One thousand and two times someone came to this blog. Out of curiosity. Out of familiarity with the eclectic, quirky style of the writer. Out of incredulity that anyone actually spent the time to get such odd results. Ha! Frankly I can’t imagine why 1002 hits registered on this blog when so few people even know it’s around!
Thank you, whoever you are. People who read it and tell me, an even bigger thanks to you!
The horned Moses, inspiration for my blog self-portrait, above!
This blog started as an experiment. It is meant to keep my mind engaged during my retirement years, to give my hands purpose. It works well toward those goals! But I didn’t realize it would be a documentation of the process rather than then process itself, which makes it- this blog – a happy surprise!
I have no idea what I will write about to take this blog to 2000 hits. If you are a faithful reader of this blog, I hope what I write till then is, for you, a happy surprise, too!
I’m not happy when I have to deal with money matters, yet that is my position in the family. My father and mother’s financial affairs became mine, and I strived not to be consumed in the details and twists and turns insurance companies and the Nebraska Health and Human Services put you through.
Dad was very competent in financial matters, but had macular degeneration in both eyes. He was unable to take care of their financial matters easily in the last years of his life. He managed because I was his surrogate eyes.
Mom has never been interested in her financial affairs, which means I have more to do for her than I did Dad.
Stressed. That’s how I am anymore when I work on her financial matters. Dad isn’t here to advise me. I don’t want to cause her any complications- money shortages primarily- but I feel I am inadequate to the task without Dad.
So, having taken one more step only to find there’s exactly (I hope!) one more step to move her over to Medicaid, I am not happy. Time for me is advised. Do something that clears out the cobwebs of doubt, places the strains of dealing with institutions and social welfare organizations behind me for the time being: that’s what I need!
I decide to listen to music. Not any music but music I know has the curative powers I need just now.
J.S. Bach. My first choice. I listen to Angelika Kirchschlager sing Bach arias so pure and restorative, I feel tears of joy just to listen to such mastery of a difficult repertoire. Angel indeed! Angelika Kirchschlager, with that awful German surname (!) sings with as pure a soprano voice as I’ve ever heard. This is my single most favorite CD.
You know Gamelan music is a favorite of mine if you’ve read this blog site all the way through. I listen to one from Central Java that is particularly strong on singing. Many times, in Gamelan recordings, the female voices sound forced and nasal. On this particular recording, the voices are natural (by Western standards, I suppose!) and a better match to the Gamelan players.
All I know is I’m starting to feel a bit happier. No! A lot happier!
Wow! Do I know how to pick ‘em! The next CD is Bix Beiderbecke and the Chicago Cornets. 20s and 30s music played by the greatest Jazz legends of that time. Happy, bouncy music! Brilliant! My cares drift away. I don’t know if I even need the last CD to fill that spiritual void created by endless paperwork and endless regulation.
It’ll hold till Monday, that final step, as long as The Check clears by Wednesday.
What!? Get those thoughts out of your mind for now, weggieboy! It will clear, and this next “final step” will be done. No need to become stressed again!
The black crowned night heron comes to mind when I think of “crepuscular”, meaning active just before and after dawn and twilight. That’s when you’ll find this handsome little heron in the marshes and lakes out in the Nebraska Sandhills.
Once I decided it was time to have a cat companion, I had an idea they were active at night, or, at least, were active sometimes during the day, or why would they become the current favorite companion animal? If you just wanted a fur ball, you could get a Pomeranian. They’re cute! “Doggy”! Companionable! Diurnal! And perfect hand warmers in winter time!
I did have some sense of what I wanted in a cat. A neck warmer, perhaps, a lump that was active enough to engage me in cat fun, but not so active as to interrupt things like writing this blog. I mean, I didn’t want a needy cat, I wanted one that was copasetic, comfortable, a purrbunny in fact. A cat that had a dog-like love of attention, but a cat-like independence (i.e. didn’t attach itself to my leg and never leave me alone).
Nor did I want one that demanded so much of me that I didn’t have a life at home short of doing the cat’s bidding, a little dictator!
Louie’s veterinarian estimates him to be five years old, which makes him a mature cat but not an old one. I like to think of him as a 30-something cat, just embarking on a new job, that is to be a perfect companion for me.
And it means settling in here, learning that 2:30 AM isn’t feeding time, Louie. (“Eat some crunchies to tide you over, cat!”). Learning that the scratching board will have endless supplies of catnip pellets if you use it, Louie. That you don’t have to be up all the time I am, but best sources say I’m supposed to give you 12-1/2 minutes of attention a day for you to be properly socialized. Please, let’s not make that 50% at night when you hog up half my bed, and 50% when I find you asleep on the guest bedroom bed and wake you up for some kitty quality time! And help me with this cat toy business. What is it you need and want? Hunh? I can’t continue to buy cat toys you don’t use.
In the meantime, my job is to give my kitty “wuv”. I don’t care if he is crepuscular!
I had a call from the veterinarian this morning, 8:00 o’clock.
Freckles had died during the night. They were very sorry. They- the vet who spayed Freckles and another vet, who is an old friend of mine from over at the last place I lived- would do an autopsy on her, would let me know what they learned. She would be cremated. Would I like the ashes (“No.”) Would it be OK if they spread them, then, around a tree they have in front of the clinic? (“Yes.”)
Freckles and Me
Who accepts death immediately? I fight denial as I type. She was such a sweet little cat. She was so gentle, I’d hoped to take her over to the care center, for her to become the cat version of the dog, Benji. Benji belongs to one of the staff, and everyone loves him, he’s such a sweet little dog. See the pattern? She’d be a therapy cat or just something sweet and alive to cuddle in old arms and hands. No way can she be dead!
Freckles died. Is dead. Won’t come home. She will be cremated, and her ashes will be scattered round a tree that grows in front of the clinic. I like that. I drive by the tree many times a month. Her new home.
The vet reported the findings of the autopsy to me. Clear lungs. (I’d mentioned she sneezed a lot.) Normal kidneys. (She was a young cat, her life measured in weeks.) Nothing out of order where she’d been opened surgically. (The vets at the clinic all have great reputations, for cause.) In short, Freckles died of an “undetermined cause”.
In the human mind, though, “undetermined cause” is the start of outrageous speculation!
What of her three weeks in the pound, listening to and smelling the barking dogs? The stress of surgery plus the return to a cage while she recovered? That the recovery cage was surrounded on two sides by recovering dogs? Did they bark? Did she cower in her cage, frightened she was returning to this hell?
When the mind runs wild, anything is an answer. Stress. That’s my guess. It’s as good as “undetermined cause”, though I grant the two veterinarians involved in the autopsy the credibility that comes of their long years of study and practice as veterinarians.
Louie and Me
What next?
Louie still lives with me. He is a charming, quirky cat. I will use him to fine-tune my knowledge of cat companionship. When I feel I’m suitably trained, Louie and I will adopt another pound cat. Or maybe a dog. No, a cat.
Today has been sad, there have been tears. A little death can do that to your day.
p.s. While I write, Louie holds vigil at the backyard window above my computer desk. Several times every night, he sits in the window, then backs out, comes over to me for a little loving. Or to stretch out over my mouse, mouse hand, and part of my keyboard, a good spot to snooze, by Louie standards. We’ll get on just fine.
I did it! I became the proud human companion of two cats!
The first one, Freckles, is a sweet, grey, tiger-striped tabbycat. She is so little and agreeable, a real cuddlebunny that was born not too far from where I live. Parentage? Someone’s unspayed pet and a stray, unneutered tom. Only a DNA test can tell.
Several of Freckles’ litter were placed in homes before her humans decided they’d run out of options. The remaining two kittens went to the city pound. Or was it three? In the pound, where dogs barked noisily in the same room cats cowered in terror, I didn’t hear some of the details. All I saw was this little furball with these big sweet eyes. This is a cat I can enjoy! Oh yes, if I hadn’t chosen this kitten, she would have been euthanized the next day, as was her sibling….
I put Freckles into the carrier I bought that morning. She barely took up any space, she’d squeezed herself into such a tight ball. The poor creature was shell-shocked after listening to dogs bark almost three weeks of her young life. Fortunately for future found companion animals, a building permit posted on the door notes a remodelling is in the plans. The animal control officer says the two species will be separated by a wall. Whew!
The first day home, Freckles was clingy, a frightened little mouse of a cat. I made a tent of the blanket I had over my lap, and put the recliner all the way back. I stroked my little kitty pal and was rewarded with an endless purr! Later, she tasted my arm, then licked my beard until she’d licked the whole left side of my face. The bearded part I mean. She finds the beard facinating, usually dragging her claws through it several times before our bonding sessions end. A few times, I fell asleep, the little purr motor making an agreeable rumble on my chest!
The next day, I arranged to pick up the second cat, a large, orange,tiger-striped tabbycat. We’d made acquaintence the day before when I picked up Freckles. She appears in the attached video. What a personality this cat has! Her favorite napping spot is under my computer desk lamp. In fact, she’s sleeping with her head on my mouse hand as I type. She looked like a princess sitting in the carrier that worked so well the day before. Luckily, the animal control officer lent me a larger carrier to get her home, or I would lost her before I got her home.
It isn’t as easy as you might think to determine the sex of a cat in winter fur. Let’s say the “naughty parts” are pretty well covered. Lucy can only be a female or a neutered male. I don’t think, at age 61, I’ve mis-sexed her, but I once did make a mistake calling Woody, a neutered male, “Miss Kitty” until her humans told me he wasn’t a she. Hunh?!
Whereas Freckles is a quiet cat, Lucy is madly loquacious. The first day home, she about drove me nuts with her loud meowing. That came mostly to a stop by day two, after she found all of the apartment features of interest to a cat. I had her underfoot the whole time. I watched as she demonstrated how a cat can open a shower door. (Mental note to self: Don’t shower with Lucy in the bathroom. EVER!) Then…well, the cat can open everything from cabinet doors to folding closet doors. Give her a television remote and..!Freckles was as overwhelmed as I Lucy’s first day with us. Lucy walked up to Freckles and hissed. Later, Freckles tried to walk up to Lucy. Again Lucy hissed.
Rats, I thought. I wanted Lucy to help little Freckles regain her cathood, show her the ropes, and this does not look good! I mean, little Freckles found and used the litter box right away, but she didn’t cover it. P.S. I can’t imagine how something that big came out of such a little cat. I mean to tell you!
The first night with Freckles was peaceful. The first night with Lucy! Meow-meow-meow! All night. I closed my bedroom door before I went to bed. More meowing until I got up and let her in. I sleep on a single bed. I am comfortable on it. Add a ten pound cat, and her constant shifting around to get a warmer or more comfortable spot…. I slept fitfully. Yes, little catnaps.
Day three for Freckles, and two for Lucy. Freckles, who had set up safe haven under a bureau with just enough clearance for a little cat, greeted the day by stalking and charging this scary strange cat! Lucy didn’t hiss. All is well. Kitties have adjusted well to their new home. Lucy still talks a lot, but I must be better trained as it isn’t all day long. Their personalities are showing up more and more. Freckles has a murderous love affair going on with a cat toy on a pole. The little mouse must have been killed fifty times or more by now. This is her favorite toy. She played so hard with it today that she’s asleep now under a SpongeBob SquarePants pillow my Seattle sister gave me. Lucy still is asleep under my desk lamp, cramping my style and my mouse arm. She just stretched, looked up at me to verify I was still there to cling to, and went back to sleep.
Sleep. Tonight bodes well for sleep. I’m going to try it. Lucy! I’m going to bed! Little Freckles is asleep under SpongeBob on the couch now, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I wake up with two cats tomorrow morning. Need to get a bigger bed!
“Katzenjammer” is German for (roughly) wailing cats, which, as anyone who sleeps in summer with open windows knows is a dreadful, piercing, yammering yowl from Hell – or two cats in “love”.
The product of the Katzenjammer frequently is a litter of kittens.
Did you know that the female and male cats mate frequently when the female is in estruous? That each kitten in a litter can have a different father? That a female can become pregnant as young as five months old, bear up to five litters a year? That cats don’t go through menopause, but can reproduce up to death? That if you keep kittens past sexual maturity, they will bred with any available cat of the opposite sex, including each other or one of their parents?
Zack Scott recently posted this important video on adoption of found pets.
You’ve seen the cat hoarder on “Animal Planet” with a house so polluted with cat urine and feces from an over-population of cats that the house has to be demolished. One cat hoarder, one pregnant cat, sufficient time- as little as a year -and that’s all it takes! Most of the cats from these houses are either sick or have to be euthanized.
There’s a mistaken notion that letting your female cat have one litter before spaying results in a better-adjusted, healthier cat for the long term. Veterinarians dispute this notion. Nor will your cat companion get fat in consequence- unless you over-feed it!
In a world where half of the cats and dogs ending up in pounds are euthanized as humanely as possible (which is killed nonetheless), it does not make any sense to allow your pets to reproduce on your whim or by accident. Again: male pets should be neutered, females should be spayed.
Most of you reading this are, I hope, people who do neuter or spay your pet, do take the necessary steps to assure your pet is happy and safe, do get all the required shots at the required time, do license your pet if required by the jurisdiction where you live, do love and provide for your pet’s physical and emotional needs. The Lord bless you people!
The ones who most need to read this probably still don’t get it, if they read this far. More’s the shame.
Zack Scott’s excellent appeal to adopt found animals focused me on a long-time need. I’ve considered all changes adopting a found cat will cause me, not to mention will cause the cat. I’m not the easiest fellow to live with! Ha!
Here’s a prototype cat resting on my shoulders. Looks pretty danged good!
The big question is: Am I ready to have a cat companion? What do I need to have in place before I even bring a kitten or cat home? Do I need to cat-proof (ha!) my apartment first? I know Dieffenbachias can poison cats, so I need to find a home for that plant at least. Do I have any other plants that can harm a cat? Am I financially able to take care of a cat? Pay for spaying or neutering? Provide adequate toys, attention, and amusements for the cat? At my age and with my health issues, am I likely to outlive the cat? I mean, what needs to happen in my life to make cat adoption a bad idea?
I think I can do better with a mature or very mellow young cat that likes to be cuddled. I knew a cat like that, a neutered cat that belonged to my neighbors. We got along very well indeed, and he established in my mind that I am not only a dog person but a cat person as well.
Naturally, then, I e-mailed my sister in Seattle because she has a tuxedo cat (Sox), and knowledge of what I need to consider before adopting a cat. This is a big step! Her response helps me feel positive about going ahead with the adoption.
I’m almost through assembling the necessities for happy cathood. Mine will be an indoor cat, spayed or neutered, that may be allowed supervised trips outdoors on a harness leash. Maybe.
Next time- I hope!- a blog entry about a new found cat.
It’s Global Handwashing Day! Well, it was yesterday!
That’s a big deal for an immuno-suppressed person like me or my fellow weggies around the world. Can I state it any more clearly: people who don’t wash their hands after using toilets touch surfaces you can’t imagine, leaving a little bit of- what’s the technical term?- shit on each of those surfaces. Maybe not so much as anyone can see, but enough that anyone touching surfaces the “dirty handers” touched better beware!
How can you be aware of someone who didn’t wash their hands after using the toilet? Unless you observe them directly, you can’t! So…
People with normal immune system might suffer a mild case of diarrhea from transferring “toilet” germs to their mouths (eating without washing their hands). A person with a suppressed immune system, on the other hand, may well develop a more severe form of the same disease. Even an immuno-suppressed person can forget to wash hands before eating a mid-day treat!
If you are around an immuno-suppressed person or are one, they and you know that you can’t count on people taking reasonable, ordinary steps to prevent transfer of disease to others. For that reason alone, immuno-suppressed people get in the habit of what may seem to be compulsive hand washing.
So what? Because reasonable courtesy, your health, and the health of others depends upon all people washing their hands after using the toilet. People who spread colds and flu are another category, but we’ll stick with toilet training for now. Ha!
The videos (above) are ones that Sangye, a weggie friend, posted on the Wegener’s Granulomatosis Support Forum today. If it seems aimed at children, consider the possibility that people of any age who don’t wash their hands after using the toilet may be mental first graders.
I know that writing this, I felt like I was revisiting my first grade orientation. The Superintendent of Schools isolated us boys from the girls and gave what I came to call the Annual Toilet Talk! This blog, I’m sorry to say, duplicates some of the message and a lot of the language of those talks. Wash yer dang hands, blinketydangblastit!
*** Aside from the toilet talk, I want to note that Sangye writes and manages one of the better blogs I am aware of, particularly in matters of national health reform. I highly recommend her blog for its compassion, humor, intelligence, informativeness, even spirituality. Here’s the link:
This entry has a religious content that may be offensive to non-Christians or non-believers. That’s fair warning, I think. More than any other entry I’ve written, this one touches on matters of my faith. As such, I hope it burns brightly with the guidance of the Holy Spirit
I have strong feelings about what should be done to people who abuse spouses or children, their own or not. I suppose it is rooted in my Christian faith, the Golden Rule, yet people from other backgrounds and faiths stand with me: spousal and child abuse must end, and the perpetrators must be dealt with severely. Death? No, that they be removed from decent society. Forever.
I am concerned that that statement has an internal contradiction. Shouldn’t I love the sinner, if not the crime? As a Christian, that’s the path I am committed to, yet…!
I pray for the victims I know of, of course, adult or child. Those that appear in the paper, at any rate, as part of the summary of District Court proceedings, I pray for. I pray for those I learn of because a victim comes to ask for prayers of my Prayer Team partner and me after church. I pray that I always remember to ask the right questions before that victim leaves the prayer room: Have you talked with the pastor about this? If not, will you? And so on. Abuse is a complex issue that needs a gentle, accurate, and sensitive course of action.
How can prayer help? To those without faith or a different sense of prayer, the answer may be it doesn’t help, it can’t help, it’s a waste of time.
To those of faith, the answer is prayer is a living conversation with Our Heavenly Father, that He hears our prayers, and those prayers are answered in ways with many times we miss if our ability to discern the answer is clouded by doubt, non-belief, naysayers in the victim’s circle of support. Or discerned in changes in the way people respond to the situation that brought about the prayer. Just as we don’t always get what we want on this plane, we think we know what’s best for us when we approach the Lord in prayer, ignoring the possibility that He has a different direction in mind for our lives. If we can discern it.
Another way prayer helps is to unload a terrible burden Our Lord, on the shoulders of others, if only for a few quiet moments in the prayer room. Typically, those on the Prayer Team assignment for any given week continue to offer support and prayers for those who sought prayer from them. It’s the humane and Christian thing to do. It’s a way of restoring some small corner of a victim’s life, one where people offer hope, not destroy self-worth and offer nothing but despair. It’s a light touch on the shoulder, a hug, a reassurance that the victim isn’t the cause of the abuse.
In all this prayer, too often, in my anger, I forget the most important prayer: for the abusers. It also is the most difficult because of my williness to judge, not forgive, to hate, to fall outside of Christian love and forgiveness.
But I try.
And I ask God to forgive me, too, for my hard heart, to guide me toward acceptance of His wisdom and ultimate judgement of us each, including the abusers in this life.
I followed a link the other day, a seriously addictive one.
DailyBooth. You hear of it? It’s sort of a Twitter, I guess, only you post a daily photo of yourself. Failure to do so results in an e-mail letting you know “it’s time to post a new photo”.
Yes! A new photo.
“Leaf me alone!”
On one hand, I hate taking self portraits. Seems retarded and self-defeating for a guy so anti-photo. On the other, I have a sweet new Gravatar because I had to come up with something “fresh” to satisfy the addiction! (Look to the right- I’m wearing an orange shirt with a weggie slogan on it.)
I’ve never been a happy person in front of a camera, though I’ve often been the person behind one. Strategy, you know: Can’t be photographed (theoretically…) if youhave the locked and loaded camera.
Then comes DailyBooth. And webcams!
Erm. Maybe a little preliminary build up. Zack Scott. He lives in Oklahoma, is married to Ashley, has two cats (Otto and Egon), and a tiny chihuahua that is the object of cleaning by one of the cats (Egon). Cleaning a la cat tongue.
I’m seriously off track here. I think it is the Twitter ~ DailyBooth mind set short circuiting both my attention span and several layers of mental acuity. I mean, you know of my other addiction to Japanese cat videos. It’s documented. It’s fierce. I even have a “Favorite” link to Maru the “jump in the box” cat featured in an earlier blog. What? Oh yes! You want me to snap out of it and get to the point. If there is one for this paragraph, let alone the whole blog.
Watch this Zack Scott classic video while I try to figure out where I am!
The trail, as best I can determine, is that I followed Zack Scott on YouTube. He started a second or third channel for lighter stuff (animal videos I’m addicted to) called “Zack Scott’s Fun Club”. He set up a link to another activity on Facebook, then to PhotoBooth.
All is a blur. PhotoBooth! Staying up all night checking out who’s posted a new photo. Accumulating a few followers, finding people you want to follow! If you don’t think we are pack animals, sign up for DailyBooth.
There’s a bit of voyeurism in it. Some stalking. Leads to new masters of video, which Zack Scott is. Friendships? I hesitate to call them that, yet many people do become genuine friends through these social networking sites. A little bit creepy. Entertaining. And addictive!
(At the ends of the videos, there’s a place to subscribe to Zack Scott videos. Do it! Zack Scott establishes American cat videos as equal to all the Japanese cat videos posted on YouTube. Don’t try to fight the addiction!)
I did it again. I went over to the care center to help with BINGO.
I have fun, actually, and people who have disabilities benefit from the efforts of all of us volunteers who come over to hear, see, or place markers for them. Most of the people there are friends by now anyway, so I benefit from the social interaction. I mean, I can’t watch Japanese kitty videos all day, now, can I?!
Umm. Well, I could, but love of the people, my mother and father’s generation, keeps bringing me back!
Doris gave me a beautiful coffee mug with flowers- I love flowers!- and a little message for me: “A Friend is a person with whom you can be yourself.” Doris is in a wheelchair so hugs and kisses are a bit harder to give, but I said, “Doris, Thank you very much! The least I can do is give you a kiss.” Which I did!
The gift of the cup is only part of what I gain from volunteering. Just as the title hints, the rest of this story is the insight I gained about the application of Henry Ford’s principle of the right tool.
I jabber, and jabber, and jabber in the video (sorry!) yet the importance of having and using the right tool comes out.
Henry Ford’s observation was that “If you need a tool and don’t buy it, you pay for it anyway.”
From a practical standpoint, it may not seem that that principle means much in a non-industrial context.
Yet think about it. The story of the foam bats (in the video) illustrates the principle very well. Without the foam bats (the right tool), the people most in need of exercise are unable to hit the balloon. Consequently, they lose more and more flexibility and range of motion. They pay for the lack of the right tool.
With the right tool, they are able to participate more in the business of batting the balloon around the circle, they gain range of motion and flexibility, they have fun because they are actually playing with those of us who are in better shape, and the whole circle gains by seeing these improvements in their friends.
