Penelope the Destroyer

Dear, sweet Penelope. All teeth, paws, and a blur of fur. A heart of gold. And like adolescents of any species, she hardly knows what to do with herself.

Since I've been doing posts about pets lately, I thought it would be a shame to deprive you all of this photo. Worth a thousand words, yes?

Delila's Bad Weekend

Things have been rather rough for Maria's cat.

Yesterday I walked into the living room where Adam was watching TV and sat down. Delila the Cat quickly jumped up on the couch, looking for company. I smelled something bad. She usually has a slight smell because of the eye gunk common to her breed, but this was worse. Then she crawled onto Adam's lap and he said, "Do you smell that?"

"I didn't say anything, in case it was you."

"No, it's not me."

It really was bad. When Delila jumped back onto my couch, I took a look. There was poop hanging right out of her, and getting all into her fur, of which she has a lot.

Then she sat down.

Yeah.

So Maria and Delila spent some quality time with the shower. We could hear the meows from outside the bathroom door. But that kitty's a trooper, and she didn't seem too traumatized afterward.

Then today her tail caught on fire.

I'll repeat that.

Her tail caught on fire. We had a candle lit on the coffee table. Normally she doesn't jump up there, but the coffee table was closest to John, who was dishing out affection to Jake and Jezebel, and Delila wanted in on the action. She sure got it. Fortunately, the flames went out quickly and she didn't appear hurt at all. But gee whiz.

It's a bad time to be Delila's butt.

High Achievers

You know how NASA has that plane they take astronauts up in, where they can experience weightlessness briefly? I was told last night that they also do science experiements up there, and when they ran out of more serious stuff to experiment with (crystals are very serious), they decided to bring up water balloons.

This was a whopping reminder to me that most of these guys (and gals, yes?) were once military pilots -- frat boys with buzz cuts and a dangerous curiosity tempered (somewhat) by genius IQs and international law. I wonder not that they brought up water balloons, but that it took them so long to do so. Surely, if they could toss pumpkins from the plane with some assurance that no one on the ground would be hurt, they'd be doing that, too.

Counter Dog!

Jake has special powers.

This dog walks with two limps, can't run, and is on a special diet to make sure his joints don't have to carry too much weight. Yet somehow, when no one is looking, he manages to attack food that's way up on the counter -- even 18 inches back on the counter -- pull it down to the floor, and devour it.

How does he get up there? And more on my mind, where the heck does he put the food? I mean, I know he eats it, but how does he fit it in? I understand the instinct to eat until the supply runs out -- for an animal in the wild, not knowing when your next meal will run by means gorging when you have the chance. I'm not judging. But I'm bewildered. Jake probably only weighs about sixty pounds. His stomach can't be all that big. But he managed to eat about five monster cookies in one go last week.

Let me describe the Monster Cookie, so you have an idea. It has oats, peanut butter, chocolate chips and M+Ms -- lots of good cookies in one! Very, very filling. And big. I made them each about nine inches in diameter, and about 3/4 in. thick. (Mmmm, I'm gonna have one for dinner. Gonna make some vanilla cocoa I bought yesterday, and dunk the cookie in it. Oh yeah...) I, a grown-up human, can only eat one of those a day, and my capacity for cookies is great. So how does Jake do it? Is there something canines have going on physiologically that allows them to shove it down like that?

Inquiring minds want to know.

I Razed Myself

If I got a concussion, would it be noticeable?

I'm having my doubts.

I did the Viking thing for the party. Helmet, tunic, boots. I was showing off for my friends, and whipped out the final accessory: A mallet which, for some reason, had come in my tool kit instead of a regular hammer. In my enthusiasm, I accidentally conked myself in the head with it. (Hey, what if life were a cartoon and my helmet had rung like a bell? That would have been cool.)

As the laughter subsided, my friend Sean had me reenact The Conking for the camera, saying it was a "classic Holly moment." I was happy to oblige, but later I thought about his words and wondered, Do the people who know me think this kind of ditzy spazz-out is typical of me?

Well, duh. Of course they do.

If you had called my family to tell them I'd hammered my own head, my dad would have said, "Who let her play with a hammer?" Then they'd all have exchanged looks, silently agreeing that Holly can no longer be trusted with hardware.

And they'd be right.