Little cat loves to torment big cat

I am not sure, but I suspect my daughter's kitten may have a death wish.

No, the little squirt is not running with knives, or smoking cigarettes, but she will just not leave the big cat alone.

Before Lisa the Kitten showed up, we had Gilbert the Cat. Gil is now 12 years old and is in no mood to play with an energetic little ball of fluff that bounces around house like a furry tornado.

Gilbert is much more of a sit-back-and-relax kind of guy. He is the mellowest cat in the planet, which is probably why Lisa, or Squeak as I call her, has made it this far without serious harm or injury.

When the kitten was brought home, Gil was not too pleased. This surprised me because Gil is so laid back nothing riles him up – well, almost nothing.

There is one thing that sends Gilbert on the war path and that is another cat. He has been the feline ruler of our neighbourhood for years and still takes on all comers.

Gil is my son's cat and he is a rather large cat. One day he was sitting on the front steps, minding his own business when a new cat in the 'hood decided to take on the top dog, er, I mean the top cat.

When the intruder first came into our yard, Gil noticed him, but he played it cool, as he always does.

He made a low moaning sound as a bit of a warning, but the intruder car kept coming until he was within a foot of the Gilbert, King of the Kitties.

It was at that point Gil had enough.

My son was witness to the event and proudly proclaimed, “Gil hit the other cat so hard, it pooped.”

And indeed he did. Gil smacked the invader upside the head with such force the cat dropped a boomer before fleeing as fast as he could. He never ventured into our yard again.

But fortunately for Squeak, Gil is also a gentle cat and when the little one decided the big one was a great play partner, the young one was gently educated.

Squeak ran up to Gil and pounced with all the ferocity a 10-week-old kitten could muster. Gil growled, moaned and hissed, but the youngster kept coming.

So, Gil smacked her upside the head. But it was not with nearly as much force as he used on the intruder and he did it without any claws.

It was kind of a warning shot across the bow. However, youthful exuberance has not yet made way to aged wisdom and Squeak still desperately tries to play with Gil, who will smack her with an open paw, but has never hurt her.

She will ambush him from the back of the couch – smack. Jump at him from around a corner – smack. Sneak up behind him – smack.

I believe Squeak has figured out Ol' Gil is a gentle giant – a grumpy gentle giant, but a gentle giant nonetheless.

And fortunately, she is also learning Gil is the boss, the Alpha cat and is starting to treat him as such.

And that is bad news for the the dog.

Murphy the Wonder Dog is now Squeak's favourite target and she will stalk and hunt Murphy every chance she gets.

At first, Murphy would jump up, down or sideways to avoid the attack, but eventually he realized the attacks of the little cat were nothing worry about.

Now when she attacks Murphy just looks at her and keeps doing whatever it was he was doing.

Squeak the Mini Cat does not care and bounds away only to attack again a few minutes later – when she is done attacking my shoes, or the curtains, or lint, or...

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

So long Junior, I will miss you. Who knew?

So my oldest child has flown the coop.

While hardly a kid anymore – he is 22 years old after all – he will always be a child because I was there when he was barely old enough to lay in a crib and wiggle.

I know many people who watched as their children spread their wings and took off, but to be perfectly honest, at the time, I really didn't understand what the big deal was.

I moved out when I was a young man, just like billions of other young people have done throughout the course of time.

As the papa bear, it was my job to raise my children to the point where they are able to move out on their own, then it was “Don't let the door hit your butt on the way out.”

I know a papa bear might not be the best example of parenting in the wild because an adult male bear will attack any other male bear that comes in his territory, even his own child.

But considering male lions eat their young, I think I will with the bruin analogy.

I have never attacked my kids, nor threatened to eat them, so I guess I am doing OK.

Anyway, Junior reached an age where he wanted to take off on his own, to explore new worlds, to live in a different city than the one he was raised.

It was a day I had been thinking about for years, but when the day came I was not doing cartwheels across the lawn – mainly because I am way to old to be doing cartwheels across the lawn - but also because I was not that thrilled with Junior jumping from the nest.

What? What is this? What is this odd feeling I have? I did my job, I raised him as best I could and now I should be able to sit back, wave goodbye and get on with getting the other two out of the house.

But instead of seeing a young man spreading his wings, all I could see was the little boy who held so many grasshoppers in one hand their guts were squishing between his fingers.

Suddenly, the big, tough papa bear was feeling more like a hormonal tween.

During the eight-hour drive to his new city – I helped him move like any papa bear would – all I could think of was the days gone by and the moments a father shares with his young son.

Was I sad Junior was all grown up, something I had worked hard to help make happen?

I surprised even myself because I was.

That can't be right. I'm the big tough papa bear. It was the mama bear who was supposed to be sad little bear is leaving the clan. Papa bear is the one who was supposed to hold the door as Junior made an exit before doing a little dance because it was one down and two to go.

But there I was, the big tough papa bear feeling very melancholy about Junior leaving the cave.

I know it is how life works: you are born, you are a baby, then a kid, then a teen, then a young man and then you move out.

I was ready for it, prepared for it, at times I was almost longing for it so imagine my surprise when I was saddened by it.

With Junior gone there would be things like left overs in the fridge, gas in my car and finally a spare room where I could put my treadmill – yes I actually use the treadmill for more than collecting dust.

Hmm, perhaps there is some good to Junior flying the coop and striking out on his own. I just wonder if his flight will imitate that of a homing pigeon.

I guess we will have to wait and see.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

It's just a boo-boo, they're fine

I saw a meme the other day that said it is a shame children today do not get to experience getting hit in the face by a big red ball during a game of dodgeball.

And they are right.

I loved dodgeball when I was in school, mainly because I was really good at it.

I could twist and turn and was rarely taken out of the game. I did get hit in the face a couple times, but that was just part of the fun.

We did all sorts of sports, games and goofing around that ended in minor injuries. It was called being a kid and it was something we all accepted as simply part of life.

In elementary school, we used to play tackle football at lunch without any gear. We could have played flag football I guess, but it was just not the same.

Following a rambunctious 30-minute game, just about everyone had some sort of minor injury from grass burns on our elbows to bruises and even the occasional black eye – which was worn as a badge of honour. But we were all ready to go again the next day.

Nowadays, teachers and parents are so worried about Junior getting a boo-boo they have banned pretty much all contact sports. One school even banned tag because a child might fall and hurt themselves while running from the person who was 'it.'

Really? Tag is nothing but running and fitness and building your cardio. And then they wonder why Junior is so, um, er, weight enhanced at such a young age.

I played hours of tag when I was a kid and I don't ever recall someone getting hurt.

If someone fell down, they dusted themselves off and got back up – simple as that. The worst part of falling down was it usually meant whoever was chasing you, caught you and now you were it.

No need to call the paramedics for that.

Another school banned soccer because – you guessed it – someone might get hurt. Here is another sport that involves nothing but running around a field. There is no tackling, body checking or any real physical contact, but someone was worried some how a child could receive a minor injury while having fun so they had better cancel having fun.

It's all part of the 'helicopter parenting' that has taken hold of North America in its overly cautious grip.

I admit, I too have been a hovering parent at times, but not so much when it came to letting my boys be boys.

Every parent wants to protect their child, but there is a time when you simply have to step back and them get a bruise or two.

It's part of life. I did it, my dad did it, his dad did it and so on and we all survived.

I am not saying to let them jump off a small cliff holding onto a bed sheet as a parachute because that really hurts, but a little rough housing is just fine.

Oh, and also maybe don't let them try to jump from branch of a pine tree to another because if they miss that really hurts too.

But my sons would often come home with bruises from skateboarding or crashing their peddle bikes – something I had done more times than my mom could recall – and they are now healthy adults with a few scars to tell stories about with their friends.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

If I give you a doughnut, will you go away?

The excuses started forming the instant I saw him.
The 'him' to which I refer was a cop sitting on a little pull out road at the side of the highway. I was the guy in the little red car going slightly faster than what some official type decided was good for the motoring public.
I was not breaking the sound barrier or anything, but my speedometer did nudge past the legal 90 km/h allowed by that official type guy.
I am not totally sure how it happened. I do drive a Toyota, so maybe I could plead mechanical woes and deny the heightened speed was my fault.
Darn those Toyota engineers and their wonky gas pedals.
Anyway, I noticed the keeper of the peace sitting in his car as I zoomed past and I knew I had been had - caught red handed, or in this case, lead footed.
"I am sorry I was speeding officer, but my water broke and..."
OK, that one isn't gonna work.
"I am sorry I was speeding officer, but I think speed limits suck."
OK, not the best way to try and talk your way out of a ticket.
"I am sorry I was speeding officer, but I am late for work and if I am late one more time my cruel and heartless boss will fire me and my children will end up begging in the street. Please, kind and wise constable, think of the children. I beg of you, think of the children."
OK, that one might be a little over the top.
"Say, um, Mr. Policeman, uh, how many boxes of donuts will it take to make this whole thing go away?"
Definitely not the right approach.
Realizing arguing with a traffic cop who has you dead to rights is like trying to outrun a dog - it just isn't going to happen - I then switched to resignation mode.
I resigned myself to the fact I was going to get a speeding ticket, my first in many years.
There was a time in my youth when I had amassed enough tickets to wallpaper by bedroom - and not just one wall, but the entire room.
Back in 'the day' I didn't just have a lead foot, my entire right leg was made of the stuff because I just could not stay off the gas and personal interaction with the local law-enforcement community was the result.
I was not a bad guy or anything. I didn't drink, I didn't do drugs, but I did have a tendency to drive in a manner that was in conflict with rules set out by that official type guy I was talking about earlier.
But with age comes maturity, and with maturity comes a realization that the three minutes I save by speeding are not worth the fines and hassles of getting a ticket.
But on this particular day, I simply was not paying attention to how fast I was going - until I saw the Kojak with the Kodak on the side of the road, then my speed became the most important thing I could think of.
I saw the cop car and immediately looked at the speedometer to find I was going almost 20 km/h over the limit. Oops.
Realizing my sin against traffic laws, I slowed down and watched the cop car for those pretty little lights to come on, but they never did.
In fact, the cop did not even pull out of his hiding spot.
Hallelujah, more proof God loves me.
After a few seconds I began to relax. I also decided to keep a closer eye on how fast I was going, which was a good thing because the second cop I saw a couple of klicks down the road may not have been so forgiving, and besides, I was all out of donuts.

Getting ready to go back to school

I just read a story about how to prepare your child for going back to school. It was full of all sorts of interesting and helpful suggestions, tips and advice for helping your child make the transition from the care-free days of summer to the regimented routine of a public school system.

When I was a child, the only thing we did to prepare for going back to school was go shopping for books, paper, pencils, erasers, (wine for mom and dad to celebrate our return to school) and even some new clothes – which, of course, you could not wear on the first day because it was not considered 'cool' to look your best.

Instead, you wore the same ratty jeans you had on at the last day of school from the previous year. Like a fine wine (the kind parents get to celebrate back to school) you had to let the new clothes sit and 'age' for a while.

At least a week, then you could wear a new shirt. A few days later you would venture out in your new jeans and then your new shoes. Eventually you would head out with all of the new clothing on at the same time, but by now school had been in session for at least a couple weeks so you were not branded a geek for wearing new clothes on the first day.

And if memory serves, there was a whole bunch of other reasons you were branded a geek. Or so I have been told anyway.

Anyway, the article recommended all sorts of things to help the youngsters get back into the school groove before school even starts.

They suggest you start preparing your children two weeks before the big day by doing things like establishing a routine, explain expectations, hold those expectations to a realistic level, talk to your child about school etc.

All good advice indeed. When I was a kid heading back to the seventh level of hell, er, I mean school, the only prep we had was seeing those horrid back-to-school commercials on TV.

They would start a couple weeks before the nine months of torture would resume and had the never-failing result of ruining the last vestiges of summer you had yet to enjoy.

Who could enjoy late August when you knew your care-free days were numbered? Not I.

As for my parent's role in preparing me for school, if I recall it went something like this: School starts next week.

The end.

That was about it. A quick reminder I was about to lose my freedom to the dungeon masters of the public education system for another year.

There was no advice on how to get used to going back to school, there were no pep talks, no cushioning the blow – just one day you are enjoying summer, the next you are chained to a desk learning that most evil form of math - algebra.

The first day of school we would find our name on a list taped to the side of the school that let us know what kind of a school year we were in for.

The list told us what our homeroom was and what courses we were taking and when. Groaning and gnashing of teeth was heard throughout the day as people saw their short-term future printed before them in black and white.

You would then run around to all your friends to see if you shared any classes with them which either led to rejoicing or more of that gnashing I was telling you about.

But it only took a few days to get back into the routine and in the back of my mind was always the reassurance that summer vacation was less than 300 days away.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

Clogged up complaint filter a matter of time

I wonder if there is a certain age where you feel free to complain about everything.

Is there a magic number you reach where you feel the uncontrollable urge to talk about everything you do not like no matter what it is or who is listening?

I have been commenting on the music “these young kids listen to” for some time so that doesn't count. There really is some terrible music out there, but then again there was some terrible music when I was a young lad as well. But there was also plenty of good music, so I am assuming there is some good music coming out of the current generation – and when I find some, I will let you know.

My dad pretty much hated everything I listened to in my youth – and the more he hated it, the more I liked it.

“I wouldn't give you 10 cents for that racket,” was heard on many occasions as I listened to such classical bands as AC/DC or Van Halen.

I am sure the generation before his complained about the noise these young kids were listening to, so like I said, complaining about music doesn't count because like my father before me, I was hardly in my advanced years when I noticed just how awful the new generation of music is.

But somewhere along the line, my dad, like so many his age, decided to have issue with all sorts of things.

And they are not shy about letting people know of their displeasure. Some are more vocal than others. I knew this one little old lady who was sweet as pie, but complained about pretty much everything all the time.
There was not much she did not dislike, find annoying or irritating and she had no problems letting those around her know of her displeasure.

Many of the older set do not seem to be able to contain their distain for something. So I know eventually I too will will reach a point where I have no inhibitions left when it comes to letting people know what I think of things.

And therein lies the answer to my question: it is not a certain age where you dislike things, but you reach a certain age where you don't care if you tell people about it.

Everyone has filters that keeps them from acting a certain way or saying certain things and apparently the filters on keeping your complaints in your head and not coming out of your mouth gets so clogged with age you have no choice but to verbalize your displease externally.

Near as I can figure, you eventually reach and age where you don't give a fat rats butt what people think of your opinion.

And once I realized that, I took a close look at myself and saw I am well on my way to losing my concern for what other people think.

I have never been overly fashion conscious, and I did try to keep my clothes at least somewhat trendy.

But as I pile on the years, I noticed I have become far less concerned with wearing “cool”clothes or having a certain look.

I wear what I want, when I want.

So it has begun. That particular filter is clogging fast and soon will be of no use.

It is just a matter of time before my 'complaint' filter gets clogged and all the things I dislike about the world spews forth in a verbal waterfall of annoyance and unrestrained comments – just like my father before me and his before him.

It is a right of age to sit around and talk about “these young kids” and this and that and eventually I plan on being right in the middle of it all.

I am not quite there yet, but am confident when I do reach that age I will have no problem telling anyone who will listen what I dislike about, well, everything.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

Tiny kitten takes over my home

Young Daughter wanted to get a pet. Her oldest brother had a series of hamsters when he was young, and she wanted a pet of her own as well.

Einstein was the first rodent I have ever welcome into my home and lived to the ripe old age of just over two years, which is pretty good for a little furball.

He was followed by another hamster, Fiona, which was the meanest, nastiest most hostile mouse wannabe I have ever seen.

At first my son tolerated the beast because he wanted a pet and missed his old pal Einstein. But when the hamster from hell took a bite out of his finger, she had to go. First we took her to the SPCA, but they said they would not take an animal with social issues.

She wasn't an alcoholic or anything, just grumpy, but either way they would not take her. I suggested we put Fiona in the backyard with our other pet, Gilbert the cat, and let nature take its course.

It would have been a tough scrap, but I was confident Gilbert would have won, although not as mean as Fiona, Gil was a cat and only in cartoons does a rodent beat a cat.

However, the Missus would have nothing to do with using the cat as a hired assassin, so we ended up taking the stupid rat to the vet to be whacked, er, I mean, humanely put down.

“For an extra $40 we can have her cremated and put her ashes in a box,” said the nice lady at the vet's office.

I paid less than $10 for the hamster, I am already kicking out $30 to have her put down and I really don't want the ashes of a violent rodent in my house, so I think I will pass. Thanks.

We got my oldest son another hamster that lived for a couple of years in peace and harmony with the world around him.

During all of this, my middle son wanted a pet so we got the aforementioned cat. We had a dog who passed, so we got another canine: the now-famous Murphy the Wonder Dog.

Young Daughter was not too crazy about any of the critters, so I was surprised when she wanted a pet of her own. She did not want a dog – she really does not like dogs – she didn't want a rodent, fish were about as fun as a pet piece of tape, so the type of critter she was interested in was pretty much narrowed down to a cat.

But she was not too fond of Gilbert.

“Keep Gilbert out of my room” was heard echoing through my home on many occasions, but the more she thought about it, the more she wanted a kitten of her very own.

I am not a huge cat person, and we already had Gilbert, but it was not fair she did not have a pet so it was off to the SPCA we went.

After looking at a few kittens she settled on a tiny, little black and gray bundle of cuteness that she named after her stuffed toy from when she was a wee child.

Sessa-Lisa, or Lisa for short, came home with us that day. Because Gilbert is the mellowest cat in the world he could have cared less.

Murphy the Wonder Dog was doing some wondering of his own. He was wondering what the heck had invaded his home now.

She weighs less than two pounds, but Lisa put 20-pound Murphy in the run from the moment she showed up.

With a hiss, growl and a smack on the nose Lisa unleashed the fury only a nine-week old kitten can – and it worked because the past few days Murphy has been as nervous as a mouse at a cat convention.

Lisa is also living in Young Daughter's room she is thrilled to have her.

So now I have two cats and a dog living under my roof. I am glad I do not have anymore children because I do not want anymore pets.

Mind you there is this cute little puppy for sale...

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh