I’m usually not a fan of pet stores. They are dangerously heart-breaking places for me.  I have to purposefully avoid the pet stores in places like malls that usually sell puppies or kittens not from shelters.  Unless the cages they are in take up most of the store, they’re too cramped, too small, to horrific for me to deal with. Standing there and watching little pups and kittens laying with dull eyes in a space just marginally wide enough for them to lay down and sit up? Not my idea of a good time, thank you. No.

There are a few pet stores that I will make an exception to the rule.  They tend to deal more in pet supplies and grooming than the actual trade of animals themselves. They might have hamsters, rats, lizards or snakes. But kittens and puppies? They’ll only be in from the shelter’s on Sunday or Wednesdays, they’ll say–and I smile because at least they’re trying. Far better than the pet stores I’ve had nightmares about described above.

And then I met a store called Incredible pets.

We had a wary relationship at first.

I’d heard some pretty horrific stories about some places that sold exotic birds, lizards, snakes, rodents and other unusual pets outside of the standard. When I first approached the stores old location, its worn green plastic Tyrannosaurus Rex fully battered by the Florida heat; I narrowed my eyes at its doors in my best Clint Eastwood impression. (Which is AWESOME by the way because I am AWESOME and stop staring at me like that it’s true!) I approached it with Shawn and passed through darkened doors to the surprisingly barely air-conditioned store.

My opinion has softened, some what. But I think it had more to do with the fact there are birds, Degus, skunks, sugar gliders, flying squirrels, hedge hogs, hamsters, snakes, fish, rabbits and any other assortment of OH MY GOD CUTE everywhere.

While I might not be a fan of some of their business practices, I can see that they genuinely try to care. They’re educated–all you have to do is ask them a question about the animals they have in store and they answer with that genuine sort of note that speaks of having at least, owned an animal or two. There’s no five seconds of blank looks while they dig through their brains for the memorized script they were told to tell customers. The people that work there work hard. The store has birds there that aren’t for sale because they’ve been adopted. People brought in parrots they didn’t want, the store took them and gave them a forever-home.

Though I have to admit my opinion of them finally turned completely on the day I walked by a cage of cockatiels. They were all listed as $25 each. The price is what caught me at first. I’d never seen a cockatiel in a pet store priced for so little so in all honesty I did a double-take and then stopped to seek if there were deformities. Surely, for $25 there was a catch, right? They’d have part of their beak missing or maybe mangled feet or perhaps they were bald and or prone to plucking.

I saw a cage full of beautiful little babies, feathers in tact, eyes bright and beady, tail feathers clean and with crests half up in semi-excuse me big fat featherless bird wtf r u doin’ outside our cage? When I called Shawn over, even he was amazed and couldn’t figure out why they’d end up so cheap. When we asked about them, we were told they were so inexpensive because they were breeder birds.

Breeder birds, as you can imagine, are for…well…breeding. Trying to research what, exactly their lifestyles usually are and how they are treated comes back varied. Some birds used for breeding are spoiled feather heads. They have roomy cages and are well taken care of by people who understand the bird. Others…not-so-much. They get thrown in a cage in hopes they breed, lay eggs, and make more cockatiels for profit.

When I stopped by the cage one lone little bird seemed relatively curious when the rest leaned away. After a bit of sweet-talking, he hopped from his perch, climbed the wall and settled atop his water bottle. Once in position he lowered his neck and proceeded to mash the top of his head against the bars. He left it there until I, witless featherless bird I am finally clued in that I should scratch his majesty’s head because isn’t that what my purpose in life was?

Seems so. We brought him home that day and put him in his own cage, quarantining him for a few days away from our other cockatiel, Nugget, ensuring that if either of them had any nasty bugs that the other hadn’t yet encountered–they’d be out of their system before the two met. Then, the two cages were slid together. Nugget? Nugget adored Commander Tweeps (whom we just call Tweeps because he’s off duty currently) and sang so much and so long at Tweeps, we thought he might explode.

And because Tweeps spoke and sang with us, exhibiting the same behaviors as a little boy, we moved the two of them together.  They fight occasionally but with beaks open, lots of hissing and wings open–they don’t bite each other–they do the warning-dive-I-might-bite. They did it more when they first met and now they might do it once every two or three days. Nugget just wants to sing to Tweeps, impress him and maybe  lure him into his boudoir filled with rose scented candles and Barry White music. Tweeps doesn’t yet understand the meaning of all the slow-bass music. He eyes Nugget like he’s that special friend of yours that says the weirdest things at the most odd times but you still hang around with them ’cause you know…They’re still good people.

He’s still a little skittish about fingers. He knows the step-up command now, but tends to nip once and then step up. He’s not crazy about a lot of things and is still afraid of his own shadow. But he’s ours now. He’s home and officially part of the U.S.S. Phaterprise.

Our Away Team of HURRR DURRR is complete.

Related posts:

1. Ten reasons why I think you might not be ready for a cockatiel.
2. Project Birdoclypse: Complete
3. A Bird Called Guppy

We own birds.

This may surprise you. You might think, “Gosh Mel. I would have never known you own any animal, let alone birds.” But its true. Not one, but two! Two birds, ah, ah, ah.

And while we had the cages, the right food, the toys and the time to spoil them what we didn’t have was the $ for an awesome perch where the two of them could totally climb all over and fling more seeds and bird poop all over our house.

So we went to Home Depot and came out with enough supplies to confuse and frighten the Home Depot people and built this:

Related posts:

1. Ten reasons why I think you might not be ready for a cockatiel.
2. A Bird Called Guppy
3. From Cadet to Commander in one day.

I decided to clean out the images on my phone memory card last night, in a desperate attempt to give me something to do. I’ve always loved stumbling across pic dumps and a couple of these gave me a chuckle, so I figured I should follow kindergarten rules and share! You’ll have to forgive the quality of some of these, my camera phone is just one step above a daguerreotype.

Breakfast Time?

Well, you didn’t think we weren’t going to have at least one picture of an animal, did you? Flora’s morning kitchen shenanigans now include table top supervision.

The Mileage of the Devil!

It’s time for the Oil Change from HELL!!

Schindler's Lift

Alright, I find this hysterical, but I’m not sure who else will. This is my elevator at work, made by the Schindler company. Schindler’s Lift! HA HA HA HA HA!

Hi, Grandma!

This is my Grandmother. As you might be able to guess, she would probably kill me if she saw this picture. I snapped this one while helping her out one day. She’s waving at Melissa in Canada.

Living in Florida is so hard!

I took this pretty much just to brag. I took this about a two-and-a-half weeks ago. This is a shot from the table where I usually eat lunch when I get a chance to go outside. Obviously it’s looking back into the parking lot, but it;s under a great open concert shell like covering and those aren’t just random woods back there, that’s a nature preserve here. We have Owl, Dear, Hawk, Sandhill Cranes and pretty much every small bird in the area. When I took this it was about 78 degrees (25.5 C for you metric folks), dry (for Florida) and with a nice breeze. Yeah, it might suck in the summer, but it is freakin’ awesome the rest of the year!

A Delicate Princess!

This awesome pic is also my current Cell phone wallpaper. This is what happens when you leave your phone unattended at your desk while you’re working on your wife’s computer. Love you, baby!

THIS is Customer Service

And last but not least: yours fatly. The next time you feel the need to unload your frustration on some poor, unsuspecting Customer Service Rep, remember this.

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3. Think of the children…

I keep a live journal and often end up putting more of my light hearted items over there as elf_fu.  A few days ago however, I was browsing through my friends list and noticed a post from Scarletdemon, passing along something for one of her live journal friends, Tizzrah.

Tizzrah volunteers and is also a kitty foster mom for a special lil’ guy named Stitch. Stitch unfortunately needs a new butt. Specifically, he has a prolapsed rectum. Stitch has undergone one corrective surgery for this issue, but lamentably his butts have fallen out once again. Tizzrah and Stitch need some financial help to get his bum fixed a second time as the surgery is going to be a bit different and more expensive.

Had I money growing out of my ears, I would gladly adopt butts-falling-out Stitch myself, rectum wagging in the air or not.  Alas, I don’t have that kind of money and some people are put off by inside out bums,  thus, Tizzrah and Safe-West End Cat Rescue would like to make Stitch handsome enough for some one to fall in love with him. And take him home. And love him. And scritch him. And you can help make this happen!

How can I help, Mel? I hear your angelic, dulcet tones ask. Well let me just inform you, my lovely little chickadees. You can:

• You can visit Stitch’s chip-in page here for more information: http://stitchwestendcatrescue.chipin.com/stitchs-surgery
• You can donate 1$ or 5$ or whatever you feel like donating  by using the Chip In widget conveniently found on the web site and in this post, or
• You can paste this story on your journal and your word press to help spread the word about Stitch.

Save the cheerleaderkittenbutts, save the worldkitton.

Related posts:

1. They’re paying me–and they’re sane!
2. Orange you glad I didn’t say CLAY?
3. Hairball and litter bit treasures.

image ©: SalsolaStock .

“I could only watch in horror as he ran from me and into the middle of the road.”

“There was nothing we could do, she slipped through a hole in the fence and by the time we realized it, the neighbors dog had already gotten to her.”

“We found pieces of him strewn about the lawn.”

_______________________________

My opinion on leashes and the tragedies that could be prevented happens to be as road-rash intensive as several of my other opinions on pet treatment and care.

I am not entirely bitchface McGee about some things. I have all sorts of sympathy for those who have lost a pet due to tragedy, I am not unfamiliar with it. I have all sorts of understanding for those who have lost a pet due to their own mistake as several years ago I did something incredibly stupid that cost me my first pet cockatiel.

She was sitting on my shoulder so perfectly quiet that I had forgotten she was there. I stepped  onto the screened in porch for a moment to talk to Shawn. She was on my shoulder when I opened the back door and stepped outside.

I can tell you that the slow-motion impending horror often shown in movies is exactly what happened to me that split second as I watched her fly higher and higher away from me.  I imagine it is what might happen to those unfortunate pet owners who have witnessed their usually well behaved dogs suddenly veer from the curb into the road, or their cat, or those whom have watched in horror kitty climb over the fence to the neighbors yard who just happened to own a dog that’s been known to mangle. I have been there –but I don’t blame anyone. I know beyond a doubt that it was nobody’s fault but my own.

And I’m going to tell those of you who lose unleashed pets into traffic, backwoods and other places the same thing. You could have prevented tragedy with the smallest investment. You and I both know deep down in the cockles of our little hearts it could have been circumvented with a little time and thought. I could have kept that bird had I not been so righteously idiotic and you could have kept that puppy had you leashed her for her morning walk. You could have kept that cat had you kept him indoors to the best of your ability.

Anger is far, far easier than taking the blame for screwing up. It sucks having to sit down and realize that you’re at fault–I think it would suck far worse however, if we ignored the painful first lesson and repeated our mistake simply for the fact that we don’t want to take responsibility.

Don’t be angry … be responsible. Go out and buy a leash for Muffy McBarkersons right now.  Go out and bring Sir Meowsalot your non-feral cat inside, no matter how much he protests and do your best to keep the little dash-for-the-door at light speed idiot inside. Google dog training, clicker training. You can even Google how to teach your cat to not only learn to wear a harness and leash but take him or her for a walk while wearing it.

I don’t want to hear about how perfectly trained Snagglegrowls is and how he would never dare disobey a heel order–that’s like saying you never expect a kid or another living being to do anything unpredictable ever–animals do shit, shit that doesn’t always make sense. They spook at noises they never used to, they freak out at bikes, they dislike the sound of something or they run off to chase a plastic bag. There’s no fail proof training and no way to be 100% sure your animal will always heed you.

To me the argument about it’s only natural! These animals used to live in the wild all the time is senseless as well as bull.  Sure they did–and we used to eat raw bear entrails and throw crap. Several thousands years of adaptation and civilization has (mostly, we still fling crap but in so many more creative ways) changed us and we’ve taken domesticated animals right along with us. What was right and natural for these animals to do a thousand years ago no longer count. We have tamed them, bred them and created them to be wholly dependent on us, so it’s high time we made sure we take care of them properly. Instinct only goes so far faced with an endless city scape or an endless wooded backyard after months of being fed, pet, and sheltered inside by you.

So stop with the excuses. Stop with the angry noises. Stop with the blame, blaming some one or something else or yourself and stop something horrific from happening by doing such a menial little task as to be almost ridiculous.

Buy a damned leash.  Keep your cat indoors.

Related posts:

1. Pets and People: Sometimes you guys Frikken’ Scare me.
2. Hairball and litter bit treasures.
3. Dog Lovers Beware: Dangerous Toy.

Guppy, our new Quaker Parrot

Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages. Please welcome the newest addition to the fur and feathered family of Mel & Shawn: Guppy.

Guppy came to us via a lady, whom I have never met nor do I know her name.  She contacted my husband’s sister, Kim, who works at a pet store trying to find a good home for him. She said that she simply didn’t have time to spend with Guppy and could no longer look after him. Her two dogs, however, were apparently far easier to look after than a quaker parrot.

We were told via Kim, from the lady who previously owned Guppy that he was a sweet bird if but a little bitey. She said that Guppy came to her from someone else when he was roughly a year old and that she’s kept him maybe 3-4 years, making Guppy probably four or five years old. This lady also said that she had trained him to step up onto a perch. She was reluctant to give up his cage and toys too and only wished to give away the bird, but Kim put her foot down and simply told her that if she wasn’t willing to bring the cage then Kim wasn’t willing to take the bird.

It took her nearly two weeks to finally decide that she was going to bring Guppy in.

On Friday, September 5th, The Guppinator finally made his confused and frightened way to his forever-home with us. On a torn out loose-leaf piece of paper was a small list of things she wrote down that Guppy could say. She estimated that his vocabulary consisted of: Hello, Guppy! I love you! Here Kitty! Guppy’s Momma’s naughty boy! and one or two more small phrases.

So to cap that off she said Guppy was: trained to step up, a little bitey, and said a small bit of things.

We’ve had Guppy for four days, I can tell you without a doubt that this bird has not been handled in a very long time and that he has never stepped up onto a perch nor been trained to. Guppy is deathly afraid of his own perches, has put, to date, 13 now-scabbing-over holes in my fingers from biting, and is extremely aggressive with and about his cage.

He can say, “Guppy’s a good boy!,” and within two days has already clearly said and picked up my, “Up, up?” from trying to get him to step up, as well as “Ow!” when I won’t remove my finger even if it’s bleeding and push back, mimicked the camera shutter not four minutes after hearing it, picked up Shawn’s father’s smoker’s cough, picked up laughing, plays Peekaboo, and has been out of his cage twice.

The latter bit of info about him being out of his cage is important. I have been marginally upset by Guppy’s behavior because for me, everything about it screams neglect and perhaps even, abuse–probably the not on purpose kind of abuse either. I am very sure it’s the I-don’t-know-a-damn-thing-about-birds kind of misinformation and handling which have ingrained Guppy with some extremely negative behaviors; there’s a band of feathers missing from around his neck, healed, which tells me he at one point was plucking due to stress and neglect as well. Back to the part about her saying he was trained to step up onto a perch?

I called bullshit and told everyone this. Kim apparently confronted the lady who called Sunday night to see how Guppy was doing–she told her that we didn’t think he was handled at all. She confessed that Guppy hadn’t been out of his cage in two years.

Seriously, is it any wonder this bird is a handful?

Now he’s ours and I am happy that he is. Four years of mistreatment will take a long time to ease and it may never truly go away. Guppy may forever be a little bitey, or he may never truly trust humans because of his passing from owner to owner–but he is here now and I will do my damnedest to make sure he understands that no one will hurt him here ever again. No one will keep him locked away in his cage to become a pretty display piece. No one will hit or scream at him.

It blows my mind how seriously uninformed some people are when it comes to birds as well as pets in general. Seriously, all it takes is a single Google search to start you in on the path to everything you and your pet needs to ensure a happy, healthy relationship…Or even finding out if you two are made for one another.

Save yourself the holes in your fingers I am sporting right now, the bruises behind the scabs, and the heart break. Research your pet choices. Ask someone who owns the same animal you are looking into, read, know. There aren’t any excuses in this day and information age for ignorance.

“The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated”
–Mahatma Gandhi

Related posts:

1. Ten reasons why I think you might not be ready for a cockatiel.
2. Good night, little guy
3. From Cadet to Commander in one day.

I would like to introduce you to Chai, and Chai’s Story.

Chai is a special dog, who is double lucky. Lucky to survive and lucky to have an owner that loves Chai regardless of the work and effort it now takes to care for Chai.

Chai’s toy, called The Pimple Ball with Bell, (Item #20227-001, UPC Code 0 4566320227 9) made by Four Paws, broke when Chai bit down on the solid sealed rubber ball. Manufacturers had forgotten to include a small hole within it. Chai’s Veterinarian believes the ball exploded under pressure and created a vacuum which trapped Chai’s tongue. The wound was bad enough that despite efforts to save it, Chai had to have his tongue amputated.

If you have this ball, or products like it in your home you can do one of two things immediately: check to make sure there is a small hole within the ball. You can even create one for yourself to stave off injury before it’s too late. If you have the time, spread the word about Chai’s story and inform fellow dog owners. Take a visit if you wish, to your local pet store and let ‘em know about this product. Take a second and let fellow pet owner’s know. I think Chai would appreciate it. Thanks!

Credit: Photos of dog toy and dog are © The Chai Story

Related posts:

1. Indoor cats, leashed dogs & the flames from hell my opinion will stir.
2. Pets and People: Sometimes you guys Frikken’ Scare me.
3. Hairball and litter bit treasures.

Flora, the litter queen

Our once-shelter cat, Flora, brings me so much frustration, kitteny-cuteness and laughter everyday.

Flora is not at all like Cleo, who still lives in our hearts and minds long after her heart breaking battle with CRF. Cleo was the accordion cat; pick her up, flip her to her back, squish her a bit and she’d lay there lazily with a rather let me know when you’re done, ‘kay? expression. She was the sleep-under-the-covers-knead-your-arm-pit cat. She was also fond of sticking her little cat-mouth and nose in your eye or on your forehead after spending seven hours licking it, to sleep.

Flora is not a cuddle-cat. You have to handle a few friendly bone-deep bites and artery seeking claw swipes on your way to scratching her to turn her into melty-purr kitty. Flora doesn’t like to be picked up too much either. Unless, of course, it’s to pick her up and hold her to our kitchen doors so that she can see the outside.

She’s very much atypical Siamese in some of her behavior. There are some pretty insane boughts of energy where she’ll tear through one end of the house to the other as if the devil himself were on her tail. She sproings, too. Random things that startle her—you cough, sneeze, make a noise or something moves she isn’t expecting? SPROING! Up several feet goes the kitty cat.

And play. Lawd, does she play with everything. With feet, with my hair, with toes, with the strings on my pajamas, with the fifty some odd cat toys sprinkled all over the floor, with wires, attempts to play with the bird, pouncing on Raven’s tail. It is all very little-kitteny behavior that makes me grin like an idiot and laugh.

But there’s one little thing…One heart breaking little thing she will do from time to time that just makes me almost turn into mush.

You see, when we found her at the shelter, she was in a cage like every other cat there. In these cages, there is enough room for a cat to sit up, lay down, and enough room for them to use a tiny little paper litter box with water and food bowl near a wall. That’s it.

A lot of the cats were laying in their litter boxes, old ones and little ones alike. I guess that age-old mysterious attraction. Cat + box = bed of win!

Flora was no different when I came to her cage. She was all cat-muffined in her tiny little make-shift paper litter box, giving me sleepy/pretty eyes through the bars of her cage. She was so bastet-poised beautiful when she sat up and stretched when I said hello, I fell in love with her on sight.

But you see, on occasions after I change the kitty litter I will catch her sitting in it. She’s not using the bathroom, she’s not digging about or any of that—I will come ‘round the corner and peer down to see her giving me half sleepy/pretty eyes as she is either muffin-laying on, or sitting bastet pretty on the litter. Part of my heart squeezes a little when I see it and I am taken back, instantly, to when I found her on the shelter.

My mind wonders: Does she do it because she remembers the shelter? Does she do it and think back to her tiny little cage? Does she remember the sound of other cats meowing all around her, the smell of them and the sickness? Does she sometimes hear the sound of phones ringing and hold the memory of people passing by her cage everyday?

I think about this every single time I catch her sitting in her litter box looking so very far away. I bend down and pet her and tell her what a good kitty she is, but I cannot help but feel a knot in my heart.

I keep seeing all those other cats and kittens, sitting in their litter boxes, waiting for someone like me to come along and take them home.

Related posts:

1. Hairball and litter bit treasures.
2. Signs Mel Need Sleep:
3. Good night, little guy

Good night, Wibbles.

Shawn was handing me things to put up on the shelves that used to hold the billion hamsters we once had. We’ve moved the two cages the three little ones shared down to the huge head board we have (we have one of those ancient water bed head boards that doubles pretty much as storage/shelves.)

That’s when I noticed Wibbles laying on the bottom of the cage right near the tube to go up to the nest and wheel. I knew something was wrong right away because these little guys never lay on the bottom. They come down to run on the wheel, sleep IN the wheel, and occasionally will nap on the shelves, but NEVER directly on the bottom of the cage.

I told Shawn right away I thought something was wrong and opened the cage door. When I opened the cage door I did not get a single reaction. These guys are pretty jumpy, that’s when I told Shawn I think he might have died…I was right as I reached in and pet him and he didn’t move.

He was still warm.

I won’t go into details–it was pretty obvious what had killed him once I lifted him up and out. Or at least, it wasn’t as if he laid down and died.

We put him in a lil’ box and buried him with the alarming amount of other lil’ guys we’ve had to bury.

It’s never easy with rodents, huh?

Night night, Wibbles. You were soft, so amazingly dumb and cute. Sleep well.

Related posts:

1. A Bird Called Guppy
2. Litter Box Queen
3. Say Hello to my Little Friends — Chinese “Dwarf” hamsters. And maybe name them?

Early evening Florida light streaming in through the dirt-stained glass of our kitchen’s double doors. Since it’s summer, Florida’s early evening light generally tends to waddle from bright through clouds, or bright yellow sun though clouds. It’s a particular shade of the sun too that you don’t see in the morning or afternoon due to the angle of things, all the shadows are long except for those in the kitchen. Electric lights above chase them away.

My cat comes silently stalking from around the corner with her tail straight but for the very tip, which always quirks to the left or suggests the shape of a stretched out question mark.

If I am at the kitchen window she will wind around my legs and make a high pitched, short kitteney sort of meow at the window. If I am not, she will make the same sound and then tilt her head over a dainty shoulder then up, expectantly at me.

I pad over in my bare feet and scoop her up from the bare terrazzo floors, letting her front paws dangle over me left fore arm and letting her tail and butt be supported by my right.

She’s tall enough to look out the window now and her pupils grow predator-huge. Her tail starts swishing back and forth, thumping over my stomach and hip as she stares at our back yard. Some times there are birds or squirrels and she’ll lift a paw excitedly to the window and chatter her teeth to make little purrrt-mew-meh-mew-mew? noises at them. Some times, there’s nothing in the back yard but she still watches it like it’s the best thing evar.

She’s warm and heavy in my arms. I always take the time to remember how pencil-thin and skinny she was when we got her from the shelter and compare it to how round, sleek, and solid she is in my hold now. She’s incredibly smooth; I imagine this is what silk or satin might have been created and fashioned after and her fur is always spotless. I am probably messing up the seven hours of licking she does every day to get her fur to lay just so but at that moment I don’t care and she doesn’t appear to, either.

And then she purrs. It’s not a loud purr like our other cat Raven, who sounds like she’s swallowed a diesel engine with some wheezing. Flora’s purr is deep in her chest and belly, more often felt than heard. You have to be very close or it has to be very quiet for you to hear it. She purrs and it travels up and down my arms, rumbles ticks lightly against my chest and that is when I wonder if this is what true peace feels like.

There are no expectations. There are no arguments. There are no judgments, she doesn’t care if I’m lumpy, having a bad hair day, or forgot to brush my teeth after eating something heavily sprinkled with garlic. There are no misunderstandings, no heated words by mistake, no yelling, no expectations, no broken dreams, no self-hatred or regrets. She is not human, there fore, I have no faith to lose in her.

People often wonder why I don’t have friends or wish to go out or wish to go through the rigmarole of finding them–I think it’s because I’d much prefer my kitchen window and the rumble tick of a contented cat.

Related posts:

1. Litter Box Queen
2. Hairball and litter bit treasures.
3. Signs Mel Need Sleep: