I Want a Coonskin Cap

It was hot last night. Windows-full-open-and-not-a-trace-of-breeze hot. Lying-on-top-of-the-sheets-and-sweating-anyway hot. While that made sleep difficult enough, somewhere in the wee hours all the dogs in the 'hood started barking and then came the ever so hideous cry of a raccoon. The Dog was just beside himself, running to windows and growling and barking. And every once in a while we were treated to the thump-di-thump-di-thump of the damn coon running across our roof.

We got up a couple of times to see what we could see and to try and persuade The Dog that he was a good dog but really should come to bed (and shut the hell up) but he was having none of it. We tried to go back to sleep and then he got particularly worked up again so I got up. Plus, I was worried about The Cat, who had taken off in the night as cats are wont to do.

The Dog was at the dining room door looking decidedly to the north but I couldn't see anything. Then The Cat came sauntering up on the deck. I watched as she stopped halfway, padded a few more steps then froze and slowly sat down, looking the same direction as The Dog. I followed their gaze and there it was, the pointy face of the offending raccoon. It was a juvenile so I felt quite sure it's the one who was breaking into the house (until we started blocking the cat door at night and hiding the dog food). Anyway, I got The Spouse to come restrain The Dog so I could save The Cat from being an early morning snack. I banged on the window and the 'coon took off under the deck. I grabbed The Cat and hustled back inside.

Then The Dog's sister, who is visiting, finally heard all the commotion and came out to join the barking frenzy.

Today I think I'm going to call the city and see if they have raccoon traps. Or BB guns. Because this is getting ridiculous.

Disturbia

Mind you, since the sighting last week in the family room, no raccoons have been seen on the premises. And storing the dog food up on the washer seems to have curbed the mysterious morning spills. But I can't shake the feeling that the little rascals are out there, waiting.

I hear them at night.

So does The Dog. The other night he woke me up with his frantic barking, which then transmuted itself into a low, terrifying growl. He wouldn't come when I called, his little body poised in a tight I-will-get-you-and-I-will-tear-out-your-throat stance as he stood before the window. I looked outside but I couldn't see a thing. No punks, no innocent late night dog walkers and certainly no wild life. But The Dog would not be dissuaded. He ran to the back door to be let out but I wouldn't open the door. In the first place, and at the very least, it was entirely too late for him to be outside barking his warnings. In the second, if there was a raccoon out there, all The Dog's fierceness would still not likely be enough in an actual street brawl. Raccoons are MEAN.

I finally just picked him up and took him back to bed but you could tell he was very disappointed. He curled himself up to sleep but I lay there, listening for the weird raccoon bark. Then I heard, I was quite sure, the rattle of the cat door and the cautious padding of feet across the floor. The Dog remained still. Must have been my imagination. Surely if there were actually an interloper in the house The Dog would have sprung up again, a furry mess of agitation and threat. Unless, I thought, he was all talk and his lack of response now was basic survival instinct kicking in. What, I thought, if all a sudden a furry bandit face poked up beside me? Why, I thought, don't I sleep with a baseball bat under the bed?

For a time all I could hear was the beating of my frantic heart. I took slow, deep breaths and listened. There was no sound. No rustle, no padding footfalls. No raccoon. Of course there was no raccoon. A raccoon couldn't get into the house. Oh. Wait. One did. It happened before, it could happen again.

I don't want a raccoon in my house. If the occasional procyon lotor comes by and makes hay of the garbage can well, that's very messy and inconvenient but it is to be expected. But they have to stay outta my house. They just have to.

Did you hear that?

Wild, Wild Life

"We have to lock the cat door at night." These were The Spouse's first words to me this morning.

"There was a racoon in the back room".

Oh.

I got up and made sure both our animals were still alive.

They were.

This would also explain the 3 mornings straight of coming out to the kitchen to find the dog food container tipped all over the floor.

Damn critters.

Pharwell to Phoebe

Our cat, Phoebe, went to be with St. Francis last night. There is much sadness and woe in our house. Please speak softly.

I am grateful to the lovely woman sitting next to me in the vet's office, who asked about my sick kitty and didn't laugh at me when I started bawling. I'm grateful to the vet and nurse who were absolute angels through the whole thing. I'm grateful to The Neighbor who came down to be with me because The Child was too distraught and The Spouse wasn't yet home. Phoebe went very quickly and peacefully. She was ready.

But now I want to tell stories about her.

The Child was 3 when we bought our house. One afternoon we were sitting in our apartment and she started asking questions about the new house.

"When we have new house, I take my toys?"

"Yes."

"When we have new house, I take all my books?"

"Yes."

"When we have new house, I have my room?"

"Yes, you'll have your very own room". (Not the glorified closet in which she slept).

Her eyes got big and shiny. "Mommy, when we have new house I get a doggie and a kitty?"

"Yes, we can have pets in the new house".

"In new house me have a doggie named Puppy and a kitty named Phoebe!"

And so it was, when we stumbled on some children giving away free kitties at the Market that we selected a girl kitty. She was already named.

---

When we got kitty home The Child was beyond exuberant. And it was freaking out The Cat, who escaped from The Child's too loving embrace and ran to hide behind the washing machine. The Child was beside herself, thinking kitty had rejected her, so The Spouse took her off to play as a distraction. I went into the family room to watch cooking shows. After about an hour the little thing came strolling in. I picked her up and held her. She fell asleep on my chest and then I fell asleep, too. The Spouse and Child found us like that some time later and kitty, no longer quite so freaked, got acquainted with The Child. I would never suggest that Phoebe loved me best, but from that first cozy nap she knew I was her mommy.

---

That first Thanksgiving we had gone down to Portland to celebrate. Seattle Coffee Girl came to watch the house and kitty. When she met us at the train station she was a bit distraught as she had not seen the cat since she first arrived at the house. We got home and there was Phoebe on the front porch. (This would be her MO for the next 10 years, taking off whenever anyone came to the house. For years no one knew we had a cat because they never saw her. Only in this last year has she stuck around when there are visitors). Much relieved, SCG went home and I sent The Child to get ready for bed, as it was very late.

She came back out of her room and said, "Mommy, Phoebe peed on my bed". I went in, annoyed of course, to discover that Phoebe hadn't merely peed. She had been using The Child's bed as a litter box the entire time we were gone. And the cat, I swear, stood there and looked at me as if to say, "Dude, I totally thought you were never ever coming back and I swear to God I would never have done something so disgusting if I had thought you'd be coming back. I promise I'll never ever do this again". And until this last turn, she never did.

---

Phoebe was the worlds greatest hunter. That cat could pull birds out of midflight. I fear we will now be over run by rodents, as she cleared out anything that came near our house. She beat up cats twice her size. She was fierce.

One day The Child and I were playing in her room, rolling a ball back and forth. The ball went under the bed and The Child crawled under to retrieve it. "What's this?" she said, batting something out toward me. She came back out with the ball and was covered in little downy feathers. I investigated and the "that" she'd encountered was the head of a small bird.

It was only the first of many treasures The Cat would bring into the house to display. She took to leaving dead birds in front of the living room door - on the inside of the house, mind you - for us to admire. There was a patch there where every single morning we would wake up to find a dead bird in the house. One morning I got up to discover a little chalk outline of a bird. The Spouse had cleaned the remains but he wanted me to know a crime had been committed. (Funny, funny Spouse). We put a bell on her. Then we added a second. But that cat was so stealthy that she could move without ringing her bells. If she really wanted to take something down, she'd do it.

---

One night The Spouse and I were watching the telly and Phoebe came into the house at a rush. Shortly afterwards, a mouse ran into the family room and behind the TV. Phoebe came in, looking pissed. She couldn't get at the mouse so she left and The Spouse and I just closed the door and walked away, hoping to deal with it later. The next morning there was no sign of the mouse so we figured he'd gotten lucky.

That night we were lying in bed when we heard a fearful scuffle and shriek and then nothing. The Cat came into our room, went under the bed and started making dining noises. "Oh, no you don't!" shouted The Spouse and he got up, drug her and her prize out from under the bed and put her outside.

We were very proud of her, of course, but one has limits.

---

She was a beautiful cat. She had gorgeous green eyes and the prettiest face of any kitty I ever saw. She was aloof and entirely cat-possessed but when she wanted to let you love her, she was all purrs and nuzzles. Yesterday, as I held her in my lap, she was too weak to do anything but lie there but once in a while she'd lift her head and gently tap her nose against my arm, giving me the last of her kitty loves. It made me happy to know that even as she was leaving us she still wanted me to know that I was her mommy and she loved me.

I feel very silly sitting here, crying again about my cat but there it is. She was a good kitty. She loved catnip. She hated The Dog. "Smelly Cat" was her favorite song. She adored fish. She will be missed.

Phoebe Cat, Spring 1997-December 11, 2007

Rest in Peace, Kitty

Stream of Consciousness

Thank heaven for Yahoo News, huh?

Today's big story is that Neil Diamond has revealed who was the inspiration for his mega-hit "Sweet Caroline". Survey says: Caroline Kennedy.

It's a rather charming story, about how he saw a picture of her when she was a little girl, all dressed up to ride her pony, and how sweet and innocent she looked etc etc. etc. He recently had the opportunity to sing the song for her (and to reveal the story) at her 50th birthday party. I thought it was all rather lovely.

Plus, I loved the song when it first came out. A lot. Because I was a pop tartlet. And I thought Neil Diamond was dreamy. (Shut up). So of course I went to YouTube to find the song.



Neil Diamond "Sweet Caroline"

We're going to chalk this up as a story about how inspiration comes from vast and various places and how the kernel of an idea sprouts work that may actually be miles away from the original source. Because otherwise, this would actually be really super creepy.

Know what else I learned on Yahoo news today? Archaeologists think they have found the cave where the ancient Romans believe the she-wolf suckled Romulus and Remus. That's kinda cool.

Reminds me of a dog we had when I was growing up. Her name was Harvey. Because we thought she was a boy. Until she had puppies. But by then we were too used to calling her Harvey so we just kept it up.

Around that time our pigs, Ron and Judy (who were named for Dame Judi and Sean's best friends) had a litter, too. There was a runt. As is the way of large pig litters, the runt was destined to be shunned and die of starvation. Which we kids couldn't handle. So in a move straight out of Charlotte's Web, the runt came into the house to sleep in a warm box behind the stove and drink milk from a bottle. We were highly imaginative children, with a gift for the whimsical so we named the runt "Piglet". (Shut up again).

Piglet was a good pig. A smart pig, as pigs are wont to be. And Piglet knew a good thing when he saw it. He could struggle in the arms of a child holding him too tightly while trying to get nourishment from a rubber teat or he could nuzzle up to a nice warm mommy thing and nurse like a proper puppy. So he did. And Harvey let him. Piglet became one of her pups. He acted like them, too. He'd gambol with the other pups, until we gave them all away. And after that, he'd hang with Harvey. (Yeah, now I'm seeing the "Babe" connections, too. My childhood was a freaking story book). Piglet even became house trained, going to the door and grunting when he wanted to attend to his business. He was a good pig-dog.

This story ends badly.

Piglet was a normal pig pig, not a miniature. He kept growing. Except his hooves weren't cloven. (Which, had he also managed to chew cud, would have made him a kosher pig). The design flaw made it difficult for him to walk and so he curled his front hooves under him and walked on his knuckles, which became a problem when he gained weight. So eventually, much to our dismay, the merciful thing was done.

Speaking of knuckles, my finger seems to be getting better. See?




Can you even tell which one is afflicted?

It's the middle one. (Ironic, dont'cha think?) I really do think it's pinking up again nicely. Yay.

The Hat called me this morning for our ritual chat. I told her I didn't have anything to blog about. Guess I just proved my point.

Something To Cheer The Hat

As we were leaving the Taste tonight, we saw fireflies. Of course, those little lights aren't the flies. They are a bit camera shy. But that's The Child getting her first look at 'em. And Iwanski caught one and it wandered and blinked on his hand for a bit before flying off again.

And it was, as one's first sighting of fireflies always is, totally magical. When I called Uncle JP later (because I want him to feel like he's with us), he expressed his surprise that they were out so early in the season. I think it's because we lead a charmed life.

So anyway, Hat, I'm super sorry that Maui has taken flight and I pray to St. Francis that he comes capering home soon. But even as we watched the fireflies (and before I knew about the cat) I said, "Oh, this is going to make The Hat so happy".

R.I.P

I'm very sad to report that Bugsy has gone to be with St. Lassie.

He had a very rough night on Wednesday and was clearly uncomfortable all day yesterday. (The Neighbor's son and his girlfriend were with him all day). When she got home from work they decided that keeping him alive at this point was more for them than for him and so they took him to the vet and were with him when he died.

And yes, we were all crying and very sad last night because Bugsy was a part of our family, too. He stayed with us whenever she was out of town. On nice days, when The Neighb would leave him out in the yard, he'd come over to the fence to say "hi" and get his head scratched through the fence.

People who don't have pets don't understand how much a part of the rhythm of your life they become. And dogs, in particular, occupy a special place in the life of a family. They have so much personality, they give love so unconditionally. When our Cat was sick and possibly dying that made us all very sad. But once The Child looked up at me and said, "Oh, mommy, if I'm this sad about The Cat, what would it be like if it was The Dog?" It hurts to even contemplate it.

Which is why we all know how hard this is for The Neighbor and her kids. (We're all so glad both of them were in town when all this happened).

Bugsy was 15 and 1/2. He led a very exciting life for a Bichon. The Son used to treat him as if he were a Doberman...taking him off on surfing vacations and the like. He got to fly to Montana last Christmas. (The picture above is from that trip; he's posing with The Son).

He was a family dog who became the beloved, constant companion of The Neighbor when she went through her divorce. He was with her when the kids left the nest and he always seemed to be just a smidge more sprightly whenever either of them returned home. He was a quiet, loving little chap who looked like a foo-foo dog but had the heart of a champion. He was dearly loved.

We're going to have a wake for him in a couple of weeks. That'll be a good thing. And maybe, when some time has passed, The Neighbor will get another dog. (She's hardly ever been without one in her whole life. The Spouse has suggested that she send up black smoke every day and then, when she gets a new dog, signal its arrival with white smoke. What a card). Of course, she can't really think about that right now. Now is the time for just missing Bugsy and being grateful for all his doggy years of friendship.

Rest in peace, Bugs. Hope all the fire hydrants in heaven are solid gold.

Oh, So Quickly

Skol's out! Almost.

From 8-10 I'll be with the other Board members setting up for the end-o-the-year picnic. We party from 10 to 1. After clean up I'm taking my carpool for ice cream and then it's no more pencils, no more books for 2.5 months. (Except for the math tutoring and the 3 book reports that'll be due September 4).

The Child has been singing this for 5 days:



Secondly, I'd like to say that I had no intention of being so provocative yesterday when I alluded to "marriage-altering stuff without providing details. Although, reading what y'all came up with by way of filling in the blanks was tres entertaining.

I'm still not dishing out details. If you've been reading for any length of time you know that I don't write about the internal workings of my marriage. It's just one of my personal blog rules. Suffice to say, there was an area of our discourse that needed some work and we had a very civilized conversation about the ways in which to work it. What was "marriage-altering", to me, was the fact that a) we had a very civilized conversation about something that we'd normally handle by heaving crockery at each other and 2) we came to an understanding that promises to greatly improve how we deal with this area in future. That's all.

Nothing anywhere near as glamorous as a pregnancy (hello? do we not realize mommy is almost 50? Puleeze!), windfalls, moves or new careers. But isn't it nice to know that after 16 years two people can work with rather than against each other? I think it is.

Finally: Last night I went blithely tripping over to The Neighbor's for the customary cocktail to encounter a silent little group in the back garden. The Neighb, her 2 kids and the Son's girlfriend were gathered around Bugsy, the very ancient Bichon, who is on his last legs.

The vet isn't sure what's wrong except to say that his blood cell count is very low and he's on his way out. He gave them some pain medication to keep him comfortable and now we just wait. The Neighb is only hoping that he goes peacefully at home and so do I.

The Child and I both paid our respects. Bugsy was sort of our starter dog. He'd come to stay with us whenever The Neighb travelled. We love the old boy and it will be very sad when he goes to St. Francis. So if all you pet lovers would send good thoughts in The Neighbor's direction, that would be very nice.

Right. Time to rouse The Child, slather on sunscreen and get ourselves off to the last hours of school. I'm going to be so happy when it's 2 o'clock.

E.R.

Everyone was minding their business in a post-church, late Sunday afternoon sort of way. The Spouse was working on some carpentry project (which I believe he's chronicling over on his blog), The Child, recently recovered from a day of "very bad tummy" was plugging away at her homework. The Dog was tethered outside so he could be with his Papa and be soaked by the Pineapple Express and The Cat was caught dipping her paw into my glass of milk, licking said paw ever so delicately and nonchalantly, as is the way of cats. And I, when not defending my milk, was playing videos, preparatory to a nice little game of "Age of Empires III".

And then.

The Child heard a strange sound from the family room and upon investigation found The Cat had yarked all over the scanner (which was on the floor and I don't know why). The usual kerfuffle between her and her father ensued: "You clean it up, it's gross"..."You clean it up, you found it" (which is the rule...you found it, you deal with it). She grudgingly starts to clean it and then calls for me.

She's found The Cat, lying in the farthest corner of the family room, her mouth open, her breathing very labored. I gently pulled her out and held her on my lap, stroking her and, well, I don't know what else. Willing her to stop it? I'm not known for my veterinary skills. The Child is standing by, face puckered and tears welling and as I turned to calm her The Cat crawled off my lap and back into her "don't let the pack see me like this" spot.

The Child was very emotional, as you'd expect someone to be about the scary behavior of her first ever pet, but she was also keeping her head. She got the phone and dialed our vet, handed the phone to me and went to get The Spouse. As I was getting a number for a near-by-enough animal hospital, she was in the garage, digging out the pet carrier.

The hospital vet said, "Get her in here as soon as you can".

There was a moment. The Child was crying and I was too but I held her and said, "Honey, you know that if this is bad we will have to let kitty go?"

She knew.

We loaded The Cat into her carrier and trust me, she's never gone willingly into it. This time she had no fight. Meanwhile, The Dog was wandering around looking at all of us and trust me on this, too, he knew something was wrong. He wasn't scampering or snuffling and he wasn't barking at The Cat.

With a great pulling-together-of-selves, The Child and I drive The Cat to the animal ER. The Child was in the backseat, monitoring kitty and being brave and occasionally making the "wee ooh wee ooh" sound of an ambulance. Because apparently she's learning that sometimes a little humor can help you cope in a crisis.

Here's the thing. The whole time I'm thinking, "If she's really sick, we put her down". I love my cat but I'm not one of those people who's going to spend a lot of money treating something untreatable. If she was sick and suffering, we would be merciful. I was resolved, prepared. Not so much prepared for the news that the baseline cost just to stabilize the beast was going to be $500. That's right. $500 American dollars. And yeah, I hesitated before signing the authorization form. The Cat had perked up by the time we'd arrived at the hospital, anyway. She was sitting up, no longer breathing through her mouth. Maybe she was just fine.

But of course I let them treat her. Still. Ouch.

Long story longer, they stabilized The Cat. The vet came in to tell me her findings, starting off with "what a sweet cat" she is. At which point I knew she was really sick because our cat is only sweet to the three of us. Everyone else can go to hell. Anyway, x-rays showed some patchy bits on her lungs. It could be anything from a respiratory infection to cancer. Last night's goal was to get her to breathe normally, get her vitals up, check her white cell count (which is normal) and keep her comfortable.

She spent the night at the hospital and I have to go fetch her this morning. I told the vet that I wasn't prepared to pay for the high end of her estimates...blood work and all sorts of other tests that were going to take us well over the $1,000 mark. I'll talk everything over with our vet, who isn't going to charge me the price of a brake job to do some basic kitty blood tests.

There will not be extraordinary measures. I figure, she's either got a touch of something that will be fixed up by antibiotics or she's on her way out. If it's time, it's time. I say that ever so bravely, even as I have already noted her absence this morning and got a little varklempt looking at her frakking cat food. Ridiculous.

Most of the time The Cat is just a kind of wallpaper, sitting on a side table, looking disdainfully through slit eyes at The Dog wagging below her. She's 10 years old. She sleeps at the foot of The Child's bed most of the day. Only ever so occasionally will she come and hop up on a lap and deign to be stroked and admired. Then she's off again on her own cat pursuits and you need not follow, thank you very much.

But she was, she is the first pet we had in this house, The Child's first pet. At the age of 3, just before we moved in she asked, "My new house, me have kitty?"

"Yes, we'll get a kitty".

"My new house, me have a kitty. Kitty name Phoebe".

And so it was.

And I guess if that memory and all sorts of other cat memories have the power to make me blubber like a baby til I can't see my laptop screen, oh well. She's our kitty and we love her. I hope she's going to be ok.