Melina's day off

Since my June week off was anything but relaxing, and things are actually slow at work, I decided to take Friday off. No big plans, except to take the car in and see why it's making an odd creaking noise when I come to a full stop. I suspect it's either struts or bushings that need attention, but it's an educated guess at best.

I also plan to speak to my animal communicator friend, and see if she can deduce what happened to poor Richard before his arrival at Chez Melina. Although most assumed he was on the losing end of a battle with a dog, I tend to think that if his wounds were dog-inflicted, he would have been killed by said dog. That's why I'm wondering if it wasn't a raccoon. They have needle teeth and don't like being cornered.

More about that car battery

I only discovered problems with the battery when leaving shaolin class last night. Even though I hadn't left any lights on, the car wouldn't start - instead, I'd get that rapid clicky sound that usually means "you left your lights on, wonk".

I wasn't alone when the problem was discovered. Several other students and instructors were around. But after a quick inventory, it turned out that none of us had jumper cables.

Then the sifu came outside to investigate. Even though class was over, we all snapped to attention; it's an ingrained habit. However, he said relax, and we did, and he came over to check things out. He found it funny that nobody had jumper cables.

To make a long story short, the sifu and about four others ended up pushing my car across the parking lot, so I could let out the clutch and start it that way. It worked on the second try.

One problem: When he was pushing, the sifu said to me: "You know, I really HATE BMWs."

I fear I may be a white belt for eternity if I don't replace my car. Although the senior instructors can make recommendations when a student is ready to test, the sifu is the only one who conducts promotional exams. Sigh.

An apology to men

Over the past couple of years, I have been making sarcastic comments about men being only good for one thing. Since I can hook up my own stereo, cut my own firewood and swat bugs when necessary, I felt that men's value outside the bedroom (or wherever else you prefer to hike the Appalachians) was vastly overrated.

After spending the better part of two hours replacing the car battery in my bimmer, I apologise.

Richard the cat

About two months ago, Rachel got a call from a local veterinarian. Someone had dumped a badly injured semi-stray cat at his office, and would we take him, because if we didn't he would euthanize him. (Don't you just love it when people use emotional blackmail to get their way?)

Anyway, Rachel went to pick up the cat, a black and white shorthair, a standard alley cat. After her first peek inside the carrier, she turned green. The cat's head, front legs and shoulders were literally ripped to bits, probably by a raccoon or dog. The worst wound behind his right front leg was gaping open and about 3 inches in diameter. When he crouched down, his front elbow would literally stick out of the wound.

After the shelter vet spent literally two hours cleaning out all the various wounds - there were just too many to stitch - he ended up in a cage in my dining room with his own bottle of penicillin in the fridge. All I could do was feed him, provide him with a box of shredded paper for litter, and give him his daily injection. (Our vet did not charge us a cent. Not all of them limit themselves to paying patients.)

Much to everyone's amazement, including our vet's, the cat survived his injuries. Every day he looked a bit better, and tolerated his injections without complaint (pencillin injections sting).

Today he's a fat, friendly boy who I've named Richard. He has big feet and a bit of a Hitler thing going on (black dot under his nose). He talks to me a lot.

One of his more charming traits is that if I have a foster kitten or two in the house, he'll carefully wash them for minutes on end. Considering he's an ex-alley cat, I find this as mysterious as it is endearing.

Here's a picture of Richard, together with one of my embarrassingly long and skinny feet.

musical insurance

If any readers (reader? I don't know who reads this blog, all I subscribe to is a free weekly head count) are wondering about Chez Melina's recent brick disaster, there isn't much to report.

After filing my insurance claim, the adjustor sent out a contractor to try and figure out why the brick fell. The Broken Pier theory was debunked, but not much else. Now I have to wait until a plumber ensures that the brick fiasco wasn't caused by leaking pipes. This kind of pisses me off, since I pointed out that there were NO water pipes in that part of the house. My 2006 foundation repair job - the one that was done to make good on the substandard 1999 foundation repair job - came complete with a CD-full of photographs of the finished work. While pier and beam foundations don't make scintillating photos (they'll never make it to nerve.com), it's clear that there aren't any water pipes running under the dining room.

What really galls me is that I'll have to a) clean up the entire house beforehand, and b) suffer the indignity of letting a stranger come into my bedroom. This is because the trap door nearest the dining room is part of my bedroom closet's floor. I suppose I could always direct him to the other trap door in the bathroom, but it would be a real bitch for him to get to the dining room from there. Besides, he's just trying to make a living, I can't really take it out on him without denting my karma.