around the room. My townhouse is two stories and a basement, and the laundry equipment is in the basement, but my room is on the upper floor.

Total trips to the basement: five (laundry in, laundry rinse, laundry in dryer, remembering I forgot to get the cat litter box and going back down to get it, laundry out of dryer).

Total trips upstairs: Twenty (going up to get the laundry, going back up to get the suitcase out, going back up from answering the cellphone that was conveniently located downstairs, going back up from putting laundry on rinse, going back up after putting laundry in dryer, going up to put in shoes, going back up to get backpack, going back up to get cat litter box after cleaning it thoroughly since all my cleaning supplies are upstairs, going back up to chase Caspar, going back up to chase Caspar again, going back up to chase Tobey, going back up to get packed suitcase, going back up to chase Tobey again, going back up to get bathroom stuff I forgot on the first round, going back up to get more bathroom stuff I forgot on the second round, going back up to get the hairdryer, going back up to see if Tobey will come out from under the bed yet, going back up to put the dry laundry away, going back up to check for errant cats, and going back up for a final look around).

There was also a good deal of running around on the main floor once cats were caged. I only have two cat carrying cases, and as soon as I got Caspar, I stuffed him into one, leaving the second one open on top to house Smudge and Tobey. I cage Caspar and Tobey because they hate the car. I cage Smudge because she is small and unpredictable and could probably cause a car crash pretty easily by fastening her tiny sharp claws anywhere on head. However, when I went to stuff Tobey in the second crate, Rumble had seen the action going on and had already jumped in, not wanting to be left behind in case we were going to Granny & The Grumpaw’s house (he likes their house a lot because it has a very large back yard). So I had to stuff Tobey in with Rumble as he would not exit the crate without a lot more work on my part (and I was already holding an increasingly anxious Tobey), and cram Smudge in with Caspar.

I prevailed, and then put the crates of cat into the car, and loaded the NoodleDog into the front seat. We were on our way!

After getting to Rob’s with a minimum of yowling, I forced my way past Cooter to get into the house to start unloading cats. Cooter was suitably distracted when I threw the NoodleDog in the yard to play with him. I managed to get everyone inside, and then watched as the cats tentatively made their way through the house, inspecting various things, mostly skittering if they heard any noises. But they all seemed to be alright. After I let them get acclimatized for a while, I let the dogs in to see what they would do. Cooter and I went downstairs to see who we could find, and Caspar turned up, rubbing his head under Cooter’s chin in a gesture of friendliness (he is, after all, the friendliest cat ever). Cooter was fairly well-behaved and did not chase anyone. The cats were fairly well-behaved in that they didn’t cause any big catastrophes. The NoodleDog was fairly well-behaved in that he got in and immediately looked for food.

When Rob got back from being out with his friend, we watched the cats for a while, and since it seemed like everyone was going to be alright, it was bedtime. There was one yowling incident overnight, and the evidence in the morning suggests a little story could be told:

Rumble is the Big Cat of the bunch. He’s a large cat anyway, and the first cat I got, so he’s a little spoiled and feels entitled to run the place as he sees fit. Rumble doesn’t scrap with the other cats at home much any more, mostly because they know he’ll win so they don’t bother. However, in a new environment, I could quite easily see that he’d want to assert his authority over the place and the occupants, and since there was a small amount of tension over everyone being thrown unceremoniously into a new house, a fight could have broken out over pretty much anything. Usually, Rumble beats up on Caspar. The several occasions this has happened since I got the NoodleDog have been interesting because as I yell at them to stop it, the NoodleDog takes it upon himself to police the action and put a quick stop to any skirmishes. After having fallen asleep for only a short while, we heard yowling, then dog skittering, then cats flailing everywhere. Both Rob and I thought it was Cooter, so we yelled “Cooter” repeatedly until I looked over my edge of the bed, and there was Cooter, looking back up at me. I suspect that Rumble had been asserting himself, probably beating up on Caspar, and the NoodleDog dutifully went to stop it. There were clumps of Rumble-fur in the kitchen in the morning. Part of what makes Rumble such an effective fighter is the fact that he has doubly-thick, long fur serving as a near-impenetrable armour. If a cat fights back and bites him or scratches, all they get is fur. Little clumps of black and white fur. Which is what we found in the morning when we got up.

So that was the first twelve hours. I left for work shortly after 7a this morning, and since they were all alright when I left, I expect to return and have them be the same way. I’m not sure about the other things in the house, however. We may have to do some cat-proofing. There will be shelves that Smudge can get onto, and Rumble has already taken to opening Rob’s kitchen cupboards on the lower area (he likes to sleep in the cupboards because he is the only one who can open them and thereby has a nice safe place to sleep). I’m very much looking forward to the weekend and being able to sleep knowing everyone I care that much for is all in the same place. It’s a very comforting feeling.

If we all survive the weekend, you’ll hear about it on Monday!

It’s October. It isn’t quite Hallowe’en yet. In fact, it’s over a week before Hallowe’en. However, here, in the Land of the North, it is snowing. It is cold, and it is snowing. It snowed on the weekend. It snowed on Monday. It snowed on Tuesday, and it snowed yesterday a little. It snowed between the time Rob left my house this morning and the time I actually managed to get out of the house myself to get to work. It is currently SNOWING like there is no tomorrow. After having moved into our fantastic, top-floor fancy new offices with WINDOWS (yay!), all we can see is snow.

This snow saddens me. With the snow, we get cold. It isn’t the paralyzing, draw-a-breath-and-freeze-your-lung-lining cold we can get here (-30C), it’s just annoyingly cold to the point where, if you’re not wearing your gloves, the steering wheel in the car is a little too cold to grip comfortably (-5C). If you’re not comfortably gripping the steering wheel when your car starts to slide on the ice, then you can’t white-knuckle it effectively while you’re screaming as the car spins and spins. And what fun is that?

This temperature is the kind of annoying cold that just foretells that the next five months are going to be Much Colder, and you better get used to –5C, because after a week of –30C, -5C seems like a walk in the park, and you can wear your light jackets again. However, the first week of –5C means getting back out all the winter wear, finding the lining to zip into the jackets, trying on winter hats and laughing at yourself in the mirror, and swearing because you can find only one “good glove” – the other possibly having been eaten by the NoodleDog, who is sitting there smiling at you because he actually likes the snow.

Yes, the NoodleDog, as I suspect many other dogs out there, seems to enjoy the snow. He has no problem with his toes being frozen, which I worry about, and he likes to get his face right into it. All I can remember about putting my face in the snow (when tobogganing) is that it’s freakin’ cold – like, colder than you could reasonably have imagined – and wet, which means that as the wind whips gently across your face at 50km/hr, it feels even colder and may even freeze on your skin. However, the NoodleDog likes it. The NoodleDog and Cooter played in the snow on our walk yesterday afternoon. They ran around like fools (which they are), eating snow, jumping through snow, rolling in snow, rolling each other in snow, and occasionally, peeing in snow. They had a pretty good time. This is Cooter’s first experience with snow since he’s just 6 months old. The NoodleDog is old hat with snow – he had a fine time in it last year. He particularly likes it if you throw snowballs for him to chase. Or at his head, so he can catch them with deft, short movements of his jaws.

The cats have not yet been out in the snow this year. They have been staying inside. This is not due to any particular cat-wisdom, but is rather due to the fact that the painters who were supposed to paint my deck before it snowed have since stopped painting due to the snow, and have screwed-off somewhere probably never to be seen or heard from again until spring. They kindly removed all the items from my deck, including the cat-resistant lattice I had installed to prevent the cats from going beneath the deck and running from yard-to-yard, as all our decks in my row are connected and not separated by any sort of fencing beneath the surface. So I have several choices here – I can: a) keep the cats inside thereby incurring their ire; b) re-install the lattice in the cold and snow; or c) just move.

I’m jokingly considering option c. Getting in to our new office from my house outside the city is a lot more difficult than getting to our old office. More difficult than I would have thought. There is no direct route that will get me here. I have to take a feeder road off the main highway in through downtown, because our office is situated in what is called “The Beltline” (which means it’s sort of downtown but not quite as nice as downtown with fewer amenities and a serious shortage of parking because we’re jammed in with residential people). From the North of the City, there is no reasonable access to The Beltline. However, from the South, there are several sneaky back roads and alternate routes one could take to get here.

Rob lives in The South. Heh.

We’re doing a trial run with the cats this weekend – we’re all going to stay at Rob’s place to see how it goes. Rob’s roommate is going out of town for a few days, and he suggested it. I swear, I did not bring it up. I am, however, quite excited about the idea, although I currently have worry circuits 1 through 5 set on “high”, running various scenarios. So many variables. So many possibilities for catastrophe.

There are many benefits, of course, such as easier access for me to get to the office, and more time to spend with Rob, and the huge benefit of not having to go home every day twice a day to feed and play with cats… However, Rob is “slightly allergic” to the cats, and there are many things that can go wrong. How will the cats react to the new environment? They may hide in places we won’t be able to find them. How will the cats react to Cooter in a strange environment? To date, they have been in their comfort zone when exposed to the little dervish, but on his turf, he might be more aggressive with them. How will Rob react to the cats in his house? He might get all stuffed up and decide that it’s not worth it.

Which brings me to the next point – if the girl’s profile on the internet says she has “many cats”, and you’re allergic to cats, what is up with contacting her? Sure, she’s probably cool and pretty neat, and obviously likes animals. But you have to ask yourself, if you meet her, and she turns out to light your fire, and then she falls in love with you, are you willing to break her heart because you can’t live with her cats? Because I really can’t give up either of them – the cats or Rob – now. (Oh, and if Rob happens to read this, I’m not saying in any way I’m not absolutely overjoyed we found one another – it’s just an interesting point and, well, you know how I worry…).

So worry circuits 1 and 2 are dedicated solely to running scenarios about Rob deciding he can’t deal with cats. Worry circuits 3, 4 and 5 are all dealing with little things like Cooter eating Smudge, or Rumble beating up Cooter and hurting both of them in the process, or the issue of the litter box… Worry circuits 6 & 7 are currently occupied with the night-time quad expedition Rob wants us to go on this Friday evening. That’s a whole ‘nother story…

Worry circuits aside, I’m hoping for the best. I’m crossing my fingers (all of them, which makes typing this a little tricky) and am trying to concentrate on the positives.

If only it would stop snowing for a couple of months!

Ah, my sadly neglected NoodleDog blog. If you’ve been following the stories, you knew I was planning & building (or having built) the new office space for my Property Management company. The project wrapped-up at the end of last week, with trades converging in a disturbing, yet beautifully choreographed dance of death. At any given time, there were furniture installers, painters, electricians, data/voice cablers, a carpenter (who, all by himself, could have frustrated God in about sixty seconds with his lack of any speed whatsoever), various staff members checking out the place, the building manager, the landlord and Dave (my boss). And, of course, me, from time to time. I would go to the space and check stuff out. Mostly, I’d get frustrated, of course, because things weren’t getting done in a timely fashion, and the movers were scheduled to move us on the weekend, come hell or high water. Hell did stop by briefly, took one look at the chaos, and promptly left, assured that everything was taken care of.

So we moved. I’m in the new office space right now. We have HUGE desks. We have fantastic carpeting. We have glorious warm colours on the walls and doorframes. We have the nicest tile floor in the lobby. We do not, however, have a reception desk, because we ordered it late (like, the week before the move), so it will get here sometime in November.

Basically, the last week of the project was pretty stressful, and I did manage to fall down my stairs (at home, so no worker’s compensation claim will be forthcoming) and slightly injure my neck. But all is forgotten now (except for the strange pain I have when I try to shoulder-check in the car, so if I cut you off, sorry!) because everyone is in, and everyone loves their new desks. That’s really all that matters to people – their desk-space. If their desk-space works for them, they could be working in a basement in Beirut, and they’d be fine, but if their desk-space isn’t to their liking, they could be in the most beautiful penthouse suite in the city, and all you’d hear is “my desk sucks…”.

The final snag in the space was that the aforementioned carpenter, who had been moving at the speed of molasses in January, failed completely to hang the doors. We have a total of eight doors in the space. They came out of the original space (which was completely demolished, but the frames & doors were saved for our use later on), and should, theoretically, have fit back into the rough openings nicely. They did not. The contractor I had install the frames failed to square them, then failed to return any of my calls. I am not expecting an invoice from him. The carpenter I then managed to find on such short notice that NO ONE ELSE in the city was available was an older gentleman with a limp who, I’m sure I’ve said before, was SLOW. SLOWER THAN DEATH!!! In three days, he was so totally unable to hang the doors that I dismissed him (kindly, because I felt bad about his limp and his age and all…) because Rob said we could do the doors ourselves on the weekend. Which we did. Rob hung the last two doors, and yea, they did not fit in the frames. But rather than sanding down the door’s edge and the frame, like the carpenter had been, Rob recommends moving the hinges in whatever distance the door is out. So hey, presto, the doors were done, and could be painted, which was my main concern for that day. I used my little spinning wheel rotary tool device to sand down the part of one frame that was binding, and will eventually get around to moving the hinges in a bit.

And this brings me to my point. There aren’t enough qualified, responsive trades in the city (that I know of). This construction boom (which has been going on for about five years now) has to stop. I need people to work on MY projects, rather than on everyone else’s. Heh.

News of the animals? Well, during my lapse in updating, I missed telling you about Thanksgiving. Rob took us camping (him, Cooter, Roofus and me). We sat around the fire a lot, and it snowed on the Saturday. Roofus wore his sweater, and although I think he liked it the first night, I think he didn’t like it the second night or the third night. We ate deep-fried turkey. There were many leftovers. I made an apple pie. I learned to drive the quad. It was a good time.

The cats spent that weekend with my parents. I heard some limited stories about Smudge’s daredevil performances, but nothing like I expected. Tobey remains unconvinced that the parents’ house is a safe place, and hides most of the time in the Grumpaw’s study. The Grumpaw remains unconvincing that the cats aren’t welcome there (because they really get spoiled when they visit).

Recently, we have been acclimatizing Cooter to the cats so he doesn’t chase them. He still wants to chase them, I think, but they don’t really run away much, so he’s disappointed most of the time. He can rush right up to Caspar, who will just stand there and watch him. Rumble doesn’t tolerate much in the way of shenanigans, so he will hiss and swat. Tobey hides under the bed (which seems to be his solution to most of life’s problems – a policy I may start to implement if things get too stressful here, I will just hide under my desk). Smudge baits Cooter a fair bit of the time. She runs right by him, or sits just out of reach, or looks at him from around the corner of the stairs. I think she’d play with him more if he weren’t so big (relatively) and unpredictable.

It looks like I will get a few more condo projects to manage, so that’s nice, but it will probably mean less time for blogging and general fooling around. The Grumpaw would tell me to “buckle down”. We had dinner with the whole family (mother, father, sister, her boyfriend, Rob and I), and it was actually not bad at all. It was even entertaining. The Grumpaw told us a story about Hallowe’en in New Brunswick, which is where he grew up. Apparently, it was quite a haven for recklessness and impudence on the part of the trick-or-treaters. The tricks they played were fairly dangerous, and one Hallowe’en, The Grumpaw was on his way to a mine out in the middle of nowhere, and they had cut a tree down across the road on a dark corner. Those crazy New Brunswickers…

Rob bought a truck. It runs, which is nice, but he intends to take it apart and amalgamate it with the truck he is already building in the garage so he can have a better truck. This probably means I will spend more evenings in the garage helping take stuff apart, which is always a fun time. Good thing I don’t have to work too much, here…

And that’s the latest news.

So we’re out walking the dogs last night, with two more of Rob’s friends. It’s a good time. We’re walking and chatting, and having a generally good time. I am carrying the NoodleDog’s leash, and Rob is carrying Cooter’s leash. Everyone is happy. Cooter does what dogs do, and I helpfully offer to pick up the poop. Like a GOOD girlfriend (and since I already had a bag going anyway). I hand the NoodleDog’s leash over to Rob for him to hold it so I can more easily maneuver the bag, and Rob takes the leash agreeably.

However, he does this very weird thing with the NoodleDog’s leash, something I have noted in the past and not commented on. It’s an extendi-leash thing with a handle and body to house the spring-loaded leash in it. There is a length of leash that does not retract, and Rob takes this length of leash and somehow folds it around the body, through the handle in an inextricably tight weird permanent fixture, ostensibly for ease of carrying. Whenever I get the leashes back from Rob after he does this, I am completely unable to release whatever he did to it, so I have to struggle with it for a few minutes before I can leash up the NoodleDog, and during the time I’m preoccupied with the leash, the NoodleDog has taken the opportunity to cause trouble by stealing another dog’s ball, or jumping up on an unsuspecting nice person, or chasing something I didn’t want him to chase, or wandering out into the parking lot and try to get run over. So you can see how I wouldn’t want Rob to do the thing he does with the leash.

I say to him “No! You’re not doing that thing with the leash, are you? Don’t do that thing! I can never get it undone!” and he just laughs. He continues to fold and hitch the thing together. I say “Please! Stop! I’ll take the leash back! Honest!”

Does he give me the leash back? No. He does not. He keeps it, all folded up in the manner in which I cannot get it undone, teasing me. I feel completely tortured! I panic! I reach for the leash! He holds it away! He won’t give it back! I say “is this any way to repay the girl who was going to pick up your dog’s poop?” and he still won’t give it back.

Why, dear friends, why? Why must those we love torture us? Just because he can manipulate errant leashes does not mean I’m thusly skilled. I wish I had better opposable thumbs or an extra hand. I wish I could comprehend what he does to the leash so I could more easily undo it. More than anything, though, I wish he wouldn’t do that. Y’arg!

Eventually, he relented and gave me back the leash, but by then, I felt totally stupid about the whole thing. I mean, I’m a fairly intelligent person. Surely I can figure out how to undo a Gordian knot tied in my dog’s leash. Sadly, no. I cannot. I must learn to live within my limitations. And the only way I can do that is to not have such a knot tied in the leash.

Hopefully, my sweet, sweet Rob will understand that I am leash-untying challenged, and will take pity on me, and cease this maddening practice of knot-tying.

Once upon a time, there was this crazy girl who lived with her cats by herself. Her great plan was to buy a nice big house with a covered porch and an apple tree out front, and then she’d get a nice rocking chair so she could sit in it on the porch. She’d get many, many cats, make either very sweet or very sour lemonade, and then yell at the kids on the block who would inevitably call her Crazy Lady and try to steal her apples. She’d force the mailman and meter readers to drink the foul lemonade concoction whenever they would have to come to her house. And she’d laugh and laugh at them all.

One day, this girl was out driving her very large car. Further to her house plan, she also planned on buying a nice fruit-covered hat, because she was short, and wanted people to be able to see that she was in the car, looking through the steering wheel, and the hat would give her head the height necessary to be seen by passers-by. On this particularly nice, spring day, she decided she’d go to the market to get some over-the-counter cold medicine (because better to be prepared) and a package of biscuits.

She very carefully parked her large vehicle, and entered the store. Oh, my! What a store! It had a small pet section with fish and a couple of birds that talked. It had a hardware section, with thingies and dohickies and all sorts of stuff. It had a book and magazine section, where she perused the latest copy of Car & Driver (for it was another dream to have a little sports car). There was also a grocery section, where she looked at, but did not buy, many things. She was probably in the store for about an hour, and when she came out, she slowly made her way over to her car, which was still parked perfectly where she had left it.

However, on the passenger side, there was a large dent in the rear door. She went to it immediately, and looked at it. There was no sign of any other vehicle near the big car, so she looked around. She spied a small, old Chinese woman, laden with groceries and bags of stuff, so weighed-down that she could barely walk. The Chinese woman shuffled by her with her purchases, and said “Big truck hit your car.”

“I beg your pardon?” said the girl, stunned.

“Big truck hit your car. He drive away.”

“Did you see this? Do you know where he went? Did you see his license plate?” The girl was worried.

“Big truck hit your car.” Replied the enigmatic Chinese woman, still shuffling away.

Great, thought the girl. Now what? She put her small bag of cold medicine and biscuits in the car, and looked at the rear passenger door some more. Well, she thought, it can’t be that bad - insurance will cover it, and started the car. When she got home, she learned that although the car had road insurance, it did not include collision, because her father didn’t believe in that sort of thing. The damage was over a thousand dollars, and to repair the rear passenger door, which she rarely ever used, was probably not worth it. So the car, to this day, still bears the mark of the Big Truck. An unfortunate incident.

Now, gentle readers, this girl gets older, and always insures her cars for collision and always pays on time. She has never made a claim against her insurance, and is a very good driver. She does, however, like to drive Very Fast, and has been stopped, on occasion, by policemen who probably should be doing more important things, like stopping actual criminals from robbing people and/or killing them. This girl bought a Tiny Car not long ago, and since the purchase of the Tiny Car, she may have racked up a few speeding tickets and one “failure to stop at a stop sign” – a ticket very unfairly given by policemen who laughed at her as she rolled through a totally deserted intersection trying to get her cats home before they freaked out completely (they do not like car rides).

Her car insurance comes up for renewal one year, and she gets a letter congratulating her on being such a good driver, and the letter says that since she is such a loyal, long-term customer who has never made a claim, the nice insurance company would like to offer her a 10% reduction in her rates over last year’s premiums. She is pleased! She picks up her mail the next day, and there is a registered letter waiting for her to be picked up. Excited, she goes to the post office, and picks up the letter. But wait, it’s from her insurance company. Could it be a further reduction?

No. It is not a further reduction at all. It is a very nasty letter explaining that since she has been classified a “high risk driver”, the car insurance company no longer wishes to insure her, and is refunding her last month’s premium, and would like it if she never contacts them again, ever.

Dismayed, she calls the insurance company and is informed that her license is suspended, and that she is a bad, bad driver who has too many demerit points to be insured by such a morally upstanding insurance company, who only wants to take money from people with no risk to them whatsoever and therefore not have to actually provide any service to them at all. She is advised she needs to contact the Vehicle Registry nearest her to find out more about this alarming situation.

So she does exactly that. She goes to the registry where she speaks with a very nice customer service girl, who sympathizes with her plight. She is given her abstract, and is shocked when she learns that she has 18 demerit points. You are only allowed 15 before they suspend your license for a whole month! She asks the kind, kind customer service girl whether anyone was going to tell her her license was suspended, and no answers are forthcoming. They really should have told you, says the customer service girl. Her license, coincidentally enough, is up for reinstatement the very next day for the very reasonable fee of only $100, so she pays it and is on her merry way (sneaking over to the car and opening the door all crouched-down so the girl doesn’t see that she’s actually driving…).

Being classified as a “high-risk” driver is not all glamour. It means that your insurance goes way, way up. Instead of paying the reasonable premiums she had been paying with her long-term insurance company, she is forced to go to the market with her sullied abstract. Most companies turn her away, but her friends at The Cooperators, who she gave thousands and thousands of dollars of business to from her work, said they’d insure her. For a lot of money, but at least she still has insurance until those tickets drop off her record (in August of next year, by the way). Her friend at The Cooperators even noted that she seemed to have gotten most of her tickets towards the ends of the months, so she needs to keep an especially sharp eye out for policemen who are making money for their department after mid-month.

Moral of the story? Don’t get caught speeding.

Post-script: The girl is not all crazy with cats. She now has a dog, too!