Cats and Christmas

As the holidays approach, it seems that many of us have stories to tell about our cats.  I am enjoying these stories and have a story of my own to add.  It's true there is no commercial or religious association between Christmas and cats but any cat lover has at least one picture of the family cat or cats, peering out of the branches of the Christmas tree with a tinsel wrapped nose and a wild look in their eyes.

            I have been without many things in my life, without money, without a job, without friends or a husband.  I have never been without a cat.  I have started out three times with a new husband and I always had at least one cat by my side.  I have always been fortunate to find men who liked cats.  My second husband actually considered suing for custody of our cat Gladys.  Gladys was a very charismatic cat.  Thinking back on my childhood, I wonder at my love for cats as both my parents viewed cats as slinky, sneaky animals.  My cat was only allowed in the house during the harshest weather while the family dog sat at our feet come dinner time.  All my cats found me, except one.  They appeared as starving, bedraggled kittens in the bushes, or at the back door seducing me with that plaintive meow that only kittens have.  Neighbors would report sightings of stray kittens in case I might need another cat.  I never had more than three cats in my house but the soul of a cat lady lurks inside me and I always feel sad when I have to turn a stray away.  Before Lance, all my cats were outside cats, only coming in to visit and eat. They all lived long lives.  Gladys, a grey long hair and excellent mouser lived to be twenty two.  Abby, a Siamese mix who liked to gift us with snakes lived to be twenty.  Frisky, a black and white calico allowed our daughter to dress her up in doll clothes and would sometimes disappear for days at a time.  We thought she might have more than one home.  Then there was Lance.

            Lance was the exception to the rule in more ways than one.  I found him, staring out of a cage at the mall pet store.  He was the only cat left and clearly unhappy.

  He was a beautiful marmalade kitten.  Until that day, it was my rule to not buy pet shop animals.  Many friends of mine had done so and ended up with sick, sometimes psychotic pets.  I remembered all this as I watched the kitten in his cage, pacing in circles like a tiny tiger.  Even as I considered my friends misadventures with pet shop purchases, my feet were taking the rest of me into the store, up to the counter.  It is amazing how fast your wish for something can become reality, even when you know better.   The store clerk assured me that the kitten was healthy and had been given all its shots.  So Lance became the first and only cat I bought and I was soon on my way home with a kitten instead of a shower curtain,

      At home, Lance was welcomed into the family.  My husband showed him the food and the litter box.  My other two cats, both picky old maids, retired to their favorite hiding places to sulk.  It was clear Lance would be a big cat as he was all paws and whiskers.  Of course, it was only a matter of weeks before the pet shop curse hit in the form of a respiratory infection.  He became sick on a Sunday so we made a visit to the Emergency Animal Clinic.  The diagnosis was a severe infection and he was kept overnight in a cage with an oxygen feed.  This was followed by a week long stay at my regular vets as he needed long term antibiotics and supervision.

            Upon recovery, Lance quickly became a member of our family.  He grew to be a very affectionate cat who seemed to be channeling a cocker spaniel.  There was nothing aloof or predatory about Lance.  He was an ever moving ball of orange fur who wanted nothing more than all the attention he could get.  Gradually our older cats came to accept him and all was well for two years.

            Three months after Lances’ second birthday, he appeared at the door after his usual evening outing.  When I opened the door, I saw that he was not walking but instead dragging his hind legs behind him, he was headed for the food dish.  He did not seem to be in any pain.  Settling Lance in the cat carrier, we made another trip to the Emergency Clinic.  Once there, we had a long wait as it was a busy night with many injured and sick pets waiting their turn.  I noticed one family with somber faces, huddled around an older German Shepard who lay, panting on the floor its head resting in the lap of a young girl with tears in her eyes.  Silently we waited our turn.  After what seemed like hours, we were called into an examining room.  Since Lance could not stand or walk,  X-rays were taken and we were once again in the waiting room.  The family with the German Shepard was still there but the dog was gone.  As I watched, they slowly put their coats on and left the clinic.    After another long wait, we were called back to a conference room.  The consensus of opinion was that Lance had either been grazed by a car or hit with something.  His spine appeared to be bruised but not seriously injured so we were asked to leave him there for over night observation.   

            When we returned the next morning, the doctor in charge was grim and the diagnosis had changed.  Lance was suffering from a fractured spine. We were told that his only hope was spinal surgery which would have to take place within the next few hours.  We were referred to the state college animal hospital ninety miles away. It was Sunday but the contact there said they would see Lance if we could deliver him immediately.  We were also told that without the surgery, Lance would have to be put to sleep. 

            It was the two Sundays before Thanksgiving, cold and cloudy.  As we drove to Columbia, Lance slept a medicated sleep in the cat carrier and my husband and I gave each other pep talks on modern animal medical practices.  Three hours after leaving the Emergency Clinic we were sitting in the waiting area at Columbia listening to the doctor on call explain the process, the risks and the possible outcomes.  The doctor was a woman and a teaching professor at Columbia.  Her assistants were student interns.  Lance, she explained was suffering from a partially severed spinal cord.  The tissue around the cord was rapidly swelling and that swelling would soon make surgery impossible.  If we choose to proceed, she would attempt to insert a pin to reconnect the spine.  Lance being a young cat, was a good candidate for surgery but even the best outlook suggested a much subdued life if the surgery was successful.  Lance would probably never run or climb stairs, jump or play again.  If we were lucky, he would be able to walk, use the litter box and eat.  We needed to make a decision. Now.  We thought about our house, a split level with lots of steps.  We thought about the other cats, how would they react if Lance became an invalid?  We thought mainly of Lance, would he be happy with this new restricted existence?  In the end we agreed to the surgery.  We were told to go home and wait.  If Lance was able to use the letter box within forty eight hours of the procedure, they would considerate it a success.  Otherwise, they would recommend he be put to sleep.

            It was a quiet ride home and a quiet evening.  Neither of us wanted to think that we might lose Lance.  Three days after the surgery, I heard from the doctor.  Lance was up and able to use the box.  We could come and get him on Saturday.

        
            While we waited for the intern to bring Lance, the doctor explained his at home care and his medications.  It would be weeks before he could walk and we needed to restrict his environment, she suggested a play pen.  She also described manipulations we could do as he sat in our laps, pulling and pushing his back legs to keep the muscle tone and last she reminded us not to expect too much.  If the pin healed in place and he could walk, she felt we should be happy.  As she finished up, Lance arrived and was set on the exam table in front of his carrier. All the fur covering his back had been shaved off and we could see the stitches along his spine.  He immediately dragged his body into the carrier.  He was ready to go home.

            At home, we had constructed a Lance cave out of a playpen with a plywood cover to keep the other cats out.  There was food, water and a small litter box.  Gently we lowered Lance into the playpen.  He immediately fell over and went to sleep.  For the next few weeks we had a set routine. We changed the litter, and water before we went to work.  We gave him his medication after dinner while I held him in my lap and gave him the suggested leg exercises.  He seemed to know this was good for him as he never fought us.  As the days passed he became stronger, able to push himself up to a standing position and within three weeks he was trying to claw his way out of the playpen.

            A month after the surgery, we let him out of the playpen to see what he would do.  It was immediately clear that he could walk and also clear that he was not going back to the playpen as he crawled under the couch.  From that day on he continued to heal, far surpassing the doctors forecast.  Within two months, he could go up and down the stairs.  At six months, he was running and making small jumps.

  When the surgeon did her final checks, taking another X-ray and noting his movements, she was amazed at how well he was able to get around.  She said she had never seen a cat recover from this type of surgery to the extent that Lance recovered.  I have my own theory about Lance.  No one told him he would never run or jump again.  He didn’t know he was not supposed to be able to climb the stairs.  As he recovered movement, he wanted more and the more he moved the more he wanted.   So he just kept trying.

     There is a postscript to this story. My cats no longer go outside on their own.  We built them a play garden with a six foot high fence so they can no longer run free.  It has been almost ten years since Lance was injured and I still see him, sitting on the window sill in the living room, with a look in his eye that says he would go back out there in a minute if I would just open the door.

'Tis the Season

Every day I receive new gifts in the mail.  Calenders, mailing labels, calculators and notepads. Magnets and stickers and new pens to write with,  even money- dollar bills.  All from charities or community organizations seeking donations.  Strangely, they are spending money to create cheap gifts of every sort to entice me to donate.  I can't help wondering; would it not be more cost effective to just take the money they are using for promotional materials and pump it back into their fund raising efforts,  Just send me a request instead?  My husband received three calenders, ten dollars and a calculator in the last month and he has been dead for over a year.  Unlikely he will be moved to donate.  Did I mention that one of my cats made a brief appearance in the mailing list jungle a few years ago?  I don't know how this happened but Ms Abby was urgently solicited on several occasions.  I am sure she would have been pleased had she been able to read.  There are several organisations that I do support and I do not need to be reminded or guilt gifted.  I donate like clock work every year.  I wonder about the efficiency of an organization that spends large amounts of money on gifts designed to produce a financial return.  I wonder how this trend might work for say, The Salvation Army.  You walk be the SA Santa, He hands you a box of chocolates and maybe you give him a dollar or two?   I hate to think that this type of solicitation is actually successful because it would mean that none of us are just giving these days.  Instead, we receive an unrequested gift and then, probably in a fit a guilt, send money back.  Now that's depressing.

Just One Thing

As the family gathered today, this question came up.  What is the one thing you are most grateful for?  One thing.  The younger members declared themselves grateful for new or expected toys like i-pods, i-pads and x-boxes.  The middle group; grateful for things that spell security, the job, the savings account, the healthy family.  The older group, my group was strangely silent, most of us being in a knock on wood mode.  I have given this matter some thought as the day passed and now I have my answer.  The one thing I am most grateful for is music.

My first clear memories are filled with music, my mother playing her favorite records and later, playing the piano as I went to sleep.  Sunday school brought more music into my life, simple children’s hymns like Jesus Loves Me.  As I grew up, music came to me in many forms. Piano lessons started when I was six and continued until I was seventeen. Violin lessons began when I was ten and lasted until I was fifteen.  I sang in the church youth choir starting when I was twelve and played in the Junior High (now called Middle School) orchestra for three years.

The result of all this exposure was a deep seated appreciation for music.  I love

everything from Mozart to Pearl Jam.  Classical, Jazz. Blues, Rock, Folk all have their place in my life.  When I am depressed, Mozart is better than any pill.  When I am angry, bring on the Prokofiev.  If I can find the right musical landscape, I can repair almost anything that is bothering me.  I cannot imagine my life without music. 

So this Thanksgiving, I am truly grateful for music, all music

The world of Now

When I began this blog, I had visions of posting daily entries on whatever caught my attention. The first thing I discovered is that even though I am retired, living a life of comparative ease I am having problems remembering to post to the blog. The second thing I discovered was that when I did remember to post there were so many things clamoring for my attention that it was hard to pick a topic.  I think this is because I live in the world of now.  Now, everything is available to me at any time, twenty four hours a day forever as long as I pay the subscription fees. My thoughts and inner dialogue are constantly challenged by the appearance of a favorite T.V, series on Netflix or the instant availability of a long awaited book, make that books, on Kindle.  Just as I begin to make headway on an emotional issue, my cell phone notifies me of some urgent communication from some vendor that I cannot live without. I can't help wondering what all technology is doing to the meditation business.  My daughter has started taking Yoga to try and relax.  I asked her how she manages to clear her mind of all distractions,  She says she is working on it.  I.m sure I have other deep thoughts on this subject buried somewhere but I have to go now as I am also behind on my e-mail.

My Wimpole Street

Famed Poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning was frail and suffered from an incurable illness that lasted the length of her adult life.  As a result she was often found, alone in her sitting room above Wimpole Street, gazing out the windows, watching life go by and writing her thoughts down for all of us to read more than one hundred years later.  According to one biographer, before her marriage to Robert Browning, she sought to escape her loneliness by watching the passersby and speculating with her sisters, on the escapades that might be taking place on the street. 

In these days, I find myself in similar straights, without a partner and not in the best of health.  Unable to venture very far from home on my own. Like Elizabeth, I look for something to occupy my mind.  Unlike Elizabeth, I did not find much inspiration as it is almost impossible for me to turn off my life long  television habit.  I do read, quite a lot actually, still there is plenty of time in my life for contemplation and writing in journals, if I would just turn off the T.V.  Instead I find myself hiding from contemplation.  The day is coming when I will have to turn everything off and regain my ability to be and just that, nothing more.  

Don't Need Those Shots?

So, increasingly I am reading of well intentioned parents who are refusing to have their children inoculated for anything.  I read one interview in which the mother explained that she did not think diseases like Measles and Mumps posed the threat that the inoculation carried.  I read this through the glasses I need because I am legally blind due to a bout with the measles in 1951.  I remember this illness like you might remember a dream.  My mother was a registered nurse and taking every care, had me shut in a dark room for the length of the illness.  My fever was high enough that the itching rash was only a minor item compared to the lightheaded dreamy state that was the norm.  My throat was so sore I could not eat, anything, for almost five days. I listened to the radio when I was conscious but the sounds blurred in my ears and just floated away.  The measles brought conjunctivitis which , in spite of my mothers best efforts, permanently damaged my eyesight,  Even then I was lucky.  Two boys in my glass contracted the mumps and discovered, years later, that they were sterile and could not have children.   The year I had the measles, several other children were also sick and died.  As of today there is no treatment for measles or mumps

I understand why many parents are looking askance at inoculation.  I just wonder if they understand the strength and force of the enemy inoculation can stop.

The Junkyard-1

Well, it had to happen.  We will soon be able to view a new reality series entitled  'Celebrity Nightmares'. I can't wait.  Does this mean that if I dream of driving off a cliff and Julia Roberts dreams of driving off a cliff, the meanings will be different because of the celebrity experience?  Or, perhaps I will watch and discover that my dream as shared by a celebrity is actually a prophetic vision of the future.  I have to admit that I am not a reality show fan.  I have managed to avoid every single one of them without feeling any loss  whatsoever.  I don't care who can survive in the Amazon jungle on raw snake meat, I don't care who can find a marriage partner or why they did it and I have to confess that I don't even recognize half of the 'celebrities' pictured in my latest People magazine because they all appear to be famous on a reality show.  I do know who Kate Gosselin is but you would have to be deaf, dumb and blind to not know who she is.   I am not sure if my lack of interest makes me an insensitive clod, a hopelessly unhip viewer or just someone who is watching cable instead.  I do know I will never feel inadequate after watching someone on this type of show obtain some unreachable goal and maybe that is why I don't watch.  I like my reality just the way it is,

A Window in Time

            My favorite place as a child was the large oak tree that engulfed most of my piano teachers front yard.  Mrs. Hastings, my teacher lived on the next block in a white one story house very much like my own and her tree was the perfect place to hide away and daydream during the hot summer days passed in a time before air conditioning.  This tree stood taller than the house and seemed enormous to my eight year old self.  Even the lowest branches were thick enough to climb and it was easy for me to climb high into the tree by placing my bare feet one after the other, limb to limb until I reached my favorite perch within the tree.  There was an intersection of limbs that formed a large cradle with more than enough room for me to sit or even lie down and gaze up through the foliage at the sky.  When I remember my tree place, I remember the smell of the leaves, like thyme mixed with wet dirt and drying in the sun.  I remember the feel of the bark, so old that it was worn smooth by countless rain showers and scraped clean by winters ice and snow.  I remember the birds that nested and sometimes fought over the nesting places in the tree and I remember the large Monarch butterflies that could be seen, nibbling on a leaf, their wings never still.   

            My tree place was magical to me.  I could easily hide unseen for hours.  I could lay back and watch the clouds forming above me and play that ancient game where I would try and identify the shape of a cloud.  On the hottest day I was cool in my tree, shaded by the layers of green above me.  If I got caught out in the rain, I could climb into a dry place in my tree where the leaves were so thick the rain did not fall on me. 

I sometimes brought gifts to my tree, an apple or large walnut and I would place these in a knothole on the side of the tree.  I sometimes brought a book with me and lay reading in my tree while the constant Kansas wind made the leaves sing and sigh like some botanical radio.  The light had a special tinge in my tree; soft and diffuse so that when I curled up and let my gaze wonder, it was easy to believe myself in some exotic place instead of in a plain old oak tree in the front yard of my piano teacher.

            Back in those long ago days I used to sneak up my tree and dread the day that my mother or my piano teacher found me out.  Tree climbing was, after all, considered dangerous and definitely not for girls.  Now I think they always knew and looked the other way, trusting my eight year old hands and feet to carry me safely up and down the tree.  And they did.  Every time.

Better Late than Never or Maybe Not

Now that I am alone, widowed for those who ask; I find myself relying on my computer for entertainment to a new degree.  I have joined Netfilx and Hulu and am now introducing myself to missed T.V. series and movies.  My topic tonight is the 2007 series Journeyman.  Now I know from my research that I may be the last person on the planet to discover this show.  Since I am a life long Sci Fi  fan, this is somewhat embarrassing.  Journeyman was only on for one season and I do not remember seeing even one review at the time.  At the time, everything was Heroes, which I was watching, sadly as season two was nothing like season one.  So now, in 2011 I find myself mourning the end of an excellent series that offered great writing and spot on acting and mourning too late by three years.  I am used to seeing good T.V. die unrewarded, we all are.  The Wire, Men of a Certain Age,  My So called Life, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, this last is probably the longest running comment on teen culture ever written.  I watched all those.  I was sorry to see them go but Journeyman was a complete surprise.  I was just looking to maybe re watch some Quantum Leap and thanks to Hulu's'automatic suggestions (If you liked X, you will love Z), I found this show.   I could probably go on about this for another 200 word's but I have to sign off.  Time to watch a Pretender episode.