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pameladeanMy mother gets twitchy about whether her car will start in this weather if she doesn't drive it around every day. So she was running out of errands to invent, and I told her she could take me to PetCo to stock up on the quirky cat litter we prefer hereabouts. Simon's doesn't carry it, the Linden Hills Coop doesn't carry it (the Wedge does, but we don't usually go there since there isn't anywhere to sit once one has bought one's sandwiches), Target doesn't carry it. That describes the places I get to on a regular basis, or in the case of Simon's, the place that delivers to my doorstep.
We agreed that after doing the boring shopping, we would go check out a new garden store at 53rd and Nicollet; it's called Tanglewood Gardens and has an intriguing outside area full of birdbaths and arbors and bamboo screens and odd statuary.
As we pulled into the PetCo lot I said, "I hope this isn't one of their adoption days." We don't usually go shopping on Saturdays, since neither of us needs to and a lot of other people haven't much choice about it. My mother said that if they had cats up for adoption she would have to stay in the car.
They had dogs. A Rotweiler barking its poor head off; a little pen of wriggly brown puppies; a bulldog of some sort with a short hind leg. And a nice medium-sized short-haired dog with a white chest and paws, floppy ears, mostly black but with some patches where the hairs were tipped with white, a long whippy enthusiastic tail. This dog didn't bark, but it looked hopeful, and when we passed its little pen, with the ignored chew-toy and blanket, it made a very short whine. So I put out my hand, and next moment was hugging a warm, vibrating dog. We can't have a dog. We have seven cats, several of them elderly or in poor health, and no fence in the back yard; no money for a fence, for more vet bills and more food; and we know ourselves well enough to know that we would not treat a dog properly. I felt so awful. I felt like the uncaring villain in any number of lost-pet stories, the people who passed by on the other side of the road before the Samaritan got there.
We said goodbye to the dog, feeling awful, found the litter, and slunk out of the store to the sound of frenzied barking.
It was too cold to linger outside, but we did note that even covered with snow, the arbors and benches and screens and birdbaths looked beautiful. We went in. Plants and pots were ranked along the walls. To the right of the door was a collection of vivid blue ones behind several rows of wooden garden benches. Sitting on the nearest bench was a large and lordly cat, a background-white cat with patches of brown and of gray tabby. She made an imperious sound, so we both petted her. An even larger cat came trotting over the concrete floor, white with gray patches. She wanted acknowledgement, but not an extended petting session. We wandered about, and the cats accompanied us, leaping about on shelves full of pots and candles and tiles with leaves embedded in them, koi food and seed packets and polished stones for fountains. The seed packets almost did me in, but they cost four dollars apiece, being of rare or heirloom plants. I'm going back in the spring and get the yellow columbine, though. And maybe some of the sweet peas. After all, seeds are cheaper than plants.
There were some small and rather lost-looking koi in a big tank, and a great many gardening books, and a separate, warmer, tiled room with cacti and the accoutrements for a Japanese garden. It was a very good place to be on a bitter winter day, if rather drafty. We finally realized that the ceiling fan was moving the hot air from a gas fireplace around, and was not some lunatic's idea after all.
At some point the brown tabby-patched one got me to pick her up, and promptly fell asleep, so I lugged her around for a while. She was not a light armload.
My mother got some seed packets and a card for my sister-in-law Sue's birthday. Sue and my brother live in North Carolina, so it's not crazy to send her seeds in February.
After that we went to Betty's Front Porch and had a snack, and so home. I proceeded to waste the time before my date with Raphael by reading several of Dunnett's mystery novels; then we had a nice date, and then I had a very late-night telephone conversation with Eric. David and Lydy had gone to gaming and then who knows where, but I'll catch up with David today.
Pamela
We agreed that after doing the boring shopping, we would go check out a new garden store at 53rd and Nicollet; it's called Tanglewood Gardens and has an intriguing outside area full of birdbaths and arbors and bamboo screens and odd statuary.
As we pulled into the PetCo lot I said, "I hope this isn't one of their adoption days." We don't usually go shopping on Saturdays, since neither of us needs to and a lot of other people haven't much choice about it. My mother said that if they had cats up for adoption she would have to stay in the car.
They had dogs. A Rotweiler barking its poor head off; a little pen of wriggly brown puppies; a bulldog of some sort with a short hind leg. And a nice medium-sized short-haired dog with a white chest and paws, floppy ears, mostly black but with some patches where the hairs were tipped with white, a long whippy enthusiastic tail. This dog didn't bark, but it looked hopeful, and when we passed its little pen, with the ignored chew-toy and blanket, it made a very short whine. So I put out my hand, and next moment was hugging a warm, vibrating dog. We can't have a dog. We have seven cats, several of them elderly or in poor health, and no fence in the back yard; no money for a fence, for more vet bills and more food; and we know ourselves well enough to know that we would not treat a dog properly. I felt so awful. I felt like the uncaring villain in any number of lost-pet stories, the people who passed by on the other side of the road before the Samaritan got there.
We said goodbye to the dog, feeling awful, found the litter, and slunk out of the store to the sound of frenzied barking.
It was too cold to linger outside, but we did note that even covered with snow, the arbors and benches and screens and birdbaths looked beautiful. We went in. Plants and pots were ranked along the walls. To the right of the door was a collection of vivid blue ones behind several rows of wooden garden benches. Sitting on the nearest bench was a large and lordly cat, a background-white cat with patches of brown and of gray tabby. She made an imperious sound, so we both petted her. An even larger cat came trotting over the concrete floor, white with gray patches. She wanted acknowledgement, but not an extended petting session. We wandered about, and the cats accompanied us, leaping about on shelves full of pots and candles and tiles with leaves embedded in them, koi food and seed packets and polished stones for fountains. The seed packets almost did me in, but they cost four dollars apiece, being of rare or heirloom plants. I'm going back in the spring and get the yellow columbine, though. And maybe some of the sweet peas. After all, seeds are cheaper than plants.
There were some small and rather lost-looking koi in a big tank, and a great many gardening books, and a separate, warmer, tiled room with cacti and the accoutrements for a Japanese garden. It was a very good place to be on a bitter winter day, if rather drafty. We finally realized that the ceiling fan was moving the hot air from a gas fireplace around, and was not some lunatic's idea after all.
At some point the brown tabby-patched one got me to pick her up, and promptly fell asleep, so I lugged her around for a while. She was not a light armload.
My mother got some seed packets and a card for my sister-in-law Sue's birthday. Sue and my brother live in North Carolina, so it's not crazy to send her seeds in February.
After that we went to Betty's Front Porch and had a snack, and so home. I proceeded to waste the time before my date with Raphael by reading several of Dunnett's mystery novels; then we had a nice date, and then I had a very late-night telephone conversation with Eric. David and Lydy had gone to gaming and then who knows where, but I'll catch up with David today.
Pamela
