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Signs of the Season

It's snowing here in Denver today.

Okay, not much - only about 1-3 inches, but it's enough to drive the California and Texas drivers into fits and the Floridians ... well, into curbs. You can tell the influx of out-of-staters by the local news, which now breaks into programming for a Winter Storm alert breathlessly proclaiming that we could get up to four inches of snow. Those of us who have lived here for thirty-odd years know four inches of snow isn't worth cancelling a trip to the mall for, let alone interrupting Oprah.

The picture at right is a view of the neighborhood from our front door. Even if it's not snowing hard, it's frickin' cold outside and this is as far as I venture in my fuzzy pink mules, folks. That sun appearing on the horizon will soon melt what little snow there is, and by the time the temperature drops tonight, all that will be left is a skiff of black ice on the side roads to make your morning commute a shade more interesting. In Detroit, where I used to live, it would snow in October and you wouldn't see the street again until next March. Not here. Once those warm chinook (Indian for snow-eater) winds come blowing out of the west after a snowstorm, it disappears faster than a Mormon at a Prop 8 rally.

Of Politics and Pets

I can't blog about politics anymore.

The whole campaign and election has me so weary and sad that reading the headlines dispirits me for the entire day. And it's not just the venom of ignorance Palin spits or McCain's cluelessness. Obama gives me hope that some rational thinking and reasoned intelligence can be restored to my country, but as his opponents flail and thrash and this whole Rethuglican administration sees the danger they're in - the danger they've put us in - their approach reeks of desperation. And when they get desperate, they get dangerous. I don't put it above them to steal yet another election. This time, however, the groundswell of popular opinion won't let it pass so easily. And martial law would be the only way to stabilize a population whose economy has been co-opted and whose desire for change has been overruled. I wouldn't put it past them. Troops are already being recalled for domestic duty - and then there's those Blackwater boys ... That's why I have a sick, sinking feeling that gets worse as November approaches.

As a defense, I've withdrawn into my domestic environment - making cookies, being with my friends and making sure my own corner of the world is tranquil and happy. Ryk and I have been talking for a few months about getting another dog for our menagerie. We had three until a couple of years ago when we had to put our golden lab mix, Sandy, down due to the infirmities of age and the onset of cancer. The other two missed her at first but that got outweighed by their being the recipients of all our attention.

Playing the Cat Card

Now that Greg has played the cat card, I have to follow suit--at the risk of making this look like a mirror site for CuteOverload.com.  So here are my pussies.  The marmalade is Max, the tortoiseshell is Mocha, and I love 'em to pieces.

Six-year-old siblings, these kids are strictly housecats. (We live right in the city, so there's no place for them to go outside except into traffic.) They tend to stick together, but their personalities are polar opposites. The male cat is the troublemaker--why does that not surprise me?--while Mocha is timid, high-strung, and very vocal.

Sometimes Max curls up on my desk, right under the lamp, while I'm writing. I love to have him there--a calm, centering presence. I'm tempted to say he's my muse, but only a fool would choose such an inconstant animal for that role.

Are these creatures spoiled? My partner sums it up best: "In my next life, I want to come back as a gay couple's pet!"

Bird Killer

Ian’s mom feeds the animals. Her front deck is set up mostly for feeding birds. Mostly birds, but also squirrels and raccoons and other critters. She feeds them and they come. And this is great because we get to see a huge community of birds up close, everything from tiny hummingbirds to little doves to blue jays to large crows. And she does love her birds.

But this also sets up the perfect hunting ground for our cats—I mean our interns Chloe Grey and Notch—who are allowed to run free during the day unless they’re naughty or I’m mad at them. Like today. I’m mad at them. They’re inside today.

And don’t think I can’t see you watching me, Chloe! I know you’re not asleep and that look does not scare me!

I came home yesterday morning from dropping Ian off at work to find a quite alarming sight: our floor (I leave the screen door open just a crack when they’re out so they can get in and out) was covered in gray downy feathers and patches of blood. No, I mean covered. Every Square Inch. A lot of feathers, but not much blood, just smears here and there (including on the shipping table and the orders and books awaiting packing and shipping—thanks, Chloe!).