P o c k e t CT

I went to the Dance Flurry this weekend which was so much fun it deserves its own post but I don’t think I can do it justice at the moment. To tide you over go read Jan’s account

I was dancing with Bicentennial John who reminded me of something that I wanted to write about. Here is how it came to mind. He said he would be in the dog house if he couldn’t make time to dance with me. Although I adore dancing with him this isn’t exactly true. I say “I don’t even have a dog house. I have a cat.” He says that it would be a totally different story to be in a cat house. Well yes, that is true. So I think of some interesting things about my cat.

This is my cat Funk. She was once a mighty hunter. She brought me a mood modifying weasel.
Ryan and I were grumpy with each other …testy all day. I went to bed early reading to give him his required entire universe of time and space. I hear the back door open and then grumpy yelling “goddammit I stepped on a weasel!” I do not believe my ears. “What?” “I stepped on a fucking weasel, Funk left a dead weasel on the deck” “you’re kidding? a weasel?” at the end we are both giggling and bad mood no more.

Funk also won a hunting contest that Loruh and I challenged our cats to. There were points for everything they brought us. one for mice, moles, two for chipmunks, three for frogs, five for rabbits, seven for birds, ten for aquatic life and anything more than twice their size. The contest was neck in neck for most of the summer, with Funk behind. The last week however, Funk managed to leave a gray feathery mess three times on my bedroom floor and took the prize. The other cat, mortified, ran away so I never pushed the payment of the bet for a bag of cat food on the very distraught Loruh. Her cat returned a few weeks later by the way.

So now Funk is starting to miss when jumping up on the bed and hasn’t been her prolific guts-on-the-floor gift giving self. JoeTAH is attempting to re-inspire her hunting zeal. So far it isn’t working though. See two nothing.

This is probably because she is being invaded. Lately I have found that my neighbor’s cat has been sneaking into my house through the cat door. I have more than once discovered the tyrant tomcat eating from Funk’s dish or walked into the basement and had the boy dash from the litter box and out the cat door. He has been doing his business also behind the wood stove in the basement free of the constraints of the litter box which is also distressing to me. This is not nearly as bad as the all out brawls they get into. The last one left fur and blood on the landing and awoke Joe with the cacophonous mewling and loud hissing. This left Funk with a hole in her ear and me knowing that I had to talk to my neighbor. Where did I put his phone number? Can’t find it. I look on his blog for an email address but there isn’t one and I don’t want to leave an unrelated comment. Nix that idea. There is a poetry reading at the pub on Monday and I go in part to talk to him. So I break the news to him that his beloved cat is a thug that had been bullying my old girl in her own home. He said that explained a lot and he will give the little tyrant a good talking to. I’m not so certain it will work. Any ideas?

So now I’ll head back to the conversation while dancing. BJohn and I were also talking about how my dad called me that morning to say that he had found my blog and wanted me to know that he had been reading it. This is a little alarming to me because I don’t remember in a whole year of writing what on earth that may be there. I mean I have a category for sex and dating but what is in there that could be totally uncomfortable for my father to read? Probably something. Then I think of the post I wrote that talks in part about my father. I had to reread that to see if I had been horrible. No, I think just honest. So in the conversation with my father I had to say that the blog is public, that anyone can read it, but that there may be items that I write about that wouldn’t be entirely comfortable for him to read. When I got back from the Flurry I read a post from Second Hand Tryptophan who clearly labeled the post NSFM (Not Safe for Mom.) Should I put labels on my posts indicating the appropriateness for various audiences? In Karl’s instance that was a nice this to do since the title was about Last FM but the post was about whether or not Last FM was tracking his porn viewing, what happens to his brain capability if he can’t take care of himself, so I bet mom appreciated the warning.

I could have labels:
NSFM not safe for Mom
NSFD not safe for Dad
NSFSE not safe for student employees
NSFW not safe for work (can that be for text instead of pictures?)
NSFP not safe for prudes or that could even be not safe for puritans
NSFPAXB not safe for passive aggressive ex boyfriends
NSFRN not safe for red necks

I’m not sure what I want to do with this. After thinking about it nothing here is all that dangerous really. But I think if I start talking about watching porn and what happens to my brain if I don’t masturbate enough, I may put a warning label up there. Or maybe not. Reader beware.

One night last week I was wondering what I should do in between work and when I had to meet a friend at 10pm. I am emailing Jan who says come on a bike ride in the Montague Flats. There are lots of reasons why not: it is night, cold, my bike doesn’t work well, the people she rides with are badass bikers and I have not a lick badass biker in me. But what came off my fingertips was “OK” and I was home to layer up in thermals, sweats, fleece and extract my bike from the shed.

I am outclassed and nervous about riding with these people but it turns out the group is splitting up with all the spandex class badasses in one group to climb hills and me, Jan and Bob going on our moderately paced merry way. Here is a nice thing about biking with Bob, he records it all
The Flats are a maze of dirt bike trails on sand that conforms to their unnatural spray patterns to make waves and ruts that fill with water that is turning to ice as we ride. The scruff and dessicated weeds lay in any space not traversed repeatedly by motorized bikes and trikes. They show in our headlights wilted, frost laden, and are wind swept rather than their former heliotropic selves. The sand if I accidentally sway into a rut pulls at my tires like a big snow bank driving me into a drift. I jump between struggling for control and gliding along merrily while the wind whips my cheeks to hot dryness. The paths switch to single track, wooded and hilly. The temperature is noticeably warmer in the woods, inviting. We climb a hill, I can’t make it without walking. I slip with my treadless sneakers on the dead and frozen leaves, happy to see the spindly sides of oaks and maples after the barren sand flats. riding to the bottom of the hill all the other cyclists were peering up at us, blinding me with headlamps. As they discussed directions I could hear a bat clicking off where we rode in and see a bard owl peering back at us in a nearby tree. We separated again went over another small hill where I fell a wee little fall but one that made me feel like I was not riding like a sissy and then waited for the big gang again. Waiting was cold business, Jan got cold, complaining cold. As we came out to the flats again a big cantalope colored moon lit the silhouettes to burnt umber. It was bright enough to make you feel like you should be able to see more but you couldn’t. It left you feeling the world was somewhat magical and out of reach of your eyes but to behold anything but the lovely moon. In this moon, Jan’s light went out. Shortly after mine went away as well. Riding by a brambly mass of bushes I hear something moving in them. Is this a deer? another rider? People camping here? The last thought spooks me thank to the book, Strange Piece of Paradise. I hear it again in two or three places this time, is there more than one thing making the noise? Deer then. I ride a few feet and then the distinct smell of wet dog is around me. As we get to the street I see sets of green eyes running across. It was nice to be aware of their presence without the standard auditory howling cues. Lovely.

Driving up route 12 in Walpole NH 2LittleFishes asks if I want to go find some Indian petroglyphs in Bellows Falls. The Connecticut River is thin there, with high rock sides, the civil engineered structure of a power plant and a fish ladder. Yes I want to scramble around there and take photos. We parked by the post office and walked by the gated and closed area of the fish ladder. As I was peeking into the lock with the rising square pools to try to see if there was a viewing station under the water my eye was drawn by movement on the other side of the canal. On a floating log with was stuck on the orange barrel shaped buoy that checks the water level is a little skunk. I point out the skunk to 2LF as it is swimming across the small dip to the other side of the log. It is just a baby skunk with fur that is probably soft and downy and a small frame that weighs maybe a pound or two. It stands to look around, showing plainly that it is really stuck. I think “that little guy needs to swim over to that bramble of branches and climb on out of there”. Then suggest that we go hunting for the stone markings.

We scramble down the side cautiously as the scree and debris are slippery underfoot. As we are half way down a father, sevenish girl and young teen boy start their descent. They are also looking for the petroglyphs. We have no idea where they are, neither do they. They boy is leaping over the rocks like a mountain goat and freaking his father out. “Jason! Three limbs on the surface please. Do you know how embarrassing it will be if the fire department has to haul you out of here with a broken arm?” He is disappointed he can no longer show off his mountain goat rock jumping skills and sulks a bit. I am no longer a kid, I can keenly imagine something accidental happening to me. The scrape or the rocks with an uncontrolled fall, the long wait and hearing the walkie talkies as the volunteer fire department figures out ropes and then explaining to everyone that I was rock scrambling with stupid shoes. Nothing happened that day except a nerve wracked father, definitely not a discovery of where the petroglyphs were.

The walk revealed some interesting shapes of erosion. The rocks in the river get stuck in crevices and swirl until they gauge out perfectly circular holes. People have stacked cairns along the river which offsets random pieces of debris in rusted metal, ceramic pots and wiry tangles, some of which came from the closed foundry on the hill.

Walking back we noticed a another family watching the fate of the skunk in the lock. 2LF wants to call Fish and Wildlife. We call the local Bellows Falls PD who refer us to the state office, who informed us that Animal Control won’t do skunks and we would have to call a pest control person. We call the company that owns the fish ladder and get an answering machine. I exaggerate the crowd oohing and aahing over the destiny of the rodent and let him know they could be a big hero if they come here with a net. Then we go on our way.

Toward the end of the day 2LF is still thinking of the skunk. “Can’t we do something?” he asks, I just shrug. He seems to think we can build a floating raft, attach it to some rope and float it out to the skunk and pull it up to safety. Although I suspect this plan could have some serious flaws, like that we could be sprayed, bitten, we could pull the skunk up only to have it jump off to watch it drown or that it won’t even know what to do with the raft I am game. Why not? I suggest we put some peach skins of something in the raft to lure the little guy and 2LF builds the rescue contraption. On the way back there we discuss possibilities, I’m not sure if we brought up the one that actually occurred. Nobody around, skunk no where in site. He swam to safety, got rescued, climbed out. There was no black and white body in the lock but the little guy left us with a mystery.