Staying at the Pet Hotel

I hated it, to say the least.

I never knew when it was going to happen. She would
bring my purple pet carrier out of the cupboard and when she
opened its spring-loaded trap door (emphasis on the word
TRAP), I always fell for it.

I'd step right in. Call me Stoopid. Or maybe the idea of tight, enclosed spaces always intrigues me.

She'd put me and carrier in the car and for the first 10
minutes of the journey, I'd try to guess whether it was the vet
or the Pet Hotel.

If the journey lasted more than 15 minutes, then it was the
PH - a worse fate, because I never knew how long I was going to
be there while she and her hubby took a holiday somewhere.

She has never tried getting a pet sitter to come in to feed
me because she didn't have any contacts and was wary of giving
strangers the keys to their home.

She would register me at the front desk and have a knowing
exchange with front-desk-guy Roy, an exchange I have heard
several times:

Roy: "Ah Nookie, the fierce one, welcome back."

She: "Yeah, so you remember my cat, huh?"

Roy: "Yeah, how could I forget him - I got scratched the
last time."

She: "Oh, sorry about that. He gets so grumpy with
strangers."

Roy: "It's really OK. He always calms down after a few
days!"

She would then fill out a form about my dietary preferences and other health details.

I'm taken, cage and all, and weighed.

She picks an empty "room" in the cattery, usually the first
one on the left as you enter. It has a partial view of the
outside and isn't as dark as those sited further in.

The "room" is a 2m high cage, about one and half m wide. It
is split level, and provided with litter tray, cat toy,
scratching post and feeding bowls.

The worst thing about the place is The Smell - of other cats
and goodness knows what. It just doesn't smell like Home. The next worst thing is scoping out the cat next door if that cage is taken.

By this time, I'm a spitting, yowling, salivating mess and
totally chuffed at the change in environment. She wouldn't
humour me or try to pacify me because she knew she'd only be
scratched.

Perhaps it's because her holiday - and our parting - is
short that she is short on sentiment. She would just make some
nice noises to the keeper in the cattery, asking him to excuse
His Royal Grumpiness, and then she'd be gone.

My simple comforts over the next couple of days would be my
pet carrier and my basket, which she would always bring along.
Once or twice, she put one of her tee-shirts in the basket -
one that she had worn, which smelled of her and was really
comforting.

Days are long at the PH. We cats aren't walked or let out
like the noisy dogs in the kennels.

We see the regular guys come in to feed us or clean our
litter trays. Sometimes we 'inmates' talk to each other across the cages. Some are short-term, like myself; others are boarders there for months on end.

In my several times there, I once picked up more than just other cats' views of the world - I picked up their bugs as well! That happened once, when she sent me to the Pet Hotel before I had my shots that year. I caught a cold from one of the moggies there. *&%$

Moral of the story: Keep your shots current.

The best part is going home. My heart would take a leap when
I see her come through the door to the cattery a few days later
to bring me back home.

What's the meaning of "Sorry"?

So, the World Cup is over, and I see humans everywhere trying best to reclaim their normal routines after a whole month of staying up to catch 3am games and having the next morning completely wrecked.

But I notice debate is still raging over that head-butting incident involving French darling Zidane and Italian (relative) unknown Materazzi.

It has become a "he said-he said" impasse. Materazzi denies insulting Zizou's mother and sister. Zizou said he did. One of them is lying. Whatever it was that was truly said, only the two of them know now.

What really intrigues me is what Zizou said when he met reporters this week - that he is sorry he did the head butt thing, but that he "does not regret" doing it considering what was said of his mom and sister.

That to me, is not a true apology. When one says sorry for something, one expresses regret, right?

I got STOMP'ed!

My human submitted a pic of me to Stomp, The Straits Times' new interactive portal which invites readers to send in news pictures, news tip offs and pictures of themselves, their homes, their parties, their babies... and their pets.

I appear as Pic #64 in the readers' photo gallery section called "Home Zoo". [Hrmph. What does she take me for - some animal??]

At the moment, a thumbnail of me appears on this webpage. [Scroll to the bottom for a head-and-shoulder shot of me against a frightfully blue wall.]

Escape... to where?

Imagine you are sitting on a beach directly facing the sea. You'll probably see a huge swathe of blue sky with some clouds, and below that, the blue-green sea, and closer to you, the stretch of sand (or rock).

OK, picture this as a painting … water colour, oils, crayon, whatever grabs your fancy.

Now then, imagine then a round HOLE taking up a third of the space in the middle of the painting - not a real hole, but one that is painted - which gives you a window into what lies beyond.

And... you can see, in a limited way, that it is another stretch of sky-sea-beach.

The final element in the painting is a man, walking away from Beach Scene 1, headed through the hole into Beach Scene 2.

I chanced upon one such painting years ago - I dunno who the artist is - and haven't been able to find a print of it since. If anyone reading this blog can find the painting online, let me know!

The message behind the work? Well, it's trying to say that changing one's physical location doesn't always work, for the place you are going to might give you more of the same.

Sometimes, what works is for the change to happen internally - in your head - not in your physical environment.

Wise, huh?

I have heard of humans wanting to change jobs, and some want to change jobs because, as they say, "the office politics is killing me".

Then they go look for another job, get through the round(s) of interviews fine and land the job... only to find that office politics is also there, only worse.

The thing is, you never know what it is like to work in a new place until you are actually working there, eh? The interview panel may be friendly, the salary package great, and heck, the office furniture is even in your favourite colour.

But the people, the people - they can make or break your work life if you let them.

So all you out there who are thinking of changing jobs to escape something like "office politics" might do well to consider staying and changing the landscape in your head instead.

Your God's better than mine?

Is this what my Father in heaven sees when he looks down at me?

It's Wednesday night (Thursday morn by the time I post this), and Bible night for some of my roomies. They gather after dinner, sit in a circle, link paws and bow their heads in silent prayer.

Then someone would read a passage from the Good Book and they would discuss the lessons to be drawn from it. Then the session proceeds to the part I just don't get: They "share", that is, spill their guts out about their most private problems to each other, all in the name of being "brother" and "sister".

I can't abide by that. Isn't there such a thing as privacy with them?

You should see them emerge from their meetings. They all wear that beatific smile on their faces, and they'd be humming their hymns all day long till their euphoria dies or until they are next recharged at their next meeting, whereupon they will sing the hymns in my face with renewed vigour.

They tried to suck me into their "cell group", but I declined politely. If they keep bugging me, I shan't be able to maintain my civility. For now, they look at me like I'm some kind of disease.

Candy tried to talk to me the other day, and the encounter was anything but sweet. I had always thought her to be quite an attractive dame, but I wouldn't speak to her now unless really necessary. Without preamble, she had come up to me and asked me whether I knew who I was, where I was going, and whether I accepted the Lord as my saviour.

Kinda heavy, existentialist questions for 9:30am, if you ask me. At that time, I hadn't even taken my daily morning crap.

Then what she said next took the cake: That I was condemned to burn in hell fire eternally if I didn't accept the Lord - her Lord, as my saviour. Only her Lord could show me the path to heaven and eternal life, she said. There was no other way; the other systems of belief got it all wrong.

I told her nicely that if I had any questions about religion, I'd go to her, thank you very much. I'm here just trying to be a good bloke day by day as my mom - bless her soul - taught me how. I know I'm polite by nature, and considerate too... so if Candy is right, then I'm going to burn in hell fire despite my being a generally good cat?

I'm spiritual rather than out-and-out religious. Yes, I do believe in a Supreme Being, but He's nowhere as prescriptive as her exclusionist, judgemental, cruel God. I talk to my own God - one-on-one - about my fears and my hopes. I also ask Him to look out for those dear to me, and tell him when I'm sorry if I said or did something wrong.

It works for me and I'm not about to have someone else come along to tell me what to believe.