Only 91?

That’s Milligan, obviously. I’m surprised it’s so low.

For Jackson it’s 83% which sounds about right.

Family Picture Failure

This sent tears of laughter rolling down my face today. At work.

Slightly inappropriate.

I think it’s because the cats in question look so much like my own. And this is exactly what they would do if I tried anything this stupid.

Homeopathy For Pets

Homeopathy is one of the biggest scams ever wrought upon a gullible public.

Here’s the thing: a homeopathic preparation is nothing more than water.

Seriously.

It's just water.

Supposedly the water retains the ‘memory’ of something or other diluted in it, but by the time you’re shelling out your money it’s been diluted so much that there’s nothing there anymore.

It’s just water.

I'm amazed anyone has the gall to charge so much money for this stuff. I'm only slight less amazed that people actually pay so much money for this stuff.

No study has ever shown homeopathy to have any effect beyond that of a simple placebo. Which is hardly surprising.

After all, it’s just water.

So imagine my surprise when I was in my local vet’s this afternoon, and they have on their shelf something called “Homeo-Pet”.

Yes. Homeopathic treatments for pets. At $37 a bottle.

For water.

I get that a placebo might work on humans. I do. But on animals? On dogs and cats?

Please.

They’re just not that stupid.

Parlay Voo

This morning my lovely wife and I began French language classes.

For the next five weeks, four hours every Saturday morning (and part of the afternoon) will be spent conjugating verbs, trying to remember the right preposition, and desperately trying to pronounce the letter 'R' without spitting all over the desk.

This is all part of our ill-defined (at the moment) but nevertheless strong intention to move to Paris.

Someday. Hopefully soon.

The next part will be working out how to transport two cats, one terminally grumpy and the other morbidly obese, halfway across the world.

Compared to that, getting the language down will be the easy part.

I want me one of these

From 2009 Savannah Cats will be available in Australia.

These little guys a great. Sleek and exotic and bred to look wild.

That's look wild, mind you. Not act wild. Not that that's clear from some of the stories doing the rounds.

In an insanely hysterical piece in the Brisbane Times on the weekend, the poor little buggers are being painted as nothing more than giant feral cats that would kill you and yours without a second thought.

And just look at that photo they chose . . . it's clearly a killer!


If you stick "savannah cats" into Google Images, then that one pops up on the front page.

But every other photo looks more like this:


Biased much ??

One Year Old(er)

I think that's the longest break I've ever had from blogging. At least, since beginning exactly one year ago today.

That's right, Portello is one year old. And hasn't it grown? Such a cutie.

But what have I been doing for this last week, you ask?

Well, I have rekindled my love for the jigsaw. We've been apart for a long time, and . . . there was a lot of catching up to do.

Actually, this rekindling was brought about by two seemingly unrelated things.

The first was a challenge from my lovely wife not to look at Facebook for a whole week. This was achieved (apart from special dispensation on Tuesday to check for birthday messages) but it meant forsaking the two Facebook activities I indulge in regularly . . . playing Scrabulous^TM (aka Scrabble^TM) and doing jigsaws on PuzzleBee^TM.

The other thing was that, serendipitously and before the shakes set in, I received a birthday gift from my parents of three 1000-piece puzzles and a jigsaw case.

And that was just what I needed . . . a large flat vinyl case, padded and velcro-sealed, in which one can comfortably work on a jigsaw, and then keep it closed and unmolested by curious cats when not in attendance.

Of course even while I am in attendance, there's been a certain amount of training required.

Not walking across the puzzle. Not knocking the pieces off the table and watching them curiously as they fall to the floor. Not eating the jigsaw pieces. Not eating the jigsaw case. The usual sort of thing. They're getting the hang of it.

Anyway, here's the case . . . featuring completed puzzle:


The puzzle was very cool, actually. To make it tricky, the picture on the box was not the picture in the puzzle.

The puzzle picture is, in fact, what happens next after the scene on the box.

* * * Spoiler Alert * * *
This is the picture on the box:


And this is the completed puzzle:


Lots of semi-amusing detail in there if you care to look.

Thanks, Mum and Dad.

Blood and other bodily fluids

It's been an interesting day.

It starts as I'm leaving for work, and my cat Milligan decides to piss in my clothes cupboard.

He doesn't wait til I'm out of the room, or even looking the other way. I open the cupboard to get a shirt and he leaps straight in, almost with an air of "hmph . . . about time" and proceeds to do his thing.

Little bastard, I think. And yell.

It's not even so much the pissing. Well it is. But it's really the appalling lack of respect. I mean to say . . . right in front of me!

When I get to work I realise I still have the faint smell of cat piss on my hands. Very professional.

Apart from that, work is reasonably uneventful. So much so that I leave early(ish) to give some blood at the Red Cross.

Actually, the intention was to give plasma. I'd got a phone call on Monday asking if I would like to donate plasma instead, plasma apparently being the fluid your red blood cells float around in. Well, why not.

The idea is that your blood gets sucked out into a machine, separated into red blood cells and plasma, and the red blood cells get put back into your arm. Takes a bit longer than your average donation. But OK. That's the plan.

I turn up for my appointment, and after flashing my donor card, the nurse asks if I've had my veins checked. There's an embarrassing moment or two when I think she says "bones" instead of "veins" and have a nasty mental image of a marrow donation.

Once that confusion is sorted out, I say no, not as yet, having just walked into the place through that door directly in front of the counter I am now standing at. So I am handed over to another nurse, Cheryl, who asks me the same question. No, I say. I have not had my veins checked.

Well then. Cheryl straps up my left arm and begins to tap tap tap away at a vein. Then she purses her lips. Hmmm. Let's try the other arm.

So the in tube and the out tube both go in the same arm? I ask.

Yes.

Oh. So that arm will be really sore at the end of this.

Yes.

Right.

And again on the right arm. Strap up. Tap tap tap. Purse lips.

Well . . . it's better than the other one.

But still no good?

No. It's borderline, really. I might usually do it, but the computers are down at the moment.

(Pardon? I'm not sure what the logic is here. But I wasn't about to argue with the lady with the needle).

So a regular vanilla blood donation it is for me. I walk back to the office behind Cheryl for the usual pre-donation blood pressure / haemoglobin tests, feeling oddly ashamed. Would there be a drastic lack of essential plasma due to the paltry state of my veins?

Oh no, I am assured.

In fact, they seem dreadfully apologetic that I'm not able to donate plasma. Their manner suggests my heart had clearly been set on the idea and I would be going home terribly disappointed.

Truth be told, I'm going home a little relieved.

The regular donation is . . . well, regular. I have the usual sausage roll and milkshake in the cafe afterwards.

On the way home, I run into Micky walking to the station. Then I run into my wife on the train. We've sent a couple of text messages back and forth before we realise we're on the same train, and actually in the same carriage.

Kate had had an awesome day as it happens, with her 2008 season trend forecasting presentation to their biggest client going down an absolute treat. Well done babe.

And then I arrive home to a pile of cat piss-soaked clothes in the laundry basket.

Life. Don't talk to me about life.

Vale Ferrari

A little black cat joined our family as a stray in 1990. She was already a year or two old (we think) and for all that she was keen to attach herself to us, she was never all that affectionate. At least initially. Sarah named her Ferrari.

Ferrari was happy to be fed, and happy to laze around on our back veranda, but she wasn't that keen to be picked up, or even approached. I often wondered if she had been hurt by someone . . . if she had joined our family because it seemed a safer option than wherever it was she had come from.

Over the years she seemed to mellow. A succession of feline companions (Gizmo, Vienna and Caviar) took their turns hassling her, but Ferrari always bore it all with great grace and patience. (I'm not sure that's 100% true, actually, but this is an obit, so whatever). And as she got older she grew more and more affectionate.

It's noteworthy that of the four of them, Ferrari was the last to go. After all, she was well and truly the oldest. We lost Vienna a few years ago when she was hit by a car. Caviar just up and disappeared one day, never to return. Gizmo succumbed to old age (he was 16) late last year, and now Ferrari has gone too.

It's funny how these little creatures can become such a part of you, and such a focus for your affection. It's not just their helplessness; their reliance on you. For me, cats have an amazing way of making you believe in their superiority. They manage to convince you that they deserve the attention you lavish on them. You just know that you shouldn't expect any payback in the form of affection or otherwise. And it's not important. That's not why you do it.

For a lot of people, that's why they prefer dogs. But this, to me, in the centre of the cat's appeal. It's not the Master/Pet relationship you have with a dog. It's more like a friendship. That a cat chooses to be with you is very special. To earn the trust and affection of such an individualistic animal really means a lot.

This was what made Ferrari particularly special. We didn't go to a store and choose her. She chose us. As a wandering stray, she could have gone anywhere, but she saw something in our family that she decided was worth staying for.

Like all cats, she could be grumpy. And dismissive. And at times, very skittish. But like all cats, it was just cool having her around. Even in her final arthritic days she carried herself with an elegance and grace that warmed my heart.

Mum and Dad made her final weeks comfortable and warm. She was propped up on cushions in front of the heater, food and water close by. This had to be as close to paradise as a cat could get. Then she went quietly in her sleep on Friday night.

Ferrari, thanks for choosing to stay with us. You made our lives a little better and I really hope we made your life all you wanted it to be.