Trish

Trish is our new roomie. She's a four-year old husky/whatever we found through Manitoba Great Pyrenees Rescue (a great little network of foster families who could use your support).

We don't know her back story. She's been fostered with MGPR for three years, moving to a few different fosters. We can't figure out why she's taken so long to find a permanent home, because she's sweet as a cookie (as well as housebroken, well socialized and keen on learning tricks).

She's a much bigger commitment than the cats. Much bigger. Our lives revolve around her bowel movements to an uncomfortable degree. I'm told that's the same as having kids, though I'm not sure it's as smelly.

Speaking of having kids, I made the mistake of asking for a baby gate on Facebook, to keep Trish out of downstairs. Apparently people think that's how I'd announce having children. Oh, people.

Perfectly timed

We're trying to exercise her as much as possible. The previous house she was in had two other dogs and Trish developed a rep as a food ninja, stealing from her buddies. So she's ummm... well, we both need to pick up our workouts. Now the cats eat on top of the washer dryer, glaring down at a pathetic beggar. Better them than me - her whines will never break a cool cat's heart.

Speaking of, the cats are still adjusting to her...

This happened when Mel was carrying Hank and Trish got too close. We've both become climbing posts for cats trying to stay out of the lumbering - and clearly vicious - predator's way. We're pretty sure Trish just wants playmates, but she is six times their size. They're understandably cautious.

Because Trish likes getting in people's faces...

See you in the dog park.

---
Correction: Trish was only in foster one year (which makes worlds more sense)

Partner shot in the face

Tomorrow is the 1001 Donations Telethon at the Winnipeg Humane Society. I'm co-executive producing the day, so I've had a sneak peak at some of the deeply moving stories that will be on Shaw from 11am to 8pm.

Stories such as Partner's recovery from being shot in the face.

I've seen this story a few times and it still chokes me up. Producing this telethon, I thought I would come away from each story and visit to the WHS depressed. And while there have been moments of anger and darkness, I've never walked away feeling defeated thanks to the passionate staff and volunteers.

And the resiliency of animals who refuse to hold grudges.

Tune in. Make a donation if you can. Thanks.

Cat to English translations

Translator

Meow = Hello.

Meow = Get lost.

Meow = I have thrown up somewhere in the house.

Meow = Where has everyone gone? Why did you all abandon me!?!

Meow = I'm concerned the clock is slow; are you sure it's 4 am?

Meow = Feed me, hairless meatsack, for I teeter on the edge of starvation.

Meow = There is another goddamn cat in the yard!!!

Meow = Play with me or I'll cut you.

Meow = That floss was delicious.

Meow = This wet food is 'chicken in gravy', not 'turkey in gravy.' My soul has touched the abyss.

Meow = That nap was exHAUSTing. Better sleep it off.

Cat People

So things are very busy now and I'm reduced to posting others' creative content.
But what creative content! If you're a cat person, you'll get this. Oh lord, will you get this.

Oreo the Stray

This is Oreo the Stray. I am her patron.

Our neighbourhood, like many in Winnipeg, has a number of stray cats who live pretty wretched lives in the winter (not fantastic lives in the summer either, but a little better). This is what happens when people don't spay and neuter their pets, let their cats wander or dump their unwanted pets.

I feel disproportionately enraged by this; I know there are other, worse things to get upset about. And I really don't believe in corporal punishment. But the deep desire to smack some jerks around rises when I think about strays.

Oreo started hanging around in September '10. She was (and remains) very shy. A number of strays will come up and play beside me when I'm working in the backyard. Oreo kept her distance for a long time. She would sit on the front step and cry for attention. A very human cry like a child (something cats learned millenia ago when they domesticated themselves). I put out a small dish of food for her, which she wolfed down. Then she was gone.

This event repeated over several fall evenings. She wouldn't show up every night; that would be too predictable. And I wasn't allowed to pet her. She would jump back when I tried and look at me as if I were Norman Bates.

One evening, however, I succeeded. I sat on the steps and watched her eat. One of the hypocrisies of my feeding Oreo is refusing to feed her streetmates. Often other cats will come and try to steal food from Oreo (she's an older female and timid). And I chase them off. They're no less deserving than her, but I don't want all the neighbourhood cats hanging around my house. And she was here first.

I reached out very slowly while she worked away at her bowl. She paused. It looked like she might dash. She lowered her head and kept eating. I made contact with her back. And she arched her shoulders up to meet my scratching fingers. She purred deeply, rumbling from her chest.

Since then I've been allowed to pet her. Not for long, but for a few minutes, she'll nuzzle her head against my leg and submit to gentle patting and scratching. I can't pick her up (I tried once, she fled) and she won't come in the house (except once last winter when it was -45 Celsius - she stepped onto the front mat and stayed for an hour of warmth, while our two house cats watched her, mystified). But she has gradually lowered her guard. And I have gradually gained a streetwise friend.