April Showers

In a recent post I mentioned walking the cat, and a couple of people have asked me what that’s all about. It’s actually a long story, and one I’ve had a little trouble talking about, but I am now ready to share it with my loyal readers – both of you.

I’ve written often of my beautiful, loving and hilariously neurotic Megs. At the beginning of April she died very unexpectedly.

050I dealt with the situation with impressive fortitude by crying every day for a month and treating the cat like a surrogate dog.

I must say the cat rallied beautifully to the task, starting to greet me at the door whenever I came home, and rolling onto her back to have her tummy rubbed. Truth be told I think she is rather liking her new position of alpha pet.

Then one day, four weeks to the day after Megs died, I felt inexplicably cheerful and went an entire day without shedding a single tear. Definite progress.

That night the cat went outside and got lost.

I registered her with every lost pet organization/website I could think of, and put signs up all around the neighbourhood but after a week I was fairly confident that we wouldn’t be seeing her again. Especially when we were treated to one of Calgary’s inevitable spring snowstorms and assorted other types of precipitation.

SandyThe SPCA told me that sometimes, when people find a pretty cat like Sandy they just keep them, rather than reporting it. I was at the point where I was really hoping someone had stolen her so that at least she would be being looked after.

Then out of the blue she turned up underneath someone’s shed, and after a great deal of cajoling, there ensued an emotional homecoming.

Of course the first thing she wanted to do was go outside again, but I was in no way emotionally prepared for that. However, I feel it’s inevitable that she will get outside again, so it seems sensible to me that she becomes familiar with the neighbourhood just in case. Se we have been seen going for long walks together and generally exploring. I don’t put her on a lead or anything, but she never moves far away from me, and keeps returning for a bit of reassurance and a tummy rub.

Now I just need to train her to fetch a ball and run around the tree farm while I prune.

Flawed of the Dance

Once again it’s show time for my choir.

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while you’ll know that at about this time every year I devote a post to whining about my sorry inability to follow the fairly simple choreography that accompanies a handful of the songs in our show.

This year, let me tell you, a mere whine will simply not do the trick. Our show is titled ‘British Invasion’ which is, in itself, a terrible misnomer. There are a few songs which were truly part of that notable period in British pop music history, but for the most part the music is just ‘from Britain’. I suppose that isn’t a particularly catchy title.

Having said that, we are singing some beautiful, traditional celtic and gaelic pieces. The best part about those ‘serious’ pieces is that they are usually immune to the machinations of our over-enthusiastic choreographer; but sadly, this year she has decided that they would be greatly enhanced by some twirling around, flapping of arms, and general prancing about.

Nothing too complicated, thankfully, but still, apparently a little more than my brain can master; particularly in combination with the effort of retaining both the words and the tunes. Half the time, if I’m remembering to dance I’m forgetting to sing, or vice versa.

The moves for the livelier numbers, on the other hand, are wound up about fifteen notches from previous years. It’s worth noting here that we are a mixed group of varying ages, sizes, shapes and dance abilities. On the one end of the spectrum there are those who can shimmy and shake with the best of them. On the other end of the spectrum there’s me.

And so the audience can look forward to another year of watching me dithering around with a look of horrified confusion on my face, all the while  trying to suggest some semblance of rhythm from the apparently random spasming of my limbs, and inevitably clapping on the off-beat.

When I joined the choir my intention was not to be the comic relief, but I guess it’s good to have a purpose in life.