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We've Got to Kill Charlie

“You’re gonna have to kill him,” were the words I uttered to Rod as we watched Charlie lying on his side, barely moving and breathing erratically. We had gotten attached to him in the last day or two. Our ‘relationship’ started two weeks prior . . . It was a sunny day. I was sitting on the couch and looking outside the window when I noticed Pele The Cat ‘flirting’ with something in the backyard. I knew he was flirting - - he was flicking his tail and rolling on his back and casting his wide eyes at something in the grass not too far away. I went to inspect. A baby hedgehog was the love interest apparently. Freaked out by small, wild animals (wha, huh, do you even follow this blog, people?) I didn’t get too close. But I had to admit he was a bit cute. He was only as big as my hand and slow as a snail, so I wasn’t too worried about a vicious hedgehog attack. As the days went on, I got used to seeing Charlie skitter across the yard. He seemed to be happy slowly meandering around th
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A Rat Tale

It was 2am and my parents, our friend Virginia, Rod and I were fast asleep on Kawau Island in our friend’s beautiful bach. Such an idyllic spot, I could never have imagined the night time scenario that was about to unfold. . . I’m known to be a light sleeper and was awoken by the sound of bottles clanking together as if someone were rummaging through the empties. Below our bedroom is the rubbish bin, and I immediately thought of racoons in the garbage back home in America. No racoons here, but possums are equally leftover lovers. I had to go investigate. I venture down the two steps that lead to the kitchen and the side door and see the door has accidently been left ajar. I pull it shut without a further thought and turn on the outside light. As I squint to see if there are possums licking spaghetti and tuna tins, I hear the rattle of bottles coming from just behind me. I swing around to see the pantry door is open and in the corner where all the liquor bottles sit is something
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Great White Cotton Crisis of 2010 Hits New Zealand

“This is Roving Reporter, Aech Kleicombe, live (online), reporting from downtown Hamilton, New Zealand. "I am reporting tonight on a little-known-crisis that is threatening homeowners in this city with a shortage that is predicted (by myself) to rival the proportions of last century’s great oil shortages in the 1970s. “I have been researching this crisis for some time and, although I do not want to panic the city’s homeowners, I do feel it is my duty to report the facts. Just the facts. “My colleagues and I have been growing increasing panicky as we’ve searched city-wide for what one would assume is a common household item. Yes, that’s right, the all-too-familiar and unexceptional white pillow case. “And, it’s important to note, readers, that this is only the white pillow case. There is no need to panic if you need ecru, ivory or taupe. No, it is only the WHITE pillow case. Something so incredibly common that homeowners have been able to purchase them since the dawn of the t
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The Prime Minister Pees Too

An airport is always a funny place to see all kinds of people. I was at the Hamilton Airport today for a meeting and while standing in the queue to order a coffee, I saw a man sitting at a cafe table donned in a French beret. The proper, real kind with the little tab on top that makes you want to pluck it right off his bald little head. But, that wasn’t all: he also had a very French-looking handlebar moustache with the ends twisted tightly and pointed up toward the sky (oui!). And, to top it all off, beside him sat his carry-on luggage that was, in fact, a shopping bag with the words ‘French market’ screen-printed on the side alongside images of various fruits. “Okay, this guy’s not for real,” I thought to myself. And, while I stood in line, I could tell others were thinking the same. But, after he sat there for a really long time leisurely reading a book and sipping his café au lait from a paper cup, the more I realised he was real - - - a REAL Kiwi trying to be REALLY French .... ah
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Racing the Dog

This past August I was coming out of my typical ‘winter funk’ not having exercised much over the rainy season. So, I thought committing myself to run Hamilton’s 12 kilometre Bridge to Bridge fun run would be the trick to get myself in shape by training . . . . I had 3 months to do it. Easy. Last week, on Wednesday, it’s 4 days till race day and I’m wondering, ‘ if I ran the next 3 days, could I possibly get in shape for a 12k run?’ Nope - - so, I downgrade my expectations, ‘ I’ll just run the alternate 6k race, thanks .’ Piece of cake. Is it also too late to train for 6k? Thursday comes, ‘I should really go for a run and see if I can do it...’ Friday rolls around, ‘Run? Hmmm.... kinda rainy...’ Now it’s Friday night and I discuss my dilemma with a friend . . . do I run tomorrow (one day before the race) to see if I can actually run the whole distance, or do I just wing it on Sunday? The risk is I may be too sore on Sunday if I run Saturday after so many months of being such
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The Birds are Back

After my last blog post, ‘I’m Living With Killers’ . . . .what’s the worst thing that could happen after Rod skips town for Las Vegas. UGH!!!! I get home from working out, step in the hallway and feathers everywhere. I wander, carefully, into the living room and there is Mitzer, lying on the carpet in the sun like a drunken misfit. He lifts his head slightly as if to say, ‘did ya want something?’ I keep looking for the bird . . . . until I retrace my steps back around to the hallway and here it is hovering in the corner by the garage door – I nearly squished it when I came in the house. It’s breathing heavily but looks scared stiff. As much as I really don’t think of myself as a ‘girly girl’ something about birds just freaks me out. So, there’s no way I can pick up the thing. I’m kind of whimpering to myself and cursing the cat as I walk around the house saying out loud, ‘what am I going to do?!’ Trying all the while not to have a full blown panic attack. I know! I’ll call our
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I'm Living With Killers

It’s a relaxing Tuesday evening . . . . Rod has just cooked me dinner (as per usual, I’m so spoiled). As we settle ourselves down with our plates and a nice wine, all of a sudden, our cat Mitzer bowls through the cat door and all I can hear is a loud, urgent ‘peep, peep’ of some small animal! I scream, “Rod, it’s yours!” and I proceed to the highest point in the room. I am now standing on top of the chair in our lounge, half-eaten chicken breast forgotten in my mouth as I scream for Rod to ‘get it.’ Whatever ‘it’ is. You have to understand, I am a bit of a wimp when it comes to furry creatures brought home by the cats. Rod never lets me forget the morning I woke up and stepped on a large black thing in the hallway, ran screaming into the toilet AS HE WAS DOING HIS BUSINESS mind you . . . . in a hysterical mess screaming and crying that there was a rat in the hallway. After Rod zips up quickly in order to rescue me from this horrible beast, he saunters back from the hallway to the
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