Kitchen style

Sorry for the delay in entries, kids - Blogger decided it didn't like me, and wouldn't confirm my email so I couldn't get in to enter! But you can all breathe a sigh of relief, because I'm back.

This week the kids decorated my new apron (with my help.) We got a white chef's apron and a package of fabric paints. I spread the apron out and prepped the paints (squirts of each color on a sheet of wax paper.)

Then I had the kids dip their feet in the paint.

Princess P needed some help, obviously.

Then the best part: stepping on the apron and making footprints! Boy Wonder got to do his hands, as well.

The finished product. I can't wait to wear this proudly for many years to come!

Cats

GOD I hate cats. Not on principle. I see a kitten and I get as squishy and lovey dovey as the next person. I even pet cats. But right now, I HATE cats.

I especially hate Scruffy's cat, Oscar. I don't even have a picture of Oscar to share with you. I don't take pictures of Oscar. Because I can't stand him.

Oscar is a cat going through an identity crisis. In many ways, he is a cat. In other ways, he is a dog. I attribute this to the fact that when he was a kitten and we acquired him 7 years ago (and I picked him out - that was back when I liked cats, you see) Sasha used to pull him and his brother into bed with her and lick them for hours. We'd find them in the morning, wet with dog slobber. When the brother got hit by a car, Oscar's affections had nowhere to go but to the dogs, which resulted in him crouching for 10 minutes at a time while Roscoe humped him.

You can't feel bad for a cat that doesn't even try to get away from the dog humping it. That's how messed up Oscar is. He just lies there and takes it.

When you pull into the driveway, Oscar runs out to greet you. Like a dog. (He is like a little Wal Mart greeter.)
He scratches at the door to come in the house. Like a dog.
He drools on your pant leg if you pet him too long. Like a dog.

Unfortunately, Oscar's transition into dogginess is not yet complete, which is evidenced by him pooping ALL OVER IN MY FLOWERBEDS.

This past week I've been digging and raking the soil, adding compost and prepping it for my flowers. I love to garden, and playing in the dirt is my happy place. Playing in cat turds is NOT. It's disgusting. I water and I can actually SMELL cat poop.

Shudder. The cat is supposed to live in the barn, where he has a nice warm bed, a litter box, and a bowl full of food. Scruffy pets him in the barn. In the barn, Oscar has a purpose, and a destiny. He catches mice.

After he catches the mice, he ingests them.

And after he ingests them, he barfs them back up. Usually on my front doorstep. So I open the door in the morning, and find a pile of bloody mouse guts puked up by the cat. This is another situation that is NOT my happy place (see turds, cat.)

I can't bring myself to do anything about the cat other than to glare at him when he goes by. Sometimes I call him names. He appears to be unaffected. I wish I could say the same for the flowerbeds, and for the front doorstep, too.

Ew.

The working man

In spite of the drizzly spring weather we're having, Boy Wonder knew there was scooping and moving to be done. And he was just the man to do it.

We filled a couple of cookie sheets with popcorn kernels and some rice I found hanging around at the back of the cupboard. Then Boy Wonder got to work.

According to the theory of Montessori this exercise encourages development of a child's ...' "development of will". The child discovers that he can conduct his bodily movements through the direction of his will. When translated to a life skill, this gives the child confidence in facing challenging activities realizing that he can practically accomplish any task as long as he wills it.' (taken from http://www.fmployola.com/materials.htm).

Sounds good to me!

Also, it makes a mess, and when isn't that fun for a 3 year old?

The mutts

We live in the country, so we have dogs.

This photo has always reminded me of the painting with the farmer and his daughter, holding a pitchfork in front of their house. You know? This one? American Gothic, by Grant Wood:

It's especially appropriate because the dog on the left is a girl, and the dog on the right is a boy. Aww.

ANYWAYS.

Sasha (left) and Roscoe P. Coltrane (right) are our farm dogs. Sasha is a labrador retriever/chow chow cross, and Roscoe is a Pomeranian/any dog under 30lbs cross. They are indeed the ultimate mutts.

Sasha's interests include swimming, riding in trucks, rolling in dead stuff, and naps. Roscoe's hobbies are begging for food, trying to make you give him food, stealing food from the kids, and running around barking (he is a lovely little animal.)

Sadly, though, the clock is ticking on our doggies. Sasha is a geriatric now. She was born in the fall of 1999, so this fall, she will be turning 12 years old. At 60+lbs, and given that she is a mix of larger breeds, she has started to decline due to age. The muscles in her hips have virtually atrophied, meaning that she struggles to go up stairs, get out of her bed, and walk. She eats frequently but is losing weight - the knobs on her back are visible and her skin sags everywhere. She sleeps a LOT. She often forgets "rules" - like no barking - and if we don't stop her, she'll bark for 20 minutes at a time.

It sucks.

Scruffy's owned Sasha her whole life. When she was a young pup she went to work with him in his truck. For the past 7 years she's lived with us on our acreage, with her sidekick Roscoe (the Robin to her Batman.) She's never been injured or hurt, with the exception of one summer when she slipped on the dock at the lake and bruised her butt (try seeing a happy dog who can't wag her tail - funny.)

The vet has checked her out and tells us that there's pretty much nothing we can do, and that's okay. We aren't going to extend this dog's life for years with expensive and possibly painful treatments. Death is a part of life. We knew from the first day that our dog would go, and when his time comes, Roscoe will go too. Animals die before people. And it sucks.

I'm not sure Sasha will see the end of 2011. She has had a long, happy life for a dog. She's been surrounded by love, and had many days of cruising through the pasture, trying to catch a gopher and rolling in cow poop. And for the past 6 years, she's had Roscoe to keep her company when we weren't around.

I'm trying to prepare myself for the inevitable. This morning she got up and couldn't make it across the floor. I had to help her with support under her belly and coax her across. It was awful.

Happily, Sasha's good days still outweigh her bad ones. But when we see that her bad days outweigh her good ones, well, then we'll know it's time. For today, though, she's going to nap on the deck in the sunshine, and Boy Wonder will give her a belly rub, and she'll go to sleep tonight knowing she is loved. And I guess that will have to be good enough.