If it isn't one, it's the other

It was Rupert's turn to go to the vet on Friday. We called for an appointment and as always, had to give the  owner's name as well as the dog, since the vet's computer system files the pet's records under the owner's name. L gave the receptionist my name and said it was for Rupert (since we have two dogs on record there). The minute she heard my name, she responded: ah, Rupert, Queeni's brother. That probably shows how often we've been there lately. Which also accounted for HRH's oh-no-not-again demeanour -- she growled at the vet for good measure even though it was Rupert getting examined this time.

He had developed some runny sores above his eyes. Sometimes, there's where the allergic reactions break out but I couldn't think of what he could have developed an allergy to as his food has remained the same. Anyway, it cleared up when I cleaned it with disinfectant. But then a huge sore developed on his tail and this one, he could reach to bite, so he turned it into a bloody mess. And I freak when I see blood.

The vet took a skin scrape. No mites, no fungus. Just bacteria -- lots and lots of bacteria, she added. We have no idea where it all came from. It wasn't until I had to do a mop-up after Rupe later when we got home that  I thought it could be from all his puddles. And I was so careful too, I use an anti-bacterial cleaner to rinse the mop in after the first wipe and follow it up with an anti-bacterial spray cleaner for a second wipe.

Anyway, he's now on antibiotics. The upside is that it will certainly knock off the bacteria that's making a home on him. The downside is that it will almost certainly make him drink -- and pee -- more. I've already had three mop-ups in the past two hours, and he's already been out three times in that period. The course of antibiotics will be for 10 days. It will be a long -- and water-logged -- 10 days.


The picture is of the two furkids comatose on my lap in the backseat of the car on the way home from the vet. One was worn out from sheer nervousness because she has had a bad time at the vet recently. And the other was just worn out from wagging his tail, even when the vet tech was doing the skin scrape and I had him in a stranglehold. 

It was a busy day at the vet. The waiting room was full of dogs from the police, civil defence and the army -- a border collie (civil defence), a spaniel and a German Shepherd (army military police) and a Belgian Shepherd (police). HRH growled at them all. She has no idea just how small she is, compared to them. Or maybe she doesn't care. So there was Rupert wanting to play with the German Shepherd (who was muzzled) and there was Queeni wanting to eat him. Looks like Rupert's not the only furkid who's nutso.

What a week

L sprained his ankle on Monday night and wasn't able to walk the kids when I was at work so A has been coming over in the evenings to do his godfatherly duties. I don't know who's more grateful for that -- L, me or Rupert's bladder. It also helps that he can pat them ambidextrously.

I've got a three-day weekend (yay!) so y'all know what I'll be up to. I'm sure Rupert will keep me busy.

I'm careful

Jesus' last name is Robinson and he e-mailed me today with "Be Careful" in the subject header. And that's why I haven't opened his spam to see what I have to be careful about.

It was unusual, to say the least, to hear from Jesus. And to think he got buried in the Junk folder along with Cialis offers.

But at least now I know another name of God.

My pillow smells of dog

... because HRH has lately taken to perching on top of it and settling into the indent. There was one evening where she slid off so she ended up between the two pillows -- where she continued to sleep uninterrupted.

L, however, went nuts when he couldn't find her in the house. He did check the bed but didn't think to check behind the pillows. Calling her name didn't produce anything -- royalty does not always come when called. Rupert just blinked at him sleepily, stretched and went back to sleep. L seriously thought he did what M did a few weeks ago, locked Vivi out when she slipped out of the door as he came home, and actually opened the front door to check. Nothing, of course. I don't think Queeni would be like Vivi and sit by the front door, barking for Daddy to open it. She would probably take off. L went round the house, opening doors to closed-off rooms, even the store room. No Queeni. He was beginning to worry how to break the news to me that he had lost the dog *inside* the house when there was a rustle on the bed and she emerged from behind the pillow.

And it really isn't so bad to have your pillow -- and bed linen -- smell of dog.

Dirty boy

L was walking HRH in the evening when it was peak hour at the playground downstairs. One of the boys noticed that she was limping on three legs and asked him why she was doing that. He was quite polite about it too, addressing L as "uncle". Which was why L was quite unprepared for what happened next, after he explained to the lad that she had cancer, and had to have a toe removed.

"Dirty dog! Dirty dog!" screamed the boy as he pointed at HRH.

"Dirty dog! Dirty dog!" all the other kids took up the cry.

HRH, bless her, didn't understand English. But she picked up on the sudden shouting around her and flattened her ears against her head, showing that she was getting a bit stressed by it.

L, annoyed at his doghter being called names, told the boy: "What if you were really sick and had to have one leg removed? You would have to hop around too. Would that make you a dirty boy?"

"Dirty boy! Dirty boy!'' yelled all the other kids, now laughing at the boy.

He probably doesn't understand what cancer is, he only picked up that HRH was different from other dogs on four legs. And that difference is something that could be taunted. Now, that's scary. Today, he's a playground tease. Tomorrow, he could be a bigot, a religious extremist, a racist, a misogynist, a gay basher, take your pick.

I would have a word with his parents if I could. But the kids at the playground were supervised by maids. Not exactly in loco parentis.

Children are such bastards, L raged later, still sore hours after the incident. I guess that's another reason not to have two-legged ones, just furry four-legged ones.

On reflection, he conceded that telling the kid about losing his leg could leave the boy with nightmares tonight. And you know what, I don't care.

Brain dead

And the rest of me isn't feeling so alive either. It had been hell week at work, what with a few people off sick and double the usual paginaton. It was all I could do to get through the night, stagger home, mop up after That Dog, collapse in bed and the next day, the zombie cycle started all over again.

Yes, That Dog still lacks sphincter muscles. He wets himself when he gets excited. The thing is, he gets excited about almost anything: when I wake up, when I get home, when his meal is about to be served, when I'm holding biscuits. Sometimes, it's nuts having to mop up first thing in the morning pre-caffeine but it's almost flattering because I've never had anyone go into paroxyms of joy just because I'm awake! I'm actually getting out of the bed! Glory be, the day can finally start! Let's not waste time sleeping! There're things to sniff! Places to pee! Sometimes you need a peeing puppy to get you centred on the joy of living.

And he is possibly no longer a puppy. I double-checked the bill of sale that was given to C when he first got the two pups. I know that was last July. The bill said that the pups entered the pet farm in April and that their age then was two months old. That meant that they were born in February. So we have missed the pups' birthday.

Well, if That Dog is more than a year old now, he's run out of puppy excuses for a lot of things.

Time out

This week will be a six-day Sunday to Friday work week. The one week that I spent home on leave is but a distant memory now. Ah, but still a pleasant one. I think it wasn't until then that I realised for a long time now, I had been drinking coffee while doing something, watching TV, reading the papers, checking email, I had never been just drinking coffee.

Or tea, in the case of that week off. It's a habit I've picked up from my parents: we brew coffee on work days and tea on weekends -- or in my case, days that I'm not working.

It helps to do nothing when you're drinking from a pretty cup. I saw this in the shop at Christmastime and finally caved in and paid Big Coffee Chain for two, one in a purple accent and the other in lime green. It was a birthday treat for myself and I figured they would be nice for the many hours of sipping while staring out of the window. Doing nothing.

When something happens that teaches you how precious time is, it is important to remember to do nothing while drinking coffee. Just enjoy drinking coffee.

As precious as sand

If you've been following the news here, you'd know that Indonesia has banned the export of sand to Singapore. Which means building costs may go up and the construction industry is worried as it is barely in recovery. Ah not to worry, said the government, it will release the stockpile of sand that has.

We have a national stockpile of sand? I thought people stockpile things like gold bullion. Maybe even toilet paper and instant noodles for the monsoon weeks when you can't get out to restock. But sand?

Which was why, as we were driving behind a lorry carrying a load of sand, L remarked that it was a precious cargo. Well, we'd better watch out or people would be stealing the stuff out of playground sand pits soon.

Fun at the fair

I guess it's the only equivalent of the circus coming to town here. They took almost a week to set up in the big field next to the mall down the road from where we live. A few nights ago, L and I took a romantic evening stroll -- there was a full moon conveniently rising -- there to get funfair food: cotton candy on a stick, sausage on a stick, chicken wing on a stick, all manner of fried stuff on a stick. I guess it isn't funfair junk food unless there's a stick skewered through it. No toffee apples though -- which may be a good thing. I found them sorely disappointing when I came across them in British fun fairs.

The rides weren't ready yet but they turned on the gaudy lights, perhaps to attract people to the food stalls were already open. How very Singaporean. There was also a small pasar malam selling cheap clothes, household gadgets and mobile phone accessories. Very unfunfair-like.

There was one games stall -- you had to use some improbable implement to fish for plastic frogs floating on a tub of water. Gone were the days where funfairs were all about games stalls. Nowadays, which kid will pay to fish things from a tub of water when he has a Nintendo in his pocket and an XBox at home?

I took the pictures with the mobile phone. As you can see, the job of taking photos should be best left to cameras. The ferris wheel says Euro Wheel in big, bright letters. I honestly don't know what's so European about it. The Americans must be insulted.

One week

I had been on leave the past week and it was hard to go back to work yesterday. The only thing that kept me going was that I would only have to work a day, and then I'm off today. Which is a nice way to ease back into work. Of course I'm paying for this by working this Sunday. Long weekend be danged, I'm working Good Friday too. I'm counting on the usual half-pace slack over Sundays and public holidays.

It was hard to tear myself away from the furkids to go back into the work routine. I didn't realise until I stopped to think about it that I haven't actually spent an entire week at home with Rupert since he arrived last September. Oh, there were weekends and days off but not a whole week. I've never had the opportunity until now to be with him on a prolonged basis, long enough to watch his biorhythms, work out when his upswings and downswings are, what he does all day, when he naps, when he gets up to watch by the window for his furry friends out on their walks. Up to now, he had to adjust to my schedule.

Oh and of course he hasn't developed sphincter muscles. The last post was dated April 1, what do you think?

And what a nice week it was. I really didn't do anything, I spent a lot of time on the couch watching Queeni sleep; watching her hobble on three legs and then tentatively using her affected leg and finally breaking into a cheer when she ran on all four legs; watching the sun move through the different parts of the house as the day progressed; watching people go to work, the women's heels making a clickety-clack on the footpaths; watching the kids drag their feet as they walk to school; watching them run home at the end of the day; watching -- well, hearing -- the toddlers shriek around the playground and the sudden silence when they are summarily ordered home for dinner; watching the working people return, some with bags of groceries; watching the dogs out on their walks; watching the prime-time TV I never get to see on work nights.

It was much needed after the trauma of Queeni's biopsy results and that awful dangling in the middle of nowhere feeling when you're exploring various options to take for her. The hardest part was the waiting and the deciding. Once you've embarked on a course of action, things swam into focus and got better.

We noticed she will walk on all fours on the grass downstairs but on three legs around the house, I guess the field is softer and feels better to her paw than the hard tiled floor. So we took her to the dog park on Sunday. The bitch was back, she ran around, she sniffed, she gave what-for to all the dogs that dared to sniff her behind. And then she realised she wasn't favouring one leg. The game was up.

However, HRH is still pulling a fast one on sucker dad. She still gets his personal taxi lift service down the stairs and into the field where she will run around on all four legs. After she's done, she starts hopping on just three legs, gives him a doe-eyed look and he scoops her up and she gets carried up the stairs back to her couch. She's a con artist.

Laundry day

Remember the exercise station that the town council built -- after cutting down perfectly good trees in the middle of the field (http://snugpug.blogspot.com/2006/08/green-is-gone.html)? I guess the lives of trees -- and not to mention tax payers' money -- has been put to good use after all. After all, nobody's going to exercise in high noon, so somebody might as well make use of the equipment in another way.

In other developments, we were finally able to put away the mop and bucket that's been in the bathroom since last September. Rupert has finally developed spincter muscles.

Hahaha. Happy April Fool's Day!

How much does time cost?

We went for a dressing change and a recheck today. The wound still looks very "angry" (the vet's word) -- which is probably why HRH still isn't putting weight on that leg. The vet also explained that she will take some time to learn how to distribute her weight over three toes on that paw. But at least she is using that paw to scratch, so it's not so bad.

We will go back every three months to recheck and keep an eye on things. The vet says he has "probably" got everything with the amputation of the toe. But of course, he won't guarantee anything, mast cells being what they are. Even if we had taken the most drastic option and had the whole leg amputated above the lymph node, I don't think he would guarantee anything either, it'll be against his integrity. If the growth recurs, it may happen in six months. In which case, he has "bought her time" and we will readdress the issue then.

If it happens. I want to look at it as the glass being half-full.

Six months is a long time for a dog; he reminded us that one year for us is seven for them. But there never is enough time when it comes to your baby.

Biopsy, including dressing change: $538.65

Toe amputation: $601.20

Queeni home: Priceless

Centre of everything

Most dogs would be happy just being allowed to sleep on the bed. But I guess royalty is more demanding. A mattress on the bed is not enough, HRH needs to lie on a soft pillow over the mattress.

Now Rupert, however, has no sense of his body. After all, he's the one who runs into walls, trips over his own feet and rolls off the couch. Only the other night, L fished out from under that sleeping puppy a hard bone. Rupert had been sleeping with it rammed against him and probably never felt it. Unlike HRH, he's definitely no prince who can feel a pea 100 mattresses under.

We used to jokingly say he's austitic. His vet calls him a nuthead, remember? We joked about the same with the senior vet who is seeing HRH and he quite seriously thinks there is a case for autism. Or well, being different. He pointed out that in World War I, fox terriers were used in the trenches to deliver messages. These were the only dogs that would run undeterred through bullet fire. So if bullets won't stop the likes of Rupert, that baby gate has no chance.

The Queen is back in her palace

... and is all doped out. She's using her favourite toy as her pillow. Her bandage this time is red -- they must've switched from the spring to summer collection at the vet's.

@#^$&!! %^&&*$W!!!

When HRH saw us from her pen at the vet's she shrieked at us at top volume. All the techs looked up from what they were doing to see what was being done to this poor animal -- you'd would never have thought this was a dog that was being released. The shrill scolding continued at top volume for a good 10 minutes as we sat down with her in the waiting room till she ran out of bad words to scream at us. I'm pretty sure we got all the Schnauzer cusses.

Preferred customer

You know you've been too often to the vet when your dog goes in for surgery -- again, and major this time -- and they now waive the deposit because they just know you're going to be back.

Things I have learnt from my dogs, past and present

From Schwarz: Even though you ask for nothing, you will still receive a lot.

From Spock: Do everything with gusto, you don't know how little time you may have to do it.

From Queeni: It's OK to just sit around and do nothing, you don't know when something may creep up on you.

From Rupert: It's OK to be a silly nuthead, people need to remember to laugh.

And it goes on

This morning when I woke up, yesterday seemed like a bad nightmare, especially with HRH curled up peacefully on the pillow next to me. Maybe everything will go away, the way bad dreams melt when your consciousness takes over.

Nope. Another day, more decisions.

The C word

HRH's bump is a mast cell tumour. When L took the vet's call and I heard "mast cell", my heart sank and well, it's been sunk since. We go back to the vet on Friday, get some counselling and discuss options.

By and large, amputation is one of them. Because of the site and the need to remove tissue surrounding the tumour just so you know you got it all if it had spread, HRH may very probably lose the whole leg and not just a toe, as we at first feared. And depending on the spread, chemo may be necessary.

It is a lot to subject a little dog to.

I'm not sure if we're handling this well. A. happened to be here when the vet called. He was quite a brick, just very calmly and quietly sat on the couch and occupied the dogs while we huddled into the bedroom, shut the door and wept. We're both complete basket cases today, and I'm not going to be much good at work, so took the day off.

Later, L went to the supermarket and came back with ice cream for HRH. I guess there's something to be said for retail therapy.

Kayla

More than a year ago, HRH's groomer had a Schnauzer pup for sale and L was then so taken in by it and almost wanted to get until I put my foot down and said I'm not buying a pet shop dog. We actually took Kayla home with us one afternoon -- HRH was not amused and certainly not gracious and welcoming at all.

Well, the groomer never did sell Kayla and decided to keep her for herself. Kayla is now a year and a half and is going blind from bilateral cataracts. Just like what Queeni went through. Only Kayla is so much younger. And Y has five or six dogs and doesn't have $5,000 in loose change for the cataract removal op (and that's supposed to be at a discount, $3,000 for one eye and $5,000 for two). She may be forced to let Kayla, well, go blind. It's making me very, very sad. There's a breeder out there that needs to be shot.

These boots were made for walking

Actually, not really. They don't even keep moisture out from wet grass very well. All the same, it hasn't stopped HRH from walking all over us.

We got her the booties to keep the op site on her paw dry and free from any irritation grass or sand might cause, now that her dressing and stitches have been removed. Just to be on the safe side, although the site has healed over and soon, she will have no excuse not to have a bath. She's taken well to the booties, probably because we're not making her wear all four at a go, just one on the paw where she was used to a bandage anyway.

And since she's being subjected to footwear, she might as well wear disco boots -- I picked the ones in a glittery, silvery pink fabric. They cost me $30. L was horrified. You could buy a pair of human shoes for that sort of money. Real shoes, with straps, buckles, soles, heels, uppers and insoles. These booties are just glorified socks, with a stretchy band round the leg and velcro to hold it in place. There's a plastic material sewn on the base but it isn't entirely water-proof. And just because they come four at a pop doesn't justify the cost.

We got them from the groomer's shop. She would have been happy to charge us a fourth of the price for just one boot but she didn't think she would have a three-legged customer wanting the shoes we didn't need to take.

Why?

You know I work for a newspaper and media company. And that I work nights and take the company transport home after midnight. So it stands to reason that the people who get on the transport at that time of the night are fellow journos, the marketing and admin people having fled the building at 5pm. And journalists, whether print, online, photo or infographics, are people whose jobs require observation and sensitivity.

So why is it that night after night, there are people giving directions to the Malay bus driver in Mandarin?

I have to take back what I said

... in the earlier post about not feeling poorly even though I'm off sick. On Tuesday night, as I was lounging on the couch watching TV, I got hit by a wave of dizziness so bad, I rolled over and almost passed out. I went straight to bed, thinking it was just fatigue as it was quite late at night.

The next morning, I was still so dizzy that when I got up to go to the loo, I got all nauseated and dry-heaved into the sink and the bath tub. I lurched all the way to the doctor, walking like a drunken sailor, with L helpfully propping me up. Walking straight was OK, turning round corners made me feel like everything was spinning.

And we don't know why I'm off kilter. The doctor thinks maybe after that respiratory infection -- which actually cleared up very fast -- my system took a whacking and went off-balance. She gave me some little beige pills which stopped the room from spinning. Only they probably worked by knocking me out. I was drifting in and out of sleep on the couch the whole day. The dogs were very sweet, they took up sentinel positions on either side. Rupert came up to lick my face every now and then and Queeni came to sniff me. L said she did that all through the night too, getting up to sniff the top of my head. How nice to be looked after.

Rupert's new nickname

We were back at the vet's today to for HRH's stitches to be removed. She sat on her daddy's lap, glowering and growling when the vet entered the consultation room.

Rupert, however, bounced up to her and jumped up to say hi. "Hi, nuthead!" was her cheery response.

Nuthead, it is. Suits him well.

Enjoying a day's MC

The only way to get the most out of a day off sick is when you're not too sick to enjoy it.

I had a bit of a sore throat and sniffles yesterday. It didn't develop into anything bad, in fact I feel better today than I did yesterday. But since it was Sunday and the doctor's wasn't open, I self-medicated and went to work.

So being off sick today only meant that I'm getting more out enjoyment staying out of the office today than I would have yesterday. Does that make sense? It sure does to me when I'm cuddled up on the couch with the dogs and a bowl of throat-soothing pear sorbet with the new season of Desperate Housewives on TV.

Zzz

Doesn't this look like an Esther Williams water ballet type formation? Wow, we're leaking artistry in our sleep! :)

Growth spurt

Rupert seems to have had a sudden spurt of growth almost overnight. He's so chesty now, I've had to let out his harness and collar. So macho and such a far cry from the thin puppy with the spindle legs when he first arrived. Now, he's more like a little horse. Trots around like one, too.

HRH does not care that he is now much more bigger than she is. She still humps him. As every good monarch must.

Ready to rule

I don't know how HRH got herself into this human baby-like sitting position on our bed but she sat there that way for quite a while. Like a little teddy bear on the bed. OK, OK, like a little queen on her throne, that she is. Funny girl.

Rest and recuperation

HRH is recuperating, I am resting -- from cleaning up her vomitty bouts, the poor thing is having a hard time post-op. And Rupert is just being Rupert.

It will be a long two weeks' wait for the biopsy results and I'm scared half to death already. We went back for a dressing change today and the vet is very kind and trying not to scare us by saying let's not talk options until the pathology results are in or we'll only get stressed. But we are already stressed!

The bump is a definitely a growth, she discovered as she debulked it, and not a callous in my clutching-at-straws hopes. So the only issue now is what sort of growth. And even if it is benign but growing at a fast pace, it would probably still need to be removed or it would impair Queeni's walking once it grows into the paw pad. And being sited in that awkward position, the vet fears that Queeni may lose a toe. But she will still be able to walk, the vet was quick to reassure us. But that still feels so drastic. And given her less than happy camper post-op recovery, I hate to think that she needs to go through it again. Poor little thing.

Medical supplies

We need to keep the bandage on HRH's paw dry as it has to stay on for 3-5 days till we bring her back to the vet for a follow-up. And then they'll either change the dressing or remove it entirely, depending on how the site is healing.

We've been having thunderstorms most afternoons and even if it's not raining, the grass is wet and somtimes muddy. How to keep the paw dry during HRH's constitutional? We found the solution in clingwrap. You think it should be an item in every first aid kit? With a roll of bright blue bandages.

Back from the wars

Here's HRH come home, all wrapped up in matching blue bandages. At least the colour suits her, though I think she'd be prettier in pink. Hey, they do come in pink. Spock was wrapped up nicely in pink once, and the vet then apologised for dressing a spunky boy Jack Russell in that shade.

The bandage on the front paw has been removed since. It held the catheter for her IV drip. The bandage round her abdomen was to hold a painkiller patch against her flank (which had been shaved for that) but didn't do its job very well as she has worked the bandage off and I found the patch folded into itself and hanging by a corner onto some hair so I don't know how much benefit she got from it.

In any case, she is on oral painkillers and is mostly walking normally on the affected hind paw, lifting weight off it only when she changes her pace. And she's not whining so hopefully, her paw does not hurt her much.

Rupert tried to welcome her home by wrestling but she is growled at him to tell him that she's not ready for that yet. I hope he got the message. She is still very drowsy and will probably need another day to sleep things off.

Waiting, again

This time, it is Queeni who is at the vet. She's just had surgery -- which she went through very well, the vet called to tell us when it was over. There's a bump on her paw and the vet wanted to take some tissue for a biopsy. And since she was removing tissue, she debulked the bump as much as she could without going into the paw pad, which would hurt.

The biopsy results will take about two weeks. The worst case scenario is to have a toe amputated. But that sounds so drastic. I'm hoping it won't come to that. Queeni's only turned six years old, which is still very young for her breed, way too young for these old dog lumps and bumps -- which was why this one caught me by surprise. And then her groomer scared the beejezus out of me because she felt that it was gianormous whereas to me, it was so small, I thought it was a callus, especially as there was no fluid.

Queeni's being kept over night just so she can get some rest as she is still rather woozy, without being bothered by Rupert. Or bothering Rupert. He's not wandering round the house or looking out the window the way she was when he stayed at the vet's for his neutering. Instead, he has been following me about the house -- which he usually does anyway -- and when I got into bed for a short nap, promptly leapt up on the bed. He's not allowed on the bed, partly because I don't trust his bladder control fully but mostly because Queeni headbutts him off the bed. That's where she sleeps with us, and if she didn't want him there, then we're merely enforcing Her Majesty's rules.

It will be funny not to have her hogging the duvet and the pillows tonight.

Ideas from spam

Yesterday, Tad Bourgeois sent me some spam. It went straight to the Junk folder but I'll save his name for when I'm asked for a name. Or maybe I'll feminise it. Midge Proletariat, maybe? I usually give a fake name when making restaurant reservations. I almost never give my name but make one up that you just know isn't me. This started from uni days when you (well, my friends and I anyway) made a joke out of everything possible. So I've gone by Enola Gay, Lara Croft and the last time we went to Hard Rock Cafe, we were Evita Peron, party of four. No one batted an eyelid.

Separately, someone else wanted to inform me that there is "no valve in inharmonious". I guess the valves are looking for a bit of peace. Well, aren't we all.

TV, part three

Looks like we're not the only one with TV aerial problems. When we first moved in, my mother gave us the portable TV from her house that nobody was using. We plugged it into the cable point which was supposed to give you free-to-air feed if you didn't subscribe to cable. Only the dinky set wasn't picking up anything. Our contractor said the TV was probably too old and not sensitive enough to pick up the feed. So we left it at that. The TV is 10 to 15 years old so he's probably right. My Dad gave us a set of rabbit-ears antenna to go with the TV. It picked up the signals although it can't receive the news station. But it was enough to watch Desperate Housewives with and along with that, gave the living room a retro look.

Then we realised that there were a lot of TV antenna coat-wire contraptions sticking out of the windows of our block and the surrounding blocks. It can't be that everyone here has 15-year-old portables like ours!

This morning, I saw the makcik downstairs pottering around the grass outside her ground-floor flat with a portable aerial fixed on top of a laundry bamboo pole, while someone in the house directed her where to plant it. Instructions were first given verbally, then as she moved into the distance, the mode of communication became visual -- move to the right, up, down gestures through the window. And then a cellphone on makcik rang. It was command centre inside the house calling. Much easier directing her on the phone than to yell out the window. How modern communications have eased our life -- even when cable connections fail.

Sleep

I guess you could call this a triptych composition. And the first one could easily be subtitled: no room for me on the couch.

When she's not comfortably hogging the couch and covers, Queeni sometimes likes to perch on the back rest of the sofa. It's just one of her many cat-like habits. I keep worrying she'll fall off. But she looks so comfortable, especially with her legs dangling down.

The last pic is of a bench next to the car park in the office building where the smokers hang out. I wonder how many people have been caught sleeping here before the bosses decided it needed a sign. Like that'll stop anybody.

TV, part two

To continue from yesterday's post on TV -- I watch a lot of late night TV as I get home from work at about 1am. Since I don't have cable, I'm stuck with free-to-air TV, which at that time of the night, are mostly reruns of drama series and reality shows, several seasons behind.

Which is not a bad thing. Because I work nights, I never got to watch them when they were aired "fresh" on prime time. And the great thing is that you don't have to wait a week for the next episode, they broadcast the whole series nightly at the same time slot and and when that runs out, move on to another series.

From 1am to 2am daily on weeknights, I've finally caught up with CSI, CSI Miami and now, am on to Las Vegas (the second season). The 2am to 3am slot was taken up by The Apprentice (the second season, the one that was won by Kelly, the West Pointer) until that recently ended and it's now showing Gray's Anatomy.

I've watched most of the CSI, Las Vegas, The Apprentice and Gray's Anatomy episodes when they were first aired on prime time, this was from when I worked 9am to 5pm for a brief five months two years ago -- so that's how behind these reruns are.

I don't care much for Las Vegas (the series and the town) but I enjoy watching it because it brings to mind the great holiday I had in Vegas when T got married and the Dogtalkers met up. And it's kinda boggling to see that casino hosts apparently never wear the same dress to work more than once.

From 3am to 5am, we get two talk shows: The Ellen Degeneres Show, followed by The Tyra Banks Show. Ellen's funny and witty and a warm and wonderful talk show host, plus her DJ plays some good music, but Tyra should have stuck to modelling and kept her mouth shut because nothing interesting comes out of it. Her function as host seems to be solely reliant on empathy. But that only gets you so far and it makes her eyebrows look very overworked. We used to get Oprah. Bring her back, I say.

Afternoon TV is just as interesting. I catch about an hour before I leave for work and managed to watch a season of Joan of Arcadia, until it ended and now it's on to Remington Steele. It's kinda fun watching a retro series like that. We all know Pierce Brosnan went on to become James Bond but whatever happened to Stephanie Zimbalist? Poor woman, elbowed aside by Mr Steele once again.

Joan of Arcadia caught my attention when it was first screened because it had an interesting premise -- God appearing to a teenager in the form of ordinary people around her. It was first shown on Saturday afternoons and I missed most of it because I was either bathing dogs or grocery shopping at that time. The opening credits flash still pictures of Bob Dylan, Nelson Mandela and the Dalai Lama to theme song, Joan Osbourne's What If God Was One of Us (I wonder what happened to her, she had that one great hit and then seemingly disappeared) and I guess it's left to you to infer what you will of the association. Interesting that other than the Dalai Lama, there's no other picture of a religious leader. The Pope must be sore that he wasn't considered godlike enough. And no Beatle either, despite being more famous than Jesus.

TV

One thing about free-to-air TV programming on public holidays here is that you're subjected to variety and award shows -- repeats and sometimes from a year ago.

But yesterday, it was good. I finally got to watch the recent Grammy awards. It was telecast live on Monday morning but I slept through it -- 9am really is too early for me. There was an encore telecast at prime time later that night but I worked through that.

What I really wanted to watch wasn't so much the award presentation or the stars, I just wanted to watch the Police open the show. I wanted to know what they look like now. Quite interestingly, Sting, the good looker of the trio 20 years ago is now the baldy guy. The others still have full heads of hair. Must be retribution.

I wondered why of all their hits, they chose to come back with Roxanne. That rather brings to mind a Sting concert in Australia. He had performed all his solo hits, all the Police hits, came back for encore after encore and still the crowd wanted more. What else hadn't he done, he asked the crowd. And in one voice, they sang: "Roxanne..." And Sting started to beat his head against the microphone and groaned: "Every single f***king day of my life..."

New sofa covers

This stuffed dog is Queeni's favourite toy and Rupert likes to rile her by grabbing it and shaking it -- it has a rattle in it. Wedging it against the sofa backrest must be her way of hiding it from him.

And if you notice, we changed the sofa covers for Chinese New Year. We did it on the eve, after my parents went home after reunion dinner. We didn't want to do it any earlier for fear of Rupert peeing on the sofa. The last time my parents were here a fortnight ago, he was so excited that he leaked all over the house.

In fact, as we were struggling with the tight-fitting covers (Ikea designers should incorporate the use of elastic, like how fitted sheets have elastic in the corners -- L was so exasperated he wanted to e-mail the Ikea president and invite him over to change sofa covers and see if he can do it), we heard our downstairs neighbours counting down to shouts of "xingnian quaile". I've never had a Chinese New Year countdown before, I thought it was only a Dec 31/Jan 1 thing.

I guess this portends a lot. We missed the English New Year countdown because we were walking the dogs. We missed the Chinese New Year countdown because we were changing sofa covers because somepuppy peed on the other set.

When we bought this second set of covers as a spare set, I picked this pied beige colour because it looked like sand, and I thought that went so well with the picnic table, surfboard and sky-painted ceiling.

We still don't trust Rupert fully, that's why there's a towel draped on the sofa seat -- in the vain hopes that it'll soak up most of what he might decide to leave. At best, we say it's a decorative touch -- a beach towel on sand effect.

Now that Rupert has moved it, I've discovered another nice thing about this pied colour -- it beautifully camouflages shed fur.

Hongbao deficit

You know you're going to go into hongbao deficit every Chinese New Year because you have to fork them out now that you're married but have no kids to reap in return hongbao.

Last year, we thought the tide might turn because Queeni got hongbao from Mum and from the neighbour. This year, we thought, we might even do better, now that Rupert's onboard and we're a two furkid household.

Nope. Not a single hongbao came their way. By the end of today, the pile of hongbao that we packed with crisp new notes diminished sharply.

What's funny though is that although we're in hongbao deficit, we're in mandarin orange surplus. I don't know how it happened, we brought the customary two oranges to every visit but came back with more oranges than we left.

Gongxi facai

HRH Queeni wishes all her loyal subjects, devoted servants and gentle readers a Happy Chinese New Year.

The Year of the Dog may have trotted out but she wants you to know that she has got the Year of the Pig covered, especially as she snorts like a pig when excited. And you know how bak kwa excites a dog.

Queeni's press secretary would like to point out that this is a file photo, from two Chinese New Years ago. HRH has had a hair cut since.

Sound effects

Every Friday, I look forward to picking up from the subbing pool the food stories for the weekend edition. Especially today, after last night's killer nine-pager on the Budget following Parliament.

Only today, someone else got the choice food story first. But she was so taken in by what she was subbing, she messaged excerpts as she went along. Heston Blumenthal has a new take on fine dining. And it comes with iPods. The idea is to have a sound accompaniment to what you're eating.

His new menu features seafood -- shellfish served on a bed of edible sand, which is Japanese breadcrumbs fried with something I now forget. It is to be washed down by "sea water" in a martini glass, which is some seaweed infusion. And all this time, you're plugged into an iPod, listening to the sound of the sea.

He wanted to explore the sense of sound together with the sense of taste. It's not illogical, I suppose. It's like beautifully presented Japanese meals which cater to the the sense of sight along with taste.

Only I don't think Bray is by the sea and I sure hope his inspiration isn't the British seaside because I can tell you that my experience of Blackpool Tower, Brighton Promenade and Dover didn't inspire me to want to drink the sea water. Or maybe I had been to the wrong places. I had an involuntary tasting of the sea at Lyme Regis, it sprayed me in the face along that wall structure when I was pretending to be The French Lieutenant's Woman.

And when you reach dessert and opt for Blumenthal's famed bacon and eggs foam, the iPod plays you the sound of sizzling bacon.

The bit that the sub incredulously copied and sent: when you're eating chicken, you get to hear the clucking barnyard sounds.


That's where it started to go horribly wrong for me. When I'm eating chicken, I do not want to think that it was once alive and had a mother. So I don't really want to hear its voice when I'm eating it. As it is, I only eat meat that comes in fillets. I can't eat wings or thighs or bits that are recognisably limbs or part of an animal. I would like to not think that my dinner was once a sentient animal, I prefer to have an ostrich mentality and think that it comes on a styrofoam tray and think no further back. Or I would have a problem eating at all.

It's like that bit in Douglas Adams' The Restaurant at the End of the Universe where the talking cow points to his various bits and recommends Arthur Dent the choicest cuts before trotting off to the kitchen to become dinner.

At least Adams was being sarky. Blumenthal wasn't.

I suppose it's a good thing Blumenthal hasn't explored the sense of smell. Imagine, barnyard smells with your chicken chop.

No rhinoceros in sanhedrin

That's the subject of a spam e-mail I got. Maybe there's something wrong with the water in Sanhedrin. But first, I have to find out where it is.

And the spam next to had the subject: No by malaysia. So I guess the rhinos are bypassing Malaysia too. But they're definitely in the neighbourhood somewhere.

What rubbish!

Nowadays, new HDB blocks have just one centralised rubbish chute. That's just one chute for the whole block, usually located off the lift lobby. As opposed to the old design where every kitchen had a chute. Which is still better than a Hong Kong block (a Happy Valley condo, no less) I once lived in which had no chute at all, and the residents just left their bags of garbage on the back stairs for the cleaners to dispose of.

But this one central chute means that every bag of garbage thrown down by every household in the whole block goes down that way. And when the garbage truck is late or doesn't come (as was the case yesterday), the garbage thrown out by everyone stacks up to more than two floors high.

That's what I found out when I took out the garbage -- when I stepped on the pedal to open the chute flap and tossed in my bag, I wondered why it wouldn't go down. Then I peeked in and realised that it was blocked by a towering mound of garbage bags that reached up to the second floor where we were. I should have gone up one floor to see if the mound reached the third floor.

That's how full of garbage my block is. :)

Dog park

We took the furkids to the dog park in Pasir Ris this afternoon. Rupert had the time of his life running off leash. Curiously, he didn't shoot straight off to join the welcoming band of golden retrievers (why is it that every dog park we go to, every dog cafe, has a resident bunch of golden retriever greeters at the door/gate?) or terriers that were trotting around.

I thought he would be off like a shot now that he had off-leash freedom. Instead, he stuck to us and only ventured to run when we threw a tennis ball for him. And when we sat down, he stuck around us, never venturing more than a few feet away and then coming back. The good side to this, I suppose, is that this puppy has established a bond with us. And he's probably not going to be the sort of dog that would take off the instant he could. That's nice to know.

HRH, of course, stuck close and wouldn't mix around. That's why she's at the corner of the top photo, seeking solace between Daddy's legs while Rupert mingled.

And now, the two dogs are comatose again. Another peaceful evening. :)

Early reunion dinner

The humans are having their Chinese New Year reunion dinner next Saturday so it stands to reason that the dogs will have theirs first, today. Only two canine cousins didn't come because their daddies decided they wanted a stress-free evening. Or maybe they wanted to go out after dinner? It is Saturday night after all and some dog parents do have a life. Even if we don't. :)

And of course, as in every photo, Vivi the terrorist Jack Russell has brimstone eyes. She also left her pawprints on our bathroom mat. Haha, Vi's a dirty little girl.

The furkids are unconscious now so that means it must have been a great evening.

Lucky numbers

Eight is supposed to be a lucky number for the Chinese, it's a synonym for for prosperity. 1888 is supposed to be a lucky combination, it sounds like "prosper straightaway".

So that's why the supermarket cashier was astounded when she totalled our shopping yesterday. It came up to $188.88. She thinks we should buy that number for the 4D lottery, especially with Chinese New Year round the corner.

Casualties

This blog last week has been a casualty of work. After wrestling with layouts and that dreaded MTX program, I wasn't in a mood to come home and fire up another computer.

I've had to call HelpDesk almost every other day and of course they're stumped by my problems. Only me. Yesterday, it was so unsolvable, they had to get Prepress to delete the page and create a whole new one in its stead.

I'm having this recurring nightmare where I know I'm in a dream state and cannot break away from it until I save my story but the MTX Monster will not let me save.




Other casualties here are wrecked by the fox terrier weapon of mass destruction. The wicker basket is HRH's, given to her a few Christmasses ago by her godma who called it her day bed, knowing full well that her night bed is the double bed the humans in the house so foolishly think is theirs. That Dog has been chewing on it and bitter spray did nothing except to probably enhance the flavour for him. He's aberrant, remember? He started throwing up from the ratan but that didn't deter him either. Then I freaked when I saw ratan pieces in his poop. The idiot hadn't just been chewing it, he's been eating it. He's lucky he didn't get an obstruction with a sharp piece. So out goes the basket into the recycling. I don't know how to make up to HRH for this one.

Both hands full

You can't see my right hand, L didn't get it into the frame but it's holding a needle pulling thread, that's why my right arm is all stretched out. I'm very right bodied, I can only kick with my right foot, carry a bag on my right shoulder. But HRH is training me to be ambidextrous. I have to sew her favourite toy with my right hand while fending her from it with my left.

Tearing up toys for Mummy to sew appear to be the dogs' new hobby.

Spot the puppy

I missed a couple of cute pix yesterday -- nothing to do with the dogs this time, though. I drew back the curtains when I got up and found a pair of pantyhose dangling from the ledge on top of the window. I've had undergarments land on the kitchen window before, they probably blew down from somebody's kitchen window laundry rack upstairs. But the bedroom window? Hmm, all I could think of was somebody upstairs must've had a wild night. By the time I got the camera, the pantyhose had dislodged itself.

Then we walked the dogs in the field downstairs in what was the first sunny window we've had this monsoon. And there in the outdoors fitness centre, the newly built one which took the place of a few killed trees, somebody had laid out pillows and bolsters across the sit-up ramp and parallel bars to sun. L said we should take a picture of that to show the town council that we appreciated their killing the trees and we're putting the fitness centre to good use. Only by the time we walked the dogs, got them upstairs and wiped off and fed and watered, the sunshine was fast fading. I was about to go downstairs with the camera when I saw from the window that the pillows were being gathered.

Maybe when the monsoon goes away, we'll have another chance at getting this pix. Maybe, maybe. There was no sunshine today but at least there was a rain-free period where we took the dogs out for a long walk to get cabin fever out of their system. And a good thing too, it's starting to pour again.

No need no-knead

The latest in bread-making, according to a colleague, is no-knead bread. There're a bunch of recipes on the Net, all you do is stir the ingredients together, leave it to proof for as long as 12 to 18 hours, stick it in the oven and there you have it -- no-knead, no-fuss bread.

And she's had good results -- after some experimenting with ingredients and proofing time and definitely no elbow grease. And if you have to wait almost all day for the dough to rise, then it's a lesson in patience. All good things come to those who wait, etc. I'm dubious. To me, zero elbow grease takes the joy out of breadmaking. It's the kneading and pounding and thumping that does it for me. I find it therapeutic and in a good session, you can really whack the blues out of your system. If all I needed to do was to stir things together and wait, I might as well make yogurt. Or use a bread machine. Or just get a store-bought ready-sliced loaf.

Jeez

There's this supermarket near the office I go to now and then. It has a section where they display goods imported from different countries, so there's a Japanese section, Australian section and US section where the goods are arranged not in order of genre but by countries of origin. That's where in the US (section), God rules above tampons.

Gone to the dogs

You know you're in danger of being called that crazy dog lady when you realise you have on hand two sizes of Elizabethan collars and three sizes of pee pads.

Only the puppy doesn't need both -- good on the part of the e-collar, since he isn't going at his nether bits; bad on the part of the pee pads because it means he's going where he isn't supposed to. And he's on antibiotics. It's Housebreaking 101 all over again.

He's home

A sleepy fox terrier is a good fox terrier. The vet decided to keep Rupert overnight, not because of any complications but because she wanted to keep him quiet and away from Queeni.

Queeni spent the afternoon waiting at the window, and also scratched to be let into all the rooms -- I guess she was looking for Rupert. She missed him for sure when he wasn't here but I can't say if she's happy to have him back. Unless a welcome home hump is happiness for her.

I must've been more worried about Rupe than I thought. The minute we got him home, I collapsed onto the couch and needed a restorative nap. And so did he.

Waiting

That Dog is at the vet's and we're waiting by the phone and HRH by the window. Wanna bet that despite the humping, thumping and growling, she is actually missing him and watching for him?

It looks dark outside the window but it's only past 1pm. That's what two continuous days of rain does. Along with flooding the field and footpaths outside. We may have our own pool soon.


L took this picture of Rupert's dangly bits for posterity. Must be a guy thing. He actually wondered if you could preserve it the way the Chinese court eunuchs kept theirs.

Ve haf vays of making you zmile

Rupert has a snaggle tooth, which shows vampire-like against his black muzzle. L said if we had to rename him, he would call him Vlad. Which is a whole lot better than his joking suggestion of PAP -- for the little white lightning streak on his forehead. Mama C calls him Bao Qingtian -- Justice Bao, because of the white mark on a black face.

He gets neutered tomorrow and should be home by the evening. Please hold him in your thoughts. It's a routine op but I worry and don't want my little aberrant puppy to be the one that tests the odds.

Boo!

Sponge Bob is hanging out in the kitchen. Because That Dog peed on it.

At the beach

This was Rupert's first visit to the beach and he wasn't at all impressed. He wanted nothing to do with the water, wouldn't even go near it. Perhaps he thinks it's just one giant bath. Queeni at least went to the edge of the water and sniffed it but daintily skipped away as the waves lapped up so her paws wouldn't get wet. As you can see here, Rupert was more interested in sniffing her butt than sniffing around. Sigh.


Then he decided to see if sand was worth eating -- maybe because there was so much of it -- so he stuck his snout in the sand and got his nose and tongue all covered with the stuff. That Dog.

Back to normal programming

Christmas, the New Year and the holiday season are over. The Christmas tree (I'm calling it what I've known it to be all my life, "holiday tree" indeed) is put away and in its place in the corner, the deck chair is back, facing the window. Maybe this is wishful thinking also that the monsoon will go away and the sunshine will come back.

Is it just me? Every year, for the past two or three years already, I put away the Christmas stuff only to find that I've forgotten about an ornament on the shelf or door or somewhere and it's too troublesome to untie the dust bag (well, garbage bag really) that all the Christmas stuff has been stowed away in. So I either leave those forgotten remnants out for the rest of the year till Christmas catches up again or put them away somewhere and hope to remember where when December rolls round.

My mother has drilled in me the necessity to remove the Christmas tree and decorations by Epiphany. Or it'll bring bad luck for the year, she says. I honestly don't know how much of this is true and how much of it was invented so you wouldn't still have the tree up and gathering dust in July.

It's the same with the superstition that you cannot sweep the floor during Chinese New Year or you would be sweeping away bad luck. I bet you a housemaid came up with this to get some time off.

With the holidays over, it's a dreary trudge back to work after so much time off. And it doesn't help that I'm going to have to do things I'm neither prepared nor equipped to do, and which take me out of the comfort zone of familiarity.

This morning, I made bread and whacked all the doubt and uncertainties out of my system. Tomorrow and the work it brings will be another day.

And there'll be more holidays next month with Chinese New Year. Ah, that's some consolation in living here. The Year of the Dog has brought us a new puppy, I wonder what the Year of the Pig will bring.

Book ends

And when they're good, they're very, very good.

That Dog!

This was what L came home today, having left the dogs alone for about four hours. HRH, he said, had slunk under the dining table, having none of this.

Rupert is incarcerated in his time-out in the crate in the corner -- which, in peace time, actually makes a very pretty occassional table with a bright lime green throw over it.



Sometimes, I don't know what to make of Rupert. He gets a time-out when he's done something naughty -- usually, a housetraining violation that involves peeing anywhere other than the pee pad. The last few times he did this, he put his tail down and slunk into his crate to time-out himself. If he knew he had been naughty, why did he do it in the first place?