Augh.

I said yesterday that I'd try to post a pointless Penny photo today.

Well, here she is. Complete with the world's ugliest quilt and the world's ugliest sweater. Hey, whatever keeps you warm.

That's about all you're getting from me today. What doesn't keep me warm is the stupid weather we're having (March? Really?), and since I had to go outside to check the neighbour's house I've already had a reaction this morning. That, plus the fact that the temperature's supposed to plummet (yet again) and that we've had to adjust the clocks when it's STILL SNOWING OUTSIDE puts me in a baaaaad mood.

Best not to blather, then.

If you want something else to do since you're not going to be enlightened by me today, why not check out Illustration Friday if you haven't already? I'm in there somewhere this week. First time in a while. You can find my other pseudoartistic stuff on Shrubbery, by the way.

You know... if you're the glutton for punishment type.






Going now.

Won't say where.

What do you name a cat?

This is Max. Fresh off the camera just this morning. He's only pretending to be sweet, you know. In real life he's very much a buddy and all of that stuff, but he's also very good at getting into things that he really shouldn't.

He's a busy little boy, Max. Even though the cat food commercials will do their best to convince you that he's a senior citizen now.

Frankly, I act more like a senior citizen than he ever does.

Anyway, here's the question for today. Is Max a good name for a cat like Max? I named him, you know. Before he arrived (from someone's farm. He was a barn kitten) we didn't know if they'd bring us a male or a female, and my mother had only picked out a girl's name. Mandy. Ugh. My apologies to anyone out there named Mandy -- or with a cat named Mandy -- but I'm more than a little glad that Max turned out to be a boy.

And where did the name Max come from? No clue, really. Just before they brought him to us my grandmother had asked what the cat's name was going to be, and my mom had said Mandy if it's a girl. "But what if it's a boy?" made me blurt out Max before my mom had a chance to recall any other Barry Manilow songs... so Max it was when the squealing little puffball was brought to the door.

Man, he could scream for a tiny thing.

He's quieted down some since. The other cat (whom we used to call Meep in fun, since that's the only sound she ever seemed to make) got louder as she got older, but not Max.

The other cat, by the way, is Penny. Maybe I'll find a photo of her for tomorrow. Penny got her name because that was the colour of her eyes when she was a kitten. They've got a bit more green in them now, but I think it's a little too late to rename her Old Copper. Besides, I call her Lumpy most of the time anyway.

So are these good names for cats? I know T.S. Eliot had his ideas about that sort of thing, but in real life are Penny and Max decent names for cats? I have to admit, this family doesn't have a history of terribly creative names for pets. The various dogs were Snoopy, Barney, and Rikki (from a misheard song lyric, of all things), and the cats were Scruffy, Twerpy, Freddie, Candy, and Taffy. The last two were around at the same time... I guess we were having a sweet-tooth moment when they got named. We also had a Humphrey, but he was actually my aunt's cat so none of us get credit for the name there.

Reading that list, I notice that Max is sort of the odd cat out. Apparently pet names in our family are supposed to end in a y. Ah well. Sorry, Maxie.

So, pretty lame names? I don't know. They serve their purpose, they're not too cute, and since I tend to call animals by nicknames most of the time (not sure how I got into that habit, since I don't do it with people) I suppose it shouldn't really matter in the end.

I'd make some joke here about not coming when they're called anyway, but in fact both of our cats are very good at answering to their names.

Maybe it does matter, then.

I'm sure I don't know, and since I have other things to get done this morning I don't really have time to come to a conclusion either way.






You can, if you need one.

And finally...

Yeah, this is the last old photo. I promise.

Oh, and excuse the flash. I wasn't about to take the picture out of the frame just for this nonsense.

So who is it this time? Anyone want to take a guess?




It's my father.

Aw. Isn't he cute? And you've just gotta love the good old-fashioned short-pants look.

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Anyway. I've got nothing but whinginess today, since yesterday's weather was extremely unkind to me. Yesterday, by the way, the 5th day of freaking MARCH, brought us blowing snow and windchills of nearly -30C. March. Riiight. This morning when I got up it was damned near -30C without the windchill.

March.

Riiight.

Now, normally on a day like yesterday I'd just sit inside, watch the snow fly (horizontally. This stuff wasn't even falling, the wind was so strong), and thank Whomever for the invention of the furnace. Yesterday wasn't a normal yesterday, though. See, I'm house-sitting (did I mention?), but this time of year house-sitting for my father means looking after not one but two houses. One of his neighbours is a snowbird, and my father collects the mail and keeps an eye on the place for him while he's gone.

This created a couple of problems for me.

First problem was that I shouldn't have even BEEN outside with that kind of wind blowing. I still haven't shovelled the walk (one of the few advantages of the wind was that the driveway very nearly cleared itself) because it's too cold for me to be out for any length of time.

The other problem was the superboxes... or Community Mail Boxes, as I see Canada Post is now calling them. We don't get door-to-door delivery service here, unfortunately. Mail is delivered to a "super" box (do you suppose sarcasm avoidance was the reason that they changed the official name of the things?) down on the corner of the street. Sadly, my father and his neighbour aren't on the same superbox, so getting the mail yesterday meant trudging up the (unploughed) hill to get the neighbour's mail, stopping briefly at his house to drop off the mail and check to make sure the furnace was still working, trudging down the (still unploughed) hill to get my father's mail, and then trudging back up the (unploughed! Did I mention unploughed?) hill to my father's place.

All of this led to me being outside far too long in too much cold. I spent the rest of the day feeling miserable -- and itchy -- and I still have the reaction headache.

Yippee. Happy happy me.

Environment Canada is doing its best to try to convince me that today it will warm up to -5C, but I'm still planning to wait until at least mid-afternoon before I so much as allow a single nostril to leave this house.

Hmmm.

Maybe I could just send the single nostril and keep the rest of me inside?





I know, I know. But a person can dream, can't she?

March.





Riiight.

Another pointless album photo

You have to admit that it's pretty much the height of pointlessness to be taking photos of a photo album.

Today's edition? Well, one of these people is my grandfather.

Hint: it's not the one in the skirt.

That's about all I've got for the moment. The weather outside is lousy, and that plus a weird night's sleep equals someone has a headache. I'm going back upstairs to get something to eat now. I hope you've enjoyed looking at someone else's ancestors.

Or not. Can't say I mind either way, to be honest.

Some kid

Ok, so it's me.

The pictures aren't recent. You know, in case you wondered.

And speaking of wondering, is anyone wondering why I'm posting a shot of an old photo album?

Anyone?

Come on, someone out there must be at least mildly curious.






Ok, well, since you asked nicely... there are two reasons for the shot of the old photo album. The first is that I rarely if ever put photos of myself on the blog, and I thought you might like to see what I look like. Looked like. A while ago.

The second reason is that I'm house-sitting this week. And cat-sitting, I guess. Not to mention the fish (especially because I consider them basically furniture). My father's off to visit his grandson (and I imagine he'll visit the brother at the same time. My sister-in-law as well, come to think of it), so I'm holding down the fort back home.

Literally back home.

This is the house I grew up in.

It used to really bug me that we never moved when I was a kid. I don't know what I thought moving was since I'd never experienced it, but I used to get jealous when my friends would talk about moving to a new house or a new town or even a new province. My family, though, just stayed put. We were good at staying put. Still are, apparently.

We're still here, obviously. Or my father is.

Or usually is.

Did I mention that I'm house-sitting?

Anyway, the next week will find me in the house I grew up in, and the blog will probably find me moaning about the fact that I miss my own stuff. Yeah, you've been warned. You may also get a tiiiny bit of nostalgia here and there, but don't expect anything as exciting or revealing as *gasp* baby pictures again. That's a once-in-a-blatherage occurrence, I promise you.

You're welcome.

Come to think of it, maybe I should have posted the one of me smoking my father's pipe...





Nah. You don't need to see how early the world corrupted me. I'd imagine that you'd already figured that out on your own anyway.

Dog gone

Today's pointless photos are not of the dog.

Bet you hadn't noticed.

I'll maybe post one of her tomorrow if I can find one I like (she hated having her picture taken), but for today we have special guest pointless photos taken by my father. He was kind of surprised to see an unbirdfeederable bird show up in a place that's more usually a chickadee haunt, so he took some pictures. When I saw them, I in turn was surprised. We don't normally find these in the yard.

What do you want to bet that it doesn't come back, now that I'm here to see it for myself?

----------

Anyway. The dog.

We don't have one anymore.

I could just write The End here and save a bit of blather, but what the hell. The dog was getting on a bit for a big dog (husky/malinois cross, of all things), and then she got sick. I'm not in the mood to go into it, really, so let's just say she couldn't get around on her own anymore.

Not a pleasant life for a normally active dog, to not have anything to enjoy but food.

Long story short, she was getting worse and it was definitely time for her to go, so now we don't have a dog.

I'm not sure how I feel about that, really.

On the one hand, it was definitely time for her to go. No question in my mind. That makes it a lot easier to deal with, and I can promise you that I haven't cried about the whole thing at all.

That's... unusual for me. I'm an admitted crier. I've been known to cry at commercials, fer pity's sake.








Only the really good ones, though.

Um, back to the dog. Or lack of same.

On the other hand... well, it's the dog. And the dog's gone. There's no reason to leave a bit of dinner on the plate now (I used to kid my father that they should have named the dog Sumfer, as in some for the dog). There's no dog to eat snowballs when you throw them at her (um, yeah), and there won't be a dog to chase the ground squirrels in the field down the hill next spring.

That's... weird.

Ah well.

She was a good dog and she had a good life... and in the end what more can you ask, really?





Bye, dog.

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Edited the next day because this post seemed really weird without a photo of the dog, so... here's Rikki:

That's better.

But I did warn you that she didn't like to have her picture taken.

Um, yeah

Somewhat unplanned disappearance there.

Oops.

Call it a combination of the weather and a bad... well, let's call it a cold. It's got to be something of the cold variety, at any rate.

Yes, I still feel like crap. Thanks for asking.

Anyway, no real blather tonight. I have a few things to catch up on. Tomorrow, maybe, I'll take a shot at blatherage.

In the meantime, have yet another out-of-season flower.

Yay me for lack of inspiration.