Sunday, March 3, 2024

Remembering Harry


Harry Cauley—author Bridie and Finn and the memoir, Speaking of Cats, recipient of the Writers Guild of America Award and the W.H. Smith Fresh Talent award in England, staff writer on Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman and several Carol Burnett specials—died yesterday. He was 93.

In recent years, as I have mentioned Harry to friends, I’ve been asked how I came to know him. I get it. The question suggests no disrespect to me, I know, but… How did I, from the very small reclusive sanctuary I have created for myself, brush shoulders with someone who lived and worked and partied in Hollywood? Well, I’ll tell you.

A couple decades and change ago, a handful of other writers and I used to meet bi-monthly at the Barnes & Noble in Rancho Cucamonga. Sometimes the PR person for the store would tell us, “I have a guest speaker for you,” and we would be introduced to someone who was there to promote a book. I will never forget the night we met Harry. He was there to talk about Bridie and Finn, the rich, heartfelt novel he wrote—his first, written when he was sixty-five and had retired from writing teleplays.

What Harry said that night continues to resonate with me. I still have it in a notebook: “Writing is the loneliest profession there is.” He went on to elaborate on how difficult it is to sit alone in a quiet place—how intimidating it is to face the blank computer screen, the blinking cursor—and begin to compose a work of fiction entirely from scratch. Boy howdy.

Harry had no idea who I was that night, of course, and we didn’t really speak, other than my sincere thank you as he was leaving. But fast forward a decade, and our dear mutual friend, Peggy Jackson—PR person for Borders Books at the time—was having lunch with me and another friend in Claremont, California.

“Kay, I loved your memoir about your dogs,” Peggy said. “You remember Harry Cauley? He’s written a memoir, Speaking of Cats. You would love it.”

I did read and love Speaking of Cats. So I reviewed it on Amazon. And Peggy emailed Harry to tell him. And Harry emailed me to thank me for the review. (What a classy guy!) And so it began, Harry and I exchanging emails about books and writing and our love of cats and dogs and gardening.

Harry lived in Cherry Valley, which is where I had planned to retire. When the time came, I ended up in Calimesa, but I was 15 minutes away from his house, and our emails became phone calls and visits. By then, his health was beginning to decline, and, although he was still driving himself around town, he occasionally needed help getting to appointments that were a freeway journey away. When I drove him, he bought me lunch. Oh, the laughter over those lunches! This man had 80 years’ worth of stories! About mowing Albert Einstein’s lawn (because Harry was born in Princeton, New Jersey, and “the Einsteins” lived down the street). About his stint in the army (“I tap danced my way through the Korean War”—and he meant that literally). About his plays being performed on Broadway. About the produce he would bring to rehearsals because he had a vegetable garden and he loved sharing with his friends. About celebrities—the truly nice ones (Carol Burnett), the “bitches” and the “s.o.b.s.”

Harry gave me unsolicited advice nearly once a week—how to train my dog (because he never understood why Thomas wasn’t friendly), how to grow vegetables (as if I hadn’t been doing that for decades), why I should stop looking for love from a man (sigh), how to make soup (as I was making a pot of soup). And I listened, whether I needed the advice or not. Because you don’t get as old as Harry without becoming a deep repository of wisdom and truth.

The pandemic separated us. I didn’t see him for many months, though I left homemade bread and cookies at his doorstep as often as I could. Fortunately, just months before the lockdown, I drove Harry up to Living Free Animal Sanctuary in Idyllwild where he adopted a beautiful black cat named Asher. Asher was his only companion during all the months he was shut in, and we both often remarked on the phone that Harry had selected “the perfect cat” from the dozens he visited with that day.

Asher and Harry were separated when Harry went into assisted living a couple years ago. Please don’t be sad for him; the “perfect cat” continues to be the perfect companion for another human who needed him as much as Harry did.

And now Harry has left his physical shell and gone on to rejoin all the dear friends and family members he has lost in nine decades. He lived an extraordinary life, and he accomplished extraordinary things. Bravo, Harry. Bravo.



Sunday, February 18, 2024

This is Winter

 


This is my peach tree, pruned and bare. Every night and every morning before dawn, in our forays into the yard for Maya's last potty, I stand on the walkway and stare at this tree (when I'm not staring at the stars), willing her to once again leaf out, then blossom, then bear fruit. "Stay strong, Peachtree," I tell her. But I know I'm really saying it to myself.

In her gorgeous memoir, A Circle of Quiet, Madeleine L'Engle writes of keeping herself from the darkness of depression by surrounding herself with "candles," as she calls them--those small artifacts in our lives that bring us the light of joy--books, songs, dogs, cats, tall trees, wild creatures, sometimes certain people.... This is my list, not hers. Like a squirrel gathering acorns in the fall, I gather these things around me to prepare for Winter's long nights, the lack of sunshine and warmth, the fleeting sense that everything else has died and death is inevitable and why not sooner than later? That last thought becomes more fleeting as the years pass. The light of my "candles" helps extinguish it.

Winter isn't always dark. When not obscured by clouds, the sun's rays are present, albeit slanted, so that the sun shines at us instead of on us. It isn't hot, but on some days, boy howdy, it is bright. I live for these days, for long hikes with friends in cool temperatures, so I can experience this bliss:




And because some trees are bare... and the slant of the sun is what it is... we are gifted (if we walk through a woodsy canyon early) with sights such as this:


Which brings to mind a few brief lines from Emily Dickinson:

There's a certain Slant of light,/Winter Afternoons - 

The poet feels this slant of light "oppresses," but, all due respect to Miss Emily, for me, it blesses.

And Winter, my dear friends, is only twelve weeks long. I know. It seems to drag on, doesn't it? Much like the dog days of August....

What else is there to do but be grateful in these brief weeks? For books and songs and good dogs and zany cats and the sudden sight of deer grazing in a meadow or a bobcat trotting shiftily across our path or a surprise letter in the box from a much-loved friend and the sweetness of an orange and the satisfying sip of pure Ceylon tea and the comfort of flannel against chilled skin and the brilliance of stars after a storm. I could go on. You make your own list, okay? Let's meet back here next December to compare notes.

Monday, January 15, 2024

Leftovers

 


There are two stuffies that belonged to Sgt. Thomas Tibbs within easy reach under my bed (Blue Bunny and Fuzzy Dog). I see them every day, and every day I tell myself, “I’ll pull those out and do something with them… tomorrow.”

Thom’s collar and leash still hang on the hook (which I installed seven years ago for that very purpose) just inside the door to the laundry room.

There are three carrots in a plastic bag in the crisper of my refrigerator that have been there for a month now. I need to get those out, too. Maybe take them to my sister’s horse. Because what’s the point of peeling and chopping up a carrot if your best boy isn’t there to share it with you?

That’s why there’s a half of a bag of popcorn sitting on top of the fridge. I’m sure it’s stale by now. I’d open a bag and sit down to watch TV, and before long Thomas would come trotting out to the living room, those impossibly soft ears up, the tip of his right ear flopping over. “Is there popcorn?” He could only have a few pieces, so I’d try to eat as much as I could before he appeared, so I could toss him a couple then make a big show of putting it away. “All gone, buddy. All gone. Sorry.”

There are two plastic containers of very special dog treats—the ones Thomas could eat that didn’t upset his very sensitive digestive system—sitting on the counter by the pet food cupboard. Maya doesn’t care for them (because we are both fortunate in that she can eat whatever she wants). How long will they sit there before I can bring myself to do something with them?

A week ago, while cleaning the kitchen, I moved all of Thom’s meds from the kitchen counter and put them on the highest shelf in the pet food cupboard. Why? I don’t know. By the time Maya needs any of them, they’ll be expired. But… you never know.

My profile pictures on Google, Twitter, and Instagram are pictures of Thomas. My profile picture on Amazon is a photo of me hugging Thom’s neck. When… how… do I change those?

My little Ford Ranger--good old "Cloud"--is filled with Thom's floofy hairs. Everywhere. Between the seats, under the seats. There are even some behind the clear plastic dash cover. How the heck they crept in there, I'll never know. I've been saying for years that I would sell the truck when Thomas didn't need it anymore. But... sigh.... With it will go a thousand memories--mostly good, driving him around in it while he stared out the back window, curious about the world that he was too frightened to view walking in daylight. Some bad ones involving vet visits for a bad ear or his bad belly or his bad shoulder. Or shots. No more shots, Thom. No more terror heading into the vet's office.

At least for the foreseeable future, every day that I make a piece of peanut butter toast for breakfast will be a sad one. Because that’s how I finally got Tommy to take a treat from me. Every morning before work I would open the back slider and try to coax him inside with pieces of toast. At first, I’d lay a small piece of crust on the floor. But he was too wary to step over the threshold to get it. He’d crane his neck as far as he could, snatch it up, then run off to the yard to gulp it down. Finally one day, he put a foot in. Over time, I moved the pieces closer to me in the kitchen. He would look at me, look at the toast, and look back again, wondering if he could trust me. I ignored him and drank my tea. Someone suggested adding peanut butter to the toast. Total game changer. One day I looked up, and he was all the way in the house, waiting by the kitchen counter for another bite of deliciousness.

Seeing him learn to trust was everything. Having him be comfortable living in the house took another year or so. But peanut butter toast started the process. And it became a special time of sharing for us.

In recent years, I would put a piece of bread in the toaster, and before long I would hear his limping, old guy gait as he trotted slowly to the kitchen, those goofy ears asking the question: “Is there toast? And can it please have peanut butter? Please?”

That’s what I had for breakfast this morning. Peanut butter toast. Cheers, Tommy. Someday all of this will get… not easier, but perhaps a bit less challenging. And you, my sweet good boy—and all of your good successes—will never be forgotten.

 



Wednesday, January 10, 2024

Prey Drive

 

She's definitely still watching for dangerous, snarling dogs.

First, before I palaver on about prey drive in dogs, I want to express how grateful I am for the many friends who reached out to me last week when I had Stevie the Willful Dog here. It was an impossible situation, and extremely stressful. Beyond that, Maya, Jenny the Cat, and I were still grieving the loss of our big anchor, Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. Then the emergency situation with Stevie arose, and we were thrown into chaos for a number of days. If you called, sent a text, messaged me on Facebook, or simply commented with kind words when I posted about having to rehome her, thank you. I appreciate your caring and support more than I can say.

Next: Please don’t worry about that cute (and sassy) little lass. Stevie has moved on to a home with stellar humans who have great pack leadership skills (and no kitties, now or in the future) where she will be loved for the duration of her life. Happy ending!

As for my pack: Stevie wouldn’t work because she has a very high prey drive. A number of people have asked me what that is, so here is a brief explanation:

Puppies, kittens, coyotes, bobcats, lions, tigers, and other predatory animals are born with the instinctive drive to chase smaller moving animals that scurry or fly. Thus, you can attach just about anything (including a paper wad) to a long string, drag it across the floor in front of a tiny kitten, and be entertained endlessly by the little fluff ball’s stalking, jumping, and attacking.

In the same way, if you roll a ball in front of a puppy, chances are the puppy will at least follow it, though dogs have been domesticated to the extent that some puppies will just sit and watch the ball roll, not really engaged beyond curiosity. Other puppies, however, will somehow know that balls are for chasing, and a few puppies will be convinced from a very young age that balls are for chasing and killing.

When a dog is young, this behavior can be encouraged (“Get it! Get it! Good boy!”) or discouraged (“Good job getting the ball. Now drop it.”) Dogs, like children, learn during play. If you give a toy to a dog with strong prey drive, then cheer the dog on while it growls and shakes its head from side to side, you are encouraging the same behavior that coyotes and wolves use to kill their prey. That rapid head shake snaps the neck of the rabbit or squirrel—or small dog. Or cat.

When I went to meet Stevie at the shelter, I was able to see her interact with several other dogs, big and small, and she was good (although a bit overbearing, due to her lack of manners) with all of them. But that particular shelter does not “cat test” (which means taking the dog into an enclosure with cats to see if there is “interest” of a predatory nature), so I knew I would have to be cautious when introducing Stevie to Jenny the Cat.

Good thing I kept her on a leash. Her response was to lunge forward, stand on her hind legs, snarling and barking, trying to reach Jenny where she sat on my dresser. Yikes. I closed off the hallway with a gate so Stevie couldn’t get to Jenny, and the next day, after Stevie had some time to adjust to the house, we tried again. Same result. And later? Same result.

Yes, over time and with training, I could have extinguished the behavior in Stevie. But until that time, I would not have been able to trust her in the house alone with the cat. Which would have meant that Jenny—who claims the house, the yard, the patio, and the front porch as her domain—would have to be locked away in the bedroom for the weeks or months this correction would have taken.

That was not acceptable for either one of us.

In addition to all that, the entire point of bringing in a new dog is so that Maya will have another anchor, another big sibling to help her feel safer and more confident in the scary, peoply world. Maya found Stevie, with her need to jump and play, and her lack of good manners, as irritating as an annoying little sister.

My goal in getting Stevie out of the shelter was to right a wrong that had been done to her. In the end, that goal was met when Stevie was embraced by the folks who will now take over her training and care. Win-win. And when dogs win, my world is a happier place.


Sunday, December 31, 2023

How Maya is Grieving

 

Maya Angelou Murphy

A number of people have asked how Maya and Jenny the Cat have been doing since Thomas left us. Both feel his absence, for sure, and I have no doubt that they sense my sadness as well. Consequently, Jenny has slept with me every night since our last day with him. I believe cats sense when humans are ill, and she interprets my sadness as a state of being unwell. (Purrl, before her, could also sense when I was physically ill or deeply sad, and she would crawl under the covers in those times and place her body against mine, purring as a mother cat would do with kittens—even though Purrl never had any of her own.)

Maya is another story altogether. Thomas, it seems, was her assumed body guard. When Thom could still go for walks, I would sometimes walk them together around the block, and Maya would actually be happy and excited on the leash. (In case you’re unaware, unless we’re hiking, Maya hates going for walks—because it’s just “too peoply” out there.) In the morning, with Thomas here, Maya would run into and through the kitchen, then tear through the living room, looking for things to play with, hopping and wagging her tail and barking if I didn’t get her breakfast ready fast enough. It was hilarious and entertaining every morning.

At the time of this writing, Thomas has been gone for two weeks and two days, and for two weeks and two days, Maya has gone right back to the safety of her bed after we come back in from the back yard. No running through the house. No hopping. No playing. She looks for him in the kitchen, and when she sees he isn’t there, she simply retreats to the den and curls up again.

This makes me very, very sad for her. She had come so far, but seems to be withdrawing again. I’m giving her extra love, of course, and simply going to sit with her often. But she has lost her rock, her anchor. (It’s probably a good thing she doesn’t realize that looking to Thomas for protection would be like Dorothy looking to the Cowardly Lion to do the same.)

As some of you know, months before I lost Thom, I had begun looking for a dog companion for Maya, a confident dog that would help her continue to recover and make her feel safe on walks, perhaps draw her out to interact with me more. And I wanted to get a new dog settled into my pack before Thomas left us, so that his passing would be easier on Maya. Alas, that did not happen. But, to that end….

<Spoiler alert: Big Announcement ahead>

On Friday, I adopted a dog. Before you go thinking that I rushed out to my nearest shelter and impulsively grabbed a sweet dog to comfort me in my grief, let me assure you it did not happen that way. Like, at all. This dog’s story—and I do know the entire back story—is so complex and complicated that names will be changed to keep the guilty from being publicly shamed, and I won’t even be able to share all of it here. But in my next post, I’ll give you an update on my new little girl, Stevie (not her original name), and I’ll tell you as much as I can. (If you want the full story after that, you’ll have to call me and be sworn to lifelong secrecy.)

For now, I can tell you this: Despite everything that has happened to her in recent weeks, Stevie is filled with joy and enthusiasm. Her tail never stops wagging. She loves everyone she meets—people, dogs (cats, I hope). She’s got sass and spirit (thus her name; that’s “Stevie” from Schitt’s Creek, not Stevie Nicks, though she would do for a namesake, too).

That’s all I know for now because she isn’t even home yet. She’s still in dog jail. I can’t pick her up until her spay surgery, and that can’t happen until Tuesday because of the holiday. Oh my dragons! Hasn’t this dog endured enough?? But wait—you don’t know that part of the story yet. More to come, but let me conclude by sharing one more thing.

You may be thinking that I’m all excited about bringing a new dog home. The truth is, I am 20% excited and 80% terrified. New situations and changes in routine are very difficult for me, to say the least. I function much better when things are the same, day after day—calm, steady, predictable. This is part of my mental health journey, and though I am aware of it, that doesn’t make new situations any easier. I know. You’re thinking, “New dog! Yay!” and I’m over here wringing my hands and worrying about whether my new girl will chase Jenny or pee on the carpeting or somehow (heaven help us) escape the yard. But I felt exactly this way when I brought Maya home. Well, no, with Maya I was 10% excited, 90% terrified. OK, maybe 5% excited. Really. Same with Thomas. And look what became of that.

So if you call to get the whole scoop on Stevie and I sound flustered, just reassure me that the sun will rise the next day, Jenny will come out from under the bed eventually, and Stevie will add another dimension of joy to this home that has been far too quiet without the tip-tapping of Thomas’s feet on the floor. Stay tuned. Here we go…. And may the New Year bring a new dimension of joy to your life as well (preferably a rescue dog, but that’s just my own bias speaking).



Wednesday, December 20, 2023

Celebrating Sgt. Thomas Tibbs

 


My sweet boy died on Friday. I started crying Thursday, midday, during my phone call to schedule an appointment with Lap of Love Veterinary Hospice, and didn't stop fully until.... Well, that hasn't happened yet, but at least I'm having long moments without tears. Not right now, though. Right now I'm crying.

Of course I've known for months this day was coming; his health issues were worsening, his arthritis pain becoming more and more difficult to manage. He wasn't comfortable... but he was still enjoying treats and cuddles, so he lived with discomfort, and I lived with anticipatory grief... a lot of anticipatory grief....

So I'm trying to let that go, now, and just celebrate his life. My god, the boy started out (at intake with Upland shelter) looking like this:

He was six years old, covered with mange, and starving. The shelter had him from June to January, treating his medical issues and trying to get him to engage with humans. Then I brought him home. At first, he was frightened of everything, even the cats. Except his bunny. He loved his bunny.

In the first couple of years, he spent a lot of time curled in a ball--much like Maya did when I brought her home. His recovery was very gradual.

I walked him every day, sang to him every night, and showered him with love. Finally, after five months, he wagged his tail at me. Two years in, he finally let me give him a belly rub. After I retired in 2016, he began to love other things--riding in my truck, going for hikes... and Purrl.




And of course, in recent years, Lamb Chop.


To me, he was a miracle. Ten years ago, he hated being touched, had no idea how to play with toys, and there was absolutely no joy in his life. While he never did learn how to play with toys, he did love chasing treats, and he gradually came to accept then welcome pets and ear scratches and back rubs. Oh, how he loved back rubs. And, up until his last days, his big tail wagged every day.

What a gift he was! My hiking buddy, my emotional support dog, my daily validation that love is indeed powerful. In fact, I learned more about true, unconditional love from Thomas than I have words for here. 

Thom's story is amazing, so of course I'm going to write a book about him. I started taking notes for that project last year. I will begin writing the book in early spring. I hope it honors him--and all those folks it took to get him out of the horrific situation he was in and safely into a shelter where kind volunteers never gave up on him. Bravo to them. And bravo to Thomas for overcoming so many fears. Good boy, Thom.




Thursday, December 7, 2023

Friendship Circle

 

My new desk buddy

I started to say that it all began with Friendship Circle, but it didn’t. Not quite. Well, sort of.

It began when I moved to my current residence in a senior community. Ella, my neighbor, was quick to introduce herself. Having served on the city council and in various volunteer positions in her community, she was cordial and welcoming and diplomatic. Ella invited me to join her for a luncheon hosted by the Friendship Circle group here in the park. I realized too late that this was a potluck, but Ella assured me that as her guest, I wasn’t required to bring anything—actually, no one is required—and that I could consider doing so if I chose to attend again in the future, which I did.

Two of the first people I met that day were Ursula and Bob Thomas. I don’t believe I’ve ever met two kinder people in my life. Maybe. But…. Bob and Ursula are extraordinary people, warm, kind, intelligent, empathetic—and each one has a great sense of humor. While I did not continue being involved with Friendship Circle after the first few months, I have continued my friendship with the Thomases.

Bob and Ursula like to walk early in the morning, as I do, so there are times when we will see each other at 5:30a.m. (yes, it’s still dark), and we’ll stand in the road and have a chat for ten minutes or so. It was during one of these morning chats that they mentioned their daughter, Shanon, had written a picture book for children. The book, complete with cover design and illustrations, was ready for publication, but Shanon wasn’t sure which route in publishing she wanted to pursue. I offered to help her decide, and I encouraged her parents to give her my number.

When Shanon called, I knew right away we were kindred spirits. Like her parents, she is warm and kind and empathetic. She is also very generous; her sole purpose in making her book available to the public is to encourage young readers to be kind, to look for opportunities to show empathy. The book, Clara’s Scarf, is lovely and sweet (and is available on Amazon).

Fast forward several months, and there I am, looking for an illustrator for my Dragon Singer Series. The search was not going well (that may be a profound understatement), and it occurred to me to talk to Shanon about the illustrator she used for Clara’s Scarf.

And that’s how I met (via email) Allie Myers. I know I keep saying this, but it’s like Allie is reading my mind. When I explain roughly what I want on a cover, she asks, “But what are the kids’ personalities like?” And bingo—she produces a sketch that somehow depicts everything I was feeling when I wrote the scene.

I have been grateful for Allie’s amazing artistry, and for my connection to Shanon, and my continuing friendship with Ursula and Bob. (What amazing parents they must have been to produce such a talented and wonderful kid!!) Then last week Shanon happened to be in town, and Ursula called to see if the two of them could stop by. When they did, Shanon gifted me with the sweet little white dragon pictured at the top of this post. He’s my new desk companion. Friendship! What an inspiration!

May the circle be unbroken, and may it continue to expand as those within it reach out a hand to others.