Winter 2000
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Winter 2000 |
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~Rubbish~ | |
I don't much care for winter. I am rarely enlightened by the prospect of delivering the weekly household rubbish to the curb for the following morning's pickup. I am downright mortified by the necessity of taking the garbage out in the snow. Why? The answer to that, in layman's terms, is because it is not spring. Nor is it summer any longer. The season when an unsuspecting plastic sack full of stuff I've never seen before can be easily hefted and quickly hopped out to the end of the driveway. So quickly in fact, I can have the task completed before the second commercial.
You see, where I live it snows. Mother Nature does not entertain, toy or tease us with "dustings" or "scattered flurries". IT SNOWS. So going outside with the trash is an endeavour of such magnitude that even the fiercest of Byrd's expeditions would be rivaled. First: donning the protective clothing. Thermals (long-johns) and waterproof, insulated snow pants. Heavy socks and insulated snow boots. T-shirt, flannel shirt, nordic sweater, insulated vest and down-filled parka. (if I get bundled first, I am quite unable to lace my booties) Finally, scarf, wool hat and gloves. With that accomplished I always come to the horrible realization that I have not yet collected the trash from the various and oft hidden trash receptacles scattered all over the house (the receptacles, not the trash).
At this point expediting this mission is of the utmost importance before I sweat to death. Hastily I grab the last econo-size trash bag from the econo-size cardboard box, assemble all the trash, and bumble about looking like the Michelin Man in a bad horror flick. Finally, out to the curb we go, deposit rubbish and head for home.
With the front door closed snugly behind me I remove my protective clothing, in the reverse order I put it on of course, and marvel at the amount of snow I just tracked into the house. Ack it's only water, the rubbish is removed and all is now well with my world for I have accomplished my task with a minimal usage of expeletives. It is not until I have my steaming mug of real cocoa in hand that I spy it; there on the kitchen table, in the middle of the kitchen table and yes, away from everything else on the kitchen table sits the empty econo-size cardboard box of econo-size trash bags..... *sigh*.....that now needs to go out into the trash. !#&?!#@! "Honey, do we have a wood stove???????????"
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Merely~Me~Maya | |
Greetings Human Valets! With a warm salutation like that you're probably thinking "Man, oh man. What a snootpuss!!" Yes, perhaps I have adopted a 'cattitude' after only a few short months here but let's face it. I was an inner-city cat before I came here. And let me make a point here. I am sitting here typing this out for you, all of you, yet no one ever writes or visits me. You could do that you know, either here or by visiting MY WEB SITE and writing a few short lines!! But I didn't become a staff writer to whine. Instead I would like to bring your attention to meeces.
We have a big mouse problem here. Ok, you win. Mice are little and the enigma is big. Don't get me wrong here, I have no problem catching the mice. None at all. In fact I don't even hurt them. I just deliver them to one of my pet humans where they are re-caught and released outside. (that is quite a sight!) The dilemma lies in the fact that I am only allowed to play with the downstairs-dwelling mice. NEVER the upstairs-residing mice.
"Maya! Maya, go downstairs to mouseland and get some meece!" (humans are pathetic aren't they?) WHY?! There are perfectly good meece right here. Three of them. White and brown. In a cage. But I can't have those. They belong to the youngest human. So I cooperate by not bothering them, although they rattle me to no end. Big, succulent meeces there for the taking. *sigh* Perhaps I can suggest to my humans that when they save the ones I am allowed to catch that they hold on to them until such time that they can be released back into the wild...um....the basement. Perhaps they already do?! Oh no. Does that mean I've been catching the same one over and over? Probably. Oh well, that's ok. Just don't tell the humans. I wouldn't want to spoil their fun.
EDITORS NOTE: Although Pookey passed away 9/9/00 at the age of 16, we felt it appropriate to remember her by re-printing one of her earliest columns, one last time, which is a poem. This one is pre-web and was originally published the old fashioned way in May of 1998. We hope you don't mind. Thank you.
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Pookey~Prints |  |
So completely lacking in power and prowess over pen and prose, I oh so humbly submit the following poem entitled "I Am A Dog".
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Mouse~Mice~Meece |  |
Hi!! We're the 3 mice that the dude mentions up above in the title of this silly newsletter and can you believe that all of our little mouse names begin with the letter 'B' which is followed by a bunch of different letters because the 3 of us have different names so that's why we all have the different letters and oh my goodness gotta go gotta go and besides we have to have the different letters after the first one because we can't be running around just calling each other 'B' as that would be terribly confusing and we would all be answering to it and bumping into each other and oh my goodness gotta go gotta go just don't have the time to explain all of this to a bunch of silly humans who insist on taunting our little mouse selves with that big black furry thing all the time it just sits there sits there staring and drooling and oh my goodness gotta go gotta go things to do to do and places to be and now where on earth did I leave my wheel the wheel Hey B have you seen the wheel..............*whew*
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