a visit
July 25, 2010
Drinking my coffee in the rainy coolness of the porch this morning, I sensed movement beneath my chair and looked down to see a streak of pale gray fur. At first I thought it was Cleo, since she’s slender and pale gray as well, but then I caught sight of her in my periphery, crouching at the top of the porch steps, glaring. And look over here at who was cowering under a chair in the corner of our porch!
An adolescent possum, still small enough to seem cute (everything is “cute” so long as it’s small, right?) but already on the verge of ugly with its long, ratty snout and dangerous claws and that horrible pink-skin wiry tail. I’ve seen baby possums, suckling-age, and they’re truly adorable, like mewling wobbling newborn puppies, their faces still flat and womb-crinkled. But that was in Georgia, and possum families aren’t all that common around here.
We never used to have possums in Ontario at all, not until around ten or fifteen years ago. The first ones came across the border from the States clinging to the bottoms of trucks. That sounds like a story you’d tell kids just to pull one over on them, but it’s true. I always used to imagine a great escape, a daring and adventurous young possum from a foreign land setting out from home, rucksack in hand, to make the dangerous trek to a new life in a new country. I’m sure the truth is more likely that they’re up under a truck for whatever reason and surprised there when the engine starts (like kittens who climb into engines for warmth in winter and wind up getting smooshed in fan belts), then cling to whatever they can for dear life until the truck stops moving and the terrified possum drops to the ground and bolts for safety, suddenly finding itself in Canada. Still, a storybook worthy journey, perhaps.
I gently shooed this little lady off while Claire held Cleo at bay (not that Cleo posed much danger; at 20 years old she knows her limits and might not even remember the hunter she once was). Here’s the wee wet thing, scuttling back out into the rain.
Posted by jodi on July 25, 2010 at 9.26am
we built a porch!
May 25, 2010
Well, most of a porch. It has a foundation and a floor. We can walk out the back door without fear of falling in a hole full of ancient cigarette wrappers and alley cat poop (I raked all that up, too).
It is a lovely porch-floor.
You can lie down on it without getting a splinter or a nail in your arse.
Cranky old lady kitties like it too.
(How sweet is our neighbour’s porch addition with its yellow siding and little aluminum awnings? I love those awnings, and wish we had them on our house).
Coming soon, supports! for the roof! which still potentially could fall down although I believe that it will not. Also, stairs. Sorry, Stacie, no slide. It’s just not in the budget for this year.
Posted by jodi on May 25, 2010 at 3.24pm
squeaky
May 6, 2010
Tonight Claire and I bundled Ms Cleo’s old bones into the tub and gave her a bath. She’s nineteen years old and getting rather creaky, and her hips give her some trouble. I can’t remember the last time I saw her groom herself; was it last summer, or the summer before? At any rate, she’s lost her flexibility and her bones get stiff even from lying down, and she’s no longer grooming. Last week I was sitting on the front porch railing with her in my lap, drinking coffee and idly stroking her head, when I realized that my fingers were coming away with a layer of gray grime on them as if I’d been flipping through dusty sleeves at the used record store for about four hours. Ew.
So we scrubbed the old girl down as best we could without hurting her. Rinsed her off with a sponge and water scooped with a cup so as not to spook her with the loud, splashy tub faucet; the water ran to the drain in dirty streaks just like in Psycho only with less killing. We rubbed her down gently, bundled her into a thick dry towel, and Claire held her close for a very long time to keep her warm as she dried. I don’t think we got her completely clean, but I’m not planning to do this to her again. As it is, she won’t be speaking to me for days.
Posted by jodi on May 6, 2010 at 7.22pm
cleo
April 24, 2010
It’s hard to see because she’s all one colour, but the tip of her tail is sticking out from between her front paws.
Posted by jodi on April 24, 2010 at 7.41pm
shored up clean against a stiffened sky
December 17, 2008
Just as I was getting ready to go to bed last night I heard scraping on the sidewalk outside, and looking out I saw the drug-dealer neighbours across the street out there shovelling their walk. In the -10°C weather, snow still falling, one of them had on a white tank top. The other wasn’t wearing a shirt at all.
Not being under the influence of anything chemical that might offer me protection against the cold, I bundled up a bit more than that this morning to shovel my own walk:
I don’t know who left those kitty tracks on the steps but it certainly wasn’t Miss Cleo, who refused to come outside into the cold with me. It was probably one of the alley cats. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Old Kitty either, though: this past Monday marked a full year since the last time I spotted him, and I’ve finally admitted to myself that he’s dead. I wish I could have found him and buried him in a safe spot in the backyard with my own cats, but his body must have gone back to the alley long ago, feeding the rats who in turn feed the wild kitties. And on it goes.
Posted by jodi on December 17, 2008 at 11.42am
