One Step Forward

Kane is happy as long as he's in the same room as we are,
but he doesn't think it's fair that the cat is allowed on the couch when he is not. 

I love those reality shows where designers go in and completely revamp a room, from ceiling to floor. It's such a satisfying, dramatic metamorphosis.

But in the real world, I expect that very few people completely redecorate and refurnish a room in one go. Even when we were a family with two professional incomes, that never happened. Instead, we change out one or two pieces at a time, hoping eventually to achieve a room we're happy with.

Not at all a WELL cat.

Elly

This poor cat. She's only seven-and-a-half years old, but she has the body of a thirteen-year-old cat. In fact, when I brought her in last week, the vet, after a quick examination, assumed Elly was a teenager. I had brought her in because she'd been peeing around the house, had diarrhea and she'd been vomitting on a daily (sometimes twice-daily) basis.

Sibling Rivalry

Elly (the cat) warning Kane (the dog) not to come any closer.
(Note that Elly is poised between Kane and his water dish and Kane is respectful of Elly's assertion.)

When our second child was born, our eldest went through all the predictable stages: excitement, jealousy, anger, clinginess. I don't know why I thought it would be any different with pets -- with different species, to boot -- but for some reason, I really did think the animals would just . . . get along.

(Cue laughter.)

Peek-a-boo!

Recently, I plopped myself down on my bed to read for a while. I was just getting comfy when a small snort made me realize I was not alone.

Elly, all curled up.

To show you how well she was hidden, here is a (poorly shot) video. (I didn't have it on auto-focus.)




And just for good measure, here's another picture.

"Please settle down," she seems to say.

 So now you can rest assured that, though we love Scooter, Elly is still my favorite kitty.

Premature Aging

How old is she really?

According to our veterinary records (based on exams when she was first adopted in 2007), Elly's estimated date of birth is May 2006, which pegs her at six-and-a-half years old. Her body, however, seems to think it's much older than that. I offer as evidence:

• gum disease and dental decay (feline stomatitis)
• bone spurs (arthritic hips and spine)
• kidney failure

Poor thing. 

I sympathize with her. 

A year ago, I remarked that I felt I was "time expired." That post was well before I realized my diabetes was out of control and that migraines would become a routine event. Before I turned 50.

Which brings us to last week: I went for CT scan to see if my frequent migraines were a harbinger of something more sinister, like strokes or a tumour [gasp!] pressing on the optic nerve. [What? Are you saying you wouldn't have googled it?]

Imagine my surprise when my doctor's office called me on Monday and said the doctor wanted to go over the results of said scan with me. 

Bad news. It is never, ever a good thing when the doctor wants to see you, rather than the other way around.

Short story: I'm old.

Long story: the CT scan showed "micro-vascular changes." The blood vessels in my brain are on a weight-loss diet, which would be great, except that it means they aren't able to carry so much oxygen to the brain. My doctor, who is in her early thirties, said, "We wouldn't expect to see this kind of thing until you're about 70."

Seventy? 

She went on to say that this is likely because of my diabetes, which causes all sorts of systemic failure . . . in the heart, the kidneys, the nerves, the retinas. Especially if said diabetes is uncontrolled, as mine was for about a year. 

A year, folks, not a decade. And I've been quite conscientious about taking care of myself (as long as, you know, exercise isn't involved ).

The doctor says no follow-up is required, in the way of testing. But you know, and I know, that the only way to increase vascularization (blood flow) is exercise. It would appear that I have a 20-year deficit. Damn. I may have to start taking the bus to work. 

What is the opposite of heroic?

I suspect that "Wynn Anne" is listed as an antonym for heroic. Despite having delivered three babies without benefit of pain-relief medication, I can assure you that I did not do so happily or mildly.

In fact, I screamed so long and loud that the nurses came running. One nurse told me that they call this "le cri de la femmelle" - the cry of the female animal. (Emily, our third, was born in Quebec.) It is, evidently, a distinctive howl that says, "Oh my f***king god! A baby is about to fly out of my vagina*! Or I am about to leap off the roof of this building! Either way, serious SH*** is happening NOW!" My sister was outside in the hall during my first delivery; she thought I was dying.

You would think I'd have figured it out by, oh, the second baby. Denial, however, is an extremely powerful psychological tool. I had read so many books about the dangers of going to the hospital too soon (extensive monitoring, unnecessary interventions, infection, exhaustion) that I kept waiting until it was clear that, oh, yeah, I guess the baby is coming within the next couple of hours; better shave my legs.

(You should have seen the looks on my in-laws' faces as they gently asked, "So, when do you think you'll head to the hospital?" I think they were trying to figure out if they'd remember how to deliver a baby if push came to shove. Pun unintended, but pretty good, I think.)

Hmm. Did not intend for this to be a childbirth post. I guess this means you and I are now best friends and can be godparents to each other's children?

Anyway.

I'm sick right now. Sort of. I'm not actually sick, my body just thinks it's sick. Which feels pretty much the same. I got my first-ever flu shot on Tuesday. I'd had the inhaled flu spray before, with no real side effects, so I didn't expect anything untoward. Well. Let me tell you! (I'm going to tell you, because that is what we wusses do.)

My immune system seems to have kicked into overdrive. I've had three days of migraine, a swollen arm that I have wrapped up with an ice pack and have resting in a sling while I write. (Awkward.)

It is possible that normal people who are not hypochondriacs would take this in stride, swallow some Tylenol, pack on the ice, and get on with it.

Not me.

I am like the annoying husband in the commercials who nudges his wife in the middle of the night and whines, "Maggie, my throat hurts."

On Wednesday night, I came home from work and climbed right into bed. About two hours later, I got chills and shakes and could not get warm.

I texted my husband to bring up my special furry blankie.

This is the blankie. Elly likes it too.

I e-mailed him.

I Facebook messaged him.

I texted my son to ask his dad to bring my my special blankie.

Still no sounds of sympathetic feet climbing our squeaky stairs.

So I phoned him. Yup. From my bedroom, I picked up my cell phone and called the house line.

Soon I was swaddled in my furry blankie and gradually started burning up. By morning, I was a drenched puddle of sweat. I would have stayed in bed but, as these things often happen, I had an important business trip that day.

I made the trip, tied up my meetings in record time, only to have to spend hours in an airport waiting area. Have you noticed how annoying those are? They are an assault on so many senses. Uncomfortable. A cacophony of noise. Smells of all things noxious. At least the Quebec terminal was attractive.

I was desperate. So I did this.

I am too sexy for the lounge, too sexy for the lounge!

The ear plugs were a bonus with the sleep mask. How brilliant is that? They didn't work terribly well, but it was enough for me to get a short nap.

Today, my head still throbs as soon as the pain relief wears off, and my arm is still swollen and painful, but I can work from home, which is a great relief. My doctor's office assures me this is normal.

Thank you for bearing with me. I'll probably survive with all my limbs intact. But I do find odd comfort in sharing my pathetic misery with you. Don't you feel healthy?

*I originally censored myself and wrote "out of my body" instead of "out of my vagina." On rereading the post, it occurred to me that I was not too shy to write "f***ing" but drew the line at "vagina," a perfectly useful and appropriate word. So I put it back. If it offends you, think about that some.

Not sure how many lives she has left.

This post may or may not be an excuse to sing paeans of love to our cat (Emily's cat, really), Elly.

Elly is a rescue cat. She came to us with a catalog of feral-cat maladies:

• Bad hip -- She yelps a little if you put pressure on her back end; she also has the absolute worst elevator-butt I've ever seen.
• Clipped ear -- She arrived at the shelter with an infection that would not heal (she kept scratching at it), so they had to amputate the tip of her left ear. If she were male, we might have called her Vincent.
• Feline stomatitis -- By the age of three, most of her teeth had decayed and she had chronic sinus infections. She now has only her four front canines [shouldn't they be felines?] left.
• An intense, almost pathological, aversion to being carried. She will curl up on your lap (or shoulder or legs), but if you try to walk with her? Sheer panic. This almost caused us to lose her at the airport when we moved from Colorado to Ottawa. 

So we figure this cat has already lost two or three of her nine lives. 

But I suspect she came closest to strumming the heavenly kitty-harp after she came to our family. 

(Time for another picture? Okay.)

(Another one? All righty, then. Story continues after the picture.)

Here's the story of how Elly really pushed her luck. 

In our Colorado home we were fortunate to have so many bathrooms that one of the showers only ever got used when we had house guests. So most of the time that shower housed Elly's litter box. When we had house guests, we cleaned out the shower and moved the kitty litter into the adjacent furnace/utility room. 

One such time, we placed the litter box right next to the furnace. For no particular reason.

The next day, the cat left a "present" in Emily's closet. This was highly unusual, but we figured she'd been accidentally trapped in the room or something. 

Then she did the unthinkable: she used Peter's bed and pillow as her litter box. 

"Let us never speak of this."

Peter was beyond appalled. He was disgusted, enraged. He talked about how God gave man dominion over the animals and why should we shelter an animal that would defecate ON HIS BED?! 

We should get rid of the cat, he said. Why would we keep an animal in our home when it had demonstrated such filthy habits and lack of respect for its masters?

REMAIN CALM AND SEARCH THE INTERNET.

That's what I did. Peter sat, disgruntled, while I searched what would cause this behaviour. We finally traced it to the location of the litter box: the furnace fan must have come on while she was doing her business and scared the ^&$@ out of her, after which she was too afraid to go near it. We immediately moved the litter box and she resumed using it.

I explained to Peter that the behaviour was not an attack against him, but I have to admit I'd be hard pressed to feel empathy toward a creature that left turds on my pillow. 

[Incidentally, we did purchase a new mattress and pillow.]

Peter grudgingly accepted that the cat was staying, though he did not give it status of a full member of the family. 

For my part, I am content to let her push her brow against my arm, or breast, or tummy, with all her might as she silently asks me to love her. I accept her purrs as effortless thank-yous. And I will sit patiently for 30 minutes longer than I might have done if she happens to be curled up around my arm or on my lap.

Just Another Caturday

If you are a cat hater, I don't want to hear about it. Just plug your ears and hum lalalalala and I won't bother you.

For the rest of you, here is what a typical Saturday looks like at our house.

Stephen does the New York Times crossword, and Elly "helps."
"Try 'mandible'," she purrs.

During lulls in the crossword, Elly nuzzles close to Steve's chest.
"Just nudge me if you get stuck," she sighs.

When she is very contented, Elly shoves her nose deep into Steve's armpit
to get a nostril full of his ultra-manly scent. She thinks she is a dog.
"Please never shower again," she meows.

Fall Colours

I finally got my camera back from Japan(!), and have had to pretty much re-learn everything about it. It's gone fairly quickly, though, so I'm happy. Here are some of the fruits of my labours.

I don't even know what kind of berries these are.

A garland of (faux) berries makes our chandelier festive.

Elly charmed me with a wink as she nestled into the pillows on my bed.

Brian made a spectacular sandwich.
(That's cheese dripping down the slice of bread.)
Photographing food is surprisingly difficult.

The following three pictures were manipulated in Photoshop, using the High Dynamic Range (HDR) automation. My first attempt (the pears) turned out quite well with almost no difficulty, but several of the ones I tried after that had "ghosts" or odd "burnt-out" spots. Still, it's a fun new technique. A lot of the dramatic landscape pictures you see have been edited with HDR software of one kind or another. Basically, it takes three or more pictures at different exposures or different "white balances" and merges them together for a picture with a lot of visual depth.

My Sunday lunch. (It's impossible to eat a ripe pear without making a mess.)

From the back yard. Loving these colours!

Sedum enjoying the dappled sunlight. (Thank you again, Raeanne!)

In case you're curious (because I always am), here is an example of how my pictures change with editing. It also shows the difference between what you can do with Picnik (which still makes a big improvement to the image) and what you can do with Photoshop. (SOOC = Straight out of the camera)

Click to enlarge.

So what are you doing for fun these days? 

Not functioning at full potential

Night and Sleep    |    Evelyn De Morgan
This print may be purchased through Illusions Gallery

I'm not sick, but for some reason all I want to do today is sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

I got up, had breakfast and coffee, then lay down for a nap at 11 a.m., and woke up at 2:30 p.m.! And still, all I want to do is climb into those cool sheets beneath the slowly revolving fan and drift off into that nowhere Land of Nod.

It feels like there is a lead weight in my forehead that wants to turn me horizontal; my neck has all the strength of cooked pasta. My breathing tends toward sighing. I have siren-like flashbacks of those daytime dreams (which, oddly enough, were a continuation of my morning dreams - I've never had that happen, even when I wanted it).

But if I sleep now, I won't sleep tonight. Then getting up tomorrow will be misery.

Our cat, Elly, curls with her paw over her nose, and snores lightly, taunting me with her liberty to sleep wherever and whenever she wishes.

I wonder what my sleep cycle will be like when I have retired, when there will be few occasions when I must rise by a certain hour. Will I be like Elly, a narcoleptic sloth? Or will I have to wait for heaven to experience that?

Photo Class: Shhh!

The theme for today's free online photo class is Quiet. And, to me, nothing says "quiet" more than my cat does (except when she has found a mouse (Look! Look! A mouse!) and has left it at the bottom of the stairs at one in the morning and just. Can't. Wait. For us to find it.)

Our cat's purr, a quiet almost-not-a-sound sound, is one of the most beautiful things I know. Such a wonderful reward for doing nothing more than simply loving her. When she does purr, she always reminds me of the Frances Lester Warner verse - not sure you would call this a poem ...

The pleasure of your company is a many-sided affair. It includes the pleasure of seeing you, the pleasure of hearing you talk, the drama of watching your actions, your likes and dislikes and adventures; the pleasure of hunting you up in your haunts, and the delicate flattery we feel when you hunt us up in ours. We mean all of this and more when we say that we find you ‘congenial’

Congeniality, when once established between two kindred spirits or in a group, is the most carefree of human relationships. It is effortless, like purring. It is a basic theme in friendship.

– Frances Lester Warner 

Elly wondering what I am up to.
f/2.8, 1/100, ISO/800

Elly, indignant. "I was asleep, dammit! Couldn't you SEE I was sleeping?"
f/3.5, 1/100, ISO 800

Miraculously, these photos did not require much editing at all. In fact, I didn't do anything to the first one. As for the lesson, I did try to follow the rule of thirds and to tilt the camera. 

One Little Kitten Has Lost Her Mitten

Isn't that a cute little gadget? I suspect most Canadians will know what it is, but none of my American friends did: it's a mitten and hat dryer. Just position it over a heat vent, plunk your hat or mitts on it, and let the furnace do its work (while humidifying your house).

Here's what one looks like in use.

And here's what one look like when your cat decides that her warmth is every bit as important as dry winter wear.



Silly, happy cat.
Now I know why it is always off kilter.
Photo by Brian

 

The Case of the Missing Mice

One of the things we discovered as we moved out of our Colorado house was a large stash of catnip-filled mice (Elly's favourite toys) hidden under the fridge. Evidently Elly had "chased" them there. We were please to rediscover these fake rodents as they have given Elly many hours of pleasure.

Once we got things under control here, we gave her back her mice. This was a mistake for two reasons:

1. They are not attractive and are annoyingly underfoot.
2. Elly likes to "hunt" them at night and deliver them proudly to the base of the stairs, where she then meows loudly to get our attention in the wee hours.

We suffered through a few days of this and, somehow without our really noticing it, the random mice and midnight meowing ceased. I thought nothing of it. Elly still had her other mice - not as cute, not catnip-filled. About once a week we'd find one of these lesser mice placed ceremoniously at the base of the stairs.

Then Emily lost her bus pass and, in the process of looking EVERYWHERE for it, checked under the bench in the front hall. This is the bench.

See that little gap under the bench?

Emily ended up pulling out a whole passel of little mice! Thirteen and a half in all. Yes, Elly, even with her lack of teeth, manages to bite these little plaster mice in half! Here are some of the mice.


Yes, they are VERY dust-covered.
Which illustrates WHY I need a cleaning service!



So we gave Elly back her mice. And was she happy? I'd say so ...

And it seems she is determined to put them all back under the bench. Maybe for her Christmas present, we'll clean under the bench again.
 

We still have the cat!

We have all arrived in Ottawa. But the cat, Elly, almost didn't make it out of Colorado Springs.

She was mildly sedated - too mildly, as it turned out - and cosily ensconced in her soft-sided travel crate. Everything would have been just fine, but when we got to security, they wanted me to take her out of her crate and carry her through the sensor.

Remember how she doesn't like to be carried?

Well, she really, really doesn't like to be carried. As in, she panics. She will claw you to within an inch of your life if you try to restrain her. (And she only has her back claws.)

I hadn't expected to be taking her out of her crate at all, so I didn't have a towel with me to carry her. And we've never even tried putting her on a leash. I grabbed Emily's hoody and wrapped Elly, and walked through the detector. The zipper set off the alarm. Fortunately, the crate had passed through the scanner and was ready to receive our little rebel.

Unfortunately, before we got the crate zipped shut, the cat TOOK OFF! She bolted as if she were about to be fed to a Doberman. She ran - smash! - headfirst into a plexiglass barrier, then escaped out into the non-secure side of the airport. I had visions of her escaping the airport and being lost in the wild - she wouldn't survive: she has only four teeth left, and only her hind claws. Leaving Colorado without our cat was NOT an option.

One of the Customs guys ran after her and miraculously managed to capture her. She froze in his arms while we re-scanned the carrier and re-stuffed her into it. This time, it worked. But I was shaking.

The rest of our trip "home," with a very brief layover in Chicago, was uneventful.

Remind me never to travel with an animal again!

Our cat thinks she is a dog

Remember Elly?

She is our beautiful "used" cat, as my husband calls her. (Actually, she belongs to our daughter Emily, who does all the yucky work of cleaning the litterbox.) Emily adopted her through the cat rescue program at PetSmart, and she came with a few "undocumented features:"

• When we first got her, we thought she was a cream colour (with her brown and black markings), but after a few weeks of grooming herself, we realized she is actually white. She was that dirty from being a street cat.


• She also has one clipped ear because when they found her she had a fungal infection that they couldn't clear up without doing surgery.


• She also has something wrong with her hips: she swings her back legs out to the side while walking, rather than bending her knees, and she yelps if you stroke her hind end (except if you scratch the elevator-butt zone - that she loves).


• She has a disorder called feline stomatitis that causes her teeth to decay like crazy and actually break off at the gumline. By the time we discovered it we had to have surgery to have most of her remaining teeth removed (she has four left). It also causes sinusitis and gives her the drippiest nose on the planet. (When she shakes her head, drops spray. Very yucky.)

So why do I say she thinks she's a dog?

• Mostly because she is one of the most gregarious cats I've ever met. Most of the cats I've known run and hide when company comes. Not Elly. She's right there in the thick of things, daring everyone to step on her tail.


• She loves loves loves stinky things. Her favourite thing is Steve's backpack after he's been out sweating and climbing for six hours in the hot sun. She will rub herself all over that backpack like she's a pig in mud. If the backpack is not around, she will get up close & personal with any of our day-old dishcloths.


• She plays fetch - albeit on cat terms. She has a favourite little mouse toy that she brings to the top of the stairs (or bottom, depending where we are). Then she will sit there and meow to draw our attention to this wonderful gift she has presented us. (If she were an outdoor cat, I have no doubt we would be receiving dead critters on a regular basis.) She waits patiently until one of us gets up and tosses the mouse for her to resume her game. Once, she even brought it within my arm's reach, but that is exceptional for her.
• She won't tolerate being carried around. Like most dogs she will start to squirm within about 30 seconds of being picked up.

But mostly, she is all cat. She sleeps about 20 hours a day, she likes to knead my tummy, and she purrs like crazy. She lounges on my arm while I'm typing (as she is doing right now), which causes her head to bob up and down while I write. She likes me to sing directly into her skull. Seriously. She will come from across the room to climb up on me and put her head right up to my mouth if I am singing.

Yup. She's a quirky one - she fits right in in this family, and we love her.

Air head

It's happened, just as I feared: I have nothing to say. I was so excited when I started this blog, thinking that something must happen in every day of my life that is worth sharing with you.

But I have to admit that my life is really rather boring. It's pretty much conflict-free, and everyone knows that conflict is what creates the drama in any story.

• I was going to write about my diet failure today: I ate 3/4 of a panini for lunch, then had a piece of birthday cake to help celebrate a colleague's special day. (Yeah, right, I ate the cake so he would feel better. As if.) But that's just too depressing.
• I thought about writing about our breakfast-for-dinner inspired by a friend's Facebook post about bacon. Instead I just posted a reply to his post. More appropriate.
• Our cat, Elly, is adorable and started licking my arm after she finished her own bath; she almost inspired me to write about her. But that is a little too old-cat-lady-ish. (Won't stop me from posting her picture, though. Isn't she sweet?)
• I could write about my nascent job-hunt in Ottawa, but that really hasn't started in earnest, although I've actually applied for two government jobs and I check the new listings daily. And I've spread the word to friends and former colleagues that I will be looking for work. But it's still too early to be taken seriously, I think. What do you think? Is it too early? We won't be "up and running" in Ottawa until about mid-August, though I could fly up earlier and let the family join me later, for the right job.
  

So, from today's meanderings there are four topics you could comment on: diet struggles, bacon as an all-day food, cat-lady tendencies, or timing of the job hunt. Weigh in!

(Sorry about that pun. But I'm leaving it there anyway.)