Is it kittens or is it drugs? I guess we'll never know...

Source

Okay, I have a question.  Is "Kittens For Sale" code for something?

Because considering just how regularly one house in my neighbourhood has a sign out front with that very message, I'm beginning to think that either someone needs to anonymously give them some vet desexing vouchers for Christmas, or it's actually code for something else.

I'm guessing either drugs or child slave labor.

At least, I kind of hope it's that, because otherwise they must have a ridiculous number of cats in that house, all of them pushing out litter after litter of kittens.  Sure, it SOUND cute and fun, I mean who wouldn't want to live in a house full of little balls of purring fur, but think of the food cost?  Think of the vet bills?  Think of the poop!!

I did my own research and over the past twelve months, a month hasn't gone by without that sign making an appearance.  I guess business is good ... I just wonder whether it's the drug or kitten trafficking business I'm talking about.

But seriously, do any of you guys know if a "Kittens For Sale" sign can have a more sinister meaning?  You know, like those ceramic butterflies people put on their houses back in the seventies that meant they were swingers.

Poor Grandma, she never realised the message she was giving ... at least I hope she didn't.

Maybe I'll never find out.  Maybe it'll just be one of those mysteries that I'll never learn the answer to.  Kind of like how can I gain half a kilo of weight when I only ate a quarter kilo box of chocolates, or how can sour cream have an expiration date?

But I guess the next time I need some marijuana or a ten year old to make me some sneakers, I'm set.

Give me a martini, and the cat will have a scotch on the rocks...

Source

I love living alone.

There are a lot of benefits to it.  I can watch whatever I want on the TV without having to fight for the remote, if I choose to leave the washing up for a day (or three) no one is going to say boo about it, and I have the freedom to wander around naked if I so choose without having to worry about someone seeing me.

Well ... I suppose there was that one time when I walked into the kitchen in the knicky-noo-nah and my neighbour happened to be standing outside my window on our shared verandah ... but we don't talk about that.

But with all those benefits, there are bound to be some disadvantages too.

Take alcohol, for example.  Society tells us you can't drink alone, or if you do then you must be a beer swilling lush with no self control.  Or worse, a "secretly drinking" alcoholic with an addictive personality.

Pretty harsh when all I wanted was a glass of Brut Cuvee.

But thanks to some wine makers in Japan, my problem has finally been solved!  That's right, now our feline friends can get just as sloshed as we do thanks to a new wine called Nyan Nyan Nouveau made especially for cats [link].

After all, it's not really drinking alone if your feline flatmate is having a glass of Chardonnay too, is it?

Well ... if we're going for full disclosure here, the cats can't really get drunk.  The wine is of the non-alcoholic variety, which I suppose means it's just grape juice.  Four dollars a bottle sounds a bit rich when you put it that way, doesn't it.  But it does have some catnip mixed in there too so at least you know your kitty will be getting something out of the experience.

I'll have to order some for Gypsy the Feline Dictator.  Hmm, I think the evenings at Casa de Kellie are about to get a lot more interesting.

Scientists may discover some cool things from time to time, but sometimes they're real assholes...

Source

Did you guys ever read about the group of scientists back in the 60's who did experiments on kittens to work out if they could make them blind without doing anything to their eyes [link]?

Yeah, I know.  Uber creepy.  Apparently it's not enough to be able to blind someone by damaging their retinas, you have to use psychological and developmental methods to screw their eyesight up from infancy if you really want to make it as an evil scientist.

I think what they were trying to determine was whether eyesight is an instinctual or learned skill, and they got their answer.  One kitten's eyesight developed normally while the other seemed blind, even though there was nothing wrong with it's eyes.

But seriously, if you're going to do a bunch of weird and highly questionable experiments, why on earth would you choose to do them on kittens!  No matter what results you came up with, people were always going to be appalled by what you did.  If you do them on rats you have a 50/50 chance that someone will be horrified, but everyone loves kittens!

You might be wondering why I'm even bringing it up.  It was fifty years ago, after all.  People did weird things back in the 60's, like building nuclear bomb shelters and wearing flares.  What's a little kitten experimentation compared to that?  But the fact is that kittens are still used for similar experiments, like the ones who had their eyes sewn shut not that long ago to study crossed and lazy eyes [link].

Now THAT disturbs me.

I'm not exactly anti animal experimentation, provided there is no other way that research can be done.  I love animals, but I love human beings more, so I'm always going to be on the side of helping people.  But still...

Kittens!  They're just widdle baby kittens all fluffy and mewling and adorable!  How on earth were those scientists able to do it!  I'd be eating my heart out if it was me.

But I suppose those evil scientist types are made of sterner stuff.

I'm beginning to think my cockatiel is going to outlive me...

Bella the Neurotic Cockatiel

Is it just me, or are pets living longer these days?

It certainly seems like it.  Take, for example, Britain's oldest cat [link].  He's 28.  Hell, I work with people who are younger than that cat!  There are people out there who are married with kids who weren't alive when that cat was born, just think about that for a second.

Are you as freaked out by that thought as I am?

I own two animals, or maybe it would be more accurate to say they own me.  You all know about Gypsy the Feline Dictator, but my other animal is a cockatiel named Bella who is completely insane and lives in my spare room ... and no, I didn't name her after the vapid main character of a certain vampire novel series.  I bought Bella long before those books were published, back in 2000.

And there's the thing, I bought Bella back in 2000.

That means, if my math doesn't betray me, that she's at least 13 years old.  When I bought her, the petshop owner told me that most cockatiels only live 7 to 10 years.  So, naturally, the very next day a workmate told me all about her niece's 'tiel that was about to turn 30.  That'd be right, tell me after I've bought the bird, why don't you!

But it was well and truly too late by that point, I'd already bought the perch, the cage, and a three decade commitment I didn't even know I was signing up for.

I know it sounds like I don't like Bella very much, but that's not true.  Back when I first got her she was wonderful, if a little skittish.  But about five years in to our co-habitation she went a little crazy.  Started getting unpredictable to the point where I could never tell if she was going to smooch me or try to peck my eyes out.  Eventually I just had to accept the fact that my bird was a complete nut job ... and that I may very well have to put up with another twenty years of her insanity.

I do know someone who had a 21st birthday party for their cat, so maybe it happens more often than I'd realised.  Could it be possible that one day I'll be planning a "Coming Of Age" for Gypsy the Feline Dictator"?

Hmm, much more likely I'll be planning a 40th for Bella The Neurotic Cockatiel, I'm thinking.

Crap, I'm never getting my spare room back, am I.

Who's a beautiful bride ... you are, yes you are...

Source

I work in a government department, so I know all about the drama of spending public funds.  When you're spending government money, you have to really consider what you're doing.  Is it appropriate?  Can you justify it?  It's essentially people's hard earned tax dollars you're frittering away, so you'd better make damned sure you're following all the rules.

So when I read about a Sri Lankan police department that decided a good use of public money was to throw an elaborate wedding for their 18 sniffer dogs [link], followed by a honeymoon for each doggy couple, I simultaneously giggled and cringed.

I giggled because, come on, puppies in formal wear!  Puppies getting married to each other like they think they're real people!  I'm not made of stone, you know!

But on the other hand, the civil servant in me immediately though "Oh crap, someone's going to cop it in the neck for this one".   You don't go spending government money without a damned good reason, and quite rightly so.  Somehow, I think they'll have a hard time justifying a puppy wedding on their financial statements.

To be fair though, it's not like a bunch of Sri Lankan police officers got drunk and decided it would be hilarious to pair up all their sniffer dogs and have a Seven Brides For Seven Brothers style wedding.  There was a method behind their madness.  Apparently it was a bit of a publicity stunt to advertise the fact that they were going to attempt to breed the dogs there rather than keep on buy them from the Netherlands.

That makes sense, I suppose.  Dogs born in the location would be better acclimated and more used to the local food and water.  And while I don't know how much money it costs to raise a sniffer dog, I have to assume it's cheaper than buying one, so that's got to be a good thing.

But seriously guys, it might have been better if you'd just rented the dogs a hotel room and set them up with some Barry White.

Just saying.

Why you should always read the fine print when trading in exotic animals...

Oh those crazy Chinese!  What will they do next!

Sorry, that was a little bit racist of me, wasn't it.  But in my defense, we've already established that I do that from time to time [link].  Mea culpa, and all that jazz.

But that in no way lessens the kookiness of today's story [link].  Apparently a zoo in the province of Henan is advertising the fact that they have an African lion on display.  Awesome!  It's always nice to be able to go to the zoo and see the truly exotic animals, isn't it.  I was always so disappointed as a child when I was told we were going to the zoo and all I'd end up seeing were a few goats and maybe a kangaroo (and  no, kangaroos are not exotic here, they're a dime a dozen).

So of course people flocked to the zoo to see their newest attraction.  And from all reports they were very impressed by what they saw, a majestic lion sunning itself in the enclosure.

At least, they were until the lion started barking.

Yep, it turns out that the so called African Lion was actually a Tibetan Mastiff that had been put in the enclosure, presumably because it's cheaper and easier than actually getting a lion.  And lets face it, the only other option is that the zoo owners were fooled into purchasing a puppy dog for their lion exhibit.

I suppose it's possible in this day and age to not be able to tell the difference between a lion and a dog ... not very likely, but possible.

It kind of reminds me of this taxidermied lion I read about once that's on display in Gripsholm's Castle in Sweden.  Apparently back in the 1700's the King of Sweden was given a lion and after it died he decided to have it stuffed, presumably to it could continue to terrorise the children of the land.

Well he was certainly successful in that.  It turns out that if you're going to have your dead lion stuffed, it's probably best not to give it to someone who's never actually seen a lion before.  Just look at the picture!  Horrifying!

I'm pretty sure that wasn't in the Animal Control workplace manual...

If you found a bunch of feral kitties in your back yard, what would you do?  Put food out for them?  Try to tame them?  Train them to be your evil minions of the night?  Perhaps call Animal Control if they were a bit aggressive or sick?

The last option was the one that an Ohio woman decided on when she found a whole family of feral cats living in her woodpile [link].  They were aggressive and covered in fleas, and she had a bunch of kids, so she what any sensible parent would do.  Called Animal Control and asked them to come take them away.

But when the Animal Control guy came, instead of capturing them and removing them, he decided to euthanize them right there on the property.

Um ... okay, I could see how that might be necessary.  If they were aggressive it might not be safe to remove them.  So he must have had some sort of humane way of doing it right?

Yeah ... no.  Turns out that "euthanize them on the property" meant take out a gun and shoot the mother cat and the five kittens right there.  In plain sight of the house.  While the woman's kids were watching.

Sometimes the stupidity and thoughtlessness of some people just blows me away.  Seriously?  Shooting kittens in front of a bunch of kids?  Are you trying to traumatise them so much they'll need years of therapy to get over it, Mr Animal Control Guy?

And as for the cats, I can accept that sometimes it's necessary to put them down.  I don't like it, but I can accept it.  But to do it in such a cruel and callous way is just completely unacceptable.

As such, I hereby award you my Douchebag of the Week award.  Congratulations, I don't know if it would have even been possible for you to be more of an asshole.

Edit:  It was pointed out to me by KP that I'd misinterpreted the article and this guy didn't work for the SPCA.  He actually worked for Animal Control.  I've since altered the post to correct this.  So  my apologies to the OSPCA, I can only blame it on the fact that I'm Australian and didn't understand the difference in departments.  

Whatever happened to using a good old fashioned scarecrow...

Working in the administrative area of a library is an odd experience.  I work in finance, but there are also people in my team who do records management, administration, and facilities management.  That's a pretty broad spectrum.  It means that you can find yourself discussing things you'd never have imagined when you woke up that morning.

Take, for example, the conversation I had with one of our facilities people the other day.

Him:  You know the problems we've been having with the birds outside the cafe? 

Me:  I may have heard some whisperings about the evils of bird poop, yes. 

Him:  Well I'm supposed to be looking for a solution, but I've only managed to find one so far ... and I don't think it'd go down very well if I suggested it. 

Me:  Okay, now you've got me curious. 

Him:  Um ... have you ever heard of something called psychedelic birdseed?

So apparently this is a genuine thing you can do to discourage birds from crapping all over your place.  You hire a guy to come in and lay out drugged seed that confuses them enough to leave, and then they tell all their little birdy friends that the shit you're pushing is bad so you end up with bird crap free footpaths.

Seriously, there's a guy out there somewhere whose job it is to do this.

Who the hell comes up with this stuff?  Who woke up one morning and thought to themselves, "Halucinogenic birdseed!  What a great business idea!".  And do I even want to know how they managed to get away with testing it?

"No, officer, I'm not poisoning those pigeons.  I'm just drugging them. Why?  Um ... for science?"

That's one Dutch artist I won't be asking to cat-sit anytime soon...

It's always a bit of a dilemma, deciding what to do when your pet dies. Do you have the vet cremate them?  Bury them in the back garden?  Have them stuffed and mounted?

Luckily Gypsy the Feline Dictator is only about eight years old so I've got another ten years or so before I need to worry about what to do when she finally shuffles off  the feline coil ... but I think that I may have found a way to make her "send off" a special one.

Catcopter!

Yep, that's right, a Dutch artist has found what I think might be the creepiest way to immortalise your beloved furry companion ... and that's really saying something, I've read Pet Cemetery!

But credit where credit's due, it takes a really well developed sense of the macabre to look at your recently expired cat and think "Hmm, if I strap her to a kite frame and duct tape some propellers to the paws, Kitty would make an awesome remote controlled helicopter".

I don't want to know how he explained this one to his kids, do I. 

"Kids, Tiddles was hit by a truck today.  But don't worry, it's not like you'll never see her again.  She's having her maiden flight at eight o'clock on Saturday morning!"

Go ahead and check out the video below and then let me know your opinion.  Is it art, or is it a weird and frankly disturbing thing to do to a much cared for pet?

I'm going to go for door number 2.

Death by polar bear and other convoluted schemes...

Who's a ferocious killing machine!
You are!  Yes, you are!

I'm pretty sure someone is trying to kill me by having me eaten by a polar bear.  Or maybe walruses.  Either way, I'm pretty sure death by North Pole is the plan.

At least, that's the only reason I can come up with for the sheer number of pamphlets I've received lately from Quark Expeditions, a company that specialises in holidays to The Arctic.

When the first one arrived, I assumed it was some sort of financial investment scheme and tossed it away without even looking at it.  The second one caught my eye though with the huge picture of a white furred death machine on the front, and that's when I started to wonder why I was getting them.  I hadn't signed up to anything that would put me on their lists, not even a pair of thermal undies.  Then I got a third.  And then a fourth.  That's when I realised someone was trying awfully hard to get me to go to a remote, climatically unfriendly location that is crawling with dangerous animals.

And that, gentle readers, is why I think someone is trying to kill me.

Obviously someone with an axe to grind has signed me up to their mailing list, hoping that pictures of adorable Arctic foxes, seal pups and rabbits will tempt me to take them up on the offer.  Then, once I'm there, I'll be torn limb from limb by a polar bear.  If I'm lucky, it'll be an adorable polar bear.

Of course, that's assuming I don't freeze to death before the adorable killer polar bear finds me.  I live in Queensland!  As much as I love the cold, I don't have the same tolerance for it as those of you who live in places were it regularly gets lower than 60 degrees fahrenheit.  I'm pretty sure that I'd be a human ice cube within the first half hour.

So, person who is trying to kill me via the convoluted medium of adorable polar bear, I just wanted to let you know that your evil plans aren't going to work. I won't be going on a trek to the Arctic, no matter how many shiny coloured brochures you have Quark Expeditions send me.

But if you want to try death by Las Vegas five star hotel, I could probably get on board for that.

So, have any of you guys ever received something completely weird and unexpected in the mail?

There's nothing louder than an outraged possum...

So, this weekend just gone I made a possum homeless.

Yep, I'm a marsupial homewrecker.  The slum lord of the possum world.  I'm sure they mutter about me and what an awful human I am while they do whatever it is that possum's do.

Sorry, you'll probably need a bit of back story on this one.  You see, I've lived in my current place for the past twelve years.  I like it there, the neighbourhood is good and the rent is cheap.  But pretty much from day one I worked out that, regardless of what my lease might say, I wasn't living alone.

I think it was the first time I hopped in the shower that I realised I had a flatmate.  Every time I made a noise, I'd hear a corresponding little tap against the bottom of the tub.  My first thought was "Holy crap, my bath is haunted!  What the hell am I going to do?  Can you get a bathtub exorcised?"  But a quick trip down to the carport told me what the real story was.

A possum the size of a small cat had moved in to the crawl space between the ceiling of the carport and the floor of the bathroom.  When I went down there, he poked his furry little face out, glared at me, flicked me the bird, then turned around and went back to sleep with his big fuzzy butt hanging out the hole in the fibro.

Charming.

But he wasn't hurting anyone by being there, so I just named him Fernando and we proceeded to co-habitate peacefully for the next twelve years.  Sure, occasionally I'd wake him up suddenly by driving a little too quickly into the carport, only to be met with a hissing furball, and sure from time to time he'd knock fuses out of the power panel and plunge the house into darkness, but for the most part we got along fine.

At least, that is, until my landlady called the other day to tell me that she was removing the ceiling in the carport because it was starting to sag.

Two hours.  That's all it took to remove the fibro.  Two hours to make Fernando homeless.

I haven't seen him since, but every evening now I can hear him, coming back to the carport, obviously hoping that his home will have been magically restored, only to find that he's still homeless.  I'm not sure what exactly he's saying with all the snarling and hissing, but it doesn't exactly sound genteel.

The guilt is overwhelming.  Twelve years is about the lifespan of a possum, and he's probably only lived that long because he had such a safe place, but it kind of feels like I've tossed a senior citizen out onto the streets to live.

I'm sorry, Fernando, it was out of my hands.

Oh Canada, I kind of love you right now...

Is there anything that Canada doesn't do better than everyone else in the freaking world?

I'm going to go out on a limb and say no, no there isn't.

Case in point.  Dalhousie University in Halifax, Nova Scotia has implemented a new "de-stressing" program for their students.  What is it, you ask?  Meditation hours in the quad?  Rainforest music played through the loud speakers?  Free massages to all undergrads?

While all of these ideas would be great ones (especially the free massages), that's not the path they've chosen to go down.  No, they weren't satisfied to be merely remembered as great when they could be immortalised forever as the most awesome university in the history of awesome universities!  But what is this oh so wonderful idea, you ask?

A room full of puppies!

No, seriously, a room full of puppies!  How great is that!  Dalhousie Uni, you rock!

Apparently the uni decided that the best way to make sure their students don't get so stressed out of their gourds that they go postal on the general population is to provide a room for them to go and interact with therapy dogs.  Sounds like a good plan to me!  I know I find it impossible to maintain the appropriate levels of homicidal mania needed for a good massacre when I'm cuddling a puppy.

But seriously, those of us with pets already know just how relaxing it can be to interact with something cute and fluffy, and I can only imagine that relaxation increases when you're not responsible for feeding them, grooming them, or handling their poop.  When you think about it, it makes you wonder how no one else has cottoned onto this idea before!

I want my work to offer this!  On a bad day when the numbers won't add up right, and the clients are being crabby, and I've had to listen to that one guy tell me all about his rash again, I want to know I can go out the back and there is an oasis of canine love waiting for me.

Ah, one can dream, I suppose.

So, Dalhousie Uni, in honour of you're rocking so hard that Stone Henge is saying "What the fuck..." I'd like to award you Kellie's Official Seal Of Awesomeness!

You earned it!

Wherein the soapbox gets a workout...

I do love me a good protest.  There's nothing more amusing than watching someone who seriously, seriously into their chosen issue try to convince a bunch of apathetic passers by that what they're protesting is of the utmost importance.  Usually they're ignored by the passers by, sometimes humoured and a petition gets signed in an attempt to get them to stop harping on, and occasionally there's laughing and pointing involved. Honestly, I could watch them for hours!

Unless it's an issue I feel very strongly about, I generally deal with them by crossing the road, not making eye contact, or on one occasion when the fellow was particularly persistent, pretending I don't speak English.  I generally try to avoid open mocking (except where it's clearly necessary), after all we all have our little quirks and beliefs that other people find baffling.  Personally, I feel very strongly about scrap booking, although I try to keep my vitriol to myself.

But when I saw the new campaign by PETA, those kooky animal loving kids, I was more than a little disturbed by the direction they chose to go.  In it they have a poster of a woman who has apparently shoved a yeti wig down her lacy underwear, with a slogan cutely declaring "Fur Trim:  Unattractive".

Here's the link to the poster, but open it with caution.  I wouldn't say it's NSFW, but it probably skirts the boarder if your boss is an asshole.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the point where I get out my soapbox and start preaching.

It's ridiculous, and more than a little disturbing, that there is this current trend for men to prefer women without any "grass on the wicket".  For whatever reason, the lads in our lives have been convinced that they should want women who look like they're about twelve years old, rather than those who look like they might actually be old enough to be sexually active!

But for any group to use this ridiculous social phobia in a way that actually compares it with something they consider base and wrong is inexcusable!  It's not helping, it's just reaffirming the notion that women shouldn't look like they've entered puberty.

Bad form, PETA, bad form.

And now I'll put away the soapbox before someone trips over it.

I think my country is trying to kill me...

Okay, now I'm really starting to get a complex.

I've always known that Australia was a dangerous place to live.  This place just seems to be jam packed with beasties that want nothing more than to cut a bitch.  We've got crocodiles, sharks, dingoes ... and don't even get me started on koalas ... any of which would cheerfully end you as soon as look at you.  And possums!  Those little buggers are vicious, don't let their furry little faces fool you.

We've got eight of the ten most poisonous snakes in the world.  Eight out of ten!  And the spiders!  Seriously, just the idea of being bitten by a funnel web is enough to scare the bejezus out of me.

And don't even get me started on our oceans.  We've got box jellyfish which can kill you from the pain of their sting alone, blue ringed octopus which is only the size of a golf ball but is the most poisonous sea creature in the world, the stone fish which looks like a freaking stone so you don't even notice it until you've already stood on it and then bam, too late, and of course the old classic, the shark.

It's kind of a miracle that any of us make it into adulthood!

Sorry, I know I'm ranting.  It's just that my next door neighbour told me today that he saw a brown snake in our shared front yard.

The second most poisonous land snake in the world ... in my front yard ... where I walk every day to get to my car.

Welp, I guess I'm never leaving the house again.

I'm probably overreacting.  It's entirely possible it was a less poisonous snake and my neighbour was just mistaken, and even if he wasn't the snake apparently went into the next door's yard as he watched so maybe it was just "passing through".  Still, I guess I'll have to make sure I'm a little more careful from now on.

Good thing I spend practically no time outside.

I suppose I should be used to it by now, this is Australia after all.  Living here, you kind of learn to just accept the sheer dangerousness of everything around you as a given.  You kind of just accept that from time to time you'll be sharing your yard (if you're lucky) or your house (if you're unlucky) with something that can kill you.

I remember reading a great article written by Douglas Adams where he describes Australia and it's many dangers (and talks about how nice we are ... aw shucks, Doug, t'wern't nothin').  He goes on and on about the deadliness of our animals, the importance of checking inside one's shoes for trespassers, and the usefulness of a big stick.  The whole thing pretty much sums us up as a nation.

Go have a read of it, it's well worth the giggle.

As for the snake ... if he does come back I expect the possums will take care of him.  Like I said, those buggers are terrifying!

Zoological theft on the rise ...

I love a good prank as much as the next person, as I'm sure you all could tell from my amusement at the whole money pig incident, but I have to draw the line at this one.  Apparently a couple of women recently snuck into a San Diego petting zoo and stole, of all things, a goat.

Seriously, girls?  A goat?  Shame on you!  And then all you did was paint its hooves with nail polish before sneaking it back in again?  It's just juvenile.  What if it didn't want it's hooves painted?  What if it's now confused about it's gender identity, all because you thought it'd look better with a dash of Barely Pink?

I know it sounds like I'm mad at you both, but I'm not.  I'm not angry, I'm just disappointed.

You're both capable of stealing an animal a lot larger and much more dangerous than that.

I mean, look at the guys who stole the crocodile from Rockhampton Botanical Gardens a few years back!  Now THEY weren't limiting themselves to the cute, cuddly, friendly animal.  Oh, no, they put themselves out there, pushed their boundaries, scaled a two and a half metre chain fence and then manhandled a one metre fresh water crocodile back over it and out of the park!

Of course, they tried to steal a koala first, but gave it up as a bad job when it turned out to be far too vicious.  See, I was right about those little buggers!  Turns out that when you have  a choice between a koala and a crocodile, you should go with the croc.

You're just not living up to your potential, girls.  You could have tried to steal a bear, or a wildcat, or any number of other bloodthirsty, vicious animals, but you chose the cuddly little goat that, by all reports, would go with anyone who was willing to give it a chin scratch.

Man up, girls.  Go big or go home.

Conversations with a feline dictator...

Kellie:  *coming into the house*  Gypsy, I'm home!

Gypsy the feline dictator:  It's about time, you worthless human!  Now, bring me chicken immediately!

Kellie:  *looking around*  ... oh my god!  What happened in here!

Gypsy the feline dictator:  Ah, I see you're admiring the proof of my savagery and cunning.  It was a worthy foe and it fought valiantly, but it was no match for my obviously superior tactical knowledge.

Kellie:  But ... I was gone for an hour ... how did you ...

Gypsy the feline dictator:  I see you're speechless from fear of my retribution, but you are safe from my wrath provided you bring me chicken.  Now!

Kellie:  It's EVERYWHERE!  How did you even get in the cupboard to get it out?  And how did you get it open?

Gypsy the feline dictator:  Best not to ask such questions, puny mortal!  The answers are far beyond your understanding.

Kellie:  *grabbing a broom*  This is going to take forever to clean up...


... and this, my friends, is how I ended up spending half an hour vacuuming up rice that had been spread through my entire house!  I'm still not sure how she managed to get the bag open, or why she thought it was necessary to drag it all around the house, leaving a trail of grains in her wake, but I've learned my lesson.  Make sure the pantry cupboard is shut properly before you leave the house.

Show and tell ... OF DEATH...

You know, back when I was in primary school the most interesting thing anyone brought in was a goldfish.  Perhaps a guinea pig.

But a poisonous spider?  No, that definitely never made the roster.  And certainly not courtesy of the teacher!

But apparently that's what happened in Georgia.  A teacher brought in a brown recluse spider to show the kids.  Well, that sounds like an excellent idea!  Bring a potentially deadly animal into a room full of primary schoolers, and then encourage them to get up close and personal with said deadly animal.  That can only end well.

Of course, it didn't end well.

According to this article one of the students was bitten.  Yeah, totally didn't see that happening.  A teacher was negligent enough to bring a poisonous spider to school and then was careless enough to let it bite one of the kiddies?  Oh unknowable universe!

And then, because apparently she didn't think she'd done enough to guarantee her Worst Teacher Ever award, when the kid told her that the spider had bitten her did she take the child to the hospital? Call her parents?  Tell ANYONE?

If your answer to those questions was no, then you get a cupie doll!

That's right, this education professional, and I use the term loosely, just ignored the girl.  It wasn't until later that afternoon when she collapsed on the way home that her parents even found out something was wrong.  According to the doctor she had a 50/50 chance of survival.

She lived, thankfully, but at the end of it all the teacher didn't get in trouble at all!  How on earth is it possible for something like that to happen and the school board not come down on that teacher like the hand of God?  But apparently she still has her job and there haven't been any repercussions.

I'm sure if she was actually answering questions there's be all sorts of extenuating circumstances.  But you know what?  I can't think of a single reason that would excuse bringing something like that into close contact with kids, and then being careless enough to let one of them get close enough to be bitten.  But there aren't any excuses because, unsurprisingly, both the teacher and the school are declining to comment.

Why on earth are they letting someone like that take care of children?  I wouldn't let her take care of my cat!

Crims of a feather...

I've often contemplated a life of crime, but to be honest I'm far too lazy.  What with coming up with a scam, planning it, getting together a group of plucky ex-cons to help you execute it, finding an alibi that will hold water, and running off to Argentina to take advantage of their lack of an extradition treaty, I just don't think I'm up to the challenge.  I know enough to admit when something's out of my league.

But this article about a couple of canary thieves had me wondering if I'd given up too soon.

Apparently two fellows decided that their best bet to become part of the criminal community was to steal 500 canaries from an 87 year old man.  Yep, you read right, canaries.  I'm not sure if that'd be the first thing I'd think of if I was planning a major haul like that, but I suppose they had to work with what they had.

My first thought when I read about it was that maybe it was a prank.  Maybe they stole them to release them, as a protest against the cruelty of keeping birds in cages.  Maybe they were on a treasure hunt and somewhere on the list was 500 canaries.  But no, apparently their motives were a lot less whimsical.  They were in it for the money.  It seems that at $30 a pop, that many canaries has a street value of $15,000.

And there's something I'd never thought I'd find myself writing about ... the street value of a canary.

You've got to give them credit though, they saw an opportunity and they took it.  And lets be honest, stealing 500 canaries had to be a logistical nightmare!  What with the noise and the fluttering and the bird faeces ... oh god, think of the bird faeces ... it can't have been an easy thing to do.  I'd almost be impressed, if I didn't remember that they stole them from some poor old Grandpa.

Those birds were probably his pride and joy, and those avianappers stole them without any remorse.  They were just winging it, and they didn't give a flock if they ruffled his feathers.

Okay, sorry, I'll stop with the puns.

My descent into arachnicide...

Guilt.  Today I'm feeling crushing, overwhelming guilt.  I'm a murderer ... and not one of those redeemable murderers who, sure, did something awful, but you can totally understand how it happened and they're only human so lets cut them some slack!  Oh no, I'm the murderer who killed someone who trusted them, someone who had lived with them for months.

Today I killed the huntsman spider that took up residence in my bathroom when the cold weather started to set in.

At first he was small, barely bigger across than a twenty cent piece.  He wasn't hurting anyone and seemed inclined to stay out of my way, so I named him Alan and let him stay.  But as time has passed he's grown.  I was willing to overlook his squatting tendencies as long as he was small and didn't look like he wanted to jump on my face or run up my leg.  But with him getting bigger, I knew it was time to do something.

So, with guilt settling in the pit of my stomach, I grabbed the Mortien tin and a roll of paper towel, and went to murder Alan.

He must have been so confused!  I'd never shown any signs of aggression towards him before.  He just hung out in the corner while I took a shower, explored the light bulb while I brushed my teeth, perched on top of the shower rail while I ... well, we don't need to go into all the finer details of what I do in the bathroom, do we?

Probably as far as he was concerned, we were happily cohabitating.  The feline flatmate wasn't giving him grief, I wasn't forcing him back into the cold, wintery outdoors, I'm sure he thought life was good!  That we were tight!

Then I come in with a tin of bug spray and a bad attitude, and the next thing he knows his life is being cut short by a psychotic woman who just seemed to snap out of the blue.

I'm sorry, Alan.  I didn't want to kill you, but I just couldn't take it any more.  The fear of you running up my leg while I was in the shower was just too great.

Immortal possums on the loose...

Today at work we had a death on the premises.

No, it wasn't one of our clients, no little old ladies dropping off from a "Fifty Shades of Grey" induced heart attack.  It wasn't an employee either, although I'm sure several of them have gambled with their lives among the electric compactus.  Have you ever used one of those things?  They're terrifying if you don't have your wits about you!

The death was of a possum that's been living in the parking lot under the building since we moved in about six years ago.

Yeah they're cute ...
until they're making a
racket on your roof!

It turns out he'd slipped while running along a pipe in the roof and had managed to partially decapitate himself on the sharp edge.  The poor little fellow had then proceeded to leave such a mess of  ... well, I'll leave it up to your imagination ... on the floor below and it was blocking people from the loading area.  

And they say life in the library isn't glamorous.

I know it must sound like I'm incredibly cold hearted to be talking about it so glibly, but you have to understand that seeing a dead possum is hardly a novelty to anyone who lives in Australia.  Hell, I saw three of them while driving to work this morning.

Of all the Australian animals, they're the ones that adapted.  They ate our rubbish, built nests in our homes, and multiplied like rabbits.  They're, quite literally, everywhere, and it'd be a rare sight to drive even fifteen minutes without seeing one taking a little "nap" on the side of the road.

When I heard about it I have to confess my first thought was "Hmm, I wonder if this has any connection to the fact that the possum was pissing on all the company cars every night.  Accident?  I think not!"  Then I sat there for a few minutes and wondered exactly whose personal assistant was currently sitting in their office, cleaning possum blood off their letter opener.

But then I remembered, I work in a library.  We're not exactly a "hands on" bunch of people.  I don't think any of them could kill a possum.  I'm not saying they wouldn't want to, just that they couldn't.

Then I started to wonder if maybe it wasn't some sort of possumesque Highlander thing.  Maybe it was an immortal possum (it had been alive for a really long time), and another immortal possum came along and chopped it's head off!  Maybe they're all actually immortal and after I pass their squashed little bodies on the side of the road they rise up again!  It'd certainly explain why there are so many of the little buggers.

So if you see a possum wandering around with a Scottish accent and a ruddy great sword, stay out of it's way.  After all, there can be only one.