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Yesterday, when I came home from work, I was greeted very heartily by all the animals. Then I went upstairs to discover the contents of a litter box and a full trashcan scattered through the bathroom out into the hallway. When I went to bed, I discovered that Ivan had, once again, leaked all over my bedspread and blanket.
So I'm instituting some draconian, but desperate, new changes in this household.
It is a *privilege* NOT A RIGHT to sleep on my bed (one not granted to Mabel, so I find it very perplexing that whenever I come home, all Mabel's toys have somehow fallen UP onto my bed. Obviously this is because there's a reverse gravitational pull around the vortex of my bed, because I'm SURE Mabel wouldn't be up there the minute I leave for work, where I earn money through the sweat of my brow to keep them all in macrobiotic, hypoallergenic, taste-tested, high quality kibble.)
It is a *privilege* NOT A RIGHT to go upstairs and hang out near garbage cans and litter boxes and breathe in deeply the sweet sweet smell of cat poop.
It is a *privilege* NOT A RIGHT to run up and down the stairs, making an enormous racket and playing games only you really understand.
With that in mind, I will be blocking access upstairs. Ivan now sits on the top step, looking at me reproachfully through the grating of the pet gate, saying "mweop? mweop?" but I am steadfast in this resolution. Because I feel I have no choice, really.
Unless Ivan would prefer to don the Freedom Trouser and hang out in the Cage of Difficult Decisions? No? I didn't think so.
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This morning, I had fresh bread baked by my neighbor, Charlotte. She made it to thank me for watching her daughter, Alice, while she and Matt went out for dinner. So I was rewarded for doing something I wanted to do. For lunch, I had a quinoa salad with yellow peppers, corn, and cilantro. A brought that by last night, so I could try it. It was ohmygod fabulous. For dinner, I'm heating up some eggplant parmesan, prepared for me by Shannon because she had extra and because she appreciated that I helped take care of Kermit, who has laminitis, while she was on-call. Once again, something I'm happy to do, and so the food just seems like a perfect and unexpected treat. I love it when people cook for me. It seems so completely generous. I think: I exist in this network of people who take care of me and let me take care of them. I never really wanted anything resembling a traditional family, but that doesn't mean I don't want to belong to a group of people who have each others' backs, and today, each time I ate something, I felt like I had found a part of what I have always wanted, and I felt very, very lucky. Tags: dinner, happiness
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Salsa was fabulous tonight. Aside from a narrowly avoided wardrobe malfunction (dancing with Garincha with a strapless top = dangerous) averted with a McGyver-like repair with bobby pins, painter's tape, and two safety pins, and aside from discovering when I got home that the bandage on my face from today's very minor, but apparently still bleeding, surgery was leaking blood down my cheek, I danced some awfully good dances. Brett is back from a six-month motorcycle trip around the country. He's always been a fabulous dancer, but his style of leading is so different now -- more forceful, more playful, happier. Joshua and I had a first great dance, in part, I think, because we are both happy. He just got engaged and I had a lovely night last night. I only stepped on one person's toe, which is great, considering that I've been known to grab breasts and get my fingers wedged up people's noses when I dance. Ron bounced me around like I was a pinball. All so fucking great. Tags: salsa
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This morning, for just a moment before waking up completely, I could feel myself back in France. Even in the summer, mornings were cold and it was hard to emerge from the little cocoon of warmth I'd created under the blankets. It wasn't just the warmth. I didn't want to go outside, where things were interesting, but felt dangerous. Where I often didn't understand what people were saying and I was lonely and anxious. The dorm mother, Josianne, would go up and down the hallways of our dorm saying "good morning" in a singsonging voice. I had been excused from certain classes, and got in the habit of saying "J'ai pas cours" when I heard her. Even after I moved back to America, I would mutter that phrase if anyone tried to wake me up. But if I did have class, I raced down two flights of stairs to the shower room. There were four available showers for our side of the dorm. I figure that was a ratio of about one shower per fifteen students. Usually there would be a line already by the time I got there. The showers were in little closets and you turned the water on by pushing a flat button just at waist level. The water would run for a minute or two and then you had to turn it back on. So we all got used to repeatedly bumping our asses against the button to keep a steady stream of water. Or at least I did. I guess I never really knew what my dormmates did in the privacy of their little shower closets. I'm not going to lie. There were many French women in my dorm who didn't see the value of showering daily. Lily hardly ever showered. She smelled really, really bad, but was sort of lovely and awkward the way budding lesbians can be. She almost always wore a man's hat and, when Josianne finally convinced her that she should take a shower, she came by to show us her hat and hair under a big clear plastic shower cap. Then she marched off to the shower stalls holding her soap and towel like sidearms. I remember how it felt to be naggingly cold on those mornings, and then how I felt the warm water hit my body in that little closet. I felt cocooned again in warmth, and wanted very desperately never to leave that small, narrow, warm, wet space for the wider, colder space of the dorm and then the cold morning outside. But we only had a few minutes each, because other girls were waiting for their turn. I had a nervous breakdown of sorts when I lived in France. Before the big one, there was a smaller foreshadowing. When I first got to the school, one of the deans told me conversationally that it was either windy or rainy, but never both. One day, it was both. The rain fell in sideways sheets, unpredictable, wriggling in between my coat collar and my skin. It blew into my eyes and against my back. I felt something like panic and despair. I found a small, recessed storage space between the inner and outer walls of the dorm and crawled into it. I lay there curled in on myself with my head against some clutter and thought, I'm really here. By "here," I meant: in a foreign country where I barely spoke the language, lost in rules and cultures and languages that all felt strange and unpredictable. So I shrunk down my space into another little cocoon, this one a little more solid, and waited to see what would happen next. Eventually I felt a little better, able to leave my small, warm space, and came back out into the dorm to join my peers. People had been looking for me; they had been worried. Josianne understood, however. "This sort of thing happens," she told me. And she was right. But after that day, I felt my need for a cocoon of space grow less primal. I still wanted to be warm when I was cold; I still wanted to take long, hot showers; I still wanted to stay in my snug little bed, but only because they felt good, not because I was afraid to go outside. Tags: college cevenol, remembrance of things past
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Shannon is away on vacation, so you know something has to go wrong with one of her horses. Last time, it was Kermit slicing off part of the sole of his foot. This time, it's Grace. She came into the barn for her nap looking fine. When I brought her out 2.5 hours later, she was dramatically lame on her left hind foot. She had heat and swelling in her leg, but not in her hoof. I put her out in the paddock to see if she'd walk out of it (as she sometimes does), and after 15 minutes, the swelling was way down, but there was still heat. I called Jill, who was out for a ride, and she said she'd start to ride back. Once she had her horse settled in, she came out to check on Grace. Then we decided to call Shannon, since I'd promised to call if anything concerned me. She asked us to take Grace's temp, which was up. We decided it was probably cellulitis, which meant we have to start her on bute, wrap her legs, and keep checking her temperature. If it spikes or if she goes dramatically more lame, we call the vet. If not, she just hangs out in the paddock area with Rosie. I got home after 9 and tomorrow is my first day back at school. Good thing I got my last syllabus finished this morning, before all this happened. Today was a strange way to end my summer vacation. Morning at a coffee shop with Susan, working on our writing; a visit to the doctor to get my ears unclogged so I can hear my alarm clock; a quick clean of the house so it's not chaotic when my boarder gets here this evening; a trip to the barn and then the drama. Now I'm sort of restless and not sure what to do with myself. Read? Watch TV? Poke around the intertubes? Watch my snail explore his new palatial digs? Tags: barn
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When B and I broke up after an almost six-year relationship, I made what was probably not a very funny comment about how I'd end up some lady with stacks of newspapers and lots of cats named Mittens and Boots. I'm not sure what I expected him to say in response, but I never expected what I got. He put his head on the steering wheel of his car and started to sob. "Don't you think I worry about that every day?" he cried. No. I didn't. I guess I should be grateful. Comments like that -- and his general resentment that I had arranged my whole life around giving Daisy her heart medications every 6-8 hours -- made it easier to walk away from what was otherwise a pretty perfect relationship. But I find that comment haunts me still. If I adopt a fourth cat -- one with severe enough cerebellar hypoplasia that I pretty regularly have to clean her own shit off her -- have I become a cat lady? If I foster that momcat and her five kittens, have I become a cat lady? If I pick this cat up off the street instead of just walking by, have I become a cat lady? If I scoop up the cat just hit by a car -- a cat whose eye has been knocked out of its socket, but who still struggles -- to bring her to VHUP to be euthanized so she doesn't have to die in the street, have I become a cat lady? If I am seen with ubiquitous cat hair on my clothing and don't care enough to brush it off, have I become a cat lady? If I embark on the fool's errand of trying to save 3 kittens no more than 3 days old with faces so sealed that they look wizened, and umbilical cords still poking from their bellies, have I become a cat lady? If I feel a heavy ache in my chest when I know that each will certainly die; if I grieve each death; if Julie and I dig miniature graves behind my house and wrap each kitten in a leaf and whisper a little apology to its spirit, ask it to look for Daisy and Raphael and Reba and Simon, have I become a cat lady? If I get angry at other people who think the solution to the problem of a stray or abandoned or injured cat is to call citykitties without realizing that citykitties is people like us who clean up the messes so they are spared the all-night care, the driving around, the rabies and tetanus shots after a few hours in the ER, the watching lives end and the digging of the graves, and if I rail against people who don't spay and neuter their pets, or don't help, or don't even think this is a problem, or whatever, have I become a cat lady? There's a difference, of course, between cat ladies and collectors. Between those of us who choose to face the problem of unwanted animals in trouble and those who have a pathological need to keep all those animals. I can list the names of my most recent fosters: Hannah, Clarence, Pia, Elise, James, Roswell, Trevor, Corduroy, Caverly, Rosemary, Rhubarb, Zucchini, Fennel, Arugula, Cilantro, and (currently) Button and Pistachio, and the list is a sort of protection: I don't keep them all. But why do I need to convince people of that fact? What is the shame lurking underneath? One of the reasons why I arranged my life around giving Daisy her medications for the year she lived after her heart failure was because she deserved it. Another reason was that I loved her so deeply and she loved me with such absolute conviction that I could not imagine our lives unintertwined. And I did it because it was the right thing to do. But another reason was that when she died -- as I knew she would eventually -- I could know that I had done everything I could. And maybe that's why I rescue cats. Because I know that I am doing everything I can. Even when something looks like a fool's errand, us cat ladies try anyway. Because that list serves another purpose as well: those are the cats who made it -- they arrived here sick and skinny and scared and covered in fleas, and they left here healthy and happy and ready to start the wonderful lives they are living. So three little unnamed kittens lie buried behind my house, but Hannah, Clarence, Pia, Elise, James, Roswell, Trevor, Corduroy, Caverly, Rosemary, Rhubarb, Zucchini, Arugula, and Cilantro made it. And Fennel and Button and Pistachio will make it too. And that list makes me proud to be a cat lady. Tags: cat lady concerns, citykitties
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There's not much I can say about what it's like to have three newborn kittens you very desperately want to save but know will probably die that ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) daphnep hasn't already said. I read that post in her apartment, with the striped kitten nestled against my neck,* after the gray one with the longer tail had died and I had gone to the emergency room for rabies and tetanus booster shots after the momcat very understandably bit me and Ellen had called to say that she was taking the rest of her kittens away, so we were really in this kitten-raising dilemma for good now. So let me tell you instead that the stripey cat nursed like a fiend at 4 am and then pooped at 7:30 am. And the gray cat nursed a little less, but screams like a banshee. And I was wearing one my my THIS IS WHAT A CAT LADY LOOKS LIKE t-shi rts with blood spatters on it when I went to the emergency room, which the doctors and nurses found pretty amusing. So I sent Lydia this mobile photo:  And Lydia called me this morning to remind me that her cat, Gil, was a bottle baby as well. She'd never told me before that when she found Gil, he was still attached to the placenta, in the road, screaming as loud as he could. She brought him to a community health center, where they were having GLBT day. Someone there cut off the placenta with surgical scissors and Lydia brought the kitten home. When she went back the next day to say he's lived through the night, someone there said she should name him "Gay." Here's Gil now:  And then she reminded me that I was doing the best I could and that I was doing this because it was how I paid forward the love of my original cats, Daisy, Raphael and Reba. And I thought: I can live with that. *  (that's the kitten on my chest, taken from the side) (yes. This is technically a cats and racks photo, only the cat is a very very small kitten and my rack is strangely missing) Tags: cat lady concerns, citykitties, photos
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I went to the health care town hall meeting with Susan. We arrived 2 hours early, ready for hordes of rude mobs, but there wasn't much in that department. The man ahead of us ranted and raved about socialized medicine, although it was ok that he had medicare because he deserved it because he worked, unlike all the rest of us in line. Ok, whatever. The man behind us was a quiet, polite (and very much outnumbered) Toomey-supporting Republican. He had a bunch of Toomey stuff and didn't hand out any of it. But that was it. Until the LaRouche fanatics showed up with hundreds of xeroxed photos of Obama with a Hitler moustache and obnoxious signs. The LaRouche wingnut took one look at me and said "You must be one of those Soros druggies." I said I wasn't with Soros, but I sure liked him for supporting harm reduction. Then I asked Susan to take my photo with the wingnut and she did:  After a long long time, we went to the town hall meeting with 798 other people. Zowie was it hot and humid. But we all packed in there and Sestak came in and said he'd stay until the cows came home to answer all our questions. I admired his zeal. Me, I lasted until around 8 and then Susan, Deb, Jeff, and I went out for dinner and drinks. But here's what I want to tell you about the meeting: it was boring. People asked questions. Sestak answered them. A few people tried to make a scene and Sestak KNEW THEM BY NAME and let them speak and then pretended that, in their rantings and ravings, there were questions, and he answered those questions and asked his aide to show the relevant passages to the wingnut and we went on to the next question. This was a meeting about policy. It was boring. As it should be. I left feeling giddy. A BORING town hall meeting! Things are as they should be in Philadelphia. The city that booed Santa Claus had a boring policy wonk conversation about health care. Take that, America! Tags: photos, photos of me
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Yesterday, when Button jumped on my lap and touched his paw to my face, I thought: oh my, he really does have bear paws. Then I looked at the other paw and noticed that something was amiss:  I called Lou and Lori, and we wondered if Button had maybe gotten stung. So we gave him half a benadryl and I resumed my puttering around. Until I got out to the deck and saw the other half of the story. Here, Buttom models his worthy, if dead, opponent:  Then he tried to eat the poor dead critter. His paw doesn't seem to hurt at all and he is unfettered by any sort of learning curve, so don't feel bad for him. Feel bad for the bumblebee. Tags: button, cat lady concerns, citykitties, photos
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There's been an apparently feral cat lurking around my house for over a month now. He wouldn't let me get within 20 feet of him and I watched him get thinner and scruffier. As I walked Mabel, I would talk to him, but he wasn't listening. And then, one day, he did. He swallowed his fear, emerged from the shrubbery, walked up to me, meowing the entire time, and touched his nose to my fingers. Mabel walked up slowly and sniffed his butt (what did you expect? she's a dog!). The cat turned around and touched noses with Mabel. What did you expect? I picked him up and carried him into the sunroom, where he hid under the chair, meowing the entire time. After a day or two, he started hanging out on the chair. After a visit to the vet, he got the all clear and joined the family. He was so diplomatic! So polite! And sleeping on beds and sofas! That just blew his mind. Today, he went back into the sunroom to revisit that chair:    Stashi is waiting for that perfect person to come and give him his forever home. If you know someone who is worthy of a lovely, kind, calm cat to revel in his or her lap, please tell them about Stashi. He deserves a life of luxury after his horribly frightening and lonely time on the streets. Tags: cat lady concerns, citykitties, photos, pistachio
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