The Story of Louisiana

I promised you the story of Louisiana, brother to Mississippi, our cat who died last year, and easily the cat our family has owned for the shortest time.

These two cats, brother and sister, one black male (Lou) and the other a brindled female (Missi) were bought from the Cats' Protection League on June 5th 1999 (Megan was only 3, Haggis just 2 !). They were brought home and let go indoors, with the cat flap bolted shut. They did what new cats always do - fled upstairs and hid under the single bed in the spare room, scrambling up into the bed frame from underneith and hiding from the humans, the 2 dogs and the existing big ol' ginger tom cat, Kalamazoo.

No sooner were they in than a huge thunderstorm rattled through, crashing and banging; the poor little mites must have been terrified. The humans were cool with this and let them be, putting down food and water and waiting for them to calm down and emerge of their own accord. It can take a few days before curiosity gets to them and they come out and explore. In a couple of days the brindled girl did indeed start to sneak out and explore upstairs, but nothing was seen of the black one.

In one more day, the humans were getting concerned, as the brindled one (Missi) was now out regularly and still no-one had seen Lou. Dad lifted the bed up and found.... no cat. The house was searched, to no avail. The only way the cat could have escaped that night was out of the tiny bathroom upper window - a 10 foot drop to the concrete. Things were looking bad. The thunderstorm might have sent him fleeing but then he'd be wet and totally lost, not having had any kind of time to familiarise himself with his surroundings.

The humans were frantic - searching the local area, getting sheds and outbuildings opened, notifying the local vets and police, signs up in the paper-shop and tied to local lamp posts, neighbours helping etc. It was hopeless, and after a few days, the search was called off. Missi settled in and became house cat and companion to Kalamazoo, learned to cope with the dogs and learned all the local territory, fortunately showing no tendency to venture into the front garden or cross the busy road out front.

Lou became just a sad tale of "the other cat we got the same day". 18 months went by.

Then out of the blue we got a phone call from the local vet. Did we own a black cat with only half a tail? Brindled? No, definitely black. "A lady" has brought one in and we've scanned it for micro-chip and it's coming up with your name and address (which is something CPL do before they give you the cat).

To cut a long story short this lady who lives over the road and half a dozen houses further up(who Mum and Dad now know quite well) had taken in a stray about 18 months before, which had started begging food and seemed to have no home, and had eventually moved in. She had taken him off to the vets for something and had learned of his "other life". She was now very upset (in tears even) to think that we might think they'd stolen our cat and would want it back.

Dad went over to see the lady, and explained the story about the collection night thunderstorm and the short-lived cat. Obviously it was now plain what had happened, and only that neither cat dared cross the road, stopped the brother and sister meeting up and comparing notes! Dad, of course, "gave" the lady the black cat, explaining that we had never really owned it, and did not know it or feel it was missing in any way any more.

The lady was relieved and delighted (and, as I said, Mum, Dad and these two have now got to know each other a bit more), the papers signed, the database and microchip updated and everyone lived happily for ever after..... at least until both cats passed away in 2008, Missi of general collapse of hind end, Lou of kidney failure. Both had had good lives since rescue, in loving families, and a cat can't really ask for more than that, can it?

The moral, if there is one - a terrified cat in new surroundings in a thunderstorm, can escape through an upstairs, upper window and you will probably never see it again.

Sweet
Deefski

BOOM! Rattle rattle

I am writing this in the midst of a mahousive thunder storm, which is banging and rattling around, quite alarming. Aside from the wisdom of using a computer in such electrical mayhem, it is also difficult to type because at every bang, the H has to rush downstairs shouting his indignation, and naturally, I have to charge down too to support him. This makes for some distracted typing, but bear with me.... I'll do my best.

It is time to describe the run back over the Summit into God's Own County. This is, as we have said, all carefully controlled and restricted by "Dave" from British Waterways (Westie owner who has a pic of the three of us posing on the aft deck). The runs over and back are carefully controlled and timed to ensure that the boats all meet at the most troublesome pound (below which are two very subsiding locks with very leaky doors. This makes sure that the water "brought down" by the descending boats is used to fill the pounds needed by the ascending boat.

It kinda works - west bound you arrive at lock 33 at 09:00 which gives you time to climb and bimble across the summit, descending to 41/42/43 to meet the Eastbound boat(s) which has been allowed into the sequence at 44 at 11:00. Even so you park in one lock to allow 2 boats down, and move only when the 2nd of the pair is in the pound. You chug forward very tentatively, inching towards the cill (sill?) with your vulnerable prop and rudder, ready to call for more water if you ground.

Once through that bit the rest of the climb is fairly easy, and we dogs help out, as you can see from the pics, by leppin' off the boat at every lock, running around, crossing the bridges and peering down at Dad in the lock chamber from 3 or 4 feet above his head. This also gives the lock wranglers useful exercise rounding us all up before they can leave the lock and carry on. Keeps 'em fit (especially when Meg gets a bit tired of this and Mr S has to carry her back to the boat below the lock.)

It's a full day - it's 9 locks up to the summit, and 9 down again to Walsden, and Grandma Pollard's chippy. As I said, we couldn't start till 11:00 which meant that although we had a nice lie-in and a leisurely breakfast, there was a serious risk we might not make Grandma's by 15:00, and a mutinous rumour had gone round the ship that that was when she closed. Crew members were getting an evil gleam in their eyes, and the Skipper (Dad.... ahhh my Hero) was starting to get a bit edgy.

It seemed that all was lost, and the best he could hope for was a good keel-hauling. 15:00 came and went with us still 3 or 4 locks from Walsden. We moored up at 16:00 in despair, and Mrs S was despatched to try to blag a late extension to the opening times (We've travelled Miles! 4 hungry children (and a crop in the fields?) etc etc. We were starving, so imagine our (and Dad's relief) when Mrs S returned saying "No Problem! The 15:00 only applies to Monday and Tuesday! This is Wednesday - it's open till 20:00! Result! )

Food was taken and good humour restored. We bimble on down some more, to moor up for the night just above lock 21, in the pound that runs under the Gauxholme viaduct. Tomorrow would be another day - Todmorden, Hebden Bridge and the start of heavy rain, but for now we are warm, dry, well fed and enjoying an evening of silly quiz games with the girls, playing holiday-related "Hangman" (Halifax, Staircase Flight, Laugh, etc).

We are exhausted bodies as we take to our bunks, and the humans at least, are with wine taken.

A brilliant day

Deefski

Happy Birthday Haggis

Go Haggis! 11 years old today! Doesn't behave like an "old" dog, and there's this theory that I have rejuvenated him. Unfortunately, Dad forgot to buy the "birthday cake" on the way home, so that's been postponed to tomorrow. Watch this space.

His birthday is heralded by a slow moving but very extensive thunderstorm, that goes rattling through for what seems like 2 and a half hours of the night. It's an impressive show. Megan spends some of it at the back door doing her single "I want" woofs, asking to be let out. That is, till Dad lets her out, at which point she realises it's pouring down, so loses interest. I spend the storm pretty much bored and quiet.

It's Haggis who "enjoys" a good storm - racing about the house, jumping on and off the bed (either side), bouncing on front paws and woofing a good range of yaps, gruffs, wooo-wooo-ruffffff noises. He's not scared of the thunder (none of us are) - more outraged that it is making a noise in "his" airspace. He keeps this up solidly for the whole duration of the storm passing over (as Mum and Dad will attest) . He's exhausted when it's over and sleeps all day.

Dad is heard to say "Thansk H"

Deefer

I Blame the Parents

News comes our way of Old-Dad sitting on the sofa watching Doctor Who, and being handed a real-beef burger in a bun, cooked by First-Mum. OD takes the burger on its plate, using his left hand to steady the burger while he opens the lid of the bun, reaching out with his right hand for the sauce bottle on the coffee table. To do this he momentarily takes his eye off the burger, and when he looks back, having grabbed the bottle, the meat is gone. It is running at 50 mph down the lounge, in the teeth of Real-Dad Hector

OD leaps up and roars, charging down the lounge in pursuit of the escaping meal, but FM lep's up even faster and stands, arms out, barring OD's way. "Don't you touch him!" she yells - "I'll make you another one!". So Real Dad lives to fight another day, and I can blame the parents for my propensity for nicking toothbrush heads

My pic is of Meggie (right) and I looking out of the back door at an impressive thunderstorm, raging in the skies over the M2. Haggis is out there shouting at the thunder (How dare it!), but we girls are keeping dry.

Deefs

Thunder and Lightning

Coo! My first proper thunderstorm. A big ol' lairy one is crashing and rattling through from the south - the direction of Challock Forest. Squally winds are thrashing about in the bay, the beech, the jasmine and the Paulownia, and bucketting rain is smashing down the tired old brown petals from the Albertine on the back of the house

None of us are scared of thunder. Meg and H are more "angry" at it invading their air-space. M+H are lined up in the back door way looking out, whictling and groaning and gruffing at it sotto-voce, or when there's a really big bang they race out and around the garden, looking at the sky and bouncing on their front feet, barking at it - you do that ONE MORE TIME and I'll really show you! Dad says I'm totally un-fazed by it all, lying on the dining room carpet watching Meg and H's antics curiously

When we do go out, of course we are getting wet, so Mum has brought down a load of doggie towels and we are getting periodic rub downs in between the excursions

I'm kinda glad this didn't happen while we were camping. This much rain would surely have penetrated the tent and the thunder would have had us barking about all over the camp site. Towelling off wet dogs in a tent is no-where near as much fun!

Deefs (Crack! Bang! Rumble!)