Despair

This is Despair. I've never actually met her because she lived in Texas. She died a few days ago. For a dog that I've never skritched behind her ears, never patted her tummy, her death has left me very sad. How do you explain to a dog that they have hearts so big, they can reach right across the other side of the world? Or maybe they know.

Despair was 16 years old when she was given up to the Waco Animal Shelter. Because her people were going on a three-week vacation to Europe. Maybe they really were, maybe they weren't but thought that was a good enough excuse to tell the shelter. Along with other so-called good reasons any rescuer has heard before: new job, new house, new spouse, new baby.

And they would tell you too, it's not easy to rehome a 16-year-old dog. That's when the shelter called round and were given J's name. He has a big, soft heart. He also has like about 12 dogs (I lost count). And yes, he could make room for one more.

And so he took Despair home. He called her that until a name presented itself. And it did. Despair was named Oewyn, after the Lady of Rohan in 'The Lord of the Rings'.

The story should end there, with Despair, now Wyn, living out her days in a home full of love. It didn't. Two days after Despair came home with J, she collapsed and couldn't get up. Maybe it was a stroke. The vet would have some medical answer but J knew the real reason was that Despair was dying of a broken heart. The next day, in his truck as he was taking her on that final ride to the vet, she gave a cry, laid down her head and was gone.

At Rainbow Bridge, a sheltie now waits for her people. They wouldn't let her wait here until they came home from vacation so she has taken her waiting to another place. And when her wait is finally over, doubtless there will be faithfulness in her heart and love in her eyes. That's just the way dogs and people are. Unconditional love for undeserving humans.

Don't shop, won't drop

Not a good time to post this as it's the month-long Great Singapore Sale. Or maybe it's the perfect time, seeing that I'm not much of a shopper.

There's this pact, or "compact" as they call it (http://money.guardian.co.uk/consumernews/story/0,,2094919,00.html) to curb consumerism by pledging to abstain from buying anything new, apart from essentials, for a year. One of those pro-environment, anti-consumerist things.

I think I have unwittingly been a "compacter" for the past four years -- I haven't bought any new clothes since coming back from Hawaii. Also, I haven't bought any new shoes for quite a while (pick your jaw back from off the floor, M). I bought two pairs of Crocs in rapid succession when I discovered they were the next best things to Birkenstocks but that was yoinks ago. I haven't bought any bags either. Or CDs. In fact, I haven't bought anything major since getting furniture, appliances and kitchenware for the house when we moved in. I found great bargains for all the major buys necessary for a new house in the Great Singapore Sale this time last year and obviously the shopping experience was enough to last me for a whole year.

Oh wait, I bought books. Ooh, bad. Books kill trees. Even if I love books. Ooh, I'm a bad-assed shopper.

Fancy that

I came across a brand of cookies at the supermarket that cost twice as much as usual and came in a rustic looking box with hand-drawn illustrations -- like it was meant to give you an impression everything was wholesomely, painstakingly handmade from scratch and worth the money. I picked up the butter cinnamon ones and the cookies were in the shape of butterflies and the box helpfully pointed out that no two looked quite alike, to reinforce that they were handmade, I suppose. The helpful background text tried to set the mood, telling you to imagine you were in the woods, and that there was an English cottage at the edge of it and how lovely baking smells were coming out of the chimney. Ah, traditional English biscuits, I thought, turned the package over and found that they were made in the US of A. Geographically confused now,  I put the box back on the shelf.

But it stayed in my head so much so that I googled it when I got home. They're almost as fanciful in cyberspace. Only on the site, they threw out the English cottage idea and this time, they tell you to picture a lake with water so clear that you couldn't see how deep it was. From my diving experience, you can see exactly how deep it is in clear water, it's silty water where you can't see a thing, let alone the bottom to know how deep it is.

Or maybe the whole point of the fanciful background is to firmly entrench the brand in your memory. It must have worked. I laughed at it too much to buy it and now I still remember it to laugh at it some more. And I still don't know if it tastes any good. And by now, I'm sorely tempted to get it the next time I'm at the supermarket. I might as well now, I suppose.

Damn, that fanciful marketing worked.

Rupert TV

Rupert sneaked into the kitchen where there's a chicken in the oven. He thinks the oven is some kind of marvellous TV with smells instead of sound. There's a cooling mechanism that fans hot air out of it and Rupe was snuffling the chickeny air, inhaling deeply and drooling.

We didn't have the heart to shoo him out, despite the no-dog-in-kitchen rule. Watching him was better than watching actual TV.

Home today

L had a cold last week and despite counter measures, I seem to have caught it. I haven't got it as badly as he did and the worst of it was over the weekend. I slept in yesterday and the clinic was closed by the time I staggered out of bed -- it was Sunday and they open only till lunchtime. No chance of getting an MC so I self-medicated and went to work. The workload wasn't so bad since it was a Sunday and I really wasn't feeling that sick.

I'm no worse today but not entirely better. It's that sort of ill but not really so ill feeling that you can't even summon up a temperature to show to the doctor as she sticks the thermometer in your ear. Still she thought I should stay home and rest. I'm not going to argue, of course, and went home via the supermarket for some ice cream to feed the germs as I'm resting.

When L was snuffling away in the bedroom last week, I decided to sleep on the couch. Rupert stayed with me -- that was no surprise as he's quite the mummy's boy. Besides, the couch is our cuddle time. He's not allowed on the bed (not because I don't want him on it but because Queeni wouldn't stand for it) and in the bedroom, he's confined to his bed in the corner like Cinderella. Queeni went to bed with L -- no surprise either, she's daddy's girl. What was surprising was that as soon as he fell asleep, she came back out to the living room and spent the rest of the night with me. With no climate control -- I don't like the aircon but L and Queeni do. Now that's a great feeling, that the furkids forsook airconditioning to stick it out with me. L woke up feeling very abandoned by his family, he said.

We're going for the lived-in look

As much as I love M and his doghter Vivi, I should stop posting pictures of her in his flat because next to pix of his sparkling all-white immaculately-decorated flat that looks like it came from the pages of an interior decor magazine, my house looks like a dump and my furkids look scruffy. And I can't even get them to pose close together for a nice picture...

Spot the dog

I think M has hit on the answer to dog fur in everything -- have a dog that's the same colour as your house and furnishings.

I love this photo. Vi's head on the couch is counterpoint to the buddha bust on the display shelf. Geez, everything in his perfect house matches, even the dog.

The thing about having a guest star (http://snugpug.blogspot.com/2007/05/todays-special-guest-star.html) is that she is almost certainly going to be a constantly recurring one if she's cute.

Bubbles

Back in 2002, B gave us a bottle of vintage 1990 Dom Perignon as a wedding present. We didn't open it then and thought at first that we'd save it for the first anniversary. When that rolled round, we quite forgot about it as we had a party and there was plenty else on hand to drink. And after that, there didn't seem to be a really great occasion to open it. I mean, it's not just champagne, it's Dom Perignon. And it's not just Dom Perignon, it's vintage Dom Perignon. Meaning, it's not something you open to go with the pizza delivery.

And so it sat around for several years. And then the question arose. Do we age it some more or do we just drink it? See, that's the thing I don't get about collecting wine. It's not like books that you can arrange beautifully and admire. The stuff is meant to be drunk. But once you drink it, there goes your collection.

When we finally bought our flat and moved in last May, that would have been the next great occasion. I don't remember now but L said that I said we should have chilled it and opened it on our first night here. Only of course, we probably didn't know where it was among all our boxes of stuff.

Well now that it's the first anniversary of our moving to our home, L figured it was a good time to open it. We drank it out of the champagne glasses that we, err, took home from the Royal Hawaiian where we honeymooned. You can't exactly say that it was stealing when we told the staff that we intended to take the glasses. And they offered a towel -- see, you also can't say that we stole the hotel towels -- to wrap them in. Now that's aloha.

Gone in 48 hours

On Monday morning, I was so refreshed by having the entire weekend off that I got up early and had loads of time for a nice leisurely start to the workweek. I had a nice lunch, several cups of coffee and even had the time to write some e-mails and add a post to the blog.

By last night, I was exhausted when I got home -- it didn't help that the paper today is a bumper issue and pagination was twice as much as usual.

By today, I could barely crawl out of bed.

That's how sapping work can be. And there're another three days to go to the week...

Move the dog

So we were walking the dogs downstairs yesterday evening at a time when the kids are out to play. One toddler who couldn't have been more than five years old was riding his tricycle on the path. He stopped when he came up behind Queeni. He paused to consider what to do next. Which was: he imperiously told L to "move the dog", so that he could cycle on.

L, of course, got into a snit at being told what to do by a stranger toddler and let Queeni do whatever she wanted -- which really was to take her time and sniff at everything. Toddler back-pedalled back to Mummy and complained loudly. L loudly declaimed about brats. Mummy kept quiet and looked away.

In a couple of years, Toddler will start primary school. Maybe being in a class of 30 will make him realise he's not the only person on earth -- okay, so he's a kid; but I've met really nice kids who knew they were not the centre of the universe. And my taxes will be subsidising his school fees. Maybe then I can tell him to move off the path.

A book by its cover

Another meme, this time from www.funnytheworld.com

So I'm still sort of taking the lazy way to blogging but this one is timely, it's about books and comes at a time when I've nothing new to read. Gasp. I didn't find the time to go to the library last week and the pile of $2 cheap books that I got from the Carrefour bargain bin last month has been exhausted (and some were good finds too, at $2). We were to have gone to the dog park yesterday but the weather changed in the afternoon. Why is it always beautifully sunny on a work-day afternoon when I'm going to work and the rain only comes on the weekends? It has been like this for the past two weeks already, much to Rupert's sorrow (and mine, I like for him to get a good run at least once a week to work the edge off his energy; and Queeni's joy -- she clearly prefers a nap to running at the dog park). The showers didn't last very long but it did mean that the ground would be wet and muddy. Rupert wouldn't have cared but L did, he had just bathed the dogs. So it was a stay-at-home day. With nothing (new) to read.

Do you like to read?
Oh yes. All the time and not just books. L calls me a compulsive reader. If there is a block of text in front of me, I have to read it. I even read cereal boxes at breakfast.

What is your favourite book?
Pride and Prejudice. It is like a comforting old friend. My very tattered copy has accompanied me to every place I've moved to and reading it settles me because it draws me into its neat, self-contained world and people and away from the unfamiliar around me.

Who is your favourite author?
Jane Austen, by virtue of the above. Also, Terry Prachett and Bill Bryson.

Are you the kind of person who peeks at the end of a book to see how it turns out?
Seldom. I'm the sort that is committed to sticking to a book till I finish it but if it gets heavy-going or boring, I will peek at the end just to push myself through it.

Do you hate it when they turn a book into a film?
I'm not a movie person so it doesn't matter to me. There have been good movies made from books (Babe, The Lord of the Rings spring to mind) and horrid ones (Da Vinci Code) and there have been movies that have made me want to go read the book. Mostly though, I've enjoyed the book version more than the movie.

Has a book ever changed your life? How?
I don't think so. Or I would be able to come up with a book now. But if I can add here what I personally consider to be the book that has packed in the most punch within its pages is the simply-written yet containing a deep message to be 'Heather Has Two Mommies'.

Do you tend to borrow books from the library or do you prefer to buy them?
Both. I buy books that are keepers, books from authors that I've enjoyed previously and books that I may have come across in a review and intend to read. It is an expensive habit though, and the library books are the fillers for when I haven't got anything I plan on reading so I just walk into the library and pick something that catches my eye.

Which book are you planning on reading next?
I never plan. I may however, "discover" an author -- usually on the library shelves -- then I'll go back and borrow everything else he/she has written. Or I may get stuck on a theme. The last time was books on book clubs so I ploughed through 'The Jane Austen Book Club' and 'The Reading Group'. Part of the joy of reading is the serendipity of finding a good book. So that's why I don't plan. When I make my choice at the library or the store, I'm really judging the books by their covers.

If I was...

A meme from M, because I'm too tired/lazy to come up with anything and the easiest way out is to answer questions. I realised on Friday when I looked at the blog archives that we've been in this flat a whole year already. That means that I've been blogging for a year. And to think that I was afraid it would peter out. Well, it did the past week -- I spent time watching TV when I got home from work instead of on the Net. And now I'm taking the lazy way out for this entry.

If I was an hour of the day . . . I'd be 7pm, just about dusk
If I was a planet. . . Venus
If I was a direction. . . East
If I was a piece of furniture. . . a couch
If I was a liquid. . . coffee
If I was a sin. . . sloth
If I was a rock . . . slate
If I was a tree. . . silver birch
If I was a fruit. . . kiwi
If I was a flower . . baby's breath
If I was a climate. . . tropical
If I was a musical instrument. . . harp
If I was an element . . . argon
If I was a color. . . fuchsia
If I was an animal. . . dog
If I was a sound . . . waves on the shore
If I was music. . . 80s rock
If I was a music style. . . Baroque
If I was a song . . . Rockin' in the Free World
If I was a feeling. . . happiness
If I was a book. . . Heather Has Two Mommies
If I was a food. . pasta with bolognaise sauce
If I was a place. . . Maui
If I was a flavor. . . tom yam
If I was a scent. . . White Linen
If I was a word. . . aiyo
If I was a verb. . . relax
If I was an object. . . a coffee cup
If I was a part of the body. . . an eye
If I was a facial expression. . . a smile
If I was a cartoon character. . . Earl, in Mutts
If I was a movie. . . Babe
If I was a shape. . . pentagon
If I was a number. . . 30
If I was a season. . . autumn
If I was a sentence. . . Let the weekend begin!__

Aids Candlelight Memorial

The annual memorial wasn't candlelit this year as for the first time, it was held indoors -- in the auditorium at the Singapore Management University. Back in the 80s when the memorial began, it was held in a field where the SMU campus now stands. While it is nice to go back to the old grounds, something was lost by holding it indoors. The organisers made good use of being in an auditorium, so there were song and dance performances. However, the downside was that it became like entertainment. You showed up, you took a seat and you sat back to watch. The fact that there was no silent march -- it was not possible inside an auditorium anyway -- also made this the most passive memorial ever. I hope this doesn't reflect on the fight against Aids and its discrimination.


Also, as it was indoors, we didn't use candles. It wasn't the first time that we had to substitute light-sticks for candles. We did this two years ago when the memorial was held at the Botanic Gardens because they had a no naked flame policy -- although they let us have one memorial candle on stage. I can see Paddy's (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paddy_Chew) disgusted reaction -- he'd protest about how unglam a plastic light stick is. Even if we got a pink one for him.

We went for dinner after the memorial and I stuck our light sticks into a glass to take a picture. The wine is libation for Paddy. And for the others. Cheers and love.

Down the garden path

I don't live where this garden is, unfortunately. Or fortunately. This is the rooftop garden in my office building. The fuzzy picture taken by the cellphone doesn't do it justice. The plants on either side of the wooden path were knee-high when they were first planted but are now taller than I am. In the few seconds that I'm walking on the short path, I can actually feel I'm in the middle of somewhere nice and forget that I'm at work.

It also helps that that the canteen -- and some rather good coffee -- is at the end of the path.

Today's special guest star

... is Vivi. With Photoshop wizardry by her daddy.

Hard rockin' ambulance

Either the Hard Rock Cafe isn't the only establishment using "love all, serve all" as its motto or they're running an ambulance service now. (It's painted across the doors, over the windows -- I couldn't get a close-up focus on the cellphone camera.)

You could say L did a little ambulance chasing to get this shot. :)

Pooch pacifier

Apparently, it is possible to fall asleep while chewing a bone, and remain asleep while holding it in your mouth without your jaw aching. Or maybe it's another one of those aberrantly Rupert things.

It's a knockout!

You know the evening will be nice and peaceful when the dogs are knocked out. And it's probably for this that I love the dog park more than they do. Only I didn't think two small dogs could take up so much space on the couch.

Long live the Queeni

I think Annie Leibowitz did a nice portrait of the Queen looking out of her window (http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/art/2007/05/annie_leibowitz_one_of_the_mos.html) but I like L's portrait of our Queen looking out of her window better. And the fur she is wearing is her very own. :)

Before and after Rupert

These are the Galileo range from Nylabone, the toughest chews that they have. "For powerful chewers", the packaging says. Well, Rupert, ever the aberrant, has outpowered their expectations. He just chomped his way through them. The way he goes through the chews, I'll have to replace them almost every week. It's an expensive habit. But I suppose it still works out to be cheaper than replacing shoes and furniture...

Queeni has never been much of a chewer, a thin normal Nylabone lasts her for years. But now that Rupert chews, well, so must she. And she gallantly works away at the tough Galileo and you know her jaws are aching. But she'd rather suffer that than to drop it and have Rupert snatch it. It's a royal attitude.

Gone green

There has been a lot of activity in the field as the flower beds have been dug up. All the lilies are gone. But there's a pile of ixora seedlings left in the corner so I guess there'll be new plants where there now are giant mud patches, I hope.

This morning, the trees were trimmed and the branches temporarily left in piles on the ground. Queeni and Rupert haven't left the window, they were thoroughly entertained -- which at least kept That Dog out of mischief.

When they went down for walkies, they were even more delighted -- piles of tree branches on the ground was like the trees finally being brought down to their level.

There was a sudden movement on the grass and Queeni moved like lightning and pounced. After so many attempts at catching lizards that ended up with her just treeing them as they climbed out of reach, she finally caught a lizard. She had it pinned down with her paw.

However, she hadn't stopped to think through about what she would do with a lizard after having caught one. She just stood there, looking at it almost confusedly until L made her let it go.

Rupe, all this time, just stood staring. So much for the terrier instinct.

What sort of parent would I become?

The playground bully (http://snugpug.blogspot.com/2007/04/dirty-boy.html) got me to thinking: Is it nature or nurture that makes children so horrid? OK, children are not self-aware at this stage. But imparting self-awareness is part of parenting, isn't it? It's what the parents have to do, it's not the maid's job along with babysitting.

You need a licence to own a dog. In this country, you also need a Certificate of Entitlement to own a car (http://www.expatsingapore.com/content/view/1152). I say you also need one to become a parent.

If you adopt a child, you're assessed for suitability and that includes a check on your background and your income. But there's nothing to stop you from having your own kids. That's the scary part.

The other day, on the train, a mother gave her cellphone to her toddler to keep her occupied on the train. So toddler spent a happy half hour gassing with her dad on the phone. I hope she doesn't grow up with her brain cells fried. It will be bad enough for her when she becomes a teenager.

Another day, at the next table at the food court, Junior couldn't decide what he wanted to drink so his parents let him sip from their drinks. One was having coffee, the other, a fizzy, sugary soft drink. I never had coffee until I was 13 and soft drinks were for special occasions only, like Chinese New Year. I remember I was at my cousins' house once and was amazed that they could help themselves to a bottle of soft drink in the fridge whenever they liked. Coffee was for adults only, so my parents used the transition from primary school to secondary school as the cut-off point for when I could have caffeine. When I was 16, I had a friend who still hadn't had coffee before. And our parents certainly weren't Mormons. They were just, well, parents.

And Rupert will never get coffee, no matter how old he is.

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.