Cats and Canals

I went skating today with Andrew. We tried to go skating on the Rideau Canal during the historic First Visit in university (gosh, what was that, February 1999?), but it was tremendously slushy and pitted, and I was wearing Andrew's mom's skates, which were too big. My feet were also very cold. We only made it to the first turn before I begged off.

This time, the weather couldn't have been better. It was only a few degrees below zero, just a breeze, and it was snowing lightly. I had bought myself a pair of thick skates at Canadian Tire using one of the gift cards we got as a wedding present, and they fit perfectly. Best part? They're insulated. Oooh. Aaah. It was a completely beautiful day.

During the course of the day, I only fell four times, all four times on the same side. It was only by lucky happenstance that each time I fell, I was wearing my glasses; most of the time they were so fogged up I put them in my left pocket. But each time I put them back on I fell a few minutes later. One time I even fell as I was saying, "It's a good thing I'm wearing my glasses, otherwise they'd break in my--argh!"

By the third fall my kiester was really starting to hurt, and by the fourth my fingers and toes were quite chilled. Apple cider can only do so much. Near the end, though, this really nice girl walked up (she was leaving) and asked me if my hands were cold. She handed me two disposable warming pads, about the size of teabags. Oooh, they were nice.

A couple of weeks ago, my friend V. sent a picture out of her mother's kitten. Kitten wanted to play one night and mother kicked her...and broke the kitten's leg. She felt horrendous, and the photo shows a teensy kitten with a huge cast.

Well, we got home from skating, had a wonderful spaghetti dinner, and trekked upstairs to bed. Our kitten was lying on top of a clothes hamper, the kind with a lid. (He stands on it during the day to look out our bedroom window.) I pushed at the kitten, to try to get him off the hamper. Wouldn't budge. So, I started to tip the hamper over to get him to slide off. Well, doesn't the little bugger get his paw stuck in the handle of the lid and start making the most gawdawful noise. He manages to extricate himself after writhing frantically, and runs out of the room down the stairs. I already feel horrendous and I don't know if he's actually hurt or not. Andrew calls out, "What the hell happened?" And then I hear, "Oh, that's not good."

I am paralyzed in our room, afraid to come out lest I petrify the poor thing, the words "abusive cat-mommy" ringing through my head. "Is he bleeding?" I ask. "Is he okay?" He was apparently curled up on the stairs, protecting the leg that had gotten stuck. We were afraid for a while he'd broken his leg too, but after a bit he was running around again (away from me). I felt absolutely terrible. He got lots of treats and pets after that incident, for which he has since forgiven and forgotten.