the Hallowe'en party

"PEEPERS...  prepare the teleportation device!"

"She's not home, Nissy.  Saw her heading out in the car a few minutes ago.  You want me to help you teleport somewhere?" asked Seville.

Nissy peered at his brother through twitching whiskers.  "I thought you were cut off from usin' whisks after that international time meddling incident you caused in the sunroom a few days ago."

Seville shamefully hung his head and shuffled his paws back and forth.  "Yeah, I know...  I got in a bit of trouble 'bout that but this will be strictly teleportation.  Just egg beater technology.  Nothin' to do with the whisks."

Nissy hesitated for a moment too long and Seville took that to mean that yes, he could, in fact, help.  Seville's eyes lit up with excitement as he cried, "I'll go get an egg beater!"  Moments later, he reappeared with not one but two egg beaters in his paws.  "Ummm...  you think I could teleport with you?  I promise to be good.  We'll have fun!  Uhhh...  where are we going?"

Nissy rolled his eyes.  "Fine...  you can come.  We're going to Sammy's house.  He's havin' a party for Hallowe'en and it's gonna be fun.  Sammy's parties always are.  I'm sure it'll be okay if you come too but don't tell anyone else in the family, okay?  We can't ALL fit in the teleportation device.  Speaking of which,"  and Nissy inspected the egg beaters closely before asking, "Where did you get these egg beaters?  They look like they've seen better days and I thought there was still a world-wide egg beater shortage goin' on."

"Best you not ask, brother.  Let's just say I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a weasel."

"I'm gonna regret this but...  SEVILLE...  prepare the teleportation device!"

Stars appeared before the cats' eyes and lights flashed brightly.  Moments later, they landed on the street just outside a tall gate.  Behind that gate, off in the distance, was an old and decrepit looking house, falling apart at the seams.

"Oomph!  Ouch!  Get off my tail you big twenty pound marmalade cat!" cried Nissy.

"I am not twenty pounds!  The peep even said so.  I've just got a lot of fur, that's all."

Nissy looked at the house off in the distance and then at his brother.  Then back at the house again.  "This is NOT Sammy's house.  Sammy's house doesn't look anything like this at all.  You sure you used the correct coordinates for teleportation?"

"Coordinates?  Ummm...  Oohhh, let me brush some of that grit off your sparklin' silver tabby coat there, Nissy.  We've gotta look our best for the party."

The sole street lamp flickered momentarily before burning out.  All that was left was the light of the moon.

"Come on Nissy...  it's not so scary.  I'm here to protect you.  Bet there's a whole bunch of cats in that house havin' a party.  Bet there's nip..."

Nissy's ears perked up at the word nip.  "Fine, but you lead the way," and the two cats slowly and cautiously approached the house.

Once at the door, Nissy and Seville looked up.  They looked way, way up.  The door knocker was out of reach.  How would they let everyone know they had arrived?  Then, with a moan and a creak, the door slowly opened on its own.  The cats stood motionless, frozen in terror.

"Ummm...  Nissy...  maybe I did make an error with those teleportation coordinates," suggested Seville.  "Perhaps we should uh...  um...  leave?"

Under his breath Nissy hissed, "we can't leave, Sivvers.  I was countin' on usin' Sammy's teleportation tunnel to get us back home.  I don't have any spare egg beaters on me.  And where did you get those egg beaters you were usin', anyway?"

"I told you not to ask, brother.  Let's just say, they were refurbished egg beaters but if I get my paws on that weasel..."

Nissy breathed in slowly, straightening his spine and lifting his tail in a show of confidence.  "Come on Sivvers, I have a plan.  Follow me."  Together, the two cats padded quietly into the house.  "I am not afraid.  I am not afraid.  I am not afraid," Nissy chanted to himself.

"Glad you're not scared, Niss, 'cause I'll admit I'm shakin' in my boots back here.  At least I would be if I was wearin' boots."

Nissy sniffed the air, detecting a faint familiar smell.  "Come on Seville," he hissed.  "I think the kitchen is this way."


Sure enough, the cats found the kitchen.  It was dark and grungy and generally speaking, pretty disgusting.  "Help me go through the cupboards," Nissy instructed Seville.  "We're looking for..."

Seville cut him off with a squeal of delight as he cried, "one of these?" and held up an old egg beater.

Nerissa and Seville stared in awe at the egg beater.  It was old and dirty but it would do the job.  It would get them home from wherever they were which was clearly NOT Sammy's house.

Suddenly a ghostly apparition appeared in the doorway, blocking their way out.  Bats came from out of nowhere and darted this way and that over their heads.  A scream was heard from upstairs.  A loud, piercing scream.

Nissy snatched the egg beater out of Seville's paw and yelled, "RUN!  RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!  RUN FOR ALL NINE OF THEM!"

Together the two boys ran right through the ghostly apparition, through the living room and out the front door.  Using their tails, they swatted away the bats that were determined to dive at them as they made their escape.  They ran and ran and ran until finally, they reached the street where they had first landed after teleporting.

Nissy tripped and Seville stumbled over him.  "Oomph!  Ouch!  Get off my tail you big twenty pound marmalade cat!" cried Nissy.

Sammy reached out a paw and helped Nissy out from underneath his brother.  "You okay there pal?  You guys had a rough landing after teleporting.  I think you might even have been knocked unconscious for a minute or two."

Nissy picked himself up and brushed some grit and a couple of leaves off his fur.  "Oh...  yeah...  yeah, I'm okay.  We're okay, Seville.  Just a bit of a rough landing, that's all."

"Seriously Niss," suggested Sammy, "you have got to get yourself a teleportation tunnel.  Those egg beaters are far too unpredictable.  Speaking of which, where did you ever find that grungy old one?"

Nissy looked down on the floor of Sammy's living room and saw, resting by one of Seville's hind paws, an old dirty, beat-up egg beater.  A shiver ran down his spine.  The egg beater looked familiar.  It looked exactly like the egg beater they had found in the kitchen of the haunted manor.  MOUSES!

messin' with whisks

I knew something was up.  I couldn't quite put my paw on it but I knew that somethin' was amiss.  The peep was up to somethin' and peeps bein' up to stuff is never good news for cats unless, of course, that somethin' is somethin' we told 'em to do.  This, unfortunately, was not the case.  I haven't told Ol' Peepers to do anythin' out of the ordinary as of late.

It all began yesterday.  Truth be told, I believe it began long before that but my suspicions were first aroused, yesterday morning. 

I softly padded into the kitchen and overheard the two peeps talkin' to one another.  They hadn't heard me enterin' the room so I stood quietly and listened in on their conversation.  Had to make sure no one was talkin' about trips to the doctor or anythin' like that, you see.  One must always be wary of bein' ambushed by peeps, stuffed in a carrier and taken against one's will to the doctor.  No mention of the doctor but the subject of the calendar was brought up.  Now, I know from past experience that peeps tend to write down the times of doctors' appointments on calendars.  This was going to require some investigation on my part.

I gazed up at the wall.  There was the calendar, dangling down, taunting me but remaining just out of my reach.  Not this again, I thought.  Last time I needed to look at that calendar, I had to get a boost up from my brother Rushton.  I glanced around but Rushy was nowhere to be seen.  Probably outside chasin' leaves or somethin'.  MOUSES!

Could I scale the wall, I pondered.  Probably not.  A cat could seriously hurt himself tryin' to scale walls.  Better not attempt that.  Much easier to scale a peep.

Like a flash, I appeared by Peep #1's feet.  I looked up at her with that look I reserve for just such occasions.  Success!  She reached down and scooped me up in her arms, lavishin' the kisses and cuddles upon me.  I squirmed like a worm.  Ewww...  peep kisses.  MOUSES!

Once settled in her arms, I telepathically controlled my peep to walk me over to the wall holding the calendar.  Like a robot, she acquiesced.  I glanced over her shoulder and peered at the dates.  Nope...  no...  uh-uh...  nothing 'bout doctors on that page.

I was just about ready to will her to turn to the month of November when I realised that she was still jabberin' away to Peep #2.  "We gain an hour next week, not tomorrow," she said.

Gain an hour?  Oh, it's the time change thingy.  Just peeps fiddlin' with clocks and time zones and whatnot.  I squirmed in her arms again, lettin' her know I wanted down.  Nothin' to worry about after all.  WRONG!

Walkin' into the sunroom, a glimpse of white caught my eye.  What's that?  Hmmm...  a Christmas cactus?  No, it can't be.  We haven't even had Hallowe'en yet.  Christmas cacti can't be bloomin' at this time of year.

I glanced over at my brother Seville.  He had an awfully smug look on his face as he sat there, hangin' out on the chair next to the peep's gardenia.

MOUSES!  The gardenia was covered in flower buds.  I inspected it more closely.  Eighteen, nineteen, twenty...  I stopped countin' at twenty.  This can't be right.  Buds on the gardenia at this time of year?  Surely not.

Then I looked over at the plumeria that have managed to infest my sunroom, taking over all the best sunpuddles.  Even the big ones are still kind of small so it's pretty easy for me get my nose right in there and check 'em out.  Needed to make sure they were headin' into a state of dormancy like they're supposed to do every fall.  What's this?  And this?  Leaves?  New leaves?  They're pushin' out leaves at this time of year?  MOUSES!

I raced to the window and looked out.  I needed to make sure that it was, in fact, still fall.  It sure did look like fall out there.  Many of the trees were already bare and the lawn was strewn with leaves.  Whew, fall was still here.  I hadn't napped through an entire season or anything like that.

I thought for a moment.  Outside it was fall.  The calendar said it was October.  But inside I had a Christmas cactus blooming like it was December, plumeria throwin' out leaves like it was summer and a gardenia full of buds like it was somethin'...  well I wasn't quite sure what that somethin' was but I was pretty sure it wasn't fall.  What the...

Then I remembered the conversation between the peeps.  The conversation about that hour bein' gained.  An hour...  a unit of time...  time..  WHISKS!

I ran into the kitchen and hopped up onto the island.  Pullin' open a drawer with my paw I peered inside.  Where were the whisks?  WHERE WERE THE WHISKS?  I looked around, frantically.  There was a whisk over on the counter.  What had he done?  WHAT HAD HE DONE?

"Sivvers!"  I cried aloud. 

The peep looked over at me, somewhat amused.

"There's nothin' amusin' about messin' with whisks!" I told the peep.  "Sure, it's all fun and games for a while.  All fun and games until someone gets tangled up in the wrong time-space continuum, that is."

The peep didn't reply.

I ran back into the sunroom and looked out the window.  Where there had been blue sky minutes before, menacing clouds had appeared.  A storm was brewing.  A nasty time front was approaching.  An angry time front was approaching.  What had Seville done?  What had he done? 

In an obvious attempt to screw around with the time lines within the house, tryin' to get stuff to bloom when stuff shouldn't be bloomin', he and the peep had been messin' with whisks.  Who knew what damage they had caused and whether or not said damage would be permanent.  A shiver ran down my spine and as a cat, I have a really long spine.  The tip of my tail was still tingling as the rain started to fall.  It had begun...

might I suggest...

DON'T GET ON THAT TRAIN! 

You don't have to get on that ol' train, you know.  You can take a different train.  One goin' someplace else.  Or you can just stand there and let that nasty ol' train go by.  You have choices.  We all have choices.  We always all have choices.  It's just that sometimes we don't wanna make 'em.

Lately, I've been listening to people talk about how they've been railroaded.  Railroaded into doin' stuff they didn't wanna do.  Goin' along with things, they knew were wrong.  All I can say to those people is what I've said before...  DON'T GET ON THAT TRAIN! 

Very rarely do peeps truly get railroaded.  Very rarely does someone grab 'em in the middle of the night when they're innocently sound asleep, throw a pillowcase over their heads and drag 'em out to the train station where they put 'em on a train and send 'em out of town with a one-way ticket to the Land of Disgrace. 

Oh sure...  if you look hard enough and for long enough, you might find a peep or two to which this has happened.  But you're gonna have to look really, really hard and for a very, very long time.  More often than not, when one investigates the railroading of peeps, what one finds is a peep who himself purchased that ticket to Disgraceland.  It's very unlikely that it was thrust upon him, completely unwittingly.

He might have had some help, yes.  There might have been some cajoling.  Other peeps might have been doin' their darnedest to convince him that really, everything was gonna be okay if he just went along with what they wanted him to do.  That really, everything was above board.  That really and truly, that train they wanted him to board wasn't headin' for the Land of Disgrace at all.

In fact, the Land of Disgrace was probably never even mentioned.  The peeps doin' the luring probably called it somethin' else.  Somethin' nicer.  Somethin' that would help with the luring of the peep to be railroaded onto that ol' train.

One must always question the character of peeps doin' the luring of other peeps.  Peeps doin' the act of cajoling.  Tellin' other peeps what they wanna hear.  These are the very same peeps who will be the railroaded peeps' travelling companions. 

I don't know 'bout you but if I'm takin' a long train ride, I'm gonna want to take that ride with peeps I like and respect.  Peeps I can trust.  Peeps I can trust to not throw me under the bus...  uh...  I mean, train.  Sorry 'bout that.

I don't wanna be takin' a long train ride with peeps in flea-ridden suits.  One of their fleas might hop onto me or somethin'.  Wouldn't want that.  One must always choose one's travelling companions, wisely.  Never just go with the flow, so to speak.  You're gonna want to know exactly where that flow is going.  Not to mention, what might be in it.

But what happens if you honestly don't realise you're bein' railroaded until after you're already on the train?  You didn't know you were gettin' on that train.  You thought you were gettin' on a different train.  A better train.  A train with a better destination.  Help!  HELP!!!  You can yell for help all you like but truth be told, it's very difficult to be heard over the noise bein' made by a train except, of course, by the other people on that very same train...  your travelling companions.

But you still have choices.  Choice number one would be to get off that ol' train. 

Take a good look at that first-class ticket in your little paw and ask yourself, do I really want to go all the way?  Do I really want to go all the way to the Land of Disgrace?  If the answer is no, you make the decision right there and then to get off that train at the very next stop.  You leave your travelling companions behind and allow them to travel to Disgraceland all on their own.  You don't hang on, hoping that everything will be okay.  Hoping that everything will work out when you really know, in your heart of hearts, that it won't.

But there are no stops, you say.  This particular train is travellin' non-stop from here to the Land of Disgrace.

Never.  Every train has to slow down at some point, somewhere.  There's always an opportunity.  An opportunity to get off.  You just have to watch for it.  Every train will slow down enough for anyone who wants to get off to do so.  Sure, you might have to jump off when it's still movin' a bit but far better that than ending up at its final destination.  Far, far better that than ending up at its final destination.  Just keep in mind what that destination is.

When you realise where the train you're on is headed and you realise that that's a place you do not want to do, you need to get off the train.  You need to get off it, no matter what the cost.  'Cause gettin' off the train, is the right thing to do.

Doin' the right thing isn't always the easiest thing to do.  Sometimes, it's the most difficult thing any peep will ever do.  But doin' the right thing is always the right thing to do.  The sooner you do it, the better and in the end, it will always be worth it.

And one more thing.  Those peeps who lured you onto that train headin' to the Land of Disgrace?  Well they're still on that train.  They never got off.  They didn't think they had to.  Peeps like that never do.  Peeps like that tend to be arrogant.  So very arrogant that they think whatever comes their way, will wash right off them.  Nothin' will ever stain their flea-ridden suits.  They believe they can remain in control of any situation at paw.  They believe they can outsmart everyone around them...  manipulate the masses.

Oddly enough, those lurin', cajolin' and controllin' peeps couldn't figure out the most important thing of all.  They couldn't figure out that when they lured the peeps bein' railroaded onto the train headin' for disaster, they bought one-way tickets for themselves, too. They bought themselves all one-way tickets for the Land of Disgrace.   Apparently, no one ever told 'em...  DON'T GET ON THAT TRAIN! 

I thought I saw a puddy cat...

...who thought she saw a squirrel!

ATTENTION:  We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming for...  SQUIRREL TV!

Wow oh wow.   I never ever thought I'd see it happen but the other day, there was a squirrel in my backyard.  MOUSES!

Fall is upon us and every fall, stuff falls.  The leaves fall from the trees as do the acorns.  The squirrels don't fall but they do scurry around gatherin' up all those fallen acorns to take them away to make nut pies and whatnot.  It's a busy time of year.  It's a crazy time of year.  It's a nutty time of year.  And now, it's a squirrelly time of year, too!  Squirrel TV is bein' broadcast from my very own backyard.

Just what is so crazy 'bout Squirrel TV?  Well, for starters...  it has never before happened in my backyard.  In the front yard, sure.  Squirrel TV is on from dawn to dusk in the front yard all summer long but never out back. 

Those squirrels have always liked the big ol' oak tree at the end of our driveway.  They're there all the time.  They run up the oak tree and then back down.  Then back up again and once more, back down.  Sometimes they run straight up.  Sometimes they kind of run around the tree trunk, almost going in circles around the tree.  It's pretty fun to watch, actually.  Squirrel TV has some great programming on at this time of year.

But never before has Squirrel TV appeared on the channel in the backyard.  Up until now, that channel has been reserved for Bird TV.  Somethin' weird is in the air, I should think.  In the air...  on the ground...  everywhere!

Never before have the squirrels been out back but lately, they've taken a liking to some of the trees out there.  It's weird 'cause in the backyard, there are no acorns, you see.  There are a couple of oak trees but for some strange and unfathomable reason, they almost never produce the 'corns.  That would be one reason why Squirrel TV has never before appeared in my backyard.

The other reason would be my family.  I mean...  I do live with ten other cats.  A squirrel has gotta be pretty nutty to venture into a backyard belongin' to eleven cats.   A squirrel willin' to do that would have to be crazy.  Absolutely crazy!  Crazier than all the other squirrels makin' nut pies, I should think.  And that's pretty mousin' crazy, if you ask me. 

Now one might say that squirrels are kind of inherently nutty and I would have to agree with you on that.  It's a proven fact, you know.  Allow me to impart a little bit of squirrel law to you.  Squirrels inherit nut trees from their parents and the nuttiness is passed down from generation to generation.  An oak tree can live for many squirrel generations and it, along with all the acorns it produces, belong to the direct descendants of the squirrel who planted that first acorn.  Squirrel Law 101.  I aced that course...  of course.

But back to my backyard.  Even though there are no acorns back there and even though there are eleven of us cats..  squirrels are venturing into our territory.  Crazy beyond belief kind of crazy, if you know what I mean.

And the squirrels coming into our backyard are grey.  They're grey and they're big.  As big as my sister Tess.  I kid you not.  They're the big ol' grey squirrels that have sort of invaded Nova Scotia but up until now, my backyard has escaped the invasion.

Well let me tell you Mr. and Mrs. Grey Squirrel...  my sister Constance knows who you are and she knows where you live.  She was out sunbathin' the other day and saw you running about in our backyard and she's not happy 'bout the situation.  She's not happy at all.  You had better watch out for my sister, Connie.  She is a force with which to be reckoned, for sure.

Mr. and Mrs. Grey Squirrel, you may have chased away all the little red squirrels from our neighbourhood but my sister is no red squirrel.  She's not gonna be chased so easily.  Nor am I.  Nor are any of us.  We're ready for you and we're prepared to do battle.

I'm applying for a court injunction as I write this blog post.  I have proof that your ancestors did not plant the acorns that produced the two oak trees in my backyard.  Those trees predate the invasion of the grey squirrel so clearly, someone else planted them. 

What's more, my back and side yards have mainly maple trees - not oaks - and you have no claim over any of those maples.  Squirrels may never lay claim to a maple tree except, in rare instances, when the branches of said maple are an easement to access trees you do in fact own.  But in this case, easements do not apply 'cause you don't own any of the other trees back there.  Ipso facto, you have no right to be anywhere near any of those maples.  No right to be anywhere near them at all.

I am confident that the court will rule in my favour.  I hear that Judge Jay is presiding over the case and even though he has been feeling rather blue, as of late, he's gonna perk right up when he sees the opportunity to bring Bird TV back to the airwaves in my backyard.  Yup, that's gonna perk him right up for sure.

So enjoy broadcasting your Squirrel TV in the backyard for the next few days my friends but by the end of this week, we should be back to our regularly scheduled Bird TV on that channel.  If I wanna watch you squirrels, I'll sit out front 'cause out front is the appropriate place for Squirrel TV.  That's a fact, for sure.

Come on over kitties.  There's plenty of room.  I'll have the peep pop up some corn and we'll slather on the butter and sprinkle it with a little nip.  Yummy.  And maybe afterwards she'll serve up a little roasted squir...  Nah, she probably wouldn't do that, bein' a veggie and all.  Perhaps she'll serve up a little nut pie.  I hear the squirrels have some great recipes.  Wonder if they'll share...

not THIS again!

Ol' Peepers has gone and done it again.  That's right...  She has gone and committed herself to another term of caterwaulin'.  If you ask me, she should have herself committed.  Or perhaps I should have her committed.  I'm sure they'd take her.  If they came within' earshot of the caterwaulin', they'd take her for sure.  Or maybe not...  maybe they'd turn and run for the hills.

It's true.  It's absolutely true.  I've known about it for quite some time.  I've known about it since that dark and starless night, five or six weeks ago. 

Shortly after dinner that night, Ol' Peepers grabbed her purse and car keys and headed out the door.  It was a Wednesday and I have learned over the years that havin' Peep #1 go out on a Wednesday evening does not bode well for me.

Suspicious, I ran to the calendar.  Not being tall enough to actually see the calendar, I called over to  my brother Rushton to give me a boost.  Rushton is a very big boy, you see.  As a kitten, when the other cats told him he looked like a lion, he kind of took it to heart and decided he should grow lion-sized.  He hasn't quite made it there, yet, but he's still workin' on it and has come pretty darned close.  I climbed onto Rushie's shoulders and he stood up on his two hind legs.  From there, I could easily see the entire calendar and all that was jotted down upon it. 

On the calendar, I saw two words.  The most dreaded and feared two words in a cat's vocabulary...  Choral Society.  MOUSES!

Of course, the peep had misspelled Choral Society.  I believe it is actually an acronym and therefore should be spelled using all capital letters.  CHORAL is an acronym for Caterwauling Heard Over Rivers and Lakes...  not to mention fields, forests, mountains and valleys.

And oceans!  We mustn't forget the oceans.  I know that when my peep caterwauls full force, the raucous and offensive noise can be heard across the Atlantic.  I know this for a fact.  Once, when Ol' Peepers was practicin' her caterwaulin', we got a call from Scotland Yard.  They thought someone was bein' murdered or somethin'.  Yup, it's true.  You might think that I'm tellin' tall tales but really, I'm not.  My peep's caterwaulin' really is that bad.  But I digress.

Staring at the two words - Choral Society - I reeled back in horror.  I reeled back so far I fell off Rushton's shoulders and landed on my tail.  Ouch.

"NO, NO, NO!" I cried.  "This cannot be.  Not THIS again!"

Now you might wonder why I'm gettin' all hot under the collar about this caterwaulin' business, especially since I don't actually wear a collar under which my fur might get hot..  or ruffled.  You might be thinking that as long as she's leavin' the house to caterwaul, my ears will be safe from the auditory assaults of such magnificent proportions. 

Well think again, my friends.  You see, the actual practises might take place elsewhere but before she goes to practise, she practises.  It's the pre-practise practises that are the worst.  The low grumbly F's and G's are well... well...  well they're not too bad, I suppose.  They're just stupid sounding 'cause they're so grumbly.  Then there's this middle range that can easily be drowned out if one places one's head under a few dozen pillows after donning some high-tech earplugs.  But it's those higher notes.  Those ear-piercing, wall-crumbling and glass-shattering higher notes.  Those higher notes are enough to wake the dead and cause them to wish they were dead again.  Those A's and B's and the horror of the C's.  THE HORROR OF THE C'S!  They're just too much for a kitty to handle.  MOUSES!

And yesterday, my fears all came to life.  My fears of the pre-practise, practise.  Ol' Peepers went into the livin' room where she opened the piano stool and pulled out...  pulled out...  she pulled out... sheet music!  "Have to practise my solo," she happily informed me. 

I ran.  I ran out of the living room and straight downstairs to find something under which I could bury my head.  Turns out, heading down one set of stairs isn't far enough.  I'm thinkin' of building myself a sub-basement.  A sub-basement with an elevator that will take me down a couple more levels to a sub, sub-basement.  I'm thinkin' that might work.  I'm hoping.  I'm praying.

In the meantime, I hear that my dad happily hopped up onto the piano stool to hang out with the peep while she practised practising her caterwauling.  He's such a suck-up.  Either that or he's stone deaf.  I'm kind of thinkin' the latter.  How else could he tolerate it?  MOUSES!

 

a wild goose chase

A few weeks ago, the second peep heard a news story on the radio.  Firstly, however, I should tell you that the second peep is just about the most unreliable source for news that there ever was.  In fact, peep #2 is so unreliable for news that the unreliability is actually reliable.  I mean...  one might say that if the second peep says one thing, the truth is bound to be the opposite.   That's how reliably unreliable that ol' second peep is.  MOUSES!

Anywho...  peep #2 came downstairs one mornin' all agitated 'bout a whole bunch of peeps gettin' lost in a corn maze overnight.  The next mornin', the farmer noticed fifty, sixty, seventy cars in the parkin' lot and realised there were peeps lost in the maze!  He hopped in his...  his...  his farm doohickey farmin' equipment tractor kind of thing and cut himself a path through that maze straight to its centre where he found all the peeps huddled together.  They had been there all night.

Now, I overheard this conversation between my two peeps and thought...  MOUSES!  I've got myself a blog post in this here ol' mess.

There were so many questions to be asked.  Where was this maze?  How big was this maze?  How cold was the night?  And, of course, why the mouses did the farmer not notice all those cars in the maze's parkin' lot when he went home for the night the day before?  That last one would be a very excellent question, for sure.

I grabbed myself a hot mug of nip cider - my new invention - and headed for the computer.  I had work to do.  Information to find.  A story to write.

Now, I know for a fact that peep #2 quite likes to listen to CBC Radio at night so I started there.  I typed in corn maze and CBC and immediately found my answers.  I found all my answers.  All the answers a cat could possibly need.  In fact, I found a few more answers than I wanted.  Answer number one was the fact that the second peep is a mousin' lunatic!  MOUSES!

Once again, the second peep had led me on a wild goose chase and this time that goose was chasing me through a field of corn.

There was no maze.  There was no farmer.  There were no lost peeps.  It was all a made-up story from a CBC comedy radio show called This is That.  MOUSES!

I sat there at my desk and stared at the computer screen.  I could hardly believe my eyes.  Tricked by the peep's reliable unreliability once again.  Yes...  AGAIN.  You see, it wasn't that long ago when I thought I had another newsworthy topic for a blog post that also turned out to be that ol' second peep bein' fooled by a This is That comedy radio broadcast.  Mouses indeed.

I hopped down from my chair and spun in circles while I chased my tail.  Not catching it, I stomped into the kitchen.  "Peep!" I cried.  "You've got some explainin' to do."

"But it could happen," whined the second peep.  "It almost happened to us a few years ago.  Really it did."

I glared at the second peep.  What was this?  Was the peep tryin' to pull the wool over my whiskers with even more tomfoolery? 

"Honestly, it did.  A few years ago," began the peep, "your first peep and I went to a corn maze and got terribly lost in it.  Eventually, when we did find our way out, the people running the maze were leaving for the day.  We made it out in the nick of time.  Had we not escaped, we might very well have been left in that maze overnight.  We were really lost.  It was pretty worrisome."

Hmmm...  I thought.  Do I believe any of this or is it just more nonsense?  I asked the first peep if she could verify peep #2's statement and lo and behold, she could.  MOUSES!

So I had my story after all.  CORN MAZES ARE DANGEROUS TO THE HEALTH OF PEEPS!  Especially peeps like mine who clearly have no sense of direction.  Peeps, bein' peeps, can in fact get lost in a corn maze.  Who knows how many peeps have been lost to corn mazes across this country?  It's a big country.  There are a lot of corn mazes.  And to make matters worse, there appear to be no statistics on corn maze related peep losses.  A cover-up?  A conspiracy?  Inquirin' minds are gonna wanna know!

This is Thanksgiving weekend here in Canada and I bet there are peeps visiting corn mazes from coast to coast and sea to sea.  I bet there are peeps gettin' lost in corn mazes from coast to coast and sea to sea.  It's a long weekend.  They've got an extra day in which to do it.

Peepers!  Prepare my teleportation device.  I have a corn maze to visit.

Oh yeah, almost forgot...  How could I forget?  Talk about mouses. 

HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO ALL and to all a good night!

operation FLEA

Nerissa the Cat here with breaking news...

Election results are pourin' in.  The guessers have all guessed and the predictors have finished their predictin'.  The voters of Nova Scotia have voted and they have decided who will be the next Premier of our fair province.  Stephen McNeil has been elected as the next Premier of Nova Scotia.  When I last looked, the Liberals had won thirty-three of the fifty-one available seats, winning a majority government with Premier Elect Stephen McNeil as its leader.

As you might suspect, this came as a bit of a surprise to me.  I thought for sure that my pal, Earl Grey, was gonna win in a landslide.  I thought for sure that my pal, Earl Grey, was gonna be the next Premier.  I thought that for the first time in history, a Canadian province would be able to boast that they had a cat as Premier.  Unfortunately, that is not what happened.  MOUSES!

I knew by mid-afternoon that there was trouble brewing for Earl Grey's campaign.  I knew something was up.  I knew something was wrong.  I knew my pal didn't stand a chance.  You see, when the peeps arrived home after voting, they broke the news to me.  Apparently, nowhere - and I mean absolutely nowhere and without a trace - on their ballots was the name, Earl Grey.  No one could vote for my pal 'cause my pal's name was not on the ballot.  MOUSES!

I immediately went into action.  To be truthful, I first had a little cry and then I imbibed in a biff bag full of nip.  But even I will admit that catnip can do only so much for a cat so I, Nerissa the Cat, pulled myself together and implemented Operation FLEA.   That's right, FLEA as in Feline...  well...  actually...  actually the other three letters don't stand for anything.  I just thought Operation FLEA sounded really good.

Basically, I needed to infiltrate Stephen McNeil's party headquarters.  I needed a man on the ground right there in the midst of their celebratin' when the results came in.  Who to send...  who to send...

Obviously, I wasn't going to send me.  I don't like the car.  Then I thought to myself, Plush Nissy!  Plush Nissy will be the perfect infiltrator.  I've taught him everything I know.

Clearly, Plush Nissy is a cat.  This could pose a problem.  Everyone who is anyone knows that all cats in the province support the Tuxedo Party of Canada and their candidate, Earl Grey.  Plush Nissy needed a disguise.  So I grabbed a Stephen McNeil campaign button for him and tied it around his neck.  "That should do the trick!" I told the plush version of me.  "No one will ever recognise you as a Tuxedo Party supporter when you're wearin' that."  The plush me crawled into the peep's purse for transport and he and the peep were off.

They arrived at the building hosting the party to find big television news vans sportin' all sorts of satellite equipment and whatnot.  Those were pretty fancy-schmancy set-ups those television crews had but Plush Nissy and I weren't fazed.  We weren't intimidated at all.  A little jealous, perhaps.  All I had was a plush me in the peep's purse.  MOUSES!

Once inside the campaign headquarters, Plush Nissy and I kept in constant communication with one another.  I had placed a wire in the campaign button for just that purpose.  I told the plush me to have a look around and see what he could see without being too conspicuous.  "Listen in to what the crowds are saying," I told him.  "See if anyone is talking 'bout our Earl Grey."

It wasn't long before the plush me came across a man named Robert Thibault.  The name sounded familiar and I did a quick background check on him.  At times like this, it sure is handy to be a member of the FBI...   Feline Bureau of Investigation.  Sure enough, my search discovered that he was someone pretty famous.  A former Member of Parliament or something like that.  I told Plush Nissy to get a picture of him and that's just what the plush me did.

Unfortunately, that was the beginning of the end for my fabric counterpart's good behaviour.  Plush Nissy took one look at the table set up with food and made a run for it.  I knew I should have sent him with snacks.

Apparently, the food assortment was a disappointment.  No Fancy Feast...  no Treat Temptations...  no NIP!  What kind of party has no nip?  I bet Earl Grey had nip at his end of campaign party.  Clearly, Stephen McNeil was not expecting any cats to attend his event.

"It's okay," stated the plush me.  "I've got a nip mouse here at the bottom of the peep's purse.  I snuck it in when you weren't looking.  I'll just crawl down and have a sniff or two."

"Careful of the nip!" I cried but it was too late.  The plush me was already down at the bottom of the purse.

For what seemed like an eternity, all I could hear through the communications button was Plush Nissy enjoyin' that nip mouse.   He was clearly enjoyin' himself a little too much.

Plush Nissy finally emerged from the bottom of the purse to do some investigating.  He listened in on the conversations around him.  There were so many conversations.  Peeps all over were talking 'bout the elections but quite a few were talking 'bout other stuff, too. 

Through the communications button I heard one man say that this guy and that guy had always supported other parties before this election.  They had switched sides.  I wondered if any Tuxedo Party supporters had switched sides.  "Look for cats," I instructed the plush me.  He said there were none.  He appeared to be the only cat at the party.

People everywhere were watching big television screens and every now and then they would let out loud hoots and hollers.  There would be clapping and cheering every time the television screen showed one of their candidates winning a riding.  The excitement was rising.  Soon Stephen McNeil would appear. 

Tip-toeing through the crowd, Plush Nissy discovered that absolutely no one was mentioning the Tuxedo Party or Earl Grey.  No one at all.  He crept up to one of the large television screens to see if they were anywhere on the board.  Nothing.  No trace.  MOUSES!

But it was okay, I realised, for Stephen McNeil himself had signed Earl Grey's Pledge of Compassion.  Stephen McNeil himself had made a promise to the cats of this province...  not to mention the many thousands of peeps who care about cats, too.  Everything was gonna be okay even if Earl Grey wasn't gonna be Premier.

"Nissy," said the plush me.   "It's super loud in here and I've gotta give my ears a break.  I think I'll just head down to the bottom of the peep's purse and sniff a little of that nip mouse."

"Careful of the nip!" I cried but again, I was too late.  The plush me had disappeared into the purse once more.

An hour or more later, Plush Nissy emerged from the purse.  Clearly, he had been nappin' down there.  And what a sight he was.  What a dishevelled looking mess was the plush me.  His ribbon had come undone and his communications button was all askew.  That was just about the time when Premier Elect Stephen McNeil picked him up for a photo op.  I held my head in my paws and shook it in dismay.  There was the plush me - REPRESENTING ME - and lookin' like a complete mess.  What would my readers think?  The camera flash went off and it was too late.  Oh yeah, sure...  Stephen McNeil came out lookin' great but what about the plush me?


And the plush me totally forgot to thank Premier McNeil for signing the Pledge of Compassion.  He totally forgot to do that and it was so very, very important. 

That Plush Nissy simply cannot hold his nip.  I suppose, though, it's not entirely his fault.  He was enjoying that nip mouse on an empty stomach.  Had there been some Fancy Feast or Treat Temptations available, the plush me would have handled the nip far better.  Hmmm...  there should have been some cat snacks available.  I mean...  once they figured out that Earl Grey's name had been omitted from the ballot, they should have realised a cat or two might switch sides.  Not that the plush me and I were switching sides or anything.  We're still loyal to the Tuxedo Party of Canada.  After all, we're still cats. 

because neglect STILL isn't workin'!

...and that's why Earl Grey has my vote for Premier.  'Nough said.

Last autumn, something wonderful and miraculous happened in the Province of Nova Scotia.  What was wonderful was the fact that a tuxedo cat named Stan ran for Mayor of the largest city in this fair province.   What was miraculous was that the politicians of the province sat up and took notice.  We feline Nova Scotian residents finally had a voice and were bein' heard.  Amazin'.

I blogged all about Stan and his run for Mayor, last autumn.  Other news outlets picked up the story too but let's face it, as a Nova Scotian feline reporter, I sort of had the inside scoop.  You can read all about Stan's run for Mayor in my blog post, Stan is your man!

Although Stan was runnin' for Mayor of HRM, his name was suspiciously left off the ballot.  MOUSES!  Conspiracy theorists have come up with several theories as to why however so far, none have been proven.  On the other paw, none have been disproven, either.

Undeterred, we cats all knew what the autumn of 2013 would bring.  We Nova Scotian kitties were plannin' the biggest electoral upset in the history of Canadian politics.  October 2013 would bring a provincial election and our man Stan would run for Premier.

Then the unthinkable happened.  The day after the provincial election was called, Stan had to make his journey to the Rainbow Bridge.  What a terribly sad day it was for kitties all around the world when my pal Stan succumbed to cancer just a few short weeks ago. 

But Stan didn't leave us on our own.  He passed the political torch to his brother, Earl Grey, who is now running for Premier of Nova Scotia.  That's right...  in the upcoming provincial election, the number one, best-looking and most charming candidate is a cat.  Yoo-hoo!  YOO-HOO!  Excuse my exuberance but I just can't help but be enthusiastic at a time like this.  We have a cat running for Premier.  FINALLY!

Earl Grey is goin' nose-to-nose and paw-to-paw with the leaders of those other political parties.  Watch out MLAs, Misters Dexter, Baillie and McNeil.  The leader of the Tuxedo Party of Canada has four paws to your every two and when it comes to noses, that cute little pink one of Earl Grey's is by far the best lookin'.  Politicians disagree on a lot of stuff but there's no way, no how, that they can disagree about that.  It's a fact.

Earl Grey's candidacy has even been noticed by federal politicians.  In his recent trip to our province, the leader of the Federal Liberal Party was spotted chatting it up with an Earl Grey minion.  Yes, Justin Trudeau took the opportunity for a photo op with Earl Grey's furry representative.  Clearly, this is an attempt on Member of Parliament Trudeau's part to further political relations between our province and Ottawa.  Either that or he's worried that Earl Grey might eventually make a run for Prime Minister.


There are those factions who see Earl Grey's run for Premier as a gimmick.   Nothing but a bit of fun.  Those people couldn't be more wrong.  They couldn't be further from the truth.  The plight of Nova Scotian kitties is no laughing matter.  It's not funny at all. 

In the Province of Nova Scotia, live a large number of abandoned, unwanted and feral cats.  These cats are usually unspayed and unneutered and through no fault of their own, contribute to the cat overpopulation. 

Imagine living through a Nova Scotian winter alone and homeless.  Nowhere to go.  Nowhere to turn.  No one to help you. 

When temperatures dip far below the freezing point, the very ground upon which you walk becomes a painful torture.  The pads of your paws redden.  They become inflamed and raw.  Every step hurts.  Your tummy is empty but long ago gave up growling for growling was futile.  There are no mice to catch.  No moles.  No squirrels.  The ground is covered in snow and the only food available is what you might manage to scrounge from someone's garbage can.

If you're lucky, you might find a kind-hearted soul who will leave out for a dish of food for you, now and then.  But not everyone has a kind heart.  For every caring person you come across, you'll find another who would think nothing of giving you a kick in your side with their boot or chase you away from their doorstep with a broom.  And those people who do try their best to help the homeless cats of this province often face the wrath and ire of the unkind.  They're labelled as being "bleeding hearts" and scorned. 

My opinion is that to have a heart that does not bleed, marks you as inhuman.

In Earl Grey's Campaign Platform, he makes several worthwhile recommendations for the Animal Protection Act.  Abandoning companion animals would be made illegal, affordable spaying and neutering clinics would become available and those investigating and prosecuting charges of animal cruelty would be able to do so without having all four paws tied behind their backs.

The current Animal Protection Act, although revised in April of this year, clearly lacks any bite when it comes to the plight of cats in this province.  Nowhere in the act does it even mention the word, cat.  MOUSES!

As stated in Earl Grey's Pledge of Compassion and Action, this province's animal protection legislation "is dated and inadequate."  He asks that all candidates from all parties sign his pledge, promising to "help animals in our province."  Although a number of candidates have signed Mr. Grey's pledge, there are still a number of them who have not.   It's not too late.  The campaign isn't over until it's over.  There is still time.  You can still sign on the dotted line.

Many of the voters of this province truly believe that it is the provincial government's responsibility to put things in place that will help homeless cats.  People are often shocked to find out that many shelters do not receive adequate government funding if they receive any at all.  They also complain when charges of animal cruelty are dropped or when those convicted are not punished severely enough.  These issues have been brushed under the carpet for far too long.  It is time for the provincial legislators to recognise that animal welfare is an extremely important issue to the people of Nova Scotia.  And if it takes what they believe to be a light-hearted joke to get them to listen, then so be it.  It's time for the message to be heard.

Earl Grey's message is clear.  NEGLECT ISN'T WORKING.

***  All photos were used with the kind permission of Earl Grey's campaign staff.

where there's fire, there is smoke

Kinda goes without sayin', don't you think?  And yet, I feel the need to say it anyway.

There are always little twigs and things fallin' from the trees in my yard and when they do, the peeps will gather 'em up and put them in the compost pile or green bin.  I should explain.  A green bin is a big bin where you can put compostable stuff to be picked up with the garbage if you don't want to compost it yourself.  It's called a green bin 'cause it's a bin and well...  it's green. 

Sometimes however, those little twigs that fall from the trees are more like branches.  A garden inspection done immediately after a big storm will usually find a branch or two.  Also, when the squirrels start doin' their hoedowns up in the oak trees in the fall, branches often appear afterwards on the ground.  This has become quite commonplace since the invasion of the grey squirrels.  Those grey squirrels are particularly big and heavy and when they start dancin' in the trees, stuff breaks.  It happens.  It happens more often than you might think.

Anywho...  when twigs grow into branches and those branches fall to the ground, the peeps gather them up and drag 'em out of the way.  They can't put 'em in the green bin 'cause even though the green bin is big, it's not that big.  They also can't put 'em in the compost pile 'cause they're so big, they'd take forever to break down into compost.  They could, I suppose, chip 'em in a wood chipper but since we don't have a wood chipper, that's not gonna happen.  I suggested to peep #1 that she employ a woodchuck 'cause everyone is always askin' how much those woodchucks can chuck and I figured that this would be the perfect opportunity to discover the answer but apparently, chuckin' is different from chippin'.  Who knew?

So where exactly do my peeps put those twigs that are the size of branches?  Why, they put in a brush pile, of course.  We have a brush pile just for such occasions.  Actually, we have two of 'em.  We needed to start up a second one after the Great Squirrel Hoedown of  2008.  That was a doozie of a party.  There were branches, acorns and squirrels everywhere.  Little squirrel-sized bottles of nut beer scattered all over the ground, too.  Little empty squirrel-sized bottles of nut beer scattered all over the ground.  But I digress.  My point is, there were a lot of branches and brush and whatnot needin' to be piled.

Havin' a brush pile in your garden is a good thing, you know.  Brush piles provide protection for lots of little critters who need protectin'.  The peeps know that havin' a brush pile is an environmentally sound decision while bein' kind to animals at the same time.  They'll always have a brush pile 'cause of this.  Always and forever.

My peeps just keep addin' to the brush piles.  They never get that big.  Stuff at the bottom breaks down and they keep on addin' to the top.  It works out well.

Other peeps however, have different ideas.  Here in the wilds of Nova Scotia, peeps have a habit of burnin' brush and leaves and stuff.  They also have a habit of burnin' brush piles.

Truth be told, we don't actually live in the wilds of Nova Scotia.  We live in a subdivision.  It's not overly wild.  Well, Ol' Peepers' hair was lookin' pretty wild the other day but that's a different kind of wild, I should think.

Last Saturday afternoon, our new neighbours decided to burn some brush.  They scoured their property for brush and piled it high.  Then they lit it on fire.  As the fire consumed the brush, they added more and more and even more of the woody branches and twigs and things.  They kept that fire going for several hours.

At first, it wasn't so bad.  There was some smoke 'cause a lot of the brush had had green leaves attached to it.  All that smoke was going straight up in the air so although it was very bad for the planet, it wasn't directly affectin' either me or my peeps.  County law allows for the burnin' of brush so the neighbours were allowed to do what they were doin' and, I repeat, the smoke was headin' straight up so things seemed to be in paw.

But that all changed by Saturday evenin'.  After dinner, the peep and I went into my office to do a quick edit on my Sunday post.  We opened the door and were smacky-pawed in the face by a wall of smoke.  SMOKE!  Smoke in my office!  MOUSES!!!

The first thing the peep thought was that something in the house was on fire.  Something in my office.  Then she realised that no, thankfully, that was not the case at all.  What had happened was that she had left two windows open in the afternoon and the smoke from that neighbour's brush pile had come in from the outside.

Ol' Peepers stepped outside and there, the smoke was even worse.  It was everywhere.  It hung in the night air.  There was a smoky haze in our back yard, our front yard, the driveway and even out on the street.  At least half the subdivision was filled with smoke.  It was awful.

You could see the smoke, it was so thick.  And it smelled.  Actually, it stunk.  It had a horrible, acrid smell.  It smelled like there had been more than just wood and leaves bein' burned that afternoon.  There must have been some plastic or rubber in that pile of brush to create such a horrendous stinky stink.  My gosh, the smell was even worse than the smell of the skunk from two nights before!  MOUSES!

And the smoke got in my eyes and made them water.  And it got in my nose and made me sneeze.  I didn't even wanna breath but had to 'cause...  you know...  a kitty has gotta breathe.  It's kind of important, you see.

Like I said before, county laws allow peeps to burn brush and leaves.  They're not allowed to burn garbage, mind you, but brush and leaves are okay.   They're allowed to burn it as long as doin' so doesn't create a fire hazard.   They don't want sparks causing forest or grass fires.  Forest and grass fires seem to be their main concern.

I wholeheartedly agree that preventin' forest and grass fires is important.  In fact, it's super-duper important.  But what  about breathing?  Is the ability to breathe not important, too?  Doesn't every cat and every peep have the right to be breathin' clean, fresh air?  Air that's not filled with acrid-smelling, stinky smoke?

'Cause here's the dilemma, my friends.  Where there's fire, there is smoke.  It's almost inevitable.  Fire and smoke go hand in hand and paw in paw.  Where you have one, you're gonna have the other.  To think anything otherwise is crazy talk.  Crazy as crazy can be.  Why, it's crazier than a squirrel makin' nut pies.  It's crazier than a drunken squirrel makin' nut pies and let me tell you, that's pretty darned crazy, if you know what I mean.  MOUSES!