Viggo's Opinion About International Cat Day.

Following his much-read interview about his favourite subject (himself), Viggo has granted a second interview, about ICD.

We agreed to meet him in one of his preferred haunts: the laundry basket. Since he was fast asleep at the appointed time, we waited for ten minutes.

We then waited for another ten minutes while he smartened himself up for the photographer.

- Can you tell us a little more about the shelter you came from?

V: I thought we were going to talk about International Cat Day.

- Yes, that too, but my readers are interested in that shelter.

V: Are they? It's really not that interesting. 

- Please?

V: If I must...My Mum, me and my siblings were thrown over their fence. Now, I was only a couple of days old at the time, but if I remember correctly I behaved heroically.

- How many siblings did you have?

V: We were three brothers. They were a bit older and stronger than me, I was the youngest, but I was the most intelligent, by far. All they did was mewl and stuff, but I looked around me and found out the best way to survive immediately. I saw that I should suck up to the shelter boss in a big way, and that I would became her best friend, and that would ensure me the largest bowl of food and the best cuddles. It worked. She almost cried when she had to let me go.

- How long did you live in that shelter?

V: A couple of months.

- Did your siblings stay with you all that time?

V: No...they left a bit before me.

- Why?

V: They mwroafmmmmmm...

- Excuse me? You are mumbling a bit, I didn't quite catch that?

V: I said: they got rid of their mange quicker than I did, so they were able to adopt a family sooner. Are you hard of hearing?

- Do you miss them at all?

V: Don't be stupid. If you are going to ask stupid questions, this interview is over!

- Sorry. What do you think about ICD?

V: I think it is a commercial attempt to get people to feel sorry for cats in shelters.

- Yes, but since there are so many of you stuck in abysmal conditions, those shelters provide an out, don't they, and they need money desperately.

V: Are you giving your opinion now, don't you know that this violates #1 rule of conducting an interview? You are supposed to write down my opinion, not give yours!

- Still?

V: Still what? Oh...Yes, obviously those shelters need money, duh! The cat food could be a lot better, for one. And I would have preferred to have a bench of my own, instead of having to share. My brother left his hairballs lying about, disgusting habit!

- But would you advise people to adopt cats from shelters, instead of shelling out a huge amount of money for a cat from a breeder?

V: Oh, absolutely! Those in-bred cats are weaklings. I have a couple in my area, those what-you-may-call-it Maine Coons. Maine Coons! Long-haired egomaniacs, that's what they are. They sit on fences preening, showing off those ridiculously long fluffy tails all day long. Haven't caught a mole in their lives, I bet. Wouldn't know where to start. Maine Coons-buffoons!

- Any last words?

V: Yes. Send food! So far, no one has sent me any. Don't your readers understand I am hungry all the time? It's my shelter background...never enough food, you see. Heck, send money to the shelters for all I care, but send me a salami!

(Viggo after a tiring day spent in front of a fresh mole hill)

At Viggo's request, I have provided a link: Stray Cat Strut

and he says to read the message.

Did A Knooppunten Test - and it was wonderful!

Good afternoon, all you cyclists and other readers!
Last night I did a test drive to see whether that whole knooppunten theory of mine (= you can cycle all around the Wetlands even if you have sense of direction of precisely 0%) works.

I'm very happy to be able to tell you that YES! - it works perfectly!

Even for such a notorious 'lost-my-way' person as myself (I was once lost in London for more than 6 hours, resulting in angry phone calls to my boss about where on earth those ordered bouquets were), it is an easy to follow method.

(Um...about those 6 hours in London: do you know how many High Roads there are in London?! I ended up crying near Shepherds Bush and then after another 1 1/2 hours turned the car around when I saw a road sign pointing towards the North Circular...at least I recognised that. Those bouquets were subsequently delivered by my extremely pissed-off boss himself. Who was also my partner. It was complicated)

So...I started from home (obviously), and my first knooppunt was number 48. By looking at the very thoughtfully provided map, I could then plan my route, cycling from point to point. It seems a bit illogical at times, for instance when you are at 34 and the next one you need is 11, but it works, it absolutely works!

Relieved from the nagging thought that I would probably get lost even though this is my home turf, I could enjoy the landscape around me.

I cycled along pretty dykes I had never been at before...and I have lived here for the last 27 years; it was an eye-opener.

As it was early evening, the hares were out in force...I spotted more than a dozen along the way. And I saw a family of partridges, as well as quite a few pheasants. And the usual cows, horses, goats, geese and sheep of course, there's no getting away from them around here.

Just after I had left the village of Tinte (nothing amazing to add about the village of Tinte, sorry, except that they have a village festival every Summer where they drink themselves silly for a week) I passed a wooden fence and there it was: a huge gorgeous buzzard. It sat there, contemplating Life. Or digesting something. Anyway, it just sat there watching me watching it.

Immediately I had this dream about how that buzzard would fly to my fist, and that I would ride and stride triumphantly home, carrying my buzzard friend for life. I tried ESP. But it simply continued to sit on the fence. So I rode on.

(No, not that buzzard...this is a photo I found on the web. It probably isn't even a buzzard. And it has copyright, see? So if and when I ever to get to make some money from this blog...I'll be philosophical about it)

Only a km after my encounter with the bird of prey I saw a young man being instructed in how to drive sheep. A small herd of 8 lovely exotic sheep (not a native Dutch race, I mean) was being herded around traffic cones in a small meadow with the aid of a long staff and a border collie. It was immediately apparent to me that the collie was more experienced than the young man. Whenever a sheep would start to wander off, it would start to quiver, all the time looking from the sheep to the man and aching for an instruction. ESP worked fine this time. I got strong thought patterns screaming "hey! dude! that sheep should be snapped back into group! hey! for crying out loud, give me the command to go get it!!!!".

It was entertaining, that's for certain. After watching the dog get more and more frustrated, and eventually disobeying the command to lie down, it raced around the herd instead and drove those 8 into a tiny mount of wool, I rode on, silently cheering the collie. Well done, girl!

The remainder of my 25 km passed without anything of interest. The sun sank behind the bank of cloud introducing the end of our amazing 4 weeks of wonderful sunny Summer weather.

My butt hurt, a bit. I need to build up tougher skin there (Frith knows it's big enough), that's for sure! But I felt great.

Got you a nice photo, courtesy of the web. (My Samsung only takes mediocre pics)

A Sort of Book Review: The Fault In Our Stars - by John Green

Hiya!
We're back from 4 glorious days in Amsterdam. And, not incidentally, one of the best books I have read in a loooooooong time is partly set in that lovely city.

(She is sitting on the bench...yes, THAT bench!)

Some time ago my daring daughter pointed out to me that I HAD to read a book by John Green (never heard of him), as it was magnificent. But I was extremely busy and had two books on the go already...so I put it off and then forgot about it.

When we arrived in Amsterdam it was sweltering (27 degrees - extremely hot for Dutch people) and bursting to the seams with gay people as it was Gay Pride Weekend. We partied with them for exactly 10 minutes and then decided to flee into the most beautiful cinema Amsterdam has: the Tuschinski.

We could choose between 6 films, but darling daughter wanted to see The Fault In Our Stars. Again. 'You know, Mum, that book I urged you to read'.

Fine. It looked fine, and I wanted to please her, so we went in.

Holy moly, I came out crying my eyes out. And I wasn't the only one! I swear all the women and not a few of the men around me were sniffling discreetly, or bawling out loud.

We spent the next hour locating the particular bench that Hazel Grace and Augustus had been sitting on in the film. The director had helpfully filmed the name of the gracht, the Leidsegracht, and the church in the background helped as well. When we had found the bench, we had to wait our turn, as another mother and daughter were taking photographs.

Darling daughter sat down, and discovered people had put quotes from the book onto the bench. Sweet, albeit a little vandalistic. When we were about to finish, we were approached by a company of 6 people, who shyly asked us if this was THE bench.

And I tell you, when we took a canal boat trip two days later, and went past this bench, it was swarming with people, with them lining up in order to take photographs!

Now, I had immediately after leaving the cinema walked into the first bookstore I could find, and I had bought the book.

Every evening and every morning whilst in Amsterdam, I read. And, fair is fair, I prefer the book to the film. Sure, the film is romantic and great and the actors are wonderful! 

But the book is better.

Rawer, more realistic, less smooth.

I know about cancer and I know about pain. And the book tells you about this without being sentimental, and so insightful that I sometimes held my breath without realising it and then was wondering why I was so out of breath.

Mr Green, John, chapeau!!!!

You have written a book I will recommend to my pupils, and to all others I will meet for ever after.

So, folks, even if you never read a book: READ THIS BOOK!

If you have a family member, or a friend, or a neighbour, or a colleague, with cancer: READ THIS BOOK!

Look for me, somewhere down Rays of Light Way...

Hi,
I'll be away for a few days. I'm taking my darling daughter to Amsterdam.
So no blog.
But you can always visit Rays of Light on FB, where I will post the occasional photo and comment.
The link is right here: Rays of Light on FB

See you!

Renée

Get Out of your Pupa!

Hi there, dreamers and wild children. Peace, to you!
This evening there were so many huge dragonflies in my garden that I stood amazed.
We used to see them occasionally, but this Summer we have masses.
I like them, they hover and swoop over our pond. The fact that they are ferocious killers doesn't diminish their beauty. (And they kill for food. Not for any other purpose. They do not try to take over one side of the garden...to make but a tiny point)

 

artwork by Emily Kill

Dragonflies and butterflies. They belong to The Wetlands' Summer as the bees and, unfortunately, mosquitoes.

What they all have in common is that they start their life as larvae. Ugly blind little things they are. And then they hide themselves for awhile and undergo a transformation. And grow wings.

I don't know about you, but I have only lately began to grow my wings.

Some people do this much earlier on in life. Some others never get beyond the hiding stage. And yet some stay ugly blind larvae all their lives.

The last couple of days I have heard a song on the radio, which made me think about butterflies and dragonflies. Don't ask me why; it has nothing to do with them, except the refrain is 'danse', and those dragonflies and butterflies dance across my vision. But still... It is in French, and if you don't understand this language, never mind. Simply let the lyrics wash over you along with the music. 

And imagine yourself growing wings.

Derniere danse. Indila.

PS In case you are wondering why I remain silent about the Israel-Palistine War...

I have nothing, nothing, nothing to add, no wisdom to impart, no solutions to offer, except my deep pain and regrets about the violence.

Killing children? I have no words to adequately express my disapproval. Shame, shame, shame on both sides!

 

Viggo Speaks Out! An in-depth interview.

Good afternoon to you all!
The tale about my black tom Viggo destroying the tuning part of my guitar as a statement has sparked quite a few comments.
So I decided to allow a quick interview, to set all your minds at rest.

(Viggo on one of his preferred resting spots in the garden)

- You destroyed your woman's guitar by kicking it off its stand? Can you tell us something about this?

V: First of all, she is not 'my woman'.

- Sorry?!

V: I adopted her when she came to the animal shelter, all needy, and I liked the look of her. She smelled good. So I decided to go and live with her.

- The guitar?

V: Yeah, well, I came in through the balcony doors, it was cold out, and I felt a bit peckish. So I did my usual wake-up call, but she refused to wake up. So then I decided to make a statement.

- Was there no other way? I mean, that guitar was supposedly brand new. It's a bit harsh, don't you think?

V: No, not really. I did try to wake her up. I even was quite gentle about it, I only tugged her hair once. She hid her head under the duvet. What could I do? So I jumped up on the bookcase ledge, at just the right height for the guitar. It was easy, a kitten could have done it. All it took was one nudge. Just a nudge. Reports of me kicking anything are definitely untrue.

- She said it was an almighty crash. And that you did it out of spite for not jumping out of bed and feeding you.

V: No comment.

- Well, is it true that you tend to destroy books in order to get fed?

V: Who told you that?

-Your wo...Sorry. The woman you adopted.

V: Look, sweetheart, a cat's got to do what a cat's got to do. I have needs. You have to understand I patrol the garden all night long, to keep the strays out. And I catch at least three moles or voles a week, that's hard work, right? I need to keep my strength up.

-Yes, but books! They are...

V: Sacred? Rubbish! They smell funny. And she has taken to putting the newspapers straight into the wheelie bin, so I cannot get to them anymore. So I have to take what's handy.

-You don't look all that macho. In fact, she has told me she adores you and that you decidedly have a soft side to you.

V: She knows how to rub my fur in just the right way, yeah. And I do like to get my belly tickled. Okay, okay, I admit it. She's quite a catch, as adopted women go. She hardly ever denies me anything, and she isn't one of those soppy "Ooooooh-kitty-kitty-kitty" kind either. She leaves me in peace when I have to digest my food. And I come and go as I please. So, yeah, I do purr a lot, she seems to like that. And in the cold weather she's nice and warm to cuddle up to on the bed.

-Don't you feel just a little bit sorry for all that trouble she had to go to with that guitar?

V: No.

-Is there anything you would like to say to the people who read this interview with you?

V: Send cat food. Oh...and send salami. I have recently acquired a taste for that. And a bit of catnip never goes wasted.

-Thank you.

V: You can leave now!

Sometimes All it Takes is an Optimistic Heart (and a little pig-headedness)

Told you I am trying to learn how to play the guitar, haven't I? And I've also told you some time ago that my beloved black tomcat Viggo had kicked my brand new semi-acoustic  guitar off its stand (because he wanted to be fed! Can you believe this cat?!) , right?
And the shop I asked for a repair quote told me it was going to cost me 250 Euros, minimum. 
And that my insurance said I had a risk of 150 Euros to be paid by little old me, before they would pay for the rest of the repair.
And (I didn't tell you this, but it is what happened) I left my lovely guitar in my room, next to my bed, and mourned it. And I looked at it every day, and cursed my bad luck. And then, two days ago, I decided to turn events around and try to repair it myself.

I looked at it very carefully, then loosened the strings, took some Bison wood glue and a fine brush, and brushed the glue into the crack. Then I put two glue thingies on (don't know the word, sorry, but there is a photo below). And waited for 2 days.

This afternoon I, again very carefully, took off those glue thingies, with baited breath. It looked okay...

And then, after a huge optimistic 'it will be okay!' affirmation hurled into the universe, I tuned it, ever so carefully.

It gave one nasty 'twang!', nearly giving me a heart attack, but...It is tuned. It has been played...

HAPPYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

Btw, this isn't me! I'm chubby. But cheerful.

So. Mission accomplished. Glad I tried.