I won’t tell you what kind of creature Petunia is, until my dear husband comes home to take some pictures for me (I’ve thus far only been able to take pictures of her rump) but I will say that she is adorable and fuzzy and seems to quite like me. Which is, of course, a good thing.

The name Petunia is not set in stone yet – it’s just what came to mind when we first met. I have a few other thoughts, and once I know her personality a bit better it may very well change.

“Sure. What?”

“I need you to come here and take James home with you.”

“Are you okay? Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine except for James and, well, I can’t take care of him anymore. You need to come and get him and take him home with you.”

“He’s your.. son. He’s five. What do you mean you can’t take care of him anymore?”

“I mean exactly what I just said. I can’t do it anymore. He’s miserable and I’m miserable and we make each other miserable. Please. Come and get him.”

“I can’t.”

“Why? Why can’t you? I’ll pack up a nice suitcase of his clothes and some toys and you can take him home for a while.”

“A weekend?”

“Well. Well, I was thinking a bit longer than that, really.”

“Longer? Longer than a weekend? He has to go to school on Monday, you realize.”

“Aren’t there any good public schools near you? I’m not asking you to pay for private schooling for him.”

“Are you asking me to pick up your son and keep him? You want me to… Are you crazy? What’s going on? What’s REALLY going on?”

“I already told you. Which part don’t you understand? We’re miserable.”

“I’m not adopting your son.”

“No one asked you to. I’m asking you to take him home with you until I can do this again.”

“Do… what? Be his mother?”

“Yes. Until then. Until I’m ready to do that. To be his mother.”

“Have you been to the doctor? Talked to Keith?”

“Why? There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“I didn’t say there was, it’s just that.. well, you know.. this is sort of a strange request to be making out of the blue. To ask me to take your son.”

“No it’s not. Please. Just come and get him.”

“I.. okay. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Thank you. Do you want to stay for lunch?”

CANCER (June 21-July 22): Blogger Joseph Cannon has uncovered evidence that George W. Bush may be the grandson of the infamous occultist Aleister Crowley. On his website at http://snipurl.com/pler, Cannon says there’s a distinct possibility that Bush’s mother, Barbara Bush, was conceived during a ritual tryst between Crowley and her mother Pauline in 1924. I’m not sufficiently informed on the matter to ascertain if it’s true, though I can’t help but note the strong physical resemblance between Aleister and Barbara. I bring this up because it’s an excellent time for all of you Cancerians, including the current American president, to delve into the mysteries of your past. Secrets that have always been hidden are more likely to pop into view than ever before. If you’re listening, your ancestors have clues to reveal.

(Freewill)

Cancer (June 21-July 21) I like Kelis, but something’s missing. I was pleasantly surprised by her first single, and I even defended that “Milkshake” track and the ridiculous video for her new song, “Bossy.” Upon reflection, however, I always find she’s not that exciting, that it’s all flash and parlor tricks. This will resemble your sex life this week. Experiences that initially seem great will leave you with a feeling of nagging incompleteness. Use the increased insight you’ll develop midweek to figure out whether this is just neuroses or a genuine problem with your lover’s milkshake.

(Nerve)

Step two is to choose an appropriate location for your sitting-still. It is tempting to plunk your ass down on top of the A/C vent, of course, but that will give you frost-bite very quickly and you’ll end up moving in order to warm yourself. Then you’ll return a few minutes later overheated again and, eventually, you’ll be totally worn out from an entire day spent moving onto and away from the vent. I recommend that your chosen location be soft and upholstered in a fabric that wicks sweat or is, at the very least, not made from vinyl. It is helpful if your location is near a bathroom, a source of food/water, and has wireless internet. If you do not have A/C in your home it’s time to make friends with someone who does – and you really should have started compiling a list of friends with A/C long before the hot weather arrived. “Do you have central air?” is a really good conversation starter at parties, Christmas gatherings and other people’s birthday celebrations. When you ask people that question in the summer they tend to look shifty and make some comment about having it but never turning it on. They KNOW you intend to ‘visit’ and stay there LONG past the time you wear out your welcome and that you won’t bother with polite conversation while you’re fanning your half-naked body on their sofa. Ask around at Christmas, then make plans to get together “for a beer sometime this summer” and you’ll be set to move in on the first hot weekend.

Step three is to move only when you absolutely need to and, even then, move only with tiny steps that fool your body into thinking it’s still stationary. For this reason, it’s important that you assemble all your supplies BEFORE you sit down. A big stack of library books, a glass of ice water (or two), a laptop, a television remote control, a notebook and pens and, if you’re feeling sassy, a collection of granola bars to keep you from wasting away are really all that you’ll need. If the phone rings, ignore it. If the doorbell rings, ignore it.

Step four is to set the dogs free – free! – if they whine about not getting enough attention, not enough ‘walking time’ and about the fact that your feet are resting in their water bowl. (It keeps the toes cool!) Dogs will try to convince you that they are HOTTER than you because they are wearing fur coats and can only sweat through the pads of their feet and some complicated method involving panting and drooling on you. They are liars and they are laughing at your discomfort in the heat. Just set them free.

Now, sit there. Do not move until September. You can email me – I’ll be right here in my ugly shorts and tank top.

I know!! I’m as stunned as you are! I’ll tell you what. Let’s not make any rash or sudden moves and I think we can get through this.

Being the social butterfly that I suddenly am I met Tammie at Whole Foods in Oakville yesterday. We chatted as we walked up and down the aisles, and that’s probably going to tide me over for a few weeks. (Like I said, no rash or sudden moves here people!)

I came home with chunks of smoked salmon (and some other assorted items). The salmon was, in theory, for enjoyment by my husband but instead of letting him eat it I’ve been sneaking into the kitchen to pop it into my mouth. Better than candy, people. Better than candy. If it wasn’t, I dunno, $400 for the small package? I’d be buying it weekly. I’d WALK to Oakville to pick up the chunks of salmon and the Green & Blacks “Butterscotch Luxury” chocolate bars that I foresee myself addicted to in the near future because MY GOD that shit kicks ass. As much as I like food – in general – I have a wicked soft spot for food that makes me weak in the knees. And the smoked salmon and butterscotch chocolate bars make me weak ALL OVER. Downright wobbly.

I’m drooling right now just thinking about it. God.

Today looks as if it will be busy – I’ve got some writing to finish up for a client, lemon juice to purchase for my tabbouleh, dogs to wrangle outside in the excessive heat (followed, I suspect, by a nice cold shower) and various things to tidy up around the house. Clearly I will need that salmon to sustain me. And the chocolate, too. Let us not forget the chocolate.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter whether you express that in C or F, it’s just fucking hot.  I don’t DO hot. I do “air conditioned” and I do “cold” and I do “wearing layers” but I do not do HOT.  Luckily, the dogs don’t “do” hot either. We walked slowly around the block – me dripping in sweat and them dragging their tongues behind them – and returned home to collapse on the tile floor. All three of us panting and hot and miserable from the trip.  I’ve recovered enough to throw my body onto the sofa and will soon hit the shower. The dogs, well, they have not yet rebounded. I can hear them panting from across the room. That, at least, is a blessing. Quiet, exhausted dogs.
My brain feels melty. I am almost wishing I had one of those ‘job’ things so I could sit in an overly A/C’d office and stare into space. Almost.

The sad thing is that it’s not even JUNE yet and I’m already complaining. It’s not even JUNE and it’s already in the 30s. Dear God, this doesn’t bode well, does it?

Yesterday I wrapped him carefully in several sheets of paper towel (his favourite thing to shred) and, using a Sharpie, wrote his name and some important details on the shroud. Coffee dug a deep hole in the garden and we buried him alongside the finches who met their untimely demise not so long ago. We both said a few kind words about him, and then covered him up with loose soil. And that’s a hamster funeral.

Weetie was part of my daily routine. Every single day I’d talk to him – drawing him out of his self-constructed volcano of Carefresh with the sound of my voice – and almost every day he’d happily hop onto my hand so I could carry him around the living room in the morning. He’d climb up my arm and sit on my shoulder for a while, or make his way to the top of my head, and sometimes I’d place him gently on the window ledge so he could look out at the birds. Then I’d return him to his own turf and refill his food and water and for the rest of the day I’d randomly say hello to him or poke him a bit.

As much as he seemed to like my company, he never stopped attacking other people. I’m a sucker for loyalty like that.

One of the many, many, many things I love about Coffee is that he never mocked me for my love of The Weet. He never fully understood it, I suspect, but he never made it seem silly for me to adore a hamster. When I emailed him at work to tell him that Weetie seemed unwell, and asked him what to do, he advised me to hold him and gently pet his head and keep him warm – which I did – and when I later told him that I had taken Weet to the vet he didn’t bat an eye. He didn’t find it remotely strange that I’d pay $30 to have him euthanized, nor that I wanted to bury Weet in the yard. What I love about my husband is that he understands that animals have value – not the price tag attached to them at the store ($8 for the Weet, I believe) – and that a hamster deserves as much caring and compassion as any other animal. Someday, perhaps, he’ll write an entry about his rats.

We both try hard to let our pets live as normal a life as possible in captivity. We try to allow them to live instinctually with improvements from us to help enhance longevity. Our dogs, as I’ve mentioned, are fed based on the BARF diet – which is as close to “hunting in the wild” as possible while still being safe. The birds are kept in an aviary, not a cage, to allow them room to fly and nest. Our small pets are given as much room as possible in the cages Coffee built. It’s not perfect, of course, because it’s not the same as living a completely free life. In some ways, though, it’s better. They’re protected from predators and traffic and all the other factors that can greatly shorten an animal’s life.

It seems somewhat dorky to be upset about a hamster’s death – knowing that most dwarves live only a year or two at best – and I don’t for one minute imagine that everyone reading will say, “My god, that poor woman! That poor hamster!”. I know it paints me as kind of sappy and emotional and a little over-attached to the little dude. That I’ve anthropomorphized our pets just a little too much. But I believe that animals have souls and personalities and understanding whether they’re a dog or a cat or a hamster – whether they’re my pet, your pet or living in the wild.

I’m glad that I discovered Weetie’s illness quickly and was able to end his suffering. I’m glad that my vet is so kind and understanding and, whether she felt it or not, treated Weetie with as much value as she would have with any other pet. She was gentle and kind and talked to him softly while checking him over and offered her clinical advice and her emotional advice. I am glad that Weetie’s ending was quick and not particularly dramatic – and I’m glad I got to say goodbye. But I’m still sad.

We – the collective we – bring animals into our lives for a myriad of reasons. We adopt dogs to keep us company or protect us or because we’ve always wanted someone to bring us the newspaper in the morning. We purchase goldfish to bring us tranquility. We bring birds home to brighten our lives with colour or song or quirky antics. Our cats warm our laps and chase string. Pets are our companions, our entertainment, our friends. There are people who adopt them for reasons that are less appropriate (to me), of course. The rest of us, however, welcome the little creatures into our lives and feel we have been enhanced by the experience. We talk about the progress we make in training our pets and how ridiculous their behaviour can be at times. We marvel at their personalities and their quirks and take pride in their accomplishments and growth. Long volumes have been written about the way animals change us.

Sometimes, though, when an animal dies, I feel a need to guard myself against the pain of loss. When my beloved pitbull (B-dog) was euthanized as a result of cancer, I swore I’d never adopt another dog. I was heartbroken. No more dogs. No more pets. And then, two weeks later, Daisy moved in to destroy the house. Less than a year later, Zooey arrived. I don’t know what I’d do without them (other than sleep more, do less laundry, and spend my nights alone sitting on the sofa with a baseball bat and a can of Mace). The sadness of loss seems overwhelming, but it also seems completely appropriate. They live shorter lives, and that’s hard, but it’s worth it to have them as friends for the time we’ve got together. Our own lives, as humans, is uncertain. We could live to be 90 or 35 or 20, but it doesn’t stop us from loving each other and forming relationships.

I know – without question – that I’ll adopt another dwarf hamster in the future. I will love that hamster, and I will mourn that hamster, and that big ‘circle of life’ will keep spinning. I’m a girl who has a lot of love to spread around.

Take Free Freudian Inventory Test
personality tests by similarminds.com ]]> http://miserablebliss.ca/blog/2006/05/27/indeed-2/feed/ 1 http://miserablebliss.ca/blog/2006/05/26/the-weet/ http://miserablebliss.ca/blog/2006/05/26/the-weet/#comments Fri, 26 May 2006 21:47:40 +0000 violet http://miserablebliss.ca/blog/2006/05/26/the-weet/ This afternoon, as I was getting ready to leave the house, I stopped to chat with The Weet and noticed he was.. unwell. Long (sad, weepy, miserable) story short, I took him to the vet where they euthanised him. And then the vet assistants cried with me for a bit. Even the vet had red-rimmed eyes – she admitted she owns a dwarf hamster herself. It was sad, funny and sad some more.

The part that caused me to break into hysterics – to sob and sob – was when they returned The Weet to me wrapped in cotton and placed in a small box. The assistant leaned in and held out her hand to me – and, as she opened her fingers, I saw a small flat ‘disc’ of clay on which she had imprinted Weetie’s pawprint for me. Impossibly tiny. I could barely tell her how sweet it was – because I was too busy snorfling snot. Tomorrow the dogs have an appointment for their heartworm meds and a general checkup, and we’ll be picking up The Weet’s pawprint then (once it has dried).

It’s amazing how such a small creature – a dwarf hamster – can take up so much room in a person’s heart.