Yep, so there I was, lazing in front of the tv watching one of those quest movies where the heroes inevitably end up in some deviously designed building of doom, and I just had to wonder....
Is there a special school of architecture out there?!?
I mean, your average builder of ancient temples, monuments and palaces obviously had a fairly good grip on basic arithmetic, the concept of solid foundations and so-on, but there seems to have been a very specialised branch of builders out there. Who else would design these grand and imposing buildings dotted around in hidden cracks and valleys just loaded with treasure. Can you imagine the list of building materials? And the cost of transport to these hidden nooks and crannies? No wonder only insanely rich megalomaniacs could afford them. Speaking of which, I'd love to know what polish they used: x-hundred amount of years later, and the precious metals are still gleaming like they've just been buffed!
And then of course, there are the traps. No secret structure would be complete without the obligatory pit of stakes, crushing walls or poison darts. Not only must the architecture have factored in a cunningly twisted route to the treasure room, but also line it with hair-trigger traps that will spring as effectively as the day it was set after years of accumulated dust, rust and insect infestations. You have to admire those guys! And wonder if they practise on their own humble homes. Which might explain why we know nothing about them; any visitor may be prone to disappearing down a bottomless shaft hidden by the welcome mat. That is if you can even find their humble abodes.
For some reason I have this persistent mental image of a newly completed temple, traps all set with hordes of well-trained spiders spinning webs in the passages (not on the treasure, ~not~ on the treasure...bad spider!). Just there, a small unassuming figure with a pencil behind the ear is carefully backing out of the main entrance, the last trap has been set and he can't help the pleased smile as he surveys his handiwork. And then the smile droops ever so slightly as he realizes that he left his lunchbox ~somewhere~ in there. Not sure what would be worse; having a future adventurer discover the incongruous object or having to explain to Mrs Architect why he'd come home without it, our anonymous little architect looks around furtively. Sure that no-one else is around, he scuttles around the side to a small door hidden by a cunning design, marked 'staff only'.
If only heroes would spend 5 minutes looking around before dashing in the front door, they might spare themselves a world of trap-dodging.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Gardening with a quantum cat
If anyone had told me a few years ago that I would enjoy gardening, I would've laughed in their faces. Don't get me wrong, I love nature and grew up in a family that loves gardening. The bug (ha-ha) just never bit me.
Until I became the owner of own patch of earth that is. Now I enjoy scrabbling around in the dirt on all fours, marvelling at the fantastic way in which plants never seem to grow when you watch them closely, and yet one morning you'll wake up and realise a tree is suddenly bigger by quite a few inches.
Perhaps science can explain this strange phenomenon; I certainly can't. You'll watch a clear patch of ground for days, and there'll be no sign of any weeds. Then *poof* all of a sudden a luxurious carpet of unwanted growth springs up virtually overnight. I always thought the time-lapse photography of plants growing was magic... now I believe it is!
Either that or something quantum.
Which explains the attraction my cats have to the garden. No, no, not in the 'depositing parcels' sense, but rather as a playground where they can exercise their own quantum skills.
Take Fatcat for instance (not her official name of course, but then show me any cat that is called by it's given name(s) unless it is being accused of some crime! Hieronymous Kittypuss Fluffyshanks the III, ~what~ is this decapitated mouse doing on my carpet!!! What do you mean historical re-enactment of Marie-Antoinette?!?)
Er, where was I headed? Oh yes, Fatcat...
She is the unofficial feline supervisor in charge of all landscaping activities. Which boils down to appearing in exactly the spot I want to weed. This may not sound as impressive, until you actually watch the scenario unfold.
There I'll be, intent on waging my own private war with the undesirable sprouts from hell while Fatcat loiters nearby. I'll keep an eye on her, shuffling along on my knees with a rapidly filling bucket in tow. I'll pull out a rather stubborn example of weed-dom, deposit it in the bucket and turn back to find that without apparently moving, Fatcat has now materialised on top of the very next patch of weeds.
Helpful cat, I know! Except when she has to move off the weeds so I can get to them. I've resorted to weeding around her in a threatening manner, but she just gives me a lazy yellow-eyed stare and sticks like to her spot like a burr on a blanket. Quite a daring move (or absence of) on her part considering the reputation for gardening-related injuries I've managed to inflict on myself.
I haven't tried levering her off with a spade yet, as by the time I've trekked to the garden shed and back, she will have become either a wave or a particle and vanished.
Until I work my way into another section of the garden again.
Pull weed. Watch cat behind me. Deposit weed in bucket. Look at next weed to find fluffy cat bum instead.
Pure magic I tell you! Or quantum physics.
Probably amounts to the same thing!
Until I became the owner of own patch of earth that is. Now I enjoy scrabbling around in the dirt on all fours, marvelling at the fantastic way in which plants never seem to grow when you watch them closely, and yet one morning you'll wake up and realise a tree is suddenly bigger by quite a few inches.
Perhaps science can explain this strange phenomenon; I certainly can't. You'll watch a clear patch of ground for days, and there'll be no sign of any weeds. Then *poof* all of a sudden a luxurious carpet of unwanted growth springs up virtually overnight. I always thought the time-lapse photography of plants growing was magic... now I believe it is!
Either that or something quantum.
Which explains the attraction my cats have to the garden. No, no, not in the 'depositing parcels' sense, but rather as a playground where they can exercise their own quantum skills.
Take Fatcat for instance (not her official name of course, but then show me any cat that is called by it's given name(s) unless it is being accused of some crime! Hieronymous Kittypuss Fluffyshanks the III, ~what~ is this decapitated mouse doing on my carpet!!! What do you mean historical re-enactment of Marie-Antoinette?!?)
Er, where was I headed? Oh yes, Fatcat...
She is the unofficial feline supervisor in charge of all landscaping activities. Which boils down to appearing in exactly the spot I want to weed. This may not sound as impressive, until you actually watch the scenario unfold.
There I'll be, intent on waging my own private war with the undesirable sprouts from hell while Fatcat loiters nearby. I'll keep an eye on her, shuffling along on my knees with a rapidly filling bucket in tow. I'll pull out a rather stubborn example of weed-dom, deposit it in the bucket and turn back to find that without apparently moving, Fatcat has now materialised on top of the very next patch of weeds.
Helpful cat, I know! Except when she has to move off the weeds so I can get to them. I've resorted to weeding around her in a threatening manner, but she just gives me a lazy yellow-eyed stare and sticks like to her spot like a burr on a blanket. Quite a daring move (or absence of) on her part considering the reputation for gardening-related injuries I've managed to inflict on myself.
I haven't tried levering her off with a spade yet, as by the time I've trekked to the garden shed and back, she will have become either a wave or a particle and vanished.
Until I work my way into another section of the garden again.
Pull weed. Watch cat behind me. Deposit weed in bucket. Look at next weed to find fluffy cat bum instead.
Pure magic I tell you! Or quantum physics.
Probably amounts to the same thing!
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Up in the air
I recently had the rather dubious honour of enjoying a 2 hour plane trip with some young engineers. Of course there were a lot more passengers as well, but I was surrounded by these enthusiastic young people who chattered away solidly throughout the flight.
Shortly after take-off I reclined my chair and snuggled down for what I hoped would be a quiet nap, lulled to sleep by the drone of the aircraft's engines. The best I managed however, was to drift in and out of near-oblivion, punctuated by starts of wide-eyed shock.
The reason for this had nothing to do with aircraft failure, but rather the previously mentioned engineers. It soon became all too obvious that this was one of their first trips in the air.
As evidence of this, I present two golden titbits overheard while sharing cabin space.
Jewel nr 1:
"Look down there! There's no sign of anyone. How can they complain that there are too many people in the world when there's all this empty space!"
My eyes flew open when I heard this one! Not only in startlement at the comment itself, but also to glance down at the arid Karoo landscape passing far below. What scares me more is that that particular comment was followed by sounds of agreement as the spokesperson's fellow engineers glanced out the windows too.
Er... right, sure, there's plenty of space down there. Pity about the sheer lack of resources and infrastructure needed to support any kind of human habitation though. But then again, being an engineer, perhaps this person already had gloriously detailed blueprints drawn up in their mind's eye of how exactly to establish a colony in what might very well amount to a Martian landscape. One can but hope... or despair.
Jewel number 2:
"Isn't it amazing?! There's no sign of any roads, but I know one can drive from Cape Town to Johannesburg!" ... said in that breathless gasping voice I'd come to dread over the past half an hour.
Yep, you heard it here first folks: there's an actual tarred road somewhere out there connecting two of our major cities. Who'd've thought...
I resisted the urge to thump my head against the bulkhead through sheer determination. If I'd had a South African atlas handy I would have shared it with my fellow travelers in a heartbeat. Then again, perhaps a lesson in geography and map-reading would be called for at first.
I couldn't help but marvel at the fact that somehow these people had qualified in such a highly technical field as engineering, and yet appeared to fail dismally at grasping basic 'common knowledge' principles!
The darkly entertained side of me still ponders what engineering discipline these youngsters were in. I don't know whether I should hope for chemical, civil, electrical or whatever, as after due consideration, I think they could do as much harm in any of them.
And no, none of them were blond.
Heaven defend us against such skilled professionals.
Shortly after take-off I reclined my chair and snuggled down for what I hoped would be a quiet nap, lulled to sleep by the drone of the aircraft's engines. The best I managed however, was to drift in and out of near-oblivion, punctuated by starts of wide-eyed shock.
The reason for this had nothing to do with aircraft failure, but rather the previously mentioned engineers. It soon became all too obvious that this was one of their first trips in the air.
As evidence of this, I present two golden titbits overheard while sharing cabin space.
Jewel nr 1:
"Look down there! There's no sign of anyone. How can they complain that there are too many people in the world when there's all this empty space!"
My eyes flew open when I heard this one! Not only in startlement at the comment itself, but also to glance down at the arid Karoo landscape passing far below. What scares me more is that that particular comment was followed by sounds of agreement as the spokesperson's fellow engineers glanced out the windows too.
Er... right, sure, there's plenty of space down there. Pity about the sheer lack of resources and infrastructure needed to support any kind of human habitation though. But then again, being an engineer, perhaps this person already had gloriously detailed blueprints drawn up in their mind's eye of how exactly to establish a colony in what might very well amount to a Martian landscape. One can but hope... or despair.
Jewel number 2:
"Isn't it amazing?! There's no sign of any roads, but I know one can drive from Cape Town to Johannesburg!" ... said in that breathless gasping voice I'd come to dread over the past half an hour.
Yep, you heard it here first folks: there's an actual tarred road somewhere out there connecting two of our major cities. Who'd've thought...
I resisted the urge to thump my head against the bulkhead through sheer determination. If I'd had a South African atlas handy I would have shared it with my fellow travelers in a heartbeat. Then again, perhaps a lesson in geography and map-reading would be called for at first.
I couldn't help but marvel at the fact that somehow these people had qualified in such a highly technical field as engineering, and yet appeared to fail dismally at grasping basic 'common knowledge' principles!
The darkly entertained side of me still ponders what engineering discipline these youngsters were in. I don't know whether I should hope for chemical, civil, electrical or whatever, as after due consideration, I think they could do as much harm in any of them.
And no, none of them were blond.
Heaven defend us against such skilled professionals.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Yes people, the away-stay saga continues... This time it takes place in a quaint B&B in a relatively quiet suburb of PE. I use the term 'relatively quiet' quite loosely, as nowhere is vuvuzela proof at this stage. Except maybe the inside of an igloo in the North Pole. Then again, temperature wise that is exactly what PE feels like - rather chilly. Yes, it's that season when we get really close to our loved ones, and not only for purely emotional reasons. Cups of coffee and tea are made as astonishing rates; again not for drinking purposes, but just to clasp your frozen fingers around in an attempt to keep some blood flowing. So there I was, huddled under the warm blankets in my B&B room when out of the blue *plop*! Something plopped onto my head. It was around o'darn AM, when dreams blur into reality and strange things are known to happen. My confused mind constructed this bizarre scenario where one of the birds in the nearby cages outside had somehow made it's way into my room - probably to find a warm place to roost - and had oh-so-graciously just made me a very lucky person. That thought wormed it's way from my dream centre to conscious thought, shortcutting past all rationality and shot me straight outta bed, lights blazing and desperately looking for this bird prezzie. Alas, my overactive imagination had got it wrong. Yes, something had indeed dropped onto my head, and I could see the next culprits lining up on the ceiling, getting their targetting systems ready for the next attack. Water! It was pouring with rain outside, and apparently inside as well. My restful night turned into a luxury version of chinese water torture as I had to find a position to sleep in where the drops would not get me. Moving the queen size bed was out of the question, so armed with a towel to soak up the dive-bombers I tried to get some more z's. Admittedly, I have known better nights Sunrise brought a continuation of the inside showers, and I set off to inform the owner of this mild catastrophe. She admitted that apparently it was the fault of the swimming pool. Eh? Yes, indeedy. The swimming pool is built over the rooms-for-rent, and with the heavy downpours we had the pool filled up too rapidly and leaked out somewhere into the roof, along some cracks to filter through my ceiling and drop onto my snug little cocoon. Oi.... Yesterday we had some more rain, and now the intrepid little water warriors had bivouacced in a new spot; this time right over the window sill. Problematic for the clothes I'm trying to dry, but at least not on my bed. Thank goodness for small miracles!
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Night-time bump and lumps
There's nothing quite like settling down between the covers after a full day. Your head rests comfortably on the pillow while frogs serenade you to.... sitting upright, wide-awake and reaching for the panic button.
No, not because of the frogs, but because of man's best friend - a border collie/alsation cross to be specific.
I have one of those; got it with the house - long story for another day. Anyhoo, said best friend of man is not known for her incessant barking (thank goodness), so when she is on alert, so am I.
Reluctantly shrugging off warm blankets I listen, running through the mental checklist of 'sounds I think a burglar might make'.
Footsteps... no
Glass smashing.... no
Baboon barks... no
Yelps from thief... no
Yet the dog carries on barking, and can now definitely be categorised not as 'there's a stranger on my yard I want to eat alive', but rather as 'help, help, i'm sure, there's something unusual outside'.
Yes, ask any dog owner; you soon learn your pooch's vocab so to speak.
Still hesitant I peak through all the windows first, trying to see the splattered entrails of a would-be trespasser. And thanks to an all too vivid imagination and too many crime-stories, I have visions of an armed assailant lurking on my steps waiting for me to throw the door open and rush out to save faithful doggy.
Yeah, right.
After more peeking, listening (a difficult task considering the dog is still giving excited yelp-barks) I edge the front door open to find the dog bouncing madly around a dark grey furball.
Concern for dog now turns into concern for poor furry and I rush downstairs to save the rabbit/kitten/bird/tribble. As I reach the bottom step the dog gives an almighty yelp and jumps away....the not-so-helpless furry has just scored a direct hit! Blood dripping form her jaw, the dog now stands cautiously to one side to watch me tackle this prime example of gremlinhood.
Turns out to be a rather large mole with a lifewish second to none.
Paralysing it in my spotlight (read tiny torch) I give it a once-over for any sign of trauma. It blinks at me in a slit-eyed yet satisfied manner, and I swore I saw it grin at me.
Mole 1, dog 0 ... I can almost hear it think.
Well, I was not about to trifle with such a determined survivor, so I grab the dog by the scruff intent on dragging her upstairs while giving the mole a getaway chance. I stepped forward, only to be yanked backward by a severely immobile dog. The look in her eye clearly states that she is not about to walk past that mad little killer; who knows what other tender bits it might take a bite at next.
By this time I am chilly customer; I take my night-time rest seriously, and running around outside in winter in my pyjamas is not my idea of a fun time. With more effort I manage to drag the dog around the far side of the mole; quite a site as the dog kept turning to face the mole while we moved. Finally reaching the safety of the stairs she dashes up, leaving me to firmly close the gate in the mole's still sniggering face.
And yes, I did check my pooch out as well. Bled like a champion from a facial wound, but managed to scarf down her doggy treats this morning. Somehow I think she'll live.
As the for the mole... didn't see it this morning. But next time I'm pulling at weeds I'll keep an ear out for that self-satisfied snigger.
No, not because of the frogs, but because of man's best friend - a border collie/alsation cross to be specific.
I have one of those; got it with the house - long story for another day. Anyhoo, said best friend of man is not known for her incessant barking (thank goodness), so when she is on alert, so am I.
Reluctantly shrugging off warm blankets I listen, running through the mental checklist of 'sounds I think a burglar might make'.
Footsteps... no
Glass smashing.... no
Baboon barks... no
Yelps from thief... no
Yet the dog carries on barking, and can now definitely be categorised not as 'there's a stranger on my yard I want to eat alive', but rather as 'help, help, i'm sure, there's something unusual outside'.
Yes, ask any dog owner; you soon learn your pooch's vocab so to speak.
Still hesitant I peak through all the windows first, trying to see the splattered entrails of a would-be trespasser. And thanks to an all too vivid imagination and too many crime-stories, I have visions of an armed assailant lurking on my steps waiting for me to throw the door open and rush out to save faithful doggy.
Yeah, right.
After more peeking, listening (a difficult task considering the dog is still giving excited yelp-barks) I edge the front door open to find the dog bouncing madly around a dark grey furball.
Concern for dog now turns into concern for poor furry and I rush downstairs to save the rabbit/kitten/bird/tribble. As I reach the bottom step the dog gives an almighty yelp and jumps away....the not-so-helpless furry has just scored a direct hit! Blood dripping form her jaw, the dog now stands cautiously to one side to watch me tackle this prime example of gremlinhood.
Turns out to be a rather large mole with a lifewish second to none.
Paralysing it in my spotlight (read tiny torch) I give it a once-over for any sign of trauma. It blinks at me in a slit-eyed yet satisfied manner, and I swore I saw it grin at me.
Mole 1, dog 0 ... I can almost hear it think.
Well, I was not about to trifle with such a determined survivor, so I grab the dog by the scruff intent on dragging her upstairs while giving the mole a getaway chance. I stepped forward, only to be yanked backward by a severely immobile dog. The look in her eye clearly states that she is not about to walk past that mad little killer; who knows what other tender bits it might take a bite at next.
By this time I am chilly customer; I take my night-time rest seriously, and running around outside in winter in my pyjamas is not my idea of a fun time. With more effort I manage to drag the dog around the far side of the mole; quite a site as the dog kept turning to face the mole while we moved. Finally reaching the safety of the stairs she dashes up, leaving me to firmly close the gate in the mole's still sniggering face.
And yes, I did check my pooch out as well. Bled like a champion from a facial wound, but managed to scarf down her doggy treats this morning. Somehow I think she'll live.
As the for the mole... didn't see it this morning. But next time I'm pulling at weeds I'll keep an ear out for that self-satisfied snigger.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Hotel horrors
There's nothing quite like the thrill of opening your hotel door for the first time to see what exactly lies behind it. In some cases there should be the inevitable squeak of violins in staccato rhythm (shower curtain optional) as you ease open the door.
All right, so not all hotel stays can be equated to horror movies, but there is a certain element of similarity. The cheerful and bright opening scenes, the venture down long lonely corridors, the creaking of a slowly opened door... not to mention mysterious night-time thuds and bumps. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
So there I was all packed off on a business trip and checking into a hotel that would be my home for the next 5 days. All seemed bright and shiny (doesn't it always) in the foyer... and then my first clue - no lift.
No problem, only one floor to go up and I kept a determined smile on my face as I thumped my way up the stairs one at a time. This was due to the rather heavy suitcase I was dragging behind me - yes, I pack like a girl, including my heavy-duty pillow filled with buckwheat. Handy for punching into a sleep-friendly shape and as a last-ditch weapon should anyone sneak up on me. I pity the fool who challenges me to a pillow fight...snigger ::rubs hands together in villainous way::
After hiking down a loooong corridor, I reached the oh-so-innocent door of nr 34. Easing the door open is like unwrapping a gift; would it contain something I wanted or something I'd just be politely thankful for? Would there be a bath & shower? Would it be twin beds or a luxurious double? And probably most importantly... would there be a kettle?!?
Since a trip in Germany where I had to face mornings sans my 1st-thing-in-the-day cuppa, I've been pathetically grateful every time I find a hotel room equipped with basic coffee / tea making equipment. And yes, I did blubber joyfully when I spotted not only one of those cutesy half-sized kettles, but also some decent quality instant coffee, milk & tea!
But I was being lulled into a false sense of joy...
The shower curtain turned out to be just that, offering more the illusion of separation rather than actual water-proofing. I only found that when I stepped out of the bath-tub and into an ankle-deep puddle on the floor. I sincerely hoped the floor was well sealed, and that I hadn't created a water feature in the downstairs room. But my fears were for nothing, as it turned out that my room was directly above a - you'd never guess it - pub! Yes, I kid you not.
I found this out on Wednesday Live Music Night, when the items on my bedside table ever so gently bopped around to 'piano man', 'alice' and probably inevitably... 'Hotel California'. Live music was followed by live entertainment when a full-blown screaming match broke out below the window around closing time. I sure hope poor John finally got rid of Charlotte, whom he apparently just found out had been warming more than just his bed! Admittedly it was a bit hard to garner any sympathy from my side at that time of the morning.
But like all horror movies, my stay also came to an end. After the inevitably nervous scouring of the room to see whether I had somehow left behind anything, I wheeled my suitcase out into the sunrise, ready to brave the next adventure.
All right, so not all hotel stays can be equated to horror movies, but there is a certain element of similarity. The cheerful and bright opening scenes, the venture down long lonely corridors, the creaking of a slowly opened door... not to mention mysterious night-time thuds and bumps. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
So there I was all packed off on a business trip and checking into a hotel that would be my home for the next 5 days. All seemed bright and shiny (doesn't it always) in the foyer... and then my first clue - no lift.
No problem, only one floor to go up and I kept a determined smile on my face as I thumped my way up the stairs one at a time. This was due to the rather heavy suitcase I was dragging behind me - yes, I pack like a girl, including my heavy-duty pillow filled with buckwheat. Handy for punching into a sleep-friendly shape and as a last-ditch weapon should anyone sneak up on me. I pity the fool who challenges me to a pillow fight...snigger ::rubs hands together in villainous way::
After hiking down a loooong corridor, I reached the oh-so-innocent door of nr 34. Easing the door open is like unwrapping a gift; would it contain something I wanted or something I'd just be politely thankful for? Would there be a bath & shower? Would it be twin beds or a luxurious double? And probably most importantly... would there be a kettle?!?
Since a trip in Germany where I had to face mornings sans my 1st-thing-in-the-day cuppa, I've been pathetically grateful every time I find a hotel room equipped with basic coffee / tea making equipment. And yes, I did blubber joyfully when I spotted not only one of those cutesy half-sized kettles, but also some decent quality instant coffee, milk & tea!
But I was being lulled into a false sense of joy...
The shower curtain turned out to be just that, offering more the illusion of separation rather than actual water-proofing. I only found that when I stepped out of the bath-tub and into an ankle-deep puddle on the floor. I sincerely hoped the floor was well sealed, and that I hadn't created a water feature in the downstairs room. But my fears were for nothing, as it turned out that my room was directly above a - you'd never guess it - pub! Yes, I kid you not.
I found this out on Wednesday Live Music Night, when the items on my bedside table ever so gently bopped around to 'piano man', 'alice' and probably inevitably... 'Hotel California'. Live music was followed by live entertainment when a full-blown screaming match broke out below the window around closing time. I sure hope poor John finally got rid of Charlotte, whom he apparently just found out had been warming more than just his bed! Admittedly it was a bit hard to garner any sympathy from my side at that time of the morning.
But like all horror movies, my stay also came to an end. After the inevitably nervous scouring of the room to see whether I had somehow left behind anything, I wheeled my suitcase out into the sunrise, ready to brave the next adventure.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Call to arms!
Yes, it is time to take the battle to the enemy. No longer will we sit back idly, watching willful bloodshed, suffering and itchiness.
It is time to take our offensive to fur-roots level.
You've guessed it - it's deflea-ing time!
In my household this is a monthly battle that personifies evil vs a lesser evil. In essence, once every four weeks I knowingly poison my cats. Now before you speed-dial the animal rescue institute of your choice, let me explain. Modern technology still hasn't managed to rid the world of fleas, but it has provided a solution of some sorts. No, not a solution, rather a plaster on the wound. Now every pet-owner can have their own little chemical battle with those pesky pests. The fleas, not the pets.
Between my dog and 3 cats, this takes on the scope of a minor production, including stunned looks, horrified expressions, cringing and wailing. And that's just me battling with the human-proof packaging.
Then comes the really fun part (not) of surprising the cats with flea-drops at the ready. In theory this might sound simple; I mean, how difficult could it be for the uber-primate equipped with opposable thumbs to apply a few drops of liquid to the back of your average moggie's neck.
Ha! Easier said than done.
The dog is easy: show up, pat dog, open dispenser, part fur and apply drops. Repeat pat. Walk away.
The cats are a bit more difficult, and I have to necessitate to underhanded methods, wrestling and bribery to get everyone through the exercise.
In winter it's a tad easier. Cats are the ultimate users, but at least they are honest about it. As long as you open tins, provide a warm lap and respond positively to an occasional request for scratching, peace and prosperity will reign.
So... in winter you wait until said victim, I mean beloved feline, hops onto your lap for some under-fur heating. Gently stroke cat (if requested) until a mutual state of relaxation is reached. Now comes the tricky bit; without disrupting the stroking rhythm, start parting the fur on the neck with one hand while quietly opening the little container of doom and applying contents to cat.
Cat may now either:
a. continue resting in blissful ignorance
b. take off with vertical acceleration that makes warp speed look slow
c. give you a dirty, knowing look that hints at future revenge
But, an owner's gotta do what an owner's gotta do. And I have this blissful image of the little bloodsuckers, clad in snazzy evening dress with billowing cloaks, bending over to sink their fangs into cat-flesh only to stagger away, choking, before going up in smoke. Perhaps it is only wishful thinking to imagine they would react like a vampire who has just had a fang-full of blood liberally laced with holy-water, garlic and a hint of silver-essence. But hey, if that's what gets me through the monthly confrontation, then that's what I'll do.
It is time to take our offensive to fur-roots level.
You've guessed it - it's deflea-ing time!
In my household this is a monthly battle that personifies evil vs a lesser evil. In essence, once every four weeks I knowingly poison my cats. Now before you speed-dial the animal rescue institute of your choice, let me explain. Modern technology still hasn't managed to rid the world of fleas, but it has provided a solution of some sorts. No, not a solution, rather a plaster on the wound. Now every pet-owner can have their own little chemical battle with those pesky pests. The fleas, not the pets.
Between my dog and 3 cats, this takes on the scope of a minor production, including stunned looks, horrified expressions, cringing and wailing. And that's just me battling with the human-proof packaging.
Then comes the really fun part (not) of surprising the cats with flea-drops at the ready. In theory this might sound simple; I mean, how difficult could it be for the uber-primate equipped with opposable thumbs to apply a few drops of liquid to the back of your average moggie's neck.
Ha! Easier said than done.
The dog is easy: show up, pat dog, open dispenser, part fur and apply drops. Repeat pat. Walk away.
The cats are a bit more difficult, and I have to necessitate to underhanded methods, wrestling and bribery to get everyone through the exercise.
In winter it's a tad easier. Cats are the ultimate users, but at least they are honest about it. As long as you open tins, provide a warm lap and respond positively to an occasional request for scratching, peace and prosperity will reign.
So... in winter you wait until said victim, I mean beloved feline, hops onto your lap for some under-fur heating. Gently stroke cat (if requested) until a mutual state of relaxation is reached. Now comes the tricky bit; without disrupting the stroking rhythm, start parting the fur on the neck with one hand while quietly opening the little container of doom and applying contents to cat.
Cat may now either:
a. continue resting in blissful ignorance
b. take off with vertical acceleration that makes warp speed look slow
c. give you a dirty, knowing look that hints at future revenge
But, an owner's gotta do what an owner's gotta do. And I have this blissful image of the little bloodsuckers, clad in snazzy evening dress with billowing cloaks, bending over to sink their fangs into cat-flesh only to stagger away, choking, before going up in smoke. Perhaps it is only wishful thinking to imagine they would react like a vampire who has just had a fang-full of blood liberally laced with holy-water, garlic and a hint of silver-essence. But hey, if that's what gets me through the monthly confrontation, then that's what I'll do.
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