Amnesty International - "Signature"

I almost lose it at the last part with the child soldiers. This brilliant ad convinced me to finally write a letter for amnesty international. But then I lost the letter and I think it probably ended up in the recycling pile.

Blogging isn't the only thing that isn't getting done around here

Kyle and I have an understanding about certain tasks that need to be done around the house. For example, because putting sheets on the bed makes me want to poke my eyes out, Kyle has agreed to do that job. And I put the clean dishes away to spare Kyle the frustration of handling the dishes that he swears must have been loaded into the dishwasher by a blind monkey.
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But organizing and dropping off the recycling is something that we both hate equally and nobody is willing to take one for the team when it comes to this household task. Consequently, a massive pile of junk piles up until we can no longer close the pantry door and our food becomes nearly inaccessible. Any time we want some mini wheats or Kahlua (or both), we have to take the risk of being swept across the kitchen floor in an avalanche of refuse. We've learned to remain calm, swim with the flow of recyclables and try to grab onto the fridge door handle if we can.
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Even though we do have a serious recycling problem, our habit of letting the stuff accumulate did save me from some marital strife last March when we were doing our taxes. After having searched the house high and low for an important letter from my bank, I came to the agonizing conclusion that I had to dig through our mountain of recycling. It was no small task but thankfully, just as Kyle was preparing to give me a flying head-butt, I produced the tax form from the bottom of one of the bins. Hooray! It took me ages to shove everything back into the pantry but we did get our taxes in on time.

Who knows what treasures are hidden down there this time?

Ouch

Me: "Oh Chaz, come here. You're so cute. Let's snuggle."
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I lay down on the floor beside the dog and start scratching his head.
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Kyle: "You want to snuggle with that grubber?"
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Chaz looks at me blankly, gets up, and walks away, leaving me alone on the cold floor.
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Kyle: "I was talking to the dog."

I get off the floor and chase Kyle down the hall.

Petunia

Tuesday night, Kyle and I are out for a late walk in our neighbourhood. On our way home, I hear a cat meowing and call it over so that I can pet it.

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We pause on the sidewalk to hear more meowing and a weird rustling noise. But no cat. Then, all of a sudden, the cat appears and Kyle and I nervously take a step backward. The cat is not walking toward us but dragging herself furiously in our direction with her front paws. Her back legs and tail are motionless, trailing in the dirt behind her. She scooches up to me and starts dragging herself around my legs, meowing and waiting for some love.

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"Oh crap. I think this cat has been hit by a car or something."

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"What should we do?"

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"I don't know. We could take her to an emergency clinic. But I'm afraid to pick her up. I might hurt her."

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Meanwhile, the cat is still meowing and trying to get some affection. I nervously lean down to pet her. She definitely doesn't seem in pain and keeps scraping herself along the sidewalk between Kyle and myself. As we look down at her in the dark, we see something smooth discoloured on her back end. Kyle and I both think it must be road rash.

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"I could go home and get a box while you wait with the cat."

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"Hey! She's wearing a diaper. A little purple plastic cat diaper!"

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"Weird...So she's probably okay."

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"Yeah, but who would leave her outside if her back legs are paralyzed? She can't run away from anything and would get herself worked in a cat fight. She must have escaped."

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It's eleven o'clock. Kyle starts looking toward the nearby houses to see if any have lights on. He notices a woman standing in the window of one, watching us. By this time we've probably been standing around for five minutes discussing what we should do with the cat. Kyle walks up to the house and knocks on the door. I can overhear their conversation from where I stand petting the cat.

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Friendly Woman: Oh you scared me!

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Kyle: Um...do you have a cat that doesn't walk so well?

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Woman: Oh yeah. That's Petunia! She's a paraplegic. She's been like that for three years. Most people clue in when they see the diaper.

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Kyle: Oh okay. We thought maybe she'd escaped.

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Woman: No. She loves to run around outside. She doesn't know she's challenged and she's not in any pain. We built a ramp for her at the back door.

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Kyle: Okay. I just thought I'd check.

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Meanwhile Petunia is still happily dragging herself in circles on the sidewalk beside me. Shaking our heads and laughing, we head home in the dark with Petunia following us for a few metres before we outpace her.