Thanks, Wallaceburg

We lived there for only eight months. Not since the early days in my career have I moved again so quickly. And back then, I had few items of my own. It’s a bigger deal to move these days. When I picked up some boxes, an employee at the store said, “I moved once. Never again”!

Miss Sugar in the middle of an obviously caved-in bed, atop a white comforter, looking miserable.

Miss Sugar’s Moving Diary – Entry #3

There is nothing left in this house except the things that belong to me. My scratching post that looks like a bent toilet brush, my basket of toys and brushes. Best of all, my fuzzy, puffy pouf and of course, my food. I must face the fact that we are camping now. The furniture upon which I leave my fur is now but a memory. These humans cannot be reasoned with. Take note of my facial expression. This air mattress has no give!

Nosebleed Loophole

A couple went to a show at London’s Budweiser Gardens. It was a last-minute decision and they purchased seats in the only section available – the nosebleed section. Their heads were touching the ceiling. It was so high (how high was it?) Cheech and Chong were up there with them. They couldn’t see through the clouds. You get the idea.

Outside of a Canadian Tire store

Retail Therapy

I shopped like I was training for the Olympics when I was a teen. With a girlfriend or two, or my Mom, I could make a day of a trip to Eastgate Square in Hamilton. Back then, there were other great places to visit nearby including Boo-Boo’s (the latest denim with minor flaws) and Mother’s Pizza for lunch. (“Pick your Mother’s up or we’ll run her over!”)

Miss Sugar looking content, caught mid-scratch with her hind paw in the air

Miss Sugar’s Moving Diary – Entry #2

My world is upside down, and not just because my belly is in the air in hopes of inspiring a tummy rub. The humans previously referred to as Father and Mother are nearly unrecognizable. They run past me in a blur of cardboard and crumpled paper, muttering to themselves and each other about not forgetting this or that. But the ultimate horror befell me this week. An occurrence so frightening that I dared not even consider its possibility. I will never get over it.


As a child of the late 60s and the 70s, it always irked me when people called a 45 centre a “spider”. “Oh, that’s what it was called”, they said. “They”, being amateur historians who weren’t there when 45s were the most popular way to play music and needed the special bit of plastic to fit them onto a record player spindle! Harrumph, and other sounds of indignation…