Can I Keep It?

Boxed In

I once shared space with a giant chocolate point Siamese named Mr. Huang.  He was handsome beyond compare.  His candy blue eyes were as big as headlights.  He was tall and strong and gentle.

But Mr. Huang was like Dorothy's Scarecrow.  He didn't have a brain.

He could occasionally muster up a clever game to play on Howard the dalmatian.  But the two of them had to rub their fistful of synapses together really fast to make a spark.  So how hard could that have been, really?

Mr. Huang thought he was hidden if he put his head under the dust ruffle of the bed.  One pound of head under and the other seventeen pounds exposed.  Yeah. I didn't even know you were there.

He also enjoyed a really good nap in a cardboard box.  One day I came home and found him shoehorned in to a shoebox.  He popped out of it like freshly risen bread dough.  

And now I find out he wasn't original in even that thought.

Two points for style.

 

That CAN'T be comfortable.

His back is going to hurt in the morning.  Or you know, late afternoon.

I don't even know how that's possible.

This was much more Mr. Huang's speed.

Or this.  A perfect fit.

Okay, who broke Fluffy?  Again?

 

Caution:  Objects may be appear larger in box.

Finally.  A cat made in the mold of Mr. Huang.

* Thanks to Nancy in Miami for sending me down memory lane.*

Run Down

Simone dragged me out on a run this morning.  For a wee lassie, that dog is fast.  Really.  Like high octane lightning.   We only go about a half a mile, but we finish it thirty seconds before we start.  That fast.

It's the best five minutes of her day.  And that's with waiting on cars so we can cross the street.  She looks so delicate, but dog up there is a beast.

Zali is much more civilized.  He strolls.  He pulls out his pee shooter at every bush.  Checks his pee mail.  Greets other dogs.  I have to admonish him to move forward.  His walk takes about twenty-five minutes.  We do about a mile and a quarter.  We have long conversations about the upkeep of yards, the menu for lunch, butterflies on an Cotoneaster bush and his bum knee. 

After Zali's excursion, it's my turn.  I take him home and head out on a run.  I go the same mile and a quarter that Zali and I doodle about for nearly a half an hour.  I return home in about twelve minutes, depending on the traffic.

Simone's wind sprint training has upped my game.  I am running about an eight minute mile.

Hud timed me the other day.  He said, "Funny coming from the woman who said she wouldn't run."  I replied, "I said I wouldn't.  Not that I couldn't."

I'm running from my butt off.  Literally. 

Shoe Fetish

Today's post will be bought to you by my yellow shoes.

Simone and Aida are over there arguing about who gets them to wear on Saturday.  As if.  But I just realized that you can't see the best part of them.

The heel.  It's Zali's favorite bit.  Simone was doing a happy dance.  She loves these shoes as much as I do. 

I took them out to the Paw Prints Gala last Friday night with my friend Tracy.  I do not know why I didn't get any pictures of the two of us.  We looked fabulous.  Her shoes and my shoes had a lovely time bidding on artwork and dining on food from some of the city's best restaurants.  The shrimp and grits were divine.

One disappointment was that Tracy lost a bid on a handmade electric guitar.  Sort of.  She actually WON said guitar.  The artist presented it to her, with a hug and a kiss, explaining how it was made.  She told him that it was for her cousin, Hal, who plays with Black Oak Arkansas and was going to take it on the South American tour with him.

And then, Ron Childers, the announcer called for the guitar back.  Someone else wanted to bid on it.

Can they do that?

They did.

We both were stunned.  Bidding resumed.  Tracy gave a few more half-hearted bids and then, angry, let it go.  I can't say that I blame her.  I thought there were rules about that.

The real shame of it is, that instead of going on tour out of the country and appearing in a music video, the guitar is going to be framed and hang on a wall.  Untouched.  Unplayed.  Just an object. 

What a shame.

We didn't let it spoil our evening.  Tracy and I pointed our shoes in the direction of the Side Street Grill and had a Grey Goose Martini with extra olives.

My stunning yellow party shoes were simply exhausted the next day.

Super Young Festival

I have been derelict in posting the pictures of the Cooper-Young Festival.  Hud normally uploads my pictures, but he's been so busy with MUS Homecoming festivities that he left it up for me to figure out.

Huh.  I feel like Zoe must feel on a daily basis.

I JUST sold my soul to Satan.  I can now move pictures from my camera to the computer.  The crying and screaming of obscenities helped amuse the old devil and he took pity on me.  In fact, I'm quite sure they're the only reason I slogged my way through it.

This is my booth directly after set up.  Later, it will be so packed with humanity that it will take seven minutes to cross from its opening to the trash can in the middle of the street.  One hundred thousand people made their way to this part of the city that day.  A full tenth of the population of Memphis.

And let me tell you, it is a REAL cross section of the city.  All different races, religions, BLGT, mohawks, tattoos, piercings -- you name it --Cooper -Young has got it and most of them have had a lot of beer.  It's probably why it's my favorite festival in all of Memphis.  I love to see all the different people getting together and having the time of their lives.

Poor Hud.  Eating carrots and pretending that it is NOT 100 degrees and all of Memphis swarms about the tent.  Next year, I am not bringing any artwork.  I am going to arrange a baby pool in the middle and fill it with ice.  I will never have to work again. 

It was hotter than the hammered hinges of hell.

We were set up next to my friend Tatia and her marvelous beads she makes at Solstice Studios. 

Zali and I made our way from the house, around Rhodes College and over to the Presbyterian Church this weekend where Tatia was set up at the Clanjamfrey Festival.  We witnessed the "Bonny Knees" competition.  There's a dog parade, that we missed apparently, in which people tart up their fuzzy pals and prizes are won for the best ensemble. 

Zali is sooooo winning next year.  I feel sorry for the other contestants.  I'm going to make him a kilt, knee ribbons, scarf and a tam.  That dog will wear anything.  I should have named him Smithfield.  Because, you know he is a ham.

And the weather?  Has dropped twenty degrees over the course of the week.

Today is 75.  There is no God.  Or if there is, He has a wicked sense of humor.

Paw Prints Gala 2010

The largest fundraiser for the Humane Society of Memphis and Shelby County is tonight!  Festivities will begin at seven o'clock at Central Station in Downtown Memphis.  There will live and silent auctions, music by The Living Daylights and food provided by Memphis' premiere restaurants.

My friend Tracy and I will be there with bells on!  Okay.  Not actual bells.  More like Pucci prints and outrageous heels.  I'll take pictures.

I wonder if Zali would care to escort us.  Hud has Homecoming at MUS. 

Wish me luck that my painting brings them lots of cash!

And Now for Something Completely Different

Wouldn't it be fun to be both the owner of the world's largest cat and the world's smallest dog?

Meet Boo Boo.

Boo Boo is a long haired Chihuahua inching her way to the astounding heights of four inches.  She weighs in at the outrageous sum of two pounds.

Simone would like for you all to know that she feels fat now.

This tiny girl weighed barely an ounce a birth and was approximately the length of your thumb.  How did they even know Boo Boo was born?  That's practically a dwarf hamster baby.  Or a kangaroo.  Aren't they that small at birth? 

She weighed one ounce when she was born.  That's the equivalent of ten pennies.

*Record scratch*

I truly wish Scarlett's Magic and Boo Boo had the same owner.

Yes, that's right.  Me.

Not So Fat Cat

When I was a visiting artist in 1993, my hosts in Venezuela had a Serval named Congo.  The were merely  driving home over the Andes from Colombia and spied a man by the side of the road selling kittens.  The daughter fell in love and they brought the tiny cat home.  He grew up to be a full bred Serval. 

I did not know they had a wild animal that roamed the compound.  Having just arrived, we were sitting on the sofa, having a glass of wine, getting acquainted.  Suddenly, a giant spotted cat leaped up beside me and rested his head on my shoulder, playfully rubbing his huge noggin on my arm.  I turned to Oscar whose eyes mischievously sparkled and pointing to the beast calmly asked, "Should this be here?"

Congo was my buddy.  We napped together on the twin bed in my guest room during the day.  In the morning, I was often awakened  by him as he chased monkeys in the branches of the mango tree that shaded my room.

He was the gentlest of creatures.  However, one day, I was sitting with my feet in the water of the swimming pool that lay in the middle of the compound.  Congo swooped down from a palm and plopped next to me.  One of the people I was with was taking a leisurely swim.  Congo was fascinated by the movement.  He purred in amusement, pawing my leg and banging his enormous skull on my upper arm, as was his habit.  Congo's excitement grew with every lap.  His low rumble grew to staccato yipping and then it happened.

Congo grasped my bicep in his jaws and clamped down.  Hard.

I called for my companion to stop swimming, but he couldn't hear me.  Congo shook his mighty head, play fighting.  I tried to stay calm.  I cooed.  I went limp.  And finally, the swimmer saw my distress.  He swam quickly, but the splashing only drove Congo to a frenzy.  Finally I screamed, "STOP DAMMIT!"

"What can I do? What can I DO?" exclaimed the panicked swimmer.

"I want you to stop," I replied mustering all my resolve.

"But I don't know how to make him stop!"

"Not him, you ass.  YOU.  YOU NEED TO BE STILL."

And Congo released me.  Rubbed my face in his and disappeared into the mango tree.

My arm was black and blue for the remainder of the trip, but Congo never broke the skin.  He was playing.  Just having a good time with his buddy, The Furry Godmother.

So I give you this cautionary tale by way of introduction to Scarlett's Magic, a Savannah cat who trampled the title of world's tallest and longest domesticated cat.  Savannah's are a cross breed between a Serval and a DSH.  They are not legal in all states, but in California, they are rapidly becoming a very popular cat to own.

Scarlett's Magic is 18.7 inches form shoulder to toe, thereby making him the Guiness World Record of world's tallest cat.  He also holds the title of world's longest cat at 42.72 inches.  The two and a half year old cat is owned by Kim Draper who together with her husband, Lee, also own the California based Savannah Cat Shoppe.

At least he can never be accused of being the world's fattest cat.

Random Acts of Photography

This is what Sunday looked like at the Hudarosa.

 

We were a bunch of spent pennies after toughing it out in the 100 degree heat

for fourteen and a half hours.  Good thing the Pappies know how to relax.

Cooper-Young Festival!

Yay!  For the first time in two years, Can I Keep It?  will be at the Cooper-Young Festival.  I've spent the day packing up my delightful ceramics and whimsical paintings to show you tomorrow. 

One More For the Toad

We'll be located right next to the lovely Tatia's Solstice Studios lampwork beads at the corner of Oliver and Cooper in front of Celtic Crossing.  It's a fun day of drinking, games and bands with some of the city's finest artists and craftspeople.  Come on out.  It promises to be a beautiful day.

Hud and I will be looking for you.

Imagine My Body

Why is it that every fall, I am pressed deeply by the desire to purchase back-to-school clothes,even though I have long passed school age?  I fed my Pavlovian response yesterday by getting a new tailored denim skirt at Target.  It's in my new improved smaller size, but as I held it up to me, I thought, "This will never fit."

*sigh*

I have lost the weight.  Just not in my brain.  Is there a diet for that?  Every photograph I see of myself  makes me cringe at my ungainly girth. 

Hare Dressing Salon

So I suppose my eyes are still fat, too.

Hud is loath to take my picture, knowing that my face will contort at the sight of it.  I've kept the weight off for almost a year now.  You'd think my mind would have gotten accustomed to my current image, yet it persists in perpetuating my past fluffiness.

The skirt fits beautifully. After it slipped on, I proceeded to try on every article of clothing I own.  Skinny jeans?  Zipped right up.  

*sigh*

They aren't making the clothes larger just to fool me, huh?