Simple Enough

A couple of weekends ago, Trueman and I were at World Market to stock up on some of the foreign goodies (particularly chocolate), when I spotted a really cool tote bag by the register. It was made from a white plastic rice bag and the story on the label explained how a rice farmer in (well, someplace) had made bags out of her old rice bags, so she could carry things around in them.

I liked the idea of having a tote bag made from a rice bag, but I didn't like the idea of paying for it or particularly the idea of a tote since I don't like bags that are open at the top and can't be carried by a long strap slung across your body. I pretty much don't like any bags that don't come with a hands-free option.

I thought to myself it would be cool to make my own, and it would be even cooler if that bag could be used for reenactments, too, like the upcoming National. A stylish peasant like myself needs to have a fancy bag to go along with her rice sickle and nón lá! And what better to make such a bag from than a Vietnamese rice bag.

One would think that, with the abundance of Asian stores we have in this area, a Vietnamese rice bag would be easy to find. (Especially considering that, when I put "tote bag made from rice bag" into Google, about 50 come up and more than half of those are made from Vietnamese rice bags.) One might think wrongly, at least in this part of the country. In the end, this is as close as I came:


It's Thai, not Vietnamese, but at least the label is in enough languages, including Thai, English, and yes, Vietnamese, to make it work. I figured that would have to do, especially since many rice bags these days no longer are woven plastic, but instead are heavyweight paper, which would probably not stand up to a lot of use.

I wanted to make a simple bag, similar to a messenger bag - something that had a flap to protect what's inside and a nice long carry strap to sling it over my shoulder. I got my inspiration from a Vietnamese shoulder bag (supposedly a medical bag) which is made from khaki material and closes with a number of little tie strings all around. For reasons unknown to me, China and Vietnam are big on things that have to be tied.

Now that I had my rice bag, I needed a couple of other things, which I thankfully all had at hand: khaki cotton twill, bought for $2 at the thrift store, would be my lining. A khaki herringbone-woven strap, which came with a comforter bought at WalMart, would be my shoulder strap. OD green straps from an old canvas medical bag would be my tie strings.

I'll spare you the manufacturing details. Let's just say that the material is ridiculously difficult to work with, and tiny flakes of plastic are littering my floor. If any of you attempt to make your own bags, work in a space without carpeting and make sure your pets are safely contained before getting to work, lest you end up spending half the night removing plastic from your cat, or your cat from plastic, as the case may be.

I'll just show you the finished shoulder bag in all its glory. The second picture serves to show you the inside lining as well as the size of the bag - the manuals inside are approximately the size of a small 3-ring binder in dimension.



Using edge binding to finish all the edges would have given me a cleaner look, but I'm not really planning on using this a lot, and since it's for re-enactment, a more hasty, home-made look might be more appropriate.

Not-so-little Kitty

Look who's getting big and starting to look like a real tomcat. =^^=

Unfortunately, his energy level is increasing with his size and this little boy can jump. He loves to climb up the outside of the cat tree in the living room - I'll have to try and get a picture of that - and he jumps for the ties hanging from the blinds in the bedroom. He can't reach them yet but I'm sure it won't be long before he can, and then no level surface will be safe from him.

Ignorance is Bliss

It is a very interesting thing to see a message board topic take on a life of its own when you put a simple situation in front of a diverse group of people with a large variety of opinions, some of which are very obviously shaped by the media, others of which are based on common sense or experience. You get a pretty good cross-section of the "average" person on boards where the subject of debate has nothing to do with the general subject of the board, such as a current thread on the dog forum about Army recruiting.

Apparently, one of the younger members of the dog forum, a 17 year old high school student, received a call from "a Private in the Army", who is most likely an HRAP making cold-calls from a phone list provided to the recruiting station by her high school. He introduced himself and asked her if she had any interest in joining the military and if she would want to come to the recruiting station for an appointment to get more information.

For some reason unbeknownst to me, she thought this sounded like a great deal at the time and told him her mom could drive her to the recruiting station so she could come in and talk to him about joining. Considering she posted to the board five minutes later with her doubts about any kind of military service, it seems unlikely that she ever had any sort of intention of joining or even of considering the military, because she is worried about having to leave her dog or her family for any period of time, and her grandparents promised to pay for her college education.

Which, of course, begs for the question to be asked, "Why didn't she just say: No, thanks, I'm not interested in joining the military. Have a nice day." and hanging up. I guess that's a question I can't answer.

Either way, she posted her doubts and worries and her concern about having agreed to meet him for an appointment, and as these things usually go, everyone on the forum chimed in. The very first response was what one typically gets on these kinds of threads that mention Army recruiting: "Whatever you do, just don't sign anything."

The stupidity of that statement is so glaring it should blind you. I don't know why or where people get this idea that you walk into a recruiting office, sign a piece of paper, and are now owned by the military, because it just doesn't work that way.

First off, you have to be qualified to join, which means you have to have an ASVAB, you have to meet height and weight requirements and, oh, in the case of our high schooler, you have to have your parents present if there's anything to sign, because you cannot enter into a contract until you are 18. Secondly, the only document that obligates you to anything is your enlistment contract, which is signed at the MEPS, not at the recruiting station.

The discussion went on for a bit, and our high schooler explained that she had to call the recruiter back to let him know she could not make it to the appointment because someone from FEMA had called and was coming by to talk to her mother about damage to their home done by recent flooding, so the "recruiter" (who is actually an HRAP) asked her if he should call her back the next day to set up another appointment.

Defying any and all logic, considering she has no intent of joining the military, she said that he could call her back the next day, around 3.

Around this point in the discussion, a former recruiter chimed in and explained, from his point of view, that he found high school junior and senior females to always be a pain in the ass to work because they tended to jump ship or change their minds about joining about as fast as they change their taste in music, fashion, or anything else at that age. He actually made a pretty good point, but of course then you have the crowd who knows all about recruiting from the news media and who just has to jump in and have their say.

At that point, a person who teaches history in a California high school (which in itself is a bit of a stereotype), chimed in with the fact that "considering how few people want to enlist in the Armed Forces, recruiters should feel honored anyone would even consider it, and should not think of them as "a pain in the ass"." Because, you know, nobody has wanted to enlist in the military for years and the Army is just barely managing to scrape in the dregs of society and still cannot meet its recruiting goals.

She also pointed out how disrespectful it was of us (myself and the former recruiter) to say that the high schooler was "wasting the recruiter's time" (I had suggested that she should just tell him "no, thanks" rather than string him along with "maybe" and "call me tomorrow" and "let's reschedule the appointment") because he was wasting her time. I wonder exactly how that is? Because he called her, one name out of hundreds on a calling list? Because she answered the phone and didn't have the courtesy to just say, "I'm sorry, I'm not interested." and go about the rest of her day? Because he called her back after she told him to? I don't know ... I only see one person waste another person's time here. Maybe I'm looking at it from a viewpoint that is not liberal-democratic-socialist-communist enough?

Which brings me to another good point: phone calls.

Why is it that people complain at length about getting calls from recruiters, telemarketers, and other people they wish would not call them, such as their mother-in-law or that annoying uncle? I mean, is there some sort of unwritten rule I have missed, that states, "If your phone rings, you must immediately pick it up and answer it"? Because, surprisingly enough, not answering my phone seems to keep those annoying calls at bay.

If it's important, people leave me a message. If I find the message important, I call them back. It's so easy - how come other people don't think of that, especially if they have caller ID and the number calling them is one they don't recognize (or one they recognize and don't want to talk to)?

The National

Up the road from us is a road called Fleming Rilee, although there seems to be some disagreement whether that is Fleming Rilee Road, Fleming Rilee Lane, or Fleming Rilee Drive.

Ever since I first noticed the sign on the intersection of Route 17 and Fleming Rilee, I couldn't help but think that this would be a really neat name for an alcoholic beverage. I mean, doesn't it sound like a cool drink name? "I'll have a Fleming Rilee."

...

We have a couple of living history events coming up in July that we're looking forward to.

The first one is the Yorktown Fourth of July Parade, in which we'll most likely be walking next to vehicles from our local vehicle club, although Trueman may end up driving a vehicle if there is a need for drivers. They changed the starting time this year and it's now in the evening - starts around 4 pm. So we're going to do the parade and then have a picnic / BBQ / get-together with our vehicle club around one of the club members' pools, since he lives just down the road.

The second one is The National, the largest Vietnam event outside of the state of Texas, which is in Pennsylvania the third weekend of July. That one should be a lot of fun, partially because we know the guys running the event, and partially because this will be the first time our recently-formed North Vietnamese Army / Viet Cong unit is going to be in the field. I think the US units are going to have another thing coming, because most of the members of our new unit are current military, and one of them is a veteran Special Forces officer who is itching to get out and play the part of the opposing force. I sure hope the GI re-enactors can keep up, because they're not going to know what hit them.

As for me, I'm planning to be the most annoying Vietnamese peasant farmer the GIs have ever come across. I'm planning to give them a hard time every step of the way, from accusing them of trampling my garden, to threatening them with my rice sickle. I also plan to cook some Pho in the village. Abby will be my trusty village mutt (I figure if I get her nice and muddy, maybe it's not so obvious she's a German Shepherd?) who will be running around getting in everyone's way if I tell her to do so. She's also going to be my trail watcher, I think, since she'll let me know if anyone's approaching long before they get close, by means of her body posture, not barking.

That particular event isn't open to the public, but if any of you are in the South-Western Virginia area around Bedford that same weekend, there is a World War II living history event on July 19th at the National D-Day Memorial that will be interesting and fun to go see.

Never a Dull Moment

Blogging has been light for a couple of days because I have been busy, which is usually the way the cookie crumbles. Being busy is good because it equals things to write about, except you don't actually have the time to do any writing. It's a bit of a Catch-22.

I put a little fish bowl in the menu bar of my blog, over there to the right, and if you guys stop by here, make sure you feed my goldfish so they don't end up floating upside down in their little animated bowl. They're fed by simply clicking anywhere on the water. This releases virtual fish foods and makes them very happy.

I am sore in places that I didn't know could get sore because I have been at the farm on both Monday and Tuesday.

The general idea behind me going to the Farm is that I help with work around the Farm and, in return, I get to ride for free. Considering the cost of lessons at most stables, that is a pretty good deal. The problem is that we tend to spend a lot of time talking and just having a good time, and not a whole lot of time getting things done. At least that's the way it seems. Maybe that is due to the fact that there is always more to do than there are hours in the day, and that the Farm is home to many half-finished projects.

On Monday, another girl came out to trim two of the ponies' hooves and the veterinarian came out to draw blood for the Coggins test on three ponies and pull the stitches out of the eyelid on a fourth. The latter proved to be quite an ordeal, because that particular pony, while very small, also did not appreciate having the vet near her - first with the sedative and then with the scissors to pull the stitches. She was bucking, rearing, spinning around, and kicking at the dogs. She ended up kicking at the Husky who was running around barking, egging her on when she was behaving badly. (He's fine. Maybe next time he will stay away.)

Me and the other girl did that same pony's hooves after the vet was done with her, and that was not any more pleasant, even though she was still sedated. I held her and the other girl clipped and filed.

On Tuesday, I had just gotten to the farm, and HorseLady and I were greeting all of the Farm's dog pack. She has a big pack of dogs because, well, her Farm seems to be where our area's unwanted dogs go to enjoy the rest of their days. Each dog on her Farm is a dog that someone else "no longer wanted", for whatever reason, usually older dogs. She has four large mixed-breed dogs, a German Shepherd, a Great Pyrenees, a Malamute, a Husky, two Dalmatians and two Dalmatian crosses.

When we went over to say hello to her mixed-breed female, who is the lead dog for her dog carting team, the Alpha Female, the Malamute, decided that she did not like the humans paying attention to another dog before her, and jumped the Lead Dog. If you've ever seen two bitches (female dogs) fight seriously for dominance, you can imagine that this was no pretty scene. Of course, the other dogs ran around barking, which was egging them on and definitely did not help the situation. In the end, we managed to break them apart. I chased off the other dogs while HorseLady was braking apart the two fighting bitches. She was pulling the Malamute away by the hind leg so she would stop going at her LeadDog, but the Malamute had a hold of the other's front leg and wouldn't let go. In the end, the buggy whip came in handy and the two were separated.

The Malamute was fine, but the Lead Dog had a large, open gash on her front leg. There was no serious damage done to any veins, muscles, or tendons, but it was a large, gaping gash, so we loaded her up on the truck and off to the vet we went.

The particular vet we went to was the one closest to Trueman and mine's house, the one that we don't go to because the receptionist is very rude (she always seems to have an attitude) and their hours are ridiculous - they take a 3 hour lunch break, aren't open at the weekend, and don't take any appointments past 3 o'clock during the week. That makes going there about impossible for us.

This experience definitely reinforced my dislike of the place. The receptionist was very rude. The vet told us that he needed to keep the dog and do the surgery later, when he had time, and that HorseLady could come pick her up around 6 o'clock that night. The receptionist then gave her a big speech about how they have to charge her for doing the dog's shots - rabies, DHPP, and bordetella - unless she could produce proof, along with serial numbers of the shot vials, when she came to pick her up later that night. HorseLady assured her that she had the dog's vet records and we left.

(They ended up giving her a hard time later that night when she went to pick the dog up because she had the full vet records with her, but they did not have the vaccine serial numbers on them. They also sold her a bunch of stuff she did not need, like bitter apple spray and antibiotic cream, and charged her nearly $900 for the suturing "because the doctor had to go into surgery for it". I'm definitely not taking any of my critters there!)

When we got back to the Farm, K met up with us and we went out to catch the ponies, groom, and tack them, and go for a ride. K has been riding at the Farm since she was 7, and she's well into her 20's now, so she is a whole lot more experienced than I am. I got the "easy" pony, Ariel, whom I've been riding the last two times I was there.

Ariel is a chestnut Section B, and she's very laid back and very responsive to cues. (Except for the cue to canter, as I found out on Monday, when all my attempts at a canter either resulted in a very fast trot or very small circles ... long story.) I ride her Western style because she is one of a couple of ponies HorseLady has that are trained to neck rain and I feel more comfortable in a Western saddle and with the Western riding style than I do with English tack at the moment.

K and HorseLady were riding with English tack, with K leading, HorseLady in the middle, and me bringing up the rear. The big joke was, the Western pony goes in the back since Western horses usually go slower than anyone else, especially at a jog (trot) or lope (canter). HorseLady was riding a pony named Beauty, who didn't have a lot of trail experience and had thrown her the last two times they had been outside the course on her Farm. Needless to say, she was worried what might happen on this outing and she stayed in the middle, between K and I.

The trail to the saw mill and back largely runs beside a two-lane road that sees a light amount of traffic, but enough to be somewhat disconcerting. There are wide grassy shoulders on either side of the road, and in some areas, it gets quite wide so that we can be far off from any cars and go at a trot or canter, even.

At one point, there is a small ditch that goes to an elevated part of the trail with trees on either side, and you have to walk up or jump up. We all crossed over, except for Beauty, who didn't like the idea of crossing over a ditch. HorseLady got off and tried to coax her across with a treat and encouragement so she would understand that this was nothing to worry about. K rode around her a couple of times to show Beauty that the other horses could do it and there was nothing to worry about.

Around that point, a woman in a silver SUV stopped at the road next to us to offer some "helpful advice". Her suggestion, without knowing what it was we were trying to accomplish, was to grab the pony by the halter, lean into her shoulder, and drag her across the ditch. We all kind of nodded and went back to what we were doing. K and I were waiting and HorseLady was trying to get Beauty to offer the step across of her own volition, without being "forced" but while being encouraged. The woman in the SUV didn't move. She just sat there and watched while, behind her, cars were starting to pile up in a long line, being unable to pass her since it's only a two-lane road. After a bit of this, and K and I looking at each other going, "Why is she just sitting there? Doesn't she realize she is holding up traffic?" HorseLady said to her, "Do you realize you're impeding traffic?" and the SUV woman huffed at our being so rude and not listening to her, and sped off.

Around that time, Beauty decided to step over the ditch, so we did this a couple more times on horseback and then resumed the rest of our ride, which went pretty uneventful.

Besides that, there isn't a whole lot going on.

The Bug is turning 12 weeks old today and he's growing like a little weed. His collar almost fits him right now ... but not quite yet. He's started to hunt bugs, too, and he probably would be really good at it, were it not for the fact that flies, well, fly and he does not.

Random

Found in the "general" section of my local Craig's List:

I need my house cleansed! (This is not a joke)

Is there anyone who can point me in the right direction of a Catholic Priest or someone who offers these services? I need whatever negative entities that are pestering me and my son out of my houseASAP!!!

Finn sees the Vet

Finn playing with The Best Cat Toy Ever
(knotted orange parachute cord)

The Bug is growing like a weed and getting a little bigger and a little more agile with each passing day. He'll be 11 weeks old this coming Wednesday, and for the past couple of days, he's been able to climb up the cat tree in the living room from the outside, hanging on just by his claws. I shudder to think what he'll be able to jump and climb by the time he's six months old.

Trueman took him for his first full vet checkup and his shots on Saturday while I was at the Gloucester Kennel Club with Abby to try our hand (and paws) at Rally Obedience and to take our TDI (Therapy Dogs International) test.

Everyone at the vet's office liked him and commented how big his ears are and how long his tail is. He was being a good little bug, too, and didn't put up too much of a fuss when he got his distemper shot, had a stool sample taken, and was wormed.

The vet gave us a "New Kitten Kit", thoughtfully sponsored by Hill's Science Diet, which contained a sample pack of Science Diet kitten food, two small cans of Science Diet canned food, a cat DVD produced by Science Diet and Animal Planet, and a folder with basic information about cats, how to feed them, care for them, and train them. Oh, and a pile of coupons for Science Diet. Did I mention this is sponsored by Science Diet?

They also gave us a sample of Frontline heartworm preventive for cats and Frontline flea and tick repellent for cats, along with coupons for those products. We tend to use neither on our cats because they're strictly indoor creatures and the threats of fleas, ticks, and heartworms are accordingly small.

Total whopping cost for the kitten exam, worming, distemper shot, and stool sample was $51. The Kitten Kit and samples were free. And people say that getting shots for their cats is too expensive.... (at least that's the most common reason why people don't get their cats vaccinated and spayed or neutered).

We finally found a collar that is small enough for Finn!

wagon wheel

Just up the road from us is one of those weekend-only flea market places.

This particular location has been there for many, many years and has grown from a row of buildings with individual vendors to a haphazard array of little sheds, buildings, stalls, and booths scattered around the property, with piles of stuff, things, thingamajigs and whatchamacallits stacked in front and between them. I've made some good finds there over the years - a 1944 dated duffle bag; a pair of Vietnam-era boots in my size; the photo album of a German family spanning the 1930's through the 1960's; just to name a few.

I've always wanted to bring a camera along but never remember to actually have it with me when I go. I did this time and got a couple of nice pictures. Not many because it was so bright and I didn't have the lens hood, but a few that were decent. Like the one of the wagon wheel.

Learning Curve

It has been a long time since I last found myself on a horse. In fact, the last time I went riding was in fall of 1997 at Fort Gordon, which has stables where you can rent a horse for an hour to ride the trails on base. That was a lot of fun. And I wasn't quite as much out of practice then.

It's been even longer than that since I last did any serious riding, as in, taking actual lessons or going away to riding camp. Because we lived in the city almost the entire time I was growing up, and my mom did not like the idea of me taking public transportation all over Hell's green acre to get to riding classes (especially in the evening!) and liked the idea of taking me even less, my riding opportunities were always very limited - usually to weekends and summer camp, if we were able to afford sending me away for a week or two to a ranch / stable / camp. I still got to ride pretty frequently, although not necessarily weekly, and did both English and Western style.

I'm realizing just how woefully out-of-practice and out-of-date I actually am. When I was younger, I used to be a veritable dictionary of horsemanship terms, and knew all the colors and shades of color a horse could be, and the correct terms for them. I could point to any part of the horse's anatomy and tell you what it's called, and do the same with any part of the saddle or bridle. On top of it all, I could do it in two languages - English and German.

I really need to brush up on all of that stuff so I have a clue what I'm talking about and, more importantly, what everyone else is talking about. I wonder if book stores generally carry horsemanship dictionaries, and whether they are in the dictionary and reference section, or in the animals section of the store?

When I learned to ride - a long, long time ago and in a galaxy far, far away - the only option I had of taking lessons was to find a lesson stable that was reasonably nearby. Since we lived in cities the entire time I was growing up, that was no easy task. It was made even harder by the fact that my mother did not like the idea of me traveling all over Hell's Green Acre on public transportation, particularly not in the evening after school, and that she liked the idea of having to drive me around to go to and from lessons even less. As a result, my riding was somewhat limited to the weekends and whether I had someone to ride to and from lessons with or not.

I ended up taking lessons at the kind of snooty English lessons stable where you have to show up for your first lesson already in possession of one pair of black rubber riding boots, a pair of knee-patch riding breeches (well, traditionally they would be called jodhpurs, I assume) that were khaki, grey, or blue in color (white was reserved for competition, and bright colors or patterns were not allowed), a black velvet riding helmet, and a riding crop. If you were at all serious about riding, you would eventually purchase a grooming kit box and basic grooming kit, your own saddle blanket, and your own halter and lead rope.

And, of course, the world came to an end if you were to show up to classes wearing brightly colored or even patterned riding breeches, and worse yet, if you dared to show up wearing sneakers or any kind of shoe or boot other than the prescribed black riding boot. Colorful covers for your riding helmet were also a no-no, as was wearing spurs if you were not an advanced rider and had specific permission from your instructor to wear them.

Yeah.

Things are a little different here and this time around. The place where I am riding is not a lesson stable, it's a stable that belongs to a local woman who raises and trains Welsh Ponies. I get to ride in return for working at the stables, and it's all very informal.

Riding takes place in the barn, which has an indoor track, around the property, and on her big field that is used for riding, carting, and turning out ponies. The field has three sections to it, a big rectangular area for dressage and carting that is open and grassy, a smaller area that has some obstacles in it for carting, and a larger area that has carting and jumping obstacles in it.

I rode in ACU pants and sneakers, wearing a white plastic riding helmet over my Adidas baseball cap (it has a longer bill to keep the sun out of my eyes), and a Camelbak. My old riding teachers are rolling in their figurative graves, I'm sure. Though I may rethink riding with the Camelbak because the sloshing was driving me nuts.

Since this was my first time out, I had a really hard time getting adjusted to the correct seat and positioning of hands and feet, and keeping track of all of my body parts. Western is so much easier and so much more comfortable. I know I was giving the poor pony some conflicting information at times, but overall, I think I did really well. I remembered to keep my heels down and hang on with my knees, and I tried not to jerk the poor pony's mouth too much.

I did a lot of walking, some with the stirrups folded over so I can concentrate on keeping my balance and keeping the correct position without stirrups, and a lot of trotting, slow and fast, both posting and sitting the trot. Incidentally, I always found sitting the trot to be very difficult when taking lessons, but now I find it easier than posting. May have something to do with my knees being more than ten years older than last time I did any English riding....

There was another girl riding at the same time, and we rode together for a bit, keeping an eye on each other. The other girl is a teenager and has been coming to the farm for about a year to help out and ride. We rode across the property, which requires practice at opening and closing several gates while on horseback - which I actually did surprisingly well with!

So yes, my first time back on a horse was really fun. I'm sore today, although not at all in the place where I expected to be sore, but in my mid-upper back. I think that may have something to do with the fact that you have to have good posture on a horse and I tend to slouch, normally, especially on the computer. Those muscles definitely need some working on.

Really

If you're not already reading the blog of Sailor Curt, Captain of a Crew of One, you should be. It's printable common sense.

Fleas & Ticks

Tonight, the cats and I are home alone, and Trueman and the Abbydog are on base, doing CQ. She's having a great old time, too. She has a blanket to sleep on while he watches TV and surfs the web, and she gets to accompany him when he does his rounds. All the incoming privates have been feeding her pepperoni bits off their pizzas and petting her, spoiled little brat that she is. I bet Trueman is having a blast having her along, too.

Meanwhile, back at home, I've been spending the day with my felines.

My little bug, Finnegan, is growing like a weed. His eyes are already changing from kitten blue to what looks to be green. I wonder if they'll stay green or turn yellow - I guess time will tell. He's got the longest tail I've seen on a kitten - I wonder whether it'll be a "normal" size when he's done growing, or whether it'll grow in proportion to the rest of him.

He's figured out the cat condo we have in the living room, and loves to climb up, jump onto it and, to my horror, jump off the very top platform straight onto the living room floor. He's even been playing with Murphy. I'm surprised it only took them a week to start getting along, especially since Murph was growling and hissing at him for days.

I found a flea on Finn earlier - I guess it's a sign of things to come this summer.

We've been getting ticks left and right this year, even though we use bug spray - alternating between Bug Band and No Stinkin' Bugs - and even though Abby is on Advantix and has a flea and tick collar in addition to that. I swear, the little bastards are dropping from the sky at random. This year, I have picked three off the dog, one off myself, two off Trueman, and one off Murphy who doesn't even go outside.

Did I ever mention just how much I don't like bugs? (Not dislike as in a girl "Eeek! A bug!" way, but as in an annoyed "F*** Bugs! Die! Die!" way, that is.)

I decided to be proactive about the flea situation. Sure, it was just one flea, but where there's one, there are others, and it's best not to give them a chance to be fruitful and multiply. There shouldn't be any, really, considering I vacuum everyday and generally keep house and beasties clean. I have a hunch that we picked him and his buddies up herding sheep yesterday.

So Finn and Murphy both had a bath (they took it well) and the pet bedding and sheepskins went for a ride in the washer. Everything that usually sees a lot of pet traffic had a dose of Bug Band spray, which is making the whole house smell like rotten geraniums. It's not a bad smell, just very overpowering.

I guess I better get used to the fleas, ticks, spiders, mosquitoes, and other bugs this year. Between hiking, herding, and going out to the farm to work with and ride ponies, I'm sure I'll be seeing a lot of them. *sigh*

Cuteness

Diabetics may want to skip this post, as it may induce high blood sugar and related problems due to its excessive cuteness. Oh, but the bug is such a cutie bug. =^^= Wish I could post sound on here so you can hear his little purr and his squeaky meows.

Introducing

Finnegan

It's been a little over a month since we lost our Maus to fatty liver disease and it's been very empty indeed without all that character in the shape of an buff tabby cat. After Malice went to her forever home Saturday before last, I started looking for a little tomcat. Didn't take long, either - a woman just about fifteen minutes from us had a litter of kittens ready to go to their new homes this past weekend, and on Saturday night, we brought Finnegan home. He will be nine weeks old on Wednesday.

He's got some big paws to fill, but he's getting straight to work!

He's about the cutest little bug you can imagine. He purrs like a little sewing machine and makes little mews that sound an awful lot like guinea pig sounds. He squeaks. He loves to nestle in the sheep skins in Abby's dog bed downstairs or on the bed with us upstairs. When he's awake, he has energy to spare and tears around the house chasing after fuzzy balls, Murphy's tail, Abby's ears, and anything else that moves. He bristles up at Murphy and hops sideways at Abby, swatting at her nose.

Abby is his favorite plaything, though.

The more I ...

You know that bumper sticker? The one that proclaims, "The more people I meet, the more I like my dog?" Well, I think it's about time I put that on the DUV (dog utility vehicle) because I really don't like people.

We actually had a nice day today.

The weather was gorgeous. We got an early start and headed out, our first stop being the local car wash where we ran it through the Super Premium With Chocolate On Top (or whatever they call their spiffy wash these days) cycle, and then headed out to get our shopping done. We got a great deal on a hydration pack at Costco, along with an equally good deal on new socks and a pair of dress pants for Trueman. We picked up a rope collar for Abby at Care-A-Lot and popped into the book store for the latest manga. Then we headed out to the local Greek festival, where we checked out what the vendors had to offer, grabbed a bite to eat, and watched some of the folk dancing.

Good day.

That is, until we got home and decided to grab the dogger and head to our local beach. Our beach, which is part of a park on our side of the toll bridge, allows dogs and people to enjoy the beach and the water, and since the weather's been so nice and Abby happens to like water, we decided to spend some time down there relaxing, watching the boats, swimming, and just having a nice time.

We did, by the way. Right until we were leaving.

We were walking back to our car, which was parked toward the front of the parking lot, only about three cars from the grass and sidewalk, where the concession stand and the bathrooms are. As we were walking toward the car, keeping in the parking lot itself since the sidewalk was really sandy and we didn't want Abby to get all covered in sand again after rinsing her off. The people two cars over toward us were staring in our direction. I thought it was because they were afraid of the dog, which isn't that uncommon.

It wasn't. It was because of the people who were parked between their car and ours - a woman and two pre-teen girls.

As we approached, the two girls were standing between their car and our car, and the woman was rounding her trunk to tell the girls to "get out of the road and onto the sidewalk" so she could "pull the car out and park straight." Just as she had said that, we had gotten to the back of our car, and saw the two girls standing between her car and ours, rubbing the door of our car with a towel. Suspect. Very suspect.

Trueman clicked the automatic door lock and I opened the back and put Abby in, while the two girls went to sit on the sidewalk, and mom got into her car and pulled it back to straighten it out. We had to wait for her to get done, because she had been at such an angle that a grown person would not be able to get between the two vehicles, even if turned sideways. She pulled back forward, still at an angle, but not as bad as before, and got out of her car. We got into ours and saw her looking at her front bumper.

I said to Trueman, "What were they doing, messing with the side of the car? I bet you she just hit our car, and she's not even going to say anything."

As we hadn't seen any damage to our car (and, after having lived outside Washington, DC for the last three years, where people seem to just purposely fling their doors open to hit your car, it's hard to tell scrape A from scrape B, unless you keep a binder with daily photos of your doors to compare), we were just about to pull out of the parking space, when the lady who'd been looking at us so strangely earlier came up and told us that the woman had hit our car and was just walking off without saying anything. (At that point, the woman and two girls were walking away to the concession stand - for ice cream, I presume.)

I asked the lady whether she'd seen them hit our car, and she said she hadn't seen them, but that the woman had told them they "needed to move their car over so she could park straight" because she "had just hit that car" when pulling into the space. She said they had then gone over to our car and "rubbed it", and were now just walking off without telling us.

Trueman was pissed.

Okay, so it's just a small ding, and small dings happen all the time. Which is fine and dandy, but if the people whose car you just damaged happen to be standing right there as you wipe around on their door and pull your car further away, then it should be expected that you say, "I'm really sorry, I accidentally nicked your car. Is there anything I can do?" Most people, us included, would just say, "No, it's no big deal. We have a couple of other dings." It's a whole 'nother thing to just pretend it didn't happen and walk away like you don't even owe an apology.

Trueman decided to do the last thing that woman would expect. He made a police report with the local Sheriff's office, and he asked the lady and the gentleman who'd told us that the woman had said she hit our car, if they would tell the police officer the same. They agreed. And we waited.

A Sheriff's deputy came out and Trueman explained to him what had happened: that we had seen the kids rub the side of the car, had stood right behind our car as mom pulled out and then back in, and that the people parked on the other side told us she had said she'd hit our car. We also told him that we had moved our car - remember, we were in the process of pulling out when the other people told us.

At that point, the woman came over, and the second she started talking, she started lying. Incidentally, she didn't seem surprised to see an officer next to her vehicle and immediately went to being defensive, even before being asked whether she had hit the car.

She told the police officer that one of her girls had told her she'd "touched" the car with the rear passenger door when getting out. That alone would've been impossible, considering she was parked at such an angle that nobody could have gotten in or out of that particular door - it was a space not wide enough to walk sideways between the cars. We were there before she moved, remember.

Then she said that she'd looked and didn't see anything, but could not account for why her kids were rubbing our front driver's side door, or why she was checking out her bumper. She also said that the people next to her had moved their car so she could pull out and park straighter. They hadn't. By the time she pulled out and back into the spot, the people next to her had two coolers sitting on the trunk of their vehicle and were watching us stand there and wait to be able to get into our vehicle.

Then she said that it was "just a little door ding" and that she "has them all over her car", as if to suggest that people should just put up with having their vehicles dinged and dented by people when they are standing right there. Because, apparently, dings and dents are okay when they're done anonymously, so if they happen with the people right there, they should be just as okay.

Then she said she couldn't have apologized for dinging the car because she didn't know whose car it was or how to find us. Hmmm... let's think. We're standing behind the vehicle after loading our dog inside, waiting for her to pull out so we could actually get in. And she didn't know whose car it was or how to find us? Y'mean, besides us standing right there?

Then she went and took photos of the side of our car "for her insurance company", ranting loudly how we "aren't getting a free ride from" her and how she "is not going to pay to have our whole car painted." The funny (as in, funny idiotic) thing is, she actually took photos with her car doors wide open, to "prove" to her insurance company that she could not have possibly hit our car. I don't know how that's going to work, seeing how the police report states both vehicles had been moved, so the door position when she took pictures and the cars' positions when she actually hit our car are two very different things.

Then she went around the front and took a photo of our license plate. Trueman told her that she could not do that, as it had nothing to do with the damage and as she was going to get his information on the police report. The police officer even told her she could not do that and that she needed to put her camera away, and she got all, "It's public knowledge. I can take the license plate to the DMV and get your information." Which is both nonsense. It's not public knowledge - if anything, taking the photo would be legal because it was taken from public property in a place without a reasonable expectation to privacy. (But hey, what do I know ...) And I know of no DMV that's going to hand you someone's information if you show up with the license plate information.

The officer told her to go to the other side of the car and stop interfering or he would "have to take someone to jail" if things didn't stay nice and peaceful. She was trying to start an argument, too, and the more she talked, the more she just made herself sound guilty and stupid. She was actually ranting to those two little girls who were with her through all this that we were trying to "get a free ride off her" or that we would try to get our whole car painted by her insurance company. Puh-lease.

The thing that really ticked me off was, what's she teaching those kids? If nobody catches you in the act, pretend nothing happened. If someone does catch you, lie, whine, moan, groan, accuse, point fingers, take pictures, threaten, rant and rave in hopes that you're going to get your way? People like this always make me wish there was some kind of license required in order to be procreate. There's just not enough chlorine in the gene pool.

Fighter Factory

On Monday, we drove to the Fighter Factory for the Memorial Day event to which we had been invited. I'll spare you a lengthy write-up and just let the pictures speak for themselves.


There are a lot more photos from the event - oh, about 240 in total - in my online photo albums, which can be reached by clicking here.

Home Sweet Home

To (what I assume is probably) nobody's great surprise, I am way behind in blogging again. It just seems like every time I sit down to blog, there's something else that needs to be done, or someplace else to spend my computer time. I have no excuses. I probably should not need them, either, seeing how this is my blog and all, but I know some folks read me, so I feel bad about not writing.

Last Saturday, after we received our new refrigerator - which, by the way, has been working without any issues (knock on wood) ever since - we packed up Malice cat's gear and took her to her new Home Sweet Home where she will be living out her retirement years.

Some of you may remember that when we got Malice cat, we had not planned on getting another cat and didn't really want another cat, either, but we couldn't bear to see her get dumped by her owner of 11+ years who "just had a baby" (who is allergic), since it would almost certainly have meant she'd be put to sleep. So we brought her home and got accustomed to her less than joyful disposition. (Hence the name "Malice".) We were secretly hoping that, however long she had left to live, wasn't going to be too long. We were certainly not expecting she'd last until our move - or that she would make it through the move alive.

We had resigned ourselves to the fact that Malice would probably outlive us all, at which point our sweet little Maus got sick and had to be put to sleep. That changed the natural balance of things in the house. Maus had been Murphy's little play buddy, and without him around, she was bored and grouchy - and Malice was just grouchy. The balance was just not right anymore.

So I decided to start looking for a home for her. Again. (Having previously looked after we first got her, and before we moved from northern Virginia.) After about two weeks of placing ads and hoping someone would be interested, I finally got an email from someone who was not only interested, but who sounded like a home experienced with pets, where a quirky kind of cat like Malice would be appreciated.

I wanted to see for myself, though, so I offered the potential adopter to bring Malice to her.

As it turned out, they are couple without children who live just a few miles up the road from us. They have a little farm where they raise ponies and train and work them mostly for carting, although they also have people come and ride. They had a large barn built specifically as a combination of stables and indoor track for carting. The family, it seems, has become the repository for all pets unwanted. They've got dogs, barn cats, and a building with rabbits, guinea pigs, and rats (separated by gender), most of which have been left with them or dumped on them in one way or another.

Their places was typically chaotic, which seems to be a pretty standard condition for horse or pony farms, at least any I've ever been at. Chaotic as in, where there's a flat surface, someone will put or toss something on top of it. Not chaotic as in badly kept. The grounds were nice, the fences were in good repair, and all the animals were healthy and looking good. All the ponies have special feed mixes according to their needs, even. (How they find the time, I don't know.)

Malice will be an indoor cat at the farm - the only indoor animal besides birds (which are caged, of course). The lady wanted her because she resembles a barn cat she lost last year, and because her husband is gone during the week and she is looking for a little company in the house. She seems like exactly the kind of person who'll appreciate the kind of quirky cat Malice is, and she's kept in touch via email to let me know how she's doing. She even invited me to come out and ride if I'd like to. (I may just take her up on that.)