Here and Everything In It

Battle Cat Saves Lives

Late last night, one of the worst things I can possibly imagine, one of my worst nightmares, played out in our upstairs hallway.

I was making some crafts and watching TV in bed and decided I'd go downstairs for a snack. Rex was outside in the hallway, hanging out by Innis's bedroom door, making those weird anxious meows cats sometimes make when they're on the hunt. Two things should have made me investigate further at this point, and in retrospect I think I'm possibly the dumbest person alive for having disregarded them so COMPLETELY. One, that Rex was upstairs, which he rarely is considering it's usually about 2-3 degrees hotter up here at night, and two, whatever he was hunting, he wasn't touching. His ears were up, his meow alert turned to full power, but he was keeping a respectiful distance from the thing he'd cornered behind our file box.

And me? I was all "HHIiiiii Rex! Whadderyou doing up here? Silly kitty! Are you chasing a mosquito? A little mosquito for Rexy? Good boy!!!! Anyway ... Cereal! Cereal! Yummy delicious cereal!" and skipped past him, down the stairs, like a complete and utter idiot.

AND LUCKILY, when I got to the bottom of the stairs, I realized that Brad had just mopped the floors, and desirous of not having chemical water adhere to the undersides of my bare feet, I turned around to go back upstairs to get some socks.

And when I got to the upper hallway, there was Rex, and there was the tail end of this HORRIBLE HORRIBLE HORRIBLE insect scrabbling around the side of the aforementioned file box --- the horrible horrible insect that I had previously and erroneously dismissed as something far more benign.

THIS:

This, says the internet, is a poisonous centipede. These centipedes, says the internet, pack enough venom and infection power to kill small children.

THIS CENTIPEDE WAS MERE INCHES FROM SLITHERING UNDERNEATH THE BEDROOM DOOR OF MY SLEEPING CHILD, AND MY CAT, MY AWESOME AWESOME AMAZING SWEET GRANDFATHERLY BATTLE STAR KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOUR CAT PREVENTED IT FROM DOING SO.

Oh. My. God.

As you can imagine, extreme panic ensued, and I grabbed Rex and ran back downstairs to get something to scoop the evil creature up with, but also to get Brad to come up come up oh my GOD there's a f*cking CENTIPEDE outside Innis's ROOM, a GODDAMN POISONOUS CENTIPEDE, a centipede that's bent on murdering our CHILD and he ran to the kitchen, got a tupperware, and we raced upstairs to entrap the nasty belegged monster.

Augh. AUGH. AAAuuuuuuugggghhhghghghghgghhgh.

And then I cried, and cried, and cried. From relief that the nasty thing didn't go into the baby's room, from the fact that I have NO control over these types of scenarios, considering I don't know how the centipede got into the house or up three flights of stairs in the first place (like seriously, WHAT THE HELL?), from the fact that we NEVER would have noticed it was inside the house if it wasn't for our ultra observant kitty, from the relief that Rex wasn't hurt in his staunch defense of his human ward, and because I love that damn cat so very very much for being such a hero.

So, shhhhhhh, the hero's sleeping (he had a hard day).

If Life Was An Archie Comic

Badger would totally be that jock playing frisbee on the beach, kicking sand onto Archie's towel.

No Bounds

So the other night, I took Badger across the street from our little suburban oasis (read: townhouse development, and also: yes, we have become suburbanites) so he could do his business in the lush, green grass he most prefers when evacuating his bowels. This habit is a throwback to life up north, where the sound of whining engines on summer days was never borne from lawnmowers (most likely fourwheelers or dirtbikes, or hell, even a chainsaw every once in a while), and everyone lived on long-grassed, litter strewn lots where there was plenty of shrubby loveliness in which dogs could do all manner of business. Not to mention that three feet in any direction landed you in the wilds, where manicured garden was a dirty phrase uttered only by southerners feeling nostalgic for the order of home.

But I digress.

So Badger started to pee in the grassy field across the street from where we live. He peed for a really long time, at the end of his six foot leash. I stood patiently on the side of the road, staring off into space (who can pee under pressure? Badger can't), certainly not paying attention to where Badger was standing, or what he was standing in.

Soon enough, my blond prince came trotting back to the roadside, and just as I bent down to offer a congratulatory pat (what? who doesn't like being praised for peeing?), I felt a sting on the top of my foot. I think I said something like goddammit, and ground the heel of my other sandal down on where I figured I'd been nibbled by a particularly ravenous mosquito. But then I realized it really hurt. Like, really hurt. And when I looked down to investigate, something else caught my eye: namely, that AN ENTIRE ARMY OF FIRE ANTS WAS SWARMING UP BADGER'S BACK LEG.

And I'm proud to say my first reaction wasn't to shriek like a girl and flee the scene, hoping the speed of our retreat would somehow knock the evil nasties off my puppy's poor body. NO. Just like that women who lifted that car off her injured child that one time, I immediately reached down and swept, with my bare hand, ALL of the fire ants off Badger's leg. I even jammed my fingers in between each of his toes to make sure I got all the creepy crawlies out of their cowardly little hiding places. In short, I WAS A FORCE OF ADRENALINE. I WAS A MAMA BEAR. I WAS AWESOME.

Turns out he didn't get bit once, and had no awareness of what was happening beyond a dim acknowledgment that the Boss Lady was being crazy again. He's used to it -- you know, standing idly by while I do something that seems completely irrational, blissfully unaware that his life is being saved, yet again. BECAUSE CLEARLY HE WOULD NOT SURVIVE WITHOUT ME.

And I? I would not survive without caps lock.

Back In Business

Greetings, World via the Internet! I am currently posting from Innis's bedroom, while he rolls and babbles next to me in his play pen, fully avoiding the prospect of nap time. But whatever, I have newfound patience because I AM ON THE INTERNET. Look at me, all having an alternative to staring into space while singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star over and over and over again! I'm now also TYPING! Well, typing and humming, since typing dialogue and also trying to sing words in a song would probably require two brains, and alas, I only have one (for now).

So, some updates! With pictures!

First of all, the pets are all here, and seemingly no worse for wear as a result. A little depressed when they arrived, but when they realized that Brad and I weren't just more strange faces peering into their crates, their moods improved significantly. Of course, BIG THANKS to Mum and Robert for taking them to New Jersey, and sitting with them until check in so they wouldn't have to wait in the cargo bay until their planes took off, and drilling extra ventilation holes in their crates, and all the little things that add up to a lot whenever you have to travel with four animals.

Also big thanks to Brad's parents, and Gail and Greg, for taking care of our fearsome foursome (though in separate parts) for the last three weeks.

We owe you all an all-inclusive stay in the Caribbean ... and we know just the resort!

Innis is doing really well, and enjoying himself immensely:

But that could be because he's discovered that cool dude shades improve your cool dude factor by at least ten points, and here in the Caribbean, he gets to wear them all the time:

We're still waiting on our shipment of stuff to arrive. It's in a cargo hold here on the island, somewhere, has been for a week in fact, but apparently there's lots of red tape and logistical problems with transporting it the final 5km or so to our front door.

I've braved the world of wrong-side driving and I am now almost a roundabout queen. Well, at least a princess, let's say.

We bought a car! Yesterday! It's a 2003 Honda Fit. It's little, and grey, and fits our needs rather perfectly. We sort of came here operating on the assumption that there'd be a surplus of perfect but gently used vehicles, exactly in our price range, from which we'd choose our chariot almost immediately after stepping off the plane. Not so. But everything should be processed this week, and then we'll be able to drive ... to one end of the island and then ... back again.

And Badger and I got attacked by fire ants! And Helo can't see iguanas, even when they're five feet long and eight feet away from us! He's got, like, anti-lizard vision. Like, you know how in Jurassic Park, the TRex can't see people if they stand really still? That's Helo. Which is good for us, I guess, and good for the lizards, too. But I'll post about those things later.

For now, I'm going to start tackling all the lovely emails you've sent us over the last few weeks.

Enjoy your Monday! Will be back Tuesday with more madcap details of our adventures in the sun!

In The Air

Still not hooked up to the internet at home, but am frantically tippy tapping away in a coffee shop while Brad wheels Innis around, just to tell you that we're fine, everything's good, and as we speak, Scarlet and Badger are in the air, somewhere over the Atlantic.

Innis is excited, whereas I'm more like OH MY GOD THE DOGS ARE FLYING IN THE AIR AND I CAN'T BREEEEEAATHE ....

Love you all! Talk to you soon! Brad has an unfounded hunch that we'll finally get home interwebs access on Tuesday. We'll see.

Turns Out Flying Isn't So Easy After All

I really mean it: today I spent ALL day on the phone. From the time I woke up until about 5pm. It was like I had a full time job.

*shudder*

Because after I called Air Canada this morning to arrange air transportation for the dogs (after all the hoops we'd jumped through just to get them accepted for importation by the Cayman Islands government) we were told that the dogs wouldn't be able to come to the Cayman Islands anyways.

WHAT?!?!?!?!?!

And then we were all like, ok, now we can't GO, and THIS IS GARBAGE, and HOW COULD WE HAVE BEEN SO STUPID?

It was an oversight, you see.

We had assumed that Air Canada would be able to fly the dogs to the Caribbean. But of course, once we actually took the time to confirm this assumption, it turns out THEY COULD NOT.

(not the right size plane, don't do international live cargo shipping to the Cayman Islands, they hate us, etc.)

Thus began a frantic marathon of calling every single airline on the continent, asking (begging) them to please bring our shmuppy puppies to us so that they wouldn't be abandoned by their evil evil parents who'd already signed a work contract and were now obligated to travel for employment.

And then Delta said yes! ... but ONLY if the dogs could fit into crates that were a teensy bit too small. Meaning, of course, that if they didn't pass inspection on their way through customs, they could get turned away from the airport and not be allowed to fly because there wasn't enough space between their heads and the tops of the crates (supposed to be 2", and there would've been maybe .5").

So then we were all: BUT WHAT DO WE DO NOOOOOWW?

Because the risk was twofold: firstly that the dogs wouldn't be able to come to us, and secondly, that Mum and Robert would have driven them to the Buffalo International Airport (yes, Buffalo. Thanks, Canada), only to have to turn around and drive right back, dogs in tow.

So we figured, ok. We'll go up a crate size. But then it turned out that EVERY SINGLE PLANE IN THE ENTIRE AMERICAN NORTH WAS TOO SMALL TO FACILITATE OUR NEEDS. In fact, the crates required to safely and regulation-ly house our dogs on their cross-Atlantic flight wouldn't actually fit through any of these planes' doors. (I'm not exaggerating. It's true).

BUT, just when all seemed very bleak and we began to despair anew, we were able to book a flight with Continental (love you!), which is actually direct (so, better), and big enough to take all three giant crates. WHEW.

The only problem is that now they have to fly out of New Jersey.

And on a related note, I quite possibly have the BEST parents in the ENTIRE WORLD because Mum and Robert have agreed to drive the dogs to catch their flight. In NEW JERSEY.

Someone's a spoiled brat, and it isn't Innis ...

Things Being Said Around Here Lately

"It's only stuff. It's only stuff. Get a grip, it's only stuff."

                -- Me

 

***

 

"DURDY DITHS!!!"

                -- Innis (can you guess the translation?)

 

***

 

"Think of my body as a finely-tuned Ferrari."

                -- Brad, as we were talking about how he gets the shakes from drinking orange juice on an empty stomach.

 

***

 

"So, uh, you probably shouldn't let Helo's tongue anywhere near you for a while ... "

                -- Me, after catching Helo eating baby poop out of the dirty diaper pail (what is WITH these dogs and human excrement lately??)

 

***

 

"No-no. No-no."

                -- Innis, pretty much to everything.

 

***

 

"So, how much do you want to sell this for?"

                -- Badger. Just kidding. He's actually in charge of posting our ads on kijiji, not actually pricing things out. He's only a dog, after all.

P Is For ...

This morning, Brad had a cup of tea. And Innis had his nap. And these two events are not usually amazing enough to post about in and of themselves, but there is more to this story.

Oh yes.

So, Brad has the bladder of a girl. And what I mean by that is that he has no capacity. When he has to go, he has to go. Now, I do not have a girl bladder. I mean, I do, but it's not a wussy girl bladder. I can hold it. I'm an expert holder. Traveling with Brad, on the other hand, is a nightmare. I can't tell you how many cumulative hours I've spent pulled over on the side of the road, waiting for him to pee into ditches. Or how many times we've been on hikes and the poor unsuspecting dogs have unwittingly raced past Brad en flow and received golden showers. Not intentional showers, mind you, but our dogs can be particularly unaware of their surroundings and are rather stupid.

And when Brad consumes any amount of caffeine, his response is immediate.

So, this morning, Brad was bursting, but he didn't want to creep upstairs to the bathroom and risk waking Beastly. So, while I was out of the kitchen, he PEED INTO AN EMPTY ORANGE JUICE CARTON. Now, if I had been in the room, I probably would've prevented him from doing this, but I wasn't. And if I had come into the room shortly thereafter, I probably would have (quietly) shrieked some admonishment (something to the effect of: ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!?), and then requested that he pour the contents of the juice container into a remote corner of the garden. But, again, I wasn't.

And so Brad set the (rather full) carton down, with every intention (I'm sure) of taking it up to the toilet once Innis awoke. He thought he was being helpful, because now Innis could sleep longer. He figured he'd take care of it before any of us realized there was a container of human urine on the kitchen floor.

But then he forgot.

So fast forward to later this afternoon:

Brad: Did you empty this orange juice carton?

Me: What? Why would I do that? What was in it?

Brad: I peed in it.

Me: ... ?

Brad: I didn't want to wake the baby.

Me: Are you serious?

Brad: Yeah, and now it's gone.

Me: What do you mean, GONE?

Brad: I PEED in this carton, and now it's EMPTY.

Me: (spinning around to look at Scarlet with horror) Do you think she ... drank it?

Brad: (laughing) I don't know! I don't know!

Me: OR ...

Brad: Or what?

Me: Was Innis in here? Was he ... playing in it? Do you think he tipped it over?!?!

Brad: I don't think so ... but if he did, where'd it go?

Me: Like, OTHER THAN ALL OVER OUR INFANT SON, you mean?

Thus, we did some sleuthing. And it turns out that because our house runs downhill, so do all liquids spilled therein. So we were able to track down the pee (it wasn't that far away), but even so, there was decidedly less to mop up than what Brad claimed he originally deposited into the container earlier this morning.

So. Since Innis's clothes were dry, and Scarlet's personal habits are revolting, we're going with the hypothesis that she drank Brad's pee out of the container while we were out of the room, and because she's ridiculously clumsy, knocked the container over when she jerked her snout out of the carton.

Bypassing, of course, the FULL DOG BOWL OF CLEAN, SPARKLING WATER RESTING SIX FEET TO HER LEFT.

But I mean, really. What is there to expect from a dog whose owner pees in random containers and leaves them lying around the house? Nothing less than this, it seems.

So Maybe We'll Miss This Part Just A Little Bit

Because really, where else can you wear a raccoon hat completely over your eyes and still look totally awesome?

Point In Favour: Cayman Islands

At least in the Cayman Islands, Rex won't have to huddle around warm air vents like some kind of goddamn hobo:

Puppies In Love

Ok, so they're not puppies anymore, and they also share a mother.

BUT THEY ARE STILL SO CUTE:

Happy 2012

May your new year be filled with love, beauty, warmth, happiness, and many, many games of fetch.

An Episode Of Cops, Or Maybe Battle Seizure Robots

We went to the Santa Claus Parade of Lights! on Saturday night, and it was one of those things where, ok, the floats weren't like, awesome (except for the Pentecostal Church float, which had singing puppets), but that's what kind of made it good. It was the perfect small town valley parade.

This was pretty much Innis's face the entire time:

... when it wasn't like this:

... which probably occurred around about the time THIS float went by:

"OH MY GOD MAMA! CHICKEN! BIG CHICKEN! COOOOOWWWWW!!!"

And then we were back to this face again:

And might I add that our Parade Dog of Choice was Helo, and that he was such a good boy the whole time. Even when giant cloppy horses clopped by, he was only mildly disturbed. This best behaviour, however, did not mean that Mummy was an equally good photographer:

Here's Innis's first reaction to the parade, in moving motion picture format. It's also funny because it sort of looks like Innis is getting arrested:

Probably for being too cute.

For All Their Faults, At Least Our Dogs Aren't Active Herders

 

So Far, Innis Is The Best Trained Dog We've Ever Had

I heard this story once, about a dog that would bring her leash to her owner every morning when it was time for their morning walk. This dog would actually wait until the clock in the hallway chimed the right time (ie. WALKIES TIIIIIIME!!!!), go get her leash, and then wake her owner up.

I always hoped our dogs would be like that. Not waking us up at seven every morning (is it even light out then? I wouldn't know ... ), but smart enough to TELL TIME and be able to make the connection between, say, the time of day, walkies, and walkies apparati.

Instead, Innis wakes us up every morning. And not by crying from afar in his own bedroom, no. Like physically wakes us up, often with some type of heavy object. And why is he able to do this, you ask? Well, every night, in the wee hours after Innis gets up in his crib for the third (fourth/fifth) time, we always succumb to exhaustion and The Parents' Guide to Giving Your Child Attachment Issues For The Rest Of His Life and just tuck him up between us in the Big Bed because a) I'm exhausted and don't feel like rocking him back to sleep so he'll stay in his crib for three more hours, and b) it's awfully nice to snuggle with a baby. So generally speaking, in the Family Bed at eight every morning, Innis opens his eyes and decides that because:

It's MORNING!

He's HUNGRY!

And we're (ie: exhausted Brad and dead-to-the-world me) being BORING --

-- we all need to WAKE UP and get out of bed.

A couple times, he's woken me up with a kiss. What a beautiful moment that is, to wake up with baby slobber on my face and imprints of tiny teeth in my upper lip (he's an open mouth kisser, you guys). Mostly, though, Innis pulls my glasses down from the bedside table and stands over me, ominously squeaking the arm hinges back and forth until I wake up and begin hostage negotiations. Other times, he'll just drop something on my head, like a bottle of moisturizer or the baby monitor. Whatever's at hand, really. Hair brush? Yup: temple shot. Giant, hardcover copy of The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest? Eyeball trauma, check.

Today, however, he did something different. Since Daddy's been on baby breakfast duty ever since I (fairly recently) made it abundantly clear that I NEED SLEEP OR I WILL DIE, Innis has been hedging his bets and making sure he wakes both of us up at whatever ungodly hour he sees fit, because, well, someone's gotta feed him. Most days he'll crawl over our heads or walk back and forth around the end of the bed to visit upon us his personal wake up routine.

But this morning, in our half asleep haze, we heard Innis dragging something across the room, all puffs of breath and grunts of effort, and when we opened our eyes out of sheer curiosity, we saw that he'd pulled a pair of Brad's dirty jeans out of the clothes hamper and was labouriously hauling them over to the bed. Clutching part of the waistband to his chest, and alternating between trying to walk forwards and tripping on the pant legs as they dragged between his legs and shimmying backwards in an effort to pull the pants along with him, Innis eventually made it up to Brad's pillow, held out the jeans, and said:

"BOH!"

(translation: "Get your pantless ass in motion, man! It's breakfast time!!!!")

And, like, seriously. HOW COOL IS THAT?