Fat Cat In Da House

Four years ago, when we rescued Frost from the shelter, he was a svelte two year old. He weighed in at eleven pounds.

This is a young Frost break dancing on the kitchen floor. Go, boy, go!




He could jump way up to catch things, he was very active and affectionate.

But he had this little problem that we  noticed right away. He was anxious about his food dish. He could actually be in a deep sleep, wake up as if panicked and run to his food dish to check the food supply there.

We knew the family that took him to the shelter had to give him up because they had both lost their jobs and couldn't afford him anymore. It was obvious he'd been loved and taken care of, but I began to wonder if they'd held on to him a little too long, and he'd not be given enough to eat for a while.

Food is always available because we are a four cat family (Shut up.). I've discussed it with the vet, and she says having a growing kitten, an elderly cat, and a nibbler, there is really no way to monitor Frost's eating. She says one of her cats is a fatty too.

Well, Frost is now a FAT six year old. He weighs sixteen pounds! Our Maine Coon, at present, is much taller, longer, bigger boned, and heavier furred still growing at fifteen pounds.

This is Frost today, trying to break dance, but choosing a much softer surface and never really getting off the ground.


So you can figure where the fat is.

I'm embarrassed when I take Frost to the vet. He has kidney problems, and now he is on a special food, but it isn't helping him slim down. And when they tried to do a CT scan of his kidneys, they couldn't see them for all the fat!!

I may have been a therapist in my former life. And I may have helped people with eating disorders.

But a fat cat?

Not a clue.

Thunder and Lightning

Our dog before our dog Molly was Belle. She was a  Bull Mastiff and the smartest dog we've ever had. If God had "unlocked her jaw" I believe her conversation would have been quite intelligent.

However; she was absolutely, stark raving terrified of thunder storms. She would run to the bathroom and get in the bathtub and hyperventilate.  Of all the places to run, the bathtub, as you know, ain't the smartest place to be. I tried  to tell her she was likely to get struck by lightning in there, but she wouldn't listen. ( And you try moving a 127 pound dog from where she wants to be.)

I thought logically as to why in the heck she'd choose the bathtub, and realized it was because it was a contained space.

So the minute she started getting antsy, we ran and closed the bathroom doors, and  I opened the pantry door. She was fine with this. It was a small, contained space with no windows. I left the door cracked a little bit and there she stayed until all was clear.

I read a lot about this, trying to figure out  how to help her. The theory is, that for most dogs, it's not the thunder and lightning that scares them, it has something to do with the barometric pressure changing.

I decided to see if this was true in Belle's case, so I purchased a CD that was a recording of a severe thunderstorm.

It was a great CD. You could hear the thunder in the distance as it built up strength, moving closer and closer until the storm was right on top of you, the rain heavy and pounding.

I put it on full volume in the presence of Belle, and she never batted an eye. Didn't bother her one bit.

I fell in love with this CD and played it once in a while, just for my own enjoyment.  There's something really sweet about a thunderstorm, a good book, an old quilt, and a corner in which to cozy up and read.

Husband hated that CD. Daughter hated that CD. They said it confused them. They'd think there was a storm, and outside it was bright and sunny.

Oh, for Heaven's sake.

But one day I couldn't find that CD. Husband and Daughter looked at me with their four big old blue eyes and claimed they had no idea where it was.

Someone stole my thunder!

I also have  bird CD's. They hate them too. They say they keep thinking there are birds in the house. Daughter says she keeps ducking, afraid she'll get pooped on from above.

This is a nervous condition caused by a visit to a hen house. We won't go into that today.

I've toyed with the idea of purchasing yet another Thunder CD and playing it in one part of the house, while playing the bird CD in another part of the house, both turned up to full volume.

Cause, you know, I'm just that kinda girl.

First Day of School...1996

Holding my six year old in my lap, her head leaning on my chest as though she wanted to melt into me, gave me instant flashback to her babyhood. Today was a milestone in her life, the first day of first grade. She was having some anxiety, but was not able, or at least not willing, to express any of it, other than climbing onto my lap and holding on for dear life.

I closed my eyes, and if I ignored the fact that her legs were practically dragging the floor, I could imagine her as the helpless infant that existed only a few years ago. I breathed in the smell of her hair, sweet and warm from sleep. I felt tears sting. I wanted this moment to last. But I knew it would last in memory only. So we sat, silent and still.

It passed all too quickly, as these kinds of moments do, and was replaced by the hurried chant of “We’ll be late!” and “Don’t forget your backpack!”.

It seems there are more milestones in her life already than I could have ever anticipated before I became a parent, and it amazes me how strongly they affect my emotions. I have been brought to tears by a first smile, a first word, a first step, and a first loose tooth. This child has brought me more joy, more fear (for her), more anger (towards others who were unfair to her) at a deeper, stronger level than I realized I had. I would fight for her, I would starve for her, I would give my life for her. I can think of no sacrifice too great that would keep me from protecting her.

How I will ever survive all the other firsts ahead of us, some of which will be much more threatening to my “motherhood”, I do not know. The gift God gives us in children is a mighty big responsibility for mere mortals, and I am impressed that He ever considered it in the first place. Perhaps He is teaching us with one of the most powerful tools He has – the love of a child – and figures if this doesn’t work, it’s pretty hopeless. For who can resist the fierce loyalty and unconditional love a small child gives to their mother? And who else, other than God, shares those qualities?

My own childhood has memories that stand out in vivid detail, but a lot of everyday life is, of course, forgotten. I don’t know what my daughter will remember vividly and what she’ll only recall as mundane, but my prayer is that what she will remember fully is the bond that can be like no other, the bond between a mother and child. I also know, from my own experience, that this is not fully realized until one becomes a mother. Even then, it is hard to imagine that anyone could feel that way toward oneself. I look at my mother and am amazed that she must have felt that way about me (and does she still?), but as children we assume it is so.

Perhaps when my daughter experiences another first – her first child – I’ll see that look of amazed love in her eyes and be satisfied that we have come full circle.

Until then, I will hold on to each and every first with all my might, storing it away to share with her later, when our memories can ignite in each other smiles from the past and hope for the future children in our lives. 

Hangin' It Up

I got this harebrained idea to take down all the curtains and wash them.

Seriously, I need some  medication. What was I thinking?

Looking back, I think the cobwebs, cat hair and dust added a certain ambiance to the rooms. Truly, it did.

Husband and I were attempting to hang up the blindingly clean kitchen valances in the bay window this morning. Now, as I may have mentioned a hundred times or so, I have issues with my back, and raising my arms above my head is not a good idea.

So, I figured if Husband helped, I'd only have to do this at a minimum. Once again, what was I thinking?

During The Hanging Of Curtains several things happened:
 1. I ripped a fingernail off. You know, where the  nail gets bent backwards first? And you don't think like a Sunday School teacher for a few seconds?
2. I had a hot flash in the middle of it all.
3. I got stung/bit by an unknown bug.
4. The phone rang. The garage, who has our truck because it died, called and someone had locked the keys inside the car. Did we have a spare key? So, of course, Husband stopped The Hanging Of Curtains to begin The Search for The Truck Keys. He looked where we had thrown carefully stored spare keys and began trashing the kitchen with them. He has keys all the way back to the first car he bought at age twelve, when the guy let him drive home - all by himself. Half way home the seat, which was unbolted, fell backward, and my twelve year old Husband was driving down the road with his feet up in the air, his sweet little head resting on the back seat. Husband's Mama was a little upset and had a few words with the car salesman. Husband got his money refunded promptly.

As soon as the kitchen looked like a used key factory after a tornado, the 25 watt came on over Husband's  head and he remembered he had one of those metal box thingies under the truck where a spare key was kept. You see, Husband locks his keys in a vehicle every three months or so, give a month here or there.

Meanwhile, I continued to hang curtains. Including the one Husband had hung prior to the phone call, because he'd hung the curtain wrong side out.

I'm left with a torn thumb nail waaaay down the nail bed, sweaty clothes and muscle spasms in my neck and shoulders.

The curtains look nice though.

My, How Things Have Changed!

When I was about six or so, I got hick'ry switched all the way from my neighbors yard into my house.

Abuse! I hollered (okay, not really, it was more like WAHHHH!) But you can bet nobody called DFACS.

I was switched because my buddies in crime, Bob and Meg, and I were in their grandmother's  yard on their swing set singing to the top of our lungs.

Now, the song we sang, for us, was pure bathroom humor. If you recall, that is the top of the line funny for  kids that age. I'm not sure why, but it is a standard truth. I bet kids one hundred years ago snickered about knickers and outhouses.

I certainly had no clue that it  had sexual undertones, because, a: I didn't know sexual from bat and b: I had no idea what an undertone was.

It was apparent the parents knew the meaning to both words, hence the hick'ry switching.

Close your eyes and remember the tune that you always hear the Indian (from India) play on his flute, as he sits, legs crossed, and watches a basket in front of him. Slowly a cobra comes swaying out, all because of that hypnotic tune. Remember it?

Okay, to that tune, here are the words to the song we were singing lustily:

There's a dance in France
Where the women wear no pants
And the  men go 'round
With their britches hanging down.

Now?

Now, it's just a fashion statement saying: Welcome to America! Our youth has lost it's minds and parents close their eyes!

Sigh.

I must be getting old.

Open My Eyes, Lord, That I May See

There is a lot of hatred in this world.

I don't mean the kind like I hate avocados, which I truly do. They can all disappear for all I care.

I'm talking about the hate we seem to have for one another.

Why is this? People, I guess, have wondered this throughout time. Are we afraid of those that are different than ourselves? We must be.

Some folks hate people who can't agree with everything they say.

I'd be one lonely person, myself.

I know friendships, families and churches have split apart over very silly things. I have known churches to break up over music. Not because the music wasn't biblical (In fact, many of the old hymns aren't biblical). But because they had a new beat, or a guitar or a drum was included.

Satan must laugh his butt off sometimes.

All of us have known terrible racial  hatred of some kind in our life time.  It may not have been directed at us, and we may not have participated, but we have seen it.

I got a picture in  my e-mail the other day. Looking upon it literally made my heart hurt.

It is a man in an emergency room who has been badly wounded. He looks like he is bleeding to death. He is lying on a gurney and a doctor is valiantly trying to save him. He is yelling for something, one nurse is turning to someone, telling them to get something, or do something, I'm sure. The other nurses are by the doctor's side, busy. The still photo is full of motion, medical staff moving so fast they are blurred.

All the staff, doctor, and nurses, are black. The man on the gurney is white.

He is wearing a Klu Klux Klan outfit.

Was he conscious  when he got there? Did he see who tried to save him? Or maybe they did save him. I don't know.

I just pray that his eyes were opened.

And I don't mean physically.

Company's A'Comin'!

Yesterday, we peopled our house.

This is a fancy way of saying we had company. Husband used to watch "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" and some rich old coot said "I love to people my house."

Now, I don't reckon I'm a rich old coot, at least I know I ain't rich and I don't think I'm old enough (yet) to be called old, and I think coots are always male, aren't they? Anyway, it's obvious I don't know the correct definition of 'coot', so let's move on.

There is something nice about the anticipation of company coming. The hustle and bustle, the food preparation, the making sure there's enough clean forks and that the glasses don't have spots on them. 

And: my house is really clean. It was so nice this morning to walk through my clean house and just sigh contentedly.

I know it won't stay that way for long. Probably as I sit here nastiness is creeping around the corners, filling up the corners and counters. Oh, well. That's life, as they say.

For another, it's nice to see your house through other people's eyes. I don't mean seeing that the bedroom needs painting, or the smudge you missed on the kitchen floor (which needs replacing, by the way).

No, I mean how they smile at your whimsical stuff, admire the fire laid ready to light come fall, things like that.

I like how everyone gathers in the kitchen, and everyone is talking at the same time, and when they fill their plates they tell you how good it is. 

I like the laughter, the genuine merriment that comes from people who are friends and love one another.


And most of all? I like it that we can pray together, for one another, and mean it.

Do I hear an Amen?