The Story of Puddy

The Story of Puddy

Most true Kitsgals, have little dogs that they dote on and dress up in little outfits. Along West 4^thAve, you can find many chic clothing stores - not for humans mind you, but for little dogs. In my life, I do not have a little dog. No. Instead, I have a sixteen pound fluffy orange cat, who thinks he is a dog. This is his story.

He arrived in our lives a few years ago. This cat appeared on my parents’ back porch during a nasty snow storm and wouldn’t leave. That he wouldn’t leave might have had something to do with the fact that they began feeding him tuna, chicken and sardines but they denied this was a factor. My parents genuinely looked long and hard for his owners – ads in the paper, signs around the neighbourhood, calls to the SPCA – but, all queries went unanswered.

“We are too old to have a pet. We shouldn’t keep him,” they would say while feeding him sirloin tips. Soon, the protestations that they shouldn’t own a cat gave way to the fact that they did own a cat. One day, as I was pulling into their driveway, my mom ran out to meet me. “We have the perfect name”, she shrieked. The cat’s new name was Puddy Puddy. In case you are unsure as to the pronunciation think “I thought I saw a Puddy Tat X 2”. I can’t tell you how embarrassing it was to pick up cat medication at Shoppers Drug Mart after the pharmacist announced loudly on the PA, “Pick up for Puddy Puddy. Puddy Puddy, pick up please.” People stare.

Everything in my life since the day he arrived has changed. I began identifying time in terms of BP and AP. (Before Puddy and After Puddy). Before Puddy, my sister and I were always spoiled at Christmas. After Puddy, we learned quickly that the pile of gifts under the family tree were not for us. Even the small number of gifts we did get were suspiciously cat related. I mean how often does a gal ask Santa for a catnip mouse? My mom would justify these gifts as double gifting. We got the joy of opening the gift followed directly by the joy of giving the gift to the cat.

Conversations with my mom on the phone became increasingly difficult especially if I could hear my dad playing with the cat in the background. “Look! Look! The cat is doing something cute.” My mom would respond, “Maggie, I am going to have to call you back. The cat is doing something cute.” Click.

During his time with my parents, this cat was treated better than royalty. It was pretty clear that they didn’t own the cat, the cat owned them. And they loved it.

When my dad was very ill, he called me into his hospital room to tell me something important. I had visions of what he was going to say to me – would it be take care of your mom or you are the best daughter ever or here is the number to the secret Swiss bank account as I have been embezzling from my company for the past 25 years. No. None of that. Instead it was, “take…care…of…the…cat.”   What??!!

Not long after my dad’s passing, my mom became too ill to care for Puddy and, so, it fell to me to take him. On his first day with me, he and I just stared at each other. Then his bright pink tongue stuck out of his mouth and stayed that way….for a really long time. Gross.

That night as I was dozing off, I heard a howl at the bedroom door. I turned on the light to see that Puddy had climbed almost to the top of the French doors that enclosed my bedroom. His claws had gotten stuck in the window panes and his struggling looked like it would break the glass. His nose was pressed against the window leaving a little fog of pathetic cat breath on the pane. His eyes were wide, his meows were frantic and his perch was precarious,. I opened the door, cat and all. I pulled him off the pane and his tongue popped out. Apparently, he was used to sleeping at the foot of my parents’ bed. He believed that this pattern should apply wherever he lived.

Over the next few days, I discovered some other quirks as well.

List of Unusual Puddy Quirks:

• Drinks water only from tap in bathtub
• Snores loudly. (Seriously.  You can hear it from another room)
• Uses right paw to put food in mouth
• Sheds double his fur volume in a single day and usually only on black clothing
• Plays fetch with tin foil balls
• Uses litter box only when important guests are visiting to let everyone know what he ate for dinner
• Comes when called
• Will eat just about anything

During this time, I was still living in my old three level townhome. One day, I was doing some renovations on the top floor and looked down to see that Puddy, whom I had left looking out the screen door only a few moments prior, had somehow pushed the door open and gotten out. I shrieked. The townhouse was located on a busy street and Puddy was not good with cars.

“Puddy!!!!”, I yelled as I went to go down the stairs. And then, like Matrix slow motion, I could feel my feet slip out from under me and I fell sixteen steps to the hard marble floor below. Crack! Was the sound of my ankle breaking. I tried to stand up but couldn’t. The swelling was immediate. I didn’t care. I could head my dad’s voice loudly inside my head, “I gave you only one thing to do. Now look what has happened!!”

I began to crawl towards the front door. “Puddy! Get back in here you stupid cat.” My neighbour, a nurse, heard the noise and came running. “Oh no! Maggie, you have to go to the hospital.” Then with what could have been the Oscar winning scene from any great war movie I replied with solid dramatic intensity, “No. I am not going without my cat. I can’t leave without my cat Puuuuuuuuddddddddddddddyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.” I continued to crawl towards the courtyard.

Then, from out of nowhere, Puddy appeared and sat next to my head. His tongue popped out immediately.

It took almost a year for my ankle to heal. Despite this rough start together and his other quirks, I do see what my parents saw in this silly little guy. He is special and fun to have around. And, the protruding tongue thing? I have come to discover that he only does it when he is truly happy to see me. I can’t picture life without him.

Snow Driving

Snow Driving

The weather gal said today that we might be in for a bit of snow this weekend. As a northern gal, this is really not that big of a deal. If you were afraid to drive in the snow in the north, you wouldn’t leave home for ten months of the year. As a Kitsgal, however, it does pose some inherent problems. Vancouver isn’t really known for its snow, although we do get enough of it to be annoying. The problem is, we are used to rain. When we get our once or twice a year dump of 2 to 3 cm of the white stuff, it wrecks havoc in the city. I can’t imagine how we are going to do when the big quake hits. Let’s hope it doesn’t happen during a snow day.

The real trouble is that Vancouver drivers are horrible in the snow. We are not great in the sun either, but the snow brings an entirely different dynamic. Right before Christmas, we had our first dusting of snow and I noticed three distinct patterns emerge. Drivers tended to fall into one of three categories:

1) The over cautious: This is the driver you see going 8 km with studs and chains on their tires while they travel down Kingsway at the first mention of the word snow.

2) The under cautious: This is the driver that still manages to put on their make up, drink a Starbucks coffee, send a mass email to their ultimate team and program their iPod while travelling 120k down a slippery section of Broadway.

3) The once a year transit rider: This is the driver that is so stressed at the thought of driving in the snow, they will actually take public transit instead of driving.

Last year, we had a pretty heavy snowfall (3 ½ cm) and I actually took public transit instead of dealing with Drivers 1 and 2 in my long commute to work. I know. This is not what a true Kitsgal would do. A true Kitsgal would have her appointments come to her house on such a day. LOL! Let’s face it. A true Kitsgal, doesn’t have to go to work – that is what her husband does. I, however, thought it would be fun. “It will be an adventure, “ I thought. “I will pretend I am travelling in Mexico.” I had visions of making a whole new set of “bus” friends, flirting with a hot male model when we both grab for the same arm strap together, group sing a longs.

My romanticism that my bus ride would be like a woman’s deodorant commercial ended as soon as I boarded the bus. The fact that pretty much everyone on the bus was in need of deodorant might have been the first clue that things would not be as I had envisioned. The one dynamic that became apparent right away was the whole Us versus Them vibe in the coach. The “We are the normal bus riders. Who the hell are you people” group versus the “Look, we don’t like being here any more than you like us being here so shut up or we will kill you” group. It was like being in the middle of a West Side Story gang rumble. You couldn’t really tell which side were Jets or Sharks but you knew there was going to be trouble. Tension was in the air.

There we were - packed like sardines in a gigantic, sticky, rolling gym locker down Broadway, and, then, I heard it. The cough. Not a polite, gentle “Oh I’m sorry. I have a little tickle in my throat” cough, but a deep phlegmmy, “Stand aside People. This is the start of the pandemic. The Apocalypse is soon to follow” kind of cough. I now found myself in the middle of a hypochondriac’s nightmare. Even if by some miracle, a hot male model did find his way onto this chariot of the newly paroled, there was no way that I was going to touch the arm strap, the stability pole, the seats or really anything else on that giant moving petri dish.

The coughing continued. Followed by a sneeze, wheeze and the occasional sleazy comment from the back of the bus. I buried my nose into my scarf, pulled out my mitts and tried to breathe as little air as possible. Soon, I found myself dizzy from the lack of oxygen and I had to get off the bus. I pushed my way through the zombie masses like a fresh baby trying to get out of the womb and shot out the door like an infant whose mom pushed way too hard at the wrong moment. Standing on the sidewalk, watching as a Driver 1 and a Driver 2 slid slowly into each other at the Commercial and Broadway intersection, I dialled the phone. “Hello, Boss? (insert fake cough, cough, cough). I’m sick and can’t come into day….(cough, cough, cough). Great! Yeah. See you tomorrow.” Yippee! I love snow days.

PS: Seven days later, the fake cough, cough, cough, turned into a real cough, cough, cough. Ahhhhhhhhh!

The Button

The Button

The other day, I watched in horror as the button came loose from my favourite blouse. After the shrieks subsided, I reluctantly placed the top in the hamper destined for the Goodwill Thrift Store. “It’s just a button. What’s the big deal?” you may be thinking. “Sew it back on”, may be your second thought. The truth is I can’t. I have a defective homemaking gene. The only thing worse than my cooking is my sewing. Don’t even talk to me about home canning.

When my grandmother arrived in this country, she instantly found work as a maid. She could cook, sew, clean and, given her blonde Swedish background, she looked hot in a maid outfit. She found work with a wealthy Italian family in the rich part of Vancouver. Mr. Delgongio made his money running booze to the Americans during the prohibition. My grandmother was very loyal to the family and took good care of them. Even when Mr. Delgongio disappeared suddenly and Mrs. Delgongio took up with the 21 year old gardener, my grandmother wouldn’t let us say a disparaging word about them. My grandmother always believed that every girl should know how to cook and sew in the event you needed to support your family by working for the Sopranos. I am sure that if she was aware how I turned out she would be worried for me.

When I was in grade 8, the girls were required to take cooking and sewing. The boys were required to take electrical and woodwork. It was sexual stereotyping at its best.

Sewing 8 was taught by Miss Henderson. Miss Henderson was not married but she always dressed like she was going on a date. Her hair was always over sprayed, her top was always undone a couple of buttons past coy and her short skirts always let everyone know she was born a girl.

Students in Sewing 8 had one project in order to pass the course. We had to make a top. I still remember it - Butterick pattern #497889. The picture on the outside of the pattern was beautiful. A lovely blouse with puffed sleeves, a pleated front and slits up the side. “How hard could this be?” I remember thinking. We had six weeks to make the blouse. Unfortunately, I hadn't banked on the fact that it would take me five weeks to thread the needle.

Miss Henderson had a strict policy never to accept a late project. I remember sitting there seeing all the other girls submitting their beautifully made tops. Some had even begun making matching pants, coats and purses in all the time left over. My heart was sinking. Then the panic started to build. I had never failed a class before and, given my progress, I was beginning to think this might be a possibility. I tried everything I could to make the material look like the picture on the outside of the pattern but to no avail. Hours before the submission time, I still had mangled bits of fabric sitting before me. Then, desperation hit. Seeing some glue and a stapler on Miss Henderson’s desk, I borrowed it when she was out of the room. In no time, I had created my masterpiece. I am not sure why I didn’t think that Miss Henderson wouldn’t be impressed with the entire row of staples holding the fabric together and the smeared gobs of glue on the front, but in my mind, this blouse was beautiful. I even had a notion that Miss Henderson would look at it and give me extra marks for “Most creative construction” and “Best use of avant garde means of design”. I pictured myself in Paris or Milan creating new trends with a stapler and a bottle of crazy glue. I saw people giving me a standing ovation as my designs marched down the catwalk during fashion week in New York.  I envisioned big name celebrities like Nicole Kidman and Hilary Swank on the red carpet at the Oscars commenting that their gowns were indeed a Maggie original.  The crowds were cheering.  Fans were screaming my name.  Bootleggers were selling knockoffs of my work out of back alleys.

Pop! That is the sound of my bubble bursting.  The next day, I received my feedback on my project. “An ‘F’!!?” I shrieked. Apparently, Miss Henderson actually wanted to see sewing as part of a Sewing 8 project. Luckily, my parents had a sense of humour about it, even if my grandmother didn’t. That year, my report card had 5 “A”s and 1 “F”. I have never picked up a needle and thread since…I do, however, use a stapler and glue on a regular basis.   They, unfortunately, do not work well on buttons.