This morning I got to schlep Dinsdale, Oh Great Hairy One, to the vet. As I have had trouble finding a vet I like nearby, it necessiated a 30 minute drive with a constantly eh-eh-eheheheh-eheheheeEHEH!-ing cat next to me. He did me the favor - this one time, Dinsdale, and then it's never a favor again, got it? - of peeing on the kitchen floor in his favorite spot, saving me the cost of the doctors getting it from him. Turns out, he doesn't show the signs of having a UTI, but they didn't do any bloodwork and I was just relieved to rule out the urinary tract infection and paid my money and ran away. Now, I'm back online reading about the symptoms and the chorus sounds dire. The vet's advice was to get another cat box, so he can have his own (although I totally see Sammy using it) so for now, that's what I'll do and just monitor the little fucker. Chicken Vickie just lost her lovely cat, Emily (another commission on the horizon: Dead Cats R Us), to kidney failure, so that was fresh in my mind. Dinsdale's still a pup: I want him to outlive me.
On Saturday, I started a little painting of Butters. It took me a while to mix the color, but now I have a big old jar of Butters Color. My studio is on street side, and there is usually about maybe 30 cars in an hour that pass by. But on this Saturday, they had blocked off a main portion of the main thoroughfare for some take back the streets shit, and my little street outside became a traffic jam. So that sucked. After awhile I figured I'd just get in my car and go somewhere until they opened the street up again, but quickly figured out I wouldn't be able to get out of my driveway. Butters' pink parts are starting to emerge.
That night as I was doing my relaxin'-with-the-chickens thang, I heard a sound (I should just change my name to Horton) and struggled to place it. It was an eee-eee-eee-eee-eee, and my first thought was one of the gay men who live behind me was washing his windows, it had that sort of squeegie sound. But no: I finally located the sound, because I have to, because I'm insane that way, and it was a pair of flickers doing their little bobbing ritual atop a utility pole. And it was a year ago today that I found my little girl, putzing around the neighborhood, oblivious to the many dangers to her, including the family that was openly discussing how to wring a chicken's neck. And since I have no idea how old she is, we're going to call it her birthday. Happy Birthday, Ester.
Poor Dinsdale - giant blob of fur on the right - has not been happy. Now that it's not so hot, perhaps he'll stop peeing in the basement, which then brings the smell up through the forced air. 103 (although I spoke to someone today who said it was closer to 107) degrees, with a piquant (not) smattering of cat piss = a horror movie. Even though I found the source and eradicated it, I am now haunted by the occasional spectral whiff, which results in me getting down on my knees and sniffing like a pig for truffles, trying to locate the source and then I realize I'm smelling coffee grounds or something else that has the vaguest whiff of cat pee. The chickens are out of control. I've now shut the door or gate on Beulah's head numerous times as she's often right behind me and I don't know it. Resistance is futile: I've created these monsters, so I let them come in the kitchen and fix them a snack. Lulu is familiar with this post. Butters is still uncertain and shy, and sometimes very unchickenlike. It's like she's found herself in this chicken body but doesn't have the slightest idea on how to get chicky with it (sorry). She is showing a propensity for bug catching. Buggers? Little Butters/Buggers will come up and periodically perch on the arm of my chair, that's when I get these close up shots. I always take these opportunities to try and gently drill in the lesson that my juicy eyes are not food.
Last night I came out and luxuriated in the nice cool evening air and around 8, my Gladys Kravitz ears were suddenly assaulted with some hammering and stapling. It turned out to be a couple of roofers working on the old Masonic Temple down the alley. Another dividend in cooler weather: I become a little more tolerent. These poor fuckers were probably either trying to get the work done without being killed by heat, or they were working two jobs, or numerous reasons, not one of them being specifically to annoy that crotchedy old lady with the chickens. And then something marvelous happened: I realized there was a call and response, sometimes a harmonizing, happening with their tools. I wish I'd of had the energy to wander down there and record it. As it was, it felt like a reward for keeping my cool.
Per doctor's orders, I just lay on the couch, reading and watching DVDs. Ironically, what I watched the most was True Blood, the first four episodes and now eagerly await new installments from Netflix. The ironical factor being that it's set in Louisianna, all muggy and buggy and moist. I should probably have been watching Ice Age, or March of the Penguins or Smilia's Sense of Snow. Oh, and all the men are really hot. It would seem I'm stuck in a hot loop. I'm ready for Fall.