Tessa doesn't like crowds, and Petal has a secret
It was cool and overcast this morning, so we decided to bring Tessa with us when we went to Keady market. It’s very dog friendly – lots of people bring their dogs with them, and so long as you avoid the livestock areas, there’s no problems taking them through the entire market.
The market today was the most crowded I’ve ever seen it – a combination of nice weather and prime tourist season, I suppose. Keady is right on the road north to Tobermory, a popular tourist spot, and a lot of local literature pumps it up as a ‘great place to see real! live! farm animals! It was wall to wall people, with more than the usual complement of ‘free kitten’ hawkers present.
What’s with that, anyways? Why would you haul your yard bred kittens all the way to the market, and sit around all day waiting for someone to take them away, when you could just spay your cat? I don’t quite get the logic in that.
Our ‘own’ cat, Petal, has some rather strange secret life that Sean and I haven’t quite figured out yet. She comes to our porch for her meals, twice daily and as regular as clockwork. Seriously, you can almost set your clock by her, she’s so regular. What’s strange, though, is that we have no idea where she goes for the rest of the day. We’ve seen her trotting across the road, apparently from our neighbour the bucket hoarder.
We’ve speculated that she’s actually their cat – she seems to live there. If so, why don’t they feed her? They can’t possibly be feeding her, we’re sure of it – she chows down simply incredible amounts of food when she’s at our place, and she was skinny and malnourished when we first noticed her. She was also covered in fleas, which we treated her for.
So, if she is their cat, she’s not being well cared for, which means I should have no qualms about simply taking her and making her into an indoor cat, right? It’s not so simple, however, in large part because the bucket guy sort of scares me a little bit, seeing as how he’s kind of a hermit and we only ever see him when he drives down the driveway to get his mail (which he does from inside his truck). Sean doesn’t want confrontation with him, partially because he might be crazy, and partially because he’s our closest neighbour. For now, then, Petal comes here for her meals, and goes wherever it is she goes in between. This is going to have to change come winter time, however, as I can’t stand the thought of her being out there in the cold. I have an appointment to take her in for a spay next week, and don’t see why she can’t just stay inside the house for good afterwards. Outside cats disappear all the time, right?
Today at Keady was the first time that Tessa really seemed unhappy out in public. She didn’t seem comfortable in the crowds – she kept getting confused, and worried when she couldn’t see me. Finally Sean just picked her up and carried her, which she accepted as her Princess-like due, and which gave her a great view of the livestock areas. I think that might have been her last trip to anyplace so crowded and busy, as she really didn’t seem to enjoy it, and I couldn’t relax because she was so stressed out.
I think from now on I’ll stick to bringing her places that are less crowded, like the ice cream stand, and for short walks in Durham. Farmer’s markets and other places with big crowds just aren’t enjoyable for her anymore, and Tessa’s happiness is incredibly important to me.
Lesson Learned – Don't answer the phone, ever
Last night was a rather stellar example of why I make it a habit to almost always let the phone go to voice mail.
First call:
Caller: Hi, you have puppies, right?
Me: We don’t have any puppies right now, sorry.
Caller: But your ad says you do.
Me: We don’t actually have an ad.
Caller: OK, well, on your website it says “Available puppies”. So I want to know which ones are available.
Me: But if you’d clicked the link, you would have seen that it says “We have no available puppies”.
Caller: Then maybe you shouldn’t put up ads that say you do!
Second call:
Caller: Hi, I’m calling about your French Bulldogs. I was wondering if you could tell me more about the breed, like how they are with kids, and their breeds standard, and their health issues and genetic concerns… stuff like that. (it sounded very much as if she was reading off of a list)
Me, noticing that it’s after 11 pm: Well, it’s sort of late, and I have a website that has pretty much all of that info on it already – I can give you the site address. (it’s http://www.frenchbulldogplanet.com, by the way)
Caller: I’ve seen most of the websites.
Me: Well, there are also some really good books I can recommend.
Caller: I have bought some books already.
Me: Umm, then what is it you still really need to know about Frenchies? (At eleven o’ clock at night?)
Caller: Well, nothing really – I just sort of would like to test out how much you know! I read someplace that that’s how you can tell if someone is a good breeder.
Me: Ummm, I’ve had Frenchies for almost twenty years, so…
Caller: But you might not have read those books like I did!
Me: Well, I wrote most of the on line suggested book lists.
Caller: But that doesn’t mean you read the books!
Me: Look, it’s really late, and we don’t have any puppies, and I designed those sites pretty much so I’d have one central place to send people to for breed info.
Caller: Ha, so you won’t tell me what you know, then?
Me: I’ll tell you that I don’t want you to own one of my puppies, because any dog that had to live in the same house with you would probably try to throw itself in front of a bus.
Then I hung up.
She called back three times, leaving increasingly irate messages, and this morning I found this email in my inbox:
You were SO RUDE TO ME last night, suggesting a dog of mine would do suicide. I could sue you for defamation of character for that, did you know? Instead I will start a website of my own telling people how HORRIBLE you are and that you don’t even know anything about French bulldogs.
I haven’t responded yet, but I did re-learn a valuable lesson – never, ever answer the phone. Oh, and it’s probably not a good idea to read email, either.
Stuff White People Like – Farmer's Markets, and Goats
Sean and I spent Saturday in Collingwood, at the organic Farmer’s market. The usual assortment of goods awaited us – locally grown organic vegetables (other than strawberries, not much local fruit is in season yet), grass raised beef and pork, kitschy wooden goods (including some cute pet bowl stands that my dogs would chew through in about an hour), and a young girl leading a Native(ish) drum circle.
Call me cynical, but I start giggling when I see very earnest young people talking about connecting with ‘mother earth and sister sky’ while they pound on a drum. Speeches, no matter how well intentioned, about ‘letting the spirit of our people flow through us’ become hard to take when delivered in the middle of downtown Collingwood (quite possibly the whitest place in Ontario) by a blond girl with dreads.
Plus, hippies make me itchy.
We bought some awesome plum jam, and a jar of peach chutney. I am enough of a displaced Brit that I still think chutney is the perfect accompaniment to a roast beef sandwich, whereas Sean thinks chutney is made by the devil. He swears it smells like brimstone, which is pretty tough words coming from a man who eats Haggis of his own free will.
We then grabbed some local brie and a really great loaf of chewy bread, and ate lunch over looking Nottawasaga Bay.
Our drive to Collingwood is through some of southern Ontario’s most beautiful scenery. We pass though the Grey Highlands and into the Blue Mountains, avoiding the main roads for the scenic routes. We had to stop to allow a very fat, very cranky porcupine to amble his way off the gravel and into the shrubbery, while I fumbled for the camera and contemplated whether or not porkies really can toss their quills. By the time I found it, he was off into the woods.
Tomorrow is Tuesday, and since Sean is off we’re going to head up to my favorite market, Keady. It’s a combination livestock market and Farmer’s market, and last time we went I was thisclose to coming home with a goat. In my defense, it was a super nice goat – very affectionate and dog like. I’m pretty sure I could fit a goat into the back of the Element. It would be nice for Delilah to have a friend.
(btw, this blog entry title is taken from the frighteningly accurate blog “Stuff White People Like” – this entry, in particular)