I am feeling a bit conflicted today. I feel like JD. JD is a very conflicted cat. He just can’t seem to figure out what he wants. For instance, he doesn’t know what to think of Elly. The other day JD was laying down, all spread out and I put Elly next to him to keep her warm, to snuggle. It was very cute. I got a couple of pictures—I will have to upload them. He seemed to momentarily tolerate her but then he started to lick her and he was looking very paternal. And I said Awwww, so cute. He didn’t like that. He clamped down on her with his teeth. But he didn’t do it too hard. He didn’t like that. So he went back to licking. Then he bit her again. Finally, he got up and walked away. Loves her or hates her, he doesn’t know.

Two things happened last night. One was that I finally watched Hot Fuzz. I know it’s a bit late to offer a review, but it was amazing. I really had low expectations for this film. The same guys made Shaun of the Dead. I loved that film, but what are the chances they could get two right. This was a great, hilarious movie. Except, I don’t know if I really want to talk about it.

I don’t want to talk about it because after the movie I was watching CBC. They were discussing the Big Melt. They weren’t referring to a burger, but the rise of global temperatures and how the north is changing. Surprisingly, this wasn’t a how/what should be do. This was—hey this is great, look at all the oil and minerals we can extract. Peter Mansbridge really let the team down last night.

I am conflicted. Should I rant about CBC’s news report or tell you about how great Hot Fuzz was. Well now that I am this far, I don’t feel like doing either. Now I have wasted your time. But, I don’t feel too bad about that.

If you are sad and you know it buy a kitty. If you are sad and you know it buy a kitty. If you are sad and you know and you really want to show it, if you are sad and you know it buy a kitty or find someone who discovered a litter of kitties in the alley and needs to get rid of them…

Everyone meet Elly (or LE).

Let me be honest with you. Last week was a shitty week. I am sorry for the language, but there is just no way around it. It was a terrible week. I was prepared for Charlie’s death and I knew it was inevitable, but—as always—I just don’t think I was ready no matter what I knew. But, Saturday, I got some good news. A co-worker’s friend found some kitties in her backyard and was trying to get rid of them. We had been thinking about getting another cat. Someone for JD to play with and hopefully round off some of JD’s jagged corners. I also wanted a black cat. I just think they are cool. And I have bad/no luck as it is, so I don’t fear the bad luck.

Our guess is that she is about three months old. She’s probably about as big as JD’s head. So tiny. So coooot! Elly is short for Elliot (Dr. Elliot Reid—a character from Scrubs (Dr. (JD) John Dorian—another character from Scrubs). However, stupid Sara already named her cat Elliot because I told her it was a good name so I couldn’t use Elliot. Leah suggested Elly and it fits perfect. Plus it rhymes well, for instance, Elly-belly.

I taking her (and JD actually—which should be an experience) to the Vet today for shots and what not. She has been sneezing and most likely has the kitty/cat flu/respiratory thing that cats transfer around. So they are both getting boosters in their butt! Actually, I don’t know if that’s where they get them.

The first day was tense. But today and yesterday they seemed to be doing better. Chasing each other all over the house. It’s fun to have a busier house. However, not so fun that this kitty is like many kitties and loves to get into everything possible, especially our plants.

There are more pictures on Flickr of JD and LE.

I think I have come to understand that the fear silence invokes is because we are not sure if we are dead or alive. If I don’t make noise, am I really here? Yet, this is no time for me to give up on paradoxes. I haven’t lost hope that in death there is life. Just as in silence, there is noise—just a different kind.

I hope I don’t have to write any more posts like this for a long time. On Sunday night Dad called me to tell me that our family dog Charlie, now 17, was not doing so good. He hadn’t moved all day, not even to drink. He told me that he was going to the Vet and see what could be done on Monday. I got a call last night. Nothing could be done and now Charlie is gone. His liver had/was failing.

Charlie was a blessing. He was a rare and wonderful animal. The kind of dog that everyone loved and he loved everyone. I know we could say that about a lot of dogs, a lot of companions. But he was special and not just because I think so. He was brilliant. From the first day we got him.

Charlie’s alternative names (that I used) were: Chuck, Up-Chuck (so funny), Charlie-warlie, Chuckleberry Finn, Chuckles, Char-bar, Old Charlie/Old Man (not sure I used this, specifically, but he was referenced like this).

Dad built a dog-run in the back yard. We got Charlie from the pound and I don’t think he appreciated going back into a cage. We left him in the run for the day. I remember coming home from school (grade 4?), going down the alley so that I could go directly to the run and get Charlie out. I found it empty. I ran to the front door and there was Charlie sitting on the front step. Waiting for someone to come home. He rocked the latch on the door until he could get out. He didn’t run away. He just didn’t want to be in a cage. The dog-run has sat empty ever since.

It was my responsibility to walk Charlie up and down the back alley, before school, when I was younger. I always tried to trick him. Charlie, to my recollection, was never on a leash. He always came when called. I would let him get really far away from me and then I would turn and run in the other direction. When he noticed, he would come barreling down after me. To get me back, in the winter, he would steal my mittens off my fingers and carry them back to the house. I tried explaining to him that my fingers were cold, but I could not appeal to his playful spirit. I wrecked a lot of gloves. Or he did. Not sure who is to blame. Sometimes he would let me catch him and we would wrestle over the mitts.

Like Stormy, as the years passed, Charlie became a snuggle partner. Similarly, this is when Charlie was becoming Old Charlie. I remember when we first got Flame. Oh man, Charlie was pissed. Stupid little puppy biting his ears. That would have been four/five years ago (I think). But, Chuck still had a little play left in him. We were actually concerned because he suddenly lost a bunch of weight. But, it turned out, that he had just been so much more active. A little food increase and he was fine. But, by the time Phoenix (three dogs in one house) came, Charlie had enough of puppies and spent a lot of time with me in the basement. Often starting the night on my bed, but he got too hot and he would lay on the floor beside me. I can’t say how many times I stepped on him.

It was hard on me to leave home and leave all the animals (and possibly my family). By this time, Charlie couldn’t see or hear too much. I was very happy this past Christmas when I came home, it was late, and the other dogs heard me but Charlie couldn’t. So I went and woke him up and he remembered me—he knew me. He licked my face and was very excited. There is nothing better than knowing you haven’t been forgotten. I hadn’t forgotten my boy, either.

I am happy that I got to see Charlie two more times this summer. Tell him I loved him and gave him a kiss. And I think I probably got a couple too.

The worst part about all of this—his death was inevitable and I was prepared for it (or as much as I could be)—is the silence. Or, rather, I wonder in Charlie’s last moments on earth, as he moved towards silence, did he know that I/we loved him and were with him all the way? It’s that silence that tears me up inside, that locks my throat up. I hope he did.

I am not sure how to end this, but let me at least break the silence with one of my favourite, sad songs. The Counting Crows’ Raining in Baltimore.

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