PooMa made some progress after her surgery, but not much. She quickly returned to her former nastiness, and I swear, I have never seen anything like it. The stuff that came out of her butt AVOIDED paper towels and tissue. It was like some primordial ooze with a life of its’ own. I decided she was going to the vet to either recover, or die.

The vet knew I was at the end of my rope, and after the first night, she knew why. She, too, was amazed at the goo that cat produced. To make a long story short, MK (short for Mama Kitty, her original name) spent 10 days in the hospital on multiple drugs before they were able to say with any degree of hope that she was better. She came home with a rabbit and green pea kibble, some hella expensive anti-inflammatory stuff that she was able to tolerate. She even started using her litterbox, She has had no tummy trouble since, and I am so grateful that I have accepted her desire to be a totally inside cat. She even gets along with the others now, which is no small feat. I suppose even cats can be grouchy when they feel like..well… crap.

The kittens from the PooMa post were named Buck and Maynard. Maynard was tragically killed under my back porch by a dog – I held him while he died, his insides pulverized and his neck broken. His brother Buck is a devoted, loving little boy of 5 months. He follows me everywhere I go, loves gooshy food, and has become quite the little con man at the dinner table.

His big brother JP has learned to use the heating ducts as a subway. I went to bed last night in a room that had been closed up all day to find paw prints and fur on my clean sheets, and the vent popped out of the floor. The funniest part is having caught him about to go in a vent twice, and both times he tried to play it off. I could SEE it in his eyes: ..”OH! MAMA!! I was just ..um…OO! GRAB MY FEET! Aren’t I KYOOT??” TOTAL scam artist, totally busted.

I’ve been offered the chance to teach voice at the college in the fall. I HATE teaching voice. We’ll see. I’d really like to find something with insurance, but the country is in such bad shape right now, I don’t know if I can. I could have a public school job in a neighboring county if I wanted it, but I am pretty sure I would not survive it. For now, I am ok.

Alrighty then! You’re caught up! Go about your business. Catch you later.

-Me

The blissful sleep of the unfettered conscience...

… kitten feet.

… kissing kitty ears.

… being greeted by the furbabies at the front steps when I get home.

… knowing I can sleep in tomorrow, whenever tomorrow may be.

… when JP reaches up for me to hold his front feet while he streeeeeeeeeetchesssssss.

… that he’s disappointed if I don’t grab them.

… when I play the first note of the piano prelude at church, and I close my eyes and feel Something much better take over.

… watching fire.

… needing a blanket to sleep (winter! yay!)

… the melancholy of dusk.

… how (insert one-who-shall-not-be-named) wears those oh-so-tight jeans. Mmm.

With thanks to Mir, who gave thanks to Karen, for this Love Thursday post idea.

Mama Kitty had a huge problem: she was full of worms, and had severe enough cramps that I could hear the food passing through her from where I stood. The rumbling was awful, and she would eat and poop at almost the same time – runny, gooey, slimy poop that made me wretch, it reeked so badly. She pooped in the corners, under furniture, and in the food bowls. A litterbox didn’t solve the problem, so I finally took a chance on leaving her kittens to fend for themselves and hauled her to the vet. I knew the kittens were at least 4-5 weeks by that time, and the vet was ok with giving her meds for the worms. Back home we came.

A week later, she was still screaming, still bubbling internally, and still fouling my kitchen. She was also so full of milk she cried when she tried to lie down. She had obviously weaned the kittens, wherever they were, because she didn’t leave the house for 3 days. Her bottom was so raw she growled at herself when she tried to wash it. That particular story led my fellow church musicians to suggest I name her PooMa. They thought it was funny, hysterical even. I had to admit, the pun was awesome, but the reality made it less so.

Back to the vet, who found she had a parasite on TOP of still having worms, and suggested spaying her to eliminate the hormonal contribution to the mix.

Another week passed, and she was still pooping in my kitchen. I couldn’t keep up…she was pooping 8, 9, sometimes 10 times a day, and I got to the point I cried at the thought of going to the kitchen. The magic bullet was imodium, which seems to have calmed her poor system enough to let her rest and eat in peace. Now if only she would use the litterbox consistently, I could claim a victory. Heck, I’d be even happier if she’d go back outside to do her business.

Unfortunately, that is not the case.

I have a recently birthed pair of kittens and their feral mother in a crate in my living room, or I would crate her till she decides the litter box is a better choice than her bed. She has used it, so I know she knows, but she pees around it. I put down some heavy duty plastic to keep my floors from being further ruined, but I can’t put it everywhere. She keeps changing her spot. I am at a loss. It will be at least 5 weeks before I can spay the mother cat and free the crate. I don’t know if I can take 5 more weeks of cat crap in my kitchen. Seriously. It is not a happy day.

The sad part is, she’s a twin for the one currently in the crate. I think they’re sisters. They hate each other, so I’m not positive, but I would put money on it. She’s a really sweet cat. She rubs my legs and purrs, talks to me constantly, and is easing up a bit in her aggression toward the other cats. I think one of them left because of her, maybe also because of the kittens, but there’s nothing I can really do about that.

I wonder if she lost her mind because she was so young when she had kittens, and she was so sick the whole time she was nursing them. It was hard on her. I worry I can’t fix her, and I will have no choice but to put her down. I hate the thought of that, but I can’t live in a toilet bowl. I am a pig, but even pigs have limits.

Her sister Kit is much healthier, since she grew up in my house. I should have caught Kit before she went in heat and prevented her pregnancy, but I suck and didn’t do it. I think I subconsciously wanted kittens again. Stupid me.

Anyway, that’s how I have spent my last month. School started back, classes are good, I sorta really hate teaching piano, and I need to put together a resume and find a real job next year. I don’t want to live where it gets over 85 in the summer, seriously. No more humidity. This summer almost killed me – I want to be done with this sticky mess of a place. I can deal 6 months out of the year, but the other 6 are just too freakin’ hot. Ick.

OH! One of the children managed to kill and bring in a 4-foot black racer to lay beside the sofa. Yeah. THAT was fun.

Hey, anybody want a kitten?

I am in a mood. The heat has me worn down, everybody wants my money (which, hey! Good luck with that!) My animals keep getting sick or hurt, or strays find their way in and crap on my floors. I keep letting people disappoint me, see nefarious schemes where there are none. I am paranoid. One day I saw 3 references to fire on tv and the internet, and then wound up sitting across the hall from a fire alarm, and my brain went nuts. “Is it a sign?? That ceiling fan hasn’t worked for years, but when I slam the door it comes on. Is that gonna be where a fire starts?” I tell you, this “being me” thing, it is no picnic. I am sure it is some sort of hormonal freak out, and I will be fine in a day or two when some gland somewhere decides to work, but until then, it is dark in my world, man. DARRRK.

One of my students came to me today, distraught, in need of therapy more than a piano lesson, so we talked. At some point we were chatting about leaving home, moving out to go to college, and I remembered the last time I saw my father before he died. It was yesterday, really, not the 26 actual years since it happened.

It was yesterday.

To say my dad and I did not get along would do injustice to the term “understatement.” Neither of us could see the real trouble in our relationship: we were just alike. I hadn’t turned as far inward yet, and maybe that’s why we couldn’t see it. I still had hope in those days, hope of a family, a husband, a career I enjoyed. Stupid, stupid little girl. When he told me I’d never “get a man,” I honestly couldn’t see how he could be so… mean. I thought it WAS just meanness, but it turns out he was clairvoyant. Not that the process was as he predicted, but the result certainly is, which makes the process irrelevant. I inherited from my father the stubbornness of ten mules, the hopelessness of 50 fat virgins, and the ability to take my self-hatred and turn it into something other people can only see as anger toward the world. Really, I don’t hate everybody, just myself, and it seems no amount of kind words or encouragement from those who think I shouldn’t will ever change my mind. It’s as if I want to be alone, that I deserve to be in my own world of pain because I fulfilled the prophecy.

I was a freshman in college, and I decided to come home one weekend without letting my folks know I was coming. The genuine joy on my father’s face when I drove up was something I had not seen since I hit puberty, and it lasted a whole day. Actually, I don’t remember how the weekend ended, only how it began, and maybe that’s good. One month later he had several small heart attacks, and I made plans with my professors to miss class and go home to see him. He died two days too early.

I? Was glad. There were enough hard feelings and bad memories that I was relieved, and my mother and I talked several times about the guilt of such a thing, but we forgave ourselves in the end. He made life hard. I don’t think I cried much for a very long time. It took a visit from him in a dream to be able to close the wound, to be able to let go of the nagging lack of feeling over his death. He warned me that one day I’d be sorry he was gone, that I would miss him. It took YEARS.

The problem is that now that I am older, I see the man behind the madness, for I am he. He was depressed. He was in pain. He was angry at himself for hurting and being weakened by the pain, for not being physically able to do the things he loved. There was so much mental hurt that it had no other option than to spill out all over my mother and me, and I now do the same thing to the people I love. I have never hit anybody, but that’s probably only by the grace of God. Plenty of trees and sticks have been harmed in the process.

By the time I recognized the pattern, I was mired in it. That, my friends, is a deep, deep pit to navigate, and it has taken me every bit of those 44 years to learn to START. I am much, MUCH better at the lying now. I am 4 or 5 years younger than he was when fate took a dump on him, and I have learned how to lie. I am not very good at it, but I am getting better. Maybe that’s what “mellowing with age” will mean for me: crafting a tightly-fitting mask that doesn’t leak “me” on anybody. Those around will be happier for it, but it will destroy me, and truthfully, that’s ok. As long as the people in my life don’t have to work hard to be my friend, right?

My favorite window in the house is the one in my back bathroom. Um.. you’re welcome. It overlooks the back yard, and aside from the DISH the idiot tech installed right in front of it, affords the best views of “stuff.”

This, for instance.

In case you can’t tell, that’s a pool noodle and a yellow soccer ball. WAS. WAS a pool noodle. Which started the day IN THE POOL. The soccer ball started the day in somebody else’s yard. No idea whose.

Back in January, this was the view.

And this…

And this.

But always, ALWAYS, there is this.

Or these…

The real King of the Zoo gets the top step, though.

Or at least the SECOND one.

Ahh, that’s the life.

The loves of my life, for your perusal.

Happy Love Thursday, a little late. Maybe it’s Happy Family Friday instead.

Five Things, Five of Me, whatEVERRRR.

1. Where were you five years ago?

Five years ago this very day I had just finished up the worst year of my entire teaching career, and that’s saying a LOT. I was relieved that my schedule had been fixed for the fall, and things were looking up. Two months later it all went to Hades (with a new low in the Awful Year category), but that’s another story.

2. Where would you like to be in five years?

Tulsa.

J/K, sorta. I would like to have gotten off the sofa and fixed my broken self, and escaped from the prison that has been my life in GA. I would like to be a published choral arranger, making a living from it. That nomination for a Dove Award would be nice, too. Heh.

3. What is on your to do list?

a. Cut down several of trees that have sprung up in my fence.
b. Laundry, always laundry.
c. Paint (which will only get done under threat of forced labor in direct sunlight)
d. Submit choral arrangements to publishers
e. Convince my pool to embrace the concept of clean and clear so that it’s less like swimming in a pond and more like… umm… a chlorinated pond.

4. What are five snacks that you enjoy?
a. cashews
b. chocolate anything
c. cheetos
d. popcorn
e. my cousin Glenda’s cheese ball (which I can only get at thanksgiving and Christmas)

5. What are five things you would do if you were a billionaire?

I am leaving out the tithe, because that would be an off-the-top given.

a. Pay off my church’s building loan and fulfill its’ wish list
b. Pay off my friends’ debt, as well as take care of some family members that need help
c. Set up trust funds to build and run several area no-kill animal shelters
d. Support several local non-profits that are underfunded
e. For myself… the dream house with a recording studio/computer lab, and a half-acre screened-in cat sanctuary, so my babies never have to fear a car, dog, or bobcat again

There ya go. You wanna play? Go for it! Just link back so I can read along!

Later…

“Thank You, God, for this most amazing day.”
“Good boy! You stayed out of the road!”

Hm. I just realized it doesn’t matter about the rest of it, since I’ve not spoken to a single human all day. The first one would have been a really good one to say aloud. I forget to be thankful sometimes. I get caught up in the aches and pains, the things that aren’t how I’d like them to be, and I refuse to remember that I am alive and mostly mobile, and solvent, for now. My babies don’t HAVE to hunt for food, even though they love to do it, and neither do I. My hunt is limited to the shelves at the grocery.

I took a short bike ride today. It was around 2 miles total, and really showed me how far I have fallen behind my 14-year-old self. It’s shameful, really, how sendentary I am, and while I know the world wants me to feel guilty for it and has made me hate myself beyond measure, the only part I TRULY hate is that I don’t want to change. Change is work, and my programming isn’t compatible. Heh. I do realize the space shuttle is run by the equivalent of a 286 machine, but am more on the level of a Macbook being run by a hamster wheel. I’ve always had the metabolism of a puddle, and please don’t say the words “endorphins” and “exercise increases metabolism” to me. That’s bulls*&^. I have never felt an endorphin from exercise. From being being kissed on the head by the one I love, yes. From a workout of ANY kind, no.

BUT. I am still able to get ON the bike, so I should be grateful. I am. Really. The weather is gorgeous, and I should just not think about the burn from the sun and the clouds of mosquitoes. The smell of freshly-cut grass and the birdsong that fills the trees should be enough.

Yes, it should.

moar funny pictures

****

“OK, let me get this right. You took the day off to do a favor for a friend, to take a trip 3 hours out of town to a big, BIG city, which guarantees you will get caught in traffic. And when that inevitably happens, instead of calling me and saying take care of the music, you called somebody else who had a really tight schedule, so that even tho I HAD plans, I had to cancel them so I could meet HIS schedule? You, sir, have no clue. Why would you? No one else in your world has a life. Thank you. I guess I should just call you and ask permission to run my errands on Wednesdays, just in case you have other plans for my time. You actually cost me 2 gallons of gas today with that little stunt. I give up.”

****

“Shut up. Really. SHUT. UP. I am THISCLOSE to putting your eyes out with a letter opener.”

****

“Yes, my dinner smells good. Could I please eat it instead of listening to you talk about babies? You wanted them, you deal with the consequences.” Yes, I am aware that my curmudgeonly underpants are showing. Babies=poop and vomit. You know that going in, and I can’t have a lot of sympathy for you if you still choose to go there. I don’t ask for your sympathy for my achy joints and my inability to touch my toes.

****

“Honestly, that’s the same story you’ve told for the last 8 weeks. Enough. Also? OK, I can’t SAY the ‘also’ cuz it’s really rude.”

****

“I do not understand how you cannot see the connection between sleeping with and moving in with a guy you barely knew and the heartache of him breaking up with you. If you don’t sleep with him and he stays, you know he’s there for YOU, not your cooch. This is not hard math.”

****
And finally…
.
.
.

“ARRRGH!!!!!”

.

.

For the most part, it was no big deal. I had to muscle my bulk around on the ground a bit to get leverage to break loose the plug, but I did it. While the oil was draining, the dog found me. You know, the one who likes to eat cat poop? Did I mention I was slightly incapacitated, with a ton of steel propped above my chest? It is hard to flee poop breath in that position. The thought occurred to me that if the dog got hit by a car, he would be up litter box creek without a sifter, cuz there was NO ONE around to call, and I knew the oil change was not going to be quick. I had to get out and try to find a filter wrench: I had the wrong size. I didn’t figure that out till the crank case was empty, of course, so that meant I was more than a little stuck. I went back in the fence, put the dog in, and came back out, still looking. About that time I heard squealing tires, a thump, and a yelping dog. You guessed it. My mutt had gotten himself hit.

Now, see, every now and then I realize it has been a while since a new cat wandered up, and a week later (usually less), there’s a new cat on the porch. Last summer I realized I never had an orange cat in all the dozens I’ve known, and a week later I found 3 at the dump. Around early January, I was reminding myself how good it was not to have a dog, cuz they’re attention grabbing little monsters, and a week later? Samson. I’m wondering why it is I can’t make a move happen, or love happen, or thinness happen, if I have the power to summon such mind-numbing, energy-sucking things. Holy heck, Catwoman! Seriously?

Samson seemed to be ok. He got up and ran off to the backyard to hide, thinking that I was mad at him because I yelled his name when I heard the hit. There really was no one to call that wouldn’t have taken a half hour to get there, so all I could do was try to finish the oil change and not panic. I walked down the road to the store, made a couple of calls to locals, and sat down in the dirt to think. In what had to have been an Act of God, my (good) neighbor came home about that time and loaned me the wrench, and even poured the fresh oil for me.  The dog had an x-ray and an overnight at the vet, to the tune of $125. He even got pain meds for his trouble. For mine, I got a shower, sore arms, aching shoulders, a stiff neck, and a lighter wallet. Oh, and a lingering scent of 30 weight in my nostrils. (It made me appreciate the horror of an oil spill. Poor little ducks.)

I think I drew the short stick in that bargain. That, my dears, is how a simple little oil change cost me $125. Don’t tell the EPA that I MIGHT have had a LITTLE teeny puddle of crude in my yard after, k?

Jiffy Lube hawkers don’t sound so bad anymore.