6-month Review: Bring on the Cats and the Housing Talk

In amongst all my other important blogging activity, I've taken some time to look at our Google Analytics reports.

First up is the line graph of hits. Our top day in the past six months was November 26th. That is the day I.O. posted a pleasant photo of an Italian athlete. However, it's more likely that the spike came from the previous day's Tanktop Tuesday featuring our good friend Duncan the DogCat.

Obvious lesson: We need more cats on the blog.

Next I looked at what search phrases brought people to us. First is our name. Second? It's Ottawa Housing Market. People come here for this even though we are only on Google's first page of hits if the user has set their preferences to 100 hits per page.

Bring it on, Irregulars.

When the world catches Spamish flu

It's another odd little "Who'da thunk it?" sign of global recession: Apparently when times get tough, the tough buy Spam. My secret coyote sources tell me that Hormel Inc, manufacturer of the delicacy, is already cheering it's fat(ty) windfall profits. Even added extra shifts to the assembly line to meet surging demand.

But anyone warming up for a swan dive into the dietary Spambyss should note that, though we coyotes will eat most any damn thing, we won't touch that stuff. (Note to early Christmas shoppers: We prefer chocolate, and large, slow cats, and sugary baked goods but really, we're not fussy... I digress)

You're baffled, you say? All of Great Britain lived on the stuff during the Second World War, you say? It can't be that bad, you say? Who wouldn't like unidentifiable parts of porker, frappé-ed to vaguely pinkish molecules in some industrial-sized Cuisinart, then suspended in gelatinous yellow goo comprising half fat and half salt, you say? Then welded into a metal-jacketed brick of maybe-meat, you say? Resembling food? You say?

Oh, wait, you say. Except that Great Britain immediately after the war had to invent the National Health System to counteract its effects. One 12-ounce block (Remember ounces? I digress again...) serves you 180 per cent of an average human's normal daily dose of salt, 150 per cent of the total fat, and 170 per cent of the saturated fat. Oh, and, like, rather more than a thousand calories. That's a lot of goodness in one unassuming little can.

Which, judging by my speed-reading-on-the-fly the last time Hartman's Independent Grocer stockboys were chasing me out with brooms, ain't that cheap compared to like, food, anyway. It's all so... unappetizing.

Let's get very clear here: buying Spam is not about economizing, it's about self-flagellation for goin' all greedhead and buying those sub-prime mortgage futures your idiot brother-in-law was flogging, even when you knew the economic model sounded like utter lunacy. Is it coincidence that penitence and penury share prefixes? But for those that feel a need to maintain certain standards of social decorum and gracious living in a global meltdown, we look to Hawaii for a ray of hope: Spam sushi. Because even while you're killing yourself, you can hang onto a vestige of your old panache doing it.

Tank Top Tuesday - Guest Spot

Duncan the Cat in his sexy tank top.

To readers appalled by Coyote's cavalier attitude

Hey! I didn't actually say I was appalled myself, did I...? And the cookies over here are terrific!

Like clockwork

Some things are as predictable as the seasons. I can tell it's autumn again, because City Councillor "Dog" Thompson, after mostly, ummm, lying doggo all summer, is once again fulminating about the apocalyptic looming infestation of untrammeled coyote hordes in Ottawa's far burbs. Yoohoo! Dog! Us coyotes all live downtown! The restaurants here are less likely to be crummy nationwide chains, and after tony bistros stack their chairs for the night, the cats of Parliament Hill make fine midnight snacks, ummm, excellent conversationalists...

Yet I have to say that I am beginning to become concerned about ol' Dog's persistence. It's like I'm playin' a roadrunner to his, ummm, badly-drawn Wile E, or something. Also worrisome is the fact that he now seems to be trying to bring a provincial cabinet minister onside. You know the jig is up when somebody initiates an investigative committee in the provincial ledge. They could deliver a non-partisan, all-parties proposal to scrutinize me with a legislative task force, in a matter of mere decades.

I am also worried by the increasing proximity of certain winsome wayward wallabies this week. It seems that Wendell, since his big jailbreak, has hopped it all the way from Kemptville to the fringes of Ottawa. How are ya gonna keep him down on the farm, after he's tasted the City That Fun Forgot's wild nightlife? And there have been ominous suggestions from Wendell's erstwhile screws and the Australian wallaby cognoscenti that if cute little Wendell bites it, it'll probably be a coyote that bit him.

People, I swear! It's a setup! I'm bein' framed! Now, excuse me. I have other fish to fry. And where did I misplace that bottle of Tangy Memories of Billabong Sauce...?

First Feline of Florence

Wise and whiskered
In his element
Oblivious to mantras, miscues and meltdowns
Far from the hustings
Light orange gelato stripes listen
For the sounds of cork
Rubbing against glass
Footsteps on slow-travelled stone
And whispers in the piazza
So blissfully unaware
Of John Baird's hair

Kitty Blogging on Hiatus

I thought Duncan wanted to stay. But while I was watching TV upstairs, Zoom snuck in, softly called out to him and he zipped downstairs and into her arms. I discovered them outside waiting for a taxi only because I went to get myself a ginger beer and checked the door after I found a parcel on the staircase.

I tried to be graceful about it... if you love something set it free, if it comes back to you, blah, blah, blah...

2D has made his choice. At least Zoom left me someone else to keep me company at night. 2P (Pirate Pal) was in the parcel along with a bottle of wine. He's not the same, but he won't need pedicures and regular grooming.

I'm going to drink that wine now, I think. And maybe call in sick for tomorrow.

No Time for Blogging

2D insisted we lie on the couch and watch TV tonight and now he says it's bedtime. So, no update today.

I mentioned that Zoom is feeling a tad insecure about him. I get the impression he doesn't feel bad about that.

2D is sociable

Duncan Dogcat has been making new friends here. Poor Woodsy discovered that 2D is averse to orange fur on other people. Our little nymph had to use a certain herbal product to entice 2D to stay in her lap long enough for this photo.

Aggie and our canine friend also came by this evening. As you would expect, they all got along fine. After all this trash talk between Duncan and Coyote (not to mention their supporters), when it comes down to it, they treat each other with the professional courtesy you'd expect from a pair of predators who like having their chins tickled.

2D likes to demonstrate his pouncing ability on blue string. Particularly if trailed on the floor as I walk around the house. String dangled in the air? He would rather just sleep.

Metablogging the kitty-blogging

While we are over here alienating all of Zoom's lovely knitters and cat people with all our ESI self-referential wanking, I would like to direct folks to some other local cat blogging that warrants attention.

First and foremost: Bob. Once again, Bob has written an absolutely delightful piece, this time reflecting on cats and emotions. I just love the image of sweetiepie Bob "disciplining" his out-of-control cats.

Second, check out the fabulous Jo Stockton. Her cat is guest blogger, folks. The cat speaks.

Pantsing Duncan

So as the latest round of kittyblogging proceeds down its predictably cutesy path, and the kittyblog fans settle back into a presumptuous air of unquenchable smugness, I have pressing and urgent questions. First: When is that lousy Dwarf umm, my very good friend, going to invite me over? Second: Why is that lousy Dwarf umm, my very good friend, suddenly obsessed with cat grooming? Third: why is Zoom so confident that Duncan can take me out? Fourth: what's all this euphemistic crap about his underpants? Fifth: There is no fifth thing.

I believe these issues to be not unrelated. (You're welcome, double negative fans...) Here's what I'm thinkin': Zoom seems a teensy bit overconfident about Mr Donut's ability to take me, in an altercation that assuredly will have no connection at all with the Marquis of Queensberry.

This is because she knows he's got brass knuckles concealed somewhere in that mountainous hairball he wears. Without 'em, he's lunch. Or at least mini-donuts.

Now, I've never seen any fur bearing creature wear underpants in my life, so I'm guessing this is some kind of cute kittyblogger euphemism for really major shedding. And I bet the Short Guy hasn't gone on his unprecedented furline hygiene kick for nothing. It's Spring. Cat's gonna shed all over his cave. The more seriously pantsed Duncan becomes, the fewer illicit utensils he can hide. I also welcome the Dwarf's timely action to clip Mr. Donut's usual weapons. Although I have to say I've become a little disturbed by the Mini-Me direction the whole relationship is taking, and feel a timely intervention is due. By a good friend.

It'd be sooo cool if Shorty'd just invite me over for tea and crunchies. I've dropped hints, I keep checking my answering service and inbox, but so far nuthin'. What's with that?

2D is doing well

Did you know that Duncan likes to call himself 2D? Duncan Dogcat.

The pedicure went just fine. 2D wasn't into any of the soaking solutions I offered, so we went without.

He also decided to do his own filing.

Sorry Audrey

The people appear to have spoken.

1-handed kitty 'n' meta-blogging

so i m blogging wit 1 hand. because duncan is in my lap and he gets testy when both hands are on the keyboard.

he seems to like to have his neck fur scratched and when his chin is rubbed he gets real dopey.

when he gets that way or falls asleep i've been practising at getting him used to me holding his paws. why? just as i was about to leave with him on tuesday night, zoom said, oh, he could use a manicure. would you mind?

of course not, i said.

oh, good, she said, i've never had the nerve to give him one.

but enough about the cat. how about some meta-blogging...

• have you been following evey the former la canadienne who is now in a jar? she's a high school student. so her life often sucks. except her improv team is going to the nationals! the fricking nationals! congratulations evey and her team! even duncan thinks it's impressive and i think it's great she's bringing the blogosphere along 4 the ride.

damn either duncan better get that manicure or i better put on a thicker shirt.

• over on peripheral vision Kate Wilhelm shows us how to get a controversy going on your blog: link to some artists who have opposite views on the artistic and social merit of one of their works and let them have at it.

i also need a wider lap. my right hand is supporting his head and it's going to cramp up soon. my hand. not his head.

• Reduction on Myspace is putting 50 small, pamphlet sized artworks, carefully printed by hand from one block of wood on OC Transpo buses around Ottawa. did anybody get 1?
  

he's asleep now. he's got the cutest little snore. not like mine. there are imperial marches based on my snoring. duncan's snoring would barely rate a lullaby.

Duncan the Dog Cat is Here!

You may have already seen the news on Zoom's blog. It is true. Duncan is staying with me for a week. What can I tell you? When the Celebrity Cats' bloggers leave town, the Celebrity Cats want to stay with me.

Duncan is a boy cat and I'm told he has boy parts. So the gender issues are straightforward. I am happy to report that he did not sleep on my head last night and he did not try to hop in the shower with me.

However, I am prepared for there to be some weirdness: (1) He brought a ziploc bag full of q-tips with him; and (2) Zoom said that she read somewhere on the internet that Norwegian Forest cats like Duncan "take off their long underwear in the spring." Zoom also said that she wants to be around to see this. I am encouraging Duncan to wait until Zoom is back because I don't want to see him take off his underwear. I've got the thermostat set to 15° C and I say things to him like "look at all that snow out there."

Something I don't understand is how Zoom manages to do any blogging from her house. This is the first five minutes that Duncan has allowed me since he got here. I'm either petting him or listening to him whine about me not petting him.

Farewell, Freya...

Megan came by last night and took Freya home. Home to Megan's house, I should say, because I think Freya came to think of my abode as home while she was here and I came to think of it that way too.

Freya is an excellent animal companion. If she were here now, she'd be resting on my belly while I type, with her chin resting on my left thumb. Only meowing when I make a typo.

"She's a great cat," said Megan, "but she doesn't give you much to blog about."

"It's true," I agreed. "But when you acquired her, you wouldn't have been thinking of finding a bloggable cat. Not like Zoom picking Duncan because he was the most bloggable cat she could find."

I could have blogged Freya's unconventional gender assignment, but I figure it's her business and if she is comfortable with it, so am I.

I hope Freya comes to stay again. As long as I'm here, she'll be welcome.

Meanwhile it's back to my word cop beat.

Freya still fine

Blogging with Freya

Freya is sitting on my lap as I type this. She's purring like a muffled V-8 engine where one of the cylinders is missing a stroke. Or maybe it's more like the slant-6 on the old Plymouth Valiant. Anyway, it's loud for a cat.

I'm playing easy to get and lavishing her with attention so that she won't feel the need to sleep on my head tonight. Not that she slept on my head last night. She found somewhere to hide instead. This morning, the only evidence I had that she hadn't run off or gotten trapped down in the caves was that her food was gone and her litter box had been recently used.

But I hear that if you play hard to get with cats they sleep with you. I'm all for having a cat on my lap. It's one of life's true pleasures. But there are certain intimacies I prefer to restrict to my own species.

Perhaps it's because of a trauma I suffered many years ago in my youth. I was about 29 when a friend went away for a week. In exchange for looking after her cat, she let me drive her sports car. The cat was just a young thing, a street cat my friend had taken in. Let's call her Stella. Stella had been in for all its shots, but they were waiting until after she'd gone into heat the first time to do the operation that would prevent unwanted kittens.

As it happened, Stella experienced her first estrus while she was in my care. I knew the signs well having spent some time in a place where cats were encouraged to multiply. But I had never seen a cat in heat who wasn't allowed to run out and take care of her needs. This poor kitty was in distress, yowling and writhing. I called the animal hospital and described the situation. "Is there anything I can do to make her more comfortable?"

"Well," said the young woman, "you could take a cotton swab, like a q-tip, lubricate it with something like vaseline, and stimulate her vaginal opening. That might make her more comfortable and even help it end sooner."

Did I do it? Did I create a tiny cat dildo and then manually stimulate a kitten to the point where she got what she needed?

On one side of the issue was potential humiliation. On the other side was leaving a poor creature in distress. When I have a choice like this, I have a motto: The Dwarf does the difficult thing.

Was it good for Stella? I don't know, but she seemed a bit calmer afterwards.

As for me, there's a reason that I didn't have q-tips in my house even before they turned out to be deadly.

Now I'm a Kitty Blogger

Here she is. I wasn't blowing smoke last week. I am the proud host of a famous Ottawa blog cat. Do you recognize her? It's Freya, the friendly hunting cat who shares an apartment with Megan of Asteroideapress. Megan is away looking for g-spots or something and kindly offered to let Freya stay with me for a few days.

Unlike less sophisticated cats, Freya travels in a cosy backpack rather than in an uncomfortable plastic crate.

She seems to be settling in well. I am hoping she will get along well with the rodents and other creatures who share the place with me.

Buckyblog #4: sayonora

Roasted Cat Curry

- One large cat, deboned, roasted, cubed
- 2 1/2 cups coconut milk
- 10 cherry tomatoes
- 1 cup eggplant, cubed, or sweet spring peas
- 6 pieces of rambutan or pineapple, cubed
- 4 fresh kaffir lime leaves, shredded
- 1 tsp sugar
- 1/2 tsp sea salt
- 2 tbsp Thai fish sauce
- 1/2 cup water or stock
- 1 1/2 tbsp vegetable oil
- 3 tbsp red curry paste

Preparation
Pour vegetable oil into a wok over medium heat and add red curry paste. Stir well. Add 3/4 cups coconut milk and stir to mix thoroughly. Add cat and stir well again. Pour mixture into a pot, add the remaining coconut milk, water, tomatoes, rambutans or pineapple, eggplant or sweet peas, kaffir lime leaves, sugar, salt, and fish sauce. Bring to a boil and remove from heat. Serve on a bed of noodles.

Ummm, ignore the above text. I can't seem to get rid of id... er, it. Must be a Blogger glitch. Don't know where it came from. Anyway, Bucky has left the building. No idea where he went. Nope. None. Inevitable, I suppose. I loved that cute little guy, but we got along like, well, cats and dogs. A teensy tiff last night, and when I woke up this morning, his closet was empty except for a pile of dirty brown socks. His suitcase was gone, and his bicycle wasn't in the driveway either. Didn't even leave a lousy goodbye note, the insensitive jerk.

We had plans for taking the Elgin Street Irregulars to the very edge of the kittyblogosphere. He coulda been a star! Who knows what'll happen now? The manner of our parting was deeply deliciou - ummm, painful. It has left me completely satisf - ummm, shattered. We shall not speak of it again, from this day hence.