A Mood Alert Dog? Now THIS is what I need

Yesterday I stumbled across an amazing short film about a 15 year old girl and her Diabetic Alert Dog. Jackie the dog alerts Grace to fluctuations in her blood sugar that Grace cannot feel, and protects her charge from diabetic seizures, coma and, possibly, death.

As a Cat Person, I have never been privvy to animals with special skills. Penny the Feline can recognise the words 'treat', 'food' and, well, 'Penny', but that's about it. She was useless at learning to use the human toilet (Litter Kwitter is bullshit, people, it is bullshit) and has still not quite comprehended that we do not enjoy gifts of lizards, mice and rats.

Furthermore, my late rabbits Spunky, Pretzel and Hot Cross Bun Bun didn't even recognise their own names. If they had special skills we were unaware of them (and they most certainly didn't extend to avoiding foxes). So I was incredibly impressed by the powers of dogs to assist humans with disabilities.

Not only can Diabetic Alert Dogs recognise blood sugar changes, but Seizure Alert Dogs can, astonishingly, predict seizures in their epileptic owners up to 20 minutes ahead of time. And this got me thinking. What other issues could dogs be trained to recognise? Could I have my own Alert Dog to help me in my life?

"You have PMS, Human"

For example:

• A Mood Alert Dog, who would predict a rapid plummet in mood up to 15 minutes before it occured, then alert my loved ones with special barks so that they can get away from me quickly before becoming a casualty.
• A Bad Man Alert Dog, who would assess potential suitors via their pheromones and warn me not to get emotionally involved.
• A Hormone Alert Dog, good for sniffing out PMS, ovulation, early pregnancy, oncoming periods and menopause. No more urine tests or doctors visits required!
• A Conflict Alert Dog, especially for the family, who would recognise upcoming tensions and arguments and separate warring parties before the trouble began.
• A Binge Alert Dog, who would bark and nip and attack when I overeat/ drink too much/ attempt to drunk text/ basically do anything wrong at all.

Watch Grace's story here. Jackie the dog first appears at about 3:15. Amazing.

Fear On Hissing Street

Midnight. Last night. An inky black eve on the Central Coast. The house was silent. I was asleep in my bed with the cat curled up comfortably on my head*.

And then, suddenly, a noise.

"HISSSSSSSSSSS"

But I was dreaming. A beautiful dream about something or the other lovely**. I stirred briefly, then allowed myself to slip back into unconsciousness.

And then, once more:

"HISSSSSSSSSSS"

I startled awake. What the fuck? The sound was next to my head.

I switched on the lamp. Penny the cat was in full alert mode - tail bushy, hairs prickling, a look of fevered concentration on her delicate feline face.

Something was in my room. Worse. Something was in my bed.

Penny was sniffing crazily, burrowing under doonas and pillows, bounding to the floor to search under the bed, then leaping up to the sheets again.

"What is it Penny?" I cried. "WHAT'S THERE?"***

Penny didn't answer. But then I heard it. A scamper.

Mouse. MOUSE. It was a mouse. It had to be a mouse.

Oh my god. A mouse. A rodent type mouse. A mouse. A mouse. Did I say mouse?

Artist's Impression of Pathetic Scared-Of-Rodential Woman

I am terrified of mice. Terrified. In a primitive, visceral way. I am not scared of spiders, or cockroaches, or dogs. I am not scared of sharks, or lions, or bears****. But I am absolutely jump-on-the-bed, scream-like-a-girl, burn-down-the-house scared of mice.

But I was alone in the room. The nominative man of the house (my father) had returned to Sydney. The real man of the house (my mother) was fast asleep in her bedroom, and whilst I did contemplate waking her, I knew my chances of getting babysitting help for the next couple of weeks would be severely compromised as a result. 

I summoned up every ounce of strength I had.... and peered under the bed.

Nothing. At least, nothing that I could see. But the cat was still bristling and searching, and the scamper had definitely scampered, and my adrenaline was pumping, and there was clearly nothing to do but leave my kids and mum to their own fate and hop in the car and drive back home to Sydney.

But by then it was 12.14pm, and I was fairly tired. And then there was the not-minor issue of my clothes being in the suitcase, which theoretically could also be inhabited by said murderous mouse.

And so I slammed the bedroom door on all living creatures, and went out to the living room, where I slept fitfully on the couch for the next few hours.

This morning, of course, Penny was sleeping peacefully on my bed. I choose to believe she has chased out the rodents, frightened them so comprehensively that they will never return.

But in case I am wrong, I'm going back home today. It was either that or burn down my parents' house, and that babysitting help you see......


*comfortably for her, that is. Not for me.

**the trauma of subsequent events has wiped the loveliness from my mind.

***and yes, this is not literary embellishment. I really did speak to the cat. I'm not sure whether I was expecting an answer, but I was frightened, and alone

****admittedly this is a theory only, as my lack of fear of sharks, lions and bears has not been tested, but I'm sure I'd be totally fine.

More Sh**t I Could Not Make Up

This is part two of my ridiculous, stupid, you can't make this s**t up day from hell. Part one is HERE.

So the cat escaped again. From my multiple-punctured, bleeding arms.

"NOOOOOOOO!" I cried. "PENELOPE NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

But it was too late. She had disappeared over the fence.

This time, she had jumped into the other neighbour's backyard. Yes, you read that right. The OTHER neighbour.

So there I went, knocking on a different door, where a different lady answered, and this different lady was also in her nightie. I kid you not. This was starting to become a pattern.

And so I was shown into a different house, to a different backyard, where I rescued the same bloody cat, again cowering in a corner. And I carried her back through this house - thankfully sans-dog - where she proceeded to go equally demented and made further, significant puncture wounds in the region of my arms and shoulder.

But this time, this time, I got her home.


Picasso showed stunning foresight when painting this pic of me

And then I rang my GP, who checked my records, and told me I hadn't had a tetanus shot in 15 years. Which was delightful news, because there is nothing I enjoy more than running into the doctor's of a Monday afternoon and having a jab in my arm that will leave me sore for two days.

But I did it. Because it sounded marginally better than dying of tetanus. (Though as I was still without a coffee machine, death sounded faintly appealing.)

I got my jab. And then I made my sorry way home, broken and horribly wounded and with spirit crushed beyond recognition.

Penny the cat was waiting for me, purring. I noticed that her litter needed emptying and so I donned the gloves and began shovelling the clumps into the toilet. I buy special litter that is flushable, which is highly convenient, except when it isn't.

Because the litter didn't flush. Oh no. It clogged up the toilet which began overflowing onto the bathroom floor. And there I was, ankle deep in grossness, weeping into my plunger and bemoaning the tragedy of my life.

And that, my friends, is where the story ends. I told you. I couldn't make this s**t up.


I Could Not Make This S**t Up

I am currently dealing with a fascinating array of challenges in my personal life. Every day something new comes up and I bat it away with the keen eye and practiced wrist of a tennis player (if, that is, the tennis player was playing with small nuclear firearms and not balls).

But today. Today was different.

Because today, people, I hit the trifecta.

It started with coffee this morning. Or lack of coffee this morning. Yes, I crawled out of bed (after battling flu all weekend) bleary eyed and incoherent, reached for the Nespresso machine, flicked the switch, and...

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I flicked it again. And a third time. Nothing. It was dead. I tried to cry, but without coffee, my body was unable to produce enough fluid for a tear. I just hovered in the kitchen, a wretched, broken shadow of my usual self, parched and confused and desperately alone.

For without coffee, I have no friend.

Somehow I managed to get the kids to school, and stopped at my local café for a fix. Miraculously cognisant again, I trudged home again, ready to put my five deadlines aside to take my machine to be fixed.

But first, I opened the balcony door to bring in the laundry. And within thirty seconds, the cat had sprinted out onto the balcony, across the neighbour's balcony, and into the neighbour's neighbour's backyard. I could hear her there, meowing pitifully, desperate but unable to make her way home.

I sprang into action. I ran to the neighbour's neighbour's, pounded on their door, and disturbed a lovely old lady in her nightie.

"Let me in!" I yelled. "I must get my cat!"

She looked confused, and slightly fearful, but I was frantic to retrieve my kitty.

"I need to get into your backyard! You have my cat!"

The poor dear acquiesced as she could see I was quite clearly mad with despair. She let me in through her house, past about a dozen yapping dogs, and into the garden. There I found Penny, cowering in a corner, covered in leaves.

She leaped into my arms and I carried her through the (dog infused) house, where she proceed to go UTTERLY INSANE. Yes, she bit me and tore my top and dug her nails deep into my flesh and howled like a banshee and inflicted at least 16 puncture wounds (I checked) upon my person.

And I yelled in agony but held my grip firm and got her out the front door and to my apartment building... where she bit deep into my neck and I screamed and let her go.

And she escaped again. And for the rest of the story, you'll have to tune in tomorrow.

Cat of a Neurotic

Call me crazy (no, don't really, that was just a turn of phrase) but when Penelope the cat woke up with a big white scab on her nose, I could only draw one conclusion.

Cat melanoma.

My name is Penny, and I'm a Cat of a Neurotic

Now, it didn't matter that Penelope is only 12 weeks old. Melanoma can develop in the very young. It didn't matter that I didn't know if cat melanoma could develop in the very young. It didn't matter that I didn't even know if cat melanoma was a thing.

Lack of knowledge has certainly never stopped me from worrying before.

It did, however, matter that Penelope has never been outside. Once I realised this I was forced to revise my diagnosis. Even I know that melanoma is caused by the sun.

And so there was only one other conclusion to draw.

Ringworm. My cat had ringworm. And ringworm was very, very bad.

Now, Penny's nose didn't look a lot like the noses of ringworm cats. I know this because I Googled ringworm, and found some revolting pictures. Clearly, Penny had an atypical case of the Ringworm Nose. And obviously, atypical cases are going to be far, far harder to treat.

The really worrying thing was that the kids and I were going to get ringworm too. Google said it could happen, and if it could happen then it's totally going to. And ringworm in humans is absolutely gross. It can cover your whole body, like a plague of, well, worms, which is not a good look when you go to school pickup. I had visions of the kids and I, stuck at home for weeks like lepers, with ringworm ravaging us from head to toe.

I knew I had to bite the bullet and go to the vet, who could seal my fate before the horror set in.

So off we trudged, the kids and Penny and I. I braced for the bad news. I was ready. I was primed.

And guess what? The cat has the flu. The garden variety flu, of the feline kind. No melanoma. No ringworm. No leper colony. No disaster.

Either Google knows nothing, or I was searching the wrong term.

'Cat of a Neurotic' might have been a better place to start.

One Life Down

Princess Penelope Fancypants is a rescue cat in more than one sense of the word.

Yes, she was an abandoned kitty whom we rescued from the vet. But she also rescued us, and continues to do so, every day.

Earlier this year my husband and I separated. I don't do the whole blogging-through-adversity thing, so all I will say is that it's been rough for everyone, and we are all doing okay.

But last night, things took a shocking turn.

I woke in the middle of the night to a strange sound coming from outside my bedroom window. It was like a woman on drugs singing in an alien language whilst inhaling helium. I live behind a tribe of young men so while the drugs and the helium made sense the female part didn't.

I peered out the window and saw a huge, angry cat. It was either one of the young men transmuted into a feline, or just a huge, angry cat. I went with the latter and banged on the window until the hideous beastie ran away.

And then I realised.

Penelope wasn't in my bed.

Penelope has been sleeping with me since we brought her home. I love nothing more than to feel her soft little body curled up next to me on the pillow. I love nothing less than to have her climb on my face at 6am demanding food, but hey, that's the price that I pay.

But last night, Penelope wasn't in my bed.

Recovering from my her ordeal

I called for her. She didn't come. I began searching the apartment. It's not a big apartment. There aren't that many places she could have been. I looked in all of them. She wasn't there. I woke up the kids by looking in their rooms. And when I couldn't find her in their rooms, I looked in the other, scary places she could have been. The oven. The fridge. The microwave (I know, but it was 3.30am and I was frantic). The drier. No sign of her.

I felt sick. I couldn't believe it. She had disappeared. I could feel myself plummet into despair. I am resilient. I can cope with whatever life throws at me. But I cannot cope with my kitten disappearing from my apartment. No I cannot.

There is a cat flap that leads to the balcony, and I checked the balcony for the twentieth time. And then my heart lurched. Because the tiny gap in the glass fence, that we had blocked up with a pillow, was no longer blocked up. The pillow had come loose. Penelope must have fallen off the balcony.

I grabbed my coat and ran outside to the little courtyard area directly under the balcony. And I took a deep breath and prepared myself. There could be a dead cat there. And I would have to deal with it. Me. And me alone.

I braced and I looked. There was no cat. Thank god.

But where was she?

"Penelope?"

And I turned and then I saw her. Cowering in a corner, her tail huge and bushy, her eyes huge and scared. My rescue kitty. She was safe.

I scooped her up and took her inside and cuddled her for about an hour. She didn't purr, her tail didn't return to normal, but I knew she was safe and that she'd be okay.

And today, she is. And so am I.

One life down for Penelope. But she has eight more left. And I have several more, too.

This Cat, She Be WISE

I've had Princess Penelope Fancypants for about three weeks now and let me tell you, that kitty is smart. And she has some wisdom to impart to you.

I Am Going To Sleep On Your Face

1. No-one will criticise you for wearing a fur coat if it is your own fur.
2. Hairbands are vicious. They may look innocuous, but don't be fooled. Kill the fuckers before they get to you first.
3. 'Tuna' is an insult to one's tastebuds. Don't even think about eating it. If it's not 'Tuna Feast', 'Tuna Platter', or 'Tuna In A Delicate Sauce', you turn your back and walk away. Did you hear me? TURN YOUR BACK AND WALK AWAY.
4. If you miss the table whilst leaping off the couch, just do a little somersault and act like it was perfectly deliberate and no-one will notice. Promise.
5. The most exciting time of night to scuttle from one end of the floorboards to the other is around 11pm when everyone is asleep. You can really hear the noise. It's epic.
6. If someone really loves you, they will let you sleep on their head. Trust me. And if they don't, it's best to find out early and get out quickly before anyone gets too attached.
7. Computer keyboards are all warm and buzzy. Sit on them after they've been running for a while and they will give your bottom a special tingly feeling. I'm shivering just thinking about it.
8. Never scratch a scratching post. Seriously. That shit is just demeaning. Use the furniture, for Christsake.
9. Boxes are AWESOME. Drawers, too, are super fun. The smaller the better.
10. Sleep is for pussies. Geddit? PUSSIES! Bwahahahahaha!

Accidentally Fancypants

So the other day I somehow bought a baby on a whim. (Not a human baby, of course. I wouldn't pay money for one of those. [Though I may occasionally pay someone to take one of mine away.])

No, I bought a furry baby. A little rescue kitten. And I didn't mean to buy her. I truly didn't. I had intended to pick up my son from school and drive him directly home. But my friend Lana had mentioned over breakfast that the vet near my home had some rescue kittens, and a sudden, feline madness took over.

"Can I make a quick stop?" I asked my son impulsively.

"Okay," he said. "Do you need to go to the shops?"

"No, not shops," I said, and parked the car. The kittens were calling to me. They were girls, I just knew it. My Princess Fancypants was inside waiting.

Seriously - could YOU resist this face?

My son looked confused as we walked into the vet. "Mum, what are we..."

"I hear you have rescue kittens?" I asked the receptionist.

"NO," he said. "No! REALLY?" (My son, that is. The receptionist said "Yes!" as I knew she would. Because I could see the kittens beside the door.)

""We have two little girls here at the moment," she said, and I looked over and there I saw my baby.

She was tiny, and cute, with four little white socks. She had huge green eyes, and a Fancypants face.

"Penelope!" I cried, and I still don't know why. I don't like the name Penelope; at least, I didn't before. But she was totally Penelope. It may as well have been written on her collar. (But she didn't have a collar. She was way too small.)

So Princess Penelope Fancypants has come to live with us. And already we know quite a bit about her. She likes tuna, but definitely doesn't like chicken. She likes her bouncy ball, but thinks the toy mouse is lame. She likes her scratching post but refuses to scratch it. And if she wants to sleep under the couch all day then she's damn well going to do it and there's nothing we can do but RESPECT.

We welcome the newest member of our family. We will serve you, Penelope, and you own us already.

But if anyone else ever casually mentions a rescue animal, I'm going to block my ears, hum, and drive on.