Growing up, I was a fan of the
Footrot Flats comic strip written
by Murray Ball. It detailed the toils and tribulations of “The
Dog”, Wal, Cooch, and a menagerie of animals on a farm in New Zealand.
One of the clan was a cat called
“Horse." Horse was this super-tough cat that
hung around the farm and would basically beat up anything that got in his way.
Well, I’ll do you one better than Horse, I have, “Murray.”
Murray, who picked us out at the animal shelter and said, “You’re taking me
home now.”
Murray, the most vocal cat I know, who has a meow that sounds like the devil
being strangled. Seriously. I’ve seen adults be completely freaked out when
Murray walks in the room and says hello.
Murray, who would go psycho at this big white cat that would come around at
night when our cats where locked in and hang outside the window going, “Narr,
Narr.”
Murray who always liked to sit on your chest all night and purr.
Murray who gave me the cat flu.
Murray, who had a very smug look on his face one night when we got home really
late one dark night.
Murray, who when we let him back out again the next morning, proudly showed us
all this white fur from one side of the house, right through the garden beds
and into the car port. We never saw that white cat again.
Murray who wandered out the pet door one windy night, and disappeared. We
thought he was gone for good, only to get a phone call ten months later to the
day from someone in Endeavour Hills who had found him and had been feeding
him.
Murray, the cranky, senile old bastard who’s been going blind and deaf for the
last five years.
Murray, who I made a set of stairs for because he couldn’t jump up to the shelf
in the laundry where his food and water and respite from the dog lay.
Murray who at age seventeen again wandered out the pet door about six months
ago. Tonight I got a phone call from someone in Hallam, asking, “Do you have a
cat named Murray?”
Murray who we had to chase around and around a caravan, and when I finally did
get my hands on him he piddled all over me.
Welcome home you magnificent beast. I can’t wait to introduce you to the
kittens…
There was a local Computer Swapmeet in my area this week, so I decided to treat
myself to an early birthday present and add a second monitor to my desktop.
One Benq 22"W monitor and one Nvidia 9500GT graphics card later and I went from
this:
Apparently Texas A&M University holds an annual contest
for the most appropriate definition of a contemporary term (I tried to find a
reference to this on their web site but couldn’t, so
keep grains of salt handy. Still damned funny though.)
For “Political Correctness” the winner was:
Political correctness is a doctrine, fostered by a delusional, illogical
minority, and rabidly promoted by an unscrupulous mainstream media, which
holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a turd by
the clean end.
Finally got around to replacing the garage door sensor. I use to have a little
micro-switch along with the little lever made out of technical lego.
Click for larger view
It worked alright. The little lego arm would stick out under the door track,
so when the door came down it would press on the arm, and the lever would trip
the micro-switch.
Click for larger view
It ended up being a bit fiddly and I would occasionally have to move it around
or re-tape it in place so the door would hit it properly. It was finally done
in when my nephew bounced a basketball off it – and I didn’t have the
heart to put it back together again.
So, quick trip to the local electronics
shop to pick up a magnetic switch (also known as
a reed switch). Figured out where I could put the magnet without it getting
crunched when the door rolls up, and we’re back in business.
Click for larger view
So now we have our little light flashing again to tell us when we’ve left the
garage door open.
Horse was this super-tough cat that
hung around the farm and would basically beat up anything that got in his way.
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