Mr Splashy Pants!

Categories: Turner

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The Egg Man Herself

Categories: Sloane

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Koo Koo Ka Choo

So last night we're listening to Sloane's new favourite song, I Am The Walrus by the Beatles. It was our ...15th? 16th? time hearing it. John Johnston was over visiting, and we were all in the livingroom enjoying the vinyl when the pop culture blew Sloane's gasket. I'm singing the chorus with adapted lyrics, i.e. "Sloane is the Egg Man, Sloane is the Walrus!". Sloane isn't liking it. She winds up and yells at me in complete rage, right in my face, with hands in fists thrown out at her sides.

"I am not the Egg Man!!"

Eyes bugged out. Piiiiiiissed off.

It was so funny. It was SO funny. But we couldn't laugh.

Categories: Sloane

Comments [3]

Leopard Spots

Hear ye, hear ye. I have so much damn business to blog, I'll just start with this: no person should be caught dead or alive wearing animal-print anything.

I'm cool with leather, and even with fur. If we're going to, as a species, eat other animals, we might as well make longer-term use of their hides & etceteras as well. Please feel free to wear your heirloom ivory necklaces and deer antler bolo ties to my house and receive compliments on same. I do not necessarily approve of elephant-foot wastebaskets, but I understand them as colonial artifacts. And I apparently have Mexican second-cousins who, upon their first visit to my dad's family up in Canada, came equipped with the latest in 1970s Mexican elite fashion: real beetles (a slow-moving sort, I'm told) with rhinestones glued to their backs, which were then affixed to one's clothing and which would walk, slowly, around one's chest over the course of the evening. Creepy, yes. Offensive-to-me? No.

But. Animal print? Like, leopard print? Zebra print? Snake print?

N. O.

Don't do it. Please. If you're inclined this way, just print yourself up a tshirt (or better yet, a forehead tattoo) that reads: TACKY, and get it over with.

And that's what I have to say on the matter.

Categories: Ash

Comments [1]

Found Photo

I found this test shot in a portrait set I did for a client last week - I must have squeezed off one of Lise in the morning before I left home. The original shot was almost completely black, but I could see one little eye peeking out of the darkness. I corrected it as best I could in Photoshop.

Categories: Lise

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Goodbye, Lise

I really can't believe I'm writing another of these goodbyes. Today we say goodbye to our lovely and beloved cat Lise.

Lise came into our lives at the end of April. She'd been surrendered to the Humane Society by a household that had had far too many cats. Initially Lise was brutally shy and skittish, panicking at any sudden moves or sounds. But I picked her because in the visiting room at the shelter I'd held out my hand and when she finally came over to sniff me, she began to purr really loud, and wanted her head scratched and scratched. She seemed gentle and scared and underloved, and I knew we had lots of love to give at Chez Bristowe Turner. So I had her spayed and brought her home.

For the first few days she didn't leave the pet carrier. I kept it under my desk and worked at the computer all day, periodically reaching down to scratch her head through the door. She spent the first week very tentatively getting to know my office, but wouldn't go into the rest of the house. I would leave the door open at night, in case she wanted to explore while we weren't around. During the day I gave her lots of rubs inside the carrier and she'd purr and purr and purr. Then one morning I awoke in the grey light to Lise on the bed, frantically butting her head repeatedly under my hand, purring and purring, desperate to be petted, to be loved. It was one of the most heartbreakingly endearing things I've ever experienced.

Lise gradually came out of her shell over the next few months, but she really blossomed this fall. A quiet and friendly cat, she came when we called. She loved ham, and popcorn, and canteloupe. Her bum & tail trembled when she was happy to see us come home. Lise was my constant companion when I worked; she'd lie on the futon couch or behind the lamp on my desk, periodically getting up for a face scratch or to follow me to the bathroom. She was great with Sloane, who would often pat her a bit too hard in the manner of children. Sloane, in an early comparison of Lise with Rooney, declared, "This cat is better than Rooney. She's not as bitey." Indeed she wasn't. When Sloane bashed in her mouth a few weeks ago while running around the livingroom, Lise spent the rest of the evening glued to Sloane's hip, purring and letting Sloane pat her for as long as she wanted.

Last night Lise went out while Turner was doing the recycling. It was a chilly night, so we expected to see her back in soon. When she didn't return and we were starting to get ready for bed, we called out the doors for a long while and Turner went out on foot up the alley. Our neighbour takes in strays and we wondered if, since it was already midnight by that point, that she hadn't taken Lise in for the evening. But we were worried, so we left the blinds a bit open on the back window, where Lise would sometimes come to stand and meow if she wanted in. She didn't return.

This morning we went out to look for Lise and after a turn around the neighbourhood together, Turner found her across the street, curled under a parked car. She'd been hit by a vehicle on Spiller Road and died in the night. We brought her home and prepared a cardboard box coffin containing her favourite toys (marbles, the laser pointer), some ham and leaves from a plant she liked to chew, some kitty litter. Turner and Sloane and I buried her in the side yard, beside Rooney. We all dug and we all returned the dirt. Sloane had a lot of questions. She wanted to touch Lise before we put her in the box, so we let her. Initially neither Turner nor I really wanted her to touch the dead cat, but I remembered how incredibly final and helpful it had been to feel Rooney, cold under my hand, when we found him on the hill. How it really helped bring the death home to me. I'd felt that same thunk of reality when I reached down to pick up Lise from under the car earlier this morning and touched her cold head. It felt fair, to let Sloane have that, to learn this death physically in that touch.

Later, we had a wake in the big bed. I told the story of Lise coming to us and reminded Sloane of how Lise would always come and sit on the floor outside the bathtub, waiting for us to be finished. And how she would chatter at the birds at the window feeder, and how she didn't like to be picked up, but if you really wanted to pick her up, she'd let you. Sloane started talking about a random string of things and I fell quiet, and thinking about Lise, started to cry. I cried awhile, Sloane yammering on between us, Turner stroking my hair. I think I sniffled and Sloane suddenly stopped her monologue, and turned, and said, "What happened Mama?" I said, "Lise died, lovie. I'm sad about Lise." With that, Sloane grasped her baba and turned over to face Turner, and said to herself: "Better talk to Dada." Turner and I totally fell apart at that one. Pulled me right out of that grief hole for a little while.

We love and miss Lise. She was a truly lovely and beautiful cat, and a good friend to us in the six months she spent here. We were humbled and grateful to have found such a good soul with whom to share our home and lives.

Categories: Lise

Comments [4]

The Rest Of The New York Shots

I spent my lovely birthday evening uploading, naming and captioning our NYC pictures. Hurrah!

Although I ran out of steam to fix and fuss with every image, the total shortlist of the trip is now up on Flickr. I recommend the set & slideshow, here.

Categories: Friends | Sloane

Comments [2]

NYC on Flickr

There's lots more to come, but the first of the NYC photos, from the Coolpix (low tech), are now up on Flickr, here.

Categories: Book Tour | Friends | India

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