Drexie
Karma
Both kitties
I still miss both of them. They definitely made life interesting. Rest in peace, you two.
Showing posts with label Karma Kitty. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Karma Kitty. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 15, 2026
It's Been a Year...
Yesterday was the first anniversary of Drexie Calabash' death. Her big brother Karma Kitty died back in 2022.
Drexie
Karma
Both kitties
I still miss both of them. They definitely made life interesting. Rest in peace, you two.
Drexie
Karma
Both kitties
I still miss both of them. They definitely made life interesting. Rest in peace, you two.
Wednesday, July 13, 2022
Karma Kitty - Rest in Peace
It's been a rough couple of months. First, I managed to fall, fracturing a vertebrae. While that has pretty much healed, we ended up losing Karma Kitty.
But first, let me back up just a little.
"Hey, I've found the perfect cat for you." My friend Kevin told me this while I was in his cab. I'd met him back when we both drove cab, years ago.
"I already have a cat," I reminded him.
But our old black cat, E.B. White, was fading fast. She had been sick for a while, and was in the middle of quite a few family members who died over a two-year period.
E.B. White
"But you need the kitten," Kevin insisted. He'd even named the kitten Karma.
(To cut this part of the story short, you can read about Karma, Drexie, Osha and E.B. here. The entire part of when Kevin delivered Karma is especially good for a laugh.)
Kevin
Anyway, fast forward to the present. Karma Kitty and Drexie Calabash were a month apart in age, and had both recently turned 15 years old. According to a chart I'd seen, that qualifies them as geriatric cats, as in "forget the numbers, they're very, very old." They were both showing their age, Karma more so than Drexie.
Up until the last year or so, Karma had been twice Drexie's size, starting when they were kittens. When we adopted Drexie, a month after Kevin brought us Karma, he spent the day whooping up on her. This was his house, he'd been here first, how dare she invade his territory. I kept them separated as much as possible.
The next day, I called our vets' office in tears, sure I was going to have to bring Drexie back. Fortunately, the vet tech who answered the phone had quite a menagerie of pets.
"Not to worry," she said over the phone. "I go through this every time I bring a new cat into the house."
She added that it might take up to two weeks for them to work it out, but that it would all be okay.
That afternoon, it did get worked out. Karma went to beat up Drexie again, only this time, she was tired of him being a bully. She reared up on her back legs, as only a tiny kitten can, wrapped her front legs around his head, and rolled onto her side. Of course, Karma had no choice but to roll over, too, at which point, Drexie started kicking his face and head hard with her back paws while biting his ears.
It took Karma a minute to work his way loose, and he backed up, eyeing the smaller cat. Then, on for a second attack, and Drexie did the same thing! By the third round of "I'll-whoop-your-butt-oh-no-you-won't," Karma backed up, eyed Drexie, and decided she could stay.
It took another few days for them to decide to be friends, but after that, they were basically inseparable.
At his heaviest, Karm weighed 12-pounds and change, while Drexie hovered just above six pounds. After a bout of cystitis, when he had to go on a special (read: expensive) diet, he did lose a couple of pounds, but not much. He was still muscular, and was still twice Drexie's size.
Karma Kitty
"I can haz tuna?!" - photo by J. Goff
Drexie
Someone's in the kitchen with Drexie...
I've written about these two time and time again over the years. They've kept life interesting, to put it mildly.
But several months ago, maybe a little longer, Karma really started going down hill. I'd taken Drexie in, as she had some minor aging problems going on. The meds seemed to help, but it did make her gain a little weight. I'd also noticed, during this time, that Karma was losing weight, so I brought him in to see Dr. E. While all the vets who share the office are fantastic (trust me, if you're in Pinellas County, FL and need a vet, leave a comment, and I'll let you know the animal hospital), Dr. E. and Dr. G. got the least amount of static from Karm. At this point, though, I did have to give Karma something to keep his anxiety down a little (i.e. got him zonked out).
Yes, he had lost weight; it turns out, he was having kidney issues, and had to go onto another (more expensive) food, as well as meds.
His weight held (sort-of) for a while, but soon, the weight dropped more and more. When he was seen on June 14, he was below six pounds.
We figured the end was coming sooner or later...
Then, on Thursday, June 23, he really got worse. He didn't want to eat, went to drink some water, then had trouble walking. His front end seemed to be functioning, but his back legs were wobbling like a drunk who'd had way too much to drink. He also threw up the water.
I called the vets' office. Dr. G. could see Karma around noon...
I made sure Karma got tons of snuggles over the next hour or so before bringing him in. Turns out, he'd lost another half-a-pound in just nine days. He was also a little dehydrated, and had developed a heart murmer, which made giving him fluids at the vets' office a little dicey.
After talking with the vet, we decided it would be best for Karma to be put to sleep. Left alone to die on his own, it was probably not more than a couple of days, at most, during which time, he'd be in pain.
I stayed with Karma while he was given a sedative, then cuddled him and told him how much we all loved him, including Drexie. After a few minutes, he recieved another shot, and drifted off.
I must have gone through most of a box of tissues during this time. This was our mini-panther, our Karma.
We had him cremated by himself, so that we now have his ashes in a box in our living room. We also have a paw print, along with some of his fur in a clear bag. (We used to call him our velvet panther.)
The next day, the vets' office sent a small floral arrangement, with a card, something very appreciated. Karma was family.
Drexie obviously misses her big brother, as does everyone else in the house.
Rest in peace, Karma. You were a sweet-heart.
But first, let me back up just a little.
"Hey, I've found the perfect cat for you." My friend Kevin told me this while I was in his cab. I'd met him back when we both drove cab, years ago.
"I already have a cat," I reminded him.
But our old black cat, E.B. White, was fading fast. She had been sick for a while, and was in the middle of quite a few family members who died over a two-year period.
E.B. White
"But you need the kitten," Kevin insisted. He'd even named the kitten Karma.
(To cut this part of the story short, you can read about Karma, Drexie, Osha and E.B. here. The entire part of when Kevin delivered Karma is especially good for a laugh.)
Kevin
Anyway, fast forward to the present. Karma Kitty and Drexie Calabash were a month apart in age, and had both recently turned 15 years old. According to a chart I'd seen, that qualifies them as geriatric cats, as in "forget the numbers, they're very, very old." They were both showing their age, Karma more so than Drexie.
Up until the last year or so, Karma had been twice Drexie's size, starting when they were kittens. When we adopted Drexie, a month after Kevin brought us Karma, he spent the day whooping up on her. This was his house, he'd been here first, how dare she invade his territory. I kept them separated as much as possible.
The next day, I called our vets' office in tears, sure I was going to have to bring Drexie back. Fortunately, the vet tech who answered the phone had quite a menagerie of pets.
"Not to worry," she said over the phone. "I go through this every time I bring a new cat into the house."
She added that it might take up to two weeks for them to work it out, but that it would all be okay.
That afternoon, it did get worked out. Karma went to beat up Drexie again, only this time, she was tired of him being a bully. She reared up on her back legs, as only a tiny kitten can, wrapped her front legs around his head, and rolled onto her side. Of course, Karma had no choice but to roll over, too, at which point, Drexie started kicking his face and head hard with her back paws while biting his ears.
It took Karma a minute to work his way loose, and he backed up, eyeing the smaller cat. Then, on for a second attack, and Drexie did the same thing! By the third round of "I'll-whoop-your-butt-oh-no-you-won't," Karma backed up, eyed Drexie, and decided she could stay.
It took another few days for them to decide to be friends, but after that, they were basically inseparable.
At his heaviest, Karm weighed 12-pounds and change, while Drexie hovered just above six pounds. After a bout of cystitis, when he had to go on a special (read: expensive) diet, he did lose a couple of pounds, but not much. He was still muscular, and was still twice Drexie's size.
Karma Kitty
"I can haz tuna?!" - photo by J. Goff
Drexie
Someone's in the kitchen with Drexie...
I've written about these two time and time again over the years. They've kept life interesting, to put it mildly.
But several months ago, maybe a little longer, Karma really started going down hill. I'd taken Drexie in, as she had some minor aging problems going on. The meds seemed to help, but it did make her gain a little weight. I'd also noticed, during this time, that Karma was losing weight, so I brought him in to see Dr. E. While all the vets who share the office are fantastic (trust me, if you're in Pinellas County, FL and need a vet, leave a comment, and I'll let you know the animal hospital), Dr. E. and Dr. G. got the least amount of static from Karm. At this point, though, I did have to give Karma something to keep his anxiety down a little (i.e. got him zonked out).
Yes, he had lost weight; it turns out, he was having kidney issues, and had to go onto another (more expensive) food, as well as meds.
His weight held (sort-of) for a while, but soon, the weight dropped more and more. When he was seen on June 14, he was below six pounds.
We figured the end was coming sooner or later...
Then, on Thursday, June 23, he really got worse. He didn't want to eat, went to drink some water, then had trouble walking. His front end seemed to be functioning, but his back legs were wobbling like a drunk who'd had way too much to drink. He also threw up the water.
I called the vets' office. Dr. G. could see Karma around noon...
I made sure Karma got tons of snuggles over the next hour or so before bringing him in. Turns out, he'd lost another half-a-pound in just nine days. He was also a little dehydrated, and had developed a heart murmer, which made giving him fluids at the vets' office a little dicey.
After talking with the vet, we decided it would be best for Karma to be put to sleep. Left alone to die on his own, it was probably not more than a couple of days, at most, during which time, he'd be in pain.
I stayed with Karma while he was given a sedative, then cuddled him and told him how much we all loved him, including Drexie. After a few minutes, he recieved another shot, and drifted off.
I must have gone through most of a box of tissues during this time. This was our mini-panther, our Karma.
We had him cremated by himself, so that we now have his ashes in a box in our living room. We also have a paw print, along with some of his fur in a clear bag. (We used to call him our velvet panther.)
The next day, the vets' office sent a small floral arrangement, with a card, something very appreciated. Karma was family.
Drexie obviously misses her big brother, as does everyone else in the house.
Rest in peace, Karma. You were a sweet-heart.
Wednesday, June 15, 2022
Life Goes On, Somewhat Crazily
I realize I've been M.I.A. since last August. Even then, I didn't post much last year; from the looks of things, there were four (!) posts all of last year.
Of course, getting started here again has been interesting, to say the least. Anyone who's a writer (or artist of any sort) can related that too much time off makes it a little difficult to get motivated to head off in a forward direction.
But what the heck, I'm back.
Several weeks ago, I came so close to cutting my hair short (at least, short for me). The last time I had a major hair cut was for a job I'd landed, back in 1980. I can already hear at least one or two people thinking, Yikes! No need to tell me that was a long dang time ago.
The job I'd landed was working for a local fire department. The department had hired eight of us (if I remember correctly), including two women. (This is where your's truly fits in.) There was only one other department in our county, here on the west coast of Florida, that had a female firefighter; she'd been on the job less than a year.
I had already started off, near the end of 1979, as a volunteer with Pinellas Park Fire Department, shortly after the department had hired a new chief, so I had a somewhat vague idea of what to look forward to.
The department Jane and I were hired on at seemed okay with the length of my hair. I'd start off my shift with my hair in a braid. If we had a fire, and needed to wear our bunker gear, it was no big deal to grab the end of the braid, put said braid on top of my head, put my helmet on, and immediately, no hair showed.
However, when we started at the local fire academy, the then-head of the academy made it clear that I had to have my hair cut above my shirt collar. After all, that was how short the men had to have their hair. While our chief went to bat for me, I still had to get it cut short. Problem was, having it that short, I couldn't braid it and keep all the hair from sticking out from under the helmet.
At that point, I vowed never to cut my hair again, until I was good and ready.
So why was I thinking of cutting it recently? Well...Six weeks ago, I slipped and fell, landing hard on my back. Instant excruciating pain.
Silly me. Once I was able to move, and actually talk (I'd spent several minutes babbling, leaving my sons thinking I'd had a stroke), I got up and decided to take a shower. I was sure I'd simply pulled a few muscles in my back.
An hour or two later, though, when the pain showed no sign of subsiding, I agreed to go to a local free-standing ER to get it checked out. As it turned out, I'd fractured one of my vertibrae! No wonder it hurt!
Several hours later, after a room opened up in the main hospital (several miles away, with an in-house ER), I was transferred by ambulance and taken straight up to the assigned room, where I spent the weekend. While there, I ended up with an MRI lasting about half-an-hour (never a fun thing for someone who's claustrophobic). Fortunately, it turned out okay, still a fracture, but without further complications.
Two days later, I got to come home. But for six weeks, I've been stuck wearing a dang back brace. The first coupld of days, my hair kept getting caught in the brace; it was then that I seriously thought about cutting my hair shoulder-length. I didn't, though, and I'm now glad I didn't.
It's only a few more days until I get another X-ray to see if the back has healed enough to do without the back brace. Siiiiigh...
Also, to throw in some more fun, our two cats are now 15 years old, and starting to really show their age. Karma is showing it a little harder than is sister, Drexie, is. But either way, Karma and Drexie are getting up there.
At one time, Karma had topped off at 12-pounds and change; he's now down to 5.8 pounds, and has the beginnings of kidney issues, while Drexi, who used to be 6-pounds, is a little closer to 7 pounds now. They both seem to sleep more these days. Karma is also showing some signs of slowing down, and not able to jump as well as he used to.
Anyone who has had cats (or dogs, or any other pets) and who've gotten seriously attached to the pets knows how bitter-sweet it can be, watching the decline, knowing it's simply a matter of time when the pets are no longer around. That's what we're looking at with Karma and Drexie. I know we'll all be basket-cases when their time comes. But in the meantime, they'll get all the love, cuddles, and treats we can give them.
One last word: love your family, even the pets.
Karma Kitty
Drexie Calabash
Of course, getting started here again has been interesting, to say the least. Anyone who's a writer (or artist of any sort) can related that too much time off makes it a little difficult to get motivated to head off in a forward direction.
But what the heck, I'm back.
Several weeks ago, I came so close to cutting my hair short (at least, short for me). The last time I had a major hair cut was for a job I'd landed, back in 1980. I can already hear at least one or two people thinking, Yikes! No need to tell me that was a long dang time ago.
The job I'd landed was working for a local fire department. The department had hired eight of us (if I remember correctly), including two women. (This is where your's truly fits in.) There was only one other department in our county, here on the west coast of Florida, that had a female firefighter; she'd been on the job less than a year.
I had already started off, near the end of 1979, as a volunteer with Pinellas Park Fire Department, shortly after the department had hired a new chief, so I had a somewhat vague idea of what to look forward to.
The department Jane and I were hired on at seemed okay with the length of my hair. I'd start off my shift with my hair in a braid. If we had a fire, and needed to wear our bunker gear, it was no big deal to grab the end of the braid, put said braid on top of my head, put my helmet on, and immediately, no hair showed.
However, when we started at the local fire academy, the then-head of the academy made it clear that I had to have my hair cut above my shirt collar. After all, that was how short the men had to have their hair. While our chief went to bat for me, I still had to get it cut short. Problem was, having it that short, I couldn't braid it and keep all the hair from sticking out from under the helmet.
At that point, I vowed never to cut my hair again, until I was good and ready.
So why was I thinking of cutting it recently? Well...Six weeks ago, I slipped and fell, landing hard on my back. Instant excruciating pain.
Silly me. Once I was able to move, and actually talk (I'd spent several minutes babbling, leaving my sons thinking I'd had a stroke), I got up and decided to take a shower. I was sure I'd simply pulled a few muscles in my back.
An hour or two later, though, when the pain showed no sign of subsiding, I agreed to go to a local free-standing ER to get it checked out. As it turned out, I'd fractured one of my vertibrae! No wonder it hurt!
Several hours later, after a room opened up in the main hospital (several miles away, with an in-house ER), I was transferred by ambulance and taken straight up to the assigned room, where I spent the weekend. While there, I ended up with an MRI lasting about half-an-hour (never a fun thing for someone who's claustrophobic). Fortunately, it turned out okay, still a fracture, but without further complications.
Two days later, I got to come home. But for six weeks, I've been stuck wearing a dang back brace. The first coupld of days, my hair kept getting caught in the brace; it was then that I seriously thought about cutting my hair shoulder-length. I didn't, though, and I'm now glad I didn't.
It's only a few more days until I get another X-ray to see if the back has healed enough to do without the back brace. Siiiiigh...
Also, to throw in some more fun, our two cats are now 15 years old, and starting to really show their age. Karma is showing it a little harder than is sister, Drexie, is. But either way, Karma and Drexie are getting up there.
At one time, Karma had topped off at 12-pounds and change; he's now down to 5.8 pounds, and has the beginnings of kidney issues, while Drexi, who used to be 6-pounds, is a little closer to 7 pounds now. They both seem to sleep more these days. Karma is also showing some signs of slowing down, and not able to jump as well as he used to.
Anyone who has had cats (or dogs, or any other pets) and who've gotten seriously attached to the pets knows how bitter-sweet it can be, watching the decline, knowing it's simply a matter of time when the pets are no longer around. That's what we're looking at with Karma and Drexie. I know we'll all be basket-cases when their time comes. But in the meantime, they'll get all the love, cuddles, and treats we can give them.
One last word: love your family, even the pets.
Karma Kitty
Drexie Calabash
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Summer Solstice
So today's the first day of summer, at least in the Northern Hemisphere. As if we could really forget it. Anyone with a TV has heard the local news babbling for the past week that today would be the summer solstice. According to the local news (here on the west coast of Florida), the event took place at 6:51 AM, EDT. I slept through it, or, at least, tried to. Not that the earth shook, or anything loud happened to announce the occurrence...But I'd gone back to bed to try to catch a couple of extra minutes of sleep.
My son, M., had to work today. His schedule is such that he has a one-day-weekend every other week; the up side is that the other weekend is a five-day-weekend. He works Wednesday through Saturday, has Sunday off, then works Monday through Thursday, while another guy at work works the opposite of M. So, this weekend, while M. has a one-day-weekend, the other guy has a five-day-weekend.
M. has to get up at 5:00 AM to get ready, so I frequently set my alarm as back-up, just in case he conveniently sleeps through his, then I'll go back to bed until 6-ish. This is mainly to run interception at the front door, so that Karma, our resident Houdini, masquerading as a black cat, doesn't try escaping. I think he does this just to keep us on our toes; he'll go for a few weeks without incident, then, when our guard is down, Zooooom! Out the door! This morning, after M. left, I went back to and tried to sleep until 7:00. Never quite happened, what with Karma and Drexie wanting breakfast...
Good thing M.'s not into celebrating the Summer Solstice. Also, I guess to do it up right, we really should live near Stonehenge. But we don't. However, The Old Farmer's Almanac has suggestions for celebrating the solstice, some of which are do-able. Because of local laws, lighting a bonfire is out. And I seriously doubt that I'll be fishing or camping. But cooking outside is a possibility; so is planting a tree (we have plenty of them in our yard, most of which my sons and daughter and I planted), letting the light in (Florida is the sunshine state, after all!), reading a book, listening to songbirds, or watching the night sky.
Anyway, once I was up, I had my first couple of cups of coffee (does that count as celebrating the solstice? Probably not.), then got ready to go out for a walk. I'd wanted to walk and/or run for an hour, but got a late-ish start. I figure that with the heat and humidity, half-an-hour was not bad. I'll probably go back out this afternoon for another walk.
In the meantime, I guess I'd better get started on another Saturday. One of the neighbors is already out mowing the lawn. I kid him that he's obsessed with his yard, and he gladly admits that he is, although he's eased up a little on it over the last year or two. But when the worst you can say about a neighbor is that his lawn is perfect, I guess one can't complain. (We'll leave politics out; the neighbor and I generally do.)
Whether you tend to celebrate the solstices and equinoxes or simply are aware of when they happen, I hope you have a decent day. And if nothing else, maybe read a book while in a park, listening to the nearby birds. If nothing else, it'll at least break up your day a little.
My son, M., had to work today. His schedule is such that he has a one-day-weekend every other week; the up side is that the other weekend is a five-day-weekend. He works Wednesday through Saturday, has Sunday off, then works Monday through Thursday, while another guy at work works the opposite of M. So, this weekend, while M. has a one-day-weekend, the other guy has a five-day-weekend.
M. has to get up at 5:00 AM to get ready, so I frequently set my alarm as back-up, just in case he conveniently sleeps through his, then I'll go back to bed until 6-ish. This is mainly to run interception at the front door, so that Karma, our resident Houdini, masquerading as a black cat, doesn't try escaping. I think he does this just to keep us on our toes; he'll go for a few weeks without incident, then, when our guard is down, Zooooom! Out the door! This morning, after M. left, I went back to and tried to sleep until 7:00. Never quite happened, what with Karma and Drexie wanting breakfast...
Good thing M.'s not into celebrating the Summer Solstice. Also, I guess to do it up right, we really should live near Stonehenge. But we don't. However, The Old Farmer's Almanac has suggestions for celebrating the solstice, some of which are do-able. Because of local laws, lighting a bonfire is out. And I seriously doubt that I'll be fishing or camping. But cooking outside is a possibility; so is planting a tree (we have plenty of them in our yard, most of which my sons and daughter and I planted), letting the light in (Florida is the sunshine state, after all!), reading a book, listening to songbirds, or watching the night sky.
Anyway, once I was up, I had my first couple of cups of coffee (does that count as celebrating the solstice? Probably not.), then got ready to go out for a walk. I'd wanted to walk and/or run for an hour, but got a late-ish start. I figure that with the heat and humidity, half-an-hour was not bad. I'll probably go back out this afternoon for another walk.
In the meantime, I guess I'd better get started on another Saturday. One of the neighbors is already out mowing the lawn. I kid him that he's obsessed with his yard, and he gladly admits that he is, although he's eased up a little on it over the last year or two. But when the worst you can say about a neighbor is that his lawn is perfect, I guess one can't complain. (We'll leave politics out; the neighbor and I generally do.)
Whether you tend to celebrate the solstices and equinoxes or simply are aware of when they happen, I hope you have a decent day. And if nothing else, maybe read a book while in a park, listening to the nearby birds. If nothing else, it'll at least break up your day a little.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
A Tail of Two Cats (And A Dog and another Cat...)
I currently have two cats, which is ironic, considering I'm more of a dog person. Most people, if they like dogs and cats, tend to like one species a little more than the other. I've always been more of a dog person, but that's beside the point: I now share my house with two cats.
Actually, it's not completely my fault that the two of them live here. Oh, yes, I know, I didn't have to allow either one into my house. But there are times when life happens. What was it John Lennon said? "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans." Which is what happened here.
I was having a bad year. It hadn't actually been a January-through-December-bad-year, more like June-through-whenever kind of bad year. It started when our cocker spaniel died in June, 2006. Osha was 16 years old, and we knew it was just a matter of time. She's started losing her hearing, her vision was getting bad, and in the last few weeks, she seemed to have the dog equivalent of Alzheimer's.
One afternoon, maybe a week before she died, I'd let her out in our fenced-in back yard and, somehow, she'd managed to slip out in a break in the fence that she'd never been able to get through in her middle age. When I saw her wandering next to the road, I ran out and scooped her up. She gave me a happy-aging-puppy look that seemed to say, Hi! I can't quite place you, but you do look familiar! Maybe you have a nice treat for me? I knew...
Osha
A week later, the evening of June 4, she had trouble getting up and coming to the bedroom. My son, J., was on the computer, and planned to be up for a while.
"If she needs help, let me know," I told him.
"Sure thing," he answered.
Maybe fifteen minutes later, he knocked on the door, holding Osha. She'd tried crawling out of the living room toward the hallway. I took the old gal and placed her on her nest of blankets, petting her once-silky fur.
But no matter what, she couldn't get comfortable. Paul got up and fixed a pot of coffee and we sat up with Osha. We knew that if she didn't go that night, we'd have to do the hard thing and take her to the vet's in the morning. She was that far gone. Sixteen is a very old cocker spaniel.
Finally, at 4:00, when it was obvious she couldn't get comfortable, I picked her up and sat on the front porch while cradling her. She'd always loved sitting on the porch, sniffing the air, watching the neighborhood. She howled her wimpy little cocker spaniel howl, something she hadn't done in probably several years, then settled down. I told her what a good girl she was, that it was okay for her to go.
When I brought her back inside around 4:30, she seemed ready to sleep. Sometime between then and 6:00, she passed over the Rainbow Bridge, her friend and buddy, our cat, E. B. White, keeping watch.
That was a hard one. Even Paul - a former Marine! - was a little teary-eyed.
Then came October. Paul was sick and had to be rushed by ambulance to the hospital. At one point, he seemed to be getting better. But after almost a week, he passed away. I won't go over the details; suffice it to say that I covered that in another blog...
Paul
The following June, E. B. White died. She'd seemed to be going downhill after Osha and Paul died. And on Father's Day of 2007 - June 17 - she, too, died. After wrapping her up in an old towel so that I could take her to be cremated the next day, I called to wish my dad a happy Father's Day. Unfortunately, it was obvious he couldn't come to the phone. Two years earlier, he and my step-mom had come to visit to let me know Dad had cancer and was terminal. He died two weeks later. My brother, too, had gone several months earlier.
E. B. White
Greg
Dad and step-mom, Phyllis
I really wasn't in the mood for any more pets. Cats and dogs tend to have a shorter life-span than people, which means that there's a good chance you'll have to go through the pain of their deaths. I was soooo over death and dying. Whether the loved one was a person or a pet, it hurt. True, some deaths hurt more than others, but it still hurts. I was not going through that again!
About a month before E. B. died, though, I had called my friend Kevin up. Kevin, you might recall from previous posts, drives cab. I needed a ride, so I usually call Kev.
On this particular trip, Kevin informed me that his friend Billie, a nice gal who'd gone through a rough patch with her sense of humor intact, had a cat who'd just had a litter of kittens. "All of them have been claimed for adoption when they're old enough, except for one," Kev informed me. "That one is yours'. He's your karma." I was sure he meant that I was destined to have this cat, but it came out as Karma.
"No way I'm taking that kitten," I informed Kev. "I don't need another cat."
"Yes, you do," he insisted.
"Whatever." I let the subject drop, figuring that someone else would come along and decide that they had to have that kitten.
But nooooo. Kevin kept giving me periodic updates on my kitten. The first couple of weeks, I kept telling him no. Then I got to the smirking stage; no way is he giving me that darn kitten!
"But Karma's so cute!" he gush, as I smirked away.
Sometime between E. B.'s death and my dad's death, two weeks later, I was on the phone with my son-in-law, B. (M.H., who I'd wanted to talk to, had gone to work.) Suddenly, a car honked in the driveway. I looked outside.
Kevin.
"Hold on," I told B. "Someone's here."
I opened the door as Kev opened the trunk of his cab. "I got your cat!" he called.
"Even you wouldn't keep a kitten in the trunk of your cab!" I responded. He gave me a look.
"No, Billie has Karma. I just have all the cat stuff so you can't give him back!"
It was then that I noticed Billie in the front seat. She opened the window and handed out a tiny black furball. Karma's eyes were wide and he opened his mouth to let out a yowly mew. I took him as Kev put litter box, cat litter, and a six-pack of canned cat food on the front porch before beating a hasty retreat to the cab.
Karma Kitty, first week at home
"Enjoy!" he called as he jumped into the cab, threw it in reverse and left!
I looked at this tiny little bundle. "What are we going to do?" I asked. He leaned into me, then looked up and bit the end of my nose.
I got him and the stuff into the house and watched as he sniffed the carpet. E.B.'s scent was still there. "Yes, Karma," I told him. "This is a cat house." Meaning that we'd recently had a cat.
At this point, I heard laughter. It sounded kind-of far away, but somehow close. The phone!
Grabbing the phone, I asked, "Are you still there?" B. was. He'd heard the cat house remark.
A month later, we adopted Drexie from our vets' office (Pinellas Animal Hospital). I figured a second cat would keep Karma company. After a day or two of getting acquainted, during which time Karma kept trying to get rid of the intruder, until she finally fought back and let him know I'm staying, they've become friends and perfect foils for one another.
Karma Kitty, adult
Drexie Calabash
I guess I'll keep 'em.
Actually, it's not completely my fault that the two of them live here. Oh, yes, I know, I didn't have to allow either one into my house. But there are times when life happens. What was it John Lennon said? "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans." Which is what happened here.
I was having a bad year. It hadn't actually been a January-through-December-bad-year, more like June-through-whenever kind of bad year. It started when our cocker spaniel died in June, 2006. Osha was 16 years old, and we knew it was just a matter of time. She's started losing her hearing, her vision was getting bad, and in the last few weeks, she seemed to have the dog equivalent of Alzheimer's.
One afternoon, maybe a week before she died, I'd let her out in our fenced-in back yard and, somehow, she'd managed to slip out in a break in the fence that she'd never been able to get through in her middle age. When I saw her wandering next to the road, I ran out and scooped her up. She gave me a happy-aging-puppy look that seemed to say, Hi! I can't quite place you, but you do look familiar! Maybe you have a nice treat for me? I knew...
Osha
A week later, the evening of June 4, she had trouble getting up and coming to the bedroom. My son, J., was on the computer, and planned to be up for a while.
"If she needs help, let me know," I told him.
"Sure thing," he answered.
Maybe fifteen minutes later, he knocked on the door, holding Osha. She'd tried crawling out of the living room toward the hallway. I took the old gal and placed her on her nest of blankets, petting her once-silky fur.
But no matter what, she couldn't get comfortable. Paul got up and fixed a pot of coffee and we sat up with Osha. We knew that if she didn't go that night, we'd have to do the hard thing and take her to the vet's in the morning. She was that far gone. Sixteen is a very old cocker spaniel.
Finally, at 4:00, when it was obvious she couldn't get comfortable, I picked her up and sat on the front porch while cradling her. She'd always loved sitting on the porch, sniffing the air, watching the neighborhood. She howled her wimpy little cocker spaniel howl, something she hadn't done in probably several years, then settled down. I told her what a good girl she was, that it was okay for her to go.
When I brought her back inside around 4:30, she seemed ready to sleep. Sometime between then and 6:00, she passed over the Rainbow Bridge, her friend and buddy, our cat, E. B. White, keeping watch.
That was a hard one. Even Paul - a former Marine! - was a little teary-eyed.
Then came October. Paul was sick and had to be rushed by ambulance to the hospital. At one point, he seemed to be getting better. But after almost a week, he passed away. I won't go over the details; suffice it to say that I covered that in another blog...
Paul
The following June, E. B. White died. She'd seemed to be going downhill after Osha and Paul died. And on Father's Day of 2007 - June 17 - she, too, died. After wrapping her up in an old towel so that I could take her to be cremated the next day, I called to wish my dad a happy Father's Day. Unfortunately, it was obvious he couldn't come to the phone. Two years earlier, he and my step-mom had come to visit to let me know Dad had cancer and was terminal. He died two weeks later. My brother, too, had gone several months earlier.
E. B. White
Greg
Dad and step-mom, Phyllis
I really wasn't in the mood for any more pets. Cats and dogs tend to have a shorter life-span than people, which means that there's a good chance you'll have to go through the pain of their deaths. I was soooo over death and dying. Whether the loved one was a person or a pet, it hurt. True, some deaths hurt more than others, but it still hurts. I was not going through that again!
About a month before E. B. died, though, I had called my friend Kevin up. Kevin, you might recall from previous posts, drives cab. I needed a ride, so I usually call Kev.
On this particular trip, Kevin informed me that his friend Billie, a nice gal who'd gone through a rough patch with her sense of humor intact, had a cat who'd just had a litter of kittens. "All of them have been claimed for adoption when they're old enough, except for one," Kev informed me. "That one is yours'. He's your karma." I was sure he meant that I was destined to have this cat, but it came out as Karma.
"No way I'm taking that kitten," I informed Kev. "I don't need another cat."
"Yes, you do," he insisted.
"Whatever." I let the subject drop, figuring that someone else would come along and decide that they had to have that kitten.
But nooooo. Kevin kept giving me periodic updates on my kitten. The first couple of weeks, I kept telling him no. Then I got to the smirking stage; no way is he giving me that darn kitten!
"But Karma's so cute!" he gush, as I smirked away.
Sometime between E. B.'s death and my dad's death, two weeks later, I was on the phone with my son-in-law, B. (M.H., who I'd wanted to talk to, had gone to work.) Suddenly, a car honked in the driveway. I looked outside.
Kevin.
"Hold on," I told B. "Someone's here."
I opened the door as Kev opened the trunk of his cab. "I got your cat!" he called.
"Even you wouldn't keep a kitten in the trunk of your cab!" I responded. He gave me a look.
"No, Billie has Karma. I just have all the cat stuff so you can't give him back!"
It was then that I noticed Billie in the front seat. She opened the window and handed out a tiny black furball. Karma's eyes were wide and he opened his mouth to let out a yowly mew. I took him as Kev put litter box, cat litter, and a six-pack of canned cat food on the front porch before beating a hasty retreat to the cab.
Karma Kitty, first week at home
"Enjoy!" he called as he jumped into the cab, threw it in reverse and left!
I looked at this tiny little bundle. "What are we going to do?" I asked. He leaned into me, then looked up and bit the end of my nose.
I got him and the stuff into the house and watched as he sniffed the carpet. E.B.'s scent was still there. "Yes, Karma," I told him. "This is a cat house." Meaning that we'd recently had a cat.
At this point, I heard laughter. It sounded kind-of far away, but somehow close. The phone!
Grabbing the phone, I asked, "Are you still there?" B. was. He'd heard the cat house remark.
A month later, we adopted Drexie from our vets' office (Pinellas Animal Hospital). I figured a second cat would keep Karma company. After a day or two of getting acquainted, during which time Karma kept trying to get rid of the intruder, until she finally fought back and let him know I'm staying, they've become friends and perfect foils for one another.
Karma Kitty, adult
Drexie Calabash
I guess I'll keep 'em.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Holidays
It's only a few days until Christmas, and while my Christmas tree has been up for maybe two weeks, more or less, I finally got around to decorating it.
Before you ask "a competely bare Christmas tree?", it had three strands of lights on it since the afternoon I'd set it up. Just no actual decorations. It's not that we don't have them, I just haven't put them on our tree for a few years now.
There's a reason for this. (Besides sheer laziness; that doesn't quite cover it.) For years, we'd bought live trees from local tree lots, lugged it home, set it up, then decorated it with lights and decorations. Somewhere along the way, we ended up with two large buckets with lids to keep our Christmas stuff in; one bucket was for lights, the other for all other decorations. The light bucket always came off the utility room shelf first; once the lights were on the tree, the other bucket came down and the decorations put up.
Each year, it was the same thing: each decoration represented a family member who'd made the ornament or given it to us. My grandmother had given us quite a few ornaments: ceramic bells shaped like mice with little ceramic clappers that caused a tinkling sound when the mice moved, several clothespins painted to look like Santa Claus, and other trinkets that held memories of going to her house at Christmas time. My ex-mother-in-law had made a few beaded ornaments that we still have, though she's been gone for decades. There are ones that my kids made when they were in grade school. And of course there are others picked up here and there over the years.
Around the time P. and I had gotten together, my daughter M.H. and her husband moved out of state. One of the things they dropped off at our place was a 4-foot artificial tree. It fit nicely on a table top, which is part of why M.H. had bought it in the first place. It's easy enough to put together: simply pull it out of the box, put the lets on the base, pull the branches down, and viola!
However, P. and I simply kept buying real trees. Using the artificial tree felt, well, artificial.
Then, one year, we were a little short on cash. By the time we finally had the money to buy a tree, three weeks before the big day, there wasn't a real tree on any lot to be found without driving miles and miles. So, out came the 4-foot tree.
After setting it up, we threw several strands of blinky lights on it; that was plenty on a tree that size. Then, grabbing the ornament bucket, we found a few ornaments that fit the smaller tree very nicely. There was no way we could use all the decorations; there simply wasn't enough room. Sighing, I put the bucket back on the shelf, half the ornaments still inside.
This tree seemed perfectly fine for the next few years. Then P. died. When I went to set up the tree that year, the lights went on it, but I only had the energy or desire to put one or two ornaments on it. The next year, the ornament bucket didn't even come off the shelf.
A few years ago, I went out and bought a 6-footer. It's still artificial, but I figured I'd get a few years' use out of it. I even bought a few extra strands of lights, since two tiny strands of blinky lights just wouldn't do. But still very few, if any, ornaments. Until now.
My friend Kevin has been spending a lot of time here. He's more like a slightly strange, slightly goofy kid brother, and a friend. Nothing more, nothing less. Contrary to what Billy Crystal's character thought in the first half of When Harry Met Sally, men and women can be friends. He acknowledged the tree and several strands of lights. My son J. even put a strand of lights on that M.H. had given him last year; this strand has maybe a dozen large blood-shot-looking plastic eyes painted on the white globes.
"Cool lights," Kevin mentioned when he saw them.
But then, after a week or so with no other ornaments, he finally asked where they were. "You got the tree, you got the lights, you need to get some ornaments!"
I had to admit, it might be nice to get the bucket down. Last year, I'd used the excuse that our two cats, Karma Kitty and Drexie Calabash, might knock them off the tree and bat them around the house. But there had to be something I could put on the tree that wouldn't cause problems for the two crazy cats. This meant that the few beaded ornaments in the bucket would stay in the bucket, along with a couple of other potentially dangerous ones (dangerous to kitties, anyway). But then, there were other ones I could put on the tree: there's a plastic one that looks almost stained-glass-like and looks nice with a light showing through; there's a star made out of little mirrors (great for reflecting light), and several others that actually look a little nicer than I remember.
The tree is now officially decorated. It won't rival anything in any fancy home decorating magazine. But that's perfectly fine with me.
Merry Christmas, Happy Solstice, Happy (belated) Hanukkah, and Happy New Year.
Before you ask "a competely bare Christmas tree?", it had three strands of lights on it since the afternoon I'd set it up. Just no actual decorations. It's not that we don't have them, I just haven't put them on our tree for a few years now.
There's a reason for this. (Besides sheer laziness; that doesn't quite cover it.) For years, we'd bought live trees from local tree lots, lugged it home, set it up, then decorated it with lights and decorations. Somewhere along the way, we ended up with two large buckets with lids to keep our Christmas stuff in; one bucket was for lights, the other for all other decorations. The light bucket always came off the utility room shelf first; once the lights were on the tree, the other bucket came down and the decorations put up.
Each year, it was the same thing: each decoration represented a family member who'd made the ornament or given it to us. My grandmother had given us quite a few ornaments: ceramic bells shaped like mice with little ceramic clappers that caused a tinkling sound when the mice moved, several clothespins painted to look like Santa Claus, and other trinkets that held memories of going to her house at Christmas time. My ex-mother-in-law had made a few beaded ornaments that we still have, though she's been gone for decades. There are ones that my kids made when they were in grade school. And of course there are others picked up here and there over the years.
Around the time P. and I had gotten together, my daughter M.H. and her husband moved out of state. One of the things they dropped off at our place was a 4-foot artificial tree. It fit nicely on a table top, which is part of why M.H. had bought it in the first place. It's easy enough to put together: simply pull it out of the box, put the lets on the base, pull the branches down, and viola!
However, P. and I simply kept buying real trees. Using the artificial tree felt, well, artificial.
Then, one year, we were a little short on cash. By the time we finally had the money to buy a tree, three weeks before the big day, there wasn't a real tree on any lot to be found without driving miles and miles. So, out came the 4-foot tree.
After setting it up, we threw several strands of blinky lights on it; that was plenty on a tree that size. Then, grabbing the ornament bucket, we found a few ornaments that fit the smaller tree very nicely. There was no way we could use all the decorations; there simply wasn't enough room. Sighing, I put the bucket back on the shelf, half the ornaments still inside.
This tree seemed perfectly fine for the next few years. Then P. died. When I went to set up the tree that year, the lights went on it, but I only had the energy or desire to put one or two ornaments on it. The next year, the ornament bucket didn't even come off the shelf.
A few years ago, I went out and bought a 6-footer. It's still artificial, but I figured I'd get a few years' use out of it. I even bought a few extra strands of lights, since two tiny strands of blinky lights just wouldn't do. But still very few, if any, ornaments. Until now.
My friend Kevin has been spending a lot of time here. He's more like a slightly strange, slightly goofy kid brother, and a friend. Nothing more, nothing less. Contrary to what Billy Crystal's character thought in the first half of When Harry Met Sally, men and women can be friends. He acknowledged the tree and several strands of lights. My son J. even put a strand of lights on that M.H. had given him last year; this strand has maybe a dozen large blood-shot-looking plastic eyes painted on the white globes.
"Cool lights," Kevin mentioned when he saw them.
But then, after a week or so with no other ornaments, he finally asked where they were. "You got the tree, you got the lights, you need to get some ornaments!"
I had to admit, it might be nice to get the bucket down. Last year, I'd used the excuse that our two cats, Karma Kitty and Drexie Calabash, might knock them off the tree and bat them around the house. But there had to be something I could put on the tree that wouldn't cause problems for the two crazy cats. This meant that the few beaded ornaments in the bucket would stay in the bucket, along with a couple of other potentially dangerous ones (dangerous to kitties, anyway). But then, there were other ones I could put on the tree: there's a plastic one that looks almost stained-glass-like and looks nice with a light showing through; there's a star made out of little mirrors (great for reflecting light), and several others that actually look a little nicer than I remember.
The tree is now officially decorated. It won't rival anything in any fancy home decorating magazine. But that's perfectly fine with me.
Merry Christmas, Happy Solstice, Happy (belated) Hanukkah, and Happy New Year.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Karma and Drexie Calabash
My two cats have been acting a little crazy the past few weeks. Whether it's from the shortening days, the weather, just feeling extra good, or the fact that they're cats (or all of the above) is anyone's guess. But they've been going through periods throughout the day when I swear the two of them are banking off the walls. As hard as they've been playing, it's kind-of amazing they haven't gone through the walls, especially Karma.
Karma Kitty is a black male cat, replete with cattitude. He has a habit of getting on the arm of the couch and straddling it, the way a panther would straddle a large branch. From there, it's relatively easy for our miniature panther to survey his domain, take a nap, pounce on unsuspecting people (or his sister) or take a swipe at bare arms. He had topped out at twelve pounds and change, but after being put on a special diet the end of last year, he's dropped down to ten. It's all muscle, though. He's also, without a doubt, the smartest cat I've ever known, as well as the coolest. Think Einstein/jazz musician/male model/snuggle bug rolled up in one. (Okay, that might be over the top, but you get the idea.)
Drexie, on the other hand, is a delicate six-pounder, a loveable ditz whose taste for exploration (as well as occasionally whooping up on Karma) is so ingrained in her personality (cat-ality?) that, had she been human, would have landed her in the history books.
It was this tendency toward exploration that got her into trouble this afternoon. Actually, it got her stuck in the dryer.
Normally, if I'm doing laundry, I'll check to see where Karm and Drex are before starting the washer or dryer, since they've been known to try climbing into the machines when the doors are open. Doesn't matter if they're full of laundry or not.
Drexie is worse at this than Karm is. She's also been known to duck into the pots-and-pans cupboard, then get into the silverware drawer. This takes a little doing, but entails climbing on a shelf near the back of the storage area, then climb into the back of the silverware drawer, flattening her tiny self into the small space, then putting her front paws into the silverware trays.
The first time she did this, it was a total surprise. I had fixed myself a cup of tea and wanted to get a spoon to stir it with. Opening the drawer, I discovered I could only pull it out so far before I got swatted by a white paw on the end of a tabby leg. Hmmm... I thought. Either I'd better do a better job of washing the furry silverware, or there's a certain cat in there. I had to take the trays out before I could get Drexie out. And yes, the silverware got rewashed.
I've since secured the cupboards under the sink so that a certain explorer can't get back in there.
Getting back to the dryer...I'd taken the laundry out, stuck it into a basket, and turned my back on the dryer for all of maybe thirty seconds, if that. Then I shut the machine.
About half-an-hour later, Karma was sitting in front of the dryer when I went to put a last load in. He kept chatting at me, then looking at the dryer.
"What is it, Karm?" I asked. He kept meowing, then looking back at the dryer. He's smart, but has yet to move beyond meowing, which does occasionally make communication a little dicey.
Then I heard a very faint mew. Karma was sitting there, staring at me like he was thinking, Well...? I opened the back door, but there was no cat in sight. Again, the faint mew, at which point, Karma swatted my leg, then patted the dryer door. (Did I mention he's smart? He's just not subtle.)
When I didn't respond immediately, there was another faint mew and Karma smacked my leg harder, then touched the front of the dryer, before running off.
At that point, I opened the dryer and out walked Drexie, who gave me a look like, It's about time!
Guess I'll have to make sure I know where the little wench is at all times. Guess I'll also have to listen to Karma, too.
Karma Kitty is a black male cat, replete with cattitude. He has a habit of getting on the arm of the couch and straddling it, the way a panther would straddle a large branch. From there, it's relatively easy for our miniature panther to survey his domain, take a nap, pounce on unsuspecting people (or his sister) or take a swipe at bare arms. He had topped out at twelve pounds and change, but after being put on a special diet the end of last year, he's dropped down to ten. It's all muscle, though. He's also, without a doubt, the smartest cat I've ever known, as well as the coolest. Think Einstein/jazz musician/male model/snuggle bug rolled up in one. (Okay, that might be over the top, but you get the idea.)
Drexie, on the other hand, is a delicate six-pounder, a loveable ditz whose taste for exploration (as well as occasionally whooping up on Karma) is so ingrained in her personality (cat-ality?) that, had she been human, would have landed her in the history books.
It was this tendency toward exploration that got her into trouble this afternoon. Actually, it got her stuck in the dryer.
Normally, if I'm doing laundry, I'll check to see where Karm and Drex are before starting the washer or dryer, since they've been known to try climbing into the machines when the doors are open. Doesn't matter if they're full of laundry or not.
Drexie is worse at this than Karm is. She's also been known to duck into the pots-and-pans cupboard, then get into the silverware drawer. This takes a little doing, but entails climbing on a shelf near the back of the storage area, then climb into the back of the silverware drawer, flattening her tiny self into the small space, then putting her front paws into the silverware trays.
The first time she did this, it was a total surprise. I had fixed myself a cup of tea and wanted to get a spoon to stir it with. Opening the drawer, I discovered I could only pull it out so far before I got swatted by a white paw on the end of a tabby leg. Hmmm... I thought. Either I'd better do a better job of washing the furry silverware, or there's a certain cat in there. I had to take the trays out before I could get Drexie out. And yes, the silverware got rewashed.
I've since secured the cupboards under the sink so that a certain explorer can't get back in there.
Getting back to the dryer...I'd taken the laundry out, stuck it into a basket, and turned my back on the dryer for all of maybe thirty seconds, if that. Then I shut the machine.
About half-an-hour later, Karma was sitting in front of the dryer when I went to put a last load in. He kept chatting at me, then looking at the dryer.
"What is it, Karm?" I asked. He kept meowing, then looking back at the dryer. He's smart, but has yet to move beyond meowing, which does occasionally make communication a little dicey.
Then I heard a very faint mew. Karma was sitting there, staring at me like he was thinking, Well...? I opened the back door, but there was no cat in sight. Again, the faint mew, at which point, Karma swatted my leg, then patted the dryer door. (Did I mention he's smart? He's just not subtle.)
When I didn't respond immediately, there was another faint mew and Karma smacked my leg harder, then touched the front of the dryer, before running off.
At that point, I opened the dryer and out walked Drexie, who gave me a look like, It's about time!
Guess I'll have to make sure I know where the little wench is at all times. Guess I'll also have to listen to Karma, too.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Hello, Phone Company, Can You Fix My Phone? Yes, It's The One I'm Calling From...
There are days when things just don't go exactly the way we plan 'em. How does the joke go? How do you make God laugh? Tell Him/Her your plans. I had a day like that recently.
Because I was the only one home and awake after my three-hour online shift yesterday morning, I pretty much had the day to myself, and figured I'd spend the time working on my Master's thesis. I was moving along nicely when the phone rang. We have the phone set up so that the voicemail kicks in after four or five rings--enough time to let the Caller ID show who's calling, allow us to answer (if we're available and want to answer), while letting the caller leave a message without having it ring a zillion times first.
But this time, the phone only rang once; since it has to ring twice before the Caller ID spits out the number, there was no way of knowing (beyond hitting *69, which adds to the bill) who had called. I'd noticed that the phone had been ringing only once or twice a lot the previous day or two. Sometimes, whoever called would leave a message, so I knew they weren't crank calls. After this particular call, though, one of the phone jacks made several weird clicking noises, like it was trying to decide whether to ring, hang up, or croak.
Weird, I thought, before going back to work. But then, a few minutes later, when I went to use the portable phone, it showed that line was in use. What? How is that possible? I'd never even picked up the phone! So I hit the on button and listened to a ton of static, as well as that weird screeching noise that lets you know you've left your phone off the hook.
Note: For anyone of a certain age, say, under 35 or so, and is into the cool catch-phrases of the past ten years or so, no, I'm not trying to sound cool by using the phrase off the hook. There really was a time when the phrase meant that someone had forgotten to hang-up their phone at the end of a call. These people were oh, so not cool.
We still had cable TV and the internet, and our bill was current, so that wasn't the problem. I went around to each phone in the house--the two portables, the two actual landlines--and made sure that the two cats hadn't knocked the handsets off the phones. I also checked to make sure that the phones were actually plugged into the wall jacks. There was still that static, screeching, and no dial tone. So, I went online to correct the problem...or so I thought. After getting to the proper carrier's website, I went through all their systems' checks, then tried to contact someone using the internet, only to receive the message that We're sorry, but we're not sure how to help out beyond telling you to call us at 1-800... Yeah, like if I could do that, there wouldn't be a problem...Of course, my cell phone was down at the moment, so that didn't help.
Finally, I got a bright idea. Grabbing a couple of screwdrivers, I headed out to the outside phone box, opened it up where it said Customer Access, and opened the box up. There were two places to plug in a phone. I tried using our desk phone, a funky-looking thing I'd bought at an antique store a few years back. Of course, it's a rotary phone, which was incompatible with the prompts the automated system gave me. ("Are you calling about 727-...-....? If yes, press one, if no, press two...") No amount of waiting would convince the prompt to connect me with a real human being.
Bringing the antique phone back inside, I ended up having to use the portable phone, which meant taking the phone's charger, plugging one cord into an indoor wall socket, and the phone line cord into the outside box. (Yes, it was a pain...) Now, I was in business...
When I finally got through to a live human, there seemed to be a language problem. The man with customer service had no discernible accent, and seemed to be able to understand and respond to simple questions, such as names and phone numbers.
But then things got weird. "What number are you calling about? Okay, what seems to be the problem?" I said that the inside phone lines weren't working. "So how are you calling?" he asked.
"I had to plug the phone into the outside box."
"What?" he asked, sounding astonished. "Did you have to climb the power pole to get to the phone lines?"
"Um, no, there's a box on the side of the house that takes the phone lines from the underground fios line into the house?"
"Why would it be there?"
The conversation went down hill from there. But finally, after ascertaining that the phone I was on actually works, he told me to take the phone and the base, plug them into one of the indoor jacks while he ran a diagnostic test on the line. "I'll call you back in five minutes."
After plugging the phone into the indoor jack, I could tell that the indoor line still wasn't working. Static, screeching...
Back outside, I got the phone plugged back in maybe thirty seconds before the guy called back. "Great!" he exclaimed. "We have it working!"
"No, we don't," I answered.
"What do you mean?" He sounded completely confused. "I'm talking to you on the phone."
"I'm back outside."
He then offered to call me on my cell phone. "That's out of minutes," I explained.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it's a prepaid phone, and once you get below a dollar on it, especially when you haven't used it that day, you can't get or receive calls."
"But I'll be able to call you on it. You'll be inside your house then," he said, a hint of Oh, these silly people with their ridiculous ideas in his voice.
"Okay, you've got my cell phone number on file, right?"
"Yes, I'm calling now." He put me on hold, and as I waited, seriously wondered two things: Where the phone company had gotten this winner from, and how long this charade would go on. Finally, he came back. "The phone doesn't seem to be accepting calls."
"See?" I said, feeling a little bit vindicated.
After several more twists and turns in the conversation, he finally decided it would be best if he sent a technician out the next morning.
That actually helped...The problem is solved. Wouldn't be so aggravating if the company hadn't had someone call me less than ten minutes after the technician left to see if I'd like to upgrade my services for a mere $10 a month! I thanked them, and said No.
If they really want to upgrade, how about a person - born here or not, it really doesn't matter - who actually listens and understands the language...
Because I was the only one home and awake after my three-hour online shift yesterday morning, I pretty much had the day to myself, and figured I'd spend the time working on my Master's thesis. I was moving along nicely when the phone rang. We have the phone set up so that the voicemail kicks in after four or five rings--enough time to let the Caller ID show who's calling, allow us to answer (if we're available and want to answer), while letting the caller leave a message without having it ring a zillion times first.
But this time, the phone only rang once; since it has to ring twice before the Caller ID spits out the number, there was no way of knowing (beyond hitting *69, which adds to the bill) who had called. I'd noticed that the phone had been ringing only once or twice a lot the previous day or two. Sometimes, whoever called would leave a message, so I knew they weren't crank calls. After this particular call, though, one of the phone jacks made several weird clicking noises, like it was trying to decide whether to ring, hang up, or croak.
Weird, I thought, before going back to work. But then, a few minutes later, when I went to use the portable phone, it showed that line was in use. What? How is that possible? I'd never even picked up the phone! So I hit the on button and listened to a ton of static, as well as that weird screeching noise that lets you know you've left your phone off the hook.
Note: For anyone of a certain age, say, under 35 or so, and is into the cool catch-phrases of the past ten years or so, no, I'm not trying to sound cool by using the phrase off the hook. There really was a time when the phrase meant that someone had forgotten to hang-up their phone at the end of a call. These people were oh, so not cool.
We still had cable TV and the internet, and our bill was current, so that wasn't the problem. I went around to each phone in the house--the two portables, the two actual landlines--and made sure that the two cats hadn't knocked the handsets off the phones. I also checked to make sure that the phones were actually plugged into the wall jacks. There was still that static, screeching, and no dial tone. So, I went online to correct the problem...or so I thought. After getting to the proper carrier's website, I went through all their systems' checks, then tried to contact someone using the internet, only to receive the message that We're sorry, but we're not sure how to help out beyond telling you to call us at 1-800... Yeah, like if I could do that, there wouldn't be a problem...Of course, my cell phone was down at the moment, so that didn't help.
Finally, I got a bright idea. Grabbing a couple of screwdrivers, I headed out to the outside phone box, opened it up where it said Customer Access, and opened the box up. There were two places to plug in a phone. I tried using our desk phone, a funky-looking thing I'd bought at an antique store a few years back. Of course, it's a rotary phone, which was incompatible with the prompts the automated system gave me. ("Are you calling about 727-...-....? If yes, press one, if no, press two...") No amount of waiting would convince the prompt to connect me with a real human being.
Bringing the antique phone back inside, I ended up having to use the portable phone, which meant taking the phone's charger, plugging one cord into an indoor wall socket, and the phone line cord into the outside box. (Yes, it was a pain...) Now, I was in business...
When I finally got through to a live human, there seemed to be a language problem. The man with customer service had no discernible accent, and seemed to be able to understand and respond to simple questions, such as names and phone numbers.
But then things got weird. "What number are you calling about? Okay, what seems to be the problem?" I said that the inside phone lines weren't working. "So how are you calling?" he asked.
"I had to plug the phone into the outside box."
"What?" he asked, sounding astonished. "Did you have to climb the power pole to get to the phone lines?"
"Um, no, there's a box on the side of the house that takes the phone lines from the underground fios line into the house?"
"Why would it be there?"
The conversation went down hill from there. But finally, after ascertaining that the phone I was on actually works, he told me to take the phone and the base, plug them into one of the indoor jacks while he ran a diagnostic test on the line. "I'll call you back in five minutes."
After plugging the phone into the indoor jack, I could tell that the indoor line still wasn't working. Static, screeching...
Back outside, I got the phone plugged back in maybe thirty seconds before the guy called back. "Great!" he exclaimed. "We have it working!"
"No, we don't," I answered.
"What do you mean?" He sounded completely confused. "I'm talking to you on the phone."
"I'm back outside."
He then offered to call me on my cell phone. "That's out of minutes," I explained.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it's a prepaid phone, and once you get below a dollar on it, especially when you haven't used it that day, you can't get or receive calls."
"But I'll be able to call you on it. You'll be inside your house then," he said, a hint of Oh, these silly people with their ridiculous ideas in his voice.
"Okay, you've got my cell phone number on file, right?"
"Yes, I'm calling now." He put me on hold, and as I waited, seriously wondered two things: Where the phone company had gotten this winner from, and how long this charade would go on. Finally, he came back. "The phone doesn't seem to be accepting calls."
"See?" I said, feeling a little bit vindicated.
After several more twists and turns in the conversation, he finally decided it would be best if he sent a technician out the next morning.
That actually helped...The problem is solved. Wouldn't be so aggravating if the company hadn't had someone call me less than ten minutes after the technician left to see if I'd like to upgrade my services for a mere $10 a month! I thanked them, and said No.
If they really want to upgrade, how about a person - born here or not, it really doesn't matter - who actually listens and understands the language...
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Christmas Day
Yesterday was Christmas, and I'm okay with that. That might seem like a strange thing to say; how could anyone not be okay with Christmas? (If you've spent your life celebrating Hanukkah instead, or any other winter holidays, I'm not trying to disrespect you; I'm simply writing where I'm coming from and my point of reference. I'd love to read your writings on the subject.)
But being okay with Christmas: You have no idea how long it took me to be able to say that. Sure, as a kid, especially if you've grown up in a middle-class family, as I did, Christmas was great. What wasn't there to love: First off, there were the presents, the extended family, the food, the lights, the whole ambience of Christmas. We may have had two trees, since I do remember seeing a decorated tree in a corner of the living room by our corner windows, and the big tree - the one where we'd find the presents - downstairs in the playroom.
Most years, it seems, we'd go to both sets of grandparents' places, usually one a day or two before Christmas, the other either on Christmas Day for dinner, or a set would come over for Christmas. Both of my parents had one sibling who lived in close proximity so that whichever set didn't have Christmas dinner with us would have a place to go. All very good.
Of course, these days, with family frequently spread across the country, this is a little more difficult. Thank goodness for phones, though it's still not quite the same. Maybe in some respects, that's not always a bad thing; we all have our weird holiday stories.
But then, life changed, evolved. When we moved to Connecticut, it seemed that one year, both sets of grandparents came one year for Christmas, along with my mom's father's brother and his wife. Uncle George and Aunt Elsie were what could be classified as characters, a nice way of saying eccentric, or at least on friendly terms with it. Of course, I'm not really sure if both sets of grandparents came at once, or if my memory is simply condensing several holidays together. Either way, it wouldn't have been more than one Christmas. I do remember standing around the piano in what my mother called the music room, my mother playing Christmas tunes and hymns Christmas Eve and Christmas night, Broadway show tunes the next evening, while everyone stood around, singing.
(An aside that has nothing to do with Christmas: Off the music room was the downstairs bathroom; that almost deserves its own post: the previous owners painted the entire room in various shades of purple and lavender, including a purple sink and toilet. My mother named the room the purple potty, and the name stuck; forty-plus years later, the term still resonates.)
There were more moves: From Thompson to Woodstock, Connecticut, to Pittsford, New York just outside Rochester, and finally to Florida. There are plenty more holiday memories, mostly good.
When I married my ex, my parents weren't exactly thrilled; somehow, I doubt that it was simply his blue-collar roots. But that's neither here nor there. We did have some pleasant memories, interspersed among the rough spots, and we did have four offspring who I'm proud of more often then not; they're finally at that age when we can have semi-intelligent conversations. My second husband was also a blue-collar man with middle-class roots and enough patience to put up with an out-spoken extravert. He and I had good memories, including holidays.
This year, things have been tight, financially. We'd hoped that, since M.H., B., and G. now live nearby, we'd be able to see them for Christmas, as they'd had holidays for the past 15 or so years with family in Rhode Island. But life happens: their car died an unhappy death after they'd moved into their apartment nearby (but still requiring two bus routes, which, on the holiday schedule, is interesting, meaning a much shorter day), they now have a scooter to get around on (really pretty much a one-person deal, even if it does have pegs for a second person to put his or her feet), and M.H. had to work yesterday from shortly after noon until a little after 6. Finances didn't include cab fare to and from either way. You know the old joke that goes "How do you make God laugh? Tell Him your plans"? That's what happened to our first extended family Christmas in years. I could have copped an attitude, but it wouldn't have helped any.
Added to the fun was that our toilet, which has been acting up - but doing better the past few weeks - decided to act up on Christmas Eve day. This year, of course, it fell on a Monday, which means that a lot of places were giving workers a rare four-day weekend. I hated having to call the landlord about it, but also didn't relish the thought of a holiday with a backed-up commode. I'm funny about stuff like that. (And I'm sure you've already inserted something else into that stuff spot.)
The people coming out to fix it arrived just as I was heading out to meet M. at the bus; he had gone out to pick up last minute stuff from the store that we really needed for Christmas dinner and needed help carrying it all home from the bus stop. But J. was here, so that was cool; he could keep Drexie and Karma from making a break for it whenever the door was open.
As M. and I figured out who would carry what from the bus stop, we heard someone shout, "Hey, Robin!" I looked around in time to see Sandy V., J.'s day care lady from years ago. She lives within a mile or two from our place, but somehow, our lives have gotten so crazy that only occasionally see each other, and almost exclusively when we bump into each other. Usually, it's at the nearby Publix when we're shopping.
But she was out for a run in the misty weather. We quickly got caught up on each others' lives. She's married, has three kids, her daughters are now older than she was when we first met, her son older than most of my kids were when we met. Is it really possible that that much time has passed?
After we said our good-byes, Sandy off toward home, M. and I toward our place, I called J. and told him who we'd seen. Then I asked if the people working on the toilet were still there. No, he informed me; they'd plunged it, got it flushing, and left.
It worked fine the rest of the day. Good enough. Then, yesterday morning, I got up, went into the bathroom before starting the coffee and getting to work cooking, and sure enough, the toilet backed up. I plunged it once or twice, but wasn't thrilled.
Several hours later, after I did one load of laundry (when I'm baking and making holiday meals, I go through a ton of dish towels), I heard M. yell that he needed some bath towels NOW from the bathroom. Yup, you guessed it: there was a definite over-flow problem.
After we cleaned up a little and I started another load of laundry (thank goodness for the extra-hot setting on the washer), I called the landlord. When the property manager called back, she sounded as unhappy to be talking to me as I was. Don't get me wrong, she's a nice enough person, and I'm sure that if we were to meet under other circumstances, there's a chance we might talk over coffee. It's doubtful we'd ever be close best buddies - no BFFs here - but she's a nice enough person. But who wants to have to make or receive a call like that on Christmas? If there's one time of year when most of us want our family time, our please leave me alone unless you're calling to wish me a happy holiday time, it's Christmas.
She said it would be taken care of today, not to flush the commode, etc. This was the scenario we'd both hoped to avoid.
(For the record, she's already mentioned this morning that it will be taken care of today. We both were a little more, well, not okay with the situation, but at least not growling over it; at this point, that's an improvement.)
I finished the preliminary baking - two loaves of pumpkin bread, two pumpkin pies, and a cranberry-raisin pie - before starting the stuffing and turkey. Usually, I bake an apple pie, pouring apple cider into it for extra yumminess (yes, that's the technical term: yumminess), but we were a little short on cash this year. But M. and I decided that a cranberry-raisin pie would be a suitable stand-in. Twice in the past, I tried baking all three kinds of pie for holidays, but have since decided that that was a little much. Once I got the turkey into the oven, I washed a few dishes, had a cup of hot tea, then put my shoes on.
Years ago, when I'd already quit driving cab, and Paul was driving for what he knew was his last holiday season driving cab, I'd taken a walk through the nearby park. This particular park is less than a block away; I can see the back entrance to it from my front porch. It has a playground, horse trails through the woods (there are plenty of stables in close proximity), rings for horse shows, and a rec center which doubles as a local voting precinct. Usually, through most of the year, I walk along one of the horse paths along the edge of the park on my way to other paths during my morning walks/runs. But the Thanksgiving before Paul retired, I'd put the turkey in the oven, watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade on TV (something my maternal grandmother got me into the habit of doing; it still somehow connects me to her), then went through a walk on the horse trails through the woods. It took close to an hour to walk to the end of the trail and back (or, at least, as far as I'd planned to go). I loved taking the walk enough that I did it again on Christmas. (I've been known to walk it on Easter Sunday, too.)
Since then, I've missed a couple of holidays; Christmas, 2004, it rained; Thanksgiving, 2010, I was still sore and nowhere near up for a walk after a fall from a ladder at roof level onto a cement driveway (something like that takes a bit of a recovery, trust me on that), this past Thanksgiving, M. and I went to M.H., B. and G.'s apartment, and so on. Occasionally, I think, This'll probably be the last time I do this for whatever reason; but almost without fail, the next holiday, I'm back out there. It gives me an excuse to walk a different trail, to see the changes since the last time I walked it, and to just let my mind wander along with my feet. One year, I saw a peacock walking parallel to the path. Several years, M. and J. joined me for the walk.
Quick story: the city put lights along the horse path. The path tends to get dark by late afternoon; the lights turn on automatically, making it easier to see the path. They're tall, with an opaque orb at the top. They remind M. of C. S. Lewis's Narnia series. One year, M. walked with me on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the following Easter; each time, he'd spend the entire walk telling me about Narnia, discussing whether I should read the books in chronological order or in the order that Lewis had written them. Narnia and the lights in the park are now one of M.'s and my inside jokes. Every holiday, I remind myself that I really want to read the Narnia series - it's one of those books or series I've told myself everyone needs to read, or, at least, I need/want to. And then life gets busy, crazily busy, and Narnia slips my mind, at least until the next holiday walk.
Yesterday, I walked the trail alone, noticing changes: how a stand of trees that I'd enjoyed was slowly disappearing - a stand of off-white trees with slightly peeling bark, trees that stood huddled together like a lost tribe; the newer houses near the park and how the older new houses - ones that were built in the past six or seven years but are older than the newer new houses; the changes to the stable next to the park; in general, letting my mind wander.
Heading back down the trail, a woman riding a horse approached. Usually, by this point in my holiday walk, I've seen maybe half-a-dozen horse-and-riders in several groups; this time, I was beginning to think I wouldn't see any.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?" the rider called, and I agreed. We both wish each other Merry Christmas. Then, as if on cue, the horse nodded, whinnied, and veered a few steps toward me. I'd been around horses as a kid, so it didn't startle me. The woman steered the horse back to its original course.
"Sorry," she told me. "He's just looking for treats." I smiled, and made a mental note to bring carrot pieces on my next holiday walk - after which, I'll start the Narnia series.
By the time I got home, I was in a better mood, one where I could handle stinky bathrooms.
And, in spite of having to work, M.H. apparently had a decent enough Christmas, too.
We still have next year to look forward to.
Note: The path below used to walk through the stand of trees mentioned near the end of this post; enough of the trees have either died or been cleared by the city that the path is no longer there.
But being okay with Christmas: You have no idea how long it took me to be able to say that. Sure, as a kid, especially if you've grown up in a middle-class family, as I did, Christmas was great. What wasn't there to love: First off, there were the presents, the extended family, the food, the lights, the whole ambience of Christmas. We may have had two trees, since I do remember seeing a decorated tree in a corner of the living room by our corner windows, and the big tree - the one where we'd find the presents - downstairs in the playroom.
Most years, it seems, we'd go to both sets of grandparents' places, usually one a day or two before Christmas, the other either on Christmas Day for dinner, or a set would come over for Christmas. Both of my parents had one sibling who lived in close proximity so that whichever set didn't have Christmas dinner with us would have a place to go. All very good.
Of course, these days, with family frequently spread across the country, this is a little more difficult. Thank goodness for phones, though it's still not quite the same. Maybe in some respects, that's not always a bad thing; we all have our weird holiday stories.
But then, life changed, evolved. When we moved to Connecticut, it seemed that one year, both sets of grandparents came one year for Christmas, along with my mom's father's brother and his wife. Uncle George and Aunt Elsie were what could be classified as characters, a nice way of saying eccentric, or at least on friendly terms with it. Of course, I'm not really sure if both sets of grandparents came at once, or if my memory is simply condensing several holidays together. Either way, it wouldn't have been more than one Christmas. I do remember standing around the piano in what my mother called the music room, my mother playing Christmas tunes and hymns Christmas Eve and Christmas night, Broadway show tunes the next evening, while everyone stood around, singing.
(An aside that has nothing to do with Christmas: Off the music room was the downstairs bathroom; that almost deserves its own post: the previous owners painted the entire room in various shades of purple and lavender, including a purple sink and toilet. My mother named the room the purple potty, and the name stuck; forty-plus years later, the term still resonates.)
There were more moves: From Thompson to Woodstock, Connecticut, to Pittsford, New York just outside Rochester, and finally to Florida. There are plenty more holiday memories, mostly good.
When I married my ex, my parents weren't exactly thrilled; somehow, I doubt that it was simply his blue-collar roots. But that's neither here nor there. We did have some pleasant memories, interspersed among the rough spots, and we did have four offspring who I'm proud of more often then not; they're finally at that age when we can have semi-intelligent conversations. My second husband was also a blue-collar man with middle-class roots and enough patience to put up with an out-spoken extravert. He and I had good memories, including holidays.
This year, things have been tight, financially. We'd hoped that, since M.H., B., and G. now live nearby, we'd be able to see them for Christmas, as they'd had holidays for the past 15 or so years with family in Rhode Island. But life happens: their car died an unhappy death after they'd moved into their apartment nearby (but still requiring two bus routes, which, on the holiday schedule, is interesting, meaning a much shorter day), they now have a scooter to get around on (really pretty much a one-person deal, even if it does have pegs for a second person to put his or her feet), and M.H. had to work yesterday from shortly after noon until a little after 6. Finances didn't include cab fare to and from either way. You know the old joke that goes "How do you make God laugh? Tell Him your plans"? That's what happened to our first extended family Christmas in years. I could have copped an attitude, but it wouldn't have helped any.
Added to the fun was that our toilet, which has been acting up - but doing better the past few weeks - decided to act up on Christmas Eve day. This year, of course, it fell on a Monday, which means that a lot of places were giving workers a rare four-day weekend. I hated having to call the landlord about it, but also didn't relish the thought of a holiday with a backed-up commode. I'm funny about stuff like that. (And I'm sure you've already inserted something else into that stuff spot.)
The people coming out to fix it arrived just as I was heading out to meet M. at the bus; he had gone out to pick up last minute stuff from the store that we really needed for Christmas dinner and needed help carrying it all home from the bus stop. But J. was here, so that was cool; he could keep Drexie and Karma from making a break for it whenever the door was open.
As M. and I figured out who would carry what from the bus stop, we heard someone shout, "Hey, Robin!" I looked around in time to see Sandy V., J.'s day care lady from years ago. She lives within a mile or two from our place, but somehow, our lives have gotten so crazy that only occasionally see each other, and almost exclusively when we bump into each other. Usually, it's at the nearby Publix when we're shopping.
But she was out for a run in the misty weather. We quickly got caught up on each others' lives. She's married, has three kids, her daughters are now older than she was when we first met, her son older than most of my kids were when we met. Is it really possible that that much time has passed?
After we said our good-byes, Sandy off toward home, M. and I toward our place, I called J. and told him who we'd seen. Then I asked if the people working on the toilet were still there. No, he informed me; they'd plunged it, got it flushing, and left.
It worked fine the rest of the day. Good enough. Then, yesterday morning, I got up, went into the bathroom before starting the coffee and getting to work cooking, and sure enough, the toilet backed up. I plunged it once or twice, but wasn't thrilled.
Several hours later, after I did one load of laundry (when I'm baking and making holiday meals, I go through a ton of dish towels), I heard M. yell that he needed some bath towels NOW from the bathroom. Yup, you guessed it: there was a definite over-flow problem.
After we cleaned up a little and I started another load of laundry (thank goodness for the extra-hot setting on the washer), I called the landlord. When the property manager called back, she sounded as unhappy to be talking to me as I was. Don't get me wrong, she's a nice enough person, and I'm sure that if we were to meet under other circumstances, there's a chance we might talk over coffee. It's doubtful we'd ever be close best buddies - no BFFs here - but she's a nice enough person. But who wants to have to make or receive a call like that on Christmas? If there's one time of year when most of us want our family time, our please leave me alone unless you're calling to wish me a happy holiday time, it's Christmas.
She said it would be taken care of today, not to flush the commode, etc. This was the scenario we'd both hoped to avoid.
(For the record, she's already mentioned this morning that it will be taken care of today. We both were a little more, well, not okay with the situation, but at least not growling over it; at this point, that's an improvement.)
I finished the preliminary baking - two loaves of pumpkin bread, two pumpkin pies, and a cranberry-raisin pie - before starting the stuffing and turkey. Usually, I bake an apple pie, pouring apple cider into it for extra yumminess (yes, that's the technical term: yumminess), but we were a little short on cash this year. But M. and I decided that a cranberry-raisin pie would be a suitable stand-in. Twice in the past, I tried baking all three kinds of pie for holidays, but have since decided that that was a little much. Once I got the turkey into the oven, I washed a few dishes, had a cup of hot tea, then put my shoes on.
Years ago, when I'd already quit driving cab, and Paul was driving for what he knew was his last holiday season driving cab, I'd taken a walk through the nearby park. This particular park is less than a block away; I can see the back entrance to it from my front porch. It has a playground, horse trails through the woods (there are plenty of stables in close proximity), rings for horse shows, and a rec center which doubles as a local voting precinct. Usually, through most of the year, I walk along one of the horse paths along the edge of the park on my way to other paths during my morning walks/runs. But the Thanksgiving before Paul retired, I'd put the turkey in the oven, watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade on TV (something my maternal grandmother got me into the habit of doing; it still somehow connects me to her), then went through a walk on the horse trails through the woods. It took close to an hour to walk to the end of the trail and back (or, at least, as far as I'd planned to go). I loved taking the walk enough that I did it again on Christmas. (I've been known to walk it on Easter Sunday, too.)
Since then, I've missed a couple of holidays; Christmas, 2004, it rained; Thanksgiving, 2010, I was still sore and nowhere near up for a walk after a fall from a ladder at roof level onto a cement driveway (something like that takes a bit of a recovery, trust me on that), this past Thanksgiving, M. and I went to M.H., B. and G.'s apartment, and so on. Occasionally, I think, This'll probably be the last time I do this for whatever reason; but almost without fail, the next holiday, I'm back out there. It gives me an excuse to walk a different trail, to see the changes since the last time I walked it, and to just let my mind wander along with my feet. One year, I saw a peacock walking parallel to the path. Several years, M. and J. joined me for the walk.
Quick story: the city put lights along the horse path. The path tends to get dark by late afternoon; the lights turn on automatically, making it easier to see the path. They're tall, with an opaque orb at the top. They remind M. of C. S. Lewis's Narnia series. One year, M. walked with me on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the following Easter; each time, he'd spend the entire walk telling me about Narnia, discussing whether I should read the books in chronological order or in the order that Lewis had written them. Narnia and the lights in the park are now one of M.'s and my inside jokes. Every holiday, I remind myself that I really want to read the Narnia series - it's one of those books or series I've told myself everyone needs to read, or, at least, I need/want to. And then life gets busy, crazily busy, and Narnia slips my mind, at least until the next holiday walk.
Yesterday, I walked the trail alone, noticing changes: how a stand of trees that I'd enjoyed was slowly disappearing - a stand of off-white trees with slightly peeling bark, trees that stood huddled together like a lost tribe; the newer houses near the park and how the older new houses - ones that were built in the past six or seven years but are older than the newer new houses; the changes to the stable next to the park; in general, letting my mind wander.
Heading back down the trail, a woman riding a horse approached. Usually, by this point in my holiday walk, I've seen maybe half-a-dozen horse-and-riders in several groups; this time, I was beginning to think I wouldn't see any.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?" the rider called, and I agreed. We both wish each other Merry Christmas. Then, as if on cue, the horse nodded, whinnied, and veered a few steps toward me. I'd been around horses as a kid, so it didn't startle me. The woman steered the horse back to its original course.
"Sorry," she told me. "He's just looking for treats." I smiled, and made a mental note to bring carrot pieces on my next holiday walk - after which, I'll start the Narnia series.
By the time I got home, I was in a better mood, one where I could handle stinky bathrooms.
And, in spite of having to work, M.H. apparently had a decent enough Christmas, too.
We still have next year to look forward to.
Note: The path below used to walk through the stand of trees mentioned near the end of this post; enough of the trees have either died or been cleared by the city that the path is no longer there.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Karma
So Karma's been acting a little off the past few days. In this case, I'm not talking about the cosmic boomerang effect, where "you reap what you sow." Karma Kitty is our five-year-old black cat. He thinks of himself as a panther masquerading as a cat; it's the whole cattitude thing.
But he hasn't been acting quite himself the past few days. I tried to pinpoint it exactly, and kept hoping that it was my neuroses tip-toeing in through the front door. Karma would run full-tilt through the house mid-morning, playing a rousing game of banking-off-the-walls-and-skid-down-the-halls-sideways-tag with his sister Drexie. They love the game, and have been known to include a sideways sweep of the dining room table when they're in full play mode.
But by noon, he wouldn't want to play. Or drink. He'd eat a little of the crunchy food, look at the litter box, then slink off to sleep where he'd be undisturbed. He also looked like he wasn't feeling up to snuff.
So this morning, I called the vet's office. We've been taking pets to the same veterinarians for a little over twenty years. It's been the same two male vets since we started going there and, over the years, an occasional new vet. I can't say enough good about Pinellas Animal Hospital.
Anyway, I knew I'd have to see about paying them next month, but Karmie was sick now. The crazy jabbering monkey keeping up a neurotic monologue in the back of my mind kept telling me, "Nope, doesn't matter how long you've taken pets there, they'll want money now...You might as well hand the cats over and let someone else have them, someone who's rich." Stupid jabbering monkey neurosis, getting me scared...
But when I called and explained what was going on, you know what they said? "Bring him on in. We'll work something out. We know you're not going anywhere." What a relief!
So, I called someone to bring us to the vet's and arranged for someone else to pick us up for the ride home. And then the fun began.
The pet carrier had been recently cleaned and a nice soft bath towel had been placed inside for Karma to lie on before being brought into the living room with the door open. Sometimes, if I do this a little while before we have to go, Karm will wander in and act like it's his cave. Other times, he realizes that he's going for a trip to the vet's office.
This time, it was the latter...and he was having none of it. It took three of us to corral him and get him into the darn thing. You've heard "It's not the size of the cat in the fight, but the size of the fight in the cat"? He may be a 12-pound-and-change cat, but the fight says panther. By the time we got him in there, we needed the box of bandaids.
Within a few minutes of arriving at the vet's, we were in ushered to an exam room. The new tech asked what was going on, then went to pull Karma out of his carrier.
"You might want to grab some gloves," I warned her. Karma's low-throated yowl and hiss reinforced my warning. After gloving up with elbow-length gloves and taking Karm out, the tech weighed Karm, then had the vet come in. Within minutes, Karma, a.k.a. the Great Hissing Yowler, was in the back room for a few tests, after which, he was deposited back with us while the vet awaited the results.
Karm dove for the carrier, which I'd had the foresight to close. No getting in there until we were ready to leave! He literally ran circles around the carrier, occasionally slapping it with a front paw, trying to find an opening, to no avail. So, the G.H.Y. stalked around the room, yowling and hissing his great displeasure, taking an occasional lunge and swipe at arms, legs, whatever was available.
Finally, at one point, he jumped on top of the pet carrier, and promptly peed. The stuff dripped through to the inside of the carrier. I glanced down, then did a double-take: sure enough, when he jumped off the carrier, I saw that there was blood in his urine...and I freaked! Part of me wanted to take the bath towels we had brought from home and wipe off the carrier, but I knew I wanted the vet to see what had happened.
"Why don't they hurry?" I muttered. "What's taking them so long?" M. kept telling me it was going to be alright, but I wasn't buying it.
Finally, the tech came back in. "It'll just be a few more minutes," she said.
But then I pointed to the bloody mess in the carrier. "He just did that. I'm really worried!"
"I don't blame you," she said. "I'll bring this in the back room and show Dr. G. and then clean it up for you."
After an what seemed like an eternity, I was told that the G.H.Y. had cystitis, which apparently is common in cats, especially as they age, especially if they're male. And the bloodly mess apparently is not unheard of.
After loading him up on fluids, antibiotics and a few other meds, they handed me one very indignant cat and a bag of canned cat food.
"He'll need to be on this for a while," Dr. G. told me.
"How long?" I asked. "Forever?"
"Why don't we play it by ear," he said.
Then, making plans to call on Monday and bring him back next week, I spoke with one of the front office people, a woman who is always asking after "the kitties." "Here's the bill, and when you come in next time, just bring in a couple of checks, with the date that you want us to deposit each in the memo line. You know we'll work with you!"
We're home now, Karma loves his new food, used the litter box, and is now resting on the couch.
I might take a little longer to recouperate...
But he hasn't been acting quite himself the past few days. I tried to pinpoint it exactly, and kept hoping that it was my neuroses tip-toeing in through the front door. Karma would run full-tilt through the house mid-morning, playing a rousing game of banking-off-the-walls-and-skid-down-the-halls-sideways-tag with his sister Drexie. They love the game, and have been known to include a sideways sweep of the dining room table when they're in full play mode.
But by noon, he wouldn't want to play. Or drink. He'd eat a little of the crunchy food, look at the litter box, then slink off to sleep where he'd be undisturbed. He also looked like he wasn't feeling up to snuff.
So this morning, I called the vet's office. We've been taking pets to the same veterinarians for a little over twenty years. It's been the same two male vets since we started going there and, over the years, an occasional new vet. I can't say enough good about Pinellas Animal Hospital.
Anyway, I knew I'd have to see about paying them next month, but Karmie was sick now. The crazy jabbering monkey keeping up a neurotic monologue in the back of my mind kept telling me, "Nope, doesn't matter how long you've taken pets there, they'll want money now...You might as well hand the cats over and let someone else have them, someone who's rich." Stupid jabbering monkey neurosis, getting me scared...
But when I called and explained what was going on, you know what they said? "Bring him on in. We'll work something out. We know you're not going anywhere." What a relief!
So, I called someone to bring us to the vet's and arranged for someone else to pick us up for the ride home. And then the fun began.
The pet carrier had been recently cleaned and a nice soft bath towel had been placed inside for Karma to lie on before being brought into the living room with the door open. Sometimes, if I do this a little while before we have to go, Karm will wander in and act like it's his cave. Other times, he realizes that he's going for a trip to the vet's office.
This time, it was the latter...and he was having none of it. It took three of us to corral him and get him into the darn thing. You've heard "It's not the size of the cat in the fight, but the size of the fight in the cat"? He may be a 12-pound-and-change cat, but the fight says panther. By the time we got him in there, we needed the box of bandaids.
Within a few minutes of arriving at the vet's, we were in ushered to an exam room. The new tech asked what was going on, then went to pull Karma out of his carrier.
"You might want to grab some gloves," I warned her. Karma's low-throated yowl and hiss reinforced my warning. After gloving up with elbow-length gloves and taking Karm out, the tech weighed Karm, then had the vet come in. Within minutes, Karma, a.k.a. the Great Hissing Yowler, was in the back room for a few tests, after which, he was deposited back with us while the vet awaited the results.
Karm dove for the carrier, which I'd had the foresight to close. No getting in there until we were ready to leave! He literally ran circles around the carrier, occasionally slapping it with a front paw, trying to find an opening, to no avail. So, the G.H.Y. stalked around the room, yowling and hissing his great displeasure, taking an occasional lunge and swipe at arms, legs, whatever was available.
Finally, at one point, he jumped on top of the pet carrier, and promptly peed. The stuff dripped through to the inside of the carrier. I glanced down, then did a double-take: sure enough, when he jumped off the carrier, I saw that there was blood in his urine...and I freaked! Part of me wanted to take the bath towels we had brought from home and wipe off the carrier, but I knew I wanted the vet to see what had happened.
"Why don't they hurry?" I muttered. "What's taking them so long?" M. kept telling me it was going to be alright, but I wasn't buying it.
Finally, the tech came back in. "It'll just be a few more minutes," she said.
But then I pointed to the bloody mess in the carrier. "He just did that. I'm really worried!"
"I don't blame you," she said. "I'll bring this in the back room and show Dr. G. and then clean it up for you."
After an what seemed like an eternity, I was told that the G.H.Y. had cystitis, which apparently is common in cats, especially as they age, especially if they're male. And the bloodly mess apparently is not unheard of.
After loading him up on fluids, antibiotics and a few other meds, they handed me one very indignant cat and a bag of canned cat food.
"He'll need to be on this for a while," Dr. G. told me.
"How long?" I asked. "Forever?"
"Why don't we play it by ear," he said.
Then, making plans to call on Monday and bring him back next week, I spoke with one of the front office people, a woman who is always asking after "the kitties." "Here's the bill, and when you come in next time, just bring in a couple of checks, with the date that you want us to deposit each in the memo line. You know we'll work with you!"
We're home now, Karma loves his new food, used the litter box, and is now resting on the couch.
I might take a little longer to recouperate...
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