Kitten Missin And Book Kissin

In the event of not giving a rats booty for what anybody thinks, I just want to say: I miss my kitts.

Now sit back as I blast you with insane cuteness.

It only took about a month for most of the people (not the awesome ones I still hear a little from) I used to associate with to fall to the wayside and drop out of my life once I quit my job (like all those over-used sayings teach us about fake friends and real...although, for me, the "real" ones tend to be just myths). Even quicker than that have been the association with the adopters of those three beautiful baby kittens I fostered. 

In hindsight, I knew that expecting something like what Emily and I have was not only asking for too much, but would be unrealistic to expect. Still, I didn't really properly prepare myself for just how easy it is to completely write someone off. Especially when you've been emotionally and financially invested in to something you gave away for free.

It doesn't hit me often that I miss the kitts. In fact, this is the first since I've given them away. Having kept Pageant has done more wonders than I ever could have thought it would. She's helped me forget sadness, move on and find happiness in how lucky I am to have her, Finn and Artemis. 

Since the adoptions, the only other kitten besides Pageant that I've given real thought to is Nubé; since I've been graciously able to see him when I and my mother visit Ashley.

He's absolutely gorgeous and is blossoming amazingly. He has his quirks just like Pageant has a few of her own (some of them tell-tale signs of not having a cat-momma, ex. suckling on their own paws or, as Pageant does, blankets), but overall he's a picture-perfect fit with his family. Now, Ash, you just need to get him neutered (wink wink). 

Despite that I see Nubé and get to hold him, emotionally, I still miss him in some sense like I do Napoleon and Persephone (the owners changed her name, but for the sake of the blog and because she will always be Persephone to me, we'll keep it the same here). Even though I'm saying all of this, maybe it sounds backwards, but if I had the opportunity, I wouldn't want any of them back. The care and time it took to raise them was it for me. The emotional investment in itself was enough to send me over the edge. Still, I want to explain the human aspect where it involves animals. Perhaps be able to make some sense to myself in all of this.

Let me tell you though: it's one of the most joyous things in the world to hear from adopters when you've fostered one of their babies. I'd call the feeling giddy, but if I were forced at gun point to explain it colorfully, I'd describe it like this:

Imagine if someone (somehow) were blowing a bunch of bubbles in your stomach. As you read or listen further on how the foster babies are doing, the bubbles grow in quantity, causing a tickling, giggling sensation to rise from your throat. Eventually the amount becomes too much for your body to handle and you explode.

The result of the happiness ends in explosion. 

That's how I felt at least. I can't speak for others, but I know when the kittens were adopted out and I received any texts from the adopters, I had to keep checking my face to hide my excitement even though I wanted to spontaneously combust (or as my mother calls it: contaniumly combustion...love you, mom) with the information, shoot up from the couch, do a little dance and break out in to song of what they said, to my mom and dad.

I guess because of that overtly happy feeling, I'm a bit morose that I don't receive anything anymore. In my mind, I know that's how it should be. In my heart, I beg for just a tiny scrap of insight.

Age I do believe has a lot to do with it, though I won't credit it entirely. I adopted out to a younger age group. Addressing or updating an old lady who fostered a kitten they now have would not, in any way, be on the top of their "to do" list, if it was even lucky enough to make the list at all. And I'm just not bold enough to ask, though it is my job to do so.

I tend to think that whatever I do or ask is going to bug them because I get that they have better things to do than talk to an adult that can't find her footing. If it weren't for my own spiraling social-life, perhaps it wouldn't bother me so much either.

But this is a blog. And ahm goin tah geev eet to yooz straight: it bothers me. Otherwise, I wouldn't be typing it on here. I wouldn't give a flippity-flap if I weren't spouting this doo-wop in the first place. When someone mentions something in a huff and then says at the end "it's okay though. I don't care." Nine out of ten times that means they do, indeed, care and in some form, on this odd-ball of an earthly plane, it bothers them.

Seriously though. Regardless of whether there is some inkling, nagging little butt-munch thieving these thoughts and storing them for a random burst of failure, I'm just looking for an outlet to the insanity aforementioned. 

I miss my kitts! I don't want them back (dear god, no), but I miss them greatly.

In happier news, I just received my copy of "Lost Souls: Found! Inspiring Stories About Pets with Disabilities, Volume II". Why is this happier news? Because Finn is in it!! A few months ago I submitted his story (in a greatly condensed version) to Happy Tails Books as their website was being showcased on "a newly created page for special needs animals" which I follow on Facebook. They were asking for people to share their stories for a book they were creating. The way it was worded, it sounded more like a contest that would be scrutinized for the best submissions, but I decided to submit Finn's story anyway because I just love that kid so much!

A while later I was emailed by one of the creators, Kyla Duffy, and was asked to revise their edited edition of my submission. After a few back and forth emails, I was told the story needed to go through further editing before I would be notified as to where the story might be placed. Apparently they had a lot more stories than they had originally anticipated and because of this there was a bit of delay in them being able to get to every author. Despite that, I was notified again a little more than a week later that my story would be compiled in the second volume of the three volume series.

It took a month for the company to debut volume one's pre-release at the beginning of July and another to debut volume two's in August. I was beyond ecstatic to receive an email with my author certificate and information about the release, but by that time I was prepping for vacation. Deciding not to mention anything about it until I held the tangible object in my hand, I went on vacation and then got sick.

Now in better health, I remembered the book, quickly jumped on Amazon and ordered it. AND AHM SO FREEKIN EXCITED TO HAVE IT IN MAH HAHNDS! My filthy, sweaty hands.

As you might have guessed, I've read my passage over uh-guh-gillion tahms. I've read other stories too...I'm just so happy to see Finn involved that after I read another person's story, I hop right back to Finn. Once I was able to read the other stories, I was a little disappointed that I didn't add more, but I wasn't aware of how much room I had to work with at the time and also how much was too much. If I knew I had more space to utilize, there's a teensy, weensy, tahny chance I would have gone overboard.

Anyway, here's the passage if you're curious (the picture and everything):



"Invisible 

Finn doesn't appear to have any disabilities at first glance, but that's only if you spot him before he runs away. His disability is the invisible kind--fear and anxiety--which, for a time, had him practically paralyzed.

This Spaniel-Mix's wonderful foster mother, Emily, had found Finn curled in the back of a kennel. He was ignoring the outside world, awaiting euthanization in a high-kill shelter. At first, Emily had passed him by, leaving the shelter for her long trip home. When she later realized that the single overlooked pup would be one of the first to die, she called a nearby rescue and asked them to take Finn out of the shelter for her because she wasn't sure if she'd make it back in time. As soon as they got him out, Emily took him in as a foster.

According to his records, Finn had been collected from a hoarding situation with hundreds of other dogs in a single household. He had most likely been abused, as Finn was terrified of humans, especially males.

Emily spent a couple of months working with Finn before I came across his picture on Petfinder.com. I'd been searching for a dog for a while then, but I had yet to settle on one because I was nervous about whether I could handle a dog, let alone a special-needs dog, which is what my heart was calling for.

The moment I met Finn, my concerns melted away, and I knew he was the one for me. Sure, he ran from me at our first meeting, but perhaps that was the beauty of it. I felt the need to help him develop a better rapport with people and learn how to just be a dog.

It has now been eight months since I adopted Finn, and while he still has a long way to go, he's getting much braver. At first, he dodged interactions with my father and brother. He sat in his crate for the better part of the day and only came out briefly at night to eat and drink. He never barked, and I had to gently prod him to get him to do even the simplest of tasks.

It took a while to see any changes in Finn, but the efforts weren't in vain. Finn now comes and goes through the house as he pleases. He still needs to be on a leash outside every now and again because he gets scared easily, but he can usually roam freely. He's given me the pleasure of hearing his voice on a few occasions and, for the most part, he acts like any other dog when he's around me. With strangers, it's a different story, but we're working on that.

Adopting and rehabilitating a special-needs animal is a long road. The decision to do so is not on that should be taken lightly, but the rewards of seeing a challenged animal live a happy life are worth the trial and effort.

-Jessica Russell"


By the passage you can tell that I wrote that in May. It was only eight months then. I've had Finn eleven months now!! Can you believe it? It's almost a full year! And even since that passage, Finn has improved. No leash for when we go outside, he's gained some healthy looking weight, no more sleepless nights because of uncontrollable flatulence, he's visibly happier (especially with my dad around), he doesn't vomit when my brother comes over any longer (even though he still has quite a bit of trepidation) and he's confident enough to where he's not just urinating, he's marking his territory (trust me, this is a huge step)!

Those are a lot of little things, but they're all improvements. I won't say everything's hunky dory because I still have to keep an eye on him so that he doesn't rip up valuables or chew on hard plastic, he also still soils himself in the company of strangers or at the vet and he knows how to push mom's buttons, but he's so cute I can't stay mad at him long.

I will say, I'm eager to share his story all of the time because of how far we've come and given the circumstances. I can't thank Emily enough for saving him, she's such an amazing person and after fostering kittens, I've come to realize just how difficult and taxing fostering can be. I've earned so much more respect for her simply from that experience.

In the future, I think I could be a good candidate for adopting older dogs and giving them forever homes to live out the rest of their days (however long or short that might be), but the temporary madness of fostering is cut for a much stronger breed of human than myself; someone who isn't afraid to cry and let their emotions show after they've freely given so much love to an animal that they'll be giving away. I give myself emotional constipation so badly that I get backed up enough to where I cause a horrible bout of depression months after the adoptions.

So if you're like me where you tend to hold things in, too worried to share (or burden as I tend to stupidly think it) your problems with someone else so that you get it off your chest, then do yourself a favor and don't foster animals. I was lucky enough to have my mother there for me when I broke down, but it's not worth taking the chances at sadness implosion. Let's leave some things to other awesome people on this planet, yeah?

(lahk mah sexeh sausage fingers? *eyebrow wiggle*)

Want to purchase the book for your own filthy hands?

Vol.I:click nya

Vol.II:click nya

Vol.III: Not released yet

Well That's Just Beachy...

So I started this entry a little over two weeks ago and was fully prepared to give you great in-depth and insight on Finn's downfalls and triumphs during our vacation.

And then I became ill. 

Not the kind of ill that leaves you anxiously itching to get out of bed because you have some sense of yourself, but the kind that punches you in the gut, filches your sammich and runs for higher ground while your left puking your insides out on unforgiving terrain. Because of that, I barely remember last week. Images flash in front of me, but most of them consist of me getting up to take antibiotics on a regulated schedule before I was left to slither back under the cave of my covers and drift back in to a coma-like state. Beyond that, if I got up at all during the day, I was just barely coherent enough to know that I was feeling incredible amounts of pain. Still, I was, more or less, a piece of sloppy decor (for any room I landed in) that groaned a copious amount.

Detached from life and often feeling rather airy when I walked, I opted for no leash that week with Finn. Sure, I was scared and somewhere in the back of my drugged mind I knew there was no way I could catch up to him on the off-chance that he decided to plot that week for his jail break. Chances were made to be taken though. I mean, there was that or I could glide around the yard with him dragging me the entire way. We would have probably, eventually, ended up at the door. Or a door, anyways.

Turns out, I'd been worrying for...well...most of nothing. Finn did just fine. In fact, Finn did more than fine. I was going to say he did supine. And then as I was typing no squiggly red correction mark appeared beneath the word and I learned that supine is a legitimate word. It means lying on the back, according to some internet researching here.

To continue: Finn followed our usual route (with a bit more gusto than normal), flouncing around the pines while he took his normal care for defecating and urinating in the bushes. He then succumbed to his innate, if not misguided, desire to run from me and toward the road. Normally, I would say I firmly called him back like the leader of a pack should, but I was exhausted, in pain and had the strangest notion I was floating on air. The "command" presumably, more accurately, sounded like a toddler's whine when something doesn't go their way. Needless to say, Finn ignored that whine. He ignores commands on a regular basis so it wasn't a huge surprise. For the record, he'll get so focused on chasing, following or sniffing something that he's too enraptured with skunk butt to listen to O great and gorgeous mother.

The area he ran to, it's not as close to the road as I make it sound, but it's at an invisible mark that I've drawn in my wee brain and perpetuated its existence in to a falsehood of absolute peril. So to me, Finn crossing that line is equal to death. And, yes, shrieking like a mad woman is appropriate beyond this imaginary point.

Well, he crossed it. This had happened plenty of times before, but each time he was focused on grabbing one of the apples or pears or whatever fruit births from the tree over there. Finn would make a dash for the aforementioned UFO (unidentified fruit object), clumsily bite it, drop it, bite it, drop it, lick it, bite it and finally, after many trials, run with it back and passed me as he triumphantly displayed that he could, indeed, cart a UFO in his mouth...before he swallowed his triumph by dropping it on the ground again.

At this point, the worry was foggy at best. I was going to follow him, but the pain in my abdomen told me better of it so I stayed put. Finn went a little farther than the UFO tree and ended up simply marking his territory on the flimsy tree next to it. Once he was done, he ran straight back to me. After I showered him with praises that would sound, both to him or any human, like incoherent mumbling, he followed my stumbling stature back in to the house.

This same routine went on for the rest of last week. Finn had been pretty amazing off of the leash. He still has his moments where he doesn't listen (I surmise he always will), but when he gets scared, instead of running off in a completely opposite direction like I assumed he might, he high-tails it to the door, urging me with his pacing and wary glances to let him inside.

Now, just because I didn't start with this tid-bit doesn't mean I want to stave you off on what happened during the beach vacation.

It was a pretty difficult journey for Finn, but all in all: I'm proud of the squirt.

The trials were pretty prevalent from the beginning. For one: I knew there would be a ton of people. Beach + Summer = People. Well, that's a no brainer. Second: We chose a pet-friendly vacation home. Chances are that one pet-friendly home, means there are quite a few within that given area. In turn, that means lots of dog-lovers around those parts. And lastly: the terrain situation. If the yard surrounding the house was just sand or grass, I was all fur it (fur...for...get it? yeah, no, moving on). Turns out we got that one yard that just so happened to be pregnant with an over-abundance of burs and, the lovelier of the two, cacti.

Day of arrival might as well have been shot. Because of both of our inexperience and me attempting to find a nice cushy spot without cacti or burs, Finn ended up with a horde of burs all over him and a few cacti needles driven in to his paws. If that doesn't sound unpleasant enough, it was worse to look at. I felt effectively like the worst dog owner in all of the world as I watched Finn helplessly gimp back to the house, shaking like an earthquake had bloomed from inside of him. He wasn't allowing me to yank the needles out of his paw outside, so I rushed with him back inside and tore those spindly brutes out of him as gently and as quickly as I could before allowing him to hide. On the bright side, he urinated while we were out there. It was just a little difficult to see a happy side to his pain.

The following morning, my father took us out to the Petco nearby and we found these rubber-soled little booties. He and mom were equally upset about Finn having to tread on needles and wanting him to suffer no longer, we bought the boots, eager to try them as soon as we could.

Finn, as expected, was pretty put off by ever going outside again. Ever.

And as if I purposely enjoyed adding to his stress, now there were odd things on his paws, hampering his ability to feel beneath him.

Trying out his new fashion, he looked like he was rocking the runway. Just with suction cups on his feet. We had our share of giggles and I got my video clip, still, in all seriousness we were praying that these boots stood up to the cacti needles.

I had to take him out at night as that often results in less people walking to and from the beach. Any voice would have him darting back to the house, not that I let him back, but I needed him to feel comfortable enough to use the potty. Luckily, he did. He even met a person (who only said hello and wouldn't touch him at his obvious reaction of fear), before making it back inside.

Aside from going to the beach, visiting mine and my mother's favorite coffee place, Morning View Coffeehouse (it's become a tradition of ours for about four years now. We weren't able to go one year...and almost died...for cereal), and going fishing with my dad, that's pretty much how Finn's routine fit in to place. I'd take him out once in the morning, once at night. Until I developed food poisoning.

I was on the up-side of getting over that when my dad asked me if I wanted him to go with me and Finn for the potty routine. Recently, my dad has become more of a "protection" figure for Finn and whenever we go out anywhere near people, he tends to feel safer by my father than by me. Maybe it's his towering stature, whatever it might be, my dad's presence actually tends to calm him down rather than stir him up.

Of course I happily obliged to the notion, especially since I still felt like royal muck from occupying the commode all night and day. Then he suggested that we try walking toward the beach this time, since it was almost our last day and I hadn't been able to give Finn the chance yet to step outside his comfort zone. I was pretty excited to try, but after seeing all the people come and go from the beach, I held no candle to the success of this mission. Really, my father didn't either. Just one person, one dog even, is all it takes to send Finn flying and stump any further progress.

We walked our way towards the beach, hanging to the side of the road, by the grass, in case Finn needed to go. He did end up needing to and, excuse me for my bluntness, peed out in the open. No bushes, no thick coverage to hide his derriere or anything. Dad and I were giddy with pride just for that.

As we got closer and closer to the beach, we became more open to the idea that Finn might just make it. Low and behold he did!! I was so excited! My dad and I were praising him left and right, planning to take him to the water as he didn't seem perturbed in anyway by the crashing of the waves.

Taking him further across the sand, we had just breached the clearing of houses, open sand and waves ahead of us, beckoning, when Finn made a precarious move, his derriere hunching. Sure enough...he was pooping. In the sand. On the beach. The beach with obvious public access. And who didn't bring her doggy bags? This giiiirl.

"Daw crap." Literally. While dad and I were holding our stomachs at the hilarity of it all (not to mention from the "of course this happens when you don't plan for it" scenario shoved in our face), I knew I had to go grab doggy bags before someone decided to step on the beach. Telling me that he thought Finn had accomplished enough for one night, dad handed the leash back to me, told me to take him back to the house while he stood watch. Over poop.

Still stifling chuckles, I ran back to the house with Finn, grabbed the bags, ran back and cleaned up the mess.

Unfortunately I have no proof that this ever occurred aside from mine or my father's account of the event because I also left my phone at the house, assuming Finn wouldn't make it far.

What can I say, he knows how to prove me wrong.

We tried the same thing for the next night to no effect. Too many people were coming and going, making the journey much more difficult and taxing on Finn's already short nerves. We were able to walk quite a ways to the beach before Finn had a mini meltdown where I needed to drop to the ground and hold him.

In the end, we never were able to get him to the ocean. Still, the accomplishments were daunting enough and Finn has time to grow.

It was a good thing I cut his hair before taking him on that trip though. Otherwise he might have turned in to one giant bur-ball.

And now to blast you with photos of his hair cut, by yours truly!

 Amaze-balls right?!


Are you prepping for the upcoming holiday? I know I am. Maybe it's too early, but if you're looking for a little inspiration  click here  In all honesty, I'm just trying to be a view-whore and get me some luvin :P

"Life is where we are now."

Amidst all the packing for a vacation I've not only been craving, but sorely needing, I decided to hop on here to update my readers and the huge audience of my imagination. Because I'm so generous....well, that and if I don't update soon, I'll have so much material in this little noggin of mine, that the information might just ooze out of remembrance; a beach vacation filling it's cavernous void.

July started out as most of my month's begin: full of hope and excitement. Naturally, the feeling's wrong because July is cursed for me. If July were to be conjured in to a comic world it would be a caricature of an over-exaggerated rich, British man with rat teeth and a monocle that has every influence on turning the universe against me; his reoccurring color is ruby, July's birthstone. Don't be mistaken though, I have nothing against British, rich people, or rubies. It's not a matter of asking why I see it that way, I just see it that way.

At the birth of every July, this imaginary enemy of my mind takes it easy on me, giving me a sense of anticipation for the oncoming celebration of my birthday. As the month nears it's middle, July starts to take a turn. Little, insignificant troubles begin to crop up. Arguments, money-issues and people problems are just a few examples. They're all very tiny on a daily basis, all hardly beginning to rate on a scale. That's when July takes all of these problems and dumps them on a woman's hardly private, very own "shark week" (as we will call it). 

Now disaster is imminent and the result is chaotic.

I'm not going to go in to detail with what happened because the bigger problem that fell resulted in both a huge struggle for me and a blessing in its own right. I will say I felt very lonely for the first time in my life, though. And I'm so emotionally independent that the feeling was downright confusing to the point of frustration. I often picked up Finn's face, scrunched it together in to his "meat face" and hurled "What the heck is wrong with me?!" many times throughout the month. All the while, he just panted, dropped his ears and then sniffed my face. He probably detected the smell of "crazy" through that bear-nose of his. His thoughts probably ran along the line of: "Mom's losing it again...what a nice scent".

Still, the loneliness isn't the type to just go away. It's not a "romantic" loneliness (I've never known a desire to have a "romantic" relationship), it's more of a "friendship" type loneliness. It's not easy being a wallflower. 

Then there's my family. In this last month I've come to appreciate them a lot more than I have in recent years. 

And I thought I couldn't appreciate them any more than I already do. 

When I was at my lowest point, wanting to cancel the party I was planning for my birthday (as my family were the only "guests" coming, I could cancel all too easily), my mom stepped in and said I shouldn't. She wasn't the only one looking forward to my new way of celebrating (which I developed last year and now just improve upon) and we've always been grateful for times we're able to spend together.

At the mercy of her prompting (and with great reluctance), I continued on as planned.

Now prepare yourself for the best birthday party idea ever and let me slowly blow your minds until nothing except goo pours from your ear holes. Sounds pleasing, no?

So, despite that I was still in the frock of emotional ups and downs, I prepped for a party.

I literally dove right in and got my hands dirty. In the way that I covered my skin with various food dyes and flour, I drowned the emotions by immersing myself in to something creative and fun. And what's more fun than creating home-made holi powder?! Well, lots of things.

But that's not the point.

In case you're wondering what "Holi powder" is: it's fancy talk. Holi powder is nothing short of colored powder that you can throw at people. Pretty great, right? In India and Nepal, people douse friends and strangers alike in water and colored powder during a festival called "Holi", to celebrate the welcoming of Spring. I had seen an ad and a few pictures displaying the celebration, but didn't know much else about it at the time (the details are still fuzzy so if any of my information is incorrect, I don't mind you correcting me). I looked up the simplest recipe to make my own powder and thus I began creating a monster mess with flour (if you want the recipe, I'll reveal what I used at the end).

After trial, error and plenty of perseverance: I made holi powder. It wasn't as good as it could have been, all the same though, it turned out to work amazingly.


For the table set up this year, I went simple. Last year I had candles upon candles, upon candles and some more candles. It might as well have been a candle orgy. I also had tiny decor items to make it beach themed (seashells, sea glass, sand, netting, etc). 

This time, I just wanted to make "not trying" look good. I think I succeeded if I do say so myself.

As we started out last year, we always serve the food first and then it's whatever activity I have boiling in my strange mind. I made a taco bar last year with my own money and it wasn't cheap. It was delicious! Just...expensive (with the recipes I chose, so be wise fellow budgeteers). We ended up having a lot left over once all was said and done, which made me opt for a cheaper "order from restaurant and bring it back" idea this time. Sadly, the food amount was smaller than anticipated and not nearly enough for four people. We ordered pizza to accommodate. 

Perhaps because of the Goldilocks theme going on here ("too hot, too cold, just right"), I'll get it "just right" next year. Still, I'll keep my fingers crossed just in case. 

Keith, my brother, turned on some Spanish music for us to all enjoy while we ate (Italian food), creating atmosphere and some head boogieing.

After we ate, I started "The Great Holi Powder War". At the table, no less. It's not like my mother ever told us "Kids, don't start wars at the dinner table", therefore there was never really any spoken rule. 

Keith and I fought for a little while at the table, but the obstruction was making our war nothing more than child's play. 

Because I wanted photo's of it all, but unable to photo it myself as I was involved in the battle, we moved the skirmish a few steps away from the table, off to the side, but still notably on the porch to enable easy access for my mother who now held the camera in her hands.

It was a lot easier to believe I was in a true battle this way. Fighting for territory, for freedom, for Tamriel as a Dragonborn; using the power of The Voice to Fus Ro Dah powders the colors of a well-saturated rainbow out of my mouth. I even smelled victory at one point...I just breathed it in a little too deeply. 

A wall of blue powder obstructed my vision as I inhaled the intoxicating scent of success. Mixing with success was the awful stench of failure and powder as I snorted the blue cloud like a two-dollar crack-ho convulsing wildly on the ground from withdrawals. And while I hadn't actually been on the ground at the time of said snort, I might as well have been by the time that powder was up my nose and entering my esophagus.

Burning like no other, I ended up having to call "mercy" during the middle of battle. Luckily, the other party was my brother and he stopped. It took me a while to regain my breath without feeling the need to gasp for air or cough. Even then, I was still smelling and tasting clumps of flour. On the bright-side my boogers were a pretty blue for the lot of two days.

Having been forced to surrender during battle to call an intermission (and potty break for a few), Keith and I were ready for War. Taking the child's play from the table, we moved it to the porch and created a battle, now we were fully encompassing our war by moving to the yard.

I'll admit: I flinched a little after that huge colorful snort up my nose, but we were on point. And I had more colors in my hands than Keith. More ammo for a secure victory. As his bag dwindled to holding only air though, a peace treaty was called forth and thus we decided to toss the rest of ammunition in the air to celebrate our awe inspiring forgiveness and the world's fastest war.

Disguising my happiness as a hug, I hugged Keith and promptly rubbed all my beautiful cool colors all over his warm color coordinated shirt and face. My revenge for the peace treaty and his running out of colors (so what if I made the powder?!).

The end to our feud was simply a means to move on to the next activity which involved a very unfortunate piñata, candy guts and powder blood. Keith named the ill-fated piñata: Steve.

Dad tethered Steve to a tree limb in the yard, picking a place particularly high for my reach. I had given Keith the piñata buster and he was going to hand it over so I could take the first swing at Steve, when my dad revealed another weapon. For some unknown reason my father was housing one end of a scooter handle in his garage. Putting suspicion aside, I took the lethal-looking metal handle as my weapon of choice. 

It's pretty amazing how quickly a scooter handle can make you go from feeling seriously tough to slightly (if not more) retarded. I mean, think about it for a second: I got giddy over a scooter-handle.

In the end the giddiness was much for naught. Not trusting myself, I decided to take up the buster for...everyone's safety. In any case, a flying plastic rod would hurt a lot less than a metal one.

I swung once: hit it barely, swung twice: missed, by the third time I was just winging it and upper-cutting where I could, slashing how might. I gave up my right to swing to Keith and as soon as he swung: Steve saw his short piñata existence flash before his paper eyes. 

Steve's leg was brutally separated from his hind-quarters at an alarming speed. Injured, seeing stars, dropping candy guts and powdering profusely, Steve thanked his lucky stars when Keith missed the next frenzied swing. Until the third when that piñata buster stayed true to its deadly name. Steve's body fell apart upon impact, his neck severing from the paper flesh of his back and shoulders, yet managing to retain attachment by a piece of cardboard at the front of his chest. The paper that use to grace half of his back was now torn off as if he had been skinned for his confetti fur.

Keith reveled in the accomplishment as we tore Steve from his branch and took the beating to the ground. Candy and powder was everywhere. Poor Steve never stood a chance.

We took photos of our savagery. 

And with the adrenaline pumping through our veins we couldn't help it when our killing sights were set on each other. 

 (scooter handle! Scooter handle!)

We cleaned up Steve's remains quickly and easily before going inside to have cake. 

I also managed to bring my fur-babies in on the act throughout the whole process with Keith's help.

No, we didn't beat them. I mean, we poured powder on them and made them pretty. Like four year olds might do to walls with markers. 

In the end, despite having a less than satisfactory July, August turned out to be a great time to celebrate a birthday. I can't convey what my heart was feeling through a photo, but this was the absolute best reassurance that everything is going to turn out just fine. 

Everyone has something to fall back on. For me: it's my family. 

Aside from the birthday antics, Finn has more or less degenerated back to a position where he is morbidly terrified of people. All of the work that Emily did with Finn (and that I did shortly after adopting him) has gone to waste after being cooped up with his mom for two months when I had to take care of those kittens. 

The other day Ashley (the one who adopted Nube': he's doing fantastic!) came over to the house to pick a few things up. He was his usual scared self, meeting a stranger. I had him outside, anticipating that he might release all those bodily functions when approached by someone other than his inner-circle of family. For a while, he didn't; then he tried to book it to the house and once he got on the porch, expelled all the feces and urine he had stored up. 

I cleaned him and the mess as quick and thoroughly as I could, reassuring him the entire time that everything was okay. 

Obviously, I have my work cut out for me. The only thing that worries me is my loner status. I don't have many people to introduce Finn to; in or out of a controlled environment. 

I'm still holding high hopes that I'll soon have an outlet I can work with him on that doesn't require regular Petco visits where he'll potentially dump a load in the store.

For now, his next biggest test is the beach. That's right: we're taking Finn to the Outer Banks. I'm curious to see how he'll hold up, plus I'd love to get some choice photo's with my boy, the sand, the sun, the ocean and his fancy new hair-do. 

You'll just have to wait until the next update to see his handsome new look.

 

(HOLL-IAH)

 In memory of Steve

Still wondering about that holi powder recipe? Look here:
http://www.littlepassports.com/blog/2013/03/celebrate-holi-with-a-colorful-powder-recipe/