ok, people. Seriously now. What are you still doing here? Oh, I get it. You’re the kind who wait until all the credits roll to see if there’s a “gotcha” at the very end, aren’t you?

Well, let me help you. We’ve moved…here to be exact. No clever plot twists, no mystery ending. There’s no monkey popping back in to steal the Aztec gold. Vamoose…Moved…as in on. I only stopped by to collect a few of my things I left behind…

So, go ahead and update your bloglines with the new addy and we’ll see you on the flip side.

Click here to be taken there!

Please update your links, bookmarks and bloglines subscription! In a few days this will become an automatic redirect.

One morning as I walked to my garage I noticed a cute little 6 month old (or so) black and white kitten rooting around in the dumpster. Because I was running late I couldn’t do anything about it but I promised myself and the kitty that if he was there when I got home that night, I’d take him in. Unfortunately, when I got home that night, he was no where to be found, and I even looked for him…hard. He must have just been passing through.

That next morning, I left for work as usual: Unlocked and opened the garage door; drove my car out; leaving the motor running and the driver’s door open, I got out and closed and locked the garaged door; hop back in my car, and What the Fuck? There, sitting in the passenger seat as pretty as you please, is the black (well, upon closer inspection, he was more of a gun-metal gray) and white kitty. And that’s how I became Moze’s person. He chose me, and I am glad for it.

You would think that this story has a happy ending, and in a way it does. I’ve had 10 awesome years with this little guy. He’s been my constant companion, my mentor, my comfort, my inspiration, and my joy. He taught me how to love again, and how to laugh, and how to just “be”. He’s given me so much, and expected so little in return. And now I have to say goodbye. And it is by far the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my entire 40+ years of living.

You see, for the past week, I’ve noticed that Moze hasn’t been very Moze-like. He hasn’t been eating, he’s been lethargic and listless. He can’t jump up very high anymore, even though he tries like hell, and every time he tries, he falls and he doesn’t land on his feet. We took him to the vet yesterday where they found a tumor the size of a tennis ball in his abdomen, and it was malignant. I thought I would have a few more years with him. I thought wrong. Yes, that this little spark of life and touch of fluff became such a wonderful, integral part of my life is the happy part of the story. He even had a sense of humor. Here he is doing his Titanic Impression…

…He’s sinking… get it? I know that’s bad, but my heart is breaking and I’m grasping for straws here.

Yesterday the vet gave him a shot of cortizone hoping to give him a couple of good days, or even weeks, but so far nothing has changed, and I just can’t prolong his suffering any more. It would be very selfish of me. Last night he and I said our goodbyes. He snuggled with me as long as he could, sharing what’s left of his mellow, before returning to his spot on the floor in our bedroom in front of the sliding glass door that leads out to the balcony. He let me know it was time. This morning we took him to the vet, and came home alone.

God, I miss him so much!

I don’t want to say this too loud, and I don’t wanna say too much because I really really REALLY don’t want to jinx it, but I’m over here thinking happy thoughts, clapping my hands and saying to myself “I believe, I believe!” We may just be seeing the light at the end of this bitch tunnel of suckage of black-hole proportion, we here at Casa De La call “fucking unemployment”. It’s just a pinprick, but if I truly believe and think happy thoughts I’m sure it’ll grow to epic proportions…even full daylight. Wouldn’t that be something?

Wanna help?

Or did you get lost in that sucky metaphor?

The scoop (at least for our area) is that Revolution is semi-useless. They’ve found it works pretty well for cats and for puppies with sarcoptic mange and actually seems to kill earmites. But that particular Vet’s office has had at least one very nasty instance of it not actually doing the thing where it prevents heartworms and then there were some other issues I’m not at liberty to divulge but suffice it to say now that I know how the company handles their guarantees and such I will NOT be buying any more Revolution, even for the cat. Next we were talking about putting the dog on Advantix, but apparently they’ve found that it’s a very bad idea for cats. And before you point out that well, it IS called “CANINE Advantix”, they’ve decided that it is not safe to have cats in the same household with Advantix wearing dogs. So basically that left us with the following treatments: continue Revolution on the cat until I run out (about a year) and then detonate a nuclear bomb behind the barn to kill the fleas and ticks. Dog goes on Frontline (Hi, Frontline! Love you! Always have!) and Heartguard. And he got a Lyme disease shot. And tested for heartworms which, since he was on Revolution shouldn’t have been a question but um, yeah anyway we tested and he was negative.

We interrupt this correction–
–Ok, so I just went to take Wyatt out to the NEWLY FENCED goat pasture so I could take pictures of him happily recovered and at play in the tall, ticky grass but we got sidetracked. I know that when I relate my horror stories of my culture clash with the country life you all must think I’m as big a dumbass that ever walked. I mean, I did choose this life, but sometimes I’m just so ill-prepared for it that frankly I just don’t find Green Acres all that funny anymore. Aside from Wilbur, of course. Anyway see here I’m about to tell you another one of those stories. It doesn’t end well, so skip down to the pasture pictures if you don’t want to know.

Like I was typing, we went out to take pictures of Wyatt in the (newly! fenced!) goat yard but when we stepped out the front door, look who was sitting in the front yard:

That is a woodchuck for you city types. Otherwise known as a groundhog. The kind that predicts weather. Only he was sitting in my front yard for two reasons, neither of which had to do with the weather (which is mostly cloudy with a chance of thunderstorms, btw.)
1. He was mere feet from my newly plowed vegetable garden and was trying to ascertain if there was anything he could raid.
2. He had just run into my garden after being chased out of the neighbor’s garden, where he had eaten nearly a whole row of green beans.

THIS IS WHERE IT GETS GRAPHIC>>>>I haven’t actually gotten around to planting my garden yet so I’m all like “CUTE! A big brown ugly rodent! Look, Wyatt, it’s a groundhog!” And Wyatt’s all like “WOW I BET THAT WOULD BE FUN TO CHASE. WHIMPER! WHIMPER! BARK!” And then I took a picture, having the camera handy on account of going out to photograph the dog. And so Chuck ran away, because groundhogs are afraid of cameras and shadows and things and then my neighbor (see #2 above) came screeching up to my yard in his truck, jumped out, climbed my fence, chased Chuck through my yard, through the (new!) goat fencing and finally grabbed a big stick and beat Chuck to death. Then he went on a rant about how Chuck had nearly ruined his garden and then he showed the still quivering bloody mass of woodchuck to Wyatt (presumably so Wyatt could learn to kill them.) and threw him in the back of his truck, grinning about how he was going to throw him behind the other neighbor’s barn for a joke. Chuck, not Wyatt. Now let me just say that this has NOT been a good week for me, what with the tick paralysis on Saturday, some ugly family BS rearing its head over Mom’s cancer on Sunday, and the fact that I got up at 3:30 am today to drive to Atlanta and drop my husband at the airport, not to see him for four whole months (he’s only been home for three weeks), I spent $250 trying to get enough poisonous “medicine” to keep my dog parasite-free today and tomorrow I go back to Atlanta with mom to consult with oncologists. So let’s say I might be feeling a little too fragile for woodchuck hate crimes today. Let’s say I might have cried over a woodchuck just now. I may be a wimp when it comes to country living, but a big part of the appeal of raising Alpacas and goats is that it’s a no-kill farming scenario. (Except ticks, death to all ticks!) Seeing an animal beaten to death for doing what it does was never part of my plan. On the other hand maybe I should be happy they chose a non-chemical method of pest control. And if you think this story is ugly, remind me to tell you about the skunks someday. <<<< END OF GRAPHIC STORY

So anyway, wanna see my new goat yard? Say yes!

Have you ever seen anyone so excited to have some goat wire installed? I’m thrilled! Apparently another of my neighbors has some pygmy goats she got to clear the weeds and crap off her hill so I might try to get a couple of those and I’m trying to figure out how to have some Angoras shipped here. Apparently the fiber goat business in GA is just practically non-existent so I’ve had no luck finding any locally. I still need to build a goat shed and get waterers and hay mangers, but having the fence done means I’m so close I can start to look around for some livestock. Pretty soon this is going to be a REAL fiber farm. With Angora goats and Pygmy goats and you know what that means, right? Eventually some Pygoras, too. Next adventure? Alpaca fencing.

Oh and I got this from Inter Library Loan:

I might just get my knitting mojo back soon!

Well, I finally ordered all my Dye-O-Rama supplies. I didn’t realize just how many people are participating until I went to order my yarn. Knitpicks was out. Completely, totally out of dye-your-own sock yarn. What the fuck? That’s like saying McDonalds is completely out of Big Macs. Inconceivable! So, I ended up ordering some lovely Kona from our very own Knitting Diva instead. Also, I decided to go with the ProChem dyes. They have these awesome WashFast Acid Dye Kits, so I went ahead and got the Autumn, though the Winter Holiday kit is mighty purdy too. I feel like such a slacker. Some people have already sent out their yarn…and it’s gorgeous! I sure hope mine measures up.

I’ve started another pair of Roman socks. These, however, are not of the self-felting variety, and I’m hoping to turn them out in record time. I’m sort of designing the pattern as I go along: Cuff-down; Cuff-2 x 2 ribbing; Leg & Foot - Straight Stockinette; Heel-flap; Rounded (or maybe Star) toe…very simple. I’m using Knitpicks Palette in Nutmeg, on size 1 needles, and I’m getting paid for them. Not a lot, but enough to make me like sock knitting even more (as if that was ever a problem) AND earning me extra yarn $$$.

Always on the lookout for blog fodder, I leave you today with this little gem:

Doesn’t it make you feel all safe and secure knowing you share the road with me while I take pictures during rush-hour traffic?

Thought so.

Anyway. At Maison des Fleurs, high drama never seems to be good enough. To add to my already full panic dance card, my poor little (sweet, stupid, happy, tan) dog fell all the way down the stairs this morning because his back legs weren’t working well. It’s too boring to type the details but suffice it to say that in a few hours I figured it out and it turned out that the NINE ticks he had sucking his blood flippantly in the face of the Frontline I put on his neck lo this past one week ago were giving him tick paralysis. Tick paralysis can be fatal if it makes it to the front half of the body and therefore to the respiratory system (sometimes within hours), but the cure is simple: remove the ticks. My dog is a clumsy ass on the best of days and perhaps the vet would have laughed me out of the office but I knew something weird was afoot. And leave it to me, a former veterinary assistant, to not have any tick control products on hand. (In my defense I’m putting VERY EXPENSIVE FLEA, TICK AND OTHER PARASITE CONTROL ON HIM MONTHLY. And I’m generally opposed to prophylactic poisoning.) So I went to the only pet store I have within a 20 minute drive: Walmart. Yes, I said I went to Walmart. And it was Saturday. I hope by now it is crystal clear to you just how much I must love this dog. I came home with some Hartz crap. Hartz is crap. Back in the day Hartz was dangerous, now it’s just useless crap. And I washed him with it. And I used so much soap my septic will be hiccupping backwards for years to come. I let it sit, even though my (poor, darling, innocent, dear, wonderful) BABY was shivering. And sit some more. And then I worked the flea comb through the suds. Finally I rinsed and towelled the poor little (long-suffering, sweetest) mutt. And the miraculous thing about tick paralysis is that it miraculously disappears within hours of removing the ticks. And he got better. Like a miraculous miracle.

And then my dishwasher broke, my brother called to tell me Mom was in a lot of pain, was sleeping and depressed and asked what I could do about it all. And then Jared had a meltdown about not being able to finish the goat fence in time before he leaves. And then various and sundry neighbors stopped by for long chats. And at long last Wyatt was dry enough so I got to brush out all those hundreds of pounds of undercoat that spring up when you wash long haired dogs.

And I found three more ticks.

All of them were alive and sucking. So I did the inch-by-inch, all-over body inspection. He came up clean after three of these. And he is definitely feeling better. Then I gave the cat the old once-over. And as what will surely come to you as shock and surprise, his Frontline wasn’t working, either. He only had one and frankly, since I’ve caught 4 mice to his BIG FAT ZERO, and since I watched him out the kitchen window the other day barely raise a whisker as a big fat field rat ran through my flower bed right up to the lazy fucker, I have half a mind to say OH WELL. I almost bailed on it. But instead I decided to grab his scruff, soak the lazy shit in flea and tick spray and then watch his exhaust as he sped away into the tick infested fields. Much to the relief of every rodent in the southeastern U.S., he had to pee eventually and since he’s too stupid to do anything but use the litterbox, he had to come inside eventually. Where he was unceremoniously combed, searched and sprayed again, despite the lack of any evidence of further infestation.

But my dog is OK!! I even got to clean my kitchen, mop my floors and marinate and grill some lovely steak and corn and make a salad from vegetables I MYSELF grew from seeds without the aid of chemicals! And I drank a beer and sat on my porch swing at sunset and watched the fireflies. And two, count them TWO neighbors passed without stopping.

And now? Now it’s pouring buckets, hailing like a mother, lightning, thundering and the dog is trying to dig his way out the office window. And I don’t dare sedate him because of the neurologic issues we’ve had today. Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. I hope it’s not a Mother.

My mom is healing from her surgery and compared to what she was before it she seems like a slightly used and broken new woman. She’s still having a lot of pain and a lot of trouble getting around but she can get around and to the Queen Who Must Survey The Kingdom Twice Daily, being able to walk around and look at her garden is much like a prison break. She still has to get her stitches out and no word yet on when we meet with some oncologists. Again I want to thank all of you for your comments and emails. I’m in the midst of a certain quantity of denial so I haven’t even begun the “thank you” process, but please know that your comments have been helpful in more ways than you can possibly imagine. The denial portion of our programme is a welcome respite from the day or two of violent selfishness and resentment I had a few days ago, and hell any improvement is still improvement.

So….. Let’s say we pretend for a minute or two that there is anything else at all going on in my life and talk about that. After having a house full of people in from all corners of the globe I decided to utterly neglect the post-company clean up and do some gardening. Well ok, my brothers and I did do a bunch of gardening over at Mom’s and I think I got all jealous and shit. I had plants sitting in their lame little pots just waiting to be dug in and Jared did them for me. And much like Mom, I don’t just want “A Garden”. I want TO garden. So nothing is exactly how I would have done it but since the plants are alive and thriving I guess that’s pretty good. Still. I’ve waited weeks for the neighbor’s toxic chemicals to kill the grass up there so I could dig and amend the bed. And since I had loads of dirty sheets and towels and such from having people stay here I decided digging the bed up was the pressing item of the day. Or as it turns out, week. So I’ve been digging up a big area of the back yard with a pitch fork, removing grass and a shocking amount of nails and broken crockery, adding compost and really I hope to plant some things someday soon. Today my back gave out with maybe 4 square feet left to go. So tonight we do a little liquid muscle relaxer and then finish that puppy up tomorrow.

Jared has been home exactly two weeks. He bought fencing and stakes and all the necessaries to do the goat pasture. Last night he got a call to work and he needs to be in Boston by Monday. Until Labor Day-ish. So the rush is on to fence the goat field and all that crap. I was also asked to work on that show. They want me so much they’re holding it open until the last second in case good news comes and I can take it, but somehow I just don’t think this is the time to leave for a few months-as much as I really do need the money. But now I have no hub for awhile again. Fuck.

The last item on the list here for today is that we’re going to move the blog. We really, truly, seriously, totally we aren’t kidding this time, we’re more than halfway done, expect a new link any day now ARE MOVING. So if you see the red [!], please click us anyway so you can find our new home. It’s going to look completely different from this place, too. The writing isn’t expected to improve, so you’ll have to settle for less eyesore and be content.

Ok, what would be so compelling as to, well…compel me to go completely against my principals and watch THIS sucky-assed show again, even after they didn’t dismiss beater-boy from last season, and I swore up and down that I wouldn’t ever watch it again? Two Words: Chris Daughtry

huminahuminahumina…excuse me whilst I wipe the drool from my chin…

Not only is he rather easy on the eyes, he is totally into his wife and kid. How hot is that? And damn, but the boy’s got some pipes… as in the sing circles around Eddie Vedder. Sorry Rock Chick…I just calls ‘em as I sees ‘em. Wouldn’t it be something if an alternative rocker wins it this year?

Bad La, I haven’t done jack-shit in regards to knitting. Gotta do something about that. But in other news, the Dye-O-Rama mamas came up with a questionaire for the swap. For anyone interested, (and, to be honest with you, outside of my secret buddy, I don’t know who would be…) you can find my answers here.