The stink sisters

Okay. So, my buddy Deb pointed out the little orange terror Pixel hogged all the lime light the other night, so I snapped some shots of the 'girls' tonight and made a post just of them. So without further ado, here are the stink sisters.

Agatha and Dakota.

They're not sisters at all. But they're both old bony females and kinda stinky. Dakota came to me the size of a baking potato. That was close to fifteen years ago. Agatha ended up on my doorstep at the ripe old age of thirteen or fourteen because I couldn't bear the idea of her being brought into the S.P.C.A. with hopes of being adopted. Senior cats don't get adopted. So I took her in. And after a couple of years of unpredictable and unprovoked biting, that have thankfully cleared up, we are buddies.

I think she adopted me

Sittin' pretty

I have a cat.

Actually, I have three cats. I think I'd have more if the landlord said I could. I guess it was kind of good he capped me at three.

If I could, I'd have (multiple) dogs too - if my lifestyle and residency warranted it. 

I'd considered getting a couple of song birds once but, umm, seriously. cats + birds = ?!?!?

So, I have cats. Three of them.

I have two stinky old girls, Dakota and Agatha who are both over 15 years old. One came from a friend's unspayed cat. The other was an adoption from someone leaving the country. One is stinkier than the other, they're cranky, sleep most of their days away and don't do much other than work on gooy, stringy hairballs while I'm at work. But they're my old girls and I love them.

Pixel, the newest addition to the herd, has been with us for four years already and I can only figure out that his purpose on earth is to get the two old girls so pissed off that they poop in the most inconvenient places in the apartment - none of them ever being in either of the litter boxes. It's usually in the middle of a hallway, under a piece of furniture or on a shoe. He's a big orange mama's boy. He's extremely vocal - at the wrong times of the day - especially night. He's big. Not over weight big - just a big boy. He's a bit of a suck though and needs regular cuddles from me - whether I am ready for them or not. He clamours up the front of me and parks himself there until he's feeling loved enough - before dashing off to torment the stink sisters. He seems to play endlessly with imaginary 'friends' and is great at fetch, but when he's done, he crashes like a rock. I swear I can hear the crones let out matching sighs of relief when he's conked out. I try to scold him when he gets really wound up and terrorizes the poor girls into a lather. But when he's being good and cute and charming and adorable, he's the most lovable critter ever and I forget he's the reason there's a little turd at the foot of the bed when I get home. He has one major flaw (like tormenting the other two cats isn't enough) . . . He hates any people that are not me. He loses his shit when people visit. We all laugh nervously at his noises and posturing as we back away making sure we don't make eye contact until he calms down. I have no idea why he does it, I wish he'd stop. It's embarrassing. Anybody have any suggestions?

The other night I was fortunate to catch him in one of his quieter moment. He hadn't decided if he wanted to take a power nap, find one of the girls and corner her or bound off the cat tree and check out the noises coming from the hallway. He ended up having a good stretch, turned around three or four times in one spot before settling in for a nap.

Oh, and he snores . . .

Hell's Gate

Hell's Gate got its name from an 1808 log entry by Simon Fraser after coming upon this section of the Fraser River; "...surely this is the gate of hell."  It must have been pretty unnerving to see and hear the raging river crashing into and through the narrow gorge.

Hell's Gate is roughly a two and a half hour drive from Vancouver up highway one. The four of us headed out early. We made a now officially traditional stop in Hope for a delicious breakfast at "Darryl's". Highly recommended. The coffee is great, the hash browns hit the spot and I dare you to hate their cinnamon buns!

One of the seven
tunnels you drive
through to get to
Hell's Gate.

The Fraser River.

Looking down at the
churning water below us
from our air tram.

There were tonnes of these
little chipmunks racing
around everywhere
like they were on crack.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The other air tram heading
back across the gorge.

Can you see the seals
in the rock formations?

Mesmorizingly water smooth
white rocks.

Puzzle pieces.