Gone

Today, I understood a bit of what a monkey, squirrel, bird, panda, tiger, fern, crawler experiences when it loses its hideout to men in chainsaws and tractors. You feel bare. You feel like you could run for a thousand miles with your little heart churning out blood and fear, yet still end up in the jaws of a well-camouflaged croc or at the end of a shotgun. You dart for cover, but to your disgust, it's a measly hibiscus plant. To quote 99% of horror movies: You can run, but you can't hide.

Then there's the excruciating heat. The ground burns beneath your feet, and whatever overhead shelter there was from the scorching sun has blown away; collapsed; ceased to exist. If you're unlucky and wear a thick fur coat in this hot and humid climate, you begin sweating like a pig. If you're an actual pig with a thin epidermis, sunburn and skin cancer might just kill you off before a pack of hungry coyotes. You become a helpless victim to the elements.

This afternoon, I lost some of the "protection" I've known my whole life when I arrived home to a facade that looked different. It was our mango tree. It was missing. Suddenly, the whole house and garden seemed naked. Anyone on the street could look right in. In fact, it felt mighty weird, as the mango tree had been with us from as far as I can remember (which is a very long time ago), and had served us well, bearing luscious fruit and generously sharing its shade.

But today, its stem held itself up proudly for a last time; its branches grandly bowed and swayed for a nondescript finale. Only my dad was there to see it go. As the men started hacking into its 30-degree inclined trunk; as they fell blow after blow into termite-infested branches, the tree's two decades of love and labour became mere memories. The same tree I had tried climbing as a kid; the same tree I had curled up with a book in (and failed, for it wasn't destined to multitask as furniture); the same tree my parents and relatives spent hours gazing up its branches for signs of a yellowing fruit; the same tree my mum fell from and oozed blood from her head; the same tree a pair of yellow birds in the neighbourhood frequently sang lovesongs on; the same tree the garden squirrels played hide and seek in; the same tree the bats and birds loved to lepak in (while relaxing their anus muscles over my car)—this same tree was now gone. All that remained, when I returned home, was a story half a foot tall; sawdust and debris all around; roots still in the ground.

And the Sunday sun blazed down as usual. Only this time, there was no one to shelter me.

Rabbit vs. Grandma

Rabbits are territorial, and so are grandmothers. If you lived in my house, you'd soon realise that the toilet downstairs is akin to a battlefield where a silent but tense power struggle is waged out every day between rabbit and grandma. The former loves to dash in for a quick poo if no one's looking; the latter tries to clampdown on such loose behaviour by constructing an elaborate rabbit-proof barricade before she heads off to bed (which is when Lump roams the lands). So far, it's been effective. For someone who's 97 years of age, I think her contraption is brilliant.

Lump surveys the mountainous terrain ahead

A closer look reveals the extent of creativity at work here

Mating season

I have spotted an opportunity for baby bunnies to exist. I have seen the flashing neon sign, alternating between "Single & Available" and two hearts overlapping as one. I smell sweet love in the air.

The two suitors don't know it yet, but I have *evil* plans. Recently, I found out that a colleague of mine has a rabbit, and not just a rabbit, a female rabbit! And not just a female rabbit, a FEMALE ANGORA RABBIT!!!!

She's brown like Lump and a cutie (though Rach thinks she's on the hairy side). Look at this picture I stole off the owner and judge for yourself:

Potential girlfriend #1

Her name's Raisin. I like her eyes—they look so much more gentle compared to Lump's 'how-can-I-outsmart-my-owner' look (and is that mauve mascara?). Given a male bunny's natural stamina, I guess he's also distressed that he's still a virgin.

Now I've only got to convince Raisin's owner that both rabbits would totally dig a romantic evening out frollicking in some garden, and that depriving them of that would be a devastatingly cruel act against the laws of love. Hmmmmrrrmph.

Lump is cute, but have you seen him wet?

When wet, my rabbit looks like a rat.

(This is for those of you who have only seen pictures that depict him as this outrageously cute fluff ball. He IS, but he can also look pretty scrawny. Tee-hee. These were taken at least a year ago, maybe two.)

Made in 1910

My maternal grandma is 97 years old. For someone her age, she's in pretty good shape and fiercely independent, but when you're almost a century old, your body does get worn, and her leg muscles have been grumbling incessantly in recent days.

Despite having known her all my life, I haven't been very civil to her since my rebellious early teens. Now, I am past acting like James Dean but our static relationship has come to be the accepted way of life. The lack of conversation partly explains why my Cantonese sucks so bad. But even if I could speak the language, she's now hard of hearing. I do help her with stuff on occasion and when she asks, showing the care through actions, but I know it's far from ideal.

I don't know how long God's mercy on her will last, but the fact is that she isn't a Christian and doesn't seem close to being one at this point in time. Which leaves me feeling blue, as I recall her sacrifices for me particularly when I was a kid; how she's served and taken care of me. Despite her controlling ways (as the mother of seven, grandmother of 13 and great-grandmother of five), I do, after all, love her.

I took these shots because I needed to preserve her on 'film'—memory is so unreliable.

Poh-poh, June 07

Filed under CLASSIFIEDS: FRIENDSHIP

IRRESISTIBLY HOT Angora male, two and a half years old, seeks companionship of funny, friendly rabbits or humans of any gender. If you like playing catch, stroking soft surfaces, having a warm rug of high-quality fur under your feet, or entertaining the whims and fancies of a lonely, sexually charged virgin bored, neglected bunny, please reply to this post with the validation code: 'HOT BUNS'. Confidentiality is assured.

Special note from rabbit: I ran up the stairs FOUR times tonight cos not one of 'em two-leggeds were around, and I was feeling bored as usual. Each time I reached the top and stood at the bedroom doorway, my 'owner' would shout 'Lump!' in a grr-ing kinda tone it hurts my ears even to think of it and she'd try to trick me into going back down again. I stood my spot but NO! she had to take some blue thing and aim it at me, then like magic, it rained! Indoors! I HATE it when it rains indoors! Especially on my face or just me, cos no one else seems to get wet. Sometimes I think that that younger two-legged is a god or miracle worker, the way she makes yummy food appear out of nowhere, but for all those other times (which would fill 90% of the clock), I think she sucks.

P/S: That pic of me was taken when I was much younger. You can't see cos of the crappy phone cam quality, but I actually look rather like Brad Pitt.

Stuff you don't want to hear at night

After waiting weeks for my Spidey 2 download to finish, I sit down in a semi-comfortable chair, turn off the lights and double-click the file only to find that...

IT'S IN FRENCH!!!!!

:(

~

There are two big yellow tractors and two big dust-coloured trucks filled with dirt outside the gate. For the past few nights, they have been digging a big long hole in the road about one foot deep, covering it back again so that I can drive out to work in the mornings, then returning late at night to dig another big long hole at exactly the same spot. Despite staring at the mess below, I fail to understand why. There are no pipes, no wires, no anything to make sense of the confounded hullabaloo that is happening at 3am. I pity my parents as their room faces the din. To add to the annoyance, tonight, the workers have decided to dig to Indian music on the radio.

BANG! Another crazily loud bang that sounded like a collision between a bike and a car. In reality, it's just more of the careless shoveling. I bet they feel honoured they have the power to keep people from having a decent night's rest.

A glance out the window again, and finally, I see the pipes. They look like gigantic red caterpillars with a never-ending wobbly midsection. They'd better not be of some dodgy material, supplied by some corrupt government contact's brother-in-law and designed to disintegrate in two weeks.

Gah. Loud noises can drive you mad.

~

When I horridly broke my Kyser the other day, I recalled that I'd lent a friend my old Dunlop trigger capo. So I texted her and asked if she could return it. She came along on Wednesday night, and presented to me a SHINY NEW SHUBB CAPO. And 2 boxes of Ferrero Rocher! She apologised and said she had lost the capo at a friend's wedding; would this new one do? Would it?! Of course it would! I still want the black Kyser (in memory of my old one) but this is great. Thanks, Debbie!! :D

Champs, we're back in business.

Happy Birthday, Pa

It was my dad's birthday yesterday. His 64th, to be exact. I didn't buy him anything. Neither did we go out to celebrate.

My father doesn't believe in celebrating birthdays. I suspect birthdays weren't grand affairs in his family of eight kids when he was young. Why else the wrinkled, disapproving mug when refusing my invitation to organise a rare family dinner? I don't think it's mere modesty.

All he said were, "I just don't want" and "You organise for Mummy's birthday lah." That's it.

In his room are birthday and Christmas presents from my sis/bro-in-law and I from years ago; some shirts still in their plastic wraps. He is not into fashion. While the culture of gifts has always been en vogue, he doesn't buy into it; hardly any of it.

The birthday presents I remember receiving from him as a kid were watercolours, oil pastels and poster colours—practical things to help you advance in school (or at least in art class). No big presents for milestone years. No big fat angpaus for scoring A's. No bribery. (He did, however, get me my third guitar which I, uh, unfortunately broke.) :(

Sometime early this year, a few incidents helped me to be mindful of my parents'—and in particular my father's—mortality. As my parents age, I am saddled with the responsibility of a grown-up daughter. For the most part, I don't do much. I don't pay rent. Or help with the bills. Instead, a small amount of cash out of my monthly salary has so far acted as 'compensation' for taking care of me all these years. Thinking about the 'what if's' sobered me a little.

So what is one refused invitation for a family dinner together? My father does not want us to fuss over him. He doesn't even relate very well to us. Yet despite his failings as a father—and all fathers are failed humans, as are mothers, children and grandparents—he has provided for the family the best he could. Not in the same way other fathers would. But in his own way, faithfully, yes.

Joanna, 'Gift of God'

Here are the first pics I'm posting of my niece Joanna. She's almost a year old in these pics (taken in January), but she's now really one year, one month and one week. Rock on, baby. (Btw, that's my sister next to her.)

Bonding

So. I've been jobless since... I don't remember since when. Life has taken on an other-worldly appearance, mainly illuminated by fluorescent lights and a flickering computer monitor. My days begin at 3pm and end at 6am, when the azan five houses down my road starts blasting. Plus or minus an hour, depending on whether I'm having a cool, weird dream or can't sleep because the noisy neighbours are waking up.

One of the main benefits of staying at home is that I've been 'bonding' with my parents. Not a lot, but at least it's a positive start. My family's the traditional kind and we don't talk about stuff. Especially, stuff. You know what I mean. So the little that we share in the open is appreciated. Those from close-knit families might not understand, but those who can't remember their father ever hugging them probably would.

That's all I'll say for now. Maybe being tight-lipped runs in the family.

Poor Lump

My pet went to the vet today. He didn't have a very good experience. Here's what I want to say to him, but I can't speak in Rabbit language.

I'm so sorry, Lump, I couldn't afford to bring you to that posh Yeoh Vet in Taman Megah even though I wanted to. You already get quite a shitty deal being my pet. I'm sorry that I did not listen to my intuition when we approached this Sea Park vet, where you had that enema pushed up your private parts the first time. I did not like the vet, who didn't seem to know what to do or how to handle rabbits. But I know the previous treatment kinda worked and you pulled through, so against my better judgment, that's why you were there again today.

I'm angry at myself for not saying anything when that stupid young vet pulled you out of the carrier by your ears. It must have hurt helluva lot. I've read that humans are never, ever supposed to carry rabbits by their ears because ears are sensitive. Maybe this bugger learnt something else in vet school, but to fault him publicly might have meant more abuse and rough treatment for you behind closed doors. I only hoped you'd prove yourself one tough rabbit.

Ten minutes back home, and still you don't want to leave your carrier. I guess in whatever rabbit understanding you have, you think you can't trust us. Us, your owners, and us, humans. I'm sorry all this happened.

I hope you don't have a long memory and this traumatising experience will be forgotten soon. Today just wasn't a good day on your rabbit calendar. Now please, please poo properly, try not to get it stuck onto your fur, and stop eating the paint off the walls. I love you, but you really need to change your diet.

Take care, Lump. I'll try to get you a garden to run in soon.

xoxo,
Me... you know, the owner of the legs you like to run around