Little Widdler!

Wendell has been wee-ing all day.  A bit of a set back, I feel.  He soaked his bedding so I put it on to wash.  I gave him a pillow and another blanket.  He wet them, lay in it and earned himself his first bath.  Hmmm… he was not too impressed with that.  He has been using the paper in the kitchen, as well.  I think he must have drunk a lot more water and lost control of his bladder.  He has been so good up until now.  At least I have an excuse to have the heating on.  I must get his bedding dry, before I run out of extra blankets.

We bought him a rubber chicken that squeaks, yesterday.  He is hilarious with it; squeaking it, growling, barking and ragging it.

Anyway, enough for now; must get back to my washing.  Pen.

 

Cat caught in illegal trap dies

 

Both of the cat's legs were fractured by the trap

A cat has died after being forced to chew its legs when it became caught in an illegal trap in Norfolk.

Sam, a five-year-old cat, returned to his home in Sheringham with horrific injuries sustained while freeing itself, the RSPCA said.

Owner Simon Smith took it to a vets where it was put down and the RSPCA alerted.

The charity said anyone found guilty of setting a gin trap can face a maximum £20,000 fine and six months in prison.

The cat had fractured both legs and the skin and muscle was torn.

RSPCA inspector John Jenkins said: "Sam's injuries were horrific - his owners have no idea how he managed to get himself home in such a state.

"Gin traps are illegal and if you set them you are breaking the law, whether they catch anything or not.

"I cannot emphasise strongly enough the importance of checking your property for traps and removing them immediately before they harm another animal or person."

Earlier in January, another cat became caught a gin trap just four miles away in Bodham, Mr Jenkins added.

Anyone with information is asked to contact the RSPCA.

Routine

Little Wendell and I are settling into a comfortable routine already.  He is now running from the sitting room to the kitchen in order to use the newspaper there for his toilet.  He does not always make it to the paper but he gets ten out of ten for effort.  Since sleeping in the bedroom, he is quite settled.  He wakes at 4.30 a.m. for his first wee but that is when I wake naturally.  When I am on the computer, he sits in his basket and watches me.  We have three play periods and he kills his toys in true terrier fashion.  When I give him his treats of chicken, he sits for it.  I may be wrong but I think he is very bright to be doing this at such a tender age.  I already love the little scrap to bits.  When Terry returns from work, Wendell sits between his feet and will not move for an hour.  Cute, eh?

That’s Better

The little fella had a better night last night.  Moving his crate to the bedroom for the night meant a reasonable nights sleep for all.  I had forgotten how cold and miserable it is at four thirty in the morning.  He is now fast asleep in his basket and I am still shivering.  The paper training is going quite well but he does tend to drop puddles when excited.  My hand is too cold to type more, Pen.

Terrier troubles

Wendell is still crying at night, although the volume is quieter.  He had a little chicken with his breakfast, this morning and wolfed it down.  He is now showing true terrier traits; ragging toys, digging in the corner of the sofa etc. The cats were not impressed that Wendell got a share of the chicken and there was a bit of hissing going on.  He went for a couple of laps around the kitchen table and is now fast asleep.  He loves sleeping on Terry’s chair and is not underfoot there.  His basket is more of a home for his toys, during the day.  The sun is shining brightly today.  I would go for stroll on the beach but I don’t want to leave the little one on his own for too long.  That’s all for now, Pen. 

The new arrival

Wendell has arrived and is making his presence felt already.  He is adorable, lively and wilful.  I shall have my hands full, especially as I cannot get a dog crate until Saturday.  The shop needs to order it.  His tail has not stopped wagging.  Porter is being very aloof.  He is walking sideways but there is no fear or hissing.  Finn is already trying to buddy up with wendell.  I think he sees him as an ally.  Not forgetting, of course, my cats have never seen a dog before.  Another cat would have a far worse reaction.  Anyway, here are a few photos.  See ya, pen.

View Full Album

Chain Reaction

Picture the scene.  Terry and I relaxing after dinner; me on the sofa, Terry on his chair with Porter on his lap and Finn curled up at Terry’s slippered feet.  Terry rises to make a hot drink and carefully lifts Porter and puts him on the chair.  Then he STANDS on Finns tail who leaps up with a scream.  Porter hears this and takes flight, through the plants on the small table, crushing them.  This frightens him more and he flies through the air and one full stone of lard, fur and claws land flat on my face.  I scream and the now deranged cat leaps from my face leaving a gory river of blood oozing down my face.  Yes, it hurts.  Yes, it looks unsightly.  I feel the lesson of this tale is don’t overfeed your cat. 

My Parents Meeting Place

 

View Full Album

I believe I have already mentioned my mother was brought up in Rangoon, Burma.  It was there, in the shade of the pagoda that she was courted by my father.  They met at an officers club and it was love at first sight.My father was serving in the RAF though he did not fly planes.  This was just before the war and life seemed like one big party then.  Sadly, once the war started, things were never the same. My parents, one aunt and my grandfather returned to this country and never saw Burma again.  My mother told me so many fascinating stories about her childhood that I could not begin to recount them.  She always said she would like to return one day but I am not sure she would have enjoyed the changes.

Myanmar (Burma) Information and History

 

In 1989 the largest nation of mainland Southeast Asia changed its name from Burma to Myanmar. In 2006 the capital moved from Yangon (formerly Rangoon) to Nay Pyi Taw. Geographically, the country's Irrawaddy basin is surrounded on three sides by densely forested mountains and plateaus. Most people live in the fertile valley and delta of the Irrawaddy River.

The majority of Myanmar's people are ethnic Burmans, and other ethnic groups (including Shans, Karens, and Kachins) add up to some 30 percent of the population. Ethnic minorities are dominant in border and mountainous areas: Shan in the north and northeast (Indian and Thai borders), Karen in the southeast (Thai border), and Kachin in the far north (Chinese border). The military regime has brutally suppressed ethnic groups wanting rights and autonomy, and many ethnic insurgencies operate against it.

Independence from Britain in 1948 was followed by isolationism and socialism. Military governments have ruled Myanmar since 1962 and have been accused of corruption, heroin trafficking, and human rights violations—including forcible relocation of civilians and use of forced labour. In 1988 military forces killed more than a thousand pro-democracy demonstrators. In 1990 national elections were held for parliament, but the military refused to recognize the results. Myanmar is a resource-rich country with a strong agricultural base, and is a leading producer of gems, jade, and teak. However, military rule prevents the economy from developing, and the Burmese people remain poor and are getting poorer.

STILL LIFE

 

Brown sepaled, heads a droop, they gaze at me;

Petals faded. A loss of dignity

Pervades the vase. Mimosa turned to stone.

Lament more mournful than I could intone.

Once jaunty, brightest yellow, shining bright,

Young daffodils, spring fresh, uplifting sight.

Their swift loss of vigour a tragedy.

Just dying forlornly, for all to see.

Crystal clear water, like sweet summer rain,

Turned rancid and stagnant; cannot regain

Its purity lost. Too full of dross.

The whole an embodiment of life lost.

I just don’t know.

There are days when I just don’t know what to write.  My mind is full of banalities and clichés and I feel quite incapable of original thought.  I am not a creative or artistic person and writing poetry is the only way I feel comfortable expressing my thoughts.  Sadly, the days when I feel like writing poetry are few and far between.  Consequently, I write about the weather or what I had for breakfast or even what exciting housework I am contemplating.  Occasionally, I write a small anecdote about my cats but much as I love them, my heart remains with dogs past.  So, today I shall write about writing about nothing.  Sad, aint it?

The Ghost Ship

 

The creature, its middle years approaching,

Was fierce; a fading beauty swift to rage,

Yet stroking the egos it did engage

In conversation. How it took to wing,

Soaring above the morbid dross of life.

Nothing touched it; no salt on this birds tail.

Then he appeared, a ghost ship in full sail;

Wielding covert endearments like a knife.

The creature faltered in mid flight and fell,

Her heart tattooing wildly in despair.

He said “But all I wanted was to care.

My love can’t be the cause of your death knell.”

The Crystal Glass

 

A drop of water sees a glass

Whose brittle form is fashioned fine

And so it yearns to sit within,

Tantalisingly at the brim,

For all the world like sweetest wine.

It spurns the stagnant, country pond;

Ignores the mildew on the wall;

The little drop knows it won’t rest

Until it only has the best

Receptacle in which to fall.

What a day

Flipping heck!  What a day so far and it is only eleven thirty.  Had sardines on toast for breakfast, saw Terry off to work and opened the curtains.  The sun came out and the day was flooded with brilliant sunshine.  I was happy for about ten seconds before I noticed the net curtains needed washing.  Thank you sunshine.  There was no way I could fetch the enormous step ladder down from the attic, so I decided to take an alternate method of curtain removal.  In comes the sturdy kitchen chair.  Nope, nowhere near high enough.  I have arthritis in both knees and hips, so chair clambering really hurts but I had the bit between my teeth, by now.  I got my mop, re climbed the chair and attempted to dislodge the curtains with the end of it.  Twenty attempts later and I am crying with rage and frustration.  Try to get off chair and twist hip, fall, smash into stool, terrify cats, bark my shin and collapse in a rage filled, gibbering heap.  Drink two coffees, smoke two cigarettes (tut tut ) and get back on chair armed with new determination.  I know it sounds easy but I am only 5foot 2 inches and the windows are very long.  Anyway, I eventually succeeded and put the blasted things to wash.  You guessed it; I had run out of washing tablets!!  Went to shop, put wash on and sat at desk to see how my friends on spaces are doing.  CANNOT GET ON SPACES!  Not the best of days and it is only a third through.

Shocking

When I was a young girl my siblings and I played a game called hunt the object.  One day, the object in question was a small, shiny, metal button.  I spent a long time choosing my hiding place and with much careful deliberation, I chose an empty light socket.  I dragged a chair across the hall, climbed upon it and inserted the button!  BANG…I was thrown across the hall with great force as I was given a huge electric charge.  I was knocked out for a few moments and everybody ran to see what the commotion was.  I was far too embarrassed to explain and said I had fallen from the chair.  To this day, I have a morbid fear of anything electric and even tremble a little, switching on a lamp.

Things to do list

1… Fix fuse box cupboard door lock (cat keeps getting in)

2… Double sided tape rug to carpet (cat keeps curling the corners)

3… Lift plant off floor (cat keeps chewing leaves)

4… Buy new scratching post (cat keeps attacking sofa)

5… Find new hiding place for cat nip sweeties (cat can now open box)

6… Hide Terry’s boots (cat has almost ruined inner sole by retrieving toy mouse)

7…Fix toilet door catch (one devastated toilet roll too many)

That will do for now.

My Grandfather

My mother was brought up in Burma and when we were children, she often regaled us with tales of her life there.  To me, the most interesting stories involved my grandfather, who was a mounted policeman in Rangoon.  His horse was a black mare called Rosie and there was a strong bond between them.  Often, after finishing his days work, my grandfather would go to the men's club and after downing a few too many whiskeys he would mount his horse and go home.  Rosie knew the way and always got him home safe and sound.  My grandfather would arrive home, sat ramrod straight in the saddle, with his head on his chest, snoring.  He wept like a baby when that horse died.  When war began my grandfather returned to this country, though not to his native Lancashire.  Sadly, he died before I was born, but his memory lives on.