Pre Race Interview

Here are some excerpts from a recent interview conducted by the racing committee for the Iditarod.

Iditarod: Today, there are mushers, who are relatively new to the sport. To make sure, they at least have some experience, it is asked that they finish a minimum of 750 miles of racing, of which 2 of those races have to be 300 miles in lengths. Another good idea, is the requirement that they have to be in the top 75% of the field in their qualification race, thus ensuring a certain level of competitiveness. This is your first Iditarod entry. What is your previous sledding experience?

Diablo: Once I slid around the corner of the kitchen trying to get to the TUNA bowl before Phoenix. It wasn’t a pretty crash and burn. But I won! As far as the lengths of the race, I’ve traveled to Hawaii from New York. How long is that?  And I traveled from New York to London and back. How far is that?

Iditarod: You will be up against experienced mushers from around the world. You are a true rookie. How do you expect to be competitive?

Diablo: The Woofie Monster was born to run. And my sled is tiny. He’ll be pulling an eight pound cat.  Do the math. Besides, we aren’t from Jamaica.

Iditarod: We do have a musher from Jamaica.

Diablo: I guess I made my case.

Iditarod: Um, well. Yes, where exactly are you from?

Diablo: Woofie Monster is from his mama’s dog and I’m from my mama’s cat.

Iditarod: I don’t think you understood my question.

Diablo: I don’t think you understood my answer.

Iditarod: Okay, this is a 1000 mile race, across some very isolated, barren and cold terrain. How have you prepared to survive the ordeal?  

Diablo: First, the dog has no idea how long this trek is. Please don’t tell him. He thinks this will be a romp in a Chicago Dog Park.  We have air support being provided by two expert flyers: @bicdelou and @Rio_Conure who will air drop treats provided by @Mariam Kobras.

Iditarod: Aren’t these Twitter accounts?

Diablo: Your point?  I’m a Twitter Cat with a dog borrowed from a Twitter friend @rosieandcheeto.

Iditarod:  Most mushers have sponsor support.  Do you have any big name sponsors?

Diablo: Have you ever pulled a Band-aid off your hairy arm? I’m not wearing stickers on my fur. Besides, do I look like a race car?  But seriously, I have over 5800 followers on Twitter rooting for me and the Woofie Monster.  Go team.

False Start

Holy Crap. This is not the way to begin a long and brutal excursion to Alaska!  I admit I was trying to keep the load light, but I underappreciated the dog’s need for his toys.  Hey, I like toys just as much as the next cat, or dog. My favorite is my fuzzy orange carrot with the feathery foliage (I have at least a half a dozen of them), but you never saw me dragging them to the royal wedding. Okay, let me back up. I see some of you saying, “huh?

Since the last time I was in Chicago my good friend Cheeto (of the @rosieandcheeto Twitter fame) has endured many huge changes in his cat life.  First the Lady got married. Then there was a baby added to the mix. The family moved to a new locale. And the stupid dog isn’t getting any mellower with age. All this has been very stressful. So to help reduce some of the load my poor friend has to endure, I agreed to take the dog for a long, long walk.  To Nome.

The dog is a huskie named Rockford, but we know him as the Woofie Monster, because he woofs and woofs are totally annoying to cats. He has a lifetime dream of running the Iditarod. I am going to oblige him. I strolled into Chicago this past weekend, thankful I missed the huge snow in the northeast, but thinking all that snow would make an excellent base for a dog sled run. There have been rumors that the Iditarod was cancelled because of lack of snow in Alaska, but that was just rumor.

I have never before traveled with a companion, let alone a dog.  I’ve had to forewarn the Yard Cats of his coming, so they don’t freak out when we show up in the railroad yards to take the train to Seattle.  Except, well, I never got that far.

After a few cans of refreshing tuna juice and a little nip to take Chicago’s gun free zone edge off I had a good night’s sleep at Cheeto’s new digs, which are very nice.  With the Iditarod’s start date less than three weeks away, I was eager to head out to the railroad yards the next morning.  The Woofie Monster and I haven’t even “practiced” this sled thing yet.  He claims it is in his blood, but the dog has been city living all his young life.  We need time to prepare for all day sled pulling, living in the dark, surviving severe weather and sleeping outside in extreme temperatures for three weeks during the race.  He has never even slept outside of his stupid little cage-thingy.

Apparently, the dog has attachment issues. It must be a pack thing. While he had no problem with the idea of taking off for the wild blue yonder in the Land of the Midnight Sun, but he whined like a stupid puppy when I told him he had to leave his stupid stuffed toys in Chicago.  You can’t carry a lot of accouterments when jumping trains. They get in the way and they could very well get stolen. Not all train jumpers live by The Code, especially the two legged kind.

We were headed to the yard when the dog whirled and took off down the street. Running full tilt. Man he can run, but the commands “heel” and “no” faze him just as much as it fazes me…nada. But then I’m a cat.  What excuse does he have?  Well, I never thought I’d see him again.  I wasn’t sure how I would to break this news to Cheeto.  I should not have been surprised when he said he didn’t mind as long as the dog didn’t come back to his house.  We had a good laugh over that.

photo by Jeff Schultz iditarodphotos.com

But the dog did go back to the house. Apparently,  to retrieve one of his chew toys…the hedgehog. He showed up this morning, licking my face. UGH. He still wants to go to Alaska. So I guess I am off to run the Iditarod with a huskie named Rockford and his hedgehog. Better to have the dog chew on his toy than me, I guess.

The Legend is Coming

I’ve been reading the interesting and in-depth biographies on the sixty nine competitors participating in this year’s Iditarod. In case you are not up to speed on the dog sledding circuit, the Iditarod is the annual dog sled race from Anchorage to Nome. Done in February.  Brrr. As a race it started in 1973 and the Goddess saw the beginning to this historic race when she was in the Army stationed at Ft. Richardson, AK. WOW, huh? But it's roots are of legends, gold mines and miners, medicine and the mighty husky.  Of the participants all are worthy of the race, but only a handful have any of a true survival travel experience that I have.  Argue all you want. This is MY blog. I’d say that the mushers from Norway and Russia and even Canada qualify and the guys from Jamaica and Brazil.  But seriously, Jamaica?  Is this on par with the county fielding a bobsled team in the winter Olympics?  There are also twelve rookies in this year’s Last Great Race.

I noticed there are no other cats entered. A real marketing loss if you ask me. I am the only brown tabby to participate. Can you imagine the media coverage if more cats were entered?  So I present here my official race bio.  I am sure it will never be posted on the official Iditarod website.

I have a dog. 

That's it! What did you expect? My race theory is "Keep it simple stupid." Travel light and travel fast. Seriously, you didn’t think I've ever been on a dog sled in the past, did you?  I never let details get in my way.

Speaking of traveling fast and light, I zoomed across Lake Erie and landed in Canada. The lake is not frozen solid so I navigated the perimeter to Canada. As I suspected the traveling was much easier on the less populated northern shore of the Great Lake.  I didn’t have a passport but I did have my microchip, but nobody was paying attention to a cat trot across the semi-frozen lake.  No problem reentering the US either.  If you look like you’re on rat patrol and make yourself look semi-employed in stalking ugliness, the border guards pay you no mind. Which is why we can be so abused: cat was used in smuggling drugs into a prison.

Nothing brings out the realities of travel hazards like Detroit. Fortunately, I have been following CityMoleDetroit on Twitter to get the latest updates on traffic and buzz about the city.  But why am I worried about accidents on the interstates? I am cutting through vacant lots, abandoned buildings, and railroad yards.  By the way, those yard cats are as feisty as ever.

I’ll beeline across the palm of Michigan and that puts me in Ann Arbor.  Sigh. Last time I was in this neck of the woods, I ended up in prison. Remember that? I try to keep that off my bio.

Alaska Bound

Once again she has left me for Hawaii. So you know what that means? Road trip for the cat! If you have been a follower of mine on Twitter for the past few years you know I can’t stand to be left looking out the window for the next six months. Talk about cabin fever!  In the past, I have chased after her and made my way to Hawaii after I visited numerous Twitter friends across the US. The final leg of the trip, across the Pacific Ocean, was achieved when I stowed away on a cargo shipped manned by crazy Croatians.  The next year, with an official invitation in my little paws I went to the Royal Wedding and later cruised back to New York on the Queen Mary II.  And last year I blundered around the Mexican jungles looking for the answer to the mysteries of Mayan calendar. What a world-ending debacle that turned out to be.  For 2014 I have in mind to go to Russia for the Winter Olympics. In the meantime, however…

It’s North to the Future. Alaska. Land of the Midnight Sun, except in January. Or February. Or even March.  I know this seems crazy. But let’s put credit where credit is due. It was the dog from Canada. Yeah LuckyDog put this idea in my biscuit-size head.  Blame the dog is my motto.  LuckyDog lives in the great north and is learning to be a dog once again.  Lucky Dog is a rescue and resides with ten other dogs. I shudder to think of the chaos. You can follow the luckiest dog in the world at @LuckyDog on Twitter.

Alaska is a beautiful state. Goddess once lived there. She was in the Army way back when dinosaurs ruled the earth and dirt was cheap.  She still has a good old Army buddy living in Eagle River, just outside of Anchorage. He’s a pilot.  So I might stop in for I can smell the salmon.

It will be February when we arrive. All Alaskan will be in the deep grip of the dead of winter when days can’t get longer or warmer fast enough.  But nothing gets the free thriving self-sustaining spirit of Alaskans down.  They throw parties like Fur Rondy. That’s the crazy festival they have in Anchorage called Fur Rendezvous. Yup, we will be in the thick of it.

Oh, did I say we in that last paragraph?  Yes, for the first time I will not be traveling alone. It’s not my homie Phoenix. She’s called my homie for a reason. 

I need appropriate transportation on this journey and what better mode than a sled pulled by a canine?  Where do I get a willing huskie to drag me and my kittehn backpack to the 49^th state? Chicago of course. After a consultation with my friend Cheeto (of @rosieandcheeto fame) he convinced and enlisted the woofie monster to join me. His name is Rockford, but he’s never called that. The goofie lug not only volunteered to accompany me but wants to participate in the Last Great Race in the World. No, not the Amazing Race. The Last Great Race. The Iditarod or as Cheeto refers to it the Idiot-rod.

I know this snap of the huskie doesn't look like he is in any condition to run the Iditarod, but I have a conditioning plan.

I got to bust out of NY and head to Chicago next week. I’m picking up a dog. Hope he can jump trains with the Yard Cats.

First leg: Seattle.

Join me on Twitter. That’s @southboundcat.

Havana, Cuba

Compliments of Nat Geo

Most peeps know better than to ask how I ended up in Cuba. So I will tell.  It's sort of a mystery to me too. I remember this huge nip party in Cancun and the next thing I vaguely recall was the smell of dead fish, stale beer and cheap cigars. I woke curled up on the deck of a rusty tub that resembled a leaky ½ gallon milk carton, the kind with a missing peep on one side and Elsie on the other. Missing Portion.

Indeed, the crew of two not counting me were two fat guys of questionable origins and questionable scruples. However, the knew the superstitions of the sea – never throw a cat overboard  as it is very bad lucky. Actually they found me quite amusing when I hacked up a fur ball the size of a fishing lure. Why these to sailors were headed to Cuba I could only guess. I was trying to figure out why I was headed there with them.

Before taking on water knee deep – their knees, not mine – we puttered into the harbor at Havana.  Before anyone could say, “Papers. I need to see your papers,” I was off the boat, off the dock and scurrying like a rat leaving a sinking ship. Nobody paid me any mind. At 4 in the morning even the street sweepers were still.

Havana is huge! I had always imagined the place as some sleepy forgotten enterprise found in a Jimmy Buffet novel. Vintage cars, Spanish arches, thick rum, skillfully rolled fat cigars, Che Guevara murals... the stuff of legends and exotic appeal. Glitz and glimmer sitting next to grime and grit. And more.  The Habaneros are proud and silently defiant peeps.  Life just happens here despite itself.  The city felt like it was constantly pushing a boulder up a hill for no reason at all. Very weird.

Did I mention Fidel?  He caught wind of the fact that I has sneeked onto his little piece of fantasy island and hunted me down like a would be president would hunt down a dog for dinner. Except Fidel wasn’t looking for dinner. He knew I sat with the Queen of England last year and wished to have the very same privilege.  Who knew Fidel was on Twitter?

After he promised a TUNA banquet I humored the old guy. What a coup for me. (Sorry dude, I just had to say it. Frighten isn’t it?) But at the suggestion that I get a ride in a '57 Chevy to the gates of Gitmo, he balked. Pushed my kitty luck a little too far. And once again I found myself wandering about Paradise Lost.

Fidel

What I must endure to get a rusty can of Tuna.

Effing Depressing

 “Do nothing which is of no use.” It wasn’t the jaguar who said that.  I had come so far to seek so much. The Jaguar knew it too.

The Solstice on December 21, 2012—precisely at 11:11 AM Universal Time—marks the completion of the 5,125 year Great Cycle of the Ancient Maya Long Count Calendar. Depending on who you talk to, (and I was talking to Foster, the Jaguar) some living Maya (and there are about 7 millions of them) believe the 2012 date to be of critical importance. Others, not so much.

He yawned revealing a canyon of teeth, pinnacle monuments to dentistry. “Believe the stories you will,” Foster continued. “Before the end of times you will see the USA's imposed deadline for Iran to cease its nuke development pass.  That date is 9/21/2012.  What will happen then? The USA has not said. Given the current administration we can expect a strict embargo on pistachio nuts.”

My jaw dropped open.  We all know how I would feel about pistachio nuts.  Iran exports pistachio nuts like the Pacific coughs up TUNA.

Foster asked if I saw the correlation. “No, not really,” I said.  

“Seriously?”

If I could blush I guess I would have.

“In the expression 'end of the world' the 'world' refers to a cycle. 2012 is the completion of the 26,000 year Precession of the Equinoxes cycle, and some say it also signifies the end of a 104,000 year cycle. But none of that matters. Our moving through with either resistance or acceptance will determine nothing. What will happen will be cataclysmic changes. O gradual peace and tranquility. Or nothing much.” He licked his paw.

I sat listening to where I was. In the jungle rain sounds like cold pancake batter poured on a hot griddle.  The world droops; every leaf hangs low under the weight of the water. I shivered in my wet coat and yet the jaguar remained dry.  He sensed I was not satisfied. 

Foster held up one claw. It gleamed under the dark jungle canopy. From where the light came I did not know.  The jaguar began slowly, sounding mysteriously like Jack Palance, “Do you know what the secret of life is?” 

I cocked my head lost in his logic. “Your claw?”

The jaguar ignored my dim-witted response. He continued, “One thing. Just one thing. You stick to that and the rest don’t mean shit.”

I didn’t want to insult him. One swipe of his paw which matched the whole size of me and I would find myself sliced into five little filets. “Excuse me, Foster, but you are beginning to sound like a movie. What is that one thing?”

His eyes seemed to brighten. He released a low purr that sounded like the rumble of distance thunder. “That’s what you have to figure out.”

Heck, I already knew what my one thing in life was.  It wasn’t in that jungle. It didn’t matter what might happen on December 21.  There was no concern about the Mayan Calendar.  The "one thing"  is the concern and that my friend is what you do with your life. It is making the most of today.

For me?  My one thing? It's TUNA. I'd damn good at eating TUNA. It is of great use. The rest doesn't mean shit.

Some might ask why this revelation was so depressing. Come on? Pistachio nuts?