May in Photos

RIP little Schatzie, the ancient thorn in my side.  We had to have her euthanized at the beginning of March, and somehow I never found the words to tell the blogosphere.  Her health started to deteriorate rapidly, and rather than prolong the inevitable, we made the decision to end her life in a humane manner.  She lived with us for 8 years, and considering she was 20 when we adopted her, she lived a good, long life.  I always joked that I gave her palliative care for the last 8 years, but in truth, the last 3 were very demanding.  We miss the old girl, though.

Somehow, going from a dead cat to a turkey vulture seems morbid beyond belief.  These birds are so big, it's hard to comprehend.  When they circle the thermals, they are immense in the sky, and dwarf all other birds.  I've zoomed in here - the astute will notice the light standard in the bottom right of the photo looks like it's that close, but in reality it's over a kilometre away.

I waited and waited for my swallows to return this spring.  Maybe Cappie gracing the beams in the barn beside the house didn't look like the welcome committee they imagined, because for the first year in over a decade, we're swallow-less.  I'm really, really worried about this.  We've had a hard spring so far, with a really big frost about 10 days ago that annihilated the asparagus and grapes.  As it is, it's the end of May, and for the record, it was 8C this morning, and tonight, the wood stove is on.  Things don't bode well for the swallow population with conditions like that.

Tessie's quite the character.  The three cats have found their new places in the house sans Schatzie and Cooper.  I call the new dynamic "BobCat and his Harem".  The two girls provide Bob with just enough attention, and while the younger Capucine pounces on Tessie quite relentlessly some days, it's a very harmonious, easy-going sort of peace that reigns supreme.  Tessie's our sensitive, independent one.  Capucine's boisterous and pats me on the shoulder when she needs petting.  And BobCat's staked Cooper's spot on the bed, and most mornings, I wake up to both Bob and the Cappers, staring at me from the foot-end of the bed.

Spring sprang suddenly, and at some point in April, we traded winter boots for sandals.  We went from heating to using air-conditioning in the space of a week, but then things normalized.  The heavy frost mid-May even frost-bit the tender ash leaves that had just begun to sprout.  In 12 years here, it was the first time I can remember something like this happening.

Capucine is such a regal looking cat.  Her personality is larger than life, and she loves being petted and fawned over, but only on her terms.  She has so many little chirps and meows, and is very vocal.

It's hard to believe Tessie the scrawny stray became such a chunky girl.  She has the nicest, fluffiest fur I've ever seen on a cat.  It's funny how I'd never, ever had a tabby cat, and within a year, we find ourselves with two.

We've had a lot of rain in May.  For the first time in a long time, the field across from the house is planted with wheat.  I think it's been corn for the past 5 years, and if memory serves, it's been wheat only once in the last dozen.  It seems to be the flavour of the year, since most fields in our area were planted with wheat this spring.  The fields are now verdant and brimming with life.

Speaking of brimming with life, this was our tap water about a week ago.  The town even had the gall of putting a notice in our mail saying it was perfectly potable, but there were some "clarity issues".  You don't say?  I don't even want to shower with it, much less drink it.  Since then, the quality has improved, and hopefully with the added rain filling reservoirs and lakes and rivers, we won't encounter another 5 month-long boil water advisory like we had last year.

And that's May, in a nutshell.

On Earthquakes and Blue Holes

Here's another, "I pulled up the blind on the skylight and this is what I saw" photo, taken this morning.

Last night we had another earthquake, our second in less than an month.  While not that uncommon considering fault lines run along both the Ottawa and Saint Lawrence river valleys and we're located right at the confluence, having two in such a short period of time does seem note-worthy.  Personally, I like years between earth tremors, not weeks.  One on October 10 measured 4.5 and was located near Saint-Hyacinthe, and the one last night measured 4.2 and was located near Buckingham.   The first one was a surprise at 19 minutes past midnight, but last night at 4:06 AM, it was pretty obvious considering the earlier one was still fresh in my memory.  Cooper didn't budge from his dog bed, so to compensate, I hurled myself out of bed in a panic and did what most reasonable people do - namely stare out of the window.

The rolling and rumbling seemed to last much longer than during the first.  By the time my heart beat regained a normal tempo, the rest of my night was fitful.  Every time a freight train passed by, I kept one eye and one ear open, which obviously doesn't make for the best quality sleep.  Also, the cats didn't get the memo regarding the time-change, so my wake-up call has been a bit early the past few days.

I've been knitting what I've nicknamed the Blue Hole Shawl.  That's like a black hole, but involves yarn, prohibitive amounts of it.  I'm in a love/hate relationship with this project, and while part of me would just like to keep knitting, the other part of me whimpers every time I pick up the needles to knit a few rows on the most interminable project I've done in a while.  I think it's time to cast off, considering about 450g of sock wool has passed through my fingers in the past month.  If we consider that 100g of sock yarn is 420 metres - then I've knit about 1890 metres, or over a mile!

The whole premise of this project was to be "random" and to "let go". Considering I have issues with those concepts - especially when knitting - of course I cheated.  I was pretty sure the Knitting Police weren't about to show up at the front door and arrest me, so I did exactly what I wanted. You're "supposed" to stick your hand in your yarn bag and knit whatever you pull out, regardless of whether you think it matches or not.  As to how many rows, you're "supposed" to pull a number between 1 and 8.  I mean, who even made up these so-called rules?  Why not just, say, roll a die and make 6 your maximum row count?  I don't think I would have made it beyond 20 rows without deciding what colours I wanted to knit with, how much of each, and in which order.  It was strangely satisfying to see little balls of wool on the table in front of me, and get excited about seeing green next to pink, and blue next to orange.  To assuage my guilt that I wasn't "letting go", I'd let Capucine choose the colour from time to time.  Problem solved.  She got excited each time I plunked my orange grocery bag down and pulled out the shawl.

The best part of this shawl?  It cost nothing, just time.  All of the skeins of sock yarn were left over from other sock projects, and hailed either from my stash, or were donated by a few of my knitting friends who made similar shawls.  I decided the colour scheme would be primarily blue, but with orange, green, fuschia and purple accents thrown into the fray for added punch.  After my lame summer knitting only neutrals, it was so nice to get back to something colourful.  It's unbelievable just how inspiring knitting with colour is, and how it gets the creative juices flowing.

So I think I'll cast this baby off, and get busy blocking the heck out of it.  I know I'll get a lot of use out of it this season, as colder temperatures descend upon us.  It's presently -4C, which feels like a slap in the face since our spring, summer and fall have been magnificent.  Winter, here we come!

Even the cats are feeling it.  I found Tessie and BobCat snuggled up the other day:

BobCat's not in the most relaxed position, and with Tessie's heft sliding down onto him, I'm sure it's not.  But BobCat is a gentlemen as far as cats go, and tolerates Tessie's, and Cappie's and Schatzie's various moods with good nature.  He wasn't in a hurry to move.

So with one more project off the needles, I can go to the yarn store tomorrow and pick up my order of Rowan which just came in.

The timing couldn't be any better.

February Blues

Invariably, February hits and suddenly, winter's started to get long.  There's no denying we're in the doldrums of the season.

I trekked out to the field beside the barn and emptied out the ash pail in my favorite spot, Cooper at my side.

We stopped to check out the coyote tracks:

All these exciting smells to take in!

We've had lots of freezing rain this season, and there's a nice thick, icy crust on the snow that makes walking difficult.  It's thick enough to support my weight, but every so often, I break through, giving my 40-odd year-old hips an unpleasant jolt.  Cross-country skiing or walking along the hedgerow is impossible.  Every year I keep threatening to buy snow shoes, but I'm not convinced it would be any easier in these conditions.

The saving grace of February is that the days are getting longer:

At this time of the year, the house casts a shadow on the side of the barn.  For some strange reason, this never ceases to amaze me.  I am also pleased to report the sun is setting past 5 PM now, and coupled with the fact February is our shortest month, the end of Winter is in sight.

Our Old Hag Schatzie isn't doing so well, and we've had too many discussions about just how numbered her days are.  Calling the shots where a nearly 27 year-old cat is concerned is hard - she has good days and bad days.  If I had the slightest inkling she was in pain, I'd call the vet to the house, but she's still an affectionate little velcro-cat who demands her food and continues to clean her snout on my right elbow as she settles in on the couch for another protracted nap.  Litter box accidents are now more of a rule than an exception, and it's not enough for me to justify ending her existence.  In the interim, I pet her little head, rub her under her chin, and her gratitude fills me.  She's the only living link we have with the past, and the last remaining vestige of Mr. Lefebure, and putting an end to her days would be premature, I think.

I've even kept the Christmas lights up (as I am wont to do), and still light them from time to time:

They'll probably (probably!) come down during our next big thaw - whenever that is - and when the opportunity to wash the windows presents itself again.

So, despite the snow, and freezing rain, and cold temperatures, we have longer days, clear skies and our little menagerie sitting by the fire, vying for the best spot.

Schatzie's Most Excellent Adventure

I don't mention our cat Schatzie as often as I do the Bobberizer, The Poppet with the Moppet, and Coopersteen the Foreman, but Schatzie is a common denominator, always underfoot and always pestering me for something during the 30 minutes a day she's awake.

Schatzie and her son, Baby Gray, came to us when our beloved neighbour, Mr. Lefebure, passed away.  That it's been six years is hard to believe.  At that time, we were told by Mr. Lefebure's brother that Schatzie was already 20 years old.  That would put her at 26 today.

We dubbed the two gray cats Mama Gray and Baby Gray when we moved their little carpets from the wood shed on Mr. Lefebure's property to the barn closest to our house.  They quickly caught on that this was their new place, and we never saw them return next door again.  I guess home is where the food is, if you're a cat.

Both cats spent the better part of their first two years with us living outside.  Baby only became approachable towards the end of his life.  If Baby Gray had a power supply, it would have been hooked up to 220.  This cat was wired, tense and nervous.  His eyes were like a deer's caught in the headlights - always open and watching.  Towards the end of his life, Baby became a bit more flexible, and even spent a few nights inside the house during cold snaps.  He disappeared on Christmas Eve 2 years ago, and I'd like to think he fell asleep and never woke up again.  That's my Christmas wish, and I'm sticking to it.

When Mama Gray moved in, we renamed her Schatzie.  "Chat" is cat in French, and "Schatz" means dear in German, so I hybridized both words as I am wont to do, and the name stuck.  Occasionally, we call her Schitzie, another play on words based on her litter box habits, or lack thereof.   Her aim is sometimes a bit off, much to my dismay.

Schatzie spends exactly 23.5 hours a day asleep.  When she's not sleeping on Cooper's dog-bed in the kitchen, she's awake and meowing for her food.  She's stone-deaf, ergo, she doesn't hear herself meow, and this results in the most ear-drum shattering meow a cat can muster.  She's loud and she's determined.  The minute I walk in the kitchen and she catches sight of me, it's one long-drawn out, meow-fest that comes out with gargling undertones.  If Schatzie has a mission statement, it would be Feed Me.  Even my mother jokingly gave me a cat dish for her, and that's what's written on the bowl.  Not only do I have to feed her, but she takes 2 bites, looks at me again, and starts to gargle/meow some more.  I grab a spoon, shovel her food into a little pile in the center of her bowl, and this food rearrangement process repeats itself ad nauseum until Schatzie finally has enough, or until Popina (the little oinker) edges her out of the way if I'm not watching carefully.  If I'm sitting on the sofa when Madame finishes her meal, she promptly sits beside me and cleans her muzzle on my elbow.  Thanks, Schatzie, you're a doll!

From time to time, the Old Hag likes to go outside and eat grass, which she then pukes up in the house on some carpeted surface when my back is turned.  When she goes out, she never strays far from the front door, and the other day, she greeted me on the walkway as I walked in with full arms.  I went back to my car, brought more stuff to the house, and returned to lock it.  Now, I should note, the interior of my car is dark gray.  You can see where this story is going, can't you?  I looked high and low for her, in the garage and barn, under the cars, around the house, and under the hosta she used to sleep under.  I sent Cooper out and told him to "go find Schatzie".  I don't need to tell you he came up empty, too.

Eric and I went out that evening for a quick bite to eat.  As we pulled in the driveway, I looked hopefully for  Schatzie's little face, but she was no where to be seen.   Fear struck my heart, and I knew I'd have to kick-up the search and rescue effort to high gear.  Then I looked over to Eric, who's pointing at my car with a knowing grin.  I looked inside, and there's little Schatzie, all 3 and-a-half pounds of the boney hag, sitting on the back seat, on the dry-cleaning no less.  I fumbled for my keys, and when the beast was released, she let out a croaky little meow and jumped down in her little stumbling arthritic manner.  If Schatzie had only 2 of her 9 lives left, I blew one that day for sure.  I could have blown both if it would have been hotter.  As it was, it was a cool, overcast day, pretty much typical of our entire month of June.  I made a promise that day that I would never leave my car open, and if I did, I'd check back and front seats before locking it up.  I never would have imagined that Schatzie, of all cats, was an adventurer.

I joke about high-maintenance Schatzie, her litter box accidents, the fact she needs a special diet, her deafness, and the fact that her grooming habits are nil.  I have to brush her regularly to keep her de-matted, and the little bitch thanks me by digging her claws into my hand on occasion.

All that said and done, I love the old girl and hope she makes it another 26 years.

An Ode to Spring

Spring has sprung,

and the grass has ris'

Now I know where the

dog poo is.

Buh-bye March.  Don't let the proverbial door hit your arse on the way out.

I can hardly remember a colder March.  Lots of snow, really cold temps and dreary, gray days.  I haven't made an Easter tree in years, but this was the year I finally dug out my Easter decorations.  Yes, I am aware I am a tad early, but I needed some brightness to restore my sanity.  Growing up in a German household, we'd eagerly await the day we went out to our secret pussy-willow location and cut a few branches to decorate with hand-painted eggs.  This year, I needed brightness now, so I marched over to the dollar store and bought a whack of fake forsythias and decorated them.  I avoid fake stuff like the Plague, so I have to plead lack-of-spring induced insanity.  Or something like that.  But I'm done apologizing, I love my Easter tree, and so does the cat.

The snow is still not gone and probably won't be for a while considering the long-range forecast for the week, but the daffs at work are poking their heads out in a valiant effort.  No signs of plant life here at the farm, not even the chives that grow against the barn wall have shown signs of resurrection.

The Poppet, aka Popina, aka Weenie Popeenie loves to climb trees.   Here she is in the pine tree, trying to work her way to the sky and a huge flock of Starlings:

 Meanwhile, her sidekick, BobCat, sits below and patiently waits:

Schatzie knows better.  She favours her sunbeam and has commandeered poor Cooper's dog-bed in the kitchen for one of her famous naps:

Pooper-scooping aside, it's a wonderful season of renewal and rebirth.  The longer days are a true gift, and once we get a few warm days under our belt, the trees will start to show their greenery and Spring will really have sprung.

Then we'll start to complain about mowing the lawn again, the prohibitively high humidity, mosquitoes the size of helicopters, until we start dreaming of evenings spent by the wood-stove and the first snow fall of the season.

And so the cycle continues...

Welcome 2011

It's hard to believe Fall came and went with nary a post. Let's start the new year with renewed vigour and resolve to post more of the on-goings at Shim Farm, shall we?

So, in no particular coherent order, let's get on with it!

We had a little brunch for friends in early December, since Eric's work schedule had him working right through the Christmas holidays. Eric had just returned from a trip with a bag of chocolate Saint-Nick's, as well as the rotund candle from one of the many Christmas markets that abound in Europe in November and December. With a fine cup of Glühwein or four, Eric turns into a voracious shopper, despite the fact I can't even ask him to wait in the car for me while I nip into the grocery store on this side of the pond. I'm like a kid in a candy store when Eric comes home and plants his bags on the living room floor, jumping up and down, asking, "Whaddya bring, whaddya bring?" Eric rarely disappoints, and the candle unwittingly became a symbol of the holidays for me this season.

In older news...

One of our kittens, Pepper, now known as Minou, came to visit us for what was supposed to be a "week to ten days" and became a six-week stay. (I'm playing catch-up here, because he was with us in July and August). The first 3 days, he ignored Popina, BobCat and Schatzie, and then suddenly, on day 3, just as I was about to tear my hair out in frustration, the light suddenly went on, and Pepper emerged from his shell. He and Pop would tear around the house like in days of yore, having 2 play fits a day, mid-morning and late evening, as they were wont to do when they were still kittens. Pepper, like Poppy and Piglet (now Tuxedo) are all curious about water:

Pepper has this perpetual "deer in the headlights" look about him. He's a sleek cat, a stark contrast to his fuzzier siblings Tux and Popina:

Tux's about 8 months old in the above photo, and he's large like Pepper, but he has the silky, long-haired coat of his mom. He's the light of his new family's life, and rules his new domain with a furry fist.

Poppy, on the other hand, is a little fluff-ball:

Popina has proved to be a true Northern cat. She loves snow more than anything, and can be found burrowing in snow banks for hours on end. The fuzzy hairs between the pads on her paws accumulate tiny snow balls, so when she finally comes in the house, she can be heard, tippy-tappy, tippy-tappy, crossing the floor until she violently shakes the little ice-balls off. Yet last night, she fought me for the hot water bottle I put in the bed for my perpetually frozen feet, and won. She's a true feline diva.

Aren't they all, though?

Schatzie, our old hag, is pushing 25. Yes, you read that correctly, 25, in human years, at that. She's so old, I keep joking that we're going to carbon date her when she finally keels over. She's getting senile, and maintains her strict 23.5 hour per day sleep schedule. The rest of the time, she's begging for food, missing the litter box, and meowling piteously, for what I don't know. I just let her yowl, she's not in any pain, and her total deafness might have something to do with her loudness, because she can't hear herself, obviously. The deafer she gets, the louder she yowls. The things I do for this cat, you have no clue...

The poor old thing deserves a bit of air time, too, don't you think? Not to worry, I have her fur under control again, because she's the picture of neglect (oh yeah, riiiiight!) in the above photo. I kind of inadvertently felted her by letting her sleep on a real sheepskin fur. The fur-on-fur friction was too much, and despite brushing her regularly, her fur kept matting into uncontrollable clumps. We removed the sheepskin rug, and by cutting out the mats one-by-one, the old hag's finally up to snuff again. She's so old, she's almost given up grooming herself. She'd much rather I tend to her, so she can spend all her spare time recharging her batteries.

Poor Cooper's feeling mighty neglected, too. All these cats, and just one dog...

Gratuitous dog photo, coming right up!

That photo was taken in 2005, but I feel so much better now that it's released from my laptop.

He's such a good boy!

Well, here's to a new year...I'll raise a glass to that!

The Nator's Gone

Missing. Vanished without a trace. On a late June morning, The Nator wasn't at the front door when I woke up. An APB was put out, neighbours were called, sheds and barns were searched, but within 2 days, I realized he wasn't coming back. Nator never strayed far, and had never gone AWOL before.

Nator came to us 3 years ago. During an early summer drive, we happened upon a young orange cat, soaking wet, obviously abandoned in the middle of nowhere, and when we rolled down the car window to check the little guy out, did we ever get an earful! That's how little Howard, who later became the Howarnator for his Terminator-like tendencies, made his introduction.

We brought Howard the Howarnator home, and he made his presence quickly felt. Unlike BobCat, who cheated on us with various neighbours, Nator never roamed.

He never liked other cats. He tolerated our females, Schatzie and Popina, but tormented poor BobCat, who neurotically licked himself half-bald because of Nator's merciless attention. He shadowed poor BobCat, and try as we might, we couldn't find a home where the Nator could live as a single cat. One of our friends tried to adopt him, but within a day at his new house, the Nator stopped eating and became lethargic and lifeless. It was pretty obvious Nator wanted to be our cat. We brought him home the next day.

You could count on Howard to provide comic relief:


I am here to tell you, this guy was a ham. With pets, you sometimes get the feeling they understand and relate to you on a different level. Well, Howarnator was that kind of cat. A recycled soul in a furry body.

No one liked suitcases more than Howard:

No one liked boxes more than Howard:

And no one liked day-dreaming about the bird or mouse that got away more than Howard:

Like Cooper, Howard was a foreman in his own right. He watched, inspected, and distracted:

One day, Howard came home with what the vet best described as heavy-metal disease:

His ears were bloody, one eye was swollen shut, a patch of fur the size of a dime was missing on his forehead, and one of his front teeth was knocked out. In all likelihood, he'd had a run-in with a car or tractor, because he'd wake with a start when he heard cars zooming by, or heavy equipment driving past. I hoped this run-in meant he had earned extra street-smarts, and if the road wouldn't get him, he'd live a good long life.

Nator just wanted to be near us. Here he's helping with the upstairs renovations by finding a good resting spot on the drop-cloths. He'd make himself at home, and despite the noise and dust, he would fall asleep anywhere.

Nator could do a smashing Zombie impression. I don't know why he'd sleep like this, but he did it quite a few times. I think he was channeling a past incarnation.

Howard has joined the ranks of cats who find their way to our door and into our hearts. Cats we take in without question, have vaccinated, spayed or neutered, and who we love and cherish. Some, like our 25 year-old Schatzie, chug along, and others, like Howard, spend far too little time with us.

Godspeed, little Nator. I hope our paths cross again.

Mega Rot

That could be the name for a heavy metal band (and maybe it is already!), but Mega Rot is what Eric found when he opened the knee wall on the south side of the house. Happy Birthday Eric!

What a lovely surprise! The tar paper you see through the hole is actually the tar paper that is behind the siding of the house if you are standing outside. Basically, what I am saying is, if I wanted to put my fist through the wall of the house, this is the place I could do it without any effort.

Eric has to fix this before moving on...

From the hammer in this photo, you can get an idea of the scale of the hole. Eric cleaned everything, and using our small circular saw, straightened out the ragged edges in preparation for the rebuilding. I am not sure exactly how Eric is going to repair this, in fact, I am not even sure Eric knows how he is going to repair this, but I will be sure to let you know with a blow-by-blow account.

On the bright side, spring is right around the corner, the days are getting longer, and the geese are overhead and in the fields, enjoying last years' corn. The Robins and Red-winged Black birds are back, but the swallows' return is still several weeks away. It might have been my imagination, but one field had a tinge of green today.

The fields are still too wet for walking, but I did a little foray with Cooper to test things out. By the time we got back, the dog was ready to be hosed down, he was that wet and muddy! I think we will have to wait another week or so before resuming our regular walks. And on a totally different note:

The Howarnator is so funny. Sometimes, he likes to sleep with all of his paws and tail tucked in beneath him. Our blobbular cat, sleeping happily on his sheepskin, dreaming of squirrels and birds. Howie looks like he needs a diet, stat, but he's all fur. In fact, he is the most unmotivated cat when it comes to food; all the others run to my side when I go in the kitchen, waiting in anticipation, but The Nator just sits on the back ledge of the couch and looks at the desperation of BobCat and Schatzie and Baby Grey with disdain. Those poor souls, he must think. No, The Nator comes into the kitchen, sits below the drawer that holds the cat nip, and meows his little demand. The meow comes out sounding like this: Ack mack. That's the cat nip call. He's my little junkie, what more can I say?

The Taming of Baby Grey

Baby Grey came to us in May 2005 after our elderly neighbour, Mr. Lefebure, passed away. Baby Grey is the son of Schatzie,who, if you were paying attention, runs our household. The "Old Hag" is over 20 years old. Baby Grey has to be a year of so younger, because as the legend goes he was from her first and only litter.

Baby Grey has been a barn cat his entire life. Well, until this week, that is:


This was the week Baby Grey decided to move in.

Baby has been a streak on the landscape since his little carpet was moved from Mr. Lefebure's shed and into our barn beside the house years ago. He was the most wild and untameable cat I have ever had. We barely saw him, we couldn't touch him, the only indication we had of his existence was an empty cat food bowl at the end of the day.

Most of our friends didn't even know we had 2 grey cats, they thought Schatzie and Baby Grey, if they caught sight of him, were one and the same.

But Schatzie caught on quickly; she soon gave up the great out-of-doors as her stomping ground, and decided to move into the house. For the past 2 years or so, she doesn't even entertain the idea of going out. Only on the sunniest, warmest days does she poke her nose outside, and then only under our supervision, because she is quite frail and defenseless compared to our other bruisers who are all nearly double her size. Schatzie likes her indoors schedule: a nap in the Catnip Convertible bed by the wood stove, meow plaintively for special expensive wet food for her consumption only, receive petting therapy. She then goes on what we call the day shift: after breakfast (more special wet food), Madame bolts upstairs with a burst of energy, settling in on our bed for the day. She will only come downstairs at dinnertime, and so the cycle continues...

Schatzie is opportunistic: she has never met a lap she didn't like. Most of our friends humour her, and leave our house covered in cat hair, muttering silently under their breath. Schatzie has that kind of baby-fine hair that gets into your eyes, and clings on every conceivable surface. Thankfully, Schatzie loves to be vacuumed, otherwise the already copious amount of cat and dog hair I have to beat back each day would be even more voluminous. My attitude regarding dog and cat grooming is, if the pet tolerates vacuuming, I might as well vacuum the animal directly, bypassing the floor as the inevitable resting ground for the masses of fur. With 3 cats and a dog, seemingly all I do some days is vacuum, vacuum and vacuum some more. Other days I don't even try to keep up, and I pay the price. Better to vacuum a bit every day is my resounding attitude.

But back to Baby.

I used to feed him in the barn. That meant going outside, which is fine in the summer, but not-so-fine in the winter. I started to move his bowl towards the patio door, and he caught on quickly. From the step in front of the patio door, he started to venture slowly inside. In the summer time, I'd leave the patio door wide open, and keep his food inside. He would come in, eat hastily, and leave again. In the winter, this proved more challenging: he would bolt the minute he saw anyone, but slowly, ever so slowly, he started to trust us. Sometimes he would let me pet him as he ate, then suddenly, he stopped eating as I petted him, and focused only on how nice it felt to be petted. Then I started to brush him, a completely new sensation once again. It took several years, but finally, we were starting to tame Baby Grey.

Several days ago, after coming in to eat, I forgot about Baby Grey. Normally he meows to be let out after eating, but this day, I think Baby Grey finally decided we weren't out to get him. Maybe inside wasn't such a bad place, after all. He settled down on the dining room chair, and that's where he spent the night. I keep a litter box for him in the barn which I know he uses, so getting him to use the litter box in the house was not a problem. He's started to hang around a little bit more every day, and most definitely prefers the great out-of-doors to inside, however, he is a pretty good example of perseverance paying off.