Maya, One Year In

In all the sadness around Purrl’s passing, I haven’t really felt much like writing. Slowly, I’m coming back to my words, tamping down the emotions, moving forward despite the ache every time I hear or write her name…or see her picture.

So, despite a muted celebration at home, I didn’t mark Maya’s one-year adoption milestone.

There isn’t much to say, so I’m going to let a couple of pictures tell the story.

She’s come a long way from the wild-eyed, terrified dog she was at the rescue.

As I’ve stated before, she absolutely loves to hike, and now, when I lead her through the garage and out to the driveway, if she sees the car sitting with the passenger side open, she knows we’re going for a ride, and she charges forward, diving into the back seat, curling into a ball behind the driver’s seat. As soon as we reach our destination and I open her door, she’s ready to hop out, sniffing the air as she goes.

This is her happy place…out on the trail, away from homes and cars and people. When we go for walks around home, she still requires the Gentle Leader collar to keep her from dragging me down the street. Out in the wild, though, she walks without fear, stopping often to look and listen.

Her favorite things are meals, treats, and her big brother Thomas, whom she adores. Maya’s idea of a perfect day would be breakfast early, a walk around the block with Thomas before the sun comes up (she literally struts beside him, she feels so safe and happy), treats upon returning home, and then remaining curled in her bed the rest of the day, emerging only for potty breaks and more treats.

By late spring, it should be light enough to get a video of her when she, Thomas, and I head out to the back yard at 5:00a.m. Her behavior then is nothing short of astounding. Every single day. And every day, it makes me laugh—quietly, so as not to wake the neighbors. This girl can jump! She bounds out of the house after Thom, chases him into the yard, leaping and hopping, stops just long enough to pee, then races back, bonding and leaping, to the patio, then back into the yard. It’s a sight to see, truly. When I can document it, I’ll drop a YouTube link here.

In the meantime, we walk every day, and every day I tell her what I used to tell Thomas years ago: “Don’t worry, baby. Someday you’ll be a real dog.” She’s getting there.

 

Introducing Jenny

The naming of cats is a difficult matter,

It isn't just one of your holiday games;

You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter

When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.

T.S. Eliot

(What IS it with cats and bags?)

When Sugar Plum died in May, I started chanting "I don't want another cat." I said it when my beloved little ginger cat, Sweetheart, died in 1988. But my daughter gifted me with Calpurnia anyway. And Cal was enough; I never wanted to bring Boo home, but what else could I do? It was a matter of life or death for him. I said it again when Boo died and it was just me and Sug alone together way up there in the wilderness in Mt. Baldy... but then came Purrl. I tried not to take Purrl, but no one else would and she desperately needed a home. When Sug was gone, I thought it would be enough for Purrl to hang with her best buddy Thomas, but she cried and cried for Sug, going to the door and emitting the most piteous cries of grief.

And so, two weeks ago, I sent up a quick request to Sug and the Universe to guide me, then headed out to Friends of Upland AnimalShelter because the word was out via social media that the shelter had been inundated with kitties. Specifically black kitties, still the hardest to place. (Why?? Who would not want a beautiful mini-panther running around the house?)

I took a stroll through the dog kennels (just to see who was there), came back out to the hallway, saw a little black female cat in a cage, talked to her for about five minutes, took her picture, and told her I'd be right back. The name on her kennel card was Jenny. I made a polite but cursory examination of the other kitties in the cat room, then went up front and told them I wanted to adopt Jenny. (We did do a mandatory "meet & greet" that lasted less than five minutes as she promptly ran and hid under the bench where I was sitting. "I'll take her!" I told the very helpful employee. Twenty minutes later she was in my cat carrier, and we were on our way home.

Despite having a list of cute names all prepared to try on her, "Jenny" stuck because, when I sent my kids her photo, they loved her name. How could I change it? She is "Jenny" when I'm calling her, looking for her all over the house because she's small enough to fit in tiny places. "Jenny-fur" if she has done something naughty like knocking all my pencils off the drafting table or jumping up on the kitchen counter. "The Little Minion" to Thomas, who is still anxious around her, expecting to be swatted or swiped at—because that's what Sug would do. By the time she is old and fat I will no doubt be calling her "Jen" or "Mini" or some other diminutive.

She is "Jennyanydots," of course, when she is being a Gumbie Cat—as described by T.S. Eliot in his delightful book of poetry, Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats:

I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;

The curtain-cord she likes to wind, and tie it into sailor-knots.

(She definitely has a sense of humor.)

How I knew that Sugar Plum picked her out:

1. The first thing I noticed about her was her long beautiful tail. In my morning meditations, Sug has, on several occasions, reminded me that while she is no longer with me to hold my paw in life, she is quite happy where she is, and she has her whole tail back again. Jenny's is quite lovely.

2. On the second day after I brought her home, I opened the bathroom door (where she was confined for the first few days until Purrl could get over telling her in profanity-laced language to "get out of the house") to find her curled up and sleeping in the sink. One of my favorite pictures of Sug shows her curled nicely in my bathroom sink.

(Sug not Jenny)

(Definitely Jenny; see the tail?)

3. On the first day she was allowed to explore the whole house, all doors open, I was making dinner, listening with one ear to the rustle and bump noises a new cat makes when squeezing in and out of spaces, when I heard a particular sound that froze me in my tracks. We are all aware that a certain sound, just like a certain scent, can evoke deep and vivid memories. On this day, for me, it was the sound of a small, hard rubber ball bouncing on the laminate flooring. I hadn't heard that sound in nearly a year. When I did, I had to stop what I was doing and grab a tissue. Somewhere in the den, way back behind my big writing desk, Jenny had found Sug's ball. It was Sugar Plum's favorite toy. When I lived on the mountain, I would often go up to the loft to read or write. Sug would follow me up, and as I sat on the bed and tried to focus on the material at hand, she would chase that little ball around the room, her stubby little legs pumping, her claws scratching their way across the slippery surface. It was a happy sound.

4. Jenny played with the ball until she finally chased it under the couch. (I had to move all the furniture the next day to retrieve it, but I needed to vacuum under there anyway.) Later that night when it was time for all of us to go to bed, I found my new cat in the den, sprawled across the top of the writing desk (just like Sug used to do), her long tail swishing back and forth across the photos of Sug I've placed there so I can still keep her close when I'm writing. "Jenny," I said. She winked at me.

So here is yet another 'extra add on' cat in my life. Each one I've brought home has had a specific role to play. Calpurnia was my constant snuggler in the horrible year that I got divorced (for the second time) and also navigated through a bout with cancer. Boo was my comfort when Cal passed, just as Sug was my comfort when Boo passed. Purrl came only months before Thomas arrived, but she has only ever offered him comfort, as she offered it to me when Sug died. Since Purrl is only five and Jenny is two, they have the next decade or so to become close friends. I hope they do. Because I don't want another cat.

Blankets

BFF Pet Rescue is a small rescue in Cherry Valley. With only a handful of volunteers, they accomplish super-human feats of heroism on a near-daily basis by going to local kill shelters, pulling dogs on the euthanasia list, comforting and socializing them, then getting them adopted. I follow them on Facebook, and I'm always encouraged and amazed by the enormity of the good work they do.

Last week, BFF put out a call on Facebook stating that they needed blankets for the dogs as nights are getting cooler and winter is approaching. (No doubt about that; it was 44 degrees when I stepped out the door to walk Sgt. Thomas Tibbs this morning.) I had an extra dog blanket or two, but I knew they needed, like, fifty. So I put a short post up on the Facebook page for Plantation on the Lake residents, asking for blankets and offering to pick them up. Plantation on the Lake is the senior community where I now reside, and let me tell you, these folks really, really love dogs. There are dogs all over the park, from Greyhounds to Yorkies and everything in between. I posted my request for blankets a few evenings ago, then I went to bed.

Twenty-four hours later, I was close to the fifty-blanket mark I'd been hoping for. People dropped off bags and boxes of blankets on my porch. A few commented their space numbers, and Thomas and I took a happy drive around the park, picking up blankets and also receiving a hug and a helping hand. (I was struggling with a huge box of blankets and a new resident happened to be walking by. "Do you need help with that?" she called. I had no idea who she was; we'd never met. Now I know her name is Carla and she is very kind.) In two days, we managed to fill the bed and passenger seat of Cloud (my truck) with blankets.

I know the photos are dark and not very good, but the wind chill factor was pretty severe yesterday evening and the temperature was dropping quickly as I left to go drop them off.

And what a warm welcome I received! I got another hug, dog lover to dog lover, and many thanks. The volunteer who met me and helped unload explained that their dryer runs all day every day, as they endeavor to make sure the dogs always have clean, dry bedding. Having all those extra blankets will help immensely.

Time spent on this project was less than an hour, total time for everything, including writing the post (60 seconds), picking up blankets (fifteen minutes), loading the truck (5 minutes), driving it to the rescue (10 minutes) and unloading (two minutes).

In a week that saw another mass shooting and another devastating wildfire here in SoCal, it helped to get my mind off all the tragedy for a few minutes. And I am so very blessed to live in a community that can be depended upon to step up whenever asked if there is a need. I mean, these are some seriously nice people. Then again, dog lovers usually are.

No Fur Kid Left Behind

Can you see her? Little Sugar Plum discovering snow for the first time.

When I moved up to my cabin in Mt. Baldy in 2007, I did so in the company of Boo Radley and Sugar Plum, my two black cats. I still had to go to work down the mountain every day, so my two companions would spend each day while I was gone either down in the basement chasing mice out of the house or up in the loft, where they could watch birds at eye level.

We'd lived there one year when a man who was camping with his daughter accidentally started a forest fire in a canyon below us on a very cold, very windy night. When my neighbor called to alert me to the fire burning several miles south of us, I called in sick to work. My cabin was not in immediate danger, but I worried that if I drove down the mountain, I wouldn't be allowed back up, and there's no way I would have left my cats up there alone.

As the fire pushed its way up the canyon toward my neighborhood, the neighbors kept in close contact, working out exit strategies. There is only one road that leads up and down the mountain, but there is a dirt Forest Service road that goes up to the ski lift and over the mountain, down the far side. We would caravan in our trucks if need be, only leaving if we absolutely had to. We had been advised earlier by the Forest Service that if our cabins caught fire, they would be allowed to burn; no fire crews would be risked to try to save them. If my cabin caught fire, I would lose just about everything I owned except what I could fit in my Tacoma--and the cat carriers took up most of the space.

After several days, though, the Hot Shots and other crews contained and controlled the fire, though there were still some hot spots burning deep in a few side canyons. Before I returned to work, I made sure that if the fire flared up again and law enforcement closed the road, I could still get home. I'd have to walk, and it would take me four hours or so (as near as I could figure), but I devised a plan with a friend who would drop me at the base of the mountain where I could follow the creek trail to the village. Then I could simply walk the road the rest of the way up to my cabin. If I had to walk out carrying two cat carriers down the mountain, I would. No cats left behind....

I promised them that. Every time we had a big storm, friends down the mountain would offer guest rooms and couches so that I didn't have to drive to work or home in treacherous conditions. I would have happily taken them up on their offers had it not been for the two furry individuals who waited for my return every afternoon.

One winter a sudden and severe storm developed while I was at work. From outside my classroom door, I could look up to the mountain, and I knew it was bad. As soon as the last bell rang, I ran to the parking lot, jumped in the truck, and headed up the mountain. By the time I reached the switchbacks (the steep, winding road that led up to the ski lifts and my cabin), the California Highway Patrol had closed the road and officers were escorting drivers down. But I had to go up. My cats were up there. "Not without chains," the CHP officer told me. "We're in blizzard conditions." So I had to turn around and go back to the village to put on the cables I always carried in winter. When I stepped out of the truck in the post office parking lot, I was pelted with freezing rain. (It's a lot like having a Slurpee thrown at you... or a lot of Slurpees all at once... with no lovely sugary sweet flavor.) Still, with the help of a neighbor, we got the cables on quickly, and I headed back to attempt to get up the switchbacks. If I couldn't drive, I would have to walk the three miles, but by then the sun was beginning to set, so I'd be doing it in the dark if I didn't hurry.

The five minute drive took twenty-five that afternoon. Slowly but surely, I wound my way up that icy road. When I reached the top, the narrow road to my cabin was covered in a foot of snow and ice, so I found a safe place to tuck in the truck for the night, grabbed my backpack and started walking.

Snowfall is beautiful, and I love walking in it. But a blizzard includes high winds that whip the tiny ice crystals across your face and into your eyes (even if you're wearing glasses). I tried to trudge with my head down, but doing so caused me to take a wrong turn in the waning light, and I ended up disoriented at the end of a side road that led to another cabin. 'Take a breath and go back the way you came,' I told myself. I did, and it worked. I found the road again, and finally made it home just as total darkness fell. Both cats were waiting for me at the front door--and they nearly fled when they saw me. I was completely covered with ice and snow. But I was home. And we were safe.

"I told you," I said, as they huddled nearby, watching me shed several pounds of soaked clothing, "I will always come home. I will never leave you here."

The back side of my cabin after the blizzard of 2010.

I think what made me feel so strongly about never leaving them behind was watching the heartbreaking news coverage of Hurricane Katrina in 2005. My mom was living with me at the time, and we watched together as Coast Guard and law enforcement helicopters plucked survivors off porches and rooftops, often forcing them against their will to leave their pets behind.

Best Friends, the animal rescue group based in Kanab, Utah, were the ones that organized the biggest concerted effort to go into New Orleans and the surrounding areas just days after the storm ended to rescue dogs and cats that had been left behind. Hundreds and hundreds of dogs and cats. As days went by and the extent of the devastation from Katrina unfolded, I mentioned to Mom that I felt like I should send a donation to Best Friends. "I already wrote a check for a hundred bucks," she told me. "I just don't know where to send it." My mom, my hero. I went online, found the address, wrote out a check myself, and mailed both in the same envelope the next day.

Nowadays, of course, it's much easier to donate, just a couple of clicks.

And we've learned. As you watch the coverage of Hurricane Harvey and the rescue effort now taking place, you will see people being helped to safety--along with their dogs and cats. In all, 600,000 dogs died or were abandoned during Hurricane Katrina. That won't be the case this time, but there will still be a huge need for groups like Best Friends to rescue pets that were left when people were caught away from home when the hurricane hit. I have no doubt that a team from Best Friends is already preparing to gear up and meet that need as soon as they can possibly get to Houston.

If you'd like to help with that effort, it only takes a few clicks to donate. Click on the link below, and it will take you to the Best Friends site. In my opinion, you're a hero if you do!

Click here to donate to Best Friends.

Reciprocity

As I write this, it is late for me—after 10:30p.m. I am sitting on the floor, my laptop wobbling on my crossed legs. Actually, I am not sitting on the floor directly; I'm sitting on Sgt. Thomas Tibb's dog bed, which is on the floor next to the couch. When he is really, really frightened, he leaves his sanctuary in my office to curl as close to the couch as he can get. Tonight he is so terrified by the ongoing explosions outside, I crawl down onto the floor to sit next to him, and this boy who never offers his affection curls against my knee, panting, every muscle in his body tense as he waits for the next bomb to go off.

My neighbors have been detonating illegal fireworks—cherry bombs and M80s—for weeks in the run-up to the Fourth of July. The antics begin every evening around 8:00 and continue for a couple of hours. As I write this it is Saturday night, and I guess we're into overtime on blowing things up because it's the weekend. Thomas and I endured the same routine last year—from June until a week or so after July 4th—only last year he would not stay in the house. He was so frightened, the only place he felt safe was in the back seat of my truck. So for all those weeks, I never went anywhere at night unless I rode with someone else so that he would have a safe place to hide. This year, he has at least recovered from his First Life enough to stay inside with me, for the most part. I have taken to sleeping on the couch, though, because as long as I am close, he will at least lie still (instead of pacing, panting and drooling as he did last year).

Tonight he is exhausted, having been in this state of hyper-vigilance for hours, but just as his head begins to droop against my thigh, another boom resounds through the neighborhood, and his head jerks up as his tongue lolls out with his panting, drops of saliva dripping onto his blanket.

I will stay here with him until it is over, until he can finally relax and sleep. We're buds. I've got his back, just as he had mine some weeks ago.

It's still hard for me to believe how far this dog has come from the emotionally broken shell he was when I brought him home just over a year ago. In January, I posted about his progress. In March, he added a new trick to his exuberant joy by including a complete 360 degree spin to the ecstatic figure eights he races when I come home from work each day. What a difference from the days when I would have to go find him where he was hiding in the side yard and put him on a leash to bring him inside against his will.

In April, I became suddenly and seriously ill with pneumonia. I spent the first horrible days coughing and moaning on the couch, and since I was stuck at home, I left the back slider open—just in case Thomas decided to join me. This has been one of his idiosyncrasies; though he had become comfortable trotting in the door at night to go to bed inside, he still preferred to be outside during the day. Until I became sick. On the second day of my couch incarceration, he came inside of his own volition after I'd had a particular violent coughing episode. I know that he was checking on me, and it nearly made me cry. He curled up nearby, and eventually we napped together that day, initiating a habit that continued, day after day, even when I returned to work. Because it took so long to recover, I was exhausted by the end of each work day, so I left campus as soon as I could, returning home to sleep for hours before dinner. All I had to do was call Thom after he'd finished his happy dance in the yard. We would both adjourn to the office where I would collapse on the spare bed and he would curl next to it. To hear him sighing contentedly as I drifted off contributed, I'm sure, to my healing.

But lest he receive all the credit, I must include this part of the story: The antibiotic regimen that cured my lungs destroyed my intestines, and despite my best efforts (yogurt every day without fail), I ended up with an excruciating case of C. Diff. In the first, horrific days of that onslaught, I was often doubled over in agonizing pain. During one such bout, as I gasped and sobbed, Purrl suddenly appeared, jumped onto the counter next to me, then slowly, carefully climbed onto my back as I sat hunched over, clutching my abdomen. I started to tell her to get down, but realized she was offering comfort in the only way she knew how. She laid down quietly on my back and stayed there until I finally calmed down and my breathing returned to normal. Then she just as carefully stood up, stepped up to the counter and jumped down to the floor again.

For Purrl, this is her reciprocation for my similar attention to her in February when she suddenly became gravely ill. I spent hours just sitting next to her then, stroking her fur and willing her to pull through. Her illness lasted a week, but she finally rallied. And she has recovered in a big way; before her illness, she weighed in at twelve pounds. Now she is a voluptuous fifteen pounds, and I have had to cut back on her bedtime treats. She still loves Thomas with all her heart, and he still just tolerates her for my sake, but I know he's starting to come around.

What would I do without these two plus Sugar Plum, who now on these warm nights instead of cuddling against me stretches her body the length of my arm so she can sleep with her head resting on my hand? They do depend on me for food and shelter and safety, but we depend on each other for comfort and care. So this time spent on the couch—or on the floor, as I am now—with Thomas is no great sacrifice. My good boy deserves it. And as I type these last words, his head is finally resting on his blanket. The terror from the explosions has subsided, and he sleeps... as I will soon as well.

The rest of my crew

The cats have been demanding equal time on the blog. That's how cats are, I suppose. A dog will ask nicely, hat in hand (so to speak), eyes averted. A cat will make a demand and stare, exasperated, as you apologize for not being able to fulfill her whim more quickly. At least, that's how it is around here.

Eight years ago I brought home a stunted black female cat who'd had her tail chopped off by someone or something evil. For the first year, she'd let me stroke her head and shoulders, but I couldn't reach my hand near her tail or she would (gently) bite me. The rescue had named her "Sugar Plum"—stupidest name ever for a cat, I said. And then I never changed it. She slept curled by my feet but otherwise remained somewhat aloof, which was fine.

We moved to Mt. Baldy with Boo Radley, my black panther of a male cat, but two years later Boo died after a lengthy illness. Sugie and I, bereft, were left to bond with each other through snowy winters and warm summers as we watched bears, bobcats and raccoons scramble onto our deck. I couldn't have a dog up on the mountain, so Sug was my only companion for five years. By the end of that journey, she had learned to crawl under the covers when it was cold, burrowing in against my side like a kitten. This remains her habit now, even when it's warm at night in the summer, and she usually stays long enough to purr me to sleep. One night, after I'd been gone for a week to Missouri and she'd had a housesitter feeding and caring for her, she crawled in beside me, then reached up and licked my face. This has become her habit as well, licking my hands when I come home from work or my face when she purrs me to sleep at night.

Now I can pet her anywhere on her body, stroke the brush all the way down her back and up her stub of a tail, pick her up if I need to and she is never, ever aloof. When I read in the morning, she jumps into my lap, purring loudly and kissing my hands over and over. She is one of the most loving cats I've ever had. And yes, for those of you who are familiar with her story as it appeared in Chicken Soup forthe Soul: I Can't Believe My Cat Did That, she still rolls over happily when I sing "I Can't Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch)" by the inimitable Four Tops to her.

A year and a half ago, a friend posted a photo on Facebook of a tiny gray kitten her sister had found abandoned in a Target parking lot. I had been looking for a black kitten as a companion for Sug, but this gray kitten with her adorable face and urgent plight (in a household where the patriarch was demanding there be "no more cats") kept calling to me. I had named her Purrl before I'd even met her. I brought her home, screaming and crying in the cat carrier, and my life and Sug's have never been the same since. For the first five months, she was quite an impressive eating and pooping machine. I had her claws trimmed when she was spayed, but they grew back with a vengeance, and she has managed to pretty much destroy two very lovely loveseats.

But Sug and I adore her. Purrl (aka Purrlie Girl, Purrl Jam, Jameez, Jamerz and PURRL-STOP-IT) is a bit... quirky. Sug still tries to offer her nose touches and head kisses, but Purrl invariably jumps away, her eyes growing round and stupefied, as if she can't imagine why another cat would ever approach her in such a way—despite the fact that she allows me to regularly pick her up, hug her, kiss her head and otherwise lavish her with affection. She is a bit of a lunatic, and when she's really happy, she celebrates by simply galloping through the house at top speed, her tail crooked and her ears flattened like a kitten.

So when she stopped eating on Valentine's Day, I was more than a bit concerned. I'd been out of town overnight, and when I returned, I noticed she hadn't eaten much. I watched her closely that Sunday and saw that she wasn't very interested in her food. By Monday she was lethargic. As the week progressed, she slowly stopped eating altogether and wanted only to curl in a ball and sleep. I took her to see my vet on Friday and held her while he shaved her neck, drew blood and gave her an IV to hydrate her. When the blood work came back the next day, there was nothing definitive, no infection, no common cat disease. (She is vaccinated against everything). I spent that weekend sitting close to her, stroking her head, asking the Universe to heal her and telling her every hour or so that she had to try to get better because Sug and I couldn't possibly continue our journey without her. For the most part, she remained curled in a ball, getting up to vomit once every four or five hours.

On Sunday, just after I'd been on the phone with the vet discussing methods of hydrating her, she got up, ambled slowly to the water bowl, and drank a few sips. Forty-eight hours passed with no change, but Tuesday when I came home for lunch to check on her, she seemed ever-so-slightly better, just enough to weakly trudge to the backyard and lay in the sun for the time it took me to wolf down a sandwich. I picked her up gently to carry her back in to the couch, and she purred. That night, she ate one single tiny kitty treat, the first sustenance she'd had in nearly a week. She slept beside me all night without getting up to throw up, and the next morning she ate two tiny bites of food. I cried.

We are two weeks past her illness now, and she is back to tearing up the furniture, running around the house for the sheer joy of it and chasing kitty treats across the hardwood floors. I have no idea what made her sick, but I am thrilled that she is still with us. Before Purrlie, Sug and I had become like two old dowagers, set in our ways and clinging to our daily routine. Purrl shook up our lives, made us play with toys and laugh out loud again. And in her fearlessness, she showed Sug how a cat can actually be friends with a dog because when Sgt. Thomas Tibbs came along, Purrl thought he was just one more slightly large plush toy to rub up against and play with. Even Thomas, I think, is glad that Purrlie Girl has survived.

As I have said before, at the close of every day, I spend the last moments before climbing into bed on the floor with Thomas, petting his head and telling him what a great dog he is, and now Purrl joins us, lying quietly beside me, purring and smiling at her big red friend. I feel blessed every day that each of these slightly flawed, slightly quirky characters has come into my life.

How Purrl made it work

2013 turned out to be a transitional year for me, and frankly, I'm so glad it's over.

At the end of 2012 I was diagnosed with "damaged" lungs.  To my way of thinking, this is a misnomer, given the fact that I was probably born with holes in my lungs.  So I came into 2013 trying to adjust to the truth (no cure, and it's progressive) and limits (uphill climbs beat me like a stick) of my "disease."  (Can't we call it a "condition"?  "Disease" sounds icky.)

In January, I left my cabin in the wilderness and became a flatlander once again, buying a three-bedroom home built in 1957 (one of my favorite years) with an insurmountable (at least for a six-pound cat with stubby legs) block wall around the back yard.  How am I adjusting?  I'm saving money toward retirement.  But I can't see the stars at night (well, your night, my morning--4:00a.m.).  I have a garden growing, and my tomatoes last summer were amazing.  But I am without the quiet and serenity of the mountain, and heading out my door for a walk no longer means sighting wildlife or standing underneath a waterfall.  Now it means following the sidewalk to the next housing tract... and the next.  But I'm eight minutes from work, so I'm no longer spending several hundred dollars a month in gas.  "No place is perfect," a friend told me recently.  So true.

With my new home and yard came the prospect of getting a dog, which I did last spring.  If you follow the blog, you will have read about Suede renamed Seamus, the chocolate lab that was abandoned at my local shelter.  Seamus was (almost) the perfect dog and would have been my constant companion... if he just had not been encouraged at some point in his life to chase kitties.  I adored him, and we walked every day, and having him beside me filled a void that had been there since 2006.  But alas... his presence in our home was terrifying for Sugar Plum.  Sugie tried several times to creep out and face her fear, but every time she did he would alert to her and try to chase her.  Sug shut down, refusing to come out from under the bed.  She wasn't eating or drinking.  She ended up very sick, and I ended up on the floor in fetal position, worried for her and heartbroken to know that Seamus would have to adjust to a new home all over again.

But as it turned out, the Universe had special plans for Shay.  With the help of my dog-loving friends (thank you forever, Donna Staub!), I found a couple who had recently lost their beloved chocolate lab.  They opened their loving arms to Shay and made him a family member overnight, and their yellow lab loved him as she had her previous companion.  Through much grief came a happy ending and the best forever home a dog could ever dream of.

After some weeks, Sug recovered.  And then I brought Purrl home.

Since losing my beloved Boo, I have made several attempts to bring a new cat into our home, so that Sug could also have a companion.  It never worked out because eventually the other cats tried to dominate Sug (and I would awake to the ferocious fury of cats brawling, teeth and claws maiming everything in sight, including me).  After three tries, I knew my only hope of making it work was if Sug could still feel like the queen of the house and another cat would defer to her.

And that's how Purrl made it work.  She was a tiny kitten, abandoned in a Target parking lot and rescued by the sister of a very sweet friend.  Purrl (Purrlie/Purrl-O/Purrl Jam) was probably about ten weeks old when I brought her home, mewling and crying in a carrier.  Instead of diving under the bed, Sug ran up to see what all the fuss was about, then hissed at the baby... but didn't fear her or reject her.  Within days, Purrl was pouncing on Sug's stump of a tail, and Sug was patiently allowing it.  Now both girls meet me at the door when I come home, and both sleep on the bed with me at night.  Of course, Purrl snores.  But then, how do I know I don't?

Oh, and one more good thing happened in 2013:  GhostGrandma, my YA novel, released on October 31.  I'm happy now for all the hours of this past summer I spent re-writing and editing it.  I've gotten some nice reviews, and teens seem to like it.

On January 1, I will begin writing a new book, a memoir about my experiences living in on the mountain.  At this point, I'm thinking (as I naively did with The Dogs Who Saved Me) that it will be an effortless expression of my passionate love of the wild.  My goal is to write three hundred words a day every day in 2014.  Check back with me; I'll keep you posted.

Suede becomes Seamus

Friday came.  No one came to claim Suede.  I took the day off work, showed up at the shelter at noon when they opened, walked up to the counter with the new collar and leash I’d just bought at Petsmart, and told the young male employee that I was there to adopt Suede.  Twenty minutes later, my dog was sitting calmly on the floor next to me while I adjusted the new collar and signed the last of the paperwork.  A man waiting to get a dog license asked, “How old is your dog?”  I looked around, realized he was talking to me and replied, “Eight.”

“How did he happen to get in here?” the man wondered.

“Oh—I’m adopting him today.”

“Really?  I can’t believe how well he listens to you.”

My son would echo those same words later in the evening when he watched us play fetch and my good dog dropped his new toy turtle every time I asked him to.

Years ago my daughter introduced me to the poetry of Seamus Heaney, and I became a fan.  When I was searching my brain for some name that might replace “Suede,” I wanted a long A sound, an Irish name and hopefully one with character.  And suddenly there it was on my Facebook page, a post by Billy Collins (another favorite poet who enjoys celebrity status) which included a photo of him visiting Seamus Heaney in Ireland.  Perfect.

So from our first hours together yesterday, Suede became Seamus.  (For those of you unfamiliar with crazy Celtic pronunciations, it’s Shay-mus.)

I called my vet upon arriving home, and he just happened to have a free spot in the afternoon.  (Yes, my vet does house calls.)  He came by with his able assistant Emily, pronounced Seamus healthy and gave him all the vaccines known to preventive dog medicine.  (The shelter had done no inoculations as the family surrendering him had produced paperwork showing that he’d had his shots.  Just, no one recorded when.  So we gave him all the vacs again, just to establish a base line.)

And what did my new dog do while he was being jabbed by a stranger repeatedly?  He wagged his tail and licked Dr. Lebovic’s face.  Who’s a good boy?  Huh?  Who’s a good boy?

In the evening, when the warm spring day cooled a bit, we went for a two-mile walk.  We did the same loop this morning after I’d done my yoga.  Seamus is calm and obedient on the leash, even when other dogs bark at him or sprinklers go on or cars whiz past.  And yeah, he listens.

Dogs.  They’re just so amazing, aren’t they?

Sunday ruminations

As I write this, Sugar Plum is creeping through the ever-lengthening backyard grass, crawling on her belly like a combat soldier, inching toward the small dove that has come down to peck up the seeds the finches are spilling from the feeder.  The dove looks her way, then continues to eat, the gift of a free meal overcoming her good judgment.  If you are a bird lover, no worries—Sug will not actually try to catch this bird as it is too large for her comfort zone (and even if she did ultimately sprint for it, she has grown too old to catch anything but the slowest of birds.

I am always glad for the company of Sugar Plum, my little dog-like cat.  She follows me around the house when I am home, purrs me to sleep at night and then remains curled against my side.  She loves the new house and the yard, and she seems happier here. She has been more playful and less skitterish of late.

But I long to expand our tiny family with a dog... or two.

Three weeks ago I filled out an online adoption application for one particular dog available through a rescue in Anaheim.  She’s a corgi/sheltie mix—just like Harper (if you’ve read the dog book).  I happened to see her profile on Petfinder, so I sent an email to the rescue group, asking about her temperament around cats, and I also filled out the application.  Nothing.  No response. Three weeks.

This is not the first time I’ve had this happen with a rescue group, and I find it distressing.  Such groups are always pleading for money, it seems—and rightfully so, for those who are doing the hard work of rescuing dogs and finding them permanent homes.  But too often I encounter groups that are run more like secret clubs whose members choose to snub those who are not deemed worthy.  It’s frustrating.

I’ve also made the rounds of some of the local city shelters.  I can never stay long.  I walk through quickly, looking for that special spark in a dog’s eye… and I remember that Alex and Nicki, both pound puppies, had no spark at all; I found them (a year apart) curled in the back of their kennels, ears drooping, tails tucked.

If I wanted a Pit Bull or a Chihuahua, I’d pretty much have my pick of whatever size, gender, age, color or temperament I might want.  The shelters are filled with them.  But I’m not a tiny dog fan, and I am reluctant to bring Sugie home a Pit Bull to boss around, because Sug will be the boss, whatever dog is here.

Maybe the answer is to start with a puppy.  But puppies are easily adopted, and I would rather rescue a big goofy looking dog, one that might not have a chance otherwise.

Alas, it’s a tedious process.  In the meantime, I’m watching every episode of The Dog Whisperer and Leader of the Pack I can find.  And I’m taking good care of Sugar Plum.

Why this author is giving away free books

The first time I noticed an author doing a "giveaway" on Goodreads, I have to confess, I was kind of resentful.  As it turned out, I had just finished reading that same novel--a book I'd spent a few dollars of my exiguous fortune on--and now here was the author just giving it away for free.  "Hey, I'm a teacher living on a single, limited income that keeps shrinking!  Give me that book!" is what I thought at the time.  But then... I looked into what the giveaways are all about, and I finally understood.  For Indie and DIY authors, offering a book or two for free in a giveaway provides an opportunity to let a whole lot more folks know about the book.

In my case, with The Dogs Who Saved Me, I was reluctant to do a giveaway, because 100% of the profits from this book are being donated to animal rescue groups, and I didn't want to take one penny away from that.  However... after a conversation with Indie marketing guru Martin Lastrapes (who just happens to be my favorite Indie author), I realized that by offering a couple of copies of Dogs for free, I could generate more interest in the book, which would generate more revenue for a local rescue group (HOPE rescue in Upland, CA), so I jumped on board.

I am pleased to say that there are currently 500+ readers who have entered the giveaway.  Even more exciting is the fact that 72 readers on Goodreads have added the book to their "to read" lists, and several have sent me messages to say that if they don't 'win' the book, they will buy it right away as they find the premise intriguing.  Yes!  Success!  And think about it--if those 72 readers like the book and recommend it to friends, the snowball will continue to grow (hopefully), garnering new readers and more support for the rescue groups that do so much by sheer power of animal love and enthusiasm.  Bless them!

So--if you haven't yet read The Dogs Who Saved Me and would like to enter the giveaway, there's still time!!  (At this writing, 6 hours and 30 minutes--so get on it!)  Click on the link below and enter.  There are no strings attached!!  You will not be asked to write a review or give a speech or compose a lively verse about the book, nor will I or the great folks at Goodreads save your info and try to strongarm you into buying books... or ocean view property in Missouri....  If you don't have a Goodreads account, consider establishing one, as there are many, many good books available through the giveaways for free, plus great conversations taking place all the time with intelligent readers.

Okay, I'm done yakking.  Here's the link:
Goodreads giveaway of The Dogs Who Saved Me

Books, Dogs and HOPE

Forgive me for being absent from posting for a while.  I’ve had my writer’s hat on, certainly, but my time has been spent, in recent days, working more on the business side of the craft than on the creative side.

I’ve got some great news flashes I’ve been wanting to share with you, Dear Reader, but first let me describe where I am—because I really can’t write a blog post without talking about the mountain.  I know you understand….

At the beginning of the summer, I bought an inexpensive HP laptop so that I could do this:  I’m sitting in the swing on the front deck.  It’s about 3:00 in the afternoon.  A light breeze is blowing through the oak tree canopy surrounding the cabin, cooling my skin and mimicking the sound of water rushing over rocks in a faraway stream.  Punctuating that sound is the chatter and call of some  bluejays, chickadees, wrens, woodpeckers, dark-eyed juncos, a titmouse or two, and something that sounds like a guinea pig making its “week-week-week” sound.  Sugie hears them, too.  She’s sprawled out in the dappled shade a few feet from the swing pretending to relax, but she is ever-vigilant.  Beware, my feathered friends; do not land too close.

So.  Part of what has kept me busy in recent weeks has been writing book reviews.  Some writer friends have had books released (hurray!), and summer gives me (too much?) insouciant time to sit as I am now, enjoying the outdoors while turning pages.  (It’s okay to be envious; that will all change in winter when it’s snowing and the swing is packed away in the garage.  Of course, then I’ll be sitting in front of the fire….)

Libby Grandy, a long time blogger and Chicken Soup author, has seen the release of her first novel, Desert Soliloquy.  I was privileged to read it in manuscript form, but the book had been so diligently edited I really didn’t have much of a critique to make.  I love a good mystery, and this one is tightly woven.  She does not go over the top with red herrings (hate that), but keeps the suspense taut—not only with the mystery of the attempted murder but also with the deeper, perhaps more mysterious question of who the protagonist will choose to spend her life with.  Loved it—and hate the fact that Libby has a second novel nearly ready for publication but feels inclined to wait until next summer for its release.  But I want to read it nowwwww.

Paula Priamos, also a blogger and a professor of all things literary, just saw the release of her memoir, The Shyster’s Daughter.  I’ve been waiting for this book for nearly two years, ever since Paula’s husband, author James Brown (The Los Angeles Diaries), bragged about it at a writers conference.  I have to warn you, if you read memoirs because you enjoy reading light-hearted tales told by upbeat people who managed to keep smiling through hard times, better buckle your seatbelt for this one.  Priamos’ writing is stark and tight and gripping.  And geez, does she ever have a story to tell about growing up in SoCal with her high-profile attorney father, an inappropriate uncle, and other characters guaranteed to ensure a kid’s quick loss of innocence.  I had kind of a weird, schizophrenic response to the book as I read it; I’d read a few pages, mutter “oh my god” out loud, put the book down because it reminded me far too much of my own childhood, then pick it up and start reading again.  It’s the most compelling memoir I’ve read in years.

Since I’m talking books, please indulge me for a moment.  The Kindle version of MartinLastrapes’ book, Inside the Outside, made it all the way to Number One on Amazon’s Horror list a few weeks back.  As you may know (because I seem to mention it often), Martin was a student of mine way back when I taught English 1A for Chaffey College.  All I said was, “Martin, you could be a writer,” and look what the kid did.  Geez….

Finally (and can I have a drum roll here, please?), my memoir, The Dogs Who Saved Me, came out this month.  I want to shout “Hurray!” in jubilant celebration… but I think I’m still recovering from writing this book.  I was so cavalier two summers ago when I began work on this project.  “I’ll just write about my dogs!” I thought.  “Easy peasy!”  No.  This was the most challenging writing task I’ve ever assigned myself.  Little did I know how tough it would be to recall those dark adolescent days and other points in my life in which I needed the unconditional love of a dog to sustain me.  Now, though, I’m glad I kept trudging through it (with frequent breaks, I kid you not, to simply walk away from the keyboard, out into the forest, to let the tears fall until I could breathe normally again).  My intent with this book is to honor the dogs who quite literally saved my life.  I think telling their stories does that.  But… to honor them further, I’ll be donating all the royalties from this book to animal rescue.  The first royalty check will go to HOPE rescue in Upland, California.  HOPE is comprised of a tiny crew of amazing and selfless people who work tirelessly to rescue dogs and cats slated for euthanasia or that have been found on the streets.  My little Sug was just such a cat, taken in by HOPE, placed in foster care where she was loved and spayed and brought to good health, then made available for adoption.  Had she gone to a public shelter, she would never have made it out alive.  And what would I do without her?  Recently the good folks at HOPE rescued a beautiful Beagle mix puppy from a high-kill shelter and a volunteer is now fostering her.  I love these peeps, so every time someone buys a copy of Dogs, I get all happy, because I know that the royalty from that sale will enable HOPE to do just a bit more of the heroic work they do.

So you can see why I’m busy trying to promote this book.  I’ve set up some readings/signings, which I’ll be announcing here.  I always love doing these events (what author doesn’t?), but they’re especially fun when I know that the end result will enable me to contribute to the fur community.  Win!  Win!  Win!  

Addendum

Just wanted to add a quick note as an addendum to recent posts:

(Hate to sound like the doting mother, but seriously, doesn't Sugie look, well, just like Sugie in this photo? All ears sideways and wild-eyed, like she's about to attack something?? Glad it wasn't my hand... this time....)

So I stopped by Upland Animal Shelter (cat hell) yesterday. Two serendipitous events occurred. The first:

When I entered the smaller cat room, I was surprised to find it crowded with women. 'Wow,' I thought, 'lots of folks looking at cats today.' But then I realized these weren't potential adopters, they were volunteers. Three of the women had Down's Syndrome. The fourth looked up from a cage and smiled.

"Are you all volunteers?" I asked.

"Yes," she told me. "We come here every Thursday, just to interact with the cats." Is that cool or what?? More angels!! I thanked them all and four kind faces lit up. I watched for awhile as they carefully brushed and stroked the cats, then put each one gently back in its cage. Wow. What a blessing.

Then I headed off to the big cat room. There was a black kitten curled in a ball whose gender I could not determine, so I went to the front desk.

"Can I help you?" asked Mr. Jackass. I ignored him as if he were invisible. A woman swiveled around in her chair. I hadn't seen her before.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied pleasantly, and asked if she could check the gender of a kitten for me.

"Of course!" she replied, just as pleasantly, and off we went to the cat room. Little Miss Thing turned out to be a girl, and as I held her, the nice officer and I got to talking about black cats. She confirmed what others had said, that black cats are very difficult to place, and often 'grow up' in the shelter.

"I have one at home right now that I'm fostering," she told me. She went on to explain that a batch of kittens had been brought to the shelter in such bad shape she didn't think one of them would make it through the night. They were dehydrated, anemic from the fleas that covered them, full of worms, and starving. She took the worst one home--he had an infected eye filled with pus (shades of Homer Cooper!!)--and started caring for him, picking the fleas off, giving him fluids, treating his eye... and loving him.

"You should see him now!" she boasted. "But I'll have to bring him back, and he'll probably just sit here, because he's black...." Hmmm....

Anyway, this lady was great, and she clearly cared for the cats, so we'll have to conclude that she is an angel who has volunteered to work in hell. Now that's impressive!!

Of course, at the end of the day I ended up back in cat heaven, spending a luxurious half hour in the sunny yard with "Elmore," "Chesterfield," and several other furry children whose names I didn't know. (Angel was busy inside, sweeping out each and every cat apartment, so I couldn't ask him.)

I still haven't made a decision about who's coming home with me, but I appreciate all the response I've had to the blog and your comments. Love you, animal lovers!!

Finding cat heaven

You would think that after Sunday’s heartbreak, the last place I’d want to go for awhile would be another animal shelter. But the Universe sometimes pulls me in certain directions, and I dare not resist….

I finally got around to buying a new washing machine on Monday. (I highly recommend the Sears Outlet on Vineyard in Ontario—I got a $849 Whirlpool for $400; it had a nearly imperceptible ding on one corner.) I had to go to the credit union, so I headed there first, then turned the little Tacoma in the direction of Vineyard, meandering along side streets, looking at houses. (It’s a weird addiction, I know.) I ended up east-bound on Mission Blvd. A long forgotten memory surfaced… and I started looking along the south side of the street. There it was: West End (as in the west end of Ontario) Animal Shelter. Just out of curiosity (or because I am really into self-punishment), I pulled in.

At one time, Ontario was a fine city, equal in status to its close neighbor, Chino, but larger, and boasting its own library (not a branch in the San Bernardino County system), among other points of city pride. But something happened over the years, and the city fell into decline for awhile—to the point that one would have to step around all the homeless people in order to do research in the library. In the years since, it has sort of been the red-headed step child to neighboring Upland and Claremont. I took some deep breaths before entering this shelter, expecting the worst.

As I walked through the door into the lobby, I woke the young man who was dozing behind the counter.
“I’m looking for cats,” I said quietly.
“Oh,” he said, pointing and yawning, “through that door, outside, follow the path, it’s a long white building.”
I found the building, and a door, but when I opened it, it led into something like an anteroom. There was a beautifully decorated bathroom adjacent, and I thought at first I must have inadvertently walked into an ‘employees only’ area. But then I saw two double doors ahead, with a sign reading, “Cats are like chips; you can’t have just one.” I opened it and stepped inside.

My first impression was of severe pain in my left big toe. I looked down to see a small white cat biting me.
“Hey!” I told him laughing, “no toes!”
“I’m sorry,” a voice said. I looked up to see a young man in shorts, t-shirt and baseball cap approaching. “That’s Cameron. Cameron, no,” he said, turning to the kitten and gently picking him up. “This one’s got a motor on him!” And he placed the little cat in my arms. I was immediately nuzzled, cuddled and licked. “Let me know if you have any questions,” the young man said.

I was standing at the end of a long corridor. At first glance, all I could see were cats everywhere. Cats and cat toys and scratching posts and tall, carpeted towers. Cats strolling, cats skittering, cats curled in baskets, cats grooming happily.

“Yes,” I said, “I do have a question. How do you do this?”
The young man, a serious expression crossing his face, replied, “Well, we know that many of these cats may not get adopted for a very long time, if ever, so we try to make them as comfortable and happy as we can.”

Yes, dear readers, I knew then that I had just found cat heaven. On either side of the corridor, there were “cages” (a misnomer, as these spacious studio apartments each contained a cat tower, large covered litter box, baskets filled with blankets—and a window to the outside world) with one or two cats inside. Another 30 or so roamed the corridor. I still hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps inside. Another white cat greeted me. She was sitting on a cat pedestal, but reached a delicate paw toward me. I petted her head, and she began to purr immediately.
“That’s Laverne,” the young man said. “Her sister is Shirley. Looks just like her.”
“Um… I’m kind of looking for a black cat,” I said, which caused the young man to turn quickly and assess me. “My black male recently died….” I explained.
“Oh,” he said, looking relieved. “We’re careful about who we adopt black cats to.” Yes, and for good reason, I thought. Good for you.
“Well, we have several black cats,” he said. “This is Dean,” he pointed to another cat pedestal which was topped with a gorgeous black cat. “We have Drew and Pepper. They both look a lot like Dean, but they’re smaller. Drew had a broken hip, and he’s still recovering, so he’s a little shy. But he’s doing fine.”

As we walked down the corridor, more cats trotted up to greet us. As they did, the young man would introduce me.
“That’s Vivica. She’s really sweet. That’s Chesterfield. He’s my favorite because he’s really playful. Oh,” he added, “some of the cats are outside.” At the end of the corridor, a door stood open to the outside. Puzzled, I walked down and looked out. A play yard for the kitties had been created by fencing in a grassy area with soft chicken wire. The fence was curved along the top so that no one could climb out. The landscape was dotted with more toys, towers, pedestals, scratchers and hideouts. A dozen or so cats were sitting or sprawled or curled in the morning sun.

I asked the young man his name.
“Angel,” he replied.
I told you I found cat heaven.

Angel has been working at the West End shelter for nearly a year. He is “the cat guy” (‘cat whisperer!’ I thought, as he said this). His sole job is to care for the 150 cats (mas o menos), clean their apartments, feed and water them, and offer them affection. From what I could tell, Angel is doing a tremendous job at all three duties.
“Some people don’t like doing the 9-5,” he told me. “Me, I love getting up in the morning to come to work because I love my job.”
And I love you, Angel, I thought.

After sitting on the floor for a half hour, playing with a half dozen different cats and getting covered with cat hair and kisses, I remembered I had to go get a washer. I told Angel I’d be back the next day, and I did return, dragging my good buddy Doug along with me. He, too, lost his beautiful black male, “Scout,” a year before I lost Boo, and we’d grieved together. Doug had the same trepidation I’d had in entering the shelter, but after awhile, he had to agree that we’d found cat heaven, and we spent an hour there, playing with Drew and James and Chesterfield, who seemed to really like Doug a lot. Finally, it was near closing.
“How do you think Angel gets these cats to go inside their apartments?” I asked Doug as we sat outside in the sun with various kitties around us.
“I think he just calls them and they know where to go,” Doug answered. Of course. As we walked back inside the building, Angel was moving down the hallway, opening cage doors and calling cats.
“Come on,” he’d say quietly, and a cat would quickly slip inside. Amazing.

So. No, I haven’t chosen a kitty yet to be Sugie’s new brother. I found myself partial to Drew, one of the black cats, but it’s hard to tell how playful he will be once his hip is fully healed, and she needs someone she can tear around the cabin with when I’m not here. Beyond that, I have a pretty intense moral dilemma. My daughter, in her profound wisdom, has already told me that I “have to” adopt from the Upland shelter, because I know, now, what hell those cats live in. She has a point. But it’s infinitely more difficult to assess personality in those cats, precisely because they’re living in those conditions. If I adopt from Upland shelter, though, I will be truly ‘rescuing’ a cat in the fullest sense of the word.

What to do!?! I’m still thinking it over. For now, though, it is enough to have found what a shelter can do when the humans in charge truly care for the animals they’re sheltering. This began some serious healing in my heart. While I decide which kitty, from where, I will be writing a letter of commendation for Angel, our cat whisperer. Bless him forever and all the other folks involved with West End shelter who decided long ago that the cats’ needs should come first. Amen to that.

Covington Two

(This is the second part of yesterday’s blog. Today's photo is of Sugar Plum.)

After deciding on Thursday that the beautiful black boy who was desperate for affection would be Sugie’s new brother, I knew I had to continue bonding with him even though I couldn’t think about taking him home until Sunday. I had a book signing scheduled for Friday, so I drove down the mountain early and headed for the shelter. I signed in and went straight for the ‘annexed’ cat room. There was my boy, lying on his side, paws protruding through the bars. Poor little criminal. What had he done to find himself here? His eyes were closed, so I put my hand under his nose and waited. Suddenly he stood up, eyes wide, looking through the bars at me.
“Yes,” I told him, “I’m here to rub under your chin for you!” He began to purr immediately and we repeated yesterday’s time together, him doing happy cat postures, me just petting and scratching and quietly talking.

Before I left, I stopped by the larger cat room to wash my hands. One cage was empty. Apparently Mr. B&W had persuaded someone to take him home. Perfect.

That evening I told Sugie to expect a new brother soon. I’d been sorting through names that might fit him. I’d never changed Sugie’s name when I brought her home because, well, “Sugar Plum” just seems to fit her. But this cat, this very cool cat, had no name. Hmmm. ‘Which of my male friends is a very cool cat?’ I wondered. And I had the answer in an instant. Bob. I mean, Robert Louis Covington, beloved friend and poet. Covington would be the perfect name. Now that he was named, he definitely felt like my cat, and I couldn’t wait to bring him home.

The next day was Saturday, and I had a long-planned reunion with a cousin that had already been re-scheduled once, so I didn’t want to change it, but I thought I’d just get things started on Covington’s adoption. Again, I headed down the mountain early, but Saturday is a busy day up here; this summer we’ve seen people in record numbers coming up to hike. By the time I’d negotiated traffic (and spent a few minutes talking to a neighbor at the post office), I’d used up half the time I’d wanted to spend with Covington. ‘No worries,’ I thought. I’d be bringing him home soon enough.

Instead of going straight to his cage when I arrived at the shelter, I stopped in at the office. The young man behind the counter was in his mid-twenties.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said smiling, “Do you have an adoption application I can take home and fill out?”
“Nooooooooo,” he said, dragging out the vowel and smirking as if I were asking him if he had a steak smothered with onions. “Do you know which animal you want to adopt?”
“Let me show you,” I told him, turning away and heading toward the dog/cat room. With each step I took a deep breath. I hate when people are condescending toward me.
I led the young man to Covington and his first words were, “You want this cat?” Yes. This nondescript full grown black cat. Yes. But I said aloud:
“Yes, I know he’s been here a long time—“
“He’s been here a really long time,” he cut me off to say.
“Do you know how old he is? Was he a kitten when he came in?”
“No, he wasn’t a kitten. Let me see how old he is….” Naively, I thought he was going to go look up the cat’s file, but he stepped in front of me and threw the cage door open, causing the cat to jump to the back of the small cage, frightened. The man reached his hand in and I watched as Covington’s eyes grew huge in terror as the man grabbed his head, then lifted his lip to look at his teeth. “He’s a year or two, I’d say.”
Thanks, genius, I thought. I can see that from looking at him. I took more deep breaths as he closed the cage door and turned to me accusingly.
“Why can’t you adopt him today?”
“I have somewhere I need to be in about ten minutes,” I told him. “Can I just fill out the paperwork—“
He cut me off again, shaking his head. “I can put a hold on him—“
“Oh, great,” I replied, “so I can get him tomorrow—“
“No. I can only hold him for an hour. And you can’t take him until he’s neutered, and the vet’s office won’t do that on the weekend anyway, so the soonest you could have him would be Monday. But you could come in tomorrow and do the adoption, then he’d go to the vet’s overnight and have the surgery first thing the next morning. Will that work for your schedule?”
“Perfectly,” I replied, leaving out the “you jackass” ending. My time with Covington was limited to five minutes of serious neck rubbing before I took off to meet my sister and head for Pasadena.

So Sunday morning finally arrives. The shelter is only open for three and a half hours on Sundays, but I am there at noon when they unlock the door and allow the public in. The day before, Mr. Jackass’s last words to me, in reply to my “I’ll be back tomorrow to adopt him,” were, “Just bring me the card off his cage tomorrow.” So I scurry back to Covington’s cage—only to find a gray cat looking up at me through the cage door. I search all the other cages in the room, my heart pounding. No Covington. I run to the larger cat room. Two small dogs are now in cages in the other cat room, but no Covington. He is nowhere to be found. I rush to the front desk.
“Can I help you?” a young woman asks. My words tumble out haphazardly as I try to explain that I’ve come to adopt the cat who is known as “Impound #25,” and that I’ve been there four days in a row bonding with him, but now he’s not there, and, I add, “now I’m frantic.”
She goes to the chair at her desk and as she swivels away from me and toward the computer she says, “Well, he must’ve gotten adopted, then, because I haven’t put anybody to sleep today.”
At first I think this is a horrifically bad joke, but then I realize she is not kidding. I’m suddenly aware that my stomach muscles are clenched, my face tight. If this were a movie, if I were Erin Brockovich, I would be saying something in reply like, “I’ll bet that’s one of the aspects of your job you take particular pleasure in, ma’am.” But I stand quietly at the counter, listening to the blood pulsing in my ears.
“Oh yes,” she finally says, after scrolling through countless files, “He was adopted by someone yesterday.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, “he’s been here since—“
Just then Mr. Jackass walks by. When he looks up, I ask if he remembers me coming in yesterday, asking about that certain black cat in the back.
“Oh yeah!” he says, enthusiastically. “Some people came in yesterday after you were here and they adopted him. He’s already gone off to the vet’s. But hey,” he adds in a patronizing tone, “we’ve got plenty of cats available for adoption.”
I make it to the parking lot before I start crying. I drive a block, then pull over, because the lenses of my glasses are fogged with tears, and I need to blow my nose.

What are the chances? The boy sat there in that cage all those months, and no one wanted him. I come along, fall in love with him, and someone snatches him out from under my nose. In my bitterness, my first thought (after ‘God hates me’) is that Murphy’s Law has once again come into play. But then I have to take some deep breaths and consider the absurdity of the ‘coincidence.’ And since I don’t believe in coincidences…. Maybe my daily visits were enough to give Covington hope, to bring him out of his despondency enough so that, when the next group of people strolled through, he was up and looking like a sweet, affectionate boy at the front of his cage. So someone got a really cool cat, and I want to believe that he ended up in a really loving home. Please, Universe, let that be so. And—when I can stop crying—I will find a companion for Sugie. But the experience has really made me think. We know that animals become despondent if they are left alone, without attention, over a long period of time (even a short period of time—some cats become depressed after only 72 hours alone). If my time spent with Covington perked him up enough for others to notice him, I wonder if just volunteering to spend time with some of the other cats could have the same result. Of course, if I go back to the Upland shelter, I’ll have to put up with Mr. Jackass. Maybe this can be a learning experience for him, too, I think. That’s me; ever the teacher, ever the optimist.