The Great Escape

SodaBoy and I are cat people--we have always had cats. We easily make friends with unknown kitties, sometimes surprising their human companions, who had expected their shy cat to hide from our intruding presence. We make friends with cats wherever we travel. I still remember the names of cats we befriended on a vacation to California in 1999 or 2000: Peppermint in Scotia, and Seymour in Port Costa; I can't remember what year we took the trip, but I clearly recall the names of the kitties.

One convenience of cats as pets versus dogs is their independence. Certainly when taking "real" trips, like the one to California, arrangements must be made. For that trip, Meshoe stayed with my grandmother. On other trips, our friend P. stayed at the apartment, looking after Meshoe and Elijah both. But for weekend jaunts, our cats have always been able to fend for themselves with little more than a fresh litter box, bowls heaped with dry food, and a multitude of water bowls perchance one should be spilled.

However, with Rhea and Reemsy, things have been different. Initially it was their tiny helplessness that caused us to dump them on my parents for a long weekend of camping, their need for constant medication. Even after they shook off the parasites and accompanying meds, there were issues with Rhea eating properly. She tricked us for a while, crunching away and appearing to eat the dry food, but when you got up close and watched her, most of it was falling right back out of her mouth. We had to start feeding her canned food, and of course you can't set out big bowls of that and take off for the weekend, so our friend M. came and stayed at the house when we visited SodaBoy's parents at Thanksgiving.

Since then, I have transitioned away from canned food (ugh) and I put warm water in dry food to make it easier for Rhea to eat. She loves the gravy train, but it does nothing for the goal of regaining our weekend independence, since someone has to be here to moisten it for her twice a day. SodaBoy insists she is eating dry dry food now, as snacks in between squishified helpings. So for our trip this past weekend, we thought perhaps we could get away with asking my sister to drop in a few times and dole out some soft food for Rhea just in case. Rhea and the eating situation turned out just fine.

It was Beemsy who caused the problem. I had closed all the windows in the house, for security and in case of rain, except one upstairs that the cats love to sit in and sniff the breeze. Sis came Thursday after work and all was well. When she returned Friday evening, however, there was only one cat. Beemsy had vanished. Sis tore the house apart looking for the cat, to no avail. She finally discovered the screen had been torn out in that one open window. Beemsy had literally jumped ship.

We have no cell phones, so enjoyed our weekend with no knowledge of the missing cat. When we arrived home, we immediately noticed the lack of the Beems, and quickly figured out she had escaped by the bowls of food and water placed on the screened in back porch. Beemsy returned to SodaBoy's worried whistle within fifteen minutes, a little wilder perhaps, but unharmed.

But my poor sister! I feel terrible about the worry she went through, she and the friend who stayed at Thanksgiving both, as M. was enlisted in a fruitless search party on Saturday. After the trauma, I am not sure I could ever ask either of them to look after our silly cats again. Obviously I learned never to leave a window open in our absence, but nothing else good came from the great escape.

These cats are trouble.

Friday Cat Blogging

Friday Cat Blogging: Guilty?

Friday Cat Blogging

Nervous Nelly

We bought a fir tree from a local farmer this weekend, and set it up, but just with lights so far. This is the first holiday season for the kittens, and we aren't yet sure how they will handle the temptations. They have already proven themselves suspect by pulling at branches and chewing on lit bulbs. Squirting them with water seems to work only when we are home to wield the spray bottle, as evidenced by a broken lamp and shattered ceramics.

We have been unplugging the tree lights before leaving the cats unsupervised, and I am leaning towards skipping the most fragile ornaments this year. SodaBoy complained that those are the nicest ones, and of course, I agree (which is why I don't want to subject them to the spastic enthusiasms of these silly kitties). Our other cats never posed a threat to trees or ornaments. My hope is by next year these two will have settled down some.

I feel a little uncomfortable being such a nervous nelly about my ornaments. This is the only time of year when such decorations can be enjoyed, after all. However, I have had many of these ornaments for 20-30 years now, and they wouldn't bring me much pleasure smashed into smithereens. Decisions, decisions. I think I will stick with wait and see for now.

I can always toss caution to the wind next week.

Kitten Update

As I mentioned before, when we first got these cats, they were covered with every possible form of parasite, and we wanted to get them veterinary attention immediately. Our regular vet was pretty booked up, so SodaBoy took them to another practice so we could get the treatments started right away for the fleas and mites and worms. We scheduled an appointment later with the regular vet, since it is conveniently located very close to home.

The first appointment on July 20th was fairly successful. Rhea weighed in at 1.2 pounds and Remus was 1 pound even. SodaBoy brought the cats home with meds for what we thought were all their issues, although we later had to go back and pick up a different worm regimen. For some reason the new vet only treated them for hookworms and roundworms initially, and we had to call back and demand tapeworm pills, too, after they started shedding tapeworm eggs everywhere.

Remus
As the weeks passed, we've developed some concerns about Rhea, in particular. She is tiny, obviously, but unnaturally obsessed with food. We couldn't have a meal or even a snack without her screaming in panicked desperation, trying to steal food of every variety. Remus, who was smaller from the start, shows no excessive interest in food, but soon outstripped Rhea in growth, and the size difference between them is now quite striking. Every tiny bone in Rhea's body stuck out. You can see her hip bones jutting out in the photo below.

Luckily, the appointment at the regular vet was Thursday. SodaBoy brought all the paperwork from the stopgap visit, and the vet definitely agreed that Rhea's slow weight gain was cause for concern. She now weighs 1.7 pounds, whereas Reemsy* has reached a hulking 2.4 pounds. Everyone seems to agree that both cats are younger than we were told when we picked them up. Remus was declared healthy and got her first round of immunizations. Rhea was still too small for shots, and too small for much bloodwork either. The vet took two drops, so now we know she is negative for feline leukemia at least.

Rhea
So now we have more meds for Rhea: an antibiotic to treat a wide range of possible bacterial infections, and a vitamin-mineral supplement. SodaBoy also picked up a case of canned kitten food to make administration of the liquid meds easier. We hate canned pet foods, and have never provided it regularly to any cat or dog in our custody. Even with these bitty kittens, the stopgap vet had indicated they would get all their required nutrition from the dry kitten food. But I think we'll stick with this stanky mush for a while now. This new food and medicine combination has done wonders for Rhea.

In just a few days she seems much healthier, bigger and less bony. She still eats the dry food. In fact, she's eating some right now. But the behavioral issues are improving already, too. Last night I had soup for dinner, and she only tried sticking her head in it a few times, and didn't scream once. After a few times of being set back on the floor, she lost interest and wandered off to play.

Progress all around.

------------------------------------------------------------------------*When we picked out the kittens, we were told that Rhea is a girl and Remus a boy. They were far too small for us to tell either way, so we ran with that. By the time the vet pronounced them both female, their names were pretty well fixed. However, we've taken to calling Remus by the more gender neutral nickname Reemsy more and more now.

The New Little Buddies

Rhea and Remus
With the both of us being life long cat people, SodaBoy and I always knew we'd get another cat or two. We decided there was no reason to wait, and answered an ad in the paper for free kittens. The home where we retrieved the cats from was filthy, and they are riddled with every possible parasite. I will be so happy to be done with the pills and the drops and the ointments. But otherwise they are great little beasts. They are fulfulling their duty of cuteness altogether smashingly.

We Love You: a Tribute to Elijah

I have kept things pretty quiet around here lately. I had a shitty week I couldn't face writing about, yet couldn't bear to write about anything else first without acknowledging our loss. I was out of town doing fieldwork for a few days this week, during that brutal heat wave. Normally any time spent in the field and out of the office is good, but when I called SodaBoy from my hotel room Tuesday night, he had terrible news for me: Elijah was dead, apparently killed by the terrible heat.

I had seen him that morning, petted him while he had a bite to eat, and he seemed perfectly normal. SodaBoy saw him not 10 minutes before he expired, and again, he seemed normal. We both feel terrible that we didn't think to lock him in the basement where it is cooler, but unfortunately the thought did not occur in time. Elijah had been with us through similar weather in the past with no trouble. The complacency must have dulled our senses.

Anyway, I wanted to write a tribute to Elijah, the same way I had done for Meshoe when she died. However, writing that piece about Meshoe was hard, and I found myself begging off, unable to confront my grief and guilt about Elijah. Then when I started thinking about it, I realized I've already told many of his stories, how he loved walking with us, even in the winter, and of his fondness for catnip.

So I will share instead the burial mound SodaBoy built for Elijah in our backyard. It is far back in the yard, right at the base of the path leading up into the woods. Under a lilac tree, the fieldstones bordering the edge of a garden wrap around the monument. It is a nice shady spot where Elijah loved to play in the dirt.

We couldn't possibly have loved you any more, Elijah. You were the sweetest kitty, demanding hugs, and purring louder the tighter we squeezed. You are sorely missed, friend.

Bloodsuckers 'R Us

I just had to pull another engorged deer tick off Elijah, the third one this season. Oh, the horror. Now I am all itchy and snuffly, the result of my cat allergy that only kicks in with too much close contact. Plus I did a horrible job with the plucking, and there are parasite remnants in my cat, and I feel guilty for torturing him, and guilty for doing a lousy job at the torturing to boot.

I also feel all creepy crawly, like I am personally crawling with ticks. It is, of course, entirely possible. We took a walk on the deer paths before dinner, looping back to a requisite stop at the catnip knoll, where Elijah lolls and we pull garlic mustard. I could just as easily have ticks as him.

It is definitely time for an application of those neck pesticides. I am none too fond of the stuff. I always forget I've put it on the beast, and pet him, thus contaminating myself with the chemical stench. Can't get the stink off, he's been hanging round for days...

Blissed Out

The weather the last few days has been delightful. We've taken evening walks in our woods after work yesterday and today both. Our woods are small, so the walks don't amount to much in terms of exercise for anyone except the cat. But he enjoys himself so much it's hard to resist. Often times if we want to take a longer walk to Stormwater Park or Tall Trees Cemetery, we have to lock him in the house to keep him from following us too far from home.


Aside from the brevity factor, the woods are a satisfying place to walk. I am in an urban area, so the heavy skew towards invasives is not unexpected: buckthorns and garlic mustard rule my woods. Still, I can keep an eye on the local phenology, be it what it may. Viola blanda is native and flowering. We often see deer or rabbits; today we saw coyote tracks bigger than seems possible. We made a fortuitous discovery on one of our regular deer path routes: a clump of Nepeta cataria, also known as catnip. Dude is psyched.

The Best Day of Her Life

I went outside this afternoon to shovel the driveway, even though there wasn’t really that much snow. A few inches at the most. And since it’s supposed to warm up Sunday, I probably could have gotten away without. But shoveling is a chore that I enjoy, at least early in the season before the novelty wears off. It is a physical task that one completes outdoors, and the best part is the visible progress. I can immediately see the fruits of my labor, which is very satisfying.

I have never seen so much traffic on my street before. We live on a quiet, residential street that does not connect to anything but a few other similar streets. Normal traffic is limited to residents and delivery vehicles. Today there was a constant flow of vehicles. Not just the sheer volume, but some of the vehicle types, and some of the speeds traveled suggested that these drivers were not residents. I began to wonder if one of the major streets nearby was closed. After I finished shoveling, I decided to walk around the block to investigate the situation.

The street that runs parallel to ours is a thoroughfare, and it was indeed blocked off, with detour signs directing motorists to my humble little street. I walked the length of the closed block, and saw several work vehicles, and three men standing in the street discussing the circumstances, but nothing beyond that. Nothing that would make clear to me what the problem was. Then I kept walking since I was enjoying myself, despite the frigid temperatures. Another benefit of shoveling is it warms you right up.

As I approached my house on the return leg of the loop, I could see my neighbors had come home and let Maggie out. Maggie is a golden retriever who is sweet enough in temperament that we mostly overlook her tendency to crap in our yard. She loves cars. Luckily, she expresses her affection in a most tolerable fashion, running the width of the narrow yard, but right up next to the house, not down by the street. [I am always terrified of hitting one of those dogs that actually chases cars.]

Maggie is in heaven today with this persistent flow of vehicles. Her excitement is palpable. She has completely beat a path down in the snow, running back and forth. I watched her for a while, and she would express her joy by occasionally taking a big gulp of snow as she executed her turn. She is not a barker, but the afternoon has been punctuated by her intermittent and involuntary yelps of pleasure. She is so happy, it makes me happy just to watch her.

The Inevitable Poop Post

During Arlo’s recent visit, I discovered that the two large trash receptacles at the north end of the local city park have been removed for the season. I’d made a habit of routing all dog walks past that corner. The walks are a little less pleasant now that I have to lug steaming bags of turds for the whole duration of the walk. And for the record, insulating them with fallen leaves doesn’t seem to help reduce the stench waves; I’d actually thought there might be a blocking effect, but no such luck.

I am curious about the whole phenomena of picking up after one’s dog. It is not something I remember from my childhood. My earliest years were spent out in the country, where there were no close neighbors. It wasn’t remotely an issue there. But we moved to a subdivision eventually, and brought the five dogs along. We never once followed them around with plastic bags, and we weren’t neighborhood pariahs or anything. Well, not for that reason, anyway: none of the neighbors picked up after their dogs either. It did get pretty nasty, especially in the spring when the snow first melted. I remember going around the yard with a wheelbarrow and shovel.

With those memories in mind, I’ve always been grateful as an adult to those dog owners courteous enough to clean up after their pets. No one wants to step on dog shit in their front lawn, an experience that’s particularly bitter when you don’t even own a dog. I wish our current next door neighbors could keep a better control over their charming golden retriever’s eliminations. Mowing the lawn invariably detonates at least one shit bomb. So I definitely recognize the value of doggie hygiene.

However, appreciation doesn’t necessarily translate into eagerness. The first time we dogsat for Arlo when Dad & D were out of town, back at the old apartment, I asked them, “I don’t have to pick up his crap, do I?” Dad told me I had to watch the neighbors. If they picked up the poos, I had to, too. And that was that, I knew I was doomed. Everyone does it now, everyone who walks their dogs at least. Those who just open the door and let doggy run free seem to be exempt.

So what happened? Don’t get me wrong. Not having my lawn covered with fecal matter is a good thing. But, when did scooping poop become the norm? What precipitated this cultural shift? How did it go from something peculiar to the expectation?

Walking the Cat

Our cat Elijah loves to go for walks. He trots along behind, stops to smell things, gets all zippy, and bolts ahead. Stops to smell things again while we catch up. It is how we met him, before he was our cat. We went for a walk, and he came along. He is very charming about it, the way he prances so proudly, stopping to be admired. And he doesn't just follow for a little while, then get distracted and melt away, forgetting about us. Nope, not this cat: he's got focus.

The old neighborhood was more urban, big old houses on tree lined streets just off a busy thoroughfare with a bustling little commercial district. All our promenades were along sidewalks, very tame sorts of affairs. Elijah didn't mind. He loved to walk around the block. So much so that if we were going down to the commercial district to pick up takeout for dinner, we'd have to sneak off, not wanting to be followed onto the busier main street. We were rarely successful. But Elijah knew better than to mess with traffic. He waited patiently behind a privet hedge, and resumed the pitter patter footsteps when we came back his way, laden with catfish burritos or moussaka.

Our house is only a mile or two from the old neighborhood, but it's more laid back here. We can go for walks around the block without worrying too much about traffic. Except we rarely do, because we have the woods, and we walk there now. Although it seems unlikely that he's ever spent much time in the forest before, Elijah loves the woods. He might play the cool cat and ignore us in the backyard, yet as soon as he sees us heading to the path, he cannot be deterred in his blurred sprint across the lawn and up those first few steps.

Photo by SodaBoy
The tiny little path that starts in our backyard empties after a few hundred feet into "the open area," a big field that appears to have been heavily disturbed a number of years ago. Bare gravel is still evident, but succession is at work now, and the open area is flush with pioneer species and exotics: goldenrod, asters, knapweed, sweet clover, butterfly weed, sweet pea, autumn olive, dogwoods, and buckthorn. The open area stretches most of the length of our block, and from it spurs a whole network of footpaths so tiny they are almost invisible.

We love to go explore those deer trails with Elijah. He crashes through underbrush like a champ, scurries up hills, crawls through ditches, and scampers over berms. Weather does not phase him. We turned back towards home one blisteringly hot summer day when he started panting on a steep hillside, because he certainly wouldn't have the good sense to turn back alone. We still have to sneak off on him sometimes, when we hike to the quarry or the water towers or the cemetery, as he's just too small to go for miles long hikes. It is almost like he is powerless not to follow. If he has any say in the matter, Elijah is a comrade on all foot campaigns departing from the house.

We Love You: a Tribute to Meshoe

You come into my life in 1994, while I’m an undergraduate student. I am working a summer job in Michigan, staying in temporary Woodland Agency housing, right behind the garages and office buildings. You are homeless, a tiny little orphan with mysterious origins. A fellow employee heard piteous cries one morning while driving to work, and pulling over, discovered you trembling under the hood. Your small size allowed you to survive the experience, but you retained a life-long horror of motorized vehicles. You cannot be returned to your mother, as no one knows where you came from. You are living in the garage with the heavy equipment, fire trucks and backhoes, subsisting on bits of turkey begged from sandwiches. You are “the baby kitty.”

I am instantly charmed. I want you to come over to the house and live there, with me. My boss wisely says that we cannot break the rules and have a pet in housing unless we really mean it; leaving you alone after a summer of company would be too cruel. But you are so tiny, you need a home. You can comfortably sit in the palm of my hand, with room to spare: you don’t even need the thumb or fingers for balance. I call SodaBoy. He is already living in the big off-campus apartment we’ll be sharing with other friends come fall, and has long been planning on getting a cat. I tell him I’ve found you, you’ve found me. It’s too late, he already picked out his kitten, just days ago. No matter. I cannot resist you. We decide since one cat is OK with the landlord, two will be OK, too.

You and I become fast friends. You wake me up each morning licking my eyelids, climb my pant legs with excitement when I arrive home from work. I can mimic your mews and we conversate regularly. You are insatiably curious about food, sipping from unattended beer mugs, licking ice cream cones, and begging to try all varieties of people foods. This is understandable, considering your circumstances not so long ago. And you are so adorable, the solicitations never become a problem. You are a model cat: you never scratch furniture or door frames, never knock over and break things, use your litter box without fail. You even delight in watching me clean the litter box, getting so excited you jump right in before I finish.

Both just a few months old when I return with you to school, you and SodaBoy’s kitten Phalaywho become inseparable, sleeping together in a little furry mound, chasing each other around the apartment. Phalaywho is a little acrobat, making wild leaps, skidding out on the hardwoods. Even as a kitten you are calmer in your play, prone to stop drop and roll, presenting your belly to be rubbed. You and she grow up together. You disdain the clam juice she adores, but show up to stake your claim whenever D makes his tuna casserole. It pleases you enormously when I sit at my desk to do schoolwork, you love crawling between me and whatever book I am trying to read, walking across every paper, batting pens and pencils around with your little paws, purring like a little engine the whole time.

You never went outside much in Michigan after I took you in, as pets were forbidden, and I didn’t want you to be observed. Our apartment at school is on a busy street, so you don’t go outside much here either, although you are so well behaved you can come out with us when we sit on the porch, and you won’t run off.


You and Phalaywho do everything together: when you go into heat simultaneously, it is a cacophony of yowling. We save up our money, and eventually you go to the vet together, come home with matching shaved bellies. You do well with all the people, friends coming and going. Everyone loves you. You and Phalaywho are quite the team; when B brings over his dog Cassidy, you form a two-cat pack and stalk her, until she cowers in a corner, whimpering for mercy. You get leis wrapped around your necks in a fit of silliness one New Year’s Eve, purple for you and yellow for Phalaywho. You don’t much care for it at first, but soon forget to notice. You get bigger and your kittenish mews develop into full blown squonking squawks. You continue to enjoy meowing exchanges.

Years pass. I finish school. I bring you out to the Cape with me when I move there for work. My apartment on the dunes is on a dead end street, and there is a hole in the screen door. So for the first time, when I am home with you to open the inside door, you have unfettered access to the outdoors. You love lying in the sun, eating grass, playing with bugs, and digging in the sand. Especially eating grass. Seagulls? Not so much. Whenever they wheel overhead (which is often) you panic, and slinking low, bolt for the door. SodaBoy comes to stay for a week between apartments, bringing Phalaywho. We decide you should see the sea, and carry you both over the dunes. We put you down in the sand, and you are like magnets, drawn to each other as you run for shelter.

By now SodaBoy and I are dating, and when I complete my work on the Cape, you and I move in with him and Phalaywho. I go back to school. You are happy to be reunited with your friends. You like our little apartment, with the screened-in back porch over the woods, and the long narrow hall. We are still in the city, on the same busy street, but the hillside behind the apartment was never developed because it was so steep. Phalaywho likes to go explore in these woods, but you get frightened whenever we bring you up there, and run straightaway back to the door, maybe deigning to eat some grass while you wait for us to let you back inside. You hate the kitchen sink, where we give you flea baths after Phalaywho brings them back from the woods, but you love to be on top of the fridge when we cook dinner. You love to go for walks down the hall. You love to be gently smacked on your back with paper towel tubes or empty water bottles.

We get home one evening and find Phalaywho suddenly sick, with no advance warning signs, too sick to even stand up. We rush her to the emergency vet clinic, but it is too late, and she is dead within the hour. We return to the apartment, shell-shocked and empty handed. We do not mourn alone. For weeks you prowl the apartment, looking for your friend, howling at night with loneliness. We think about getting another cat, to keep you company, but never get around to it. Phalaywho is irreplaceable.

You become quite pudgy and the vet convinces us to put you on prescription low calorie food. You love your crunchy little dried food bits. You turn up your nose at the stinky canned stuff, so much that after dental surgery, I have to pour water on you dry food and soften it up so you have something to eat. You love pork chops, and diet or no, always manage to beg a few choice bites.

When I finish grad school, I travel to Minnesota to work, and then eventually back to Michigan. You stay with SodaBoy, and it is the both of you I return to in the winters, year after year. My grandmother gives me a stuffed cat that she bought because of its resemblance to you. I call it the mini-Meesh and bring it with me to Michigan, keeping it along with several framed pictures of you in my room.

When we need more space, SodaBoy finds a new apartment, an upstairs flat on the nicest street in the university area. I come back and help with the move. Our first day in the new place, we go for a walk, and make a new kitty friend. Elijah immediately takes a liking to us, following us all the way around the block. Our downstairs neighbors tell us he lives nearby and comes to visit them for the catnip. The new apartment is sunny and bright, and seems enormous. There is a window seat we cover with throw pillows. It is your favorite spot to nap.


There is a tiny walk-out front porch, and you learn to open the screen door by yourself, napping on the cushy patio chairs, going out on the roof to nibble on the box elder leaves, grazing from the flower boxes. You start eating house plants, too, favoring the spider plants. We get a real bed and set the futon up in the spare room as a couch. You realize you can crawl beneath it, the ultimate safe house. You develop a fear of the door bell, and scurry beneath the futon whenever it rings. You discover a great love for boxes, especially the low ones used to package cases of bottled water. You will “get in your box” on command, virtually roaring out your pleasure with great rumbling purrs. You love to be brushed. You love the laser pointer. You squawk along at appropriate moments when SodaBoy and P play video games; P declares you a "quality feline." You love to sleep on things that are on top of other things.

I get sick of constantly moving, of missing you and SodaBoy, and get a job in town. We get a couple of dwarf hamsters, and set up their cages in your room. You are barely interested in them at all, and seem to completely lack the instinct to hunt them. We can place the hamsters right on your back and you let them dig away at your fur, barely sparing a glance. There was a great escape one day, but it was only discovered when you walked into the room, with an unharmed hamster trailing at your heels.

Photo by Sis
The lease on the downstairs apartment seems to turn over every year. The second set of neighbors brings Elijah inside all winter long. When they move away, he comes to us the following winter. You finally have another kitty friend. Elijah does love the catnip. He gets all feisty and fierce while he’s hopped up, occasionally attacking you in a fit of energy. You give it right back to him, even though the catnip doesn’t seem to affect you the same way. Rather than roll in it foolishly like many cats, you have a much more dignified approach, and will calmly and tidily eat small piles of the stuff.

The years are flying by. Rubbing your belly one day, I find a swollen nipple. The vet agrees to see you that day and I know it’s a bad sign. You have mammary cancer, and are operated on immediately. The vet reassures us that we caught it early, probably because of your fondness for belly rubs. You heal up well, and your belly hair grows back, but for a long time don’t want your belly rubbed. I diligently search for recurring tumors but find nothing. You seem well, fat and happy like always.

We finally buy a house. You love lolling on the screened back porch. There is a cat door, and Elijah comes and goes as he pleases, but you are much more timid. I bring you out sometimes so you can eat grass, try to show you how the cat door works. The neighbor girls fall in love with you, asking to see you all summer long. You are terrified of them, of all children, and I often put them off, but bring you out occasionally. We set the futon up as a bed in a spare room, and it becomes your room. You love to nap there. When we get a dehumidifier for the basement, you are scared of it, and we move your litter box upstairs into your room for you. You love thumping up and down the stairs, especially when one of us walks along side of you, and you can stop to squawk for pets every few steps.

Then the sad days come. By the time you are symptomatic and stop eating, it is far too late. Your breast cancer has metastasized, and filled your lungs top to bottom. You cannot breathe. It is horrifying, and then you are gone. You were a happy kitty and we remember those happy times. We love you, Meshoe.

The Fair

Yesterday we joined the throngs, over one hundred thousand strong, in an annual pilgrimage to the great State Fair. Ernesto was just the tail end of weeks of lousy weather. Some vendors reported the worst numbers in fifteen years. But it was Labor Day, a holiday, the last day. For all the hordes with presale tickets, it was now or never. So they turned out in droves. I've never seen such lines just to get in the front gate. Once inside, every thoroughfare was jammed. The simple act of walking became a Herculean task. Strollers brought all movement to a halt: I wanted to give a medal to every parent I saw with their kidlet in a backpack.

I'm not sure I've ever seen the fair so crowded. Inside the buildings was no different, with few exceptions. We had room to browse (and breathe!) while viewing the photography and fine arts displays. We managed to get some fair food, Gianelli sausage sandwiches with onions and peppers. We lucked out and saw magnificent dancers perform in both the African and Indian villages. I picked up some maple candy in the Horticulture Building, to enjoy later, and tried a $1 sample of the new fried rice from MaiLan--words cannot describe that divinity. I fought for some chocolate milk at the entrance to the dairy, but missed the butter sculpture, lacking the fortitude to push my way inside. We ended up missing a lot of other stuff, too: the horses, the giraffes, the chickens, the rabbits, the rides, entire buildings worth of exhibits. I'd been warned that the cows are gone by the last day, so they were one thing I expected not to see.

Sure enough, when we entered the cow barn, it appeared deserted. Most people were simply turning around and leaving, concluding there was nothing to see. But deep inside the darkness of the virtually abandoned, cavernous building, we came across a yearling calf, tethered near her mother. There were kids petting her as we approached, and I hung back, thinking perhaps they'd raised and were caring for these cows. But then they bounded off, to be replaced by other children with outstretched hands, and it soon became apparent these cows were appreciative of the attention of strangers.

So we stepped up and joined the fun, treating the calf like a big dog, letting her smell our hands and stroking her fur. Stop for a minute, and she'd butt her head into your hand, demanding more love. The goats were the same way, sweet and friendly, clambering for attention. This is the aspect of the fair I cherish most: the chance for close encounters with animals most of us live apart from. As a child in the country, we had goats and chickens and a sheep, but I live in the city now, far removed from such creatures. It's not just nostalgia on my part, however. The joy I feel is played out on faces all around, large and small. It's biophilia in action, love of life.

The March Against Fear

The little girls in our neighborhood love me. There is a cohort of four, two sets of sisters, although the oldest of the four, I'll call her J13, isn't always part of the group. She is a little girl only infrequently now, and sometimes just out of kindness, to humor the others. J13 and her little sister, F7, show a normal level of friendliness.

It is J9 and her little sister J5 who have no boundaries. They were the first people we met when moving into the neighborhood. They ring our doorbell, daily and repeatedly, asking for me to come out and play. They call through open windows, hoping to attract our attention. They flounce over before parties to show off their fancy dresses. They gift me with drawings and lollipops, fill our driveway with hoola hoops and Bratz dolls, costume jewelry and diminutive purses. There was even an awkward incident where they became my cheer squad, chanting my name and jumping up and down from the minute I turned my car onto the block until I got out in the driveway. And the questions! Frankly, it is all a little overwhelming.

J9, J5 and F7 are obsessed with our cat Meshoe. Virtually every time I see them, "can we see your girl cat?" is the first thing from J5's lips. And I'm a little conflicted on this issue. My girl cat is an indoor cat through and through, the ultimate scaredy-cat. Her refuge is under the futon in the spare bedroom, where she can crawl so far back she's essentially irretrievable. She retreats there whenever we have company, or the doorbell rings, or an electrical storm passes through. Sometimes a lawnmower or a garbage truck or a loud stereo is enough to send her scuttling.

So when I take Meshoe outside to visit with the girls, it is a highly traumatic event. But due to her paralyzing fear, my girl cat is very gentle, allowing herself to be stroked by many small hands with no danger of scratching. In this particular case, she is the perfect ambassador for cat kind. Because when I first met them, J9 and J5 were scared of cats. And dogs, and bugs, and spiders, and snakes. I could go on...

Emboldened by my success with the cat, I've broadened my fear reduction campaign. I managed to convince them there are no tigers in the woods behind our houses. My latest triumph was with the cicadas, or their shells at least. I found one and picked it up to show them. Of course, the initial reaction was fear and disgust bordering on horror. I didn't ask anyone to touch it, just explained what it was, handled it calmly, and set it down nearby. Then I found another, and set it by the first.

This piqued J9's interest: she thought I should have them facing south instead of east. So I realigned them according to her directions, and found a third one. By now she was into it, and got brave enough to want to touch one herself. I held my hand outstretched, flat and steady, with the cicada shell perched on my palm, and let her take it on her own terms. She examined it closely, then placed it in the line with the others. Now the game was on... After J9 had found a few on her own and safely transported them to the marching grounds with no ill affects, J5 worked up enough bravery to get in on the action. Two for two: mission accomplished, sweet victory!

Arlo Goes to Tall Trees

Arlo got the default morning loop today, 0.85 miles according to Google Earth, as I had a 9 am appointment, and well… you know how I am in the morning. No last hurrahs, either, as he is scheduled to be picked up “Tuesday afternoon.” But we had a good walk yesterday morning, when I took him to Tall Trees Cemetery. Tall Trees is another of the magnificent greenspaces that makes this part of the city so special, and I am more than fond of it. It is adjacent to the university. I spent a lot of time there as an undergraduate, some in dendrology labs, but mostly just recreating, hiking with friends and such.


I am always torn when caring for Arlo. He loves to run, does crazy figure-eights on top of himself where he pivots on his back end spinning himself silly. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. But he also took off once when Sis was watching him, and I don’t want to have to tell my parents I lost their dog. Arlo is also very strange around people, not mean by any stretch, but unbelievably timid. I don’t want him to be approached by a stranger and feel threatened, and resort to defending himself. Apparently the mailman in my parent’s neighborhood is so terrified of the beast that he won’t even deliver their mail anymore. And there are a lot of kids in my neighborhood. I cannot risk a chomping. So I am exceedingly paranoid about taking him off the leash, and knowing how much he loves to run, this makes me feel quite guilty.

So yesterday we veered into Tall Trees Cemetery, not at the main entrance, but the smaller one by the flower shop. We wound about on a convoluted route, and I scoped the place out. By the time we got up top, past the Centennial Monument, out towards the old landfill area, I was pretty certain we were not going to be disturbed. The only other humans I’d seen were creeping along in automobiles. And there is a big open field up there, with a good viewshed. I’d see anyone approaching long before they got close. So I deleashed him, and let the beast run. Fun, fun. And he slept for hours when we got back.

Dog Walk

My father and step-mother are out of town, so SodaBoy and I have temporary custody of their neurotic little Australian shepherd, Arlo. This is the second time he's stayed at this house, and he remembers it, which is good because that makes him happy. Or less deranged anyway. I think the recurring forced marches are the best feature of dog stewardship, but I always enjoy a good walk. I have "default" walks I take him on, the morning loop that passes a public garbage container, the midnight laps in the deserted streets. But I always try to work a little variety into the routes as well. I don't want the little guy to get bored.

I had been thinking that on this visit, I should take Arlo on a morning walk to Stormwater Park, with my camera and a water bottle, make a whole thing of it. But there is a small problem: my brain doesn't work very well very first thing. The first morning he was here, I just staggered out of bed, threw on some jeans, and crashed out the door. See the problem? Jeans! We hadn't taken him out late the night before, as D had said when dropping him off that she'd already taken him out--and to SodaBoy that was inarguable. I'm staying up fairly late nowadays, so I was in quite a stupor so early. And paid for it by being exceedingly overwarm in my jeans. Hence the default morning loop, which is the walk I was taking him on mornings before work. Not too short, not too long.

Yesterday morning, I more sensibly put on capris, and even managed to brush my teeth first. I felt downright civilized, and felt up to adding on a loop extension. There is some pleasure in walking in the rain. But I still made a small oversight, and neglected to wear a hat. I'm not a big hat wearer, especially in the summer, but a hat with a brim is nice in the rain to keep the glasses dry (and functional, minor detail).

This morning, I put on shorts and brushed my teeth. See how I am? Clever, clever. Or so you might think. But somehow I ended up over at Stormwater Park, with no camera, and no water bottle. Clearly that was not the plan. And to cover the sheer stupidity factor, wherein I neglect my own comfort, I did not put my hair up. Apparently I have this deep-seated unconscious assumption that it should be cool in the mornings, but alas... it is August, and I am a fool. So again, I sweated far more than necessary. What the hell is my problem? Anyone care to take odds on tomorrow? Can BerryBird dress herself properly for a morning dogwalk? I would like to point out in my defense that I do not have these problems later in the day. Like anyone believes that.

Arlo was funny at Stormwater Park. He seemed to think it was quite mandatory that he walk right in the skinny little foot path, and not on the grass to either side. The path is too narrow for us to transverse side by side. Problem is, if left to set the pace, he is far too slow. So we ended up taking the lap with him mostly on my heels. In addition to the resident great blue, who flew over and squonked at us twice, we saw several egrets. One of the cutest things about Arlo is that when I return from taking him for him morning walk, the very first thing he does upon deleashing is run upstairs to make sure SodaBoy is still in bed where he left him.