Nothing But Gratitude

 

On Friday I had one of those moments of profound exasperation at the absolute mindless insensitivity of some people, and (if I may state this publicly without seeming like a complete judgy wench) the idiocy of some people in the treatment of their dogs. Sigh….

I needed a few warm, fuzzy feelings to balance the negative energy, so I asked Facebook friends to post pictures of their pets. Boy howdy, did they ever. If you were one of those folks, thank you. We can never underestimate the power of seeing a cute dog or cat or horse or reindeer face (or robot—long story) to release a bit of oxytocin and calm our troubled hearts.

After perusing those pics for half an hour, I left the valley and drove to Lake Arrowhead to do a quick hike then visit my granddaughter and her baby daughter—all of which enhanced my oxytocin high.

Beyond that good stuff, I want to take a moment to thank those of you who are regular readers of my posts. I began this blog in 2009 while I was living in the wilderness of Mt. Baldy, having adventures with nature and wildlife nearly every day—while also experiencing many, many rejections of my work written for commercial purposes (and an occasional sale or two). I wanted to write about whatever I felt like writing about, with no concern for word count or market viability. So I began to blog (the first post mentioning how much I loathe the word “blog”).

At first, I had a handful of folks who were regular readers willing to skim through my somewhat provincial if not inane musings. Slowly, as the posts went out into the world—and I began to write about more pressing issues, such as race relations in the U.S. and the “Me too” movement—views of my posts increased from 30 a month to 100 a month and then close to a thousand a month, which is where the average now hovers.

But last month was a banner month. I mean, I had a lotta lotta views. The analytics on Blogger allow me to see what posts people are looking at, so I know what started the upward trend in views (a post that could be construed as political), but I was downright shocked when I saw the numbers skyrocket.

Total number of overall views for June: 9,041. These were not views of the same post; there were a number of different, er, issue-related posts being viewed. But oh my goodness, I am humbled and grateful whenever people read my words, be it 5 or 500. This number nearly floored me.

So thank you, dear Readers, for clicking that link again and again over the months or years to see what the heck I might have to write about in my rambling, parentheses-and-dash-infused style. Before you click away from the page, here’s one more silly rambling offered for your amusement:

Things to do while the oatmeal is cooking:

(Note: Of course it’s cooking—no packets here, no “instant” for me! Damn right it’s steel cut (whatever that means), organic, they-take-forever, cholesterol-lowering oatmeal for this “granola head.”)

Start a load of laundry.

Add “laundry detergent” to the grocery list.

Empty the dishwasher.

Open the door for Jenny the Cat to sashay outside and begin her day, warning her not to bring yet another mouse into the house.

Wash the dogs’ dishes and Jenny’s dish.

Wash hands thoroughly.

Stir the oatmeal.

Catch the mouse that is now scampering about the living room with Jenny merrily giving chase (without letting Jenny see you taking him... or her).

Carry the mouse outside (in an empty oatmeal can) and down the block, depositing him/her near the ravine (and thus near food, shelter, water).

Stop. Notice the sunrise as it tops Mt. San Jacinto.

Think of that one guy who always makes you smile.

Smile.

Return to the house.

Wash hands thoroughly.

Stir the oatmeal.

Encourage Jenny disingenuously to “keep looking for Mr. Mousie,” pretending it “must be here somewhere.”

Create a Facebook post documenting the number of mice Jenny has brought into the house to play with.

Walk all the way back to the bedroom to pet Sgt. Thomas Tibbs in his bed and tell him he is the best boy ever.

Walk back down the hallway to the den to pet Maya and tell her she is the best girl ever.

Wash hands thoroughly.

Stir the oatmeal.

Add walnuts.

Grab the blank page journal used for poems and jot down the lines that came to mind about that one guy while you were walking back from relocating the mouse.

Turn off the burner under the oatmeal and add raisins, dried blueberries, banana slices, cinnamon, and brown sugar.

Stop. Close your eyes. In one long inhale of this sweet-scented repast, acknowledge with gratitude the blessings of food, cat, mouse, dogs, dishwasher, washing machine, sunrises, wild spaces, warm smiles, word gifts… and that one guy.

 

Conversations with My Cat

 

Friends, it has been over a month since I posted here. Usually, my absence from the blog means that I am sad or ruminating or preoccupied with mental health challenges. Not this time. This time it has been because I have been giddily happy—surprised, amazed, and tearfully grateful for what the Universe has recently brought into my life—all of which will, eventually, be expressed in words in this space (if I can find sufficient words to capture those feelings).

In the meantime, we interrupt these (mostly) serious posts regarding social justice, women’s rights, suicide prevention, and nature walks to bring you:

Conversations with My Cat

I have recently been told that Jenny the Cat is “squishy cute.” I cannot disagree. It has also been suggested (though not by the same person) that, no, not everyone has conversations with their pets the way I do. How can this be? If your cat speaks to you, do you not answer in kind? If your dog questions your punctuality in doling out dinner or treats, do you not offer some lame excuse regarding “the next commercial” or “Hang on! I’m not ready to get up out of this chair yet”? Indeed you do. I do concede, your conversations may not be as in depth as mine…. But see for yourself. Below is a composite of a typical day in conversation with Jenny.

4:30a.m.

Jenny: Mom! Mom! Wake up time? Wake up time?

Me: Jen, come here. Get on the bed. Let’s cuddle. Your boy is still sleeping.

[Most nights, Jenny prefers to sleep in the guest room, not on the bed with me. Don’t ask me why (and don’t suggest that I snore). She also mirrors the movements of Thomas. If he gets up, she does. If he sleeps longer, she will wait on my bed until he gets up before venturing out to the kitchen. Silly girl.]

Jenny: RRRrrrRRRrrrRRRrrrRRRrrr

[In contrast to Purrl, who would purr if I so much as said her name, Jenny is not as demonstrative—except in the morning when we cuddle, and at night when it’s time for bed.]

5:00a.m.

Jenny: Mom! Mom! Outside? Outside!

[And so the demands begin… and will continue until the dogs are fed and walked and the sun has risen sufficiently to allow her out to the back yard. In the meantime….]

6:00a.m.

Jenny: Mom! Mom! Treats? Treats?!?

Me: Yes, Jen, hang on. Thomas gets his treats first because he went walking. And what did you do? Tell me again why you get treats, dearest? For watching out the window while we walked? For meeting us at the door? I’m not sure what this reward is for, but here you go, little girl.

6:05a.m.

Jenny: Mom! Mom! Outside!

Me: Ok, Ok, good grief. Go on out there. Do not bring a mouse back with you.

6:30a.m.

Jenny: [Running to the living room and opening her jaws to deposit a live mouse on the floor, which promptly skitters under my writing desk] Mom! Mom! Baby!

Me: Jen! Good grief! You didn’t hurt him, did you?

[She never does. She brings them in and chases them around until they’re exhausted enough for me to scoop into an empty oatmeal can. The last mouse she brought in was more afraid of me than it was her, and when I tried to get it, the poor thing ran to where Jenny lay on the floor like a sphinx, and it cowered against her chest. Her response? She just sat there, harboring the fugitive with a smug grin on her face. Cats. Sheesh.]

9:00a.m.

Naptime begins… and goes on and on throughout the day, with occasional interludes for cat treats (if the dogs get one) and exchanges such as these:

1:00p.m.

Jenny: Mom. [Waking me from a nap]

Me: [Whispering, so as not to wake Thomas] Up here, baby. Jump up on the bed.

Jenny: Mom. Sleepy. [Flopping over next to my side and going back to sleep]

5:00p.m.

Me: Jen! You’re up! Hi, baby. Wanna cuddle with Mom? Wanna eat your dinner?

Jenny:  [Silence, as she strolls haughtily past me and through the open door to the back yard]

[I can’t blame her. I don’t like to chat when I wake from my nap, either.]

6:00p.m. [As Jenny jumps onto the kitchen table, flopping over next to where I am sitting, trying to have a phone conversation with The Very Special Man in My Life]

Jenny: Mom. Talking?

Me: Yes, honey. Shhhh….

Jenny: Mom. Pet Jenny.

Me: Of course. Shhhh….

Jenny: Mom! Mom! Look!

Me: Good grief. What?

Jenny: [Looking out the window] Bird!

Me: I see it.

Very Special Man: Is that Jenny? What’s she saying?

[Note: This is how you know a man is very special, when he understands that if the cat is talking, she must be saying something of import.]

6:30p.m. [As I attempt to resume my conversation with the human]

Jenny: [Puffing up to twice her size] Mom! Mom! Look!

Me: What, Jen?

Jenny: DOG! [Her eyes track Ace, the large collie who lives down the street and passes our house every single day at this time on his way to the dog park with one of his humans.]

Me: Yes, Jen. It’s Ace. Again. You’re safe, baby. Might be a good idea to stay in now—

Jenny: [Jumping down from the table] Outside!

7:00p.m.

Me: [Calling into the back yard] Jen! Time to come in now!

Jenny: [Grumbling as she trots back along the walkway toward the door] Why? Why? Why come in? Now? Right now? Why?

Me: [Shaking the can with cat treats] Come on, stop complaining. I’ll give you a treat for coming in.

Jenny: Treat?!?

8:00p.m.

Jenny: Mom! Mom! Bedtime!

Me: I know, dearest. Let me finish this—

Jenny: Mom! Treat time! Bedtime!

Me: OK! OK!

8:30p.m.

Jenny: RRRrrrRRRrrrRRRrrr

Saying Good-bye to Purrl Jamz

I named her Purrl because her color reminded me of a gray pearl. What a cat face, though, huh? So beautiful. And, as a kitten, she was the purringest cat ever.

Last week I had to say good-bye to her. She was only eight years old. I was not expecting to lose her.

When Purrl was two years old, she was poisoned, and she never fully recovered from that awful experience. And I'd rather not talk about that in this post.

Last fall, she began to lose weight rapidly and show signs that she was ill. There followed a trip to the vet and blood work, and I don't want to talk about that, either.

In this venue, I'd rather just talk about the feline diva who had a rough start in life but came to be the queen of my home. (Oh yes, we all recognized Her Majesty as the monarch of the house--I did, the dogs did, Jenny did, and anyone visiting definitely did.)

This is her baby picture:

 

A friend found her, abandoned in a parking lot, in need of rescue, and I was the unwitting human who saw the Facebook post and couldn't say no to a little gray kitten in need of a home. I had Sugar Plum then, and Sug had said, "Absolutely not" to any second cat I had tried to introduce her to. Until Purrl. When I brought that mewling kitten home and opened the carrier to let her out, Sug proceeded to wash her face and comfort her, much to my surprise.

For the first two years of her life, when she was still healthy and whole, Purrl was a people person. She loved visits from my kids and grandkids. Hell, she even loved a visit from our "Home Vet," even after he poked her for vaccinations.

Often when I came home from work, I would open the door from the garage to the kitchen to find both cats seated patiently, waiting for me to enter and bestow head pets and back scratches, Purrl especially.

Since my neighbor didn't like cats (a profound understatement, if you know the back-story there), I paid a friend a thousand dollars to build up my block wall so that Purrl couldn't get out of the back yard. After work I would take her outside to play. She loved to chase the tiny foam soccer balls I bought for her, and she would carry them back to me so that I could throw them again.

And she loved Thomas. He came along four months after she did. At first, the cats were convinced he was a monster that they had to shred at the first opportunity. I kept them apart, daily apologizing to Thom for the strange hissing creatures on the other side of the door. But Purrl's curiosity got the better of her, and she began approaching him cautiously whenever she could. Finally, she decided she liked his big, warm furriness, and she claimed him as her own, much to his chagrin.
 

By the time we moved out here to Calimesa, Purrl was no longer energetic or agile, and she'd lost most of her vision when she was poisoned. But that didn't stop her from being the world's best mouser. She proudly brought me this beast one evening just as I was going to call her in from the yard.

Three years ago, when Sugar Plum died, Purrl and I were both bereft, and I think it was somewhat of a turning point for Purrl. Her grief was deep, as was mine, but Purrl never seemed to recover from the loss. I adopted Jenny because I thought it would help if she had a kitty buddy again. Despite Jenny's many very sweet and gentle attempts to make friends, though, Purrl never accepted her, and Jenny sustained more than a few bites and scratches for no apparent reason other than being the other pretty cat in the room.

I like to believe that Purrl decided to go find Sug. In fact, I do believe that Sug was waiting for her on the other side, ready to wash her face and mother her as a welcome. Someday, I will see both of them again.

Before I close, I want to say one more thing--and then I can't write any more because I'm crying now, and I can't really see the screen very well. Purrl died peacefully at home with me by her side, loving and comforting her. This was facilitated by Lap of Love Veterinary Hospice, and I am grateful that, on the day Purrl and I needed them, they were there for us. Dr. Kara's kind, gentle, quiet energy was exactly what we needed to get through a sad and awful moment. I highly recommend them.

My Last Cat

A year ago, when I adopted Jenny, I wrote a blog post about her (find it here). The last line is: "Because I don't want another cat." Please understand, I've been saying that since 1992. I'm a dog person. I am. I really am. But... cats have been in my life continuously since 1972. No kidding. No break from cleaning litter boxes or being the victim of periodic maulings if I petted incorrectly. Sheesh.

I have to say, though, Jenny has turned out to be quite the sweet little buddy. (In most cases, she is kind enough to retract her claws before batting my hand away because she doesn't like the way I'm touching her. Sheesh! Cats!) She generally hangs out wherever I am working--on the yoga mat if I'm doing yoga (or under it), on the table or my desk if I'm writing, on the bed, diving under the covers if I'm trying to make it. You get the picture. She's just a zany girl.

She is still very kitten-ish in her behavior, zooming around the house with her tail crooked and her fur puffy when she's excited--which is usually about the time I'm getting in bed, so I can hear her galloping around the house, jumping on and off furniture (and sharpening her claws on it--garrrr! Cats! Sheesh!!), and knocking things over.

Her favorite activity, though, is finding a new place to curl up and sleep, one I am wholly unaware of, so that when I realize I haven't seen her in a while, and I start looking, I can't find her. I can remain pretty calm for the first ten minutes as I walk through the house, calling her name. (Of course she never responds when she's hiding. Because she's a cat. Sheesh!) After twenty minutes, I get concerned. After thirty minutes I am worried, backtracking in my mind, wondering how she might have gotten out or whether she somehow climbed in before I started the dishwasher. Panic rises slowly in me, but I do get there eventually. One day I finally found her sitting in the driver's seat of the truck in the garage. I'd left the windows down in it earlier, and somehow she'd climbed in and gone to sleep. Another time, after I'd searched every hidden corner in the house and under all beds and inside every cupboard three times, I happened to walk through the living room and I saw the fringe on a throw blanket move, almost imperceptibly. I lifted it. Yep, sleeping cat underneath. Several nights ago I couldn't find her, so I headed out to the garage to see if she'd climbed into the truck again. Didn't have to look that far. She was asleep on the hood, up on the vent. I'd driven the truck to pick up the mail earlier, and the engine was still warm.

See, this is the difference between a dog and a cat. If you call a dog, he jumps up and runs to you, wagging his tail and lifting his ears and eyebrows because he wants to know

Are there treats?
Are we going for a ride?
Are we going for a walk?
Is it dinner time?
Do you want to pet me??

And he's sincere about all that. He's excited to accommodate his human because he is one hundred percent loving and devoted. That's why we love our dogs so much. Because... so much love is given to us.

Jenny will come when I call her

If she thinks I have treats
If she's not sleeping
If she's not hiding
If she's not mad at me because I refused her some service or petted her incorrectly.

CATS! SHEESH!!

But... she makes me laugh every day. When I talk to her, she talks back, and not in a snotty way. She just likes to make conversation. And when I nap, all I have to do is call through the house, "Jenny! Blankie!" and she will come--eventually. When she's ready. In her own good time. Then she jumps on the bed, marches on the blanket for an inordinate amount of time, curls against my side, and purrs me to sleep.

A year ago, when I brought her home, I crossed my fingers that she and Purrl would get along. I have to say, this little girl is persistent. Purrl hated her. Chased her, growled at her, hissed at her, and scratched her. Jenny just tried to stay out of her way, occasionally checking--"Do you still hate me?"--then jumping away when the Claws of Death were unsheathed. After several months, though, I found them hiding under the bed together when a loud person came to visit. And then, just a few nights ago--a year and a week to the day after Jenny came home--I watched as Jen climbed onto the couch and curled up next to Purrl. Purrl sat up and glared at her, unmoving, for a full five minutes. Jenny ignored her. Purrl gave up and curled around again. And they slept like that for hours.

Cats. Sheesh.

Tardy

It has been well over a month since I told my cousin I would post something new to the blog, "probably today." I know you've been waiting, checking periodically. So has that one guy, who disagrees with most everything I say and believe but still reads the blog religiously. Go figure.

Anyway, I meant to write that day after we talked, dear Cousin-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless-At-His-Own-Request (just so you know that, yes, I mean you). But that day became busy. And then... a friend died suddenly, a friend I went to high school with who was younger than I am. I will write about Dennis in an upcoming post.

And then another friend died who was also someone who read my blog regularly--from the time I began writing it years ago. I will also write about Barb in an upcoming post. Everyone should know who Barb was in the world... and to me.

And Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, an introvert's best friend and hiking partner, has been sick. We negotiate this dark path periodically; he stops eating, becomes lethargic, and I enter a sort of fugue state, unable to fully engage with the world or my work until he finally perks up again, decides to get happy, eats all his food, wags his tail, and makes me cry with joy that he will be around "just a little longer," as I beg him to be. These episodes seem to be brought on by severe stress. For several consecutive days last week, the neighbors were having a patio cover ripped out and rebuilt. It was loud. It was scary. There were strange voices right outside our windows. Poor Thom. But he's baaaack as of last night! Eating his food, rolling over for belly rubs, rudely sniffing at Purrl's bottom (which she will tolerate but New Cat Jenny will not).

New Cat Jenny, as I write this, lies curled in a kitchen chair below the window through which the hummingbird feeder is visible. This is our routine: We wake early, everyone is fed (including the birds outside, for crying out loud), Thomas and I walk (if he's feeling up to it), I eat breakfast, then I park myself here at the kitchen table with the laptop. Jenny curls into 'her' chair, gives herself a thorough bathing, then goes to sleep for an hour or two while I write.

And yes, surprisingly, I've been writing, trying to average a thousand words a day on the second book in my middle-grade urban fantasy series. In recent days, the writing has been tough--only because I've had to give a ten-year-old boy a concussion, send him to the hospital, and have his beloved dog seized and placed in quarantine by animal control. I know. It hurts just hearing the summary, doesn't it? And you haven't even met Nathan yet. But every story--even if it's for middle-school kids--has to have conflict. No worries; bad boys got us into these troubles. A good boy will get us out.

When I finish writing for the day, if I haven't already walked Thomas and the weather is nice but not too hot and he's feeling good about life and not to terribly frightened, we take a long hike out in the countryside, where I take deep breaths, smell the wildflowers, enjoy the sun on my face, and remember good friends.

Cheers to them! And to you, my dear reader, for caring enough to appreciate the words and pictures humbly offered here. Let's chat again soon!

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.

Sug

In the summer of 2006, my little black hellion Calpurnia died, leaving me with just Boo, the little flea-and-worm-infested kitten who'd grown into a gorgeous panther after I'd brought him home from work at the request of a student because kids were trying to stone him to death. (You can read Boo's story here.) Boo and Cal were never what you'd call close, but after a few months I wanted to make sure he had another cat around, so I walked into my local Petsmart, went to the cat condos, and saw a small black cat I assumed was a kitten or at least a juvenile. I called the number for the rescue (H.O.P.E. or Helping Out Pets Everyday [sic]), and the conversation went (I kid you not) like this:

ME: Hi, yeah, I'm looking for a female black cat. I see you have one here--

HOPE: She's actually the only black cat we have, but she's missing half her tail, she's stunted, and she was living on the street when we brought her in with two kittens, so she's semi-feral.

ME: I'll take her.

HOPE: Well, we'd like you to meet her first....

A meeting was set up, but honestly, I'd heard enough ("We think it was a human who chopped off her tail, since she won't let anyone touch it") to know I'd be bringing her home. When they let her out of her plexiglass prison cell, she strolled over to me and hopped up on the bench next to me, then settled down in bread loaf position and began to purr. "Wow," the volunteer said, "we've never seen her do that with anyone before." Well, of course not. She wasn't anyone else's cat.

She settled in just as quickly at home (after hiding behind the dryer for a couple of hours). From the first night, she jumped on the bed and slept by my feet, just as if she'd always enjoyed the comfort of human companionship. She and Boo had a conversation about who slept where, but it didn't last long, and there was plenty of room for all of us.

A few short months later, it was time for the three of us to move to a cabin high in the wilderness in Mt. Baldy, and that's when our adventures began.

For six months, I kept the cats inside so they would learn that, first, this is our new home and second, this is a dangerous place.

We'd only lived there a few weeks when we saw our first bear. It wandered up onto my back deck at just after dawn one morning, and as I leaned on the kitchen counter to stare out the window at it, I became aware of a puffy little body beside me--Sug sat beside me for twenty minutes, growling and twitching her tail at the beast as it plundered the wild bird seed I'd put out. Some years later, I would receive a call from a neighbor as I was dressing for work, warning me that a bear was in the vicinity. I descended the loft stairs moments later to see Sug standing at the French doors which led to the back deck, her body puffed up to twice her size as she faced off with the three-hundred-pound black bear on the other side of the doors. Oh, for a photo of that encounter!

The cats saw enough of bears, raccoons and coyotes through the windows to make them realize they had to be on alert always when I gave them brief time outdoors (only when it was broad daylight and I knew we were safe from visitations). Sug was always the leader in the slow sneak out the door.

And that was a problem at times; I had to watch the door constantly or she would dart out behind my back. Her curiosity often got the best of her, even at night... in the snow.

Sadly, our Boo passed away in the second year we lived in Baldy, and I am ever so thankful little Sug was there with me. Boo was a fine gentleman of a cat whose habit had always been to climb onto my chest at night just before I fell asleep and kiss my face with his purry wet kisses for a quarter of an hour before he finally climbed down beside me and went to sleep. The first night without him, I cried myself to sleep. On the second night, Sug came up to curl into my armpit. That would be her sleeping spot for the next decade....

She loved flowers. Often on special occasions, my son would visit with a bouquet, announcing as he entered the cabin, "I brought your cat some flowers."

And she loved to hear me sing. There is a short piece in a Chicken Soup for the Soul book about how, when we moved to Baldy and she was frightened at first, I sang to her and it calmed her. She loved "Sugar Pie Honey Bunch" by The Four Tops, and she would roll onto her back every time I sang it to her. Every time. Click here to see that phenomenon.

After Boo died and it was just the two of us in Baldy, I sang to her often when we were cold or worried. She would curl into my side as I sang her to sleep, setting her chin into the palm of my hand and purring along with whatever song I chose.

Eventually we left the mountain, and I bought a temporary home in Ontario. I'd been without a dog for the six years I lived in Baldy, and I couldn't wait to bring one home. But then a friend posted a photo of a scraggly gray kitten on Facebook, pleading with someone to take her. Gray? We don't do gray cats. But something about that little ball of feistiness spoke to me, and I brought her home. As soon as Sug heard her crying in the carrier, her maternal instincts kicked in. She watched out for Purrl and cared for her--until Purrl grew to twice Sugie's size, and then the two girls were like jealous sisters, swatting at each other daily but always huddling close to each other under the bed whenever they sensed danger.

A month ago, Sug experienced an episode of hyphema (hemorrhaging into her eye), and we sped off to an emergency veterinary clinic where the kind young vet and I slowly clicked off causes until we landed on "probably kidney failure." I brought Sug home and set about loving and spoiling her for the weeks she had left in this world. I took lots of pictures. I cried a lot. I recorded her purring.... Watching her decline was so, so hard, but even as she grew weaker and endured more episodes of hyphema, she maintained her loving sweetness toward me, still purring me to sleep at night, even when she must have felt awful.

She passed away yesterday. And for the first time in 28 years, there is not a black cat in my household. But there is a gray one... and a big red dog. Purrl and Thomas have been a comfort, as have all my dear, dear friends who have met Sug and know of our bond. Twelve years is a long time to companion with a cat, but not nearly long enough.

When I first met Sug at Petsmart, I noted that the rescue had named her Sugar Plum, and I thought, "That's the stupidest name for a cat in the history of cat rescue." But... no other name was forthcoming in my mind, even after she'd been with me for weeks, so Sugar Plum it stayed. Here's to my sweet little girl--Sug, Sugie, Sug-Sug, Sugar Plumpkin, Itty Bitty Kitty, Bitty, Bit, Bijou, Sugie Pie Honey Bunch. Go find Boo, my dear little girl. Play nice with him until I see you again.

Merry...

Sgt. Thomas Tibbs hates Christmas. I'm sorry. He does. That is not my snowman in that photo, but that is definitely Thomas attempting to, once again, slink away while I'm trying to take a photo. This is one of the downsides (really there are so few! Maybe a handful at best! Okay, honestly, the list is long, but who cares?) of deciding that a feral dog is your best buddy. First of all, he's never learned "sit." Telling him that and doing that age-old motion of pulling up on the leash while pushing down on the dog's hindquarters scares him enough to put him in That's-it-I-mistrust-you-again mode. He knows "wait" as a command when I drop the leash, but... yeah, he's only going to hold that wait as long as I'm close enough to step on the leash if he starts walking. That cute snowman is on my next-door-neighbors' front lawn. Their house looks beautiful, so I positioned said feral dog first near the sleigh... but no, he wasn't having it... then by the snowman... again, he was quite insecure about it. So every time I tried to back up into the street and take the iconic "Look! It's Christmas! Here's my cute dog!" photo, he would slowly start idling toward our front porch next door. I don't blame him. I understand. He fears the snowman. He fears all the bright shiny tinkling twinkling moving singing Christmas decorations.

And that's so sad. Because I love them. So, full disclosure here, I've been tormenting my best buddy every night by making him take long walks around my neighborhood so I (selfishly) can look at the lights and tell him (quietly) "Thomas, that's so cute, though! Why you scared o' him?" Poor guy.

The girls, on the other hand (Princess Purrl and Sugar Plum), are in love with Christmas every year. Mostly because of the wrapping. Also because of the ribbons. Definitely because of the fuzzy feathered catnip toys their Big Sister Nic brings them:

This is Purrl's favorite position in the morning, by the way: Bottom to heater. We've been waking to temps in the 30's, so I don't blame her. In this photo, she is jealously guarding this toy so Sug can't get it. Naughty....

On the upside for Thomas, though, I do have to say this has been a great year for him. Since I no longer leave the house to work, we've bonded even more, and we often take long walks out in the country where he feels much more comfortable than walking where there are terrifying things such as people and flags and Christmas decorations and ducks and other dogs and lawn ornaments.

What he likes most, though, is to ride in the extra cab of the truck, looking at everything from the place where he feels safest in the world. So yes, I'm still driving him around every afternoon when we go to fetch the mail. "Thomas, ride?" is all I have to say. He trots down the hall, out to the garage and jumps in the truck--if the door is open. If it's not, he dances, shifting his weight from one front foot to the other while shaking his head in delirious joy. Riiiiiiide!

And now he plays. He has created a game that he adores. I'm not sure how it started, but he will often run for the bedroom when he sees me getting the leash. (Yes, I know; he's the opposite of most dog-buddies.) It makes me laugh, and some weeks ago I told him, "I'm going to get you!" which made him laugh and wag his tail--and run away faster. So now it's a game. I pick up the leash and he gallops down the hall to the bedroom, spins around in a circle and does a dog bow. I follow, then I turn and run back down the hall and he chases me. I stop when I get to the kitchen, turn and say, "I'm going to get you!" and he tears down the hallway again, wagging his tail furiously. It's hilarious. And man, does it ever make me happy to see him happy.

Oh--there is that other game he plays. Possum. You know how most dogs get excited in the morning when their human gets up? It's time to go outside! Yes! Pee time! Hooray! Major sniffs and leg hiking and all that! Not Thomas. He waits for me to come and sit beside his bed and rub his back and scratch his ears and massage his head until he finally rolls over on his back and laughs and says, "I have the best life in the world!" as he wraps his front paws around my arm.

Yes, yes he does. The new year marks the end of his fourth year with me. He was living as a wild dog for at least five before he was rescued. So I tell him often: "You've gotta have at least five good ones, buddy, to make up for the five awful ones." We're working on it.

Why writers go to Starbucks to work

Because it was windy and cold this morning at 5:30a.m., I decided to write for an hour--or at least try to--and then walk Thomas. That's when the trouble began.

See, animals are creatures of habit and routine. And like grumpy old men, they become anxious if you switch things up on them. Our usual routine goes something like this: I roll out of bed already promising to take them outside/get their food/fetch fresh water as soon as I brush my teeth, etc. When all their needs are taken care of, I enjoy one cup of tea while checking my email before setting out to walk Thom for a half hour or so.

When Thomas gets anxious, he shakes his head and flops his ears. As the time approaches for us to walk, his ear-flopping becomes like a snooze alarm. He's in the back bedroom, and I'm in the dining room, but I'll hear him get up and then FLOP FLOP FLOP FLOP, the ears go back and forth. I hear it, dismiss it, and go back to answering email. Ten minutes later I'll hear it again, then five minutes later he flops again. If I'm not up and putting my shoes on by then, he trots down the hallway, then into the kitchen, around the island, back down the hall to the bedroom and FLOP FLOP FLOP FLOP.

Mind you, Thomas still does not enjoy walking. After four years, we still begin each walk with resistance, me gently pulling him up the street as he intermittently turns back for home or simply sits his butt down in the middle of the road--

"Mom, wait, there's a monster."

"No, Thom, that's just a trash can. Let's go."

"Mom, wait, no, there's another monster!"

"Thomas, no, that's a raven on top of a streetlight. He won't hurt you. C'mon."

"MOM, NO, NO, NO, WAIT THAT'S A HUGE SCARY FLAPPING MONSTER!!"

"Thomas. That's a flag. It's windy. You're okay, buddy, let's go."

Every. single. morning.

Still.... He knows what the routine is, and if I switch it up, I'm in for ear flapping and the sound of his toenails dancing across the laminate flooring every ten minutes.

And that's just the dog....

Purrl waits for us to walk because she knows that when we return, the sun will be up, the neighbors' dogs all trotting around outside sniffing, peeing and barking, so it's safe enough for her to be allowed into the back yard (like the other dogs... even though she's a cat) to sniff around and settle back on her haunches below the bird feeder and wait... and wish... and twitch her whiskers.... (No, she can't really see the birds up there, since she's mostly blind, but she still hears and smells them.)

But this morning we didn't go. There I was, thinking I would just finish that 44th chapter of the first book in my middle grade urban fantasy novel, and I was really into it, my protagonist dealing with conflict on all sides, when suddenly--

"Meow." Tap tap tap.

"MeOW." Tap tap tap tap tap.

"MEOW!!" Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap.

The tapping sound was Purrl, her front feet up on the door to the garage, scratching at it repeatedly so that I would let her out.

"Not yet, Purrl Jam," I said the first time, sweetly.

"No, Purrl," I said, slightly annoyed, the second time.

"Seriously, I'm trying to work here!" I said the third time as I rose from my chair and let her out. "It's cold and you won't like it and you'll be right back in the house in five minutes!" Which she was, of course. Which is about the time I gave up and put my shoes on--because I had returned to the computer only to find Sugar Plum curled in my chair. And since Thomas was making his fifth circuit around the kitchen island, I decided I simply had to cave to their demands. 

Sigh. I really do understand why some writers have to leave the house to get anything done.

"Ready go Mom?"