Aphrodisiacly, Coyote*

If you knit a male friend a pair of tube socks and only have time to finish one before the gift exchange moment, don't wrap up the one sock on its own. Or, you will likely get asked, How did you know my size?, and be reminded about your naive faux pas for years to come.

Also, don't give a male friend a personal massager. Honestly, no matter how you explain that you innocently bought it for his sore muscles (being that he is a labourer), he will tell all his friends that you gave him a vibrator.

And, if wanting to make Coyote happy you give him a bag of granola with dark chocolate in it, be certain to look at the label carefully. Or, he will laugh out loud and say something like, So why exactly are you giving me this granola?



*And, that will be his salutation next time he sends you an email.

Young Blood in the 'Hood

I walk up to this group of young pups, and I have to comment.

"Nice fox tail. "

He turns around - flashes a sharp smile. "It's a wolf tail."

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...?

Pre-Posthumous Urban T**t (*) Zeitgeist Award

The observant among you will have noticed that I did not post Friday. I can explain: the dog ate my homework. Wait! I am the... oh, crap...

Actually, my reasons have to do with yesterday's state of high fuzzy-headedness. Thursday evening, whilst I was partaking of a postprandial aperitif, (often a blissful moment) the trouble began. Somewhere not unadjacent to the 'ol coyote den, a car with its antitheft alarum's sensors cranked to the max began to honk wildly at the transit of every squirrel - nay, every falling leaf. You know how many leafs are fallin' right now. It sounded like a freight train. Or a Buick.

I assumed some ass had parked and gone off to carouse on Elgin Street, and that all would be well in a few excruciating hours.

Wrong. All night, that horn fired off every five minutes. I then assumed that perhaps said ass had over-imbibed and taxied home. Still an ass, yet at least not endangering the public. But a quick stroll at eight-AM-ish Friday morning pinpointed the offending automobile - indeed a big honkin' new Buick - in a nearby residential driveway.

I contemplated this hyperactive excretion with an austere red eye. Well, two. As I did, a guy with an air of Steve Dallas about him stepped blithely from the porch with his Eddie Bean Insulated Travel Mug, Giant Squid Edition®, blipped the remote, climbed in, started up, and drove off.

I am grateful to Woodsy and Pandora for their thoughtful attempts to caffeinate my sleepless condition at a popular bean juice joint, later that day. They were well-intentioned and well-received.

Yet, maybe it's Seasonal Affective Disorder kicking in, but my ill humour remains. Steve: You are the lucky winner of coyote's Pre-Posthumous Urban T**t Zeitgeist (PPUTZ) Award. This means that I am bending my not-inconsiderable semimythical, totemic telekinetic powers to focus the universe's karma upon you. Kinda like a big psychic magnifying glass aiming the sun at your brain. Soon, your head will explode. All over your brand-new Buick's upholstery, I hope. Fair is fair.

* Toot. Twat. Take your pick...

Warm Fuzzy Blues

Shortly before the latest federal election call, Canada's PM suddenly popped up in ads trying to show him up in his (ahem) best light.

Apparently I'm not the only one disturbed by the strained warm fuzzies of the infamous blue sweater vest, bringing out the warmth of his zombie-blue eyes and fetchingly setting off his Fiberglas® hair. I guess the idea was to tell us Steve is badly misunderstood, and the private man is really a charming, pinano-plunkin' family-dad type, not a robotic freak who can't smile for a TV camera without grinding his teeth to powder.

Apparently it has escaped spin doctors that Canadians are not voting for a private dad. They're voting for a public Prime Minister. This one's public performance has been that of a vindictive, over-ideological control freak who is not above the, ummm, occasional fib to gain elected office, or the occasional cheap partisan potshot once he gets there.

I'm disturbed by the contempt with which this warm fuzzy ploy holds voters. Apparently, a few weeks of stilted advertising should be enough to blot out all memories of the man's smirking yet paranoid performance in front of a minority Parliament he called 'dysfunctional' because: a) his own partisan maneuvering made it that way; and, b) it wouldn't do exactly what he wanted.

Coyotes may be fuzzy-headed - and largely missing from Elections Canada voter lists - but I don't believe democracies usually work that way for minority governments. Maybe, as cowboys from my old stomping grounds used to yell as they took potshots at me, I have shit-fer-brains. Or maybe the PM blatantly maneuvered into place for a quick potshot at a majority government before a global economic malaise, largely caused by a Neo-Con to the south that he seems to admire, starts to really mess up his electoral chances.

What baffles my fuzzy head about the PM's claims to strong leadership, is that his own tax cuts and benefits have been cosmetic pandering that - according to many economists, even conservative ones - are not good governance. What concerns me even more is the fact that top ministers in a pretty thin cabinet - Messrs Baird, Clement and Flaherty - all sat on the inner circle of Mike Harris' provincial government. You know, the one that not too long ago, about burnt Ontario to the ground on the basis of ideology. Warm fuzzies, indeed.

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.

A franchise opportunity for Coyote

Fairy tale town

Ottawa, though populated by many types that pride themselves on real-world pragmatism, is a fairy-tale town. If ya don't buy into this at first glance, go ahead, just scope out the gargoyles on that neo-Gothic pile up on the Hill. Or read one of local author Charles de Lint's books -- he's made a nice career of populating an alternate Ottawa with modern magic.

But there are plenty of other modern fairy tales here, and the fabulists to believe 'em .

The current prime minister, f'rinstance, thinks he's in control of everything... freak. He ain't a boss, so much as a strategy board-game player run amuck.

Certain of that crew of second-stringers sitting in that neo-Gothic pile up on the Hill also think they run the country. Huh. Tell the country that.

Or how 'bout this one? The assorted spin doctors that hang from the tonier walls across town think they actually fool the public. And I know from spin-doctoring. I chase my tail every morning. If I ever catch it, it's self-prescribed Band-Aids and Robaxacet all 'round... I digress.

These fairy tales are, of course, only the most obvious examples. At least to anyone possessed of half an Oreo's worth of creamy whipped filling in their bonces. StatsCan says there are 1,130,761 stories in the naked Census Metropolitan Area. I know a few. But if I told ya, I'd hafta feed you to the grotty trolls that have taken up under the Corktown Bridge. And they'd really appreciate a change from goat roti...

Uses for a Coyote

Just returned from a family reunion and received the following email from a cousin who is having Canada Geese problems --- or, should I say Canada Geese poop problems. The attempted solution is a Coyote blow-up doll:

Do you or does anyone you know have tried and true advice-cum-experience re. making one's pond un-appealing to geese? For the first time in 30 plus years, a family of Canada geese -- as in Make Way for Goslings (yet to be written) -- has decided to summer-over and poop copiously on our turf rather than flying on to Canada.

One non-violent antidote suggested by Google but summarily rejected by me was to spread powdered grape kool-aid mix (sic !) (stomach-ache stuff for geese) around the pond's periphery.

Another suggestion was to rent a border collie for the summer. Good grief....
A friend said she tried flying at them, flapping her poncho wings like a mega-alpha-goose, to no avail.

Other friends said that either some resident snapping turtles or a target coyote worked like a charm; the pond there is now free of the poop-bags (geese).

So we've followed suit and ordered a life-size foam rubber coyote by overnight mail to stand guard on the bank. Whether this wily "predator" with a dangerous-looking, flapping bandana around its neck will end up deterring and dislodging the messy geese or delighting them, is yet to be determined.