2013 Thanks

As this year winds down, there are lots of people I'd like to thank. I know I'll forget some, so I hesitate to start naming names, but I'll give it a try anyway.

First, thanks to my son Bob for managing to keep his cool and stay calm even in times when I did not. We don't always get along, we even got into a couple of yelling matches and came out of those okay. Bob is planning to move out soon, and that will be fine, I can finally pretty much take care of myself and he needs to be on with his own life. I'm sure it will be a good one because he's just that sort of person.

Thank you to my old friends for checking in once in a while — Carlotta, Mitzi, Katherine — and not holding it against me when I'm tardy about returning the favor. There are others I haven't seen as often, which is something I hope to remedy this coming year. I have the hardest time keeping in touch with friends and relatives who aren't members of the digital world, or who don't respond to their email. Yes, I do have a phone. Two, in fact. I need to use them more often to talk to people, not just play Bejeweled (I'm at level 75, a Sapphire Wizard).

Thank you to SPCA for taking care of all those feral cats and never once treating me like a Crazy Cat Lady. Your donation is in the mail, and Beverly and I will be bringing you her ferals shortly.

Thank you to all the bloggers I follow, for giving me a reason to look forward to mornings. I am out of bed before 6 most days. I grab a cup of coffee that was automatically brewed at 5:30, then get right to the computer to see what's going on with my friends in the blogging world.

I'm not religious about writing every day, myself, so I thank my readers for hanging with me. I do have chores every day, the garden and cats and show chickens keep me occupied. I can occasionally find something about that to pass along, but the truth is my life is mostly boring. I prefer it that way, boring is safe. Excitement in Sloughhouse usually involves sand bags or shooting raccoons. If I need excitement I'm happy to read about someone else's life.

Thank you to my little RAV4 for being such a reliable car, and to Elk Grove Toyota's service department for keeping it that way.

Thank you Sergio, the best landscape engineer ever, for keeping my yard and lawn looking twice as nice as the inside of my house. (Which I'm now taking care of by myself; no more housecleaning ladies, just me. You'll notice the difference. In a bad way.)

Pooping Stars

Christmas can be hard enough for an experienced, well-behaved pet. I had decided not to put up a tree because Wesley would probably just take it down again. Bob and Anna decided otherwise. Bob wanted a small tree with just a few lights and a few unbreakable ornaments.

So he hauled the Christmas stuff out of the back of the closet. Wesley was delighted with all the new things to investigate.

He helped Anna sort out the lights.

He helped Bob plug them in and water the tree.

He tasted the fake poinsettia.

Yummy...stars!

But all the excitement and the things he tasted finally took their toll.

Wesley pooped gold stars for two days and then he felt better. He has taken down all the ornaments he could reach and batted them under the refrigerator and the stove. He pulled the bows off the presents. There is always a faint dusting of glitter on his back (I don't have a clue where that's coming from).

He's trying very hard to be a Christmas Elf, but somehow he always ends up a Gremlin.

Have yourself some wonderful times this holiday, everyone! Love you all!

Being Helpful

This is our cats' Christmas stocking. They share it. Most of the cats actually have been very good and I've put some nice things in this stocking for them.

Biscuit, for example, endured this insulting session with a Santa hat. (The background was taken out in a really sloppy Photoshop session, but the hat was actually on his head.) He's the only cat with a head big enough to keep the hat in place.

Velcro tried to wear it. She really prefers ribbons and bows, though. Christmas morning will be her big day for wearing decorations.

Gollie has been helping by mostly just staying out of the way and not pooping in inappropriate places. Like under the tree. And she has been eating at the community dish without hissing or knocking it over when she tries to kill Wesley. Note how she has her ear cocked so she won't be forced to touch him. Yuck, cooties.

It's Wesley's first Christmas. He's still a kitten at heart, and he's had a hard time. This picture I borrowed from the internet pretty much says it all.

But first, it all started when I took down the old Fall decorations to make way for Christmas stuff. Just as I reached for the bag, it started moving. Wesley scared the heck out of me. He's snickering, isn't he? You can see it.

Then I started bringing my shopping bags in the house. I had been storing them in the car. One bag had a catnip toy in it. I've never had a cat before than was actually affected by catnip, have you? Wesley's nose led him right to it. Catnip is evidently his drug of choice.

He left the toy in the bag and just laid there, sniffing it, for the longest time. I was concerned for his mental health, and also about him suffocating in the plastic bag, so I had to hide it. He wasn't ready to give it up. He searched everywhere. I think all the other bags that had been stored in the car had picked up the scent of catnip.

Wesley zipped around like an idiot, getting into everything and knocking things off the counter, seemingly just to watch them hit the floor. One of those things was my iPhone. I was not amused.

It took a long time for the catnip effect to wear off. Finally he settled down and just sat, looking out the window. Pondering the meaning of the universe?

A human might have zonked and focused on their belly button. (Pardon me if my drug terminology isn't apropos, I never smoked any of that LDO.) But Wesley's tummy is all furry and his belly button isn't visible. So he contemplated his tail instead.

By the time Bob got home from work and started the serious decorating, Wesley was back to normal, just his usual annoying self. I'll tell you about that next time.

Another Example

Most of us take a dim view of our governments. Local, state, and national. Personally I think we should be paying more attention to our local governments, where it wouldn't take many of us to actually accomplish something, and less attention to national government. National government is just a snollygoster reality show. Get over it.

I have a new example of California legislation that will boggle your mind.

After the latest round of dumped-off cats, I was researching how to get a sign from the county government about the $1000 fine if a person is caught doing this. The lady from animal control snickered at me over the phone, as if were funny that anyone would expect the county to do anything.

On our county's animal control web site the only mention of dumped animals refers to dead ones. You can dump a dead animal under 10 pounds into your garbage can.

When I tried to find a state law that would apply, all I found is this:

Can someone tell me why we need signs at the state borders? Do folks bring their pets here all the way from Oklahoma and West Virginia just to dump them? Is that where all these cats are coming from?

Can anyone direct me to a local or state ordinance so I can make my own signs and post them?

Right now I'm considering this:

I thought using red and green would make the sign more festive. It seems like we always get new dump-offs this time of year. Like someone comes out to get a Christmas tree and leaves their cats. Or, more likely, their neighbors' cats.

Strong & Northern

As you may have determined by reading my post about Victorville, I'm definitely a Northern Californian. I don't have any use for the south state. It takes all our natural resources and, in return, provides the whole nation (maybe even the world) with mind-numbing "entertainment." Video drugs.

I'm only partially discriminatory about this, once people movs from the south and have a few years to become unpolluted, I'm perfectly happy to call them friends. I also have an open mind about people who moved to the south from other states, then got out of there at the first opportunity. Note to people from other states: Do not move to California, but especially not to the southern part of the state. Believe me, it's better where you are. Well, maybe except in the winter time. Buy a sun lamp and stay indoors, you'll get the same effect.

You may also have determined by now that even though I am old and decrepit and can sometimes barely walk, I am a very strong person. Some might use a different word for that: stubborn, bullheaded, rocks for brains, or simply "bitch." Yes, I am all those things, and probably a twit to be proud of it.

When I meet new people these days I don't have to wait until they read my blog to figure out what sort of person I am. I can just put on my new T-shirt and everyone will know. I wear it with relish. I'd take a selfie of myself wearing it, but I can't get the camera far enough away so you can see the writing.

This fine shirt was sent to me by a blogging friend from England. Here is the stamp from the package.

It says Royal Mail.

I had no idea Mr. Pudding was royalty.

Gallico

I bought some little books about cats by Paul Gallico, following a trail pointed out to me by Katherine (the N.Z. artist Katherine, not the artist from Oak Run). What lovely, lovely books.

There is a poem about a homeless cat, "Application" that I really loved. I won't put the entire thing here, just a couple of verses, illustrated with pictures of Biscuit.

"I'm not meant to be a street cat,

Or make myself a furtive shadow

In an alley.

I'm lonely, lonely, lonely,

And frightened!

May I please come in?"

Biscuit is not really frightened, but I think he was lonely and came to the right house.

He can't come IN the house, he's an intact male. He could eat Wesley in a gulp or two. Even if he didn't spray (which he doesn't seem to do outside), he'd send Gollum into a couch-pooping tizzy.

But he's the king of the woodshed. The girlies out there all adore him - Carla, Rosie, Linda and Mollie. When Bob gets home from work every day, the first place he goes is to the woodshed to hug the cat. Biscuit has a warm bed and all the food he can eat. Which is a lot.

More from the poem.....

"I would be your cat —

Show it, I mean

When people come to visit,

By making a fuss over you,

And responding when you called me."

Thank you Katherine, I'm really loving my Gallico books.

Victorville

By the time I pulled back into my driveway after the Victorville poultry show, I had driven just short of 1000 miles. It would have been a thousand fairly enjoyable miles except for the snow.

I never had to drive through snow, but for the entire trip it was on my mind as I was trying to avoid it.

For those of you who live elsewhere, this is California, at least the part this story is about. There is another third of the state to the north. There are two main highways that go north and south, highway 99 and interstate 5. There is another along the coast, Hwy. 101, but you don't take that one unless you're on a driving vacation.

The green line designates the edge of the central valley. It's like a big basin with mountains that border on all sides. You can check out an actual map of the state online if you need a better picture. I spent way too long on this one and it wasn't getting any better.

The central valley is a big, flat expanse. I had been told the trip to Victorville for the Pacific Coast Bantam Club (PCBC) show would take about 7 hours from Sacramento. I had never been to Victorville, and there was a threat of snow in the mountains, so I left home early on Friday. Those of us born and raised in the valley are true flatlanders, we're uncomfortable enough driving through mountains, let alone when there's snow on them. Okay, there are a few valley born who actually LIKE to go to the mountains and ski, but I'm sure they're suffering from brain damage.

I have no idea why the Pacific COAST Bantam Club is so far away from the ocean. Maybe its founders previously lived somewhere else, then retired to Victorville where real estate is cheaper.

Have I already complained about the conditions on Hwy. 99? Probably, but they're bad enough that I can do it again. Of the two routes south, Hwy. 99 (The Golden State Freeway) is much older. Interstate 5 was built on what was previously known as the Ruben Guzman Turnpike. I think it was a mule trail until Interstate 5 was completed in 1972 to give the bloated population of LA a quicker route out of that hell hole. Hwy. 99 was an old road that grew with the times. It went from town to town through farm country. There were originally no overpasses, so there were stop signs at major intersections. Both sides of the freeway were lined with motels and related businesses to serve travelers. Those buildings are still there along the old frontage roads, decaying.

It seems like 99 is always under construction as overpasses and more lanes are added. It's an obstacle course of concrete barriers, detours, and construction equipment.

You have to drive this at 80 mph, unless you want to drop in behind a big truck and do 65. There are varying speed limits, but everyone tends to only notice the 70 mph signs. Drivers automatically add 10 mph because they know they probably won't get a speeding ticket if they're only 10 mph over the speed limit. I add only 9 mph, just to be safer.

Driving 5 hours on 99 to get to Bakersfield feels more like 8.

Here's a scene from just north of Bakersfield. Can you identify it?

That's looking over the concrete barrier that divides the freeway, then over a train track. Beyond that is a table grape crop that hasn't been harvested yet. The plastic keeps the grapes from being damaged by rain. On my trip to Bakersfield last month, there were a lot more fields that were covered, these must be the last. I don't know how they managed in the low temps.

At Bakersfield I turned west on Hwy. 58. It eventually takes you out of California, but first you have to go over Tehachapi pass, then through the high desert. Like the Tejon pass on 99/I-5, the mountains here are barely 5000 feet. By northern California standards, that's not much. But Southern California drivers don't do well in even a small amount of snow, and the highway patrol is quick to simply close these passes.

On Friday the skies were clear, the roads were clear. It was smooth sailing.

This is near the town of Tehachapi, which is just east of the pass. The hills there are totally covered with windmills. As I went through the area, I noted a Hampton Inn and decided to stay there on the way back if it was late and there was too much snow.

I had no human company on this trip, but I put the 3 Brothers on the passenger seat right behind me and they did navigator duty. They couldn't tell me where to turn, but they let me know if there were hawks flying outside.

I got to the show about 4:00, and got all the birds unloaded and put away, with plenty of time to spare. Here are the 3 Brothers in front and 3 old guys who my chicken show friends will recognize in the background. Even if you don't know them, you'll probably recognize BS when you see it.

So far, so good. That night in the hotel, there was lots of blabber about the storm that was coming in. Los Angeles weather reporters are notorious for overstating everything. Supposedly the storm would drop tons snow everywhere and we'd all be frozen in place for three days. It stayed sunny until Saturday about noon, then a storm did come in.

There was a little rain in Victorville. Both of the passes (Tehachapi and Tejon) were closed within an hour.

The judges hurried to finish and the show was over by 3:30 so local people could get home before the expected torrents of snow. (Does snow torrent, or is that only rain?) My little pullet was Reserve RCCL, so she got to spend some time on Champion Row, just not as the champion this time.

Most of the folks who had to go back over the pass, like I did, decided to stay in Victorville for another night. I wanted to get back to Tehachapi to the Hampton, so I loaded up and took off back through the desert, expecting it to be fresh with new rain.

There were some beautiful God clouds. But not a drop of water had hit the desert. It was dry as a bone. There was lots of traffic still coming east. Sooo, I thought, how bad could the pass actually be?

I found out later that the pass had been closed, then opened for a while. One of my fellow chicken show people, Chris, who was 15 minutes ahead of me, texted that the pass was open.

Just as I got to the Mojave turnoff, though, it was closed again. The highway patrol set up a roadblock and was sending traffic to the overpass where people could either turn back on Hwy 58, or go south to Mojave. They wouldn't even let me drive the few miles to Tehachapi. So much for that plan.

To say Mojave is the armpit of the world might be an overstatement, but it comes close. I went directly to the first hotel I could find because I knew everyone behind me would be doing the same and there would soon be no rooms. It was a Motel 6.

I admit it, I'm somewhat of a hotel snob. I don't require luxury accommodations, but I would never seek a Motel 6 in less than an emergency situation. The place had some surprises, a few of them even good. I got a ground level room and backed the car practically right up to the door. I had decided the chickens would probably be fine overnight in the car (and they were), but it was supposed to be 9° that night and if I had to, I'd bring their boxes into the room with me.

The room was small and spare, but immaculate. There was an adequate heater that ran continuously and blocked out noise. Until the first train came by. As it turns out, the railroad tracks were right across the road. There was a train every hour, and every train blew its whistle right in front of the Motel 6. I don't know why, there was no rail crossing, just being friendly I guess. I woke to the sound a couple of times during the night, but went right back to sleep. Some of my friends who don't sleep as well would have hated this place.

The next morning Hwy. 58 was still closed. The problem was not an overwhelming amount of snow, it was the low temperatures that caused the road to be frozen. Chris told me later there were overturned trucks and fatalities. I got a mental picture of bloody bodies frozen to the highway, and was glad I didn't have to witness that.

Tejon Pass, however was open. Using it required driving 75 miles out of the way, dipping south into the Los Angeles traffic, then back north. Aaargh. I totally hate Los Angeles traffic. (Okay, to be honest I just hate Los Angeles.) But people get lost there and sometimes never return, driving around trying to find their off ramp. I'm telling you this just so you'll know how brave I think I was to take that route.

Again, the travel was through bone dry desert until I got to Tejon Pass. Then there was snow.

At this point I was debating whether to go home on Hwy. 99, or just take I-5. I never really made a decision, when I got to the split point I was in the wrong lane to take I-5.

Here are a couple of pictures I took for you on the way from Mojave to Santa Clarita. The closer you get to LA, the weirder the houses are, as if each person is trying to outdo the others. Overdone houses on the top of hills, even bone dry, ugly hills, seem to be popular.

The only remarkable landscape along the way was this.

There appeared to be a canyon of sedimentary rock, perhaps where the Pacific plate came to rest on the Continental plate. That would make sense because Lancaster and Palmdale are nearby, both on active fault lines. Typical of California, though, a potentially scenic location is spoiled by the garbage strewn along the road.

I was home before dark on Sunday. Then I unloaded the birds and would have slept most of the next day except I had to get outside and break the ice on all the water buckets. I didn't mind doing that for birds, they were great travelers and did their best at the show.

Photos Won't Load

I'm trying to post the story about Victorville, but am having an uncharacteristically hard time getting the photos to work. So I'm going to go outside and do chores and worry about this later.

Wes is Bored

Wes is like any other teenager. He gets bored easily. But he has no electronic toys to keep his mind occupied. Or destroy it, depending on your outlook. 

On Thanksgiving Day he was just hanging around. I'd already chased him off the kitchen counter twice. The last time he'd gotten his butt swatted with a towel.

He couldn't even aggravate Velcro, who had been sitting politely, and hopefully, waiting for a morsel or two. She got tired of swatting at the brat and finally just buried her head in the corner of her bed, pretending he didn't exist. If you're up to trouble, you can leave Velcro out of your plans.

I had a few peaceful, kittenless moments in my kitchen until I started fixing the Wimpy Sweet Potatoes. You know, the syrupy ones with marshmallows on top, for people who can't gag down the real thing? I got the marshmallows all laid out on top of the sweet potatoes and turned to open the oven door.

That's when Wesley zapped out of nowhere onto the counter, grabbed a marshmallow and knocked it onto the floor, then ran with it like his tail was on fire.

Under the couch, around the chairs, I chased him and threw things at him, but he wouldn't let it go. Or maybe it stuck to his teeth and he couldn't let it go.

Down the hall to the bedrooms he went. Oh great. Three months from now I'd find a mummified marshmallow under the bed.

But no. The monster had to make a victory run right past my feet, to show off his prize. I grabbed his tail (it's so convenient) and wrestled the marshmallow away from him.

Yes, some places in my house are scary dirty. Marshmallows are evidently good at picking up dust and lint. Perhaps they would work on a Swiffer?

I went on with my cooking chores, happy to have won for once. A day later I discovered this was not so. Wesley just found something else to occupy his time.

An entire roll of paper towels, with little pieces of it scattered everywhere.

On Tuesday I took the cat to have him neutered. The vet said it would probably not affect his behavior. "Okay," I said. "Then let's just call it revenge."

I'll Be Back...

...as soon as I get the house warm. The pellet stove used up its entire store of fuel last night. The wood stove needs to have ashes taken out before I can start a new fire. And here I sit in my fuzzy bathrobe (with a pervert cat sucking on the sleeve), contemplating what to do first. After another cup of coffee, of course. So that's contemplating what to do second.

It took me a couple of days to recover from my almost-1000-mile trip to the Victorville show. I got pictures. I have stories. But when the weather is below freezing, this place requires twice as much work. For example, the first thing I have to do every morning is put out fresh, warm hummingbird juice. There's at least one of the little critters that didn't get the message to head south.

I'll be back in the house this afternoon.

Am I being petty?

When Bob won Champion of Show at Bakersfield he was 11 years old.

His name was added to that behemoth perpetual trophy and he was given several plaques to take home.

When my bird won Champion of Show at Bakersfield just recently, I was given the certificate shown below.

I know the theory is that adults don't need trophies. A lot of adults at poultry shows probably don't. They've won so many, what's one more? But that's not me.

I'm still just a beginner and this is my first big award. Also I was a typographer for most of my life, and this is really a less than adequate print job. Am I being petty?

I have decided to just buy something myself. There are lots of possibilities. I could redo the certificate, of course. That was an important graphic skill at the Office of Education, providing gorgeous certificates. Or I could go out to the storage shed and paw through the boxes and boxes of Bob's old awards and find something suitable, then have a new plate engraved for it.

For at least 10 years my living room was a chicken show shrine, with Bob's trophies and plaques everywhere. Now there are only his three Golden Bears from State Fair. One never puts those in a box, out of sight. I don't want to revive that decor, I just want my one Champion of Show award to be something I enjoy looking at.

I suppose I could go online and find something. Like this, perhaps.

You know, something practical. It could also be used as a trash can.

Actually, I prefer things that are smaller. Perhaps this:

It doesn't have a chicken on it. I could probably pry a chicken off one of Bob's old trophies. On second thought, this looks more like a religious object. And it would be difficult to dust.

Back to the drawing board.

Meanwhile, the birds and I will be heading to another show soon. Wish us luck getting over the summit. The Central Valley of California is like a big bowl, surrounded by mountains. Any time you leave it in the winter, in any direction, there's a chance the summits will have snow. Often the valley itself is a big bowl of extremely thick fog in the winter. We call it Tule fog. It makes driving treacherous because half of the drivers are trying to go slow and the other half are still speeding like demons. I used to think those other people could drive really fast in the fog because their cars were equipped with some kind of special fog lights that my car didn't have. As it turns out, they're just oblivious.

So far, so good though. No snow, no fog. The RAV4 has been serviced and I bought it a new battery. The original one was still going strong, but a friend had her battery die in my driveway on Sunday morning. I'm always willing to take someone else's problem as a warning to prevent my own.