When the Baby's Away the Cat Will Play

This little piggy went to market
This little piggy stayed home
This little piggy had roast beef
This little piggy had none
This little piggy cried weeeeee all the way home


And


This little family took a train to visit friends in the Philadelphia area this weekend. There we thoroughly enjoyed exotic suburban luxuries such as central air, washer and dryer, finished basement, SUV, and a big back yard with a kiddie pool. We didn't take Doodle cat with us.

Since we left late Friday afternoon and were scheduled to return early on Sunday morning, I didn't think I'd need to get a friend to come over to check on Doodle. I always worry about her when I'm away, but I reminded myself that one day by herself isn't a big deal. She's a former alley cat for cryin' out loud, she can handle it. Plus, it generally takes two full days of being alone and bored before she freaks out, and she had more than enough food and water to cover one full day by herself. Before I left for work, I gave John's Daddy (I'll call him JD) a Doodle Checklist, which he followed to a T:

• Put up the step ladder (for her enjoyment)



• Close the bedroom door (to discourage a rogue turd expedition)



• Open a window (for ventilation)



• Close the drapes (to keep it cool)



• Keep the closet door open (she likes to sleep in there)

Remember that JD was not only preparing Doodle for our departure, but also packing up Baby John for his first visit to Philly. Anyone who knows anything about babies understands that getting out of the house with a baby is challenging no matter what. Because they can't pack for themselves. Or walk. And they require a lot of odds and ends and bits and pieces and you have to anticipate which ones will be required during your stay. Diapers, formula, burp cloths, clothing, extra clothing for barfed-on outfits, toy, white noise machine, car seat, etc. And since we don't have a car, travelling with a baby is extra complicated and obstacle course-y, because we must carry everything we're bringing with us on our backs.

Lucikly we travel well together and are getting good at it. The journey out was smooth, the journey back even smoother, and a great time was had by all. John got to "swim" in his first swimming pool, sleep in his first Pack 'n' Play, and JD got to celebrate his first Father's Day. My only regret was not eating breakfast at the house before we left because by the time we got back to the apartment, I was ravenous. And of course, curious how Doodle fared in our absence.

As I put the key in the door, JD said, "I wonder if there are 50 million turds in the house."

"I don't know," I said as I turned the key. "Maybe she surprised us."

She surprised us, alright. The smell in the house was not good. Sure, it was hot and humid, and presumably the cat had done at least some of her business in the toilet, but it had only been the one full day. Soon Doodle appeared, content and relaxed, which is a nice change from most cases after I return from a weekend away wherein she greets me at the door frantic and meowing. Now John, no longer distracted from the taxi ride, made it clear that he was hungry, so I had to get it together for him. I pulled a bottle out of the diaper bag, and as JD brought in the rest of the stuff, I went to the bathroom to flush the toilet and eliminate the stench so that John --and eventually we--could eat lunch in a pleasant setting.

At the bathroom's entrance, I was stopped dead in my tracks. Doodle played her own version of the World Cup this weekend. Not with a ball, but with a substantial mouse. And evidently, the mouse lost. Big time.

Look closely at this picture--as hard as it may be--because there's a lot going on. Exhibit A, obviously, is the mouse, taking front and center stage apparently having died a thousand violent deaths. The toilet in the back is chock full of waste, compliments of Doodle. Good girl! Mid-ground is a jingle ball, which may have been a part of the World Cup Game or found itself on the field later. Assorted spots on the ground are fur: mouse, cat, or both. The picture which had been sitting against the wall to be ultimately hung up (and then I went into labor) is askew from the scuffle. Doodle herself is on the side of the tub, so stoked to show off her kill that she can't get out of her own way.

I did a 180 degree turn when I saw this cat and mousy show and screamed for help. JD cleaned up the crime scene (and took this picture) because I couldn't handle it. Suddenly, I wasn't so hungry anymore. I ran to the kitchen to get the paper towels and bleach, and lo and behold, the kitchen door was wide open! In JD's haste to remember everything for Doodle and John, he had forgotten to bolt the back door. Thus, the wind blew it open at some point over the weekend, and Doodle had her run of the place, inside and out. For hours. Approximately 48 hours. Nope, she hadn't found that mouse in my house, she went down 8 flights to the laundry room and out the window to get it, and bring it back up for a good time.

No wonder she was so calm and collected when we got home. She didn't miss us one bit. In fact, she's definitely wondering why the hell we lock the back door at all when life is so much more interesting when her square footage of living space is increased and she can roam as she pleases. Had Doodle not found a mouse, she'd without a doubt have the " Gone Huntin' " sign up when we returned. And had she caught more than one, this joint would've turned into full-on Apocalypse Nimh.


Now back to the photograph for more fun facts. In the tub you can see John's blue playmat, which Doodle peed on earlier in the week and turned into a pissmat. I washed it, and it was hanging on the side of the tub to dry when we left for Philadelphia. But in the mouse melee, it must have ended up in the tub. I pictured the trembling mouse hiding in the mat's folds, Doodle with her paw placed firmly on top. When I went to tidy up the bathroom after JD disposed of Doodle's prize, I whisked up the mat to find approximately 50 million mouse turds flanked by a mega bonus of what I can describe only as a trio of organ meats, delightfully stewing in their own sauce which had coagulated and rendered the gizzards so stuck to the tub that I couldn't pick them up with a dry paper towel. There was also something resembling a tendon in the mix that was particularly stubborn to remove, resisting my grip with the stretchiness of a rubber band. Ahhhhhh eeeeeeeeeee yahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!


When did the disemboweling happen? Before or after Mr. Mouse found himself on the tile floor? Was he so scared of Doodle the Ripper that he literally crapped himself to death in the tub? What's more thrilling, the chase or the kill? What's tastier, the heart or the liver? Was there mouse roux in the pile of Doodle's barf on the carpet this morning? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know if I want to know. What I do know is that everyone had an amazing weekend. Well, almost everyone.

End of an Era: End of the Errors?

John and Doodle, MA ~ May, 2010

Considering the major life change that is John, Doodle's adjustment to her little brother has been relatively smooth. I spent a ton of quality time with Doodle before John was born. Namely because I knew things would be different once our new roommate arrived and also because at the end of my pregnancy, all I could do was lie in bed on my side. Doodle loves nothing better than a still, warm snuggle companion. After John was born, I read in my baby books that you're supposed to limit the time you spend with your animal friend before the infant comes home in order to prepare her. Oh well. I guess I'll just add this to the list of several well-intentioned parenting mistakes I'll make along the way.

Doodle was terrified of John at first, not sure what to make of this wiggling, crying thing that smelled weird and seemed to be everywhere: on the bed, in the basket, on the table, in the swing, in the bouncy seat, with Mom. Always with Mom. But once she realized the squirming twerp wasn't a threat to her safety, she relaxed a bit and went on with her life, a little hungrier for food and attention.

Most readers know that Doodle cat uses a toilet instead of a litter box, something I trained her to do over ten years ago with incredible results. I basically moved her litter box into the bathroom, put it atop the toilet, then switched it with a mixing bowl filled with litter, and finally, used some plastic wrap with a hole in it, the litter scattered on top to direct her where to go. And voila!Over the decade, she's had an 85-90% success rate, even managing to poop and pee in strangers' toilets when we've traveled to Massachusetts or Vermont. The problem has been, however, that when she makes a mistake (or an intentional mistake), it's often a costly one in terms of money, effort, and frustration for both of us.

On Monday, Doodle peed in the toilet and I gave her cheers, per usual. Later on, JD's Mom and brother came over to see the baby. JD was in the bedroom on the phone, and Doodle was running around acting a little crazy. Generally I pay close attention to her activity to thwart any potential rogue doo doo bombs, but I was entertaining. I assumed she was running to and fro because she had just done her #2 business in the can and was due another round of praise. I was wrong.

JD screamed out from the bedroom. I rushed in with a "What? What?? What???" He was in shock, and all he could muster was a gesture toward the clean comforter which, in my corner of the bed, now contained a little nest of logs compliment of Doodle cat. In her confusion over the number of guests fawning over the new roommate whom has stolen her thunder since March, she flipped and failed.

With the comforter clean and no "Bad kitty!" reprimands, I'm finally coming around to the idea of providing Doodle with her very own litter box so both of us don't endure the potty time stress anymore. She's a wild animal (wilder than most) with an intelligence, sophistication, and grace which surpass most homo sapiens, and I'm so proud of her. I think it's time I honor her with a box of dirt she can toss turds around in just like her peers. And if she wants to act like a lady and dump in the can once in awhile, that's fine too.

Viva Doodle!

I Don't Believe in Karma / I Do Believe Kindness

Here's a little post I wrote for GlobaLove Tank tonight, inspired by Doodle's visit to the clinic today:


I saw some serious sack animals at the vet today, including my own lil' Doodle Cat who was with the dentist this morning to get her world rocked with a weigh-in, a rectal thermometer, some intravenous drugs, a catheter, a dental cleaning and a surprise front-tooth yanking. I don't have good health insurance for myself, let alone Doodle Bug, but she needed to go, I'm hopelessly in love with her, and it had to be done. But what if she didn't have me?

Doodle couldn't wait to get out of there this afternoon, poor thing. But she was in amazing shape compared to poor Sasha, the sweetest, saddest most gentle doll of a 6-year old pooch I've ever seen. She was in the waiting room too this morning, vomiting and beyond miserable. And she can't tell us what's wrong with her! Imagine that? Not being able to scream, "What are my symptoms? WHAT ARE MY SYMPTOMS? My stomach fucking hurtS, I'm hot as an inFerno, and iM ABOUT TO BLOW CHUNKS ALL OVER THIS WAITING ROOM!" Sure, Doodle was to undergo major anesthesia, and I had to sign a waiver saying that if she died in the surgery all was A-OK with it, but at work, my mind was more on Sasha and how she was doing.

When I went to fetch Doodle post-surgery (the staff in the back re-named her Cranky, not surprisingly), I learned from the receptionist that poor Sasha Pants was to spend the night and was resting wrapped in blankets under a heat lamp. The vet tech explained Doodle's pain meds with me when another tech appeared from the back with Sasha--outfitted in a pink cast--to take her for a walk.

Sasha. On her way back from a "walk." Having the RUFFest of days (poor girl didn't have the eye boogers in the morning) would you look at those eyebrows and that tail? Ouch. Lady is in a world of hurt but in the right place. 

5:15 p.m. ~ May 12, 2009.

Sasha, feel better soon! xxoxoxxoxoo!

Sasha Pup still looked miserable, barely holding up her head and limping along, but she was dealing. I'm to understand she may need a hysterectomy or something, and truly I wish her and human companion (who was understandably frantic about Sasha's condition this morning) the best! Oh, Sasha.

My point? Life is hard. Times are tough. Everything sucks. And when we're feeling low, hopeless and helpless, helping other creatures is the fastest feel-good thing you can do for yourself and in turn, others. The most vulnerable in any circumstances are the innocent and defenseless, and shelters like Bide-a-Wee (Scottish for "Stay while!") improve the lives of suffering animals through rescue, veterinary care, and adoption outreach.

Doodle (aka Cranky), home from the vet with way more drugs and one less tooth. May 12, 2009 ~ NYC

Did you know that adopting an animal improves the lives of humans? It's true! When I encountered Doodle ten years ago, sitting on the shoulder of the girl working the coat check of an underground Caviar Bar where I was 6 Russian vodka martini-soaked sheets to the wind, I was in no shape to adopt anything. But when Doodle was delivered to my apartment the next morning (3 hours later--did I really give out my card?), my life was changed for the better almost instantly, and she has brought me nothing but unconditional love and joy. And the occasional barf on the carpet. But it's 99% joy. If you can't adopt right now, you can still help make a difference: Feed an Animal for FREE simply by clicking HERE! Every click at theanimalrescuesite.com is a free bowl of food!

Thanks in advance for being kind. Rewind! 

Peace, meows and woofs,

Anne & dOoDLE

If I Don't Come Home With Cat Food, Doodle's Gonna Kick My Ass

1. If I don't come home with cat food, Doodle's gonna kick my ass
2. If I don't come home with cat food, Doodle's gonna kick my ass
3. If I don't come home with cat food, Doodle's gonna kick my ass
4. If I don't come home with cat food, Doodle's gonna kick my ass
5. If I don't come home with cat food, Doodle's gonna kick my ass
6. If I don't come home with cat food, Doodle's gonna kick my ass
7. If I don't come home with cat food, Doodle's gonna kick my ass
8. If I don't come home with cat food, Doodle's gonna kick my ass
9. If I don't come home with cat food, Doodle's gonna kick my ass
10. If I don't come home with cat food, Doodle's gonna kick my ass

Cranky's Home! And Mighty Glad to Be Here!

Yep, apparently that's what they call ol' Doodle at Bide-a-Wee, "Cranky!" I about died when the vet tech brought Doodle out and explained her medication and asked me if "Cranky" was mine. "Excuse me, did you say, Cranky?" She replied, "Oh, I'm sorry. Yeah, that's what everyone back there has been calling her. She's had it with us. Is it... Doodle Kitty?" 

"It's fine, she answers to Cranky, " I laughed. (That's my girl, I thought.)

"Yeah, so here's her pain medication, we had to pull a tooth, a canine, the enamel was eroded and the nerve was exposed. I tried to take her arm bandage off, but like I said, she's really had it with us today. She's done."

I put my hand up to the window screen of the bag with "Hi, Doodle." She recognized me and responded with a low growl. "Yep," I said. "She's done."

Doodle has never been weirder or happier to be home. She spent the first hour wandering around, marking me and all the furniture with the side her face, fussing with her arm bandage, completely at a loss with what to do with herself, jumping up on the window sill, almost falling off, and looking out at the birds, people, and cars. Then she ate a little of her favorite food, Friskies Tender Chunks. And though she followed me around relentlessly, it was nearly impossible for her to stay still for a photo. Here's what I got in the order I took them:

Doodle: Veterinarian War Veteran

Um, did you know that a canine is one of those big sabres in the front? Doodle lost her left one. Obviously. Teeth make the face, I tell you. Click for more ridiculous. 

Doodle, Back from the Vet, a Lil' More Relaxed with More Drugs and One Less (Front) Tooth 

May 12, 2009 ~ NYC

Thanks to everyone (and special thanks to Doodle's patrons Sans Pantaloons, Whipcreamy, and Ramona) for their support and concern. Cranky's gonna be just fine, and better than ever! XoXo

It's Hot, It's Her Birthday, It's Doodlefest 2006

The polls reveal that people want to see more Doodle. Why? Fuck if we know. We were a little surprised as well over here at Two Can Anne. Afterall, I do most of the writing and stuff. But, anyway. It's not a big deal. Really.

Ok, now in honor of her 7th birthday, Doodle and I invite you, my dear readers, to party all month long with this bitch--at what we've decided to call Doodlefest 2006! That's right! It's everywhere you want it to be because it's the blogosphere, so there's no camping and shit. Now, prospective sponsors are suggesting that I promoteDoodlefest 2006 as a 18+ show, so you know, Doodlefest doesn't have much along the lines of live music or beer or anything, but whatevs, --I didn't see anything--feel free to enjoy your own music and beer--if you're of age of course, and drink responsibly-- (did you any of you not see Little Darlings?) while you enjoy scenes of Doodle being Doodle.

I must say that with no disrespect to Doodle, Manny Being Manny is more interesting than Doodle Being Doodle. But Doodle Does Doodle better than Manny Does Manny.

That, I can promise you.

D.F.A.F: Doodle's Fresh Air Fund

Please, won't you help a sister help a sister out? Help Doodle get her skinny striped ass to Vermont this summer for Doodle's 6th Annual Kill Stuff in the Puckerbrush by the Babbling Stream Under the Vermont Moonlight 11 Day Mouse Murdering Festival Plus Take Huge Steamy Dumps Outside Under the Back Porch BLOWGANZA!

See, when you make a donation by clicking the PayPal button in the sidebar at right, not only to you get the satisfaction of making the dream of Doodle Goes to Camp a reality for a restless 7 pound terrorist cooped up in a spacious midtown apartment this shiteous economy (Jet Blue charges $100 each way for a pet stowed under your seat--up fifty beans from last year), you're getting Doodle off my jock for awhile. Love her to death, TO DEATH! But man, is she annoying when she's bored. And let me tell you, she's fucking bored. I just can't take the meowing. The lying around, the moping, the meowing. I've enjoyed a lousy five minute break from the annoying when she caught in midair (and immediately ate) the two stray flies that got in here. Then there's what she did to my houseplant. Then I've got to annoy her back by putting hats and wigs on her and take her picture she just hates that, and then we end up fighting. Look, bitch wants to go out and kill, okay? Let her kill! Please, won't you help her kill? Just a $1. Every $1 helps Doodle torture and kill, kill (or just torture and then it eventually dies) another defenseless creature, every $1 helps her eat another blade of grass, every $1? Another rewarding crap in the great outdoors.

Doodle and I thank you in advance--every bean counts!

Doodle's Fresh Air Fund

donations

so far: $110

to go: $90

Palm Sunday Field Trip: Doodle Goes to Astoria

Doodle's been getting on my nerves of late, simply because Spring is here and she wants to go out and kill stuff, per usual. Saturday's hangover didn't go well with Doodle's in-my-grill, early morning stir craziness, so I decided get the both of us the heck out of the house and we made a field trip to Jenn's Bitchin' Patio in Astoria (2nd time in Queens in 2 days? WTF?) where I could get a little hair of the dog, meet Jenn's charming roommates (human and pisci) and Doodle could get her fresh air sniff on. I think the following pictures reveal what a tremendous time we had bitching over bagels in the bright Springtime sun.

Doodle's arrival

Spring buds

Jenn's picsi roommate, Pocket

It's better with booze--would you look at that sky?

Jenn's photo of me taking a picture of Doodle half in the bag (both of us)

The other half of the bag

Out of the bag

The Bitchin' Patio hostess modeling my pinhead hat*: 1 size fits all depending on how you tilt.

Photo of me and Doodle by Jenn. Doodle's ears? 100% akimbo.

Astoria, Queens ~ Palm Sunday ~ April 5, 2009

*My hat by none other than Cha Cha's House of Ill Repute

Doodle's a Photographer: Christmas Vacation Doodle Style

"Liberry" ~ Photo by Doodle the Cat, Vermont ~ December 24, 2009

"Garage Lights" ~ Photo by Doodle the Cat, Vermont ~ December 24, 2009

"Mom's Can Under the Christmas Tree" (Anne) ~ Photo by Doodle the Cat, Vermont, 12/25/09

"Mom" (Anne) ~ Photo by Doodle the Cat, Vermont, 12/25/2009

Doodle the Photographer, Back From an Expedition, Vermont~ December 24, 2009

Doodle's 9 Lives and Beyond 9th Birthday BLOWGANZA in Vermont!

dOODLE, nYc

7/24/08

Holy crap! Big news, kids, big news! In all the excitement over Doodle Goes to Camp I've completely forgotten to tell you that Doodle's turning 9--count 'em 9-- on Thursday, August 7 in Vermont. If you've been wondering what to get the little scamp who has everything for her 9th birthday, I encourage you to make a generous $1 donation to Doodle's Vermont Photography Project (see sidebar at right) on or before August 1. We've raised $21.43 so far towards her $60 customized cat camera which Mr. Lee said he'd ship in time for her vacation. Every lil' bit counts and Doodle and I thank you in advance for your support.

meow

meow

meow

VIVA DOODLE!

Doodle Hears a Doo

Doodle, NYC ~ June 17, 2009

Some Two Can Anne readers have inquired recently about Doodle's photography, so I'll soon put up a gallery of images that are for sale. Doodle's pictures are printed and mounted on primed canvas and stretched on a wooden frame. The largest size available for quality resolution is approximately 8.5" x 11", and smaller sizes are an option too.

Doodle the Artiste poses with her photograph, "Shed." NYC~ August, 2008.


Doodle's art makes wonderful gifts, just ask Sans Pantaloons about his Doodle Original--The Vermont Sunrise Triptych!

Survey Says: Selma Hayek Has Great Cans

My latest reluctant grocery shop (my first in 6 months: eating is expensive) on Fresh Direct yesterday included some Doodle food. 

I've been too busy and pre-occupied to have enough wet stuff on hand it seems; it always feels like we're down to the last can of Fancy Feast in the cupboard or the last half can of Friskies Meaty Bits in the fridge. 

If I walk into the kitchen, let alone open the refrigerator (or that cupboard) and Doodle hears it, and it's empty, well, I am no short of fucked. 

The 7 lb bitch wants her food, bitches.

You don't think a  7lb anything can be a terrorist? Look. There have been times Doodle has been so relentless, I've had to put my coat back on and walk across the street to the Koreans for Fancy Feast to make the annoying stop. 

But with Recession '09 in full effect, I decided it was time for financial prudence and planning--read: time for me to experiment with the least expensive (read: cheapest) canned wet crap next to dog food for Doodle. She's a picky eater (prefers meaty bits and chunky flesh to pureed clumps) and eats the vet-recommended dry, is in excellent health but she hates that brand's wet stuff---why pay for crap she doesn't eat that I just have to scrape out of the bowl and flick in the garbage days later? 

Why not just give her the Doritos of cat food? Why not give a cat what she wants? Something disgusting? Something not fortified with rice and flavored with basil? Something more akin to eating the ass out of a skunk? 

May I present to you Doodle's New Wet Food Diet in Recession 09:

9 Lives Tuna Select with 95% Real Tuna

And kids? Let me tell you, you don't have to eat it to know it is revolting. 

Unbearably so. 

It doesn't bear much resemblance to "people" tuna, as it's blood red and throbbing, for crying out loud. And what the fuck is the other 5 percent "tuna?"

I almost booted when I opened the can (you pay 20 more cents for the flip top/peel version tins apparently) to dump the hot mess into her bowl. 

Does Doodle like it, you ask?

Please. She can't get enough.

9 Lives Tuna Select with 95% Tuna? Doodle's lovin' it. 

Home Whatever Home

Doodle gazing at the discarded Xmas tree, snowflakes falling, and stray bird of prey

12/26/06

Vermont

Merry Christmas, bitches! Have a good time? Great! Yeah, we're home. Doodle's been in the bag for close to twelve hours, and I came home to a pound of bills and strange Christmas cards from people I haven't heard from in years: yes, it's a typical annoying holiday travel day.

Forms of transportation used today: a car, a plane, a shuttle van, a shuttle bus, my own two clompers for a dozen blocks "Last Day in Vermont" always bites, no matter what. It's so friggin' great up there, we never want to go home no matter the season. Just look at Doodle in this picture: totally, totally bummed. Add this general bummer to the Day After Christmas and you have yourself a serious kerfuffle.

Whether you're sad about saying goodbye to family or totally stoked about that idea (and you have been basically since you arrived) the coming home part of travelling is always lame. You're rushed, you're delayed, there's traffic, people suck--all kinds of shit will contribute to your feeling desperately in need of a vacation immediately after your "vacation."

I need a vacation from Christmas vacation, but it was a great Christmas.


Ten Good Time Charlie Moments From an Altman Vermont Christmas 2006:

1. Doodle is awesome, respected her curfew (most likely due to chilly weather and lack of plentiful prey), came home at appropriate hours and used the toilet like a champ
2. A wild animal found her Christmas deer antlers in her carrying case, which stored in the garage, and destroyed them. Did everything but ingest them. Doodle is not bummed about this. We were, because she looked so cute in them. We hung them on the tree and Doodle sniffed them for days. We're thinking skunk.
3. It snowed (and stuck) the day after Christmas. It fell in huge fluffy flakes after midnight on Christmas Day. Whip and I, like Sally, prefer January snowflakes but we'll take what we can get.
4. I was not constipated (unlike Thanksgiving)
5. I did not recieve the Time Life Soft Rock CD Collection, but I did get the Electric Company DVD Box Set from Whip and it is amazing. And to think I didn't even ask for it. Lesson? No. I will still ask for shit. Where is my Time Life Soft Rock CD Collection?
6. Food, folks, "fun" (booze)
7. The Altman 4 sat down for a good old fashioned family quality time board game (although "fun" was involved)
8. The You Bet Your Life with Grouch Marx DVD Box Set--a rare something the Altman family can enjoy together. Highly recommended
9. We 3 broads embarked on a First Ever and Possibly Annual Christmas Day walk around the lake (7+ miles) and gave my father the instructions to pick us up if we weren't home in 2 hours. We were making good time but fucked around here and there taking pictures and finding echoes near the lake to shout stupid stuff and, well, needless to say, Mom, sis and I weren't home in two hours. Dad eventually drove by us wearing the Red Baron flying/driving a model T with no windshield/motorcycle side car type of leather cap (with the built in goggles) cap he opened that morning from my crazy uncle. He had a really goofy look on his face, drove by us really slowly with his tongue out like a retard and went half a mile before he turned around. It was hilarious, even if he admitted he didn't wear it the whole way
10. Willie Nelson and Carlos Santana's "They All Went to Mexico"
11. No church was involved in this Christmas Celebration, though Christ was involved to a degree (even if it was in a heated moment, his name shouted from the top of a ladder in a tree trimming situation)
12. Last, but not least: The 2007 Doodle Calendar WAS a great gift! It brought smiles to several faces. It's impossible not to grin when you look at this thing. Order yours today here!

Two hurdles down, one to go: Happy Pre Happy New Year, folks! 2007 means: just 3 more years of the googly oogly glitter oversized sunglasses, so make sure to buy yourself a pair! 2010 isn't gonna work as well visibility wise. Unless your eyes are wide spread apart, and I've seen this, so perhaps 2010 is your year!

Where Do Doodles Come From?

Doodle will be 7 this month, and in honor of her birthday, I'll tell a little about her interesting provenance. In 1999 after our company Christmas party, a group of us went on to Pravda, so that we could get more hammered and talk more shit about people. I don't know about all of your constitutions, but generally it's safe rule to avoid nightcaps of the martini nature. But this is a martini bar, and I was young, and this is crap I used to do.

Anyway, I noticed the cute punk rocker working the coat check had a kitten in there with her. When I went with my coworker to collect our coats, I asked about the kitty. Or rather, slurred about the kitty.:

Hi you have a kitty in there can I hold her please?
Sure, do you want to adopt her? I'm looking for a home for her.
Kitteeeeeeeeeeeee! Oh, doooooodle kititeeeeeee kittieeeeeeeeeee doooooodle........Meowww...
I've adopted out all of her siblings but haven't found a home for her yet.
What's her name?
Standy.
What?
Standy. She was the only one in the litter standing.
That's sstupid name.
Do you want to adopt her? The only other guy I know is in a band and he'll never be around...
I'd love a kitty but I'm shitbanged. Prob'ly not a good idea to adopt while intoxicated.
I can get your number and call you in the morning? She's had all her shots...
Yess call me in th'morning thatsbetter here' s m' card bye. Bye doodle kitty kitty doodle.


As we left, my friend said, "If you get her, you have to name her Doodle. It's the first thing you said when you picked her up." What seemed like five minutes later, the phone rang the next morning. "Do you still want the kitty?" Ugh. What am I going to say, that she's not cute enough? Please. "Bring her on over," I said. And then up came Miss Punk Rocker and "Standy" with a litter box, scoop, and some food and toys. I got a little history: Apparently the kittens were an abandoned litter found in an alley between East Village tenements. They were each rescued by the lowering of a basket on a rope. Picturing Doodle in a basket being raised up to a window is hilarious to me.

When Miss Punk Rocker left, she cried, and I was hungover. I looked at Doodle formerly known as Standy, she looked at me. The light of day exposed her mangy tail and ears. I said, "Hey, there, kitten. I'm going to go back to bed. Make yourself at home, we'll get to know each other in a couple of hours."

The end.

PS For those Doodle fans who haven't seen her movies, please, do check them out. She's a piece of work, alright.

Charlie Dog vs Doodle Cat

Here's a series which sums up Charlie Dog and Doodle Cat's introduction at the Altman Family Reunion in Vemont a few summers ago:

Aunt Kay is on the left, holding her beloved grandson, Charlie. Doodle is on the right, coached by her aunt, Whipcreamy. (Please don't ask me to explain Aunt Kay's shiny disco purple windbreaker. I can't. But she's wicked old, so let's try and cut her some slack. On that, and the hairdo.)




My mother was referee.



The match was brief.

For better or worse, Doodle's just like her momma. A maneater.

The Easter Bunny didn't dare make a visit this morning, for fear Doodle would rip it's ass off, but it was a gorgeous day in NYC, and I got up in time to go to church. Well, not a church in the traditional sense, but a place where I get to watch the Red Sox win over a couple two three five mimosas. So, Jesus? No offense or anything, it's just more my bag. Doodle's crying at the back door right now, wanting to go down 8 flights and out the laundry room window to bring back a traditional Easter alley mouse, but it's not happening. We're going to drink more mimosas and watch The Sopranos and Big Love on HBO. And we're gonna love it! Right, Doodle? Happy Easter, people!

For the Very First Time

Doodle and John, NYC ~ March 2010

Doodle came up to me and John on the sofa yesterday meowing for a little TLC, and John reached out to pet her. She wasn't alarmed, she just walked around in a few circles as she's prone to do, and his hand touched her back. As she moved, his hand smoothed over the length of her back and he ended up with a meathook full of fur. She could stand to be brushed, it's hot here these days. I think they'll be fast friends. Until, that is, he pulls her tail, which is bound to happen. I'll keep her nails clipped in the meantime.

By the way, it was Doodle's birthday on August 7, which after ten years I had actually forgotten until my mother reminded me. With the baby and all, there was no time for remembering, let alone a Birthday BLOWGANZA like we've had in years past. Coincidentally, when she sent the text, I had just left the pet store with a new catnip toy, some cat grass, and Doodle's favorite food. Though I was shopping to prepare Doodle for another weekend alone in the house, I must have known subconsciously.

Turning 11 means that she is 64 years old in "people years."

Happy Eleventh (64th) Birthday, Doodle! I love you!

When I'm 64

Songwriters: Mccartney, Paul;Lennon, John

When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now

Will you still be sending me a valentine, birthday greetings, bottle of wine?

If I'd been out 'til quarter to three, would you lock the door?

Will you still need me, will you still feed me when I'm sixty-four?

You'll be older too

Ah, and if you say the word, I could stay with you

I could be handy, mending a fuse when your lights have gone

You can knit a sweater by the fireside, Sunday mornings, go for a ride

Doing the garden, digging the weeds, who could ask for more?

Will you still need me, will you still feed me when I'm sixty-four?

Every summer we can rent a cottage

In the Isle of Wight if it's not too dear

We shall scrimp and save

Ah, grandchildren on your knee, Vera, Chuck and Dave

Send me a postcard, drop me a line stating point of view

Indicate precisely what you mean to say, yours sincerely wasting away

Give me your answer, fill in a form, mine forever more

Will you still need me, will you still feed me when I'm sixty-four?

*another coincidence: this is the song my mother sings to John

Doodle's at the Dentist!

Doodle, NYC ~ May 11, 2009

Doodle was not pleased about me taking away her food and water last night, and this morning, she was downright beside herself. There was no getting her in the bag either, as I had to chase her around the apartment; her love for the vet obviously dimished since our last trip. Getting a "Before" shot of her orange teeth was also not an option, so I'll have to go into the archives, or you'll have to take my word for it. When we arrived at bideawee, we waited with a beautiful and very sad pooch named Sasha. Poor Sasha was vomiting, sick as a dog, and far less thrilled than Doodle to be there, ears down, eyes big and wide. I had to sign a form releasing the shelter of responsibility if Doodle died (WIDD-What If Doodle Died?) from the anesthesia which wigged me a little, but I call at noon to follow up, and with hope, I pick her up at 4:00. Paws crossed, kids!

Doodle's Vermont Photography Project: Overwhelming Success

Doodle's Vermont Vacation requires a more detailed post, as it was an exercise in extreme emotions. However, all's well that ends well, and not only did we return with Doodle in tact (this was not a given--for 52 hours my heart was heavy with grief), we returned with Mr. Lee's Cat Cam in tact, and to boot: 191 amazing pictures taken by Doodle. Turns out she's an ace with a camera. Our many thanks go out to everyone who supported Doodle's Vermont Vacation and Photography Project, and it is my pleasure to dedicate the following to you:

Doodle's First Photo: Dawn in Greensboro, Vermont

Monday, August 4, 2008

Jimmy and Doodle Say Woof/Meow To Your Statistic

Will Jimmy make you fat? Yes. Will Doodle make you fat? Yes. Is that bad news? Maybe.

But the good news is that other studies confirm that pets are therapeutic so...sure, you're fat, BUT, you have Jimmy/Doodle. Ergo, you are happy.

Let me write out the equation for you:

Jimmy/Doodle + You=Fat+happy.

A much better statistic than:

Jimmy x 0 + Doodle x 0 + You= Skinny + sad.

Get it?

Oh, good. I get it too, so I guess that means I'm a good math teacher, and that's amazing, because let me tell you something, I've always been terrible at math. Which is why I'm not a banker, which is why I'm broke as a joke on coke. So, in other words, I suck.

Let's have another look at Jimmy, shall we? Jimmy likes laces. Jimmy likes to shake hands.

Okay, okay, and we'll throw a picture of Doodle in here just so she doesn't get an additional complex to complicate my life:

Awwww. Thumbs up to pets and the inevitable obesity they bring. :) Buy velcro sneakers now, and prepare for the expansion.

Crap That Crossed My Mind on the M103 You Need To Know

• A big fat ass--the kind that can get in the way of the person who owns one- can make for a peculiar sight. As an artist, I'm drawn to drawing/sculpting/describing interesting shapes, and let me tell you something, the world is full of 'em. After much thought, I'm sure the attraction isn't sexual for me, but I understand that a significant part of the male human population does deem a big fat ass a requirement (I just returned from consecutive trips Puerto Rico and Fire Island, after all). Of course, perhaps I find the fat ass remarkable because don't have a fat ass of my own. As it happens, I did not grow up in a family of fat asses to speak of, even counting the "married-ins," if you will.  Naturally, I've got my own share of physical anomalies, but in the ass department, I'm evidently part of the less glutes/all bones clan. Genus: NoAssAtAll. Phylum: Small. Not anyone's fave that I know of, but it's no doubt a thing on the internetz somewhere. And I imagine that if I had a fat ass, even though it could cause capacity problems for me/others in the cramped quarters of the subway, I'd like to think that the idea also might be completely fantastic at times. I mean, having a big fat ass might be just like sitting in a comfy, cushiony, feathery, delightful, heavenly, bean bag chair.  A comfy, cushiony, feathery, delightful, heavenly bean bag chair, all the time. Everywhere. Like your own personal foam stadium cushion that you can leave behind at the Bills Tailgate in the Meadowlands even though you're hammered on Mr. T's Bloodys. Why? Because it's totally attached to your body, silly! Whether you like it or not. it's attached, yo! Wooden, backless bar stool for drinks with wooden, backless man for 13 minutes? Comfy. Grand stand at the US Open at Bethpage Black in Long Island for 1.75 hours? Comfy. Industrial plastic seat on rush-hour bus for 2 hours? Comfy. Crappy sofa you can't afford to replace for 3 hours? COMFY! The concrete floor of Penn Station and/or the terrazzo floor Grand Central after too many Jager Bombs at Happy Hour for 4 hours?  THE COMFIEST, dude! COMFIEST! IT'S ALL COMFY! COMFY MEANS COMFORTABLE AND COMFY IS SHORT FOR COMFORTABLE! Dude. Dig it. Comfy. Comf. 
• I can say with 100% certainty that a chore I will never do is attempt to scrub the black ink stains from an absurd black pen explosion out of the hot pink lining of my light-skinned, snake-colored, python-simulate plastic handbag. The handbag, a terrible (but passing), functional, stylish and affordable stab at "I'm Not Only Relevant, I'm Not Homeless... Yet," will see the inside of a thrift store and/or garbage can before any scrubbing ever happens. Ever. And that, folks, is a guarantee. I don't think I make many of these here "guarantees," so go ahead and chew on this one. It's delicious. Totes. 
• Speaking of stains, I'm reminded as I talk at you about a very interesting story about my former downstairs neighbors. Stop me if I've told you this very interesting tale before, but since I'm telling it at you in the terms of blogging at you and not to you, I can't respond in kind, so I'm just going to go with it and go with my original story of telling it at you.  Now, I'll never recall the individual names of the couple for the life of me, but their cute, fat, one-eyed cat's name was Claire. She'd sneak upstairs into my place and eat Doodle's food which REALLY pissed Doodle off --she's still scarred from it--and she'd get all Rrrrrrrrrrrrr!, but Doodle's always known she's a runt, that she's all meow and no real bite, unless, of course, she's got no other choice and she'll tear your nose off: doodle's a Beta Cat all the way. Anyhow, Claire's human companions were a married couple who met in college in Ohio--he was a struggling actor (originally from Ohio), and she was a caterer (Aussie-born and bred),  and we had a nice relationship based around feeding Doodle or Claire when one or the other was traveling. This was back in the day when I was working as nights behind the bar, and one afternoon, I saw the husband in the laundry room, and we had a pleasant, neighborly conversation at the washers. While I loaded my washer with dirty laundry, he, atop his, scrubbed the crotch of his wife's panties in between sprays of Shout. I remember thinking to myself that the odds were low that I'd ever find a man who would do that for me. (Was it for him?) Now I wonder how comfortable I'd be if I had. Anyhow, they moved back to Ohio. I wonder how those a-holes are doing. Not really. Give me a break. We all know how they're doing.