Get it Right

Anyone who has visited another country has probably had the pleasure to hear or read "engrish," or delightfully mangled English. I loved getting to experience it while working in Japan, where I never quite blended into the background completely.

I lived on a peaceful street in a suburban-like neighborhood of Miyazaki. Once, on a day off, two young sisters were riding their bikes past me and they stopped.

"Are you gaijin (foreigner)?" the older girl asked me Japanese.

"Yes, I am from America," I answered.

The sisters looked at each other, their expressions lighting up in recognition of the place I came from.

"Oh, hello!" Big Sister said to me. She seemed proud to be able to speak English to me, even a single word. She rolled her L's, the way R's are rolled in Spanish. It sounded more like "ha-doh" the way she pronounced it.

I am used to the Japanese accented version of English, but I deliberately replied with my own Southern California accent. "Hello."

Little Sister piped up, and boy did she have an attitude. "No, it's not 'hello'" she informed me in Japanese. "It's 'ha-doh!'"

I bobbed my head in a small, meek bow of apology. "Sumimasen (Excuse me)."

I could just hear the unspoken words probably going through their minds: "Stupid American!"

Do You Know Me?

One of my former dance partners, Jo, has made quite an impressive career for herself as a television hostess, most notably for travel programs. I think she may be the British equivalent of the hosts for those home renovation shows we have here in the US.

It was fun being with her in public while visiting England last year, and seeing people vaguely recognize her without being able to place her. She would get that look that seems to ask, "Why do you look so familiar? Did we used to work together, or go to school together?"

I was tempted to paraphrase Phoebe from "Friends" when she discovered that her twin sister became an adult film actress and was using her name.

"You're trying to place her, aren't you?" I wanted to ask passers-by in London. "You're trying to figure out where you know her from. Well, it's from porn, you big pervert! Your recognize her from porn."

Paper or Plastic Brush?

I love making my friends laugh. JB and I have shared some good laughs together while working in Japan at a theme park, especially in the boys' dressing room.

Once, while getting ready before a show, JB walked out of the adjoining restroom. Hand on hip and disgust in his tone, he said, "We really need to get a toilet brush for that bathroom."

"Why?" I asked. "Are we out of toilet paper?"

I Will Remember You

In our quiet neighborhood, there is a cross in the middle of the road, right on the black asphalt surface. Some days it is drawn in bright pink, but usually it is done in white chalk. Sometimes it looks more like a plus sign. But it is renewed on a daily basis, as are the letters and numbers written on the curb in blue chalk:

Yoda R.I.P. 4-20-08 to 8-2-09

I had to assume that Yoda was a beloved pet, some one's furry baby that didn't even make it to sixteen-months-old.

One morning, while walking my dogs, I saw her bend down in the middle of the street, small chalk piece in hand. It was the younger silver haired lady from what I call the Elderly House (there are three people living there, all with silver hair).
She told me that Yoda was one of her cats, found dead against the curb one August day. She thinks Yoda may have been hit by a car.

I said I was sorry for her loss. I told her we had lost our kitty, too, coincidentally when he was almost sixteen months old.

Neither of us sounded too grief stricken, but we both agreed that the loss of any pet was something to be mourned, for literally years.

I still think of Cleo kitty, gone for a little over a year, now. I think of Caesar pug and Oscar the one-eyed pug on almost a daily basis. I picture them as angels who are watching me, knowing when I think about them, missing them. I pretend that they influence who they can in heaven, putting in a good word for me to ensure continued blessings for my earthly life.

And I check the middle of the road for Yoda's cross whenever I drive by the Elderly House. It comforts me somehow, knowing that a vigil continues to be kept for the deceased kitty, gone but not forgotten.

3 Down, 9 to Go

Tonight, I made my first attempt at trapping feral cats. So far, I've caught three. It was surprisingly easy, canned tuna being the bait I used. I'm waiting to snare one more, the fourth trap standing alone in the backyard, its cage door propped open and poised for snapping shut.

The cats are suspicious, I guess, especially the older ones.

The three I've trapped so far are from the same litter as our new six-month-old kitten, Sabina. Perhaps they are more naive and easier to catch when they're still very young. Resting quietly under towel cage covers right now are Lucie, Brownie, and Callie. There's one last sibling to trap from their litter: Fluffy.

Even if I don't catch a fourth tonight, it's still a good start. The trapped kittens, per instructions, are not to have any food and water after midnight before I bring them in for free neutering tomorrow. In the morning I will drive the caged kitties to the FixNation clinic, where volunteer veterinarians will spay or neuter them for free. I'll pick them up after work and hold them overnight before releasing them back into our backyard.

The older cats were hovering earlier, attracted almost immediately by the scent of oily canned tuna. They circled the cage traps and sniffed and sniffed. But they weren't about to give in to temptation as easily as the younger felines.

After tomorrow's trip, I am due to go back on Sunday with another batch of ferals to fix. I'm already worried that the other cats are going to be too clever and hard to catch. During my training session at FixNation, I was told that Kentucky Fried Chicken usually does the trick for the more hard-to-trap ferals.

It's a good thing Colonel Sanders is only a half mile away!

A Big One

Tommy J. was one of the more fabulous Disney boys in the parade department.

In the 80's . . .

He was tall, Black, and effeminate. He usually got the better dance parts, such as Court Dancer for the float of Sleeping Beauty's castle in the Christmas parade.
He was also handsome. After serving time in the Mouse House he went to Europe to work as a fashion model. I remember spotting him in a magazine ad for Oak Tree, a men's clothing store.

I was in the backstage cafeteria for a lunch break one day, as were some of the parade dancers. One of the girls got in line and asked for a baked potato.

"Do you want a big one or a little one?" the woman behind the counter asked her.

The pretty parade performer answered just as Tommy stepped into the cafeteria. "I want a big one!"

"Honey," Tommy said, missing not a beat, "We all want a big one."

Fixing the Nation, One Cat at a Time

We have a problem, a cat problem. We have become the Crazy Cat Ladies on the block, thanks to the dozen or so feral felines that have made our backyard and front yard their outdoor home. Thank goodness we're tucked away on a cul de sac, at least.

Yes, I feed them. And I provide fresh water. Every day.

"Don't start," I had told Domestic Partner a couple of years ago. He was putting some of Cleo's dry kibble into a Styrofoam party bowl outside.

"It's just a little," he protested. "I feel sorry for the kitty - she's so cute."

Just a little. "That's how it starts," I replied.

Flash forward to 2010. Cleo disappeared a year ago, never came back. We knew it was a risk, allowing him to be an outdoor cat. Our new kitten, Sabina, is almost full grown. The runt of the litter (and abandoned by Backyard Mama cat), she and her four siblings are about five months old, now. Her sisters and brothers - Brownie, Callie, Fluffy, and Lucy - stay close to the house, in the backyard. They are old enough to no longer need Backyard Mama Cat's care or milk, but we still see her, too.

Siamese cat and Gimpy cat play with the babies and snuggle with them at night. I see them in the morning sometimes, clumped together under the bush by the garbage cans, surviving another chilly night in one big, multi-colored fur heap.

I know: Don't start naming them. That just exacerbates the problem by allowing me to get emotionally attached, even if only a little.

We like having the cats around but they are messy. Domestic Partner replaced the front lawn's grass with pebbles and palm trees. The backyard has been transformed into a large square beach of gravel. On either side of the beach are beds of mulch that used to be one of the trees in our backyard.

It's one giant kitty litter box.

And our dogs eat the cat poop. Sometimes Moxie pug has worms in her own poop, which makes her ravenously hungry. It's easy to fix with two or three doses of de-worming powder added to her food. But there's nothing to stop the dogs from eating more cat poop during the day while we're at work.

So, it's a problem.

Domestic Partner has run out of patience. The gardening of both the back and front yards is his hobby, his relaxation on the weekends. And he is over the cat poop. He has been after me to do something about the cat population for a while.

I could stop feeding them, but I feel guilty about cutting off the food and water supplies after making all current cats dependent since birth. I called our local animal shelter to see if they could refer me to a trap-and-release program that would spay and neuter feral cats. They referred me to Fix Nation, a Los Angeles based non-profit group that provides free services in their Trap-Neuter-Release program.

They seem like an excellent group. They care about the welfare of strays and feral cats. They are very particular about using humane traps. They are specific about using humane carriers and making sure the carrier is covered by a towel when a frightened cat is being transported. And they ask that you have a quiet laundry room or bathroom that you can hold the cat in, post-operation, before releasing it back into the neighborhood.

It will take some work. First there is an application to fill out and submit. Once approved, the organization is willing to lend out traps if you don't have any (I don't). But I have to do the trapping myself, and drive the imprisoned kitties to Fix Nation's location. And not in the back of a truck or an open air vehicle, as also specified in their application. And if I trap more than one cat at a time, I must be willing to borrow/use a carrier for each individual captive.

It seems a bit daunting, but I must halt the cycle of two new litters a year, even if I have to trap and transport one cat at a time. Already, I saw Front Yard Mama Cat this weekend, surrounded by Siamese cat (her offspring) and three other males. Gimpy cat was on her back, the scruff of Mama's neck between his teeth.

And Tuxedo cat, the Biggest Male that only returns to our yard when someone is in heat, has been yowling around outside, again. We are very familiar with his yowl. It's a tentative and meek cry, a mismatch to his huge tom cat size. It's his gentle way of announcing, "I need me some kitty lovin'!"

I hope I can trap him, as well as Gimpy cat and the two Mama cats. Wish me luck!