Memories of Christmas Past

With everyone busy preparing for Christmas and myself being excited that my sons will be coming home to stay from university. I went into reflection on Christmases past. We all eat too much and also eat things that aren’t necessarily good for us but it’s the little ones that can have an issue. Here is my tale, one that every mother has gone through at some time and every new mother will…
It happened so quickly I had no time to think, only react. Green slimy poo was working it’s way up the poor little fellows back, creating a huge wedgy of disgusting paste. He didn’t look unhappy as I held him at arms length and leapt toward the stairs.

The bathroom, get to the bathroom, was the only thing on my mind. I flew up the stairs like an athlete going over hurdles. Quick, quick, this stuff was getting out of control. It was like the blob in the sixties movie about to encompass Steve McQueen and everyone in its path. I bounced off the bathroom door hitting my noggin in my hurry but my baby was okay. He emitted raptures of giggles at the pained expression that crossed my face. Why is it babies think it’s a hoot when you hurt yourself? There’s nothing like stubbing a toe or pinching a finger in a closing drawer to cause outright hilarity. Are babies really little malicious elves in disguise? Naaaaah! That’s just silly.

I swung the little guy into the bathtub, plonking him onto the soft silvery slivered mat that now became green grass. Shaking my head I looked at my lovely gel foot massaging mat and knew it wouldn’t be the same. Okay, can’t dwell on that, too much to do. Frantically I started stripping him down. Detaching the studs like a male stripper at a hen party. My hand slid to the back of his neck to pull the fabric down and I cringed in disgust as putrid smelling slime slid under my finger nails. Oh! So gross!

Be brave, I told myself, you can get through this and the bright blue eyes watched me as his baby grin grew larger.

“Yes, this is just fun time with mummy isn’t it?” I cooed as I pulled the sleeper off in one magnificent stretch. Which consequently soon after contracted from expanding to its limits throwing sage coloured faeces at the walls, sides of the bathtub but most disconcertingly…my face.

I so wanted to scream but all I could do was let out a maniacal laugh that my sweetie thought was wonderful and decided this was a brilliant time to play with mummy. Little fingers grabbed hold of what was oozing out of the diaper as I was trying to take off and he playfully flung it at me with the attitude, that since I was enjoying it so much, I would really like some more.

“No, no, my precious. That’s not for playing with.” I spluttered through blobs of green trying to imagine that it was wasabi and not something that was the waste product of my sons digestive system.

“We have to get you clean little man and mummy can’t do that if you distract her with really sticky icky stuff.” I hoped my smile was more calm than crazy and that my teeth were not spotted with his colonic discharge but sadly I knew they were.

Both of my hands were deep in his bowel movement as I tried not to think of it.

“Mummy must have fed you something very bad. Naughty mummy, she must try to feed you more bland foods next time.” In what I hoped was a soft meditative tone I continued talking hoping to keep my son quiet, not realizing I was the one needing calming.

At last he was without clothes and I quickly turned the taps on with one hand, the other upon my beloved. My hand was now wavering beneath the water until it was the right temperature.

“Mummy’s going to make it rain. A nice warm rain that will feel sooo good.”

Picking him up I propped him under the shower and pulled the lever.

Screams erupted from him at the shock of having water spattering down from above.

“Oh! Oh! My poor little one. I am so sorry.”

Before I knew it I was in the bathtub with him cuddling and cajoling him not to cry. Water was weaving it’s way through my clothes, my shirt was dripping as were my pants and uncomfortably my socks. Socks get very sloppy when wet but I was okay I was on the mat.

Soon the tears had subsided, mine and his, and I was able to soap him up and get him back to sparkling clean. I myself was no longer caked in yucky stuff but I was now water logged. Though the Flash Dance scene with the chair and bucket of water didn’t come to mind, drowned rat did.

I stepped out onto the bathmat that I had surprisingly in my state of reaction been sensible enough to lay down. However, I wasn’t smart enough to think about my wet socks and once off the mat did the most brilliant banana slip routine that has ever been done. The crash of my behind onto the floor sent tremors through my baby and for a moment he stared wide eyed in shock on my lap gazing into my poor defeated eyes.

The loud bawling that ensued was followed by my own loud sobs as I cradled him whilst wanting to rub my aching bottom that pulsed like Rudolph’s nose on a foggy night.

Brushing my tears aside and gingerly lifting us both off the floor I carefully thought about making my way out to go to his bedroom. It was only a short distance but had the magnitude of walking the Appalachians’. There was the open door of the bathroom, all I had to do was make it across the floor without slipping, once out I would be on carpet and home free to get to his room.

It was an unbelievably long period of time it took those four steps to the carpet, like being in a time stands still environment of quantum physics my foot slowly rose and fell, after which I carefully lifted the opposite foot and let it land as solidly as I could upon the floor. My eyes were focused only on the soft carpet that would soon encompass my drudging damp feet. My child safely ensconced close to my chest, listening to my rhythmical pounding heart as it beat a steady soothing song to relax him. One more stride, only one more stride.

When both feet landed on the carpet I felt like throwing him up and cheering at our Olympic achievement. I didn’t. It’s funny how good sense suddenly comes to a mother when you need it most.

I gently hugged him as I silently walked to his room. His little head slouching onto my arm and his beautiful face carrying a divine angelic expression of spiritual harmony and contentment. I placed him onto the change table looking down at my amazing creation with love and adoring eyes.

When the fountain hit me I came back to life. This was the joy of having a little boy, the surprise drenching in between changes. I swiftly covered him with a diaper until his Manneken Pis, Belgian statue pose was done and cleaned him gently off before putting a new diaper on him.

Once he was snuggled into a sleeper I laid him in his crib and stroked his short silky hair. His face was peaceful as he slept and I felt like a Buddhist being in the moment. My heart swelled with joy and I turned on my sopping feet and made my way to my retreat. Within those walls I undressed, and donned my robe and took myself downstairs. Switching on the kettle I grabbed a box of tea and a cup and waited.

With the delightful odour of freshly brewed tea within my hands I happily sipped and thought. Gosh! No wonder elderly people suggest a nice cup of tea after a traumatic event. It was as close to heaven as I could have got, holding the warm cup in my hands and breathing in its aromatic aroma but best of all I thought as I took one more sip. It wasn’t green tea.

Posted in #humor, #humour, #imperfect, #unexpected, Baby, Christmas, Home, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Unexpected…The Undead Are In My Freezer.

Life is always throwing things at us to deal with. Annoying things, like my switching the alarm to off. Hence, I miss being woken by Diana Krall singing her live version of “Let’s Fall in Love” and can’t sing along with her (after a year of being woken by the song I know every word). Alright, so maybe it’s not that life is a problem but me. Yes, I seem to be my own enemy. Like when I lose my keys. Of course they should be on the key holder but they’re not. Hence frantic searching through purse, coat pockets, counter tops and turning the house upside down. Inevitably I find them in the bathroom, because that’s where I had to hurry for a pee when I got home and threw them onto the bathroom cabinet. Found!

But, it’s the unexpected that gets us. The surprises that leave us short of breath for a while as we recover from the shock. A lot of times we bring these upon ourselves by watching a scary movie that makes us leap out of our seat or with me I let out a scream that sends everyone else leaping out of their seat. The scene might not have even been meant to be scary but that’s what makes it fun watching horror movies or thrillers with me. It becomes twice as frightening.  However, those instances that we don’t purposefully bring onto ourselves are the ones that we remember or we should. They can be silly things like farm-sitting for someone and having to go to the bathroom at night and not realizing the brightness you see is not an open area with a window but a reflection of light from an opposite window. Thud! I walk into the door jam. After several instances of this and a sore nose over several days I finally buy a night light. Yeah! Problem solved.


Unexpected…the Undead are in my freezer!

People can leave you unexpected surprises. Here is an example. I am preparing dinner and open the freezer door in my kitchen to find vegetables. Instead, I see several beady pink eyes looking at me. Huh! There, in a ziploc bag are several white mice, packed in rows lying upon the bottom of my freezer shelf. At eye level. Dead eyes staring at me. Queue gasp of shock, shudder and slamming of freezer door. Ugh! I have to open the door again to retrieve what I originally wanted. I open the door again and stand aghast as I look at the poor little frozen white furry things. I shake myself out of it and grab a bag of veggies. You would think I would remember this occasion right? Wrong! A few days later I open the freezer door to see the pink tails and pink eyes with rock hard bodies and let out a shocked breath of air.

Now, I have to meander from here for a moment because it brings back the recollection of a sheep course I attended at Kemptville College years ago. We had been shown how to revive near frozen lambs by stomach tubing them and syringing Revive into them. A perilous course of action that could result in flooding the lungs if inserted wrongly. I always tested the end of the tube with a hair to see if it wavered. That way I knew if I was incorrect in positioning the tube. If the hair moved I would quickly pull it out and try again. My reward when the syringe was plunged down was being peed upon. I was never happier than when urine was running onto my legs and flowing to the layers of newspaper beneath me on the floor. If you’d seen me you would have thought I was on leave from major therapy as I sat there in bright yellow rubber pants on my kitchen chair. I digress as usual. So, back to Kemptville College. The guy tells us you can revive lambs even when you think they’re dead. They can be so frozen that you could hammer nails in with them and still bring them back to life. Ah! The undead! I don’t think I ever had a lamb that frozen but I saved many little ones from death in my unusual tubing gear.

Back to the white mice. I wasn’t going to try and stomach tube these poor little beggars. No walking undead for these guys. Well…not for now. What? Onward we go. There I am the second time I have received a fright from these sad critters. Again, I quickly close the door after grabbing what I need and shake my head as I stomp off to continue the job I’m presently doing. Few days later. You guessed it. I open the door stand rooted as I gasp yet again at the frozen white as snow mice. I decide I am not going to look at them again so I move things around placing the tiny corpses at the back.

Amelanistic Corn Snake

There’s a snake in the bedroom

A few days later I get a question from my husband.

“Where are the mice for Grump?”

Grump is my son’s Cornsnake. He is an albino Cornsnake or as my son would say an amelanistic Cornsnake and like the mice he has pink eyes. He isn’t big but his home takes up a large portion of my son’s bedroom or what was my son’s bedroom. Since he has now left for university it is up to us to take care of his snake. The terrarium is almost four feet long and filled with Cyprus mulch, fake trees and leaves, plus a long branch that my son took from a tree that was trimmed. It looks very exotic including the fake rocks that Grump likes to hide under. He has a small cave and a large cave and when his little head pokes out with his waggling tongue he is quite adorable…quite.

Cave in terrarium

Grump’s cave.

I tell my husband where the mice have been relocated to and hear him fumbling around in the freezer. I think nothing of it. He’s obviously going to feed Grump with one of the mice. I wander happily into the kitchen get to the counter and see one of the brown glass coffee mugs on it. Oooooh! Dear hubby made me a coffee. I have my hand on the glass handle when I see a tail sticking up out of the liquid. Ugh! I leap back cringing, feeling a little nauseated. Thanks dear. After I have stopped shuddering I quickly move away from the glass cup. Don’t worry it does get sanitized in the dishwasher so if you’re having coffee at my place, no mouse worries there. Unless my husband is in the kitchen. Then it might be iffy which you get.

Amelanistic Corn Snake


My husband wanders in soon after, oblivious that mousy has surprised me yet again. He pulls the tail and tries to wiggle the body. Still frozen. He pours out the water and refills it again with hot water from the tap. Just like warming up a babies bottle. A little later he checks the temperature of the mouse. Not unlike a babies bottle. The mouse is now moving. Not really only because he’s flopping it around. Mousy is now mobile, he flexes every which way and my husband dries him off. Now undead, okay I’m being dramatic but mouse is no longer hard enough to hammer in nails. Mousey is taken upstairs.

In the bedroom we open the top of Grump’s terrarium. I see a small tongue flicker outside of his large cave.

“Looks like he’s hungry.” My husband pronounces.

He has the mouse by the tail and lets it flop down in front of the gap to Grump’s cave. The head wavers back and forth for a few seconds before Grump grabs it with the tenacity of a T-Rex. I give a startled jump. Mouse disappears into the inside of the cave as if it was never there.

Amelanistic Corn Snake

Grump an Amelanistic Corn Snake

It still surprises me how large an animal a snake can eat for the size of its head. When Grump comes out with the constricted white fur underneath his coils I can see he has dislocated his jaw to wrap it around the mouse’s head. The process of swallowing is slow but the mouse has been crushed enough that if had been breathing it wouldn’t be anymore. Although it may sound ghoulish, it is fascinating to watch as he eats his meal. It takes quite a while but eventually the lump is there and you see it become less and less the further it continues into the snake.

Amelanistic Corn Snake

Grump our Amelanistic Corn Snake

I have to admit I’m glad he only eats once a week as I’d be required to help out with the feeding and I’m not up for that yet. I’ve accepted little corpses in my freezer but as for thawing them out and feeding them to Grump? They’re not a part of my job…yet. I will have to gear up for that I’m sure and forego the odd shudder that these poor things emit from me. I have no doubt eventually I will end up having to fill in and feed Grump. I also know that when that happens in the back of my mind I will sincerely be wishing that my son had bought a hamster instead.

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If it’s Monday, this must be Minneapolis

Source: If it’s Monday, this must be Minneapolis

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Bonjour, Bonsoir, Merci?

Quote at Quebec City

Bonjour! I am back from Quebec. Unfortunately I still have a feeble repertoire of French words. You guessed right, bonjour, bonsoir and merci. They serve me well, especially merci which I can interpret into all manner of answers to rapidly delivered French phrases. I know I sound gormless but bear with me. Here is a scenario.

La Citadelle, Quebec City

La Citadelle, Quebec City.

Scene-grocery store. After the customary bonjour or bonsoir and a huge smile (because a smile has so many words and they’re all good ones) to whoever may be facing me. A flourish of words are bestowed upon me none of which I understand. Queue goofy smile and “Merci?” There has to be the connotation of it seeming to be a question (even though thank you isn’t a question work with me) otherwise it doesn’t progress. A curious look is delivered from conversation partner which translates to; is this person not very bright or foreign? It doesn’t matter because they take the initiative and the transaction proceeds.

Quebec City

Beautiful Quebec City

Meanwhile bagging person may not have noticed what has gone on with the cashier and deluges an exuberant exchange of words to which my response is extra large grin and “Merci?” He now looks at me as if I’m from another planet continues bagging and hands me the groceries. This time I know the correct word. “Merci!” I pronounce with a flourish as if I have just deciphered everything said at a Nato summit meeting. The smile is still there and is querulously returned as he tries to decipher if you’re on day leave from the hospital or you’ve wandered off the mother-ship by mistake. In which case he’s probably glad you’re leaving because you obviously are just plain weird.

Montmorency Falls, Quebec

Montmorency Falls, Quebec.

Honestly, I used to be able to speak phrases in different languages. I don’t know why my brain goes into slow-mo when I’m trying to wrap my head around another language but it does. There was a time when I could walk into a Parisian cafe and say “Garcon, deux biere si vous plait!” and waltz to a table with the assuredness of Juliette Binoche (she is French isn’t she? Don’t tell me she’s Spanish or some other nationality and I’ve just fallen flat on my face! Nope, Googled her and I’m right). Now I sit down and give the waiter a dumb look. Although I still drink beer wine is my preference. This takes me slightly off topic for a moment.

Montmorency Falls

Montmorency Falls, Quebec, Canada.

As I said previously I’ve been told red wine is good for you and my son tells me it can prevent Alzheimer’s. However, it hasn’t improved my brain function for speaking foreign languages but I’m game to keep trying.

I know that when you speak another language you correlate to the meaning in the language itself rather than translate it from the language you speak. I have problems with that. Unless someone holds up a green apple and slowly says “une pomme verte” I just can’t follow them, even though I recognize some of the words my brain goes thick. Maybe if I were in a situation where the language was around me all the time I would in time understand. Body language and situations can help determine what the conversation is about and the French do body language with the excitement of a gold medal winner.

Quebec City

Quebec City

Of course these days it’s easy to be lazy. It seems no matter where you go people speak English and falling back to what we know is natural. I feel embarrassed though for not knowing their language as if I have a major failing (to add to the many I do have). I do converse with them in English, usually pronouncing apologetically “Anglais” (okay I know that’s added up to more than three words) but not everyone can speak English well. When I want to purchase the best French cheese and wine, I want to be able to understand the feelings for those products and here, the French language truly captures emotion as do their articulate arm manoeuvres.

I love listening to the French talk, there is so much passion in their conversations, even if it is only someone asking if anyone bought milk. Everything is important hence the outspread arms during discussions. No, I’m not being facetious I truly do enjoy how vibrant the French are, how could I not love a nationality that has such fervour and delight in everything around them?

Posted in #French, #humor, #humour, #language, #Quebec, #QuebecCity | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Home Sweetie, Home.

Home Sweetie Home- evening landscape

Home Sweetie Home Where I am the best person ever!

I arrived home late Saturday after my farm-sitting stint. I had left the place in the hands of the guys. Yep! You know what that’s like. They certainly don’t turn into Cinderella when you’re away. In fact I think I was lucky that the dishes were done. Chaos, is a good word to use. I expected the place to be more cluttered than it was but my husband had had words with my son about picking up all of his clothes. Which he almost did.

Cleaning was in order but before that I had to be welcomed by my puppies. When I say puppies they are my adult puppies. They leap and bound, especially the little one with as much exuberance as they did when they were little. The two large dogs are more aloof, sometimes, but not this time. I had two big heads almost knocking me over to get attention. Being affectionately goosed is one part of owning big dogs. Aw! To be loved.

Italian Mastiff

Blue Boy

Blue Boy (Italian Mastiff), Fluffy Puppy (Maremma) and Billie Girl (Boston Terrier) were joyful at the sight of me, my husband didn’t get a look in. Whilst I have been away Blue Boy has taken over the love seat, Billie Girl takes herself upstairs to sleep on our bed and Fluffy Puppy, well, he’ll just about sleep anywhere because as a breed they’re pretty close to feral. They are bred to live outside with sheep having only a minimal amount of human contact. However, he has chosen the living room rug as his favourite spot, whereas his parents had happily laid in amongst the flock of woolly bodies that had surrounded them.

Fluffy Puppy

I should tell you more about Fluffy Puppy because he has been, let’s say was, a problem child. He was three months old when my son and I went to buy him. I couldn’t go for the sweet female who was leaping all over with joy to see us. No! I had to pull the male out from underneath the tractor smelling of diesel who had no intention of being sociable. He wouldn’t walk so my son picked up the mere thirty five pound brute that I had just purchased and laid him on the back seat like a rag doll. He’d decided his legs didn’t work. If we wanted him, we would have to make the effort of providing our own physical transportation method to move him because he wasn’t getting out of his comatose state.

Of course on the journey home he broke that rule by vomiting all over my son and going back to his unable to move stance. Kudos to my son he was still happy with the white fluff in his arms minus the pebbly bits that we cleaned off. He chose to call him Ghost after the white dire wolf in Game of Thrones. His dad and I called him Fluffy Puppy.

Maremma and Boston Terrier

Fluffy Puppy and Billie Girl

The first night was interesting. We had a dog that had lived outside and needed to be house trained. Fluffy Puppy was still of the opinion that his legs would not work when we were around. Consequently I had to carry him outside and put him down for him to go to the bathroom. This was no problem (except the strain on my back) until he decided…Gosh! Yes! My legs do work and took off under the deck. After much cajoling, treat offering, sweet talking and begging, all of which Fluffy Puppy ignored, he was abandoned to spend the night there. Forgive me, there’s only so much time you can spend outside begging a puppy to come out. He was safe so we let him have his alone time.

The next morning he came out and guess what? His legs worked until he was back inside and his affliction relapsed. I had to carry him out to the bathroom again but this time he didn’t hide under the deck. It seemed there was a correlation between being in the house with us and the use of his legs. Really when you think about it, his defiance was more pleasant than biting us in the ass to show his displeasure at being taken away from his family.

Believe it or not this practise went on for days. When they say sheepdogs can be stubborn believe them, they can be very stubborn. Of course now Fluffy Puppy is part of the family, the dire wolf of our tribe and we adore him. You couldn’t get a more laid back dog in fact he would have fit right into the sixties with flower power and “hey man what’s your hurry”, he’s totally retro.

Anyway back to my return home to all of my sweeties. After many hugs and kisses I was finally able to give my husband and son hugs and kisses too. My sweeties had bought bubbly, cream cheese and salmon to celebrate my return home. Wow! Did I feel special.

It’s funny how when you’ve been away from home you come back with lots of energy. I did. I swept through the house like a cleaning tornado and petered out just as fast!

I’ve been home a few days now and tomorrow I am off to Quebec. Again I am abandoning my critters but this time my husband will be with me. I am somewhat afraid of what mess will greet me on my return but I shall not complain. I am just thankful that my son is prepared to stay and take care of things. Plus, I can look forward to being tumultuously welcomed by our puppies on our return. They think I am the best person ever and I’m not going to dispute that!

Home sweetie home

Home sweetie home

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I’m not flawed, I’m perfect at being imperfect

I had a very unusual day yesterday. I hosted Thanksgiving at my farm-sitting abode and everything went smoothly. Huh? Do you hear them? The angels are singing Hallelujah. I know for a lot or maybe even most of you everything going according to plan is…well…not unusual. For me it is a miracle!

Seeping rock


I have hosted dinners where I thought I had everything in hand but never did. I would forget the bread rolls in the oven and my guests would end up bravely crunching their way through them hoping they wouldn’t lose any teeth. Or, I would forget one of the vegetables, more precisely as my husband says, “one of the twenty seven vegetables to go with the fifteen pounds of meat”. We would end up eating the discovered vegetable as a dessert because, well, I cooked it, it’s part of the dinner. Consequently, everyone would be so stuffed they’d barely have room for the actual dessert and try to politely force it into their mouths whilst trying not to burst.

I’m originally from a large family so for special family events I can’t help but buy the largest roast or turkey and have a myriad of coloured root vegetables and of course brussel sprouts because you should always have brussel sprouts (even if my sons hate them). Don’t worry, all the food gets eaten, usually over several days in sandwiches and soups to which my children complain “not turkey again!”

On one such occasion I had a large group of people coming to dinner and was worried that there might not be enough food for everyone. I bought the largest turkey I could find, thinking it should be good for the several families that were coming. I brought it home proud of myself and eager for the up coming day. I was diligent and made sure I took the bird out well in advance so I would not be struggling to defrost it at the last minute. Thumbs up for me. I set up three tables, one for adults and two for children.

Everything was looking good until I tried to put the turkey in the oven. Apparently this bird was not meant for the everyday sized oven, it was for an outdoor spit, roasting over super hot coals with a large burly man carefully turning it. Okay, thumbs down for me. Between you and I, don’t let my relatives know this…but I pretty much squashed that beast into the oven. I literally had to push it in with both hands. Good so far. It wasn’t until later, after several hours of cooking and guests happily ensconced in their chairs waiting for dinner that I realized there could be a bit of a problem…getting it out. I hadn’t dared open the oven door much, other than to pull off the foil so it could brown. I peered in through the glass like a kid checking out a candy store. Everything looked good, the bird was nicely browned. It seemed ready and the veggies were all done, dinner could be served. So I should go ahead and present my piece de resistance.

My husband was entertaining our guests so I decided to play Hercules and pull the turkey from the oven by myself. I didn’t get to take the turkey out because as soon as I opened the door I realized that the juices had run over the container it was cooking in and charred the bottom burner. The smell of smoke wafted out from the oven and up to the detector above which let out an ear piercing noise to everyone in the house. My husband gallantly arose from the dinner table and announced in a thrilled voice “dinner’s ready!” To which the whole house roared with laughter. My hero came to the rescue, turned off the fire alarm, opened windows, extinguished the wannabe flames in the oven, pulled out the turkey and presented it on the table with a “tadah!” flourish.

Guess, what? The boys had turkey for weeks after.

My sister-in-law reminded me the other day of the time I forgot to make gravy. You’ve got it, it was at the same time as I was cooking gargantuan bird. All I had in the cupboard was chicken noodle soup. I’m not sure if the children will ever forget the worms floating in the gravy bowl. It made for some hilarious laughter though.

Ah! Memories of Christmas’s we’ll never forget or perhaps in my case would like to forget…naaah! It’s all good fun.


The oops! breakfast

The day before yesterday, I had one of my usual mishaps. I put together a very nice healthy breakfast of oatmeal, chia seeds, hemp hearts, bananas, blueberries and a good sized piece of dark chocolate…yummmm! Everything was together in the bowl so I reached into the fridge pulled out a carton and proceeded to pour chicken broth over my delicious meal. Ahhhhh! I wasn’t going to throw it out. It had chocolate in it and that would be a sin to throw away chocolate. I improvized and poured out as much broth as I could. Grabbing the correct carton of almond milk I poured it on and cooked it as normal. Apart from a slightly salty flavour it tasted grrreat!

So there are my reasons why “I’m not flawed, I’m perfect at being imperfect” and proud of it.

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Further adventures in farmsitting land

Aside from horses and dogs being critters in my charge in farmsitting land there is a cat. Ohhhhh! I hear you say, don’t you like cats? I do, the reason I mention the cat is that like the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland he’s invisible.

Misty farmland

Invisible cat

I have gone out to the barn every morning to bring the horses in. Left them tucking into their cookies and opened the stall door to where Cheshire’s food and water are. Every day I fill the bowl heaping it up to the top, fill the water and close the door leaving it slightly ajar for him to get through. You see, Cheshire is feral, untamed enough that he won’t have anything to do with anyone, apparently including me. His food is always gone later when I look in and I top it up again.


Chippy resting

Now, you’re probably saying how do I know there really is a cat? Is something else eating the food? I will bring you up to date with the other wild critters in the barn. Chippy the chipmunk I have seen quite a few times. With his tail straight up in the air he tears across the aisle like a deranged dodgem car. He isn’t large enough to go through the amount of food I leave there. There is also Red, the crazy red squirrel who hangs from the maw above the feed room and spits and yells at me with so much venom that afterwards she has to take a nap. Neither of these two could put away that much food. For one I’ve seen Red hanging upside down at the bird feeder so she obviously prefers sunflower seeds to cat chow.

Red squirrel

Red for once not practising for Cirque de Soleil

There is a cat and finally after days of farmsitting I saw the proof. Looking out of the back door toward the horses field I saw him. He wasn’t large or small, just a well fed grey tabby that slunk past the water trough in panther like stride as if he had a mission. He did – cat kibble!

I didn’t see him again but I did find the unhealthy remains of a rodent outside the barn door. No, it wasn’t Chippy or Red. It looked like a biology lab experiment gone wrong. Ugghhh! Not very pleasant.

I haven’t seen Cheshire since but the food keeps disappearing and the water is drunk. I go about my chores of filling both in the hope that I may at least, one day, see that Cheshire Cat grin.

Misty farmland

Invisible cat

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