Pet Shows

Pets are an odd thing. Humans, Americans especially, spend billions of dollars each year in the care and pursuit of happiness for their pet. Certain pets inspire such fervor that their owners are drawn to gather into groups or clubs. Dogs especially inspire such rabid expressions of adoration with no pun or negative associations intended. Companion animals have, since antiquity, been venerated and extolled and have been included in works of art, literature and music since time out of mind the culmination of which we find in modern pet shows.

Aside from watching various kennel club shows on television and one foggy memory of actually attending one as a child I had little knowledge or experience with these shows. That is, up until we got our first skunk. Cecil, named after C.C. Deville of the 80's group Poison, much to my fiance's chagrin, was brought home at the tender age of five weeks. We loved him to distraction and doted on him day and night. As ever I did much research to ascertain the best way to bring up a baby skunk and followed it to the letter admonishing my fiance for not following "the rules" the entire time. I followed the diet instructions faithfully and was religious about handling him and gentling him to a fault. And so we progressed.

Cecil is what is known in skunk circles as a "Classic Black and White" meaning he looks like what a skunk is supposed to look like. Prior to owning a skunk I, nor my fiance, had any idea of the colors and variations skunks could come in but were pleasantly surprised to find those variations infinite. Cecil was precocious and spunky and prone to puffing his tail in play with our old, and much put upon dog. I heard one person describe his particular tail formation in full puff as "starburst" in its display. We thought him a gorgeous animal but assumed it was because he was ours and we his.

In my research I found that there was to be a skunk show held in Tampa that year. Who knew such things occurred? I was hesitant at first to mention it to my fiance afraid he would write such things off as a frivolous, ludicrous expense but to my surprise and delight he was more excited than me to attend. Preparations were made and so we traveled to the show. Friday when we first arrived was designated for socializing among the skunk owners and a general orientation of events. We found the group, many of whom had been meeting for years, to be extremely friendly and welcoming. They were full of the information and helpful tips my fiance and I had been starving for. In short, they were wonderful.

We attended the show the next day with much trepidation as we were "newbies" to displaying our skunk for the judgment of others. We had considered not entering him into the show at all figuring we were out of our depth among hardcore skunk people. They assured us it was an informal affair and encouraged us to participate which we did. I say we but I quickly established myself as official picture taker and forced my fiance to show Cecil at the table in various categories.

Throughout the day people came up to us and told us how wonderful Cecil was. How handsome, how friendly, how personable he was. My fiance was bashful at the tables, not knowing what he was doing and merely imitated the actions of the persons to his right and left. Cecil, it seemed, knew what it all was about and set to "strutting his stuff" for all to behold. The heavy praise of our then five month old skunk continued to heap upon heap. We assumed everyone was just being nice and kind to us as we were new. That was until the awards began to be handed out.

My fiance had actually suggested we head back to our room before the awards as it had been a longer day than expected and we did not expect as newbies with such a humble skunk to be participating in the awards ceremony at all. How wrong we were. Cecil began to receive ribbon after ribbon, two of which were Best in Show in different categories. My fiance and I were appropriately floored and flabbergasted. I had difficulty bearing up under my pride and was amazed to find myself tearing up. The final award was the Grand National Champion, the award of all awards. When Cecil came in second place Grand National Champion it was all I could do not to weep and act a fool.

They forced me to go up with my fiance to accept the blown glass trophy that Cecil won and the three of us took a picture with said trophy. I look more than a little ridiculous in that picture as I pulled my face in to hold back the tears. My fiance couldn't look more proud and delighted. Cecil merely looked as if all was as it should be and I daresay he knew better than us the entire day.

Favorite Authors

I found myself at a small science fiction convention a few months ago. There is nothing so wonderful as finding yourself in the presence of fellow nerds, dweebs, geeks and dorks. There is nothing so pleasant as sharing your love of "Battlestar Gallactica" with fellow spazzes capable of analyzing the most minute plot points along with you as if they were breaking down some difficult bit of rocket science, which oddly enough, many of them made a living out of. There is, of course, as in any companionable gathering of like minds, the inevitable fly at the picnic. It is of this, or rather her, that I am about to write.

There was a delightful panel of authors set to discuss Romance and the modern vampire. Various discussions took place on such topics as the shift in the literary market in terms of fantasy and horror popularity and the changing face of science fiction. Various authors were discussed and their success and place, relative to aforementioned changes, were tossed about the room. In the course of things someone mentioned Laurell K. Hamilton, a favorite author of mine and so I assumed of everyone else's. That is until some horrible woman in the back of the room (where those types always sit) began to disparage Mrs. Hamilton and toss aside her work as little more than pornography. Needless to say I was insulted on her behalf and more than a little outraged.

Let me say at this point, that with a few test tube baby exceptions we are all on this earth because one man and one woman spent some time alone. Birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it so let's get out of the way right now that sex occurs on planet Earth. That intercourse should be included in the telling of any character's story seems to be, to me, a necessary addition if said character is of a species to do so. It is , after all, a part of life without which none of us would be here to complain of its inclusion in literature.

I did not know that we were still living in such a staunch and conservative age that any mention of the "beast with two backs" would cause an uproar among the common folk. I thought we had progressed to a time in our society where we had finally come to terms with the fact that humans, on a regular basis, copulate. Evidently not. To say that this red haired woman was haughty and ludicrous in her feigned righteous indignation is to say too little. I expected to turn and see her swathed in lace, petticoats and a high necked collar such was her agitation. She went on and on railing against the detriment to society she perceived Mrs. Hamilton to be, outraged even that some disreputable house would publish such filth.

For my part I quickly lost patience with her tirade. I found her views silly and backwards. I thought that if she continued her vehement attack against Mrs. Hamilton a wrestling match between us would surely ensue. I have no doubt that I would have won, being younger and more affronted but indignant, conservative soccer moms are a vicious breed and she no doubt would have given me a run for my money.

Laurell K. Hamiton's work is NOT pornography. I would venture that any who think so are the very definition of uptight and are no doubt grumpy due to having to carry those sticks about where the sun doesn't shine. I would also venture to say that if reading about adults doing adult things in a non gratuitous manner offends your tender sensibilities than it would be best if you stuck to either children's books or literature produced by the Bronte sisters who were equally as flabbergasted by amorous physicality.

It is 2008 and this is NOT the age of silk hankies and fainting when your suitor is so bold as to ask for a kiss. Red haired soccer moms aside modern authors include in their works the reality of humanity. Humanity is forever propelled forward by acts these staid, matronly, dusty types would prefer to ignore or pretend don't exist. These types are no doubt of the "only with the lights off" variety. As an adult reader how goofy is it to either giggle at or be offended by adult situations? Laurell K. Hamiton's work is not Larry Flynt's work and to compare the two is the height of idiocy. To condemn work such as hers for "porno trash" is to do such a severe injustice to her extreme skill and craft that I propose old RHSC (Red Headed Soccer Mom) should have her library card revoked forthwith!


For those unfamiliar with Laurell K. Hamilton's work you should visit http://www.laurellkhamilton.org

There is her Anita Blake Vampire Hunter series which, in my humble opinion, is brilliant and beyond fabulous and then there is her Meredith Gentry series filled with royal intrigue and commando fairies also brilliant and beyond fabulous.

Exotic Pets

In the state of Florida in order to possess certain exotic animals you have to have a permit. Animals like skunks and raccoons and monkeys fall in this category. We happen to be the proud parents of three skunks. My question is: just because you have the Class III permit do we REALLY need to use it like we do? Let me explain:

Skunks are not easy pets in terms of care. You can't just spoon out a can of dog food and walk away. There are vitamins and mineral supplements, there's a diet that must be varied so you don't suddenly have a picky eater on your hands, there's constant vigilance in regards to dental health and coat health that is a daily, never ending process. So, having skunks, we think we know it all. What fools!

Whenever anyone has a pet, this animal could be in distress or unwanted they call my fiance and I. We might as well put our number in the phone book as: The Sucker Hotline. We've nursed back to health and found new homes for more furry critters than I'd care to think about. Anything from pet rats, to ferrets, to rabbits, to guinea pigs, to pot bellied pigs, to any species of bird, and skunks. And now we have the kicker tearing up our carpet: a raccoon.

My fiance had said in the past that he'd love to have one. I told him I hope he and his new girlfriend would be very happy with their new pet. And that, I thought, settled that. But my fiance, ever the sucker for a hard luck story God love him, somehow manages to get his wish without finding himself homeless and without a fiance. He reeled me in on the suckerdom.

This is how it happpened: Gary's (my fiance) coworker had a family of raccoons living in his attic. He was able, this industrious coworker, to humanely trap and release the parents. The babies were in an inaccessible part of his tiny Florida attic. For two weeks the raccoons stayed in the attic, too small to care for themselves, slowly starving and dying of thirst. And then one of them decides to venture out. He rolls down the coworkers roof and falls into the bushes unharmed. The coworker finds the baby raccoon scratching at his window on one side and his cat scratching on the other side of the window. Thus distracted he's able to scoop the baby up into a fishing net. And who does he call first? Why, the King of All Chumps my fiance!

The coworker begs Gary to take the raccoon. Knowing he could wind up single if he brings one more furry, non-job having animal into this house he tries to tell him no (I'm SO sure!) at which point the coworker explains that the baby is too small to fend for himself so he can't release him and if Gary won't take him he'll have no choice but to euthanize him. Enter violins: here. All engines full stop. Next thing I know I've got a snarling, snapping, growling, tiny, tiny, tiny little bundle of meanness raging in a cage in my garage. My fiance is too stupid to hide his glee. I'm too stupid not to fall in love with the little bundle of fur and sharp teeth. We're a pair of imbeciles if ever there was a pair.

So we begin the exhaustive research process. Luckily we have friends who are VERY pet knowledgeable and when they don't know they know who does. Luckily we have high speed internet access. We discover that we're already covered under our current permit to have a raccoon in our home. Great. We find out what to feed him and begin bottle feeding him immediately adding in various liquids to restore his electrolytes. He does not like this. He's had a HORRIBLE day and all he wants to do is bite who he thinks is the cause of it. The first night is rough and filled with many a nip. As fortune would have it raccoons are naturally greedy pigs so by the next day getting him to accept the bottle is no problem. By the time my fiance comes home from work he's sitting in my lap snug as a bug making up for the meals he's been missing.

So now that we no longer have a snarling beast on our hands who is in danger of dying from starvation or massive dehydration we begin to look for a vet to check him out. Oddly enough this was the hardest part of the problem. Veterinarians generally love animals. All animals but raccoons it seems. Our regular vet, who we love and adore, who carries our skunk around her office and shows him off to people and kisses and hugs him and spoils him more rotten than he already is wouldn't even discuss seeing the raccoon. This worries me. We thought we'd have to travel almost 2 hours away to find someone to look at him but after much research and referral (much of which was incorrect by the way) we found a vet within forty five minutes of our home.

Clean bill of health for the baby we've now named "Rocky," not my choice but men do get stubborn about certain things at times and...but still there are choices to be made. If we keep Rocky and domesticate him it's going to be a LONG, LONG road. He is a wild animal. Would we be doing him a favor by keeping him with us and letting him live like a king and destroy our carpeting or would we be doing him an injustice by not letting him live his life naturally knocking over garbage cans and sleeping in trees? I know Gary has made up his mind but I'm still reserving judgment.

Rocky is still a little guy but he's smart. Frighteningly so. He potty trained himself. Now there's a convenience you can't buy at PetSmart! But o when he hits sexual maturity all will be different. Cute and cuddly? Right out the window. And here is where we would have to make a permanent decision. In order to keep a raccoon as a pet they must be spayed or neutered. They are powerful animals and get downright nasty when they're old enough to make more downright nasties in their image. If we neuter him he can never be returned to the wild. We've been told to expect a massive calming in his attitude should we choose to fix him. I say: can you blame him? But raccoons are still powerful and oft times destructive animals to keep as pets. And is it fair?

If we choose not to keep him there is a wonderful, WONDERFUL woman who does animal rescue who can rehab him to return to the wild. You don't just open your door and say: "Off you go, be free Rocky Raccoon!" Not quite. They must be taught how to be a wild animal again and this is something I'm willing to admit is beyond my scope of knowledge. But, as I said, we know a woman who devotes much of her life, if not ALL of her life to wildlife rescue and rehab. We have choices in front of us, much of which I think will be determined by Rocky himself. Hopefully all of us choose wisely.

David Copperfield a Return

I had a bit of trouble in school with the old, British classics. When forced to read "Great Expectations" in the sixth grade Charles Dickens and I became bitter enemies. "Beowulf," while not necessarily British, still drove me insane to the point of wanting to take a hostage. "Jane Eyre" established Charlotte Bronte as my nemesis. Once out of school I avoided all dusty, British tomes like the plague. I haven't even been able to find entertainment in the various movies. They seem just as dusty, as in the case of the various incarnations of Jane Eyre, and equally as ridiculous (see: Beowulf the "movie") as the original texts.

But there's something about willfully ignoring the old classics that makes you feel guilty, isn't there? Something shameful about turning your back on those revered pages of the Western canon, yes? And so, I've tried again with astounding results. I did not return (at least I haven't yet) to those books that made me sweat and shake my fist and plot the destruction of various English teachers in my high school days, I didn't want to take on too much at one time. Right now I'm in the process of reading "David Copperfield" and I'm loving every word.

I took advantage of one of the few sunny days we've seen here lately and was reading "Copperfield" outside. I'm sure my neighbors think I'm out of my mind because when I reached the part where poor David has run away to find the aunt he's never met, he bursts into tears as he's explaining his story, his aunt, so agitated by his outburst, starts pouring various liquids down his throat and I absolutely could NOT stop laughing. Sitting outside, alone, laughing hysterically every time I think of the poor boy tasting "anchovy sauce and salad dressing" because his aunt was desperately putting anything she could in his mouth to stop his crying I'm sure drew more than a few raised eyebrows from over the fence.

I'm not sure if this is one of those instances where maturity makes all the difference in the reading or if "Great Expectations" was altogether different and forever unlovable for me. I am certain, however, that I am removing Charles Dickens from my archenemy list immediately. Who knew?

I'm sure I'm not the first person to feel terrorized by long dead authors to the extent that they shun any other works by said authors or similar authors and I hope I'm not the first to try again and be pleasantly surprised. I will also admit there is a vast difference between reading for enjoyment and reading for something that might cause you to perspire at the sound of "pop quiz."

I officially apologize and hereby remove any and all hexes and or voodoo I might have placed on any number of English teachers at any given time. It seems you did know what you were doing after all.