It All Started With A Titmouse (pardon my French)

It all started with a Titmouse. It was a big Titmouse, and I've always heard big ones cause the most disturbance.

Husband put up a clear feeder for me. It's suctioned to the kitchen window. Eli, our Maine Coon, loves to sit in the chair, with his head slightly bent (so he's hiding), tail going one  hundred miles an hour. 

Apparently a Titmouse cracks open a seed before he eats it. He (or she) has started banging on the perch of the feeder. It's so loud it sounds like someone is knocking.

Which is what Bonnie thought. She came tearing through the house, using her deep "I'll get the burglar" bark. Careening around the corner into the kitchen, she ran smack into Eli, who did not appreciate it.

He bowed up big, hissed and growled.

Now, Eli is the alpha animal in our house. But Frost, the oldest cat, is the patriarch.

Anytime he hears another animal in distress, he comes, growling like a lion, tail as big as my fist. He means business.

So, the cats chased the dog into the sun room.

Naturally, I was on the phone with Mother. I told her to hold on twice, in a loud, panicked voice, but she kept on yammering away, so I had to holler at the animals in her ear. 

Bonnie was cowed down, looking up at me in a "Do something" kind of way.

Now, even if you add both cat's weight, it still isn't quite half of what Bonnie weighs.

But, of course, she knows they are "family", even if it's crazy, armed, dangerous family, and she isn't allowed to hurt them.

Also, if I had a 19 pound (fat) furious cat and a 21 pound (not fat, all bone and muscle) cat circling me, growling and hissing, bowed up like a prize fighter, I'd be a little worried too, no matter how much I weighed.

I told Eli to get, and he did.  Frost doesn't mind as well, so I had to come between him and Bonnie. This isn't as dangerous as it would be with Eli, as Frost is de-clawed. He doesn't know this, apparently.
(and don't fuss on me, he was de-clawed when he got him at the shelter).

I got back to Mother. "What in world is going on?" She asked.

I told her.

"Well, my goodness."

I'll say.

Why is it?

Our four legged family, which consists of a dog and three cats, has a real problem with our downstairs half-bath.

I just don't know what it is.

If I go in there to you-know, I can't in peace. The cats crowd in, especially the whites, jumping on the console and then onto the sink, looking at me as though I should leap up and turn on the cold water to a trickle so they can be entertained while I'm there.

Well, I didn't invite them, and I can't leap up, which usually means they are bored and Eli starts to pick on Frost. There is general growling and hissing and somebody (usually Frost) leaves in a huff.

We have yet to have a bulldog that can tolerate me being in there alone (or with a cat/cats). 

Our half bath is tiny (think small elevator) and it's difficult for a big old bulldog to get back out. They can come in pretty easily, but there's no backing up, turning around and walking back out without great effort. So, they come in looking all worried about me, and then they go out (if they ever figure out how to do that), looking all worried about themselves.

Come to think about it, bulldogs look worried pretty much all the time. I guess I'm picking up on their mood.

It has to do with the size of the room, because upstairs bathroom causes no problems at all, nor does any other room.

But now that I think about it, I'm seldom alone in the upstairs bathroom, either.

And it's bigger. So three cats, a dog, a husband and a daughter can all come in at once.

I apparently deserve no privacy.

I wish they'd get it together enough to put on some kind of show.

Make the time go faster.

Wait. Do you hear that? I do believe it's circus music...

Things I Now Know Are Not True

When I was a child, I believed a lot of things that I now know are not true.

1. Our house was not dirty and needed paint. It was really gray. The other houses in the neighborhood were white, so you can see how I reached my conclusion.

2. My face will not freeze like that.

3. My eyes won't get stuck and be crossed for the rest of my life.

4. All dogs are not boys, nor are all cats girls.

5. Christmas (or summer) will never, ever get here.

6. I have all the time in the world.

7. People I love will live forever.

8. Bad things happen somewhere else.

9. I will never grow old like everybody else does.

10. If a praying mantis spits in my eye, I'll go blind.

                         Okay, maybe I still believe the last one.

BAD Dog

You 'member when I told you Mama would be the one to find THEWHEEL, and I was right. She did.

I may be a year old only, but I know 'bout THEWHEEL. And Mama.

Anyway, I was VERY GLAD. And I was VERY EXCITED, too.

Me and Daddy went to THEWOODS where there is wonderful grass (that doesn't smell bad anymore), to play with THEWHEEL.

Then, I was BAD.

At least, I think I was. Daddy did not call me BAD, but I felt BAD, anyway.

See, we played and played. Then Daddy did something different. He held THEWHEEL way up high and I jumped!! HIGH!! And got THEWHEEL in my teeth.

But my Daddy acted strange. He made a funny noise and he looked all scared at his finger. There was lots and lots of red stuff they call BLOOD coming out of his finger and we had to leave THEWOODS, quick!

Mama saw us and got me and got Daddy in the house and made him stick his finger under running water, like a BATH.  Then she put smelly stuff on it, and funny things they called BUTTERFLIES, but they weren't. I see BUTTERFLIES outside and they are beautiful and can go way high in the sky. The things were little and brown and stuck to Daddy's finger.

Then Mama called and talked to a dokter and Daddy left and when he came back he had STITCHES in his finger.

Mama laughed and said Daddy got bit by his own dog, and the dog didn't even know it.

I know it, all right.

And it makes me sad.

I am a BAD dog.

Even though nobody said so.

They've Lost Their Minds

This morning started out real good, like always.

Daddy said, "Let's go for aWALKIE." This is very good. I love my den (which they call CRATE), but after all night I am ready to run!

We always get THEWHEEL to go out in the woods, because I love it above all toys and it gives me good exercise.

Usually,Daddy let's me carry THEWHEEL and when we get back on the porch he says, "DROP IT!" and I do. But I never DROP IT! in the woods, no matter how many times Daddy says this, I just can't let it go.

But this morning, Daddy could not find THEWHEEL. He told Mommy I must have left it in the woods, and that I would know where it was.

This is true. Except I did not leave it. Daddy has leaved it somewhere.

I am sad.

Because when Daddy leaves something somewhere, it stays for a long, long time. Until Mommy finds it, usually.

Anyway, Daddy let me off the LEASH so I could run and maybe find THEWHEEL out in our SPOT in the woods that is flat and grassy where I love to run.

But something wonderful had happened! The ground was all tore up, and wonderful, strong smelling brown stuff was everywhere! What joy! I ran as fast as I could and flopped down and rolled and rolled.

Daddy yelled to STOP, but I could not STOP any more than I can DROP IT! out in the woods.

Daddy had to wade in and get me and put my LEASH on and drag me home.

He rang the bell at our house. Don't you think it's funny he rang the bell at our house?

Mommy came to the door and took one look at me and said to me and Daddy both "STAY!"

When we were allowed in, I was taken straight up stairs. This is where the crazy part came in.

I wanted to go to CRATE but Daddy made me keep walking. They closed the bathroom doors and Daddy took me to the thing they call BATHTUB. OH NO!

I was wet, then wetter, and they put soap on me and scrubbed me down.

I have tried to be a good dog. But they washed all the good smell off me! And made me wet! I am not a water dog, I am a bull dog!

At least they had the decency to towel dry me and then leave me alone after telling me how sweet and good I smelled.

Mommy and Daddy have lost their minds. They washed all the good smell down the drain.

Now, I don't even smell like me.

I smell like a girl human.

How much worse can things get?

If you see THEWHEEL please call us. I don't know how to work the phone, but I guess you humans know. Mommy and Daddy and Girl are OBEDIENT when the phone makes a noise and they talk.

So call where I live and they will talk. I need THEWHEEL bad, so hurry.

It's Raining Men

There are at least half a dozen men in my yard. Making a lot of noise.

There are two men in my bathroom, making a huge mess and a lot of noise.

Then there are the Jehovah Witnesses at the door asking one of the workmen: "Do you live here? Does anybody live here?"

Really?

The place is jumping worse than a frog on a hot stove, and they want to know if anyone lives here?

I haven't even mentioned Husband, who, if you reread my blog from yesterday, has walked into the tree for the seventh time.

Or our dog, Bonnie, who suddenly decided she had to sit on my feet and growl at every man who walks by (that's a lot of growling) because she has to protect me.

And cats - Husband was sure Eli had escaped outside. I knew he would not, he's never been out except in a crate, and he's not likely to bolt. All I had to do was whistle - you know, put your lips together - eh, never mind.

There's wash in the washer and dryer, but I can't get to it because of giant boxes.

I was going to stir up a pone of cornbread, but Husband failed to buy buttermilk, and it just ain't as good with sweet milk.

Mother is calling every five minutes to tell me the order in which things should be done in town, because I ain't old enough to figger it out.

Oh, did I mention all the power steering abilities of our car disappeared on the way to church Sunday? They sure did. The garage has called and the car is ready to pick  up, power steering reinstated.

Ain't no where to park it, though. Not with trucks and vans all over creation.

We should be able to park it in the garage, which was why the garage was built, but we can't. Refer to the word Husband.

Ah, well. When they are all finished the yard will be nicer, the bathroom will be better, and all will be quiet again.

Tell me this is so, please.

What?

Sick.

Obedience training for the dog (or is it for us?)

Hard proof copy of new novel coming in and finding problems...not knowing if it will get here before Christmas.

Taking Mother to the doctor.

Daughter getting whatever it is I have. (Mongolian Strangle, I think).

Cats being terrified of dog.

House in uproar.

Wrapping presents.

Having a Christmas Party  Sunday night at the house.

Not having any cards mailed.

Insurance Co. giving us a hard time because they made a mistake.

Company I've done business with for years giving us trouble over a faulty item.

Film at eleven.

It's December .... Already

So today is the first day of the last month of 2014.

You may be asking: how the heck did that happen? How did we even get to 2014 in the first place?

I dunno.

My baby brothers turned fifty years old today. I don't know how that's setting with them, but it's setting pretty old to me.

Christmas will be here in a flash, and I can barely move. If I don't stay over this mess with my sacroiliac, I don't know what I'm gonna do. I think I'm better and WHAM it's like I've been hit with a baseball bat. Twice.

Daughter is having finals this week, so you can figure the mess she's in.

Husband is going to see a man about a dog tomorrow.

No, really.

I don't know if we will get it. We all had high hopes we'd go as a family to look at the pup, but with my back and some commitments I have, I know I can't do it all. And Daughter, as I have said, is having finals this week.

What the situation is, is this: someone somehow has to get unbusy, unpained enough to put up the dang Christmas decorations.

Any volunteers?

Only one string attached:

You got to clean the house first. I ain't having no decorations put up with nasty underneath.

Gimme a call if you're interested.

Speaking of Dogs...

I couldn't help but think of this story while grieving over Molly, our dog.

This story is included in a book I wrote, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree". Keep in mind it's written in the language of Appalachia, but you won't struggle if you just go with the flow.

The conversation takes place between Missouri and her sister, Kizzie. They are in their late eighties. The scene takes place about 35 years ago.

Kizzie shook her head, grinning. “Do you remember when the Reverend James Folsom got called up to the Clemmons’ household? Old man Clemmons sent word and told him to git thar quick, so the reverend got in his old truck and flew up thar to see what the matter was. Old man Clemmons met him thar on the front porch and told Preacher Folsom that Mizriz Clemmons’ dog had died two days ago, and she had him laid out in the parlor on the couch, waitin’ fer the Lord to raise him up.”

          “Land sakes! I don’t recall hearin’ about this, Kizzie. What in the world did Preacher Folsom do?” Missouri sounded shocked.

          “Well sir, he took hisself a deep breath and entered thur house. Thar laid that old dog with a blanket and a sheet up to his nose, just like he’s in a hospital or suhum. Preacher Folsom says, ‘Mizriz Clemmons, I understand yur dog died.’ And she says, ‘No, God told me He was gonner raise him up, and I’m a’waitin’.” Kizzie shook her head. “Preacher Folsom ast her would it be all right with her if he called somebody to check the dog to see if he was dead, and she said that would be perfectly all right with her.

          “So, Preacher Folsom, he gits on his two way radio and calls the EMT’s and tells old Roam Patterson to git thar quick with a shovel and a stethy-scope. Roam says ‘I beg yur pardon?’ and the preacher says ‘You heared me and make it snappy!’ Here comes Roam in the fire truck with the lights a’flashin’ and the si-reen a’blarin’, screamin’ up the hill, and comin’ to a screechin’ halt in front of the house. He gits outta that truck in a hurry.  Preacher Folsom meets him at the door, explainin’ the situation quick like. Roam approaches the couch, and pulls the covers back, gentle like, looks in the dogs eyes, and puts the stethy-scope on the dogs chest and listens. Then he slowly shakes his head and says to Mizriz Clemmons ‘I shore am sorry to tell you this, ma’am, but that dog is dead.’”

          “Oh, lord, what did she do then?” Missouri asked.

          “She said okay, they’d have to bury him. So, she sends all the men folk out in the yard to find a decent burial place. They pick a spot under a bloomin’ Lilac bush. Preacher Folsom told Roam to git the shovel and start diggin’. Just as they had a hole big enough, Mizriz Clemmons made ‘em stop and she run back in the house and got this beautiful quilt to wrap up the dog. Preacher Folsom says ‘But that’s a good quilt!’ and Mizriz Clemmons, she says, ‘And that was a good dog.’

          “They bury that dog in the three hundurd dollar quilt, and then Mizriz Clemmons turns to the preacher, and ast him to say a few words over the grave. He did.” Kizzie finished with a satisfied look on her face.

          “Reckon what Mizriz Clemmons did after that?” Missouri wondered.

          “Well, she went out and got herself another dog, what else?”

          What else, indeed.

                                                    *********

Saying Good-Bye to Molly

Molly Dog had a big job to do today.

She was in the business of dying.

She had a few rough days previously, but I guess one is never prepared.

Many years ago, when we were told to come get her, Husband hurried to where she was. He opened the truck door and she turned her head and looked.

She came flying through the meadow, went slap dab through the middle of the creek, soared into the truck seat, skidded across and jammed herself up next to Husband as close as she could get with her head on his shoulder.

I reckon we had us a dog at that point.

She was absolutely beautiful. Every time I walked her, some fella, usually in a pick up truck, would come to a screeching halt to admire her. Young or old, they loved her bull doggy stance, her intense stare coming out of her half-white, half-black face.

That stubby tail never wagged for anyone until she knew you were safe to be around her family.

And her family included our crazy cats. She considered them hers. Eli especially will miss her, since she's been there all his life.

                                                                     Eli and Molly                                                
Once, we had the great idea to take three cats to the vet all at one time. Molly watched and listened to their carrying on. When we started loading them up, she practically pushed Daughter down to get to the car. She hopped in the back seat and refused to budge.

Nobody was going anywhere with all her babies.

So Daughter rode in the back seat between a hundred and ten pound bull dog and two cat carriers.

Molly tried to save Husband from a bear. And although she couldn't get outside, she really did save him, because her barking alerted him to something going on he couldn't see. The bear was strolling down the driveway headed straight for him, but was aggravated by Molly barking on the porch, so it turned around and went the other way.  Meanwhile, Molly was frantically racing back and forth from front door to back trying to get out of the house. Other than that episode, she hated the smell of a bear and would get back in the house as quickly as possible.

When she was young she and Daughter would play chase. It usually ended up with  Daughter in the back of the truck yelling for help.

This morning our bouncy, barky, fun loving dog couldn't stand up. Her breathing was labored.

I thought she would die before the day ended. But finally we called the vet, not wanting a night to pass with her in that shape.

The vet came, checked her, said, "It's time. She's never going to get back up."

Daughter got in the floor by her and I sat on a low stool on the other side.

Molly put her head in Daughter's lap.

Those eyes were trusting, loving us until the end.

Husband took to the woods to dig a grave and grieve in private.

But before he went, he laid down in the floor by Molly and stroked her head and told her all sorts of secrets that were just between the two of them.

She had earned a white muzzle and knobby joints.

She was a good girl and we loved her so.

And she loved us right back.

Goodbye, old girl. We will miss you.

Looks Ain't Everthang

This morning I got up looking a bit like Einstein.

No, not a mustache. Old lady jokes are not funny. I shave every morning. Now, see, that didn't make you laugh, did it? Okay, well, maybe the Brother of Many Surgeries laughed, but he don't count no how.

No, not the brilliant, bulging forehead. Mine is quite normal.

No, not the faraway look in the eye showing magnificent and non-understanding by anyone but me thoughts going on in my head.(Although I have plenty of thoughts nobody understands, but it ain't because they are brilliant.)

It's my hair.

You see, I washed it yesterday afternoon and did nothing to it.

No curling iron, no nothing.

The results are stunning. As in,  "Lord have mercy, woman, what have you done?"

Makes people pay attention.

I guess the humidity did something, too. It did not stay in the cute little ringlet curls, but truly turned into a frizz festival that scared even the cats.

I think they thought I had an animal on my head.

The only non-reactions I got were from Daughter, who was, of course, busy. Like, you know, texting, and couldn't look up. My hair could have been on fire and she wouldn't have noticed until I started to scream. Then, she would have held up a hand in a 'just a moment' gesture before looking up.

The other non-reaction was from Molly, a.k.a., Dog. Dogs love you unconditionally. She did eye my head though, and I could tell she was wishing I'd bend down a little so she could lick a hair or two into place. But she didn't make snide comments or cringe in horror.

Dogs. (Wo)man's best friend.

Yep. Good old Molly.

But that wasn't quite good  enough, so I got busy and fixed my hair.

Nobody noticed.

Down to the Last Dog

We may be down to getting the last dog we will ever own after Molly dies.

Oh, there might be two more, depending on how long the dog(s) live, as well as how long we live.

Molly is nine, and hobbling pretty badly. She's having surgery on her gums Friday. She has seizures. Maybe she will make it to ten, but I doubt she'll see eleven.

We have talked about the next dog. We are probably going to get another Bull Mastiff. They are  not as hard to take care of, being a "door mat" dog.

They live around ten years.

That would put Husband at seventy-six or seven. Will we want another dog to take care of by then? I don't know.

And cats: well, if Eli lives 20 years, I'll be seventy-seven. Will I want another cat?

See, I can't imagine living without a dog and a cat.

But then again, I could have never imagined talking about seeing the end of my life in terms of the number of dogs I might live long enough to own, either.

Do you think about this when you are even in your forties? Probably not.

It makes me sad, thinking I might be at a point in my late life where I feel I can no longer take care of a dog and/or cat.

Because they have always taken care of me.

Armageddon! Or: Taking Two Cats to the Vet

When you have Maine Coon cats one thing is bound to occur: matting. (notice the two t's, please)

Eli doesn't tolerate combing very well, and Lilly will let you, just not under her where her belly is. This is the first year Eli has had a full winter coat, so this is the second time in less than two months that I've had to have some mats shaved from his underside.

Lilly was given a crew cut several months ago, so she just now has had a few mats that needed shaving.

The adventure of putting her into a carrier is best left untold.

Eli goes willingly, every time. He even lays around in our carrier sometimes when he is ambushing another cat or hiding from Daughter.

But the carrying on in the car on the way to the vets is earsplitting! And you should hear the cats, too!  HA!

And it is creepy to see cats pant. Only dogs should pant. They look wild. Ears laid back, teeth bared...skeery.

Eli weighs seventeen pounds now, and Lilly is a solid eleven. Toting them in and out ain't no easy chore, either.

Signing in and waiting is interesting.

One lady brought in a very reluctant dog. The woman opened the door and stood there, holding a leash with something obviously on the other end, but I thought the dog was never gonna make it. When she did finally scurry in, what we saw a  was a very fat Pug who looked like it was going to burst into tears. Her curly tail was tucked between her legs.She hid under the bench at the door, then hurried to get to the next bench so she could hide under it and sit behind her owner's legs. Occasionally, she would peek out, look exceedingly worried and hide again.

Her name was (get ready) Sassy.

Then a woman came out of one of the examining rooms, crying. I mean really crying, funeral home crying. And she had no pet in her arms. But they sat down to wait....

I said a prayer for her.

They took Lilly back, trimmed her and brought her to us. I went back with Eli. He's my baby,you know, and he does better.

It's true. He stares at me when they are buzzing him. If he loses sight of me, he struggles.

The vet tech said she'd seen cats be so afraid they were running laps around the room, trying to find a way out. And these cats were on the ceiling. And I quote: "I don't know  how they can climb straight up a wall, but they do it."

When I came back out an older gentleman was there with a young, boisterous setter of some sort who was barking loudly every fifteen seconds.

Each time old Sassy cringed and trembled.

We paid, we left, we got home.

Until next time.

Dog Days

We took two of our cats to the vet today. (I'll get to the dogs in a minute...maybe)

Preparing to go is tricky.

Lily, our elderly Maine Coon, is the hardest. You see, as I may have mentioned before, Lily was not raised a pet. In fact, the first nine years of her life she was in a kennel as a queen. Her job was to have kittens.

When she was nine and too old to have kittens anymore, we adopted her and brought her home.

Now, she likes to be petted and will sleep on the foot of the bed. But you better not try to pick her up.

Therein lies the problem of getting her in the carrier.

Not only that, if she sees the carrier has been moved a quarter inch she FREAKS OUT.

She is fully loaded, having never been declawed.

But, the law says she has to have a rabies shot every year...I think the law should come get her and take her  themselves.

And Eli was in a mess. He was so matted on his sides, I knew it was going to start pulling on his skin. He has never let me groom him, even as a kitten he cried out in alarm or pain, I've never known which.

He doesn't mind the carrier, in fact, he gets in the one we keep in the house and lies down in it from time.

However; he doesn't like it when you close the opening.  He immediately becomes anxious and cries.

But off we go after wrangling and crying. The cats were in pretty bad shape too. Ha.

When we arrive, a lady is there with a sweet looking dog, who appears to be half collie and half golden retriever. The dog is very docile and sits sweetly.

Then a woman brings in an ancient, large, black, woolly dog of some sort, who has only one eye. It too is docile and...well, tired, I guess.

In a few minutes another woman comes in the door with a basset hound, and it just looks sad, but acts happy.

Suddenly a six month old or so weinmaraner came bursting out an exam room door, delirious to see us all. The vet tech finally tackled him and drug him back.

At that time we are called back. Daughter hauls Lily in, and it's a quick reach in the carrier a, jab with a needle and reach back out, then they are finished and back to the waiting room.

We then begin the long, drawn out process of Eli.  He gets weighed (16 lbs. 10oz), his temperature taken (why in the world can't they come up with a better way?). The vet tech leaves, we wait a few minutes (Eli wanting back in the carrier the whole time).

The vet finally arrives, after Eli and I have given up and are now sitting on the bench. I'm reading a People Magazine (have you seen the way "stars" dress today?) and Eli is sitting as close to me as possible, nervously watching the door.

He flinches when she enters, and I hoist him up on the table. She coos over him and tells him how beautiful he is, going over his body, looking in his nose, ears and eyes.

She exams his huge feet and finds one of the back claws almost ingrown. She clips it and warns me to keep a watch on it so it doesn't happen to him.

She listens to his heart and lungs and says he seems to be very healthy. She is puzzled, like me, about the sudden matting on the top sides of his body.

She notes he weighs a lot, but that he has a huge frame and is extremely long, so he is not overweight in the least.

I mention I had read that Maine Coons don't come into their first adult winter fur until three, and he's just turned three...and she agrees that must be it.

By the way, he will probably grow more in the next two years.  King Kong can take him to the vet then.

The vet tech comes back in and starts to shave the mats off Eli.

I tell you this much: if you could have seen how much fur he shaved off,  you would agree with me that it would cover an entire average size cat. The vet tech used three blades on him.

His beautiful haunches, which we called his wings are no more. His wings have been clipped. Shorn. Shaved.

He looks rather mangy. (when Husband saw him he said, "It looks like a chicken breast." May I take a moment to sob.)

He was a good boy through the whole ordeal. We were in there over an hour.

I had more fur than he did by the time we left, the front of my shirt was a complete mass. He did not fight or bite or scratch, but he resisted, and I was the one holding him. Whew!

When we came back out to the waiting room, it was dog mania! (told you I'd get back to them).

It sounded like a chaotic mess. Little dogs, big dogs, yapping and  yipping (the little ones only) and smelly!! everywhere.

It was so loud no one could hear anyone else speak, and I ain't kidding. I wonder if they overbooked or if they just love a zoo.

We got home safe, even if not sound.

But the next time I have someone who needs to go to the vet?

I'm staying home.

This, That and the Other

Daughter thinks I'm a little nuts because I talk to the tomatoes in our garden. You see, they are all big and green. There hasn't been enough sun to turn them red, and I'm worried they are going to rot or fall off the vine. I just told them to hang on, that the next two days are supposed to be sunny and that's what they  need.

What's wrong with giving a little encouragement to our maters?

Last night we were trying to round up Lily, our geriatric cat. All four legged (well, all two legged for that matter) sleep upstairs.

Husband usually shoos Lily up. She trots up the stairs, I talk sweet and open the door for her, and in she comes. But he couldn't find her. He asked me did I see her. I said, "No, but I hear her."

Husband said no, that was him making a noise, and he'd go back to the sun room and look again.

I was a little distracted because Molly, our dog, was lying in the foyer, not moving. Her eyes were open, she wasn't blinking at all,and I couldn't see if she was breathing. I sweet talked her, I whistled, I called her in a stern voice, and nothing worked. I thought she was dead for sure, because she's really old and has a lot of health problems.

Meanwhile, Husband said he gave up, Lily must be hiding. So I tried the last thing, It's the last I do, because we have not one cat who comes to "Kitty, kitty".

But I did it anyway. Molly, the dog, raised her head and looked at me. I truly think she has species identity issues.

Well, at least I found out she wasn't dead.

So, I open the bedroom door, and there Lily is, behind me, in her new little bed, a canvas bag she has fallen in love with. I said, "How in the world did you get in here?"

And I promise you, as Scarlet O'Hara is my witness, the cat looked up and winked at me.

We live in a madhouse.

(Now, I know at this point you are beginning to envy my life. Stop it right now. That's wrong to do, and  you  know it.)

The last thing is one of those weird experiences you have that has no explanation. I was calling someone and as the voice mail picked up and said, "You have reached this number," I realized I had dialed the wrong number so I hung up. As I started to dial the correct number, my phone started ringing, and it was the wrong number person calling I had just hung up from. I figured I owed the person an explanation, so I answered.

The guy asked, "Is this -" and he said the name of the place I retired from after thirty-one years of service almost ten years ago.

I was speechless. I mean, what are the odds?

I told him no, and he said, "Well, then who is this calling my cell phone number?"

I explained it was a wrong number and I apologized.

I also got goosebumps.

I've spent all day at a friends, then all evening at a meeting. So, I have to go to bed now.

Ponder on without me. But please, don't envy me.

Good-night.

It Only Takes One (or Two)

I'm talking about fleas.

My cats and dog have never had fleas. Molly is eight years old, so that tells you how nice it has been. We have always used the stuff between her shoulder blades that you apply once a month, and we've never had a problem.

We never treated the cats, because they don't go outside, and we figured if Molly, who is the only pet who goes outdoors, was treated, we were safe.

And that was the case, until a few months ago, when Molly had a vet visit.

She'd been home a few hours, when Daughter noticed a 'bug' crawling on Molly's face. It was a flea! Apparently she'd picked it up at the vets.

Not that I'm blaming the vets, they can't control what animals have on 'em when they are in the waiting room. I wish they had a flea alert alarm that would go off, but  no.

Anyway, we got the flea off and killed that little sucker, (pun intended) and looked Molly over pretty good and found two more, killed them, and thought that was that.

And it seemed so....until the cats started scratching. Eli was impossible to find anything on him, as he has three layers of fur. Lily looked clean. Mimi is a tortie, so who could see a flea? And Frost, well, he growled and bit, but we held him down. And found fleas galore.

I won't repeat the word I said, but it was reminiscent of my grandmother's choice of words when she was extremely frustrated. See previous blog.

It has entailed an exhausting adventure of taking four (count 'em, four) cats to the vet to have a bath, because the stuff we used from Lowe's worked not at all. But it had to be washed off them completely in order for the stuff that does work to be put on them. Three of the four cats had to be sedated to be bathed. So we had three drunk cats and one somewhat paranoid cat for several  hours.

They sure did sleep well that night, though.

We don't have fleas here anymore. The vet has a lot more money than he had last week.

We are broke, the cats are serene, and the vet is rich.

And all it took was one flea - or two.

Double Standards

I realized today that we have a double standard at our house. And no, it's not about  human relationships.

It's about cat/dog relationships.

Molly, our dog, has a big water dish in the kitchen. If you have a dog, you  know that dish is larped in, slimed on, and who knows what that mess is she leaves floating around in the water.

The cat's water dish is upstairs and pretty much stays in pristine condition, unless Lily, our elderly Maine Coon, decides to play in it. She does this by smacking the water with both front paws, drenching her face and the floor. Why she does this is beyond me.

And of course, the cats love to drink from dripping faucets in the bathroom sinks. Lily likes to drink out of a glass too, if she can find one.

Anyway, the cats enjoy drinking out of the dog's water dish. Why? Because they are cats, and it doesn't belong to them, and they shouldn't do it. Makes Molly twitch.

Molly is not allowed, under any circumstance, to drink from their water bowl.

The cats occasionally sniff around, and nibble from, Molly's food dish. This really makes her twitch.

Molly is not allowed, under any circumstance, to eat from their food dish.

The cats loll around on all the furniture.

Molly isn't allowed on the furniture (when we are looking).

The flip side to this is Molly gets to go outside. The cats aren't allowed outside.

Now, two of them, Frost and Mimi,  have been outdoor cats before. Occasionally, when we are headed toward the door, Mimi flies in front of us and stands there, anticipating the door being opened so she can go out.

She's lived as an indoor cat at our house for several years, you think she'd get the message.

Lily lived outdoors in a cattery kennel for the first  nine years of her life. She goes to the door and sniffs, but never really seems to want to go out. She knows she's finally got it made, thank you very much.

But it seems clear to me the cats are treated in a little more spoiled fashion than Molly.

That makes me feel bad, because Molly loves those cats dearly. She was never a mama, and I think she sees them as 'hers'.

I hope it doesn't hurt her little doggie feelings when she sees the double standards we have.

After all, we love her as much, just not the same.

I've heard parents tell that to their kids. Their kids never believe it either.

Good thing Daughter is an only child. I'd never pull off this stuff with a straight face.

Where's Hazel When You Need Her?

I hate housework.

I've always hated housework.

When I was younger, before I got hurt, I could, at least, do housework.

Now that I can't do much, I hate it even worse because my options are as follows:

1. Hire someone, and the person is rarely found that actually dusts well. Most of the women I've hired dust around the objects on the table, never removing them, much less dusting them. This is not dusting, people. This is piddling around. Even after I explain to a prospective cleaner how hard my house is to dust, how dusty it gets, and how this is the most important reason they are being hired, though they may nod and smile, they still piddle.

2. Nag, whine, pout, explode, fret, bellow, etc. for my family to clean the house. Daughter right now is vacuuming her little heart out. Husband re-potted stuff this morning for me and is running errands. Don't get me wrong, they are good people. The thing is, the vacuuming needed doing Monday, this is Thursday. The re-potting needed done last fall.

Stuff that is very important to me to get done, is not very important to them. I try to reason with myself and say that the world won't come to an end if the twenty pounds of cat and dog hair float around the house like tumbleweeds, I just wish it would.

I have fantasies of grabbing the vacuum cleaner and doing it myself, thereby guaranteeing, if not a trip to the ER, at least a whole day in bed with pain pills and tears.

Boy, that would show 'em!

If I had a full time maid, who actually worked, this house could be really clean.

I don't think those exist anymore, or if they do, it is so far out of my financial ballpark, I don't know of their existence. Same difference.

I've thought about shaving the dog and cats. Maybe moving away and living in a bubble. It's even crossed my mind to try and live with it, but as hard as I try, it just builds and builds and I become mad as an old wet hen.

There  has to be a solution.

If there weren't so many tumbleweeds rolling about, perhaps I could see it.

They Act Like Us, Sometimes

I've seen animals do interesting things...things are are 'human like'.

I watched my cat, Angel do a very sweet thing. She got canned food every  morning, and our Bull Mastiff, Belle, looked longingly at her, from a respectful distance, while she ate. when Angel finished, Belle licked the plate.

One morning, I noticed Angel kept glancing over at  Belle. And when she finished eating, she left a bite. For Belle.

How do I know this wasn't just a coincidence? Because every morning after that, as long as Belle lived, Angel left her a bite. When Belle died, Angel went back to eating the whole plate full.

One morning I was sitting on my back porch, watching a squirrel in the road. He was eating something. Suddenly a big crow came out of the sky and ran him off and began eating whatever it was. The squirrel ran down the hill. But then I saw the squirrel coming back. He was behind the crow, sort of creeping along the edge of the hill. Suddenly, he jumped out, right at the crow and scared the heck out of that bird! The crow jumped and  squawked. The squirrel took another dive down the hill. But he got revenge.

Then there was the time I was cleaning up the kitchen and had some nasty water I didn't want to pour down the kitchen sink. So, I took it out the back door and threw it off the banister (The ground is two stories down). I heard a furious chatter when the water landed on the ground, so I peered over the edge. There was this tiny chipmunk, looking up, drenched. I swear he was shaking a fist at me and cussin' for all  he was worth!

A few months ago, we decided to load up three cats and take them all to the vet for the various upkeep things one must do for the darlings. Molly, our American Bulldog watched us do cat round up and put them in their separate carriers. They commenced choir practice in the foyer while David went out and opened car doors.

Now, Molly considers these cats hers. She hates other dogs, goes into kill mode if one comes near. But kitties? Well, she's smitten. She saw us begin hauling cat out the door, and at the last minute she almost knocked my daughter down getting out the door herself. Molly has NEVER done anything like this before. She ran to the car and got in! She refused to get out, even after David leashed her and pulled.

We weren't taking her cats away. Not without her. So, in a rather crowded P.T. Cruiser, we all went to the vet.

We had a Cockateil  for years. He was deep yellow, except for his two rosy cheeks. When out of the cage, he liked to watch my daughter color. She'd lay out the crayons, which  he like to pick up and carry around. And what color, do you suppose, he picked EVERY TIME? Yellow. Never failed. And yellow candy. Every time.

And of course I have stories about my dogs disliking some people for no obvious reason, but making me feel like I better be on guard around that person. And cats who don't like anyone much suddenly take a stuck like glue shine to someone because they are either: a. allergic to cats or b. hate cats.

My life is richer for sharing it with these critters. Makes me feel sorry for those who chose not to do so.

There's a New Cat in Town

2/15/09

My mother showed me a picture in the paper last week of a cat at the local shelter in need of a home. Now, I had no intention of getting a cat until our cat, Angel, passed away. She’s fourteen years old, has a heart murmur, deaf for the last two of those years. She’s had seizures for the past five years, and has been in kidney failure for four years. In fact, after the kidney failure diagnosis, the vet told us she wouldn’t make it past a year, six months, really, if we were lucky. But we don’t believe in luck, we believe in love, and she’s still with us. Obviously, she takes a lot of care, and a new cat might well traumatize her. So it never entered my mind.

Until I saw the picture.

I decided that when I got my turn at the paper (usually a week later, when my mother is done with it), I’d call. If the cat was still available, we’d visit. He was. We did. The rest is history.

Angel was in no way upset over the new arrival. The new cat jumped up on the bed and they wiggled noses at each other. Angel mostly shrugged. He bowed up, eyes widened in terror, and fled. Such a drama king.

Frost is two years old, she’s fourteen. He’s a sturdy eleven pounds, she, a dainty six. He is an agile, jumping, soaring, crouching, hunting cougar. She is a hobbling, arthritic elder who had rather sleep than anything. He is long, slinky and limber. She is short, cobby and stiff. He leaps at every sound. Her world is silent. He has round eyes that begin as dark green and end in pale yellow. Her eyes are almond shaped and golden. His hair is short and sleek, hers, long and silky. Yet, if you catch sight of one of them out of the corner of your eye, you might not know which cat you see. They are both blindingly, solid white. Pink eared, pink nosed, with pink pads on the bottom of their feet.

After two days, they both sleep in our bed, Angel at my shoulder blade, Frost at my thigh. She is curled into a ball, paw over face. He is stretched as far as he is able, feet in the air, belly exposed, head back.

Molly, the dog, is very entertained by the new pet. She is eager to be friends, and though Frost feigns fear, he tears after Molly if she stops paying attention. Molly watches him with cocked head and wagging rear when he is chasing imaginary things or playing with string. Molly has no animosity, only curiosity.

So, it looks like all our worry over adjustment is for naught. It’s taken less than two days for Frost to settle in and make himself at home.

I’m happy for the most part. It’s made me well up with tears to realize how little Angel does anymore. I’d forgotten, in her geriatric state, how she used to be, and Frost reminds me of her past life. Angel is slowly disappearing into herself and soon she’ll be gone. I dread her passing. I love her so much! But fourteen and ill doesn’t bode well for a long future. The vet is amazed she’s still alive, that she can still jump on the bed (although if a person is available she meows and we lift her up). Love has triumphed.

And love will help us say good-bye.

But for now, we’re a family with two cats. And I’ll be satisfied for that state to remain for a while.

Frost: Icy, beautiful, majestic.

Angel: Sent from God when we needed her most.

Family: All of us, for now.

Angel passed away two months after this writing.