So Mojo's been remiss regarding her blog. Because life has become quite busy, lately. First because we spent a week or so vacationing up in Maine, where poor Rosie was subjected to the cruelty of sea water for the first time. And then we came back to find the house--sans feline since Ratty's demise--a little too mouse-ridden for even Mojo's decidedly laid-back taste.

So Mojo started the Serious Campaign for a New Cat. Which wasn't all that hard, mind you, since the Favorite Husband, despite his insistence that he is indeed a macho cat-disliker, privately and secretly LIKES CATS, as indeed he (like Mojo) pretty much likes anything that doesn't try to actively draw blood from him. So he was okay with the idea of a cat, so long as Mojo got one who was "exactly like Ratty". Minus the yowling, of course, although the Favorite Husband has remarked more than once about how he misses the yowling.

And Rosie, for her vote, desperately wanted a cat. It would give her something new to chew on. Rosie LOVES cats, but in true cat-bewildering fashion she loves them and attempts to play dog games with them. Like "duck down suddenly and attempt to break your opponent's leg". She would attempt to play this game with Ratty, who didn't have a clue what the game entailed. She would suddenly duck down, lunge forward and grab one of the cat's forepaws. (Very gently.) And hold it. And Ratty, who was a very laid back cat who liked the dog right back, would stand there with his held paw up above his head in the dog's Jaws-o-Death and patiently await the release of his appendage. Sometimes they would stand there for a good five minutes, awaiting some resolution to this, uh, "game".  MORE Mojo! »

From a week abroad. NOT a week a broad, for that would be more like a lifetime, at least for THIS lifetime. Just a week.

The Favorite Husband decided to drive straight home from Augusta via the Kancamagus--if you can call that "straight"--so we didn't get home until 10:30 at night, which is WAY past Mojo's bedtime. So Mojo dragged herself straight to bed and collapsed and closed her eyes.

And heard the following: Cling...thud. Cling...thud. Cling...thud.

When the lights came back on, the sound stopped. Lights off, it started again. Clearly it is a conspiracy to drive Mojo insane.

What I finally found is this: at some point during the week we were away, a wee sleekit exploring the bedroom fell into the five-gallon change jar we have in the corner. And spent heaven knows how many days jumping, trying to get out.

The change jar went out the back door, and wee mousie eventually crawled to freedom. Didn't run--probably too tired for that. And, as my Favorite Husband noted, he probably walked straight back into the house.

Looks like it's time to get a new cat...

Mojo

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Okay, Mojo, you've got to concentrate ... concentrate ... concentrate. You have to tell this story, even if it's the most boring thing in the world to a non-bird nerd. Because Mojo Witnessed History Firsthand, ya see. Granted, it's BIRD history, which is not as exciting as the stuff with guns and germs and steel, but there's still plenty of violent action.

I don't recall how old I was. I think I was in my early double digits--ten or twelve or so. One warm spring afternoon I was sitting on the front steps of my parent's house. Across the street our neighbors had these bushy spruce trees at regular intervals around the perimeter of their property--rather like large Christmas trees; growing up I've often thought if my family were in a pinch for holiday decorations we could just sneak over some night and saw one down.

REST ASSURED MY MOTHER DID NOT KNOW OF MY SLEAZY FELONIOUS THOUGHTS, NOR WOULD SHE APPROVE.

It's just that getting the Christmas tree was always this annual soap opera/road trip that Certain Favorite People did NOT particularly look forward to, and, being Irish, that feeling was usually expressed to us at a very loud volume. And at some point during the festive yelling I would invariably tune out, look across the street at the neighbor's landscaping, and think, in my childish way, that the answer to all this Needless Conflict lay just across the street. I am guessing that would NOT actually be the case should I ever attempt to mediate in this fashion, but it was an enduring holiday fantasy. It was never acted upon; the L's trees remain undisturbed to this day.  MORE Mojo! »

So when we last saw our intrepid Mojo, she was blathering on about dinosaurs, which, quite frankly, is something six-year-olds do. And before that, she was blathering on again about her idyllic childhood, skipping about Laughing Brook and no doubt incessantly bothering the poor nice lady who sat in Burgess' house playing Old Mother West Wind. That, and pressing the button in the room with the snakes to make the rattlesnake tail rattle. Because that's the sort of charming lass Mojo was and is. My Favorite Older Sister volunteered there for at least one summer, maybe two, and in addition to bringing home various orphaned babies to care for--birds, mostly; we were once offered a litter of possums but we were going on vacation, much to my eternal, youthful chagrin--Laughing Brook was also the source of our pet chicken, Herman.

If you are curious how Mojo got a chicken from a wildlife sanctuary, um, well, this may upset some of my more delicate and sensitive readers, so I will break here to spare their feelings.

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...they named a dinosaur after her.

Would Mojo ever lie to you? No, she wouldn't. Because unlike most of the wretched people in your sad, pathetic life, Mojo cares about you, oh lucky internet stranger. Cares enough about you to always tell you the truth. Granted, if you ask my beloved Favorite Mother, she will insist there are times when I've mentioned her on this blog where she believes I have maybe "stretched" things a bit for comic effect. To which I say: I am shocked, SHOCKED, I tells ya, that she would ever say such a thing about her Forgotten Middle Child. And people wonder how Mojo turned out as well as she did, with THAT sort of thing going on in the background.

But I digress. This is just a quick non-mockingbird post to announce that yes, indeed, they have indeed discovered a new dinosaur and named it after Yours Truly. And none of them wimpy stupid scurrying ratlike chicken dinosaurs, neither, but a proud 'Ceratops style critter. The sort that could turn over your car and gore a T-Rex. And then make it with da ladies like nobody's bidness.

Have a good weekend, folks. Even if you're one of those sorry sorts who DON'T have a dinosaur named after you....

Mojo  MORE Mojo! »

Sadly, this is NOT about the most awesomest novel in the English language, which would be To Kill A Mockingbird, nor the awesomest movie ever made, which was said title with Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch. No, this is about the bird itself, who--in Mojo's cynical eyes--is not quite as innocent as Atticus insists. As in, they give blue jays a run for their money, when it comes to noisy attacks on anything they perceive as a threat. And since they are birds, with a brain the size of a thimble, their perception can leave a lot to be desired.

But before I get into my experiences with them, I must point out that I myself never once saw a mockingbird until I was a teenager, when they quite suddenly and obviously moved into the neighborhood. Our neighbors across the street had these fair-sized bushy spruce trees along their property line, and one day the mockingbirds moved in and never left. If you know anything at all about birds you KNOW there is no mistaking a mockingbird once you've seen them, and I never once laid eyes on such a bird until I was twelve or thirteen.

And yet, it appears to me that, at least historically, they have not been strangers to New England. For Mojo grew up very close (a town or two over) to the "Laughing Brook" nature sanctuary, which was originally the property of one Thornton W. Burgess, esteemed children's nature writer in these here parts. Burgess was an incredibly prolific writer of mostly kiddie stories involving his animal friends and neighbors, and while we didn't have a full set of them we did have a fairly representative sample growing up. My favorite was probably The Adventures of Danny Meadow Mouse, if only because this was the very first--and ONLY--children's book I have ever encountered who starred a meadow mouse instead of a regular, run of the mill mouse. And Burgess was very specific in pointing out that Danny was a MEADOW MOUSE, aka a "vole", and not your typical long-tailed deer mouse or house mouse. (Meadow mice have these tiny stumpy tails--they are shaped rather like hamsters.)  MORE Mojo! »

Now, you see, if Mojo ever thought ahead about such things, she'd have pictures. But we all know how pointless it is to wish Mojo would do things in a logical and rational fashion. So instead I will force you to rely on your imagination, which will either leave you with a total blank (thank you, television!) or with a picture far, far worse than an actual picture would convey.

Let us begin with Mojo noting that it is now Skunk Season in her neck of the woods. Not that people hunt skunks--not sane people, at any rate--but only that they are now oot and aboot. Since they are universally nocturnal (and Mojo is congenitally anosmic, as we all know by now) Mojo only knows this via her driving around and seeing the many dead skunks along the highways and byways of this great nation. Well, that, and the following:

Mojo's Favorite Older Sister has a yellow lab named Miles. Miles is about Rosie's age and they both share the same sunny, playful disposition. (I can't speak for my Favorite Older Sister, but OUR last dog, George, while he was a nice enough dog, lived totally in his resentful little concrete-filled head. He bore grudges like NOBODY'S BUSINESS. He was pleasant enough toward us, but he was NOT a happy dog, in the doofus-grinning sense. No, George was a snotty intellectual who spent most of his time resenting the limited rights dogs had compared to humans, and grumbling on his bed plotting revenge if he felt wronged. But again I digress.) Both Miles and Rosie enjoy playing with their respective cats--well, Rosie did until Ratty's recent demise, that is. And very recently, one evening Miles discovered a NEW feline friend behind the barn, and tried to entice it to play with him. A black and white one.  MORE Mojo! »

Okay, I understand some of YOU dullards out there might not always listen to every word Mojo says. Sadly, that's par for the course. But when Mojo herself has to repeat things she has ALREADY SAID to REMIND her of Certain Life Lessons, well, it's just sad.  MORE Mojo! »

Yes, I have been hearing the agonized shrieks of Mojo's little army of hoi polloi fans, even from way up here in my shiny gold tower. "Where's Mojo?" wafts the cry, borne upwards on the wings of, um, pigeons and stuff. And while Mojo has a distinct aversion to having to explain herself to the likes of lesser mortals, society dictates that she must swallow her annoyance and make a pretense of civility in her response, at least if she intends to keep the few fans she has.

So all I can say in my defense is, Mojo has a new camera. As in, a DROID INCREDIBLE. Yes, just when you thought Mojo couldn't possibly get more incredible than she already was, well, there she goes becoming even more incredible. And since Mojo is used to not using her phone if she can help it, it's been a steep learning curve getting her to download apps and use it for fun things.

One thing it DOES have is a pretty good camera, for a phone. SO I've been taking pictures, documenting my exciting and vibrant life. At the risk of creating even more envy among my bitter enemies, here is a sample of some of the exciting things I have done since getting my camera:  MORE Mojo! »

Umm, okay, so Life With Mojo is not ALWAYS the meadow-skipping fantasy she would like you to believe.

Monday, I caught a fish. Nothing special, just a small-mouth bass, perhaps a foot long. Mojo only catches fish when she plans on eating them--some sort of soppy thing about not respecting them properly if you just catch and release them for "fun"; I dunno, she's weird that way--but this fish was big enough for eatin' so Mojo wrapped it in a garbage bag (she keeps them in her backpack in case she gets lost in the woods--handy things to have) and brought it home and threw it in the bathtub.

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