This, That and The Other

I know, I know. It's been a while.

But I have a truck load of excuses. Let me trot 'em out for you.

I was in bed in a useless shape for about three weeks, then got better with the miracle tape and had to catch up on everything.

There were some commitments I had to fulfill, and had looked forward to.

The serious part of that is I had to shave my legs twice in less than three weeks.

Now, I don't know about you, but my legs are down yonder ways, and they are long on top of that. My back does not appreciate it.

But I was dressing up, and pants just wasn't gonna cut it.

All these big doin-zis has got to stop, so I can at least catch my breath.

I've also been working on my next book, and possibly my next other book, I just ain't sure which is which.

I've read a great deal too. Did you see in the paper the article about the woman who lost her eyesight twenty years ago in a car wreck? Then she fell down a few weeks ago, and hurt her neck. When she came to out of surgery, she could see again. The docs have no idea why, and to top it off, she could see in color. She'd been colorblind all her life, previous to the blindness.

Which reminds me of a story I heard years ago about a woman who was disabled by severe pain of some sort (can't remember what was wrong). Anyway, she was in her kitchen and it came up a big storm. Lightning shot through the window, hit the floor where she was standing and actually put a whole in it. When she came to, all her pain was gone.

We've also been flossing up the back and front porches, making them livable again. I love seeing how they look in the spring after being ignored all winter. I feel like I have added on to my house.

Poor Eli, my Maine Coon cat, was so matted from shedding he had to have more than a crew cut this year. All that's left is his fluffy tail, his ruff around his neck and his long britches down his legs. He looks a great deal like a poodle, and I'm sorry for it.

We've been storming the gates of Heaven praying about a job Daughter has interviewed for. It seems just right for her.. You can add a prayer too, if  you will. Our feelings won't be hurt a'tall.

Oh, and I've had an eye infection. They forget to tell you that the antibiotic drops you put in your poor old eye hurt almost as much as the infection. But it's better.

Well, I guess I've rambled enough for tonight.

I'm gonna try and get regular again.

About blogging, I mean.

What's Left Behind

Those of you who know me, and many who don't know me well, know I love my cat.

Now, we have three cats. One for me, one for Husband and one for Daughter.

My cat is Eli. He is a white Maine Coon. He weighs around twenty pounds. He is not only a stunning specimen, he is alpha animal, territorial, possessive regarding me, and sweet as surgar when he lies upon my chest, purring.

Putting it simply, he is my boy.

One thing he isn't, is brushable. He cannot tolerate being combed or brushed; never could, even when he was a two pound kitten. The vet says he has very sensitive skin (like someone who is tender headed, I guess.)

The sad and pathetic result of this is matting of his fur. It has been pretty bad before, but this time it was terrible. And letting it ride a couple of weeks too long due to illness and injury didn't help any.

So, today, we went to the vet for mat removal.

After a bit of sculpting by the vet. tech., this is what we left with them. The rest of Eli came home with me.

Looks like a polar bear rug. Or a flattened fuzzy dog.

Whatever.

May it rest in peace.

And may Eli grow a new, shiny, unmatted coat before winter.

Deja Vu

We had to take Eli to the vet today. He was long overdue his rabies shot.

Normally, this is far more traumatic for him than me, but today, not so.

I was feeling a little PTSDie over the death of Lily, just a few days ago, right at this vet's office.

I've already sniffed over the loss of my petting buddy in the mornings, an empty basket where she slept and the biggest of all, being able to put the water bowl in the floor instead of the bathtub.

You see, Lily, being a Maine Coon, liked water. And sometimes, when she was drinking, she'd get a little carried away. She'd start off by scooping up water and drinking out of her paw, but then she'd splash a little and that would turn into a frenzied splashing session.

Whoever heard her would fly into the bathroom and yell, "Lily!" She'd stand there, water dripping off her ears, nose, whiskers, chest, legs and feet, and give you that death stare that said, "WHAT?" And of course, the floor was a lake.

So, we kept the water bowl in the tub, so when the mood struck her, she could go at it.

Eli hates the vet, but doesn't pitch a fit. He is silent, but uses all twenty pounds to fight against whatever is happening, as he is trying to get back in his carrier.

Twenty pounds doesn't sound like much. But you try keeping that pure muscle and determination on a slick table. Whew!

Of course, today, we brought back a strong, healthy, young cat who is in his last  year of growth.

The other day we brought home an empty carrier and a burial box with Lily's remains.

Thankfully, not every day is sad. Today was a good day, for which I am grateful. 

Aren't you?

Quirky

If you want to know the meaning of the word quirky, watch a cat.

We have four, as you know. They are each very different from one another, but each very, very strange.

Lilly, our elder, is almost fourteen and has some chronic health issues. We call her "Darth Vadar" because of the way she sounds. She does some typical Maine Coon things, like scooping up food and water into her paw and using it like a spoon. She also gets carried away sometimes and begins splashing in the water until the floor and her face and chest are drenched.

She also loves potatoes to the point if I am serving mashed potatoes or potato salad in particular, she will circle the table, bellowing at the top of her considerable lungs until she is fed.

Maine Coons are also famous for their chirps and trills instead of meows, and we also call her a Wookie because of the sounds she makes.

And she snores like a bumble bee buzzes.

Next is Frost. Frost is exactly twice the weight he should be. When we rescued him from the shelter he was svelte. He'd also not been fed enough for a while, so when we brought him home he clearly had an eating disorder (I ain't kidding). He would be in a deep sleep, suddenly jump up and run to his food dish in a panic, just to make sure there was food available.  And he took advantage of it, so like he's a pig like cat. The vet says she has one of those, too, and there isn't much you can do when you have multiple cats - especially if  you still have growing cats, as we do.

Frost also worships Husband. If Husband goes out the door at night (when he walked Molly before bedtime), Frost would hop up on the sewing machine, part the blinds with his paw, and cry pitifully until Husband came back in. He follows him around a lot, interested in anything Husband might be doing.

He likes to play "slaps" with Daughter - he lies on his side, she puts her hand out, and tries to withdraw it before he can slap at it with his paws. If they play too long he wins regardless because he bites her.

He nurses and kneads fuzzy blankets, but is embarassed if he gets caught.

At the vet, he is a holy terror. They tell me when Frost has a vet appointment, the office goes on "high alert". He growls, he spits, he backs up, he threatens, he bites, he fights. When he had a kidney infection they wanted a urine sample. So they put him in the kennel for the day. They were about to close, so they called and said he refused to urinate, we might as well come get him.

When we arrived, the vet tech got him out of the kennel to put him back in his carrier, and he promptly peed all over her. Let's just say there ain't no love lost between the staff and our cat.

Then we have Mimi. Or rather, Daughter has Mimi. She is a torti colored mix, the kind of cat who looks long haired but doesn't have tangles and such. She is dumb as a box of rocks.

She is also clumsy, which doesn't become a cat - but she starts to jump up on stuff and misses, she lies on the edge of the bed, rolling around and thump, there she goes off into the floor. She  never learns. She has a high pitched squeak that turns into a croak every fall when her allergies act up.

She's also very skittish. At the least little noise or movement, she jumps a mile.

Lastly, is my boy, Eli. When we brought Eli home he was a two month old, two pound kitten. The first night he crawled into bed with me, snuggled up against my neck and went to sleep. He still does that, four years later, except the only thing that fits up against my neck is his head. He wakes me up purring sometimes. I will wake up on my side, and he'll be lying the whole length of my torso, and then some. I don't know how long he is because he's afraid of the tape measure (go figure). But he is weighing in at almost twenty pounds, and still growing for a  year or so. Lord, help us.

He is the alpha cat (and has been since he walked in). At two pounds, he sauntered up to the food dish, made a teeny tiny noise, and the adult cats ran away. I kid  you not.

He still has a teeny tiny voice, which is comical, but the other cats don't see anything funny about it. They growl, hiss and run when he "talks" to them. It sounds sweet, but apparently is anything but.

I call him my "white shadow" because he thinks he has to be wherever I am. He's even gotten in the shower with me a few times. He sits toward the back of the tub and blinks while he gets misted.

 He comes when I whistle, he loves to play catch and chase. Maybe he thinks he's a small dog.

So, there you have it. This is the circus we live in.

Pray for us.

As Tiime Goes By

I had lunch with a friend today. We do this about three times a year because she works. Maybe when she retires we can see each other more often. Although, if her retirement is like mine, she can be even busier if only she allows it.

Anyway, she brought a picture with her, which she gave me. (Thank you again, if you are reading!).

The photograph was taken in 1974. There is a big snowfall going on, so snow flakes dot the picture. I am standing under a tree with lots of clothes on. I have my cat in my arms. He looks terrified. He was a house cat and never outside, but I had wanted a picture taken of us in the snow, so out he went, but only for a few minutes and he never left my arms.

I remember this photo being taken like it was three years ago instead of thirty-nine years ago. I am twenty years old. My hair is long and straight. Time or the development of the photo has discolored my hair some, it looks like it has a red tint to it, which it never has.

My face is so young! I look sweet. I am obviously in love with the cat. He is about two years old, at the most, not quite full grown.

When this cat was twelve years old he was taken from me, and I won't speak more of that because I like laughter in my life, not old nightmare memories.

But Husband knows the story, and he has searched for some time to find a cat whose temperament, size and color would be as near as he could get to replace my cat of yesteryear. Husband was successful, this cat looks amazingly (or maybe not so amazingly) like the cat I had then.

I think Husband wanted to help heal a wound, and it has. I don't dwell on this "wound" much, for it is unhealthy. But I did love that cat, and I had him for a long time. All the way through my twenties. You can imagine the hole that was left in my heart.

And my cat now? He is a lot like cat number one. They resemble each other in a remarkable way. He is very protective and territorial of me, as my other cat was. But my present cat is a little wilder, my other cat let me bathe him ( although he hated it). I think he would have let me do anything to him.

Not so with the cat I have now. He doesn't like to be brushed, he cries out like  you are beating him, and he will use claws to get away if you don't let him down after just a few strokes of the brush.

Ah well, he isn't a reincarnation. He's just a cat.

But a wonderful, lovely cat, at that.

Thank you Husband.

I love you, too.

You Can't Judge a Cat by Its Pedigree

I might as well get it right out there: we have four cats. I know, I know. Can't figure out how it  happened, myself.

Frost is a white American Short hair. That's a fancy way of saying he's just a plain old cat who happens to be white. (and this one happens to have it made, as you can see.)

Mimi is a torti medium length furred something. I think she is part Persian because of the round eyes and longish fur. The most remarkable thing about Mimi is she is dumber than a box of rocks.

Lily is a white Maine Coon. She is an old cat. We adopted her when she was nine. She was raised as a Queen in a cattery, that is, a kennel. Her sole reason for living was to reproduce. She was a good mama, but she was not a pet. She had been petted, and her physical needs cared for, but she was skittish, somewhat wild (still is) and did not trust us at all. That has slowly changed, but she will never be a 100% pet. She has a pedigree a mile long. She's the big cat your right. Pan, the unreal cat, is on your left. Pan sleeps a lot.

And last, but not least, (to say the least) is Eli. He is also a white Maine Coon. We've had him since he was a wee babe, picked him out of the litter of three and brought him home at age two months. He is now a little over two  years, and will grow until he is five years old.

Here's the thing: Our two "alley cats" aren't alley cats at all.  They will eat nothing but dry cat food.

Our two pedigreed cats are pigs.

You have to guard the table or Eli will steal your food. He is so tall  he can sit just under the rim of the table, raise up on his hind legs and throw a right cross into your plate, nab a bite with his big old mitts and have it swallowed before you can yell, "Eli!" He also eats his dry food, Frost's specialized dry food, and wet canned food. In other words, whatever isn't nailed down.

He also turns over waste baskets, digs into the garbage bags, and rolls around in the dirty clothes. Gross.
If you look closely at his photo above you'll see he has dirt all around his cute little pink nose. That's from grubbing in my houseplants.

And Lily eats out of the dog dish. She's gonna get killed one of these days. If I see her doing this with Molly (the bulldog) within sight, who by the way is trembling from her cute little snout to her stub of a tail in total indignation all the while, I will get Lily out of the way.

This morning Lily ate leftovers I'd put in Molly's bowl. Noodles, a green pea, some broccoli and carrots. She also loves leftover mashed potatoes. This is a CAT, people.

Perhaps the reason they are the way they are has something to do with the legend that Maine Coons are partly Lynx. Look at Eli's picture and you can see, visually, why folks say that. If you  live with them, you can hear why too. It's unnerving.

I guess what I'm saying is if you want a sweet, dainty, docile kitty, get a mutt.

Or a small dog.

A Tale of Two Cats

A few years back (ha), when I was eighteen years old, my then husband (and thank God for that; which isn't religious humor, it is praise, but I digress), brought home a cat. It was a solid white Maine Coon, with a name of Sir Cotton something or other. But because Sir Cotton liked to take a flying leap, flop down on his bottom, and slide down the hallway on the hardwood floors, I called him Scooter.

Scooter was my shadow, my protector, my bed buddy, my dog-cat. He weighed seventeen pounds.

He was a good daddy cat, raising kittens right along with the mama cat, bathing them, playing with them, teaching them and disciplining them.

When Scooter was a very  healthy twelve year old, something terrible happened, causing his demise. I won't speak of it here, but remember the afore mentioned ex-husband.

My present husband of almost twenty-eight years has tried to make up for this for a long time. A few years ago, he discovered a cattery that had white Maine Coon cats. And a little over two years ago, a two pound, two month old, solid white male kitten came to live at our house.

His name is Eli's King Cotton. Eli is still a growing boy, as Maine Coon's grow for at least three years, some up to five years. He 'only' weighs fourteen/fifteen pounds right now.

Eli is my shadow, my protector, my  bed buddy, my dog-cat. He, too, is a good kitty.

Scooter

Thank you David, for trying to make a bad man's actions into something that belongs in the past and can be laid to rest.

Eli