Oh, to be a heron dad
With head in the bushes, and toes in the sand.
To majestically stand, and contemplate,
The number of big fat catfish I ate.
And a heron standing by the water's edge,
Hidden by saplings, reeds, and sedge;
Captures fishy, froggy, or mousy prey.
It's all in the hunt of the day.
A heron dad eating endless prey;
Fish after fish, up to 13 a day
Is not getting fat by eating so much;
He's simply providing for his exceptional clutch.
As Mom incubates, alone on the nest;
Dad stays out hunting, all day without rest.
Though fishies may dive, and froggies may wallow;
All are fair game, for Dad soon to swallow.
For five oval eggs are soon to be pipped;
And then hungry babies, no meals can be skipped;
So rodents may flee and frogs may hop;
But what goes down Dad, soon will come up.
In 2012, much worry was spent
On a GBH egg with an acci-Dent.
But, membrane intact, the hatchling survived
And with its four siblings, at Sapsucker it thrived.
Heron parents are ready, and chatters are primed
A pip any moment would be very well timed.
On the edge of our seats, as we all wait to see;
Which egg will pip first? Oh, which will it be??
As chatters may wring their hands, and fret;
Dad keeps on hunting, and Mom calmly sets.
Heron parents provide a lesson indeed,
And practice in waiting with patience we need.
We’ve watched parents’ backs, and beaks, and long legs,
GR’s taught us all about hatching from eggs,
It’s been a long incubation, our patience wears thin,
Let the hatching commence, and the clacking begin!
Another day passes, and on into night
We barely see Dad in the faint starlight.
Still he crouches, hiding from our view
The five eggs and maybe a pip or two!
And suddenly he stands, to check on the eggs
And hundreds of chatters try to peer past his legs.
I’m glad I’m alone, friends would think me quite nuts;
As I lean in to stare at grainy film of heron butt.
In the darkness of night, heron secrets hide;
We try to uncover them, eyes open wide.
There’s no use staring, squinting, or magnifying glass
Tomorrow must tell us if pip happens at last.
Invisible Dad heron, incubating at night
It’s after moonset, with precious low light.
If heronlets hatch before the morn,
First sight will be stars, for chicks newly born.
And then night took over, when chatters must sleep
As heron parents on the nest their vigil did keep.
And when we returned, chaos reigned, chat was fast;
The precious first egg had pipped at last.
And screen caps were taken, and eye drops were dropped,
And chatters were so excited they popped.
Children were unfed, and spouses ignored,
So hatching heron eggs could be adored.
So Mom Heron broods the three eggs that remain
Getting out of that egg, hatchling 3 strains.
Two brothers or sisters are clacking away
Encouraging 3 to make this The Day!
Out on Sapsucker, the herons abound;
In addition to parents, about 14 around.
Some young and some curious, approaching the nest
For their own good, staying away would be best.
-JMixx
I know you all think that it's best
To see me sitting on the nest
I'm catching catfish by the batch
so I'll stay HERE until they hatch.
—Jubjubbird
And, Heron Haikus:
ChiefWings: Heron haiku: High above it all~ waiting and meditating~ pondering the pond
Fanta Se: Flying heron chat; Waiting for the pip to show; Dad is sitting still.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Crisis Is In The Eye Of The Beholder
There were two "crises" at work today. That's not surprising; I AM an Emergency Services Clinician, after all, so I expect actual mental health emergencies. What is continually puzzling, however, is the degree to which the definition of "crisis" or "emergency" varies from person to person. Some poor souls are having an "emergency" if they can't find the cake mix they bought last week at the grocery store; and, yes, they DO call the Mental Health Crisis Line about cake mix. It can be tempting, if you are the person who answers this call, to say, "Let them eat bread!" But it is a very bad idea to try to be funny when someone feels that they are having an emergency. (That's my keen clinical intuition, and excellent clinical training, talking. Heh.)
The first "crisis" today involved individuals other than the person in crisis, who called and, metaphorically, ran around, waved their arms, had hysterics and told me the same thing several different times in several different ways, and didn't I think it was horrifying? And scary? And what oh what were we gonna do?! Interestingly, when I spoke to the person "in crisis," he did not feel that he was in crisis, although he did feel that he needed to get some help. I tended to agree; he may have actually waited a bit long to seek psychiatric help, but wasn't in what I would call a crisis. Not going to kill anybody, including himself; fully in touch with reality; and appropriately asking for help.
The second situation almost had ME running around and waving my arms and having hysterics. And I did end up telling the details over and over again, to several different people. Sometimes people can be looking at a life-threatening medical situation without realizing it; not all lethal conditions present the way we expect, with profuse bleeding or sudden collapse, or any kind of drama at all. Sometimes it can be difficult to convince them to call 911 for the police or rescue squad. They say, "Oh, an ambulance ride is so expensive. I'll just drive myself (or the other person)," without realizing that they (or the other person) could be deceased by the time their car pulls into a parking space at the hospital. We human beings are so fragile; drinking water faster than we can eliminate it, or not drinking enough, or sweating too much without replacing salts, or tiny mis-firings in little nerve bundles, can be the end of us before we realize anything is wrong. I find that a little scary. We are "fearfully and wonderfully made," and our body regulation systems keep us on our tightrope remarkably well. But it is a tightrope.
Some people find it scary when another person says "Sometimes I wish I were dead." Some people find it scary to think of how easily our judgment, and our lives, can be threatened by small chemical processes in individual cells of our bodies. For some people, it's the relatively insignificant missing item that makes them question their own memory or maybe their own sanity. What terrifies me doesn't even occur to you, and what frightens you doesn't make a lot of sense to the next person. I'm not sure whether it is true that "the only thing we have to fear is fear itself," but it does seem to be true that we are united by the condition of fear. If we are all afraid of something, how does the fear affect how we approach each other and the rest of life?
The first "crisis" today involved individuals other than the person in crisis, who called and, metaphorically, ran around, waved their arms, had hysterics and told me the same thing several different times in several different ways, and didn't I think it was horrifying? And scary? And what oh what were we gonna do?! Interestingly, when I spoke to the person "in crisis," he did not feel that he was in crisis, although he did feel that he needed to get some help. I tended to agree; he may have actually waited a bit long to seek psychiatric help, but wasn't in what I would call a crisis. Not going to kill anybody, including himself; fully in touch with reality; and appropriately asking for help.
The second situation almost had ME running around and waving my arms and having hysterics. And I did end up telling the details over and over again, to several different people. Sometimes people can be looking at a life-threatening medical situation without realizing it; not all lethal conditions present the way we expect, with profuse bleeding or sudden collapse, or any kind of drama at all. Sometimes it can be difficult to convince them to call 911 for the police or rescue squad. They say, "Oh, an ambulance ride is so expensive. I'll just drive myself (or the other person)," without realizing that they (or the other person) could be deceased by the time their car pulls into a parking space at the hospital. We human beings are so fragile; drinking water faster than we can eliminate it, or not drinking enough, or sweating too much without replacing salts, or tiny mis-firings in little nerve bundles, can be the end of us before we realize anything is wrong. I find that a little scary. We are "fearfully and wonderfully made," and our body regulation systems keep us on our tightrope remarkably well. But it is a tightrope.
Some people find it scary when another person says "Sometimes I wish I were dead." Some people find it scary to think of how easily our judgment, and our lives, can be threatened by small chemical processes in individual cells of our bodies. For some people, it's the relatively insignificant missing item that makes them question their own memory or maybe their own sanity. What terrifies me doesn't even occur to you, and what frightens you doesn't make a lot of sense to the next person. I'm not sure whether it is true that "the only thing we have to fear is fear itself," but it does seem to be true that we are united by the condition of fear. If we are all afraid of something, how does the fear affect how we approach each other and the rest of life?
Monday, June 28, 2010
Stuff That Makes Me Twist Up and Say, "Urrrarrrrgh!!"
1. Spending weeks and weeks and possibly a HUNDRED hours knitting and ripping out and re-knitting to get a sweater absolutely PERFECT, just EXACTLY the way it should be, and then having people look at the finished product and say, "Wow! Nice buttons!" I wonder if the people who hand-make natural wood or glass buttons ever have people say, "Wow! Nice sweater!" How are you supposed to respond? People are complimenting the only part of the craft that you DIDN'T create lovingly with your own hands.
2. Air travel. There are so many instructions, most of which are total crap. "Please arrive three hours to ensure that you are able to get through security before the plane boards." Total nonsense! What you mean is, "Please arrive three hours early so we can torment you for an hour and you can sit and be bored and get an upset stomach for two hours." (After all, there's nothing like being packed into a sardine-can full of flatulent people, amiright? I think they count on the buoyancy of gas to save jet fuel. I've been on some flights where the only reason to even start the engines was to make sure we floated in the desired direction.) "In case of emergency, secure your own mask, then assist others." Have these people been in a mall lately? They DO realize they're talking to the "ME! ME! ME!" Generation, right? "In case of a water landing, your seat cushion can be used as a flotation device." Indeed! Because, when the sardine can is falling thirty thousand feet while rattling its contents (me included) like maracas, drowning was what I was most worried about.
3. The freakin' COST of air travel! Last I checked, it was about three hundred dollars to hop on a flight from Richmond, VA, to Albany, NY (or maybe it was round-trip). I wonder how many people are on those flights. Fifty? Seventy-five? If we assume fifty, then the airline is grossing about $15,000 for that flight. Do you mean to tell me that jet fuel and other overhead are so expensive that, for three hundred dollars, I can't get the room to STRAIGHTEN my KNEES so they aren't hopelessly locked and 'scrutiating painful by the time we land?
4. People who are married to their phone script. I have the following conversation fairly often:
Person answering phone: Hello?
Me: Hi, this is J______ Mixx_____. Is (name of person I want to talk to) there?
Person answering phone: I believe he is. May I tell him who is calling, please?
One of these days, I'll get up the nerve to say, "No, I'd like to surprise him." Or maybe just, "Sure, it's okay with me."
Funny; I thought this would be a longer post. Apparently I can decrease my foundation garment rotation by 50% simply by deciding to drive, walk, sail, or ride a camel whenever I need to travel.
Nah. I'll think of more later. I'm not up to Full Snark today, that's all.
2. Air travel. There are so many instructions, most of which are total crap. "Please arrive three hours to ensure that you are able to get through security before the plane boards." Total nonsense! What you mean is, "Please arrive three hours early so we can torment you for an hour and you can sit and be bored and get an upset stomach for two hours." (After all, there's nothing like being packed into a sardine-can full of flatulent people, amiright? I think they count on the buoyancy of gas to save jet fuel. I've been on some flights where the only reason to even start the engines was to make sure we floated in the desired direction.) "In case of emergency, secure your own mask, then assist others." Have these people been in a mall lately? They DO realize they're talking to the "ME! ME! ME!" Generation, right? "In case of a water landing, your seat cushion can be used as a flotation device." Indeed! Because, when the sardine can is falling thirty thousand feet while rattling its contents (me included) like maracas, drowning was what I was most worried about.
3. The freakin' COST of air travel! Last I checked, it was about three hundred dollars to hop on a flight from Richmond, VA, to Albany, NY (or maybe it was round-trip). I wonder how many people are on those flights. Fifty? Seventy-five? If we assume fifty, then the airline is grossing about $15,000 for that flight. Do you mean to tell me that jet fuel and other overhead are so expensive that, for three hundred dollars, I can't get the room to STRAIGHTEN my KNEES so they aren't hopelessly locked and 'scrutiating painful by the time we land?
4. People who are married to their phone script. I have the following conversation fairly often:
Person answering phone: Hello?
Me: Hi, this is J______ Mixx_____. Is (name of person I want to talk to) there?
Person answering phone: I believe he is. May I tell him who is calling, please?
One of these days, I'll get up the nerve to say, "No, I'd like to surprise him." Or maybe just, "Sure, it's okay with me."
Funny; I thought this would be a longer post. Apparently I can decrease my foundation garment rotation by 50% simply by deciding to drive, walk, sail, or ride a camel whenever I need to travel.
Nah. I'll think of more later. I'm not up to Full Snark today, that's all.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Tigers and Stingrays and Flying!
I am just back from a week-long vacation. The first six days I spent in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina; the last two days I spent in Flat Rock, North Carolina. Both were wonderful. I would highly recommend Myrtle Beach for vacation, except that I "accidenty eeted it," as they would say on the Cheezburger network. I ate WAY too much on vacation; crab legs, steak, ice cream, cookies... Both of the places I stayed had kitchens, so I mostly cooked and ate there, except when I didn't. I discovered that the Carolinas have plenty of Ryan'ses (a buffet restaurant with yeast rolls that are wonderful) and Sonics (the drive-in with the decadent limeades, to which they will add vanilla ice cream and whip you up a drink/dessert that is awful! Awful! for the diet). I ate lunch at Ryan's once, and Sonic twice. Sonic's being a drive-in was also convenient, because I took my puppy, Echo, with me on vacation.
If that last clause there didn't ring any alarm bells for you, then you should go back and read my first blog entry, "This Is Not a Country Music Song." Go on! I'll wait.
Okay, so now you are asking, "What is wrong with you? Why would you take a wild, uninhibited, mannerless puppy on a vacation? Didn't you want to relax?" My reply is that I don't know everything that is wrong with me, but Echo is three months older now than she was then, and I hoped she would settle down and let me relax (at least for two minutes!). Besides which, other than Echo I was going on vacation alone, and who wants to do that? Canine company is better than no company, and sometimes is better than people-company.
It turned out that Echo has matured enough in the last three months that she was Very Good during the trip. She slept most of the time in the car; when she needed to "go potty," she sat up, stared at me, and patted my arm with one paw. At the hotel/cottage, she had to stay alone, crated, when I went out to do things; the people at both places complimented me on how well-behaved she was. If they were truthful, she wiggled, whined, and yipped a little only when they had to go in the room. Most importantly, she was good company!
On Monday, I slept late, relaxed, and did some shopping, both for groceries and for gifts and souvenirs. I took a swim in the hotel pool, and soaked in the hot tub. On Tuesday morning, the fire alarm at the hotel went off at 7 AM. I had been up until 4 AM watching late-night cable TV. I don't have cable at home, so it was something different to see all the nutty stuff that is on late-night cable now. Being awakened by the blaring alarm, and having to stagger outside carrying Echo, after only three hours of sleep, was something different too, but I could have done without that part. I went back to bed as soon as they quieted the (mercifully FALSE) alarm, and slept much later than I planned. With uncharacteristic good luck, it turned out that the tigers would be at Preservation Station from 4:00 PM until 9:00 PM that day. So, I went out and saw three 1 1/2-year-old tigers playing, got my picture taken with a young white Bengal tiger and a young white-faced gibbon, the "animal ambassadors" of the day, and pet the baby tiger for a few minutes. The Preservation Station is in the middle of a group of cute little shops, so of course I went shopping too. Then, back in my suite at the hotel, I made steak and watched the Chicago Blackhawks trounce the Philadelphia Dirty Bastards (on their way to their first Stanley Cup since 1961, thank you very much!)
I made an appointment to go parasailing on Wednesday, but, due to the weather, it didn't work out. Thunderstorms (actually, the lightning) prevented parasailing, so I took a brief walk on the beach before the storm got going, went shopping (surprise!) and got a henna tattoo of a snake on my left shoulder. Since I wanted to go to the aquarium while I was there, and it was going to rain most of the afternoon, I decided to make Wednesday aquarium day. I got lots of film of the sharks, rays, fish, and eels.
On Thursday, I got to go parasailing, finally; it was GREAT! I hope I can do that again before too long. As fascinated as I've always been with flying, it was probably as close as I'll get without learning to skydive or hang-glide (and I might just be too chicken to try those!). I stopped at Ryan's after leaving the beach, mainly for the rolls, then went to the Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum; hokey, but not a bad way to spend a vacation afternoon.
On Friday I had to leave Myrtle Beach for Flat Rock; on my way out of town, I took Echo to the Barc Parc. The day was cloudy with intermittent showers, so there weren't many other people or dogs there, but there were enough dogs for Echo to get to meet a couple. A playful CKC spaniel scared her, trying to play with her, but she had warmed up to a three-month-old Chihuahua pup by the time we had to leave. It's funny to me that she is so friendly and social, even bossy, with people, but so scared of, and submissive with, other dogs, even small ones. After the Barc Parc, we left to drive out to western NC.
When I pulled into the driveway of the Cottages at Flat Rock, I took one look at the property, and the cottage I had rented, and every pore in my body relaxed with a deep sigh. The cottage had a full kitchen, living room, bedroom, and bath, as well as a screened porch/deck that overlooked the stream at the back of the property. When I got there, the temperature was in the mid-60's, so I didn't bother to turn on the air conditioning, but just opened all the windows. Except for the gurgling of the stream, and the calls of birds, it was so quiet. I slept great.
When I got up in the morning, it was time to go to the Blue Ridge Book Fair at the Blue Ridge Community College. I got to meet my favorite author, Joshilyn (say "Jossalin") Jackson, and buy her new book, "Backseat Saints," even before the official release date. Also got her to sign the book, and hung around and talked with her (when she wasn't "speaking," at which times I sat in the audience, realizing that, despite my earlier fantasies that I might someday write a novel, I am NOT a novelist!) While I was there, I put the finishing touches on the market bag I knitted for her and gave it to her. She is a very gracious, and open, lady.
The day after that, I had to drive home to Glen Allen, a LONG drive. It was a good vacation.
If that last clause there didn't ring any alarm bells for you, then you should go back and read my first blog entry, "This Is Not a Country Music Song." Go on! I'll wait.
Okay, so now you are asking, "What is wrong with you? Why would you take a wild, uninhibited, mannerless puppy on a vacation? Didn't you want to relax?" My reply is that I don't know everything that is wrong with me, but Echo is three months older now than she was then, and I hoped she would settle down and let me relax (at least for two minutes!). Besides which, other than Echo I was going on vacation alone, and who wants to do that? Canine company is better than no company, and sometimes is better than people-company.
It turned out that Echo has matured enough in the last three months that she was Very Good during the trip. She slept most of the time in the car; when she needed to "go potty," she sat up, stared at me, and patted my arm with one paw. At the hotel/cottage, she had to stay alone, crated, when I went out to do things; the people at both places complimented me on how well-behaved she was. If they were truthful, she wiggled, whined, and yipped a little only when they had to go in the room. Most importantly, she was good company!
On Monday, I slept late, relaxed, and did some shopping, both for groceries and for gifts and souvenirs. I took a swim in the hotel pool, and soaked in the hot tub. On Tuesday morning, the fire alarm at the hotel went off at 7 AM. I had been up until 4 AM watching late-night cable TV. I don't have cable at home, so it was something different to see all the nutty stuff that is on late-night cable now. Being awakened by the blaring alarm, and having to stagger outside carrying Echo, after only three hours of sleep, was something different too, but I could have done without that part. I went back to bed as soon as they quieted the (mercifully FALSE) alarm, and slept much later than I planned. With uncharacteristic good luck, it turned out that the tigers would be at Preservation Station from 4:00 PM until 9:00 PM that day. So, I went out and saw three 1 1/2-year-old tigers playing, got my picture taken with a young white Bengal tiger and a young white-faced gibbon, the "animal ambassadors" of the day, and pet the baby tiger for a few minutes. The Preservation Station is in the middle of a group of cute little shops, so of course I went shopping too. Then, back in my suite at the hotel, I made steak and watched the Chicago Blackhawks trounce the Philadelphia Dirty Bastards (on their way to their first Stanley Cup since 1961, thank you very much!)
I made an appointment to go parasailing on Wednesday, but, due to the weather, it didn't work out. Thunderstorms (actually, the lightning) prevented parasailing, so I took a brief walk on the beach before the storm got going, went shopping (surprise!) and got a henna tattoo of a snake on my left shoulder. Since I wanted to go to the aquarium while I was there, and it was going to rain most of the afternoon, I decided to make Wednesday aquarium day. I got lots of film of the sharks, rays, fish, and eels.
On Thursday, I got to go parasailing, finally; it was GREAT! I hope I can do that again before too long. As fascinated as I've always been with flying, it was probably as close as I'll get without learning to skydive or hang-glide (and I might just be too chicken to try those!). I stopped at Ryan's after leaving the beach, mainly for the rolls, then went to the Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum; hokey, but not a bad way to spend a vacation afternoon.
On Friday I had to leave Myrtle Beach for Flat Rock; on my way out of town, I took Echo to the Barc Parc. The day was cloudy with intermittent showers, so there weren't many other people or dogs there, but there were enough dogs for Echo to get to meet a couple. A playful CKC spaniel scared her, trying to play with her, but she had warmed up to a three-month-old Chihuahua pup by the time we had to leave. It's funny to me that she is so friendly and social, even bossy, with people, but so scared of, and submissive with, other dogs, even small ones. After the Barc Parc, we left to drive out to western NC.
When I pulled into the driveway of the Cottages at Flat Rock, I took one look at the property, and the cottage I had rented, and every pore in my body relaxed with a deep sigh. The cottage had a full kitchen, living room, bedroom, and bath, as well as a screened porch/deck that overlooked the stream at the back of the property. When I got there, the temperature was in the mid-60's, so I didn't bother to turn on the air conditioning, but just opened all the windows. Except for the gurgling of the stream, and the calls of birds, it was so quiet. I slept great.
When I got up in the morning, it was time to go to the Blue Ridge Book Fair at the Blue Ridge Community College. I got to meet my favorite author, Joshilyn (say "Jossalin") Jackson, and buy her new book, "Backseat Saints," even before the official release date. Also got her to sign the book, and hung around and talked with her (when she wasn't "speaking," at which times I sat in the audience, realizing that, despite my earlier fantasies that I might someday write a novel, I am NOT a novelist!) While I was there, I put the finishing touches on the market bag I knitted for her and gave it to her. She is a very gracious, and open, lady.
The day after that, I had to drive home to Glen Allen, a LONG drive. It was a good vacation.
Monday, June 7, 2010
What I Am Expecting Next (TTO "On Top of Old Smokey")
On top of my nog-gin,
Where there's supposed to be hair,
I found a new thin spot
That didn't used to be there.
I know I am ol-der,
And going to change,
But since I'm a woman,
I thought it was strange.
At first I was wor-ried
About losing my hair
Then I looked in the tub drain
And, lo, it was there.
I'm not a great beauty,
But it seems I am vain,
I don't want a bald spot
Or stock in Rogaine.
I tried a comb-over,
And a pony-tail,
A big hat to cover,
But they all did fail.
So now I'm adop-ting
A troubled teen-ager
"I pulled it all out"
They'll believe me, I wager.
Where there's supposed to be hair,
I found a new thin spot
That didn't used to be there.
I know I am ol-der,
And going to change,
But since I'm a woman,
I thought it was strange.
At first I was wor-ried
About losing my hair
Then I looked in the tub drain
And, lo, it was there.
I'm not a great beauty,
But it seems I am vain,
I don't want a bald spot
Or stock in Rogaine.
I tried a comb-over,
And a pony-tail,
A big hat to cover,
But they all did fail.
So now I'm adop-ting
A troubled teen-ager
"I pulled it all out"
They'll believe me, I wager.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Pissy-Cats and Poopy-Dogs, Part I
Honest. To. Pete.
I am going to strangle my "pets" before too long. When Henrico Behavioral Health etc. comes to evaluate me, I will be mumbling incomprehensibly about lemon-scented pee, "poopsicles," and "food so good you have to eat it twice."
Hello? Are you still there?
Yes, it's thoroughly gross, icky, disgusting subject matter. It's also incredibly gross clean-up matter. But, unfortunately, for me right now it is a fact of life. My cat, Itty Fitty (YES, that's her NAME, leave it aLONE!), also known as The Evil Cat-Beast, is somewhere between 14 and 17 years old. I don't know whether her age is the cause, or whether the FIV that she has been infected with for the past 12 or 13 years is the cause, but she has this ISSUE. It ISSUES from her bladder. At some point, she decided that life was "litter-box optional." This creates conflict, because in MY book, litter-box attendance is mandatory for all kitties. Especially kitties who live in homes I pay large portions of my salary to purchase and maintain.
I have a problem with guilt where Itty Fitty is concerned. When she started peeing on the floor, I confined her to the only room I could (at the time), which was my bedroom. When she started peeing IN THE MIDDLE OF MY BED, oh dear GOD, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, CAT? THE DOWN COMFORTER ANDDDDD THE FEATHER BED?????? I went to Lowe's, purchased the wood and wire, and commissioned my father the engineer to help me build a large, comfy kitty-condo. It is 2' wide by 3' long by 4' high, and has three levels. It has a window view. It has an automatic-dispensing feeder that feeds as much high-quality kibble as she can gobble. It has THREE water bowls (because she likes to play patty-feet with water bowls, and knock them over). The litter box is convenient, but not where she has to sit or sleep in it. I hand-made kitty beds for her, which can be easily laundered in case of yak. When I am there to supervise her, I close the bedroom door (fool me twice...well, you're not going to fool me twice...)and let her out to play, visit, etc. She is an affectionate cat in her old age. She seems generally happy and contented.
Not long ago, I discovered that she has been PEEING on the WALL-TO-WALL-CARPET in the spare room, where her kitty-condo is. Right in FRONT of the litter box. I have steam-cleaned, and carpet-shampooed, but it is Cat Pee. So, you know. There are some fragrances that are just permanent. So, Itty Fitty returned to live in her "condo" on a more regular basis. At least until I could let her out without murdering her in cold blood.
The people who have been in on this situation from the very beginning say that they understand. In fact, several of them have commented that there are many folks who would not keep a Pissy-Cat, and would either have her put down ("She's certainly OLD enough!") or would leave her at the mercy of the local animal shelter ("Maybe somebody who doesn't care what their house smells like will adopt her.") So I shouldn't feel guilty, right? I am doing the best I can to give her a comfortable life, in a responsible fashion. Without having to sleep in cat urine.
Each night when I get home from work, and every Saturday and Sunday morning, she greets me with a happy and hopeful, "Prrrr?" When it becomes clear that I am not going to do more than say hello, she turns to a full-throated, demanding, "Murrrrrowwwww! Rrrrrowwwww!" And it goes on and on. And on. But I can deal with that! Really! (With only a slight twitch in my left eye.) The part that bothers me is when someone who doesn't know the full situation comes over. It usually only takes about 3 minutes before they will utter the words, "Poor kitty!" If I let her out of her condo to come visit, she makes a beeline for the dog's water-bowl, and drinks as if she hasn't seen water in WEEKS. A sun-baked traveler who just crossed the Sahara has nothing on her. The bowls in her condo? Full, or nearly so. She tries to convince any new person that that is NOT Fit To Drink, it is old bathwater, or cleaning fluid. And with her wide, innocent gaze and desperate lapping pink tongue, she seems to have pretty good success. And I feel guilty. I know that I am doing the best I can; I know that she is as healthy as a cat her age can be. I know that she has all the necessities of life, and some of the luxuries. So I protest; I explain the Piddle Problem, and all the remedies that were tried (including antidepressants!), and point out that she's old, how much exercise does she need? And of course protesting, as it always does in the movies, makes me look LESS guilty. (That was sarcasm.)
Maybe it is just my perception, but it seems that these folks don't look at me quite the same way after her performance. My explanations of the Piddle Problem, and demonstration of the fresh, cool water in her own water bowl, seem to fall on deaf ears. Confine a kitty? Why not just drown her? How can I explain that the truth is closer to the other way 'round?
I am going to strangle my "pets" before too long. When Henrico Behavioral Health etc. comes to evaluate me, I will be mumbling incomprehensibly about lemon-scented pee, "poopsicles," and "food so good you have to eat it twice."
Hello? Are you still there?
Yes, it's thoroughly gross, icky, disgusting subject matter. It's also incredibly gross clean-up matter. But, unfortunately, for me right now it is a fact of life. My cat, Itty Fitty (YES, that's her NAME, leave it aLONE!), also known as The Evil Cat-Beast, is somewhere between 14 and 17 years old. I don't know whether her age is the cause, or whether the FIV that she has been infected with for the past 12 or 13 years is the cause, but she has this ISSUE. It ISSUES from her bladder. At some point, she decided that life was "litter-box optional." This creates conflict, because in MY book, litter-box attendance is mandatory for all kitties. Especially kitties who live in homes I pay large portions of my salary to purchase and maintain.
I have a problem with guilt where Itty Fitty is concerned. When she started peeing on the floor, I confined her to the only room I could (at the time), which was my bedroom. When she started peeing IN THE MIDDLE OF MY BED, oh dear GOD, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, CAT? THE DOWN COMFORTER ANDDDDD THE FEATHER BED?????? I went to Lowe's, purchased the wood and wire, and commissioned my father the engineer to help me build a large, comfy kitty-condo. It is 2' wide by 3' long by 4' high, and has three levels. It has a window view. It has an automatic-dispensing feeder that feeds as much high-quality kibble as she can gobble. It has THREE water bowls (because she likes to play patty-feet with water bowls, and knock them over). The litter box is convenient, but not where she has to sit or sleep in it. I hand-made kitty beds for her, which can be easily laundered in case of yak. When I am there to supervise her, I close the bedroom door (fool me twice...well, you're not going to fool me twice...)and let her out to play, visit, etc. She is an affectionate cat in her old age. She seems generally happy and contented.
Not long ago, I discovered that she has been PEEING on the WALL-TO-WALL-CARPET in the spare room, where her kitty-condo is. Right in FRONT of the litter box. I have steam-cleaned, and carpet-shampooed, but it is Cat Pee. So, you know. There are some fragrances that are just permanent. So, Itty Fitty returned to live in her "condo" on a more regular basis. At least until I could let her out without murdering her in cold blood.
The people who have been in on this situation from the very beginning say that they understand. In fact, several of them have commented that there are many folks who would not keep a Pissy-Cat, and would either have her put down ("She's certainly OLD enough!") or would leave her at the mercy of the local animal shelter ("Maybe somebody who doesn't care what their house smells like will adopt her.") So I shouldn't feel guilty, right? I am doing the best I can to give her a comfortable life, in a responsible fashion. Without having to sleep in cat urine.
Each night when I get home from work, and every Saturday and Sunday morning, she greets me with a happy and hopeful, "Prrrr?" When it becomes clear that I am not going to do more than say hello, she turns to a full-throated, demanding, "Murrrrrowwwww! Rrrrrowwwww!" And it goes on and on. And on. But I can deal with that! Really! (With only a slight twitch in my left eye.) The part that bothers me is when someone who doesn't know the full situation comes over. It usually only takes about 3 minutes before they will utter the words, "Poor kitty!" If I let her out of her condo to come visit, she makes a beeline for the dog's water-bowl, and drinks as if she hasn't seen water in WEEKS. A sun-baked traveler who just crossed the Sahara has nothing on her. The bowls in her condo? Full, or nearly so. She tries to convince any new person that that is NOT Fit To Drink, it is old bathwater, or cleaning fluid. And with her wide, innocent gaze and desperate lapping pink tongue, she seems to have pretty good success. And I feel guilty. I know that I am doing the best I can; I know that she is as healthy as a cat her age can be. I know that she has all the necessities of life, and some of the luxuries. So I protest; I explain the Piddle Problem, and all the remedies that were tried (including antidepressants!), and point out that she's old, how much exercise does she need? And of course protesting, as it always does in the movies, makes me look LESS guilty. (That was sarcasm.)
Maybe it is just my perception, but it seems that these folks don't look at me quite the same way after her performance. My explanations of the Piddle Problem, and demonstration of the fresh, cool water in her own water bowl, seem to fall on deaf ears. Confine a kitty? Why not just drown her? How can I explain that the truth is closer to the other way 'round?
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Driving in a Storm
I'm hoping to get home before the huge thunderstorm that all the weather services are predicting arrives. But, as I'm driving down the winding, two-lane, 55-mph-zone (a "twisty," I would call it, if I were riding my Kawasaki ZX-6. Man, that bike was fun...), it hits. First, a few random splatters on the windshield; huge, messy raindrops like bird splats. Then, with no further prelude, downpour. Not white-out or black-out; water-out. I grope for the wiper controls, reflecting on my one complaint about my otherwise perfect car: the fastest speed on the wipers is too slow. This car is made for sunny days.
The drive home stretches and flexes into a long, surreal quest. The first threatening rumbles of thunder are too late to warn of the rain. On the Interstate, at 40 mph, hazard flashers clicking, I have no attention for the swirling, dancing trees, as they must be in this wind, on the median and the verge. My focus has narrowed; there is a pair of taillights ahead of me, with attendant yellow flashers, rippling and swaying through the water on my windshield. A quick check of the left lane--is anything coming?--then I am back to the lights of the vehicle in front of me. Have they brightened? Are those brakelights, or just taillights? Have they gotten any bigger, slowing without braking? Am I too close? Is there an accident ahead? The radio is on, but I couldn't tell you what's playing; it's as if my entire cerebral cortex has been re-allocated to interpreting visual information. I turn the radio off; the wipers are keeping a steady whump-whump, the hazard flashers are clicking, the rain is pounding on the windshield and the roof. No sense in overwhelming my poor ears, since I'm not listening to them anyway. I think.
Lightning, which until now has been a theatrical flickering among distant clouds, becomes immediate and personal in a blinding instant. I do not think I will be struck; there are trees, and cell towers, and light posts, and overpasses, and the metal car around me would likely conduct any errant electrons safely to the ground. Despite all these comforting rationalizations, the small muscles in my pharynx reflexively clench for a moment, and my shoulders tense. Stop that and relax, silly, I tell myself. It wouldn't help if you DID get struck by lightning, anyway.
There is no To Do List at work. There is no dog at home, waiting to be freed from daily confinement. There is no dinner at 7, or favorite TV show at 8. None of these things exist in my mind. I am Driver, in The Thunderstorm. That is all. It occurs to me quite unexpectedly that I spend a lot of time every day considering and dissecting the past, and planning, hoping, and fearing for the future, with very little time spent in the moment, this moment, the one that defines my life right now. That past no longer exists except in my head, in my brain, and a strong enough whack in the noggin could erase its entire existence forever. The future is fog; it doesn't yet exist, isn't happening, and all the things that I plan, hope for, and fear could not possibly all come to pass. Most of those things I spend so much time on will never be. And the ones that will be, will actually happen, will be shrouded in a fog of ignorance, for I will be ignoring them as I spend my attention on the past and the next future. A whole life used up, on things that are not? What a waste. How useless. The only one of these moments that actually is, really, is the one I am in right now. Would I be happier if I were here now, too? How could that be possible, when calendars demand that I schedule appointments, plan vacations, make reservations for hotels, get the laundry done by Saturday at 5 so I can do the other things I have planned for the weekend? When does Now happen? When can it?
Now, all of these philosophical thoughts are in the background, vague and random, as I follow the taillights in the rain. Now demands that I pay attention, unless I wish to forfeit all tomorrows and become road pizza. Death is not the fear; pain is. We have been here forever, those taillights and I; there has never been anything else. The drive home is not this long; we are in some alternative place, some other way of being. Like a dentist's chair; it is not exactly pleasant, but we are at least fully present. The storm is riskier--what if some other car were to plow into mine from behind?--but at least there are others with me in this Now. The taillights ahead of me have a driver, and the hazard flashers I can see ahead of them do, too. We are each isolated in our metal boxes on wheels, but our metal boxes protect us from the Storm, and we are all experiencing the same one.
The rain is slowing now. Lightning and thunder still flash and crack, but I can see that the taillights ahead of me belong to a grey Hyundai SUV. Usually I dislike SUVs; they are tall, and my car is short, and I can't see past them, and it makes me nervous. But this SUV has been a beacon; watching its taillights has been an assurance to me that there is not a vehicle stopped ahead, its lights out, in the impenetrable grey of the rain fifty feet ahead. And the car ahead of it, a burgundy-red Toyota sedan; a beacon of safety for the SUV. We depend on each other. Perhaps there is a car or SUV behind mine; I can't see its headlights, but sometimes you can't. Perhaps I am a beacon to someone else.
We are picking up speed as the storm subsides. Maybe we have driven out from under it; maybe it has moved on. It doesn't matter; I feel safer. And my exit is coming up. Godspeed, grey SUV! Safe travels, red Toyota! It is odd to me that I feel kinship for these other vehicles, knowing nothing of their drivers, their pasts or futures. We were driving in a storm together. That is all.
The drive home stretches and flexes into a long, surreal quest. The first threatening rumbles of thunder are too late to warn of the rain. On the Interstate, at 40 mph, hazard flashers clicking, I have no attention for the swirling, dancing trees, as they must be in this wind, on the median and the verge. My focus has narrowed; there is a pair of taillights ahead of me, with attendant yellow flashers, rippling and swaying through the water on my windshield. A quick check of the left lane--is anything coming?--then I am back to the lights of the vehicle in front of me. Have they brightened? Are those brakelights, or just taillights? Have they gotten any bigger, slowing without braking? Am I too close? Is there an accident ahead? The radio is on, but I couldn't tell you what's playing; it's as if my entire cerebral cortex has been re-allocated to interpreting visual information. I turn the radio off; the wipers are keeping a steady whump-whump, the hazard flashers are clicking, the rain is pounding on the windshield and the roof. No sense in overwhelming my poor ears, since I'm not listening to them anyway. I think.
Lightning, which until now has been a theatrical flickering among distant clouds, becomes immediate and personal in a blinding instant. I do not think I will be struck; there are trees, and cell towers, and light posts, and overpasses, and the metal car around me would likely conduct any errant electrons safely to the ground. Despite all these comforting rationalizations, the small muscles in my pharynx reflexively clench for a moment, and my shoulders tense. Stop that and relax, silly, I tell myself. It wouldn't help if you DID get struck by lightning, anyway.
There is no To Do List at work. There is no dog at home, waiting to be freed from daily confinement. There is no dinner at 7, or favorite TV show at 8. None of these things exist in my mind. I am Driver, in The Thunderstorm. That is all. It occurs to me quite unexpectedly that I spend a lot of time every day considering and dissecting the past, and planning, hoping, and fearing for the future, with very little time spent in the moment, this moment, the one that defines my life right now. That past no longer exists except in my head, in my brain, and a strong enough whack in the noggin could erase its entire existence forever. The future is fog; it doesn't yet exist, isn't happening, and all the things that I plan, hope for, and fear could not possibly all come to pass. Most of those things I spend so much time on will never be. And the ones that will be, will actually happen, will be shrouded in a fog of ignorance, for I will be ignoring them as I spend my attention on the past and the next future. A whole life used up, on things that are not? What a waste. How useless. The only one of these moments that actually is, really, is the one I am in right now. Would I be happier if I were here now, too? How could that be possible, when calendars demand that I schedule appointments, plan vacations, make reservations for hotels, get the laundry done by Saturday at 5 so I can do the other things I have planned for the weekend? When does Now happen? When can it?
Now, all of these philosophical thoughts are in the background, vague and random, as I follow the taillights in the rain. Now demands that I pay attention, unless I wish to forfeit all tomorrows and become road pizza. Death is not the fear; pain is. We have been here forever, those taillights and I; there has never been anything else. The drive home is not this long; we are in some alternative place, some other way of being. Like a dentist's chair; it is not exactly pleasant, but we are at least fully present. The storm is riskier--what if some other car were to plow into mine from behind?--but at least there are others with me in this Now. The taillights ahead of me have a driver, and the hazard flashers I can see ahead of them do, too. We are each isolated in our metal boxes on wheels, but our metal boxes protect us from the Storm, and we are all experiencing the same one.
The rain is slowing now. Lightning and thunder still flash and crack, but I can see that the taillights ahead of me belong to a grey Hyundai SUV. Usually I dislike SUVs; they are tall, and my car is short, and I can't see past them, and it makes me nervous. But this SUV has been a beacon; watching its taillights has been an assurance to me that there is not a vehicle stopped ahead, its lights out, in the impenetrable grey of the rain fifty feet ahead. And the car ahead of it, a burgundy-red Toyota sedan; a beacon of safety for the SUV. We depend on each other. Perhaps there is a car or SUV behind mine; I can't see its headlights, but sometimes you can't. Perhaps I am a beacon to someone else.
We are picking up speed as the storm subsides. Maybe we have driven out from under it; maybe it has moved on. It doesn't matter; I feel safer. And my exit is coming up. Godspeed, grey SUV! Safe travels, red Toyota! It is odd to me that I feel kinship for these other vehicles, knowing nothing of their drivers, their pasts or futures. We were driving in a storm together. That is all.
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