A Tale of Four Kitties

This is a cat. I know it doesn't look like one. It looks like an alien. An angry, constipated alien. But it is a cat - a purebred Siamese. And it has been bred to look like this ... yes ... ON PURPOSE.

In ever more cartoonish ways, Siamese cats are being bred for arbitrary features such as big ears, wedge-shaped heads and tiny bones in order to win competitions that judge them on said arbitrary features. A person could drop between $200 and $3000 on a Siamese/angry alien kitten, depending on their pedigree. If you liked Siamese cats 20 years ago and wanted to get one now, you would have to search for a breeder of "traditional" Siamese cats to find an pet that looks remotely feline.

It's not just Siamese cats, either. Persian cats have been relentlessly bred for their adorable, squashed faces. There is no health benefit to the squashed-face breeding decision; on the contrary, because of their truncated ocular and nasal passages, the are particularly prone to infected eyes and sinuses. People who own Persians have to bathe them because their fur is too long for the cat to maintain themselves, and there are several suggested methods for dealing with eye goop. I'm serious. And my favourite breed of dog, the golden retriever, now has a projected 10 year life expectancy as opposed to the Goldens of 20 years ago, who had a 12-14 year life expectancy - all because of breeding for specific physical features.

It seems to me that breeding to this extent is a little weird. I mean don't we want our pets to live long, healthy lives?

I have never chosen a pedigree pet; as a matter of fact, I have never chosen a pet at all. My journey from lone-apartment dweller to mildly insane cat owner has been a strange one, as I can honestly say that I have never picked the cats that I ended up owning. And the cats that I have owned have been absolute mutts - the "Kid Rocks" of the animal world, if you will.

In 1999 I was living in a fantastic bachelor apartment on Isabella St. and loving it. I am definitely an animal lover, having worked on farms and ranches for much of my pre-Toronto life, and occasionally I would remark to a friend that I would like to get a pet one day. Every time, the friend would turn to me in horror and say "You couldn't keep a dog in this tiny apartment!
That would be cruelty!" (Note: I always thought that it was interesting that my friends thought that my apartment was too small for, say, a Lhasa Apso, but not for, say, ME. I think that says a little something about my friends, don't you?)

Part of my job was to arrange community service opportunities for my students, which included volunteer time at a local animal shelter. As a result of my ties to the shelter, I would get all of their emails regarding pet adoptions. I noticed that all of the cats on the list changed each month except for one sad, scrawny 11 year old black cat. Finally, after about six months of this, a passionate plea came into my inbox. Cleo, the cat, had been scratching all of the fur off of her face, and the shelter wasn't sure if it was due to some kind of allergy or simply because of the stress of having been in the shelter for over a year. Would anyone consider being a foster parent so that she could be away from the shelter until a permanent home was found? Before I knew what I had done I fired off an email saying that I would foster the cat. Allergies and small apartment be damned!

When Cleo arrived, she looked terrible. If you have read The Outsider, think of Salamano's dog and you'll have an idea of what Cleo's face looked like - scabby and awful. She immediately dashed under the bed and stayed there for the better part of a day. I basically did my own thing, thinking that she would come around eventually. I figured it was best to let her come to me in her own time.

And she did. After a few weeks her face was healing, she was gaining weight, and I couldn't sit down without her leaping into my lap. At night she would snuggle under the covers with me and when I woke up in the morning she would be sound asleep, sprawled next to me on her back, her head on the corner of my pillow. She was incredibly playful, and would chase toys for hours. And she didn't give me a moment of allergies.

It was part of my job as a foster-cat-parent to arrange meetings with people who wanted to adopt Cleo. The calls were few and far between, as a 11 year old black cat is a pretty hard sell; even without the age issue some people take that black cat superstition really seriously. But after about six months I noticed an interesting phenomenon; people would call and try to set up an appointment and I would put them off, or call and cancel. Finally, I decided it was time to get over my fear of cat commitment and just adopt the damn cat myself. I did, and she lived to be 16 years old, and made me happy every single day of her life.

After Cleo died, I didn't want to rush into getting another cat, but the apartment seemed horribly empty. A few months later, I decided to go to the humane society and get not one, but two cats. I often have very long days at school and I like to travel during my vacations, so I thought if I got a "bonded pair" of cats they could keep each other company while I was away from my new, larger apartment. I had a pair all picked out - they were as cute as little buttons on the Toronto Humane Society website - little year-old white cats snuggled up together in the same basket. When I got to the Humane Society however, the white bonded pair was gone.

"Do you have any other bonded pairs?" I asked an exhausted animal care worker.

"Just one," she said, and pointed me towards a cage.

I went over to it and peered in. There was one enormous black, long-haired cat sleeping inside. He looked like a felled mammoth, minus the tusks.

"There's only one cat in here." I objected.

The animal care worker came over, opened the cage and pushed the behemoth to one side. Almost underneath him, her fur all squashed, was an emaciated, four pound tabby who was so thin that she looked rather like the Siamese pictured above.

"Is she sick?" I gasped.

"No, I think she's just sad. He hasn't eaten much either, although you wouldn't know it. They're just stressed out."

"And this is your only bonded pair?

"Yep." she clarified.

"And that stuff all over their fur is ... "

"Diarrhea."

"Huh. Gross. Okay. I'll take them."

I took them home and cleaned them off and named them - Charlotte for the tabby, Fezzik for the behemoth (Note: I have my brother to thank for the excellent name suggestion taken from one of my favourite books. Still can't place it? Click here.) And as the months and years went by I was incredibly grateful that the bonded pair I was initially hoping to adopt was gone, because the mutts I got were the most hilarious, mismatched, loving and awesome pair of cats that I could have hoped for. To watch them sleep or play together always made me smile.

Fezzik and Charlotte

When Fezzik died last year of liver failure, I was heartbroken and so was Charlotte. She meowed at the door for two days and then curled up and went to sleep for two months. No more playing. I knew I wanted to find a friend for her, but I didn't think that I could take the walking up and down the Humane Society aisles, trying to choose the "right" cat. After all, I had never chosen a cat before, and the stakes were so much higher now; what if Charlotte didn't like her new friend?

Luckily, I didn't have to choose. My best friend found a kitten in a field, the only survivor in a litter of five whose brothers and sisters had either been carried away by foxes or frozen to death. Viki phoned me immediately.

"I found a kitten. I'll take it to the Humane Society if you don't want it, but ... do you want it?"

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

"I can't tell. It was nearly frozen when I found it, so it's all curled up and I don't want to disturb it."

"What colour is it?"

"Well, it's pretty dirty ... but I think it might be black. Or gray. Or orange ... it's REALLY dirty."

"It's probably got worms, doesn't it?"

"Oh yeah, I think so. And some pretty wicked ear mites too."

"Huh. Gross. Okay, I'll take it."

The cat turned out to be female, light gray and incredibly active and mischievous and the perfect companion for Charlotte, who now acts like a kitten herself again. Emily and Charlotte play together, sleep together and destroy all of my personal belongings ... together.

So there you have it. In the last ten years I have owned four cats, and I have personally selected none of them. They have all come to me, and they have been scabby, filthy, scrawny, tubby and sick (which would be great names if Disney ever decided to do a movie about disease-ridden dwarfs.) And you know what? They have been the best pets I could ask for. So you can keep your expensive, pedigreed, snooty, alien pets. All the more mutts for me.
Emily

Wediquette

My friend Noel got married yesterday, and let me tell you, he did it right. Not only did he marry Maria, who could be the most adorable woman that is legally allowed to reside in the GTA, but the couple managed to avoid the pressure applied by a few friends and family members, and do the wedding their way. This involved an afternoon trip to City Hall and then an evening barbecue reception with 30 or so guests at their home. As the groom and several of his guests were musicians, the festivities wrapped up with a late-night jam session in the kitchen. It was a great night and, as far as I could tell, it was exactly the night that they wanted.

As I have watched friends and family get married over the years, I have seen that it can be very difficult to get the wedding that you want. My best friend, who got married 10 years ago, wanted to plan a tiny, inexpensive wedding in her mother's backyard. The backyard concept took (and was gorgeous!) but 90 people and $15,000 later, she was shaking her head and wondering what happened. Another friend of mine, after warring with her mother and future mother-in-law for months, threw up her hands, handed over the reins and told them that she would just pick a dress, show up on the day and find out what they had planned for her. How do these things get so out of control? Well, I'll give you my take on it.

(Note: my 2.1 readers are probably thinking right now; "Hey! You've never been married, Alison Hunter! What right do you have to spout off about this?" Well, I have three answers for you. One: I have been involved in several weddings - three as a maid of honour/bridesmaid and three as an Emcee, so I've got some chops. Two: Although it's true that I have never been married, I did come very close getting married a few years ago, when I suddenly came upon evidence, much to my surprise, that my fiance was a giant douche. You can watch a dramatic re-enactment of our relationship breakdown here. Three: It's my damn blog. I set it up expressly so that I could spout off about stuff I don't know much about. If you don't like it, get your own damn blog. Now, on to the observations.)

It has become very clear to me that the wedding industry as a whole hates people that are getting married, particularly brides. My best friend's caterer, while providing outstanding food, threw an absolute hissy fit and then pouted when my friend decided not to offer strawberry daiquiris as her "signature drink" at her reception (coincidentally, it was also the caterer's "signature drink.") Linda, another friend of mine, was planning a tiny, family only ceremony with a catered dinner afterwards. Wherever she turned, venues REFUSED to give her a price list until she specified whether or not it was dinner party or a wedding dinner party, so that they could give her the appropriately inflated price list. Attach the word "wedding" or "bridal" to any purchase, and the price immediately jumps by at least 50%. And, drawn to the gleaming engagement ring, predatory, salivating, salespeople scuttle out from under nearby rocks, trying to convince the masses that the "wedding" cake-cutters, photo albums, chairs and toothpicks are somehow better than their everyday counterparts.

But, and this might not sit well with some of you, even more than the wedding industry, family and friends seem to have even more ability to pervert and alter the wedding plans of the happy couple. From my observations, these disagreements can usually be broken down in two categories; tradition conflicts and guest list conflicts.

Tradition conflicts are probably the trickiest because they deal with cultural expectations and standards, as well as religious ceremony and significance. I get that, I really do. But I have seen more than a few couples grit their teeth through a religious ceremony that has no significance, or that they even find offensive, all in the quest to please their families. Families, I know it's difficult and that you want the best for your loved ones. But isn't the point of the marriage ceremony to be significant for the people getting married? They are the ones who are going to have to do the marital heavy lifting for (hopefully) the rest of their lives - so their ceremony should be meaningful to them.

As for the guest list conflicts, I must admit that I find this one a bit insane. I have several friends who have received some SERIOUS grief from people that they have left off of the guest list in an attempt to keep their weddings small and intimate. I mean, really people. Can't we just be cool about this? Weddings are expensive; according to Report on Business magazine the average Canadian wedding in 2007 cost $25,883. That amount is a very respectable down payment for a house! Or if you prefer something a little less practical, it's the cash equivalent of 359 bottles of Herradura Anejo Tequila (yum), 647 viewings of "Evil Dead, the Musical" (I'm actually well on my way to that number) or approximately 4 visits with your cat to a veterinarian (I wish that were a joke.) If you are close enough to the couple that you feel very strongly about their wedding, you can find another way to celebrate with them if need be. Don't kick up a fuss if you are not on the invitation list; show your support for the couple by ... I don't know ... maybe... supporting their decision? You shouldn't assume that, because you are not going to the wedding, they don't value you as a friend. Save those assumptions for 2 years into their marriage when they say things to you like "Umm ... don't take this the wrong way, but you've been on the couch eating our food and drinking our beer for 5 weeks ... how's about heading home now? "

I don't know if I'll ever say wedding vows myself, but today I am prepared to take some wedding-bystander vows here, publicly, in front of all of you.

Ahem.

I, Alison Hunter, take you, (insert engaged couple's names here) to be responsible adults who know exactly how you want your wedding to be without my unsolicited input. I honour and cherish your decisions, and promise to never throw a hissy fit or pout if you decide to keep your wedding small and intimate. I vow to make myself available to you if you need anything, and to get out of your way if you don't. If you do invite me to your wedding, I promise not to be one of those lame-o guests who comes and eats the dinner and doesn't bring a gift. In buying the gift, I will consult the registry list so that you don't end up with nine fondue sets. I also promise that if I am invited to your wedding that I will act appropriately and avoid the following common wedding misbehaviours: leaving my cell phone on so that it rings in the middle of the ceremony, clinking my glass if you have made a "no-clinking" rule, giving a speech about your ex boy/girlfriends, sobbing in the corner because I am still single or getting drinks all night from the open bar and leaving them, half drunk, all around the reception hall. You may now give me a high five.

Seriously though, I do feel incredibly flattered whenever I get invited to a wedding. I mean, think about it. A couple is making lifelong vows to each other, putting the foundation down to build a life and a family together ... and they think that my presence will make the day even better? That's pretty darn cool. So whether or not you get invited to a friend's wedding, just roll with it. It's all good. And it's all in the name of love, baby.

Tragical Realism

"Umm... like... being so far up in the air, so far, far high ... it's like being an angel. It just shows me how much in love I am."

This is one of the inanities that I subjected myself tonight, as I was drawn like a moth to the flame to the finale of "The Bachelor." The bachelorette who formulated the poetic sentence in question was parasailing and, I guess, felt like an angel... in love? Her train of thought was a bit hard to follow.

I didn't even know that "The Bachelor" had another season going, but when I flipped the TV on, there it was, chugging along as merrily as it did when I last watched it, probably about six years ago. All of the requisite ingredients were there ... the Bachelor (who this time, in a shocking twist, has a sexy accent!) a blonde finalist and a brunette finalist. The blonde bard of parasailing "won," an engagement ring and a fiance after six deeply intimate weeks of polygamous dating. The brunette, in her disgust at this outcome, said of the blonde "but... she was the falsest person here!"

To be the "falsest" person on a reality TV show is high praise indeed. When I ask my students to define "reality TV," they often reply that it is "TV programs based on things that really happen." But of course, this is the furthest thing from the truth, because otherwise we would assign the "reality TV" designation to the nightly news, or perhaps to live sporting events. No, to truly gain the "reality TV" label, the situations on the program must be almost entirely contrived. Washed-up celebrities living in the same house, wives being traded from one household to another, Scott Baio seeking out life coaching ... THESE are the "realities" we are presented with on the programs.

"Survivor," the granddaddy of reality TV, presents us with a very interesting take on reality. Sure, the contestants are actually deprived of food to some degree, and are actually living on a tropical beach, but their survival tasks involve answering trivia questions about each other, running obstacle courses, and solving gigantic wooden puzzles. My very favourite part of this reality show is checking in once each season to see how they have designed what I call the "indigenous pen." This is, of course, the ornately decorated Sharpie marker that contestants use when voting each other out of the tribe during the solemnly titled "tribal council." Each season the "indigenous pen" looks as if it was hewn from a sacred tree by the local shaman, and that it therefore must be an accurate representation of the organically harvested Sharpie markers of the region.

But I know that there are "Bachelor" fans and purists out there. So let's take a look at the "reality" elements of "The Bachelor," shall we? Far be it for me to say that you cannot learn anything from reality television! I have compiled a list of life skills that you can acquire by watching "The Bachelor."

1.) How to move into a house with 25 other suckers in order to compete for the attention of one person. Or, if you're a bachelor, it prepares you for that inevitable, golden opportunity when you too get a chance to try to impress 25 fame-seeking, captive women who are constantly being plied with alcohol. This opportunity is not dissimilar to the opportunity to go big game hunting at the Toronto Zoo. Gotta love those odds!

2.) How to go on dates that involve helicopter rides, parasailing ("Wheeeee! I'm an angel!" etc.,) trips to Barbados and gondola rides in Venice. How to dress in couture gowns and designer tuxedos. How to select an engagement ring which boasts a diamond the approximate size of a Toyota Yaris. And... how to have all of this paid for entirely by a large multinational corporation. I don't know how your relationships blossom, but over the years mine have followed this pattern pretty consistently.

3) Learning how to sensitively reject a woman. As we know from "The Bachelor," what you do is assemble a bunch of beautiful, fiercely competitive women around the "rejectee" and hand a rose to everyone in the room BUT her. You make sure that the event is witnessed by about 15 trillion people including a large viewing audience, a ubiquitous "host," several cameramen, producers, key grips, best boys and Phil the boom mike operator. Be sure to preface the rejection with "this is the hardest decision I have ever had to make," and crack a bottle of champagne with your remaining conquests the minute the woman is finally out the door.

4.) Learning to depend on others to do your thinking for you. If you're the Bachelor, you don't even have to know how to COUNT, because there is a host there to do your pesky math for you. Don't worry if you are at the "Rose Ceremony," and your rose count starts to dwindle, because your host will be there to clarify matters by saying: "Ladies ... Lance (or whatever your cheeseball name happens to be) ... this is the final rose tonight." This is incorporated into the ceremony because the Bachelor clearly can't tell the difference between two roses and, say, one oven. The host is kind of like the intellectual prompts you see in the form of flash cards taped to kindergarten classroom walls; "Apple starts with A!"

5.) And finally, the most applicable life skill: breaking up. There have now been 12 Bachelors on the groundbreaking program, and, including the one on the show that just finished, only two are still with their buxom picks. Ain't love grand?

Let's just take a minute and do the math on that. If your chances of being picked as the bachelor's partner are 1/25 (4%) and then your chances of surviving as a couple are 1/6 (17%) ... well ... there's gotta be a better way to find love. Dare I say ... a more realistic way to find love?

Then again, I'm probably wrong about that. After all, I don't have a "host" to do my math for me.