Max

So, I should tell you the story of how Max came to live with us.

We were at Rona, buying the wood for our deck. And, ahead of us, in line, there was a woman with a dog. And I went to pet the dog, and she told me she needed a new home for a kitten her daughter had just brought home.

And somehow, without knowing quite what happened, Mr. Spit and I came home from the hardware store with a kitten. All of 3 pounds of inky blackness, he fit in Delta's bowl. We called him Maximus, he was large in spirit, if not in body, at least at the time. And for the first bit, he was a snugly cat. Honest. He purred, he cuddled, he liked to be held.

And, gradually, in the way of cats, and black cats in particular, he grew into his personality. As he gained weight, he gained attitude.

This culminated in his first vet visit, when I wrote a note of apology to the vet. Surely, thought I, it was only because he was surprised that he drew blood from the vet and I.

This became a recurring theme with Max. Max became the cat that everyone was puzzled we kept. He grumpy and touchy and just plain mean. He didn't like people, and he didn't like us. But if every living thing must love another, he loved Delta. She carried him in her mouth as a kitten. He groomed her face, slept curled up with her.

We began, Mr. Spit and I, to refer to ourselves as humans. "Human", we would imagine him saying, "Let me in, let me out. Too bad, I'm on the chair now."

And he would tolerate attention, if only in small doses, and in particular ways. He liked me to scratch between his shoulder blades, he would wait as you finished off the milk, because he knew you would give him the cap. And he would play a peculiar form of feline hockey, dropping the cap at your feet, and waiting for you to punt it back to him, as he waited down the hallway.

He would chair surf as a kitten, running from the front door, pounding his way down the hall, to land on the wheeled chair, and go sailing across the floor. I think there were bonus points if he hit one of the dogs, or a human in the process.

No, Max wasn't cuddly. And he didn't give you any warning. One second he was tolerating your petting, and the next he was biting your hand.

So, no, Max wasn't a friendly cat. You didn't call him kitty. I would tell him he was a handsome boy, and he would look at me with disgust. No, I must be honest, disgust and disdain were Max's natural looks. He simply didn't do cute.

He went out, as he usually did on Sunday. And we became concerned, when he did not show up for dinner, belligerent because he was hungry, on Sunday night. And, it was with a sinking heart that I checked the front door and the kitchen window this morning, and there was no angry cat waiting for me.

He does not travel far from us. To the neighbours on the left, to be fed chicken, and a few doors down to visit on the front porch with the two old tom's that live there. They sit on the front porch, looking for all the world like old men at a feed store, with a toothpick in their mouth, wearing flannel shirts with suspenders, and old ball caps. And they wait for the cat nip. But always home for dinner.

I called the city pound this morning, and there was a black cat there, picked up far-ish away from our house, but certainly not outside of the realm of a determined cat with a chip on his shoulder.

Mr. Spit wondered if Max would travel so far out of his range, but he and I remained convinced that this was, indeed, our cat, when the lady on the phone told us they couldn't check for a tattoo, because he had bitten the tech. "Aha. That's our boy", we said.

And so I left work early, to go and bail my cat out of jail. Laughing that only my cat would bite the hand that is rescuing him.

Except, it wasn't our cat.

And I drove home, tears filling my eyes. I walked into the back yard and caught a flash of fur. But, it was not a sleek black cat, looking angry at the world. It was a small grey male.

And I knew, with the sinking heart of a pet owner, of a pet lover, who has given her heart to 16 pounds of black menace, that Max is gone. There is no place so far, that he would not have come to defend his back yard from intruders.

And I know, with my heart heavy, that my cat is gone. And in my imaginings I can hear his strident yowls, his demands to be in or out, his wondering screech when he was on a different floor than me. And I will look for his face to come around my bedroom door tonight, and I will wait to play the game of "catch the hand". And I will look at my newel post when I come in the house, at least for a while, waiting to catch sight of a black cat, looking at me as I unlock the door.

And I hope, and I pray, that someone, somewhere, finds his remains. And calls the city. Because I would like to say good-bye. I would like to tell him that he wasn't the greatest cat, but he was ours, and we gave him heart room, and care and concern. And he was loved.

And, I will once again reflect on the joy and the pain of giving another living being heart room. And I will acknowledge, amidst the hurt, that my heart is bigger, better and more full for the animals that have graced my life.

Monday Miscellany

• Well, Mr. Spit leaves for forever and three days (ok, probably not that long). But, he will be home for my birthday this year. Which is exciting and happy and shiny, because it hasn't happened in 4 years. Only downside: I'm spending my 30th birthday volunteering at a Casino for these guys. "Cause, you know, I'm the chair and all.


• I didn't show you my house guest the other week. He was sweet and wonderful and particularly well mannered, except for a tendency to talk in the middle of the night, and the slight accident under the bed. But he was adorable, all five pounds of snugly wonderfulness. His name is Squeak. He's actually my mum's, but he comes to stay when she's out of town. Yes, I'm hoping she goes away a lot. (Why no, Max wasn't very good about his presence, why do you ask?)



• I am working my way through Paper Mario. The play guide, no doubt written by a five year old, has been helping enormously.



• Miss Maggie has her first surgery this week, if you would be so kind to keep this cute face in your thoughts and prayers. This 'surgery' is to figure out how deep her jaw abscesses are, so that we can figure out how many shekels it will be to have them fixed. Via root canal. Would someone please tell me why I can't claim her as a dependent. Seems to me that she is pretty darn dependent on me.
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• I just need to point this out. Canada is having a Federal election. As we speak, we are in the campaign period. The Writ was dropped today, and our election will be October 14th. 34 days. Just sayin'.
  

The tomato's are exploding. Really, picked a whole whack of them today. The freezer is going to be full. I can't decide between my traditional spaghetti sauce, and salsa. Any votes?

I Feel World Weary Today

I'm not sure when it started.

Perhaps on Thursday when the re-org was announced at work. Now, I'm not affected. But, about 1/5 of the Vice-Presidents at work used to be women. Now, 1/7th are women. And I don't believe that places of employment should be have an equal balance of gender, but I think it should be somewhat closer to equal. Women matter in the workplace.

Perhaps it was a discussion on "reproductive rights" that made me feel like a murderer, who killed Gabriel. And a woman who suggested that she doesn't particularly believe that pregnancy can be fatal. Words saying "how often is it *really* fatal". But, I wasn't supposed to take offence, because she was sure that I had made the right decision. She was just presenting factual information. Factual information that wasn't based on facts. It was based on a few experiences of hers. And experiences are not facts. She figures I should have just had faith, and everything would have been ok. You know, do something totally different than what I did. But, I'm not supposed to be offended at her suggestion that if I had followed her suggestion I'd have my son, and be a better Christian.

And I was left conflicted, and hurt and very, very angry. And wondering, are there really doctors around there who suggest that women will die, when they won't? Seems to me, however much you might not like it, a woman dies every 6 minutes of pre-eclampsia in Africa. I'm tired. I'm tired of being judged by someone who has never been in my shoes, never been in that awful, terrible place of having to chose.

And I'm tired of the tendency of a certain group of women, who have never had their very lives threatened, who think that they can make reproductive rights be something that is simple and easy and pretty and clean. I'm tired of hypocrisy and narrow mindedness and sheer bloody mindedness. I'm tired of absolutes and an unwillingness to understand something from another perspective. And I'm tired of a discussion about sin, that doesn't focus on sin of setting yourself as judge and jury, and judging people more harshly than the good Lord judges you, and so adding more burdens to another person's sin instead of loving them, and giving them the grace and mercy that we all deserve as a child of God. I'm tired of looking at certain Christians and thinking "No wonder the entire world hates us. I hate us when we are like this". And I'm tired of knowing, that in their smug and self satisfied world, they will simply use the world hating them as proof that God loves them more.

Perhaps it was going to John School yesterday, which doesn't really ever assure me I live in a perfect world. Frankly, I think men who hire prostitutes are something close to the scum of the earth (I know, not very Christian of me. I'm working on it) Certainly more than that was seeing a man I knew and respected and liked in the class. If you had told me at 2pm on Saturday I would be seeing someone I knew, he would not have been on the list. Not even at the bottom of the list when I was throwing out random guesses. And I can't tell you any more, because I have signed an oath of confidentiality. So I bear this burden of knowledge about a man, that I would rather not have.

And I feel world weary today. As promised, here's the Whinge-For-All scarf. Seems appropriate on another whinge-y day.

I'm going to church. I'm going to do a bit in the garden, and then I'm going to escape into Super Paper Mario.

Weekends are for Quotes

I trust in nature for the stable laws of

beauty and utility.

Spring shall plant, and autumn garner

to the end of time.

Robert Browning

Road Side Reminders

I'm sure you've seen them. They are the road side reminders of a death. Visible grief at a life lost too soon in a traffic fatality. There is one close to my house. I didn't know the victim, I know that he had been at a high school football game, and tried to cross the road where there wasn't a cross walk, and he died. I know his name, I've seen his picture. I know that he is missed.

The City of Prince Albert, in Saskatchewan is trying to decide how long to leave them up. It's a hard debate, with good points on both sides. The article is here, with the comments.

Perhaps, as a grieving mother, a grieving person, a person with a hole in my heart, I am struck by society's demands that families and friends "be over it". I am struck by those who insist that public memorials of this type are tacky, or tasteless, or that they should be removed, because they don't match some one's aesthetic tastes. Or that they should be removed because such grief should be private. Restricted to cemeteries and homes, where many cannot see it. Certainly the one by my house looks to be in rough shape. Largely forgotten, except by a few, who may draw some comfort in knowing that their son was cared for, is not entirely forgotten. Perhaps they draw comfort that I have slowed down in that area. That I watch for young men and women. That it matters to me that children go home to their parents, safe and sound.

But, I am struck by the comments.

"We must move on"

"They attract dirt and decay"

"That's what cemeteries are for"

As I progress in my grief, as I begin to live again, I am struck by how other's expect Mr. Spit and I to be the same. How they expect that we will adjust for them, to make them feel comfortable. How we will put aside the hurt seeing a child causes, so that the parents can feel comfortable. How we will look on the bright side, and not demand that support be supportive. How they demand that any pathetic and paltry effort at support be acknowledged and appreciated.

I am, in particular, struck by the notion that these monuments should be removed when they start looking poorly. That when things get ugly, when the stuffed animals are waterlogged, when the flowers have died, when the ink has run off the notes, then we should remove them from our sight.

Did the grief go away? Did it magically vanish? Leave the world as quickly and easily as ink on wet paper? Or is it still there? Is it a twinge in a long healed broken bone, on a rainy day? A twinge that becomes almost as acute a pain as the original break, but perhaps that painful only once or twice a year. Is it a missing space? A friend who is not at this year's football games. A son who is not present at his birthday? A mother who remembers 18 years with him. A brother or a sister, who will look around at her wedding, at his graduation, and remember the other face that should have been in the family portrait?

You see, the idea of waterlogged and battered stuffed animals, dead flowers, notes with no words, they perfectly describe a stage of grief. A stage in which grief is unending in it's sameness. A mother who woke up, and her son was dead. She went to sleep, and he was still dead. The days and nights are carrying on, and perhaps she is carrying on with them, but the struggle, it is enormous. The strength required to get through each day, and to rest in each night, it defies description. And this struggle, this strength, it is largely private, largely silent. Other's do not see it, they do not bear it.

She is further along the road of grief than I, this mother. She does not share my grief, and I do not know hers. But, it seems to me, in the midst of society determined to remove grief, determined to remove human sorrow and pain, when they become battered and waterlogged, I can remember. I can observe. And I can open my eyes to the waterlogged and battered, and take it all in. And I cannot bear her grief for her. I cannot give her strength or courage, or make it any easier. But I can be a witness. I can look. And see.

Whinge-For-All Thursdays

The Object:
This is your chance to take that tiny little thing, throw it in the comments, fully whine about it. Howl, go on at length, tell us every detail. And you know what?We will all tell you that it's not fair, we'll sympathize.We won't tell you to get over it, or be thankful for what you have. We won't try to solve your problems. Today is for whinging, and you get to be a part of it.Tomorrow we'll clean up our act, and we'll go back to the being the grown ups we are.Tomorrow we'll put on our big girl pan.ti.es and deal with it.

The Contest:
Based on a highly scientific system, (like letting the cat draw names out of the hat) I will send you the scarf on the left, knit with my own two hands. It's orange and yellow and pink and reminds me tremendously of a koi goldfish. The pattern stitch is fisherman's lace, which seemed appropriate for what I have come to call the Koi Scarf.

It's not really warm, but terribly decorative, and long enough to wrap around your neck a few times. It's also slightly fuzzy. I have no idea what the wool is, I lost the ball band.

The Deadline:
September 11th at 12:00 midnight.

My Whinge:
Mr. Spit and I drive Volkswagens. We have driven VWs for 8 years, going through a Jetta Sedan, A Passat Wagon and now we have a Jetta Wagon. We are VW people. We really like them. We have bought them all at the same dealership. 2 new, 1 used. We tell people they are great cars, and they are. Well made, good price, good to drive, and with the diesel, we get really good mileage.

Said cars have had a few problems, but nothing particularly serious. Random odds and sods that go wrong. A bit of solid state electronic that went. A weird thing with the brakes. The time I drove the car into a fire hydrant. (I don't want to talk about it. I swear it jumped out at me.) Fast forward to Sunday. With a load of moving boxes in the car, when I am travelling down a pretty major freeway in the city. And I go to gear down, to turn left. And my car, my car decides that it doesn't shift any more. No gear, no reverse. Nothing. I can be in neutral. Which is not the safest gear to be in, on the freeway.

So, I have the car towed to to the dealership. (Obviously, since it's sitting in the turning lane of a free way, and not moving.) No problem think we, the car is about 2 years old, and has a little bit more than 30k on it. Surely this is a warranty issue.

Mr. Spit calls on Tuesday morning, to advise them that they have a car waiting for them.

They called today. They assert that the clutch is burnt out, and that this is normal use, warranty doesn't cover it. That will be a bit more than $2100, thank you very much.

Now, think about this. Mr. Spit has been driving a standard for 20 years. I have been driving a standard for 7 years. We put almost 60k on our first car. Also a standard. Without replacing a single clutch. The car had not been acting up. The car had not had clutch problems. 15K ago, the clutch was fine.

Mr. Spit, being a touch incredulous, starts looking online. Turns out that this is a fairly common problem. In Finland, they recalled all the Jetta's in this make and model year, because something went wrong with the flywheel, and people kept burning their clutches out. Oddly enough, it would appear that the same manufacturer makes our flywheel and clutch.

Dealership, I don't like you. At all. Mr. Spit and I are going to have to waste time fighting with you. And we will win. Because we are determined. The money that is now going to fixing the car was supposed to go to laying on a tropical beach in February. We are, how you say, motivated.

Wednesday's are For Grammar (Sound Smarter)

Grammar is the logic of speech, even as logic is the grammar of reason. ~Richard C. Trench

Those Who Get to Display the Button

- Sweet Camden Lass

- Martha

- Julia S

- Two Hands

- JamieD

- Alice (Alice, you should be able to right click, save the picture and put it in your blog that way)

- Elizabeth

There is a challenge in talking about grammar, and the way that people use it badly; one must make some sort of judgment about the person, whom is, or is not using standard grammar. We necessarily make some sort of judgment about their intelligence, and possibly, their social standing. I prefer to assume that those who use poor grammar are ignorant, in the classical sense of the world. Not meaning rude or primitive, but unschooled, not knowing better. I, myself are sure that they would like too do better.

The other challenge with English grammar is that standards of correctness vary, from time and country too the text book or style manual that you use. In my professional life, our style guide for writing often requires me to stretch the bounds of good English, two almost a breaking point. I seen some awful mistakes and really bad wording.

Many of you have emailed me to ask me a particular grammar question. And I'm always happy to give answers. Really. But, sometimes, the questions are grey - it really is a matter of preference. Or what country you live in. What Sam or Sweet Camden Lass in the UK would find appalling, we would find quite normal. Sometimes you have to lie your expectations down.

So, with those proviso’s, I offer Mrs. Spit'ts Grammerian Guide to Making Yourself Sound all Intelligent-like and making less mistakes.

Is and Are (and Am)

Is, Are and Am are conjugations of the verb to be. Blogger, in it's stubbornness doesn't let me show you a table, so here's my best approximation.

I am a blogger (First person, singular)

You are a blogger (Second person, singular)

S/He is a blogger (Third person, singular)

It is a blogger (and likely a troll, we don't use 'it' to refer to people.)

We are bloggers (First person, plural)

They are bloggers (Third person, plural)

So, the rules for this conjugation:

'I' takes the form 'am', it's singular in the sense that it refers to one person, speaking of them self.

He, She, and It take the form is, it's singular in the sense that it refers to one person, that we are speaking of.

We takes the form are, it's plural, and we are talking about ourselves and at least one other person.

They takes the form are, it's plural and we are talking about other people.

You is an interesting case. A remnant in the English language, from the Latin, that had two forms of 'you' - Thee (for people you were familiar with) and Thou (for everyone else). It's the only remnant of the second person singular, and you will just have to remember, we use are with you, NOT is.

Who and Whom
Can I confess - I hate who and whom. I always have to think about which one to use. I think, eventually, the archaic whom will go away, and we will use only who. Until that blessed day, here's how to tell the difference.

Who and Whom are actually pronouns.

If you can replace the who with he, she or they, you are using who correctly.

If you can replace the whom with him, her or them, you are using correctly.

Alright, a few examples.
Mrs. Spit gave us a grammar lesson. Who gave you a grammar lesson? (You could replace Mrs. Spit with she, so you use who)
Did you see Mrs. Spit leave? Whom did you see leave? (You would replace Mrs. Spit with her, so you use whom)

I warn you, with this rule, significant re-jigging of sentences might be required. Sometimes it's easier to guess, you have a 50% chance. Just saying.

To, Too, and Two
Well, I get to and too mixed up a lot. Let's see if we can straighten us all out.

Two is a number. We use it when we are referring to a count noun - Mrs. Spit has two dogs. There are no excuses for getting this wrong. None. You get banished to grammar perdition if you mix up two with to or too.

To is a preposition. That means it describes the relationship of one thing to another.

She is going to bed.
She likes to knit.

Too is an adverb. (I know, an adverb that doesn't end in -ly. It's not fair!). Remember, an adverb modifies the verb. Or to make it much, much easier, if you are stuck, ask yourself, could I replace the too with words like "as well, also, excessively, likewise, overly." If so, you mean too.

See, Saw, Seen
Ahh, getting this wrong is very, very VERY likely to get you smacked in Mrs. Spit's house. I mean it, there is a special place in grammar perdition for those who use seen when they mean saw. This actually isn't conjugation, it's tense.

I see - Present tense. You are seeing this item right now.
I see that you are all committed to learning better grammar.

I saw - Past tense. You saw this in the past.
I saw Mrs. Spit knitting yesterday.

I have seen - Past participle. Past participles are a bit tricky to explain, without explaining verbal tenses. So, let me try it this way. Remember those auxiliary verbs we talked about? I'll make it very simple. When you are saying seen, you are saying that you did see something, in the indeterminate past. You need to add a helping verb so that your listener can figure out what you mean.

Do NOT ever use "seen" in a sentence without an auxiliary verb like "to have". I mean it, if I catch you saying "I seen that", I will completely lose it!

I have seen Mrs. Spit knitting.

Starting a sentence with a conjunction (And, But, Or, Not)
Ok class, how many of you remember a teacher telling you that you can't start a sentence with one of these words? I thought so. You can, but with some proviso's. Very often, when we start a sentence with 'and', we don't actually make a complete sentence. If you are going to start a sentence with a conjunction, you must make sure that you have a complete sentence.

I, Myself
Another thing that drives me crazy. This is wrong. You can start a sentence with I.
I like knitting.

Myself, on the other hand, is a reflexive pronoun. That means that you may only use "myself" when the subject of the sentence is the same as the person taking the action (the object).

You would say "I bought myself a present".

Do NOT say "I, myself bought a present". As opposed to you, the other person?

Count Nouns (Fewer and Less)
I went to a Trader Joe's in California. There was a sign about the check-out saying 12 items or fewer. I was irritated at first, but they are actually correct. Use:

Fewer for count nouns - things that can be counted - apples, cars, money.

I have 12 fewer knitting needles today.

Less for non-count nouns - things that cannot be counted, space, ideas, anything that can't be quantified in units.

I have done less knitting this year.

Proviso: In spite of this rule, we always use less for people. It's rude to count people as items. Don't ask why. It's just one of those odd-ball English things.

There are less people knitting now.

Lie or Lay
This is the easiest one to figure out. Let me introduce you to the chicken rule.

A chicken lays an egg, and then lies on them.

Lay: to place or set an object on something. Many verbs take an -ed ending in the past tense. Lay is different. Both the present and the past tense are lay. There is no such word as 'layed'.

Lie: to recline.

Mrs. Spit has a wee lie down every Saturday at 2 o'clock.

Mrs. Spit lay her knitting down on the chair.

Your Homework
I have made 9 deliberate mistakes in the first paragraphs of this post. See if you can find them all.