diet time

OMG! I am going to have to take the food away at night. Or I am going to have to take the food away while I'm at work. Or Something! Bubba has gone from 18 pounds of Bubba Love to 19.5 lbs of Bubba Love since the new kitty arrived. I thought that perhaps with some extra exercise thrown in, chasing the young Izzy kitty around the house, he would actually have lost some weight. But noooooo, seems the preferred exercise now is competitive eating!

Time for another semi-annual post. I could make a resolution to post here more often, but that would just put more pressure on me which would ultimately drive me further away from posting. So, we'll just see how it goes.

After Bubba and I lost Rowdy, I have been feeling sorry for Bubba having to be all alone while I am off at work. In the back of my mind, I know he just sleeps all day curled up in the recliner with the "warm fuzzy" I leave there for him, but for those brief waking moments when he may wander through the house, I wondered if he was lonely. Although Bubba and my relationship had not changed at all after Rowdy, I know that I felt the void quite often. I couldn't stop thinking about "It's just you and me now." and, "All we have are each other." and various depressing cliches. So, not wanting to go through the agony of having to put down another dog, I opted to get another kitty....for Bubba, of course. I know it will be agony losing my felines also, but for now I have no real point of reference for that event.
Since the economy has become so horrible, the local no kill shelter is overrun with homeless quadrupeds. Several times a year they offer reduced price adoptions. Dogs are $35.00 (?) and cats are $25.00. That price includes an already spayed or neutered pet, with all current vaccinations, worming, and an implanted microchip. On Halloween day, I went to the shelter in search of our new addition to the family.
Let me say that the experience was a bit overwhelming. There must have been about 250 cats alone awaiting homes (I was very careful not to go where the dogs were waiting). Some were in large common rooms with about 19 others. Kittens were in cages with what I assume were their litter mates, in the front of the building. There were very few kittens left. None of them especially called to me which I actually found very odd. Who can resist a kitten, right? The others were housed in individual rooms, in individual cages, with glass windows facing the hallway. There were three rows of six or seven cages on both sides of the room. You were allowed to enter the rooms and remove any one kitty at a time from it's cage so as to get better acquainted. How to decide on just one!? My heart ached for all of them! When you walk into the room, the ones that weren't sleeping immediately started mewing. As you walk by the row of cages, they would reach through the bars of the cage with one arm and plead with a batting paw for you to pick them. If you paused in front of the rows and bent over to peer into the third row of cages at floor level, the occupants of the cages above you would reach out and snag your hair, your clothing, anything to turn your attention back upon themselves. It was a bit horrific for me.
I must have spent three or four hours at the shelter. I started a list of names of possible matches so I wouldn't lose track. I wanted a female, believing the transition with Bubba would be less dramatic or competitive. I wanted a young kitty for selfish reasons. I know older animals are harder to find homes for, but I was going for longevity, hoping for 15-20 years of vitality.
Once upon a time, I had one totally awesome dark calico when I lived in Oakland. Her name was Misha and she was the most devoted, loving kitty. Stan probably remembers her. He found her when I was away for the day, after she had been hit by a car, and he took her to the vet for me. If I never thanked you for that, I apologize and thank you now, Stan. She had a broken or dislocated hip (I don't remember which now). I made a bed for her on the floor in a box, right next to my bed. The first night home, injured hip and all, I awoke to her pulling herself up onto the bed with her front claws, dragging her damaged, splinted hip behind her, so she could join me on the bed. I didn't sleep the rest of night for fear that I would crush her. I've had a fondness for calicoes ever since. I kept that thought in my mind as I searched for just the right feline, but every calico I saw, which were very few, had too much white. I must say that black cats were plentiful. Black cats are a good bet too, but there can only be one Bubba.
My experience with kit-tehs has also taught me what I want to avoid in personality and design. Too much talking, too demanding of attention, can't get enough attention, too scared or hateful, too much white, and what I call "Clarence Cats" ones with long noses and an almost cross-eyed appearance, much like a Siamese, and Siamese cats proper, were all eliminated from my choices. That narrowed the choices down to about 160.
By now my list consisted of about three names. None of them actually felt right. Well, there was one. His name was Domino, one of the more clever names given by the Humane Society staff, an older black male with perfectly symmetrical white markings on his face. When I held him over my shoulder as I hold Bubba, he was perfectly calm and content. He never squirmed or protested. Totally mellow. I liked that. He would have come home with me if I hadn't decided to make one final stroll around the large building.
I came upon a room that I had missed earlier. By this point I was tired and depressed and I just wanted to leave. I almost didn't go in, Domino had made such an impression, but still, he was an older male, two strikes. As I entered the room, she was the first kitty I noticed. On the bottom row, first cage on the right. A little dark calico with extremely little white. She was awake and as I approached she simply looked at me. No pleading, no retreating, just an intelligent gaze. The tag on the door proclaimed that her name was "Dot" 1 1/2 years old, DSH, female. She just kept gazing at me as I opened her cage. She waited for me to lift her out. I threw her over my right shoulder. She didn't try to jump off or squirm away. Mellow, I liked that. I set her on the counter in the room and the told the young boy volunteer that happened to be in there with us that she was the one. He returned shortly with one of those cardboard transport boxes and off we went to the front counter to fill out the proper paperwork.
She never fidgeted in the box. I began to fill out papers and was suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. My vision became blurred by tears and I couldn't read what was in front of me. At first I tried to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks, as if I could reabsorb them back into their respective tear ducts. I had to restrain myself from completely falling apart and decided to send the welled up tears rolling with a blink of my eyes. I reasoned that the staff had probably seen this response many times before. Fortunately no one paid any mind, and refrained from showing me any sympathy which would only have made my emotion less controllable.
Paperwork completed and reviewed, I grabbed my Box O' Dot and headed home. She never made one peep during the ride home. The literature they give you tells you to keep the new kitty in a separate room where they can smell each other under the door until they get used to one another, maybe for two or three days. Then gradually introduce the two cats together. I left her in the box on the kitchen floor until Bubba lost interest and then I let her out. She explored, Bubba watched. Then Bubba began to follow her. Then she became annoyed with the constant surveillance, then she swatted Bubba, then Bubba swatted at her, then Bubba ignored her, then she used the new cat box, then Bubba used the old cat box, then they swatted at each other, then they chased each other around the house, and then we all went to bed.
This photo represents day two. Once they were warmed by the mid-morning sun and reached out to each other with that first tentative, affectionate, exploratory touch, they became fast friends. Friends that is, as long as "Dot" recognizes Bubba's supremacy and his rightful place on the throne.
It took me about three days to revise "Dot's' name. Dot didn't even make sense to me. I tried to come up with something clever for a Halloween kitty. Nothing common or simplistic like spook, or goblin, I thought of C.C. for candy corn, then it got revised to sissy, after all, she was Bubba's new sister, then some other brand of Halloween candy, Snicker's perhaps, or Reese's (peanut butter cups) and it became pronounced as ree-cee, and then, somehow ree-cee morphed into Izzy. Izzy Borden Bot. Bot short for robot of course. She sometimes contorts into these herky-jerky movements when she is excited, like a robot. And Izzy Borden because despite her initial demure attitude, she is rather whacked out.

Back in early August, I took a trip to Wyoming to pick up a horse trailer that Clark has been tempting me with for quite a while. The bonus, to fill it with hay. Although it has become very stressful for me to take extended periods of time off from work, I finally was able to coordinate a trip with my time off mirroring some time off taken by two of the docs I work with. I was still anxious about leaving my animals behind, horses and cat, but, like Nike says, I had to make up my mind to "Just do it."
Most of the trip was business with much to get done preparing the trailer for the road and taking a morning to load it with hay, but there were a couple of days of relaxation.
On the way up I took a very minor detour to visit Stan for a night and see his house and garden. After a mid-day nap and a walk with the M-dog, we went downtown for First Friday. First Friday is a monthly event highlighting local artists and galleries. While the art was mildly interesting, the local college crowds are much more fun to watch. Fort Collins is an odd, yet engaging mix of old west and new age. I like the town more each time I visit. If only it were west of the Rockies....
At Clark and Mona's house I decided to "save" a bunny baby from those wascally putty tats of Mona's. She saw the kit-tehs chasing it through the yard and managed to catch the little bunny before they did. It was sooooo cute and scared. Clark immediate warned that they usually don't survive captivity but I was sure this one would be different! I found a big box and we put a metal grating over the top. I expected the bunny to die over night, but the next day he/she (how do you tell with a baby bunny?), was alive and well. Couldn't really find any obvious external injuries and I got on the Internet to see what they eat. Seems they like grass so I plucked some from the yard, filled a jar lid with water and corralled the bunny on the kitchen table and there he/she would nibble grass and drink water. Every several hours I would put the bunny on the table, marvel at how adorable it was and offer some food and water. By the end of the second day, little Jr was trying to jump out of the box. I thought this was a good sign. We decided to release our captive over at the hay circle thinking that over there at least the bunny would escape lunch with a kitty.
The next day was spent in town finishing preparations to the horse trailer. What we had hoped would be a short time in town, turned out to be an all day affair. Upon arriving home, the first thing I did was peer into the box to check on bunny and to my horror, what I found was a stiff puff of fur. Clark was right. Sadly, the very next morning was the planned release at the circle. The little thing was still warm and I imagined that I felt a faint heartbeat. I watched for a moment to see any movement indicating breath, I held the soft furry chest to my ear in hopes of hearing a tiny rapid beating but there was neither sign of life. I swaddled the baby bunny in my arms and clothes, somehow hoping that if I could just warm him up, he would come around. I knew better but I couldn't quite let go. **Knowing that I contributed to a little bunny's demise by my good? intentions was really sad for me. I held on until there was no more hint of heat left to be found and carried him at dusk, weeping all the way, to the field on the east side of Sybille Creek Road. I said a Native prayer for my departed friend and finally let go. As I was walking back to the house and I neared the front porch, I could hear another baby screeching as it ran for it's life from the persistent cats. I said aloud, "Wow! Those Native prayers work quickly!" And I had learned my lesson.
The horse trailer, as road worthy as it was going to get at this point, was ready to be loaded with hay. I had forgotten about the humidity in Wyoming. One wouldn't think of it as a humid state, but compared to what I am used to and comfortable with, it was drenching. Your pant legs quit sliding over your legs, and your sweat provides a place for the alfalfa leaves and dust to rest. Enclose yourself in a trailer with no breeze and add some physical exertion and it's not pleasant for long. But thanks to help we got it loaded in minimal time.
Next morning, after goodbyes, it was time to hit the road. Apprehensive at first about hauling this 3,000 lb horse trailer filled with another 5,000 or more lbs of hay with just a hint of trailer brake to stop me, the trailer hauled like a dream, just like Clark promised, and my mighty Cummings diesel helped to hold us back on the downhill side. Even all four of my trailer tires stayed round until I got home, then one deflated within a week.
The trip home was uneventful and pleasant. Well, except for this. This little cloudburst turned into a black downpour that came down so thick and fast and furious that even semis were pulling off onto the shoulder. The wind was howling and whipping thick sheets of rain across the windshield. Wipers were worthless. Even though it was full daylight, you literally could not see the road for an instant at a time. There was an over-sized load on a flat-bed in my rear view mirror and he was riding in the passing lane and holding steady there. I had the slow lane and between the two of us maintaining our lanes and not having to worry about passing vehicles alongside either of us, we made it through without stopping. I played tag with that truck all the way to Evanston, where he exited. After surviving the torrent, I saw a bike headed east bound for it. Man, was he in for a surprise! I fortunately only encountered one more cloudburst in Wendover, Nevada, but it was just a normal summer thunderstorm. Not something out of the "Wyoming Triangle."

**exactly what the title of this blog refers to.

Feathers of a Bird

Yesterday as I was working in the office, I heard a loud thump against the kitchen window. As Bubba and I peered out the screen of the sliding glass door we discovered the small, yellow and gray victim on the deck. He was lying on his back with his neck twisted around so that his head was underneath one shoulder facing his tail. Not a pretty sight. His eyes were open and his mouth was agape. He was breathing rapidly and blinking so I knew he was still alive though I suspected that his neck was broken. Bubba suspected that he might actually be able to catch this one if given the chance. He was hunkered down on his haunches doing the cat twitter and twitch. I moved Bubba aside with my foot and went out to assess the victim.
As I picked up the bird he moved his head back to its anatomic position revealing that at least, his neck wasn't broken. I carried him to a shaded spot on the deck and found something shallow and flat to set him in. He didn't try to struggle or fly but made an attempt to grasp my fingers with his toes. It seemed his legs were okay too yet when I set him down he didn't want to use his left leg equally. I filled up jar lid with water and set it in front of him. I straightened the long feathers of his right wing and lay them along his side parallel to the left wing. I couldn't tell if it was broken but he didn't seem any more distressed when I smoothed it. The whole time he sat hunched there, facing me, blinking and holding his beak wide open. I let a couple of drops of water roll off my finger and into his beak. He had a tiny feather stuck to the corner of his right eye. I gently pulled it away. He had another matted to the tip of his beak, I removed it also. I tried to comfort him a bit (he never seemed less than terrified or stunned), and realized there was nothing more I could do so I went back to work. About 45 minutes later he had gone. I assume he flew off because there was no sign of him or a struggle.

How Zen am I?

I spotted a wasp in the front window as I was checking to see if the mail came yet. No, he wasn't on the outside, he was on the inside. It must be the heat, but he didn't fly off even though I was very close before I noticed him. Too close. I am terrified of flying stinging objects. I'm not allergic, the sting just hurts.
I have no problem catching spiders and releasing them outside. I do stay away from black widows though. They have never bitten me that I am aware of. But, bees and wasps are different. They're fast and I've seen them come after me with intent. I once had a bee chase me down the shore at a lake. I remember one of my cousins (perhaps) from Ohio having to be whisked off to the hospital because he had stepped in a nest or hive of some sort, hornets maybe, that was on the ground! When out riding horses as a teen, I had a bee fly down the front of my shirt and sting me twice. Maybe it was two bees, all I know is that I had two welts that burned for hours. To this day my instinct is to grasp the front of my shirt collar and pull it tightly closed whenever I see or hear flying stinging objects.
So, how Zen have I become that today, after spotting this wasp lazily strolling along the window, I found a wide mouthed jar in the kitchen, a stiff piece of paper from the junk mail pile, gently trapped him against the window, slid the paper over the opening and carried him outside to be released?
photo credit

Coincidence?

Mona created a colorful necklace for me which incorporated several healing stones and beads meant to offer me creativity and among other things, solace and the ability to deal with the grief of the recent passing of Rowdy. It arrived on Friday the twenty third of May, the day after Rowdy's ashes were delivered to my doorstep, and after shedding more than a few tears, I promptly put the necklace on and there it has remained.
In dealing with his departure, I feel that I have been doing quite well. I expected much worse. The first week was as expected, very painful and I was unable to discuss his absence without tearing up. By the second week, I was no longer prone to crying jags and was able to accept condolences from the few people that shared the saga that was Rowdy without having a melt down. Whenever visual memories tried to bully their way into that high def big screen that is my minds eye, I was able to block them with an almost tangible click of my brain.
Bubba keeps me company and if I am not mistaken, spends a great deal more time on my lap now then he used to. I am still getting used to a new pre-work routine which doesn't involve potty time, cookies, kisses and doggie doors, but returning home to a half empty house is getting easier.
Wednesday (June 4) as I was changing after a case that afternoon, I went to pull my mask off of my neck (don't ask me why we don't untie them, we just pull until the paper strings break), I inadvertently caught my necklace and pulled it to, breaking it on one side of the clasp. Fortunately it is so well constructed that I lost none of the beads. Unfortunately I need to replace the clam shell clasp in order to repair it, but it seems like that will be easy enough.
As I checked phone messages remotely, my step mom had called to offer her condolences after just receiving my letter about Rowdy. (She is one of the few people I know who doesn't have an email address and doesn't want one). She sounded choked up on the phone and suddenly I found myself tearing up and wanting to cry. I was still in the locker room and didn't want to break down there so I pulled myself together and went on to my next work location.
When I got home it was too late to return her call, and I soon forgot about it. I fixed something to eat and settled in the recliner watching television with Bubba nestled on my lap. Some time later, from seemingly nowhere, I felt the overwhelming loneliness coming on and this time I let go. I am unaware of what triggered this. Normally there is an immediate visual memory or sound or smell or though process which precedes the ache of his loss but this time it just seemed to start all on it's own.
As Bubba sat at my feet staring at me with what appeared to me as wide eyed concern, I reached for my neck and that was when I remembered that the necklace had broken earlier and was no longer on my neck but rather on the kitchen table. As I sat there sobbing, I wondered, is the necklace really that powerful, or is it coincidence?
photo credit

I'm not sure where the dog went..... but I'd better start hunting.

Early this morning I awoke to Bubba pawing at something in the closet. He had a great interest in my empty assorted soft sided luggage. After calling him several times and being ignored, I promptly went back to sleep.
Upon awakening, Bubba was there in his usual spot spooning against my chest. Having not forgotten his nocturnal activities, I carefully surveyed the floor as I swung out of bed. There it was, a very little mouse. Not the standard grayish brown variety but a cute almost calico with neat little ears and a short tail. At least he didn't put it in the bed.
I felt bad that he had killed it. Hope he didn't do so for
my sake!