cats – Page 10 – beckycochrane.com

Legacy Writing 365:304

There’s a box of photos that belonged to my mother that I forget that I have. Looking through it today, I found more photos from when I lived in that rural area I mentioned in a post a couple of days ago. It was a good meeting place for my family, pretty much equal distance from the various cities where they were all living at the time (except David, who was already living out West then). I found this photo of Debby still in her nightgown one morning, looking as if she’s being edged off the chair by her cat ~~Casey~~ Sid Vicious.

I include this picture mostly because I think Lynne may be the only person who’ll remember those bizarre and mostly unidentifiable animals on the shelf behind Debby. There were more of them than are pictured here. I bought them at World Bazaar in Birmingham and called them “the ugliest animals in the world.” I don’t know where they were imported from, but they had real animal hair and amateurishly painted faces–almost as if the painting were done by small children (likely) with nail polish (or some paint containing lead, no doubt). I kept those things forever until I was finally shamed into throwing them away by everyone who was repulsed by their hideousness. Poor ugly animals; I loved you.

In that same batch of pictures is one of Josh, Gina, and Sarah’s father. I include it because there’s that ashtray I made in art class that my mother ended up breaking. Remember how I said I never used it as an ashtray? The fact that it’s on the table by her cigarette case is proof that she was always dragging that thing out against my wishes. Stubborn old woman.

Legacy Writing 365:281

Something I haven’t mentioned is that Lynne decided to sell Green Acres. It was a wonderful home with beautiful grounds where Jess grew from a toddler to a young man, but for a number of reasons, it became time for a change. One day I’m sure I’ll be sharing photos of her new place, and no matter what, I know it will have gorgeous grounds because gardening is one of Lynne’s passions. Meanwhile, some of her potted plants are on loan at The Compound, and since I am not exactly known for my green thumb, I’m hoping she plans to make regular visitations.

During the move, when Tom and Jess were putting items into storage, Jess apparently talked about some of the cats from Green Acres’ history. Coincidentally, I’d been planning to post a couple of my favorite cat photos today in honor of Jess’s birthday. Happy birthday, Jess!

Lynne once had a dog named Pepper, and when a new kitten came to Green Acres, Jess said he wanted another spice name. We went through a list, and he settled on Ginger. In one way it didn’t make sense, because the cat wasn’t red, but since I’m the person who encouraged Daniel to name his rocking horse Fido, I’m all in favor of defying standard name practices. Ginger he was. Except Craig either never remembered Ginger or didn’t like the name, because he always called Ginger “Bubba.” In time, the rest of us called him Bubba, too.

Bubba was an outside cat–he wouldn’t have had it any other way because Green Acres was surrounded by lots of undeveloped land ideal for feline stalking and exploring. Unfortunately, this lifestyle can leave long, flowing cat hair matted and tangled, and so it was that Bubba once needed a somewhat severe haircut.

I don’t think Bubba was amused, but I sure was. (Aside: Lynne recently found out the wooden toy box Bubba stands on in this photo was built by her father.)

Since I was so rude as to laugh hysterically during Bubba’s photo session, Jess was quick to comfort him. I especially like the tuft of hair at the end of Bubba’s tail.

Speaking of hairdos, during the time of this photo, Jess’s hair was mullet cut–buzzed in the front with some length in the back that ended in a rattail. I’ve read that the rattail is making a comeback. However, I’m not sure any cats will bring the Bubba cut back into vogue.

Legacy Writing 365:232

Saturday night, Lila informed me that I am old. She’s right. I’ve earned every gray hair that I ask Tim to color dark brown, every wrinkle I refuse to see in the mirror when I brush my teeth, and every anniversary of my thirty-fifth birthday. But inside me, there’s still a girl for whom summer means:

Being outside all day with friends like Daffy (Daphne the cat).

A pool in the back yard with a hose swung over a pine tree to keep the water level up and provide a little extra splash.

A sensible bedtime–freshly bathed with teeth brushed–and after hours of untroubled sleep, I could wake to another day of no bills to pay, car issues to think about, meals to cook, and that nagging feeling that I’m not the best person I can be.

Enjoy it, Lila!

Legacy Writing 365:219

Our last Houston house we rented before we bought The Compound was just down the street from Lynne’s home in the suburbs. Like our previous house, the view from the front made it look deceptively small. We stepped through the front door into a large great room/dining room with cathedral ceilings. To the far left was a set of stairs that led to a landing that overlooked the living area. Off that landing were two large bedrooms joined by a bathroom.

Downstairs, the dining room was separated from the large kitchen by a bar. Turning to the right, we walked through a vanity area with a bathroom on the left. Passing through that, we were in the huge master bedroom with a giant walk-in closet. I LOVED that closet, because it held all our clothes and a a ton of other stuff, so the upstairs closets were relatively empty. I think I did eventually move my clothes to a walk-in closet upstairs because I used that bathroom so Tom and I could get ready for work in the mornings without getting in each other’s way.

A door led from the dining room into the garage, where our washer and dryer were. I don’t know how long we lived there–a long time–before we realized that the automatic garage door with its two remote controls actually DID work. It just needed to be plugged in. That was an exciting day after months and months of hefting that stupid door up to take the cars in or out.

Some more things I remember about living there:

The backyard backed up to a bayou, so there was nothing directly behind us except wildlife. However, from our upstairs windows, we could see into the backyards of three neighbors. On one side of us, we never saw our neighbors. But next to their yard, we could see the potbellied pig who lived back there. That thing was HUGE. But it never caused any trouble. Our neighbors on the other side, however… They had two kids, and they’d toss them in their backyard, where the decibel levels would rise to alarming heights. The bedroom I used as my office overlooked that yard, and one day when I was writing, the kids’ screams got so loud that I began to wonder if something was wrong–like maybe there was a snake in their yard or something. Just as I got up to look out the window, their father came out of the house without a stitch of clothes on to yell at them and threaten to whip them. My eyes, my EYES! There are some things I can never unsee no matter how much I wish I could.

As you can see from Stevie posing here, our backyard was pretty big. Certainly big enough for two dachshunds to run and play. This was the house we lived in when I took Stevie out late one night so she could have a final potty break before bed, and as we stood there, this ENORMOUS thing flapped past me, swooping toward Stevie. I had no idea that the wing span of an owl was that vast. Fortunately, the owl decided Stevie was a little too big to be prey, or else my crazy arm waving and hyperventilating startled it, because it went back up without bothering the dog. Stevie never even knew it happened.

There was also a nice patio just outside the sliding glass doors of the kitchen. We sat out there a lot when weather allowed. This is our grand-nephew Dave being held by his mother when they stayed with us while driving through Houston once.

We used to travel more at Christmas, though I’ve always loved being home for the holidays. We must have planned to be away the Christmas of this photo–probably 1993–so we didn’t put up a big tree, just the tiny one that I use for my Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus display. I loved the hearth and the fireplace in this house, and that’s where Tom’s sitting with all the presents and Stevie and Pete in his arms.

I wish I had a photo of the room I used for my office, because that’s where we had the daybed that Lynne made all the pillows and bedding for. But I do have a photo of the guest room.

When we moved there, we still had Steve R’s cats that we inherited after he died. They had the run of the upstairs, and we put a child gate at the top of the stairs so the dogs couldn’t bother them. This is Emily lying on one of the guest room beds. Maggie died while we were living in that house, and we buried her in the woods nearer Lynne’s house in the dead of night, with Lynne, Jess, Tom, and me to mourn her. She had a good long life–I think she was nineteen when she went to the Rainbow Bridge. Both cats would lie on the landing and watch whatever we were doing in the living room. This was their cats’ eye view:

That was Christmas of 94, and though we had a tree, it was just a small one that we put on a table to keep dogs and cats away from it.

Amy lived with us for a while, and she shared the guest room with the cats. Debby visited there a couple of times, once with her (now deceased) husband Len. It was an easy place to have visitors because of the way the layout gave everyone privacy.

This is also the place where I was determined that I would no longer wage the War of the Roaches without help. We contracted an exterminator to come regularly, and that’s the company we still use eighteen years later. I was recently out in that area and drove by their offices, realizing for the first time after all these years that I’d never had any idea where they were located or what their building looked like. They always came to us. The first time their tech did an inspection of the house, I sent him upstairs to have a look around. When he came back down, he had an amused expression on his face. I figured he’d been visiting with the cats. It was only later when I went upstairs that I realized I’d jokingly arranged all my Ken dolls in a nude chorus line across the guest room dresser.

We were living in that house when I awoke one morning feeling like the weight of the world was on me. I called in sick to work because everything just felt off. I turned on CNN and was doing something in the kitchen when the news broke about the Oklahoma City bombing–a terrible day. All I could do was sit on the couch with a dachshund on either side of me and stare at the TV for hours, grateful that I felt safe at home but hurting for the families whose lives changed forever that day. A couple of weeks later, Jeff died. Two months later, we closed on our house.

I wrote this post hours ago, but it didn’t feel finished. And I don’t know why, but when I found this poem by the late Michael Shepherd, it seemed to nudge me and say, I should end your post. Who doesn’t obey poetry when it speaks?

Housefly

Now that this housefly
has finished wringing its hands
over the past – what?

Legacy Writing 365:209

Way back in March 2007, I was bold enough to share all my school photos from first through twelfth grades, and in the comments to that post, I also published this photo:

It can ONLY be the fumes from that Lilt perm making me grin like a fool, because WHYYYY did my mother give us home perms? So our hair could look like this?

Dopey looks a little noble with his head up like that, though it’s possible he’s trying to communicate to Debby: The young one: She is strangling me.

Meanwhile, David (holding Daffy cat) sports a smile that’s almost a grimace. I don’t know what he had to be distressed about. Oh, wait. We’re in our PJs and he’s looking all cool kid. Probably he was forced to pose for this photo with his little sisters as a condition of going on a date. Could have been worse. He could have had his scalp tortured with Lilt perm rods.

Legacy Writing 365:185

I don’t know why when we were growing up we began telling Debby she was left with us by gypsies. Sometimes it was to tease her–you are not one of us–and before you feel sorry for her, she gives as good as she gets. (After all, I’m the one they had to go to Europe to get, making me a probable “not one of us.”)

I did always think she had a pixie quality, with her smallness, her freckles, and her upturned nose. And even though I was the one who drove her crazy talking to my imaginary herd of cows when she was trying to fall asleep, she’s the one who actually had a supernatural communion with animals. They were drawn to her, and with her big heart, if any animal was ever injured or in need, she would go to any length to help.

It was no surprise to me when she texted me about a bird who was blown onto her porch during a recent storm. Of course the bird would pick her house–probably animals have a secret mark they leave, like hobos, when they’ve found a compassionate human. When I saw the bird’s photo, I said, “Is that bird an exotic? Do you think it’s someone’s bird who got out? Or they let it go?”

The bird is, in fact, a cockatoo. She said except for some scrapes on his head, he’s in good shape. She called several rescue organizations without any luck, then she remembered that a neighbor of hers has birds. They talked, and the woman took him in. The neighbor did try to find his family via online resources, but no one claimed him. So now Stormy, as Debby calls him, has a new home, where he’s doing well.

Legacy Writing 365:172

This is our third Houston home: this time, we rented an actual three-bedroom house with enough space for us to breathe. Oddly, a few months ago when I went into the Northwest suburb where it’s located, I almost never found it. Everything has changed. Old access roads no longer exist, and new roads look so different. Even when I found the house, it didn’t look right. For one thing, that iron gate wasn’t on it when we lived there. Tom agreed that the house looks different from how he remembered it. I know the landscaping has totally changed.

The house is larger than it looks from the front, and it had a good-sized backyard that the dachshunds loved. For the first time they could be outside unleashed and run as much as they liked. There was an uncovered patio, and sometimes I set my little Mac out there and wrote.

Some things I remember about living there:

We didn’t have enough furniture to fill it, so we bought a twin bedroom set with a dresser and an additional dresser/hutch for the guest room. We bought a daybed for the other bedroom. My mother moved in with us for a year or so. Though she put most of her stuff in storage, we used her living room and dining room furniture. The only stuff left from all that are the twin beds and the dressers that went with those, which are now in Lila’s room in Lynne’s house at Green Acres. I do wish I still had the daybed. Lynne made a lot of furnishings for the daybed with some Ralph Lauren sheets that I loved. I still have those. We put the pillows on the window seat in our current dining room and she turned the daybed’s dust ruffle into a dining room curtain for us.
Either we took some of the roaches with us from the dreadful apartment or there were some already there, because we had to do battle with them the entire time we lived in the house.
Before Steve R died, he made arrangements for where his cats should go. That didn’t happen as it was planned, so the cats ended up living in the daybed room with a gate up so they could get out if they wanted to, but the dogs couldn’t get in to bother them. Dachshunds are burrowers, so at night they’d get under the covers with Tom and me, and the cats would wander the house, even coming into our bedroom to say hello, and the dogs never knew it.
Someone used a crowbar to try to break into my car, doing a ton of damage to the door. When the crowbar didn’t work, they broke one of the windows. The grand total of what they took: a pack of cigarettes. That was a pricey pack of cigarettes for my insurance company and me. They snubbed my cassettes–obviously didn’t share my taste in music. And they took all my photos and files that were being used to create a booklet for Steve’s memorial service, plus whatever was in the glove box, and spread them all over the driveway. Nothing was damaged other than the car.
That house was the first place large enough that we could do any real entertaining. It’s where we lived the first time our friend Amy visited us. When the dogs ran in from the back yard, Pete charged her and she jumped ON the dining room table, I think bypassing the chair completely, so he couldn’t bite her. Later, they became best friends.
We were living in that house when Cousin Rachel called to tell us that her mother, Aunt Drexel, had died. I vividly remember standing in the kitchen, talking to Rachel on the phone, and feeling so sad and far away. I really loved Aunt Drexel.
One time my mother was going to chop up a leftover pork roast in the food processor to make barbecue from it. She forgot to put the lid on, and pork went everywhere. From then on, whenever they heard the food processor, Pete and Stevie ran into the kitchen with high hopes.
We kept getting onto Stevie for turning the trash over. Then one night after we left to go somewhere, Tom ran back inside for something and caught Pete IN THE ACT. We’d been blaming the wrong dog.

…and toes

Be sweet to your feet on Valentine’s Day.

I started with a soak in my Dr. Scholl’s Foot Bath Massager. Heated water and gentle vibration to relax the feet. While I was soaking, I was nearing the end of Dean James’s latest Cat in the Stacks Mystery, File M for Murder (written under the name Miranda James). I picked this up the other day when I went to an event at Murder By The Book, where Dean, Avery Aames, Melissa Bourbon Ramirez, and Kate Carlisle were signing their new books.

Dean/Miranda with Daryl/Avery.

Melissa/Misa and Kate.

Check out their sites and read their books if you enjoy a mystery.

Now, back to me. Here are some UNSPONSORED products I used to indulge myself in a pedicure.

Heel to Toe’s Rejuvenating Spa Foot Soak added to the foot bath. A foot massage with Diabeti Derm’s Foot Rejuvenating Cream. (You can see a little corner of a Whitman’s Sampler ad in the photo. Have a piece of chocolate while you soak if you’re into that sort of thing!) Finally, a coat of Sinful Colors’ Tokyo Pearl, then a light coat of OPI’s Gold Shatter, and a top coat of Sally Hansen’s Super Shine.

Happy toes!

Hope you’ll do something nice for yourself today, too. And while you’re at it, check out Rex’s feet.

Legacy Writing 365:16

I grumble sometimes when I read stories about people rehoming their animals, but I do know there are circumstances when it’s the best option. And I would much rather people find a good home for a companion, whatever their reason, than drop one off in a neighborhood or on a rural road–or take one to a place that euthanizes. Animals deserve our efforts to find them the best homes, and it’s just reality that someone else may be a better match.

Trust me, my birds Bogie and Bacall were in no danger from my sister’s cat Casey when I took this photo. I’m not sure they knew that.

My sister adopted Casey when she was a single girl in a new city. He immediately tried everything he could to get his freedom, including leaping from a third-floor balcony into the shrubbery. But the two of them worked it out, and when she traveled to visit me, Casey came along. That’s how he met my birds. I, too, was single and living in a new place. My mother and sister had gone shopping with me to pick out stuff for my apartment, and we decided birds would be good companions so I wouldn’t feel alone. Each bird had a cage, but they liked being together, so eventually I hooked them up in a way that they could hang out alone or together–their choice. Sometimes I let them fly free around my apartment, but certainly not when Casey was there!

Once when my mother and sister were visiting, they sat on the patio outside my back door. It had a nice view of fields and hills, and they could smoke and drink coffee while they chatted. I was inside tidying up the place, and I went into the guest room to put something away. When I turned to go out the door, Casey was blocking my way. I spoke to him, and his response was a low, menacing growl. I’ve never been afraid of cats, but then again, I’ve never had one threaten me. I’ve known a couple of people who were scratched or bitten by feral cats or ill cats, so even though Casey had always been docile with me, I was intimidated enough to call for my sister to come get him. Unfortunately, she couldn’t hear me, and I was trapped in the room with Casey growling at me from the doorway for the longest ten minutes of my life before she came inside. Of course, he didn’t let her see his badass side, but she believed me, and she started calling him Sid Vicious after that.

After she married, she and her husband were visiting her in-laws in rural Kentucky. Sid Vicious was along, and it was clear that cat and new grandmother hit it off. Since the in-laws were cat-free and wanted a cat, Sid went to a new home. That story people tell about “Fluffy going to live on a farm where he can run free and play”–that actually does happen sometimes. Sid lived a full, long life as happy as he could be. He just was never meant to be an apartment cat.

Meanwhile, Tom and I married and moved to Houston. We still had Bogie and Bacall, who lived in the guest room. But then I met a coworker of Lynne’s who loved birds. Not only was he a longtime friend to exotic birds of his own, but he often rescued birds that people no longer wanted. He’d built this amazing habitat for them and could provide tons of information about each bird’s personality and quirks. I realized that my parakeets could have a much better life with him than with me, so they relocated to his aviary. From time to time he gave me updates; both Bogie and Bacall picked out mates (originally I’d thought they were male and female, but they were both male) and adapted quickly to a new and better life.

If you ever do need to rehome an animal companion, please work with rescue organizations and no-kill shelters. And be patient. There’s no reason to feel guilty about wanting to find the right home for a dog, cat, or exotic. They count on us and should get our best!

Legacy Writing 365:3

Is this a leap year? Should I be saying 366:3 instead?

For a time in my twenties, Lynne and I lived together with a house full of dogs and her cat. The guy I was dating lived about two hours away. He didn’t have a car, and sometimes a friend would drive him halfway; I’d meet them and take him back to our little town for the weekend. It was on such a day that I was idly walking through a big discount store that was a forerunner of Walmart. I didn’t intend to buy anything; it was just a way to pass the time until the friend and boyfriend arrived.

I absolutely didn’t intend to buy one of the kittens who was with a group of them in the back of the store. These days, I’d never buy a dog or cat when so many need to be adopted and when irresponsible breeders shouldn’t be encouraged. But as ignorant as I was about such things then, even I knew we didn’t need another animal in the household. Still, there was one kitten I couldn’t ignore. He was talking to me, not begging, but demanding, and I held him for a bit and talked back. Finally I returned him to the enclosure and started to walk away. When I looked back, he was hanging by his paws from the top of the metal, as if trying to follow me out.

So Kess left the store with me.

He packed a ton of hilarious personality and bad behavior into his tiny body. He pooped in the plants, kept me up at night, and tried to nurse my throat, meaning I had to sleep holding the covers firmly over my head. He bossed all the other animals around. He was noisy. But all would be forgiven when he’d be adorable and affectionate. When he’d curl up with the dogs for a nap. When he’d eat without a sign of finicky behavior. When he’d chase a toy or lie on his back working a piece of yarn or a ribbon. When he’d bounce around the house en pointe, back arched, slaying imaginary enemies.

And some not so imaginary. One of the features of the wonderful old house we lived in was what we called “well crickets,” probably actually camel crickets. If you’re not familiar with these, go check out this photo at your own risk. The horror of these things is that they look like spiders and jump like crickets. Seriously? A spider that can JUMP AT YOU? And will, because the little bastards NEVER jump away from you. Nothing could send me shrieking from a room like the appearance of what I dubbed “leapers.”

Wouldn’t that be exactly the kind of prey that would fascinate an inquisitive kitten?

I was sitting on my bed one night, working on a lesson plan, when I spied movement across the room. I sucked in my breath: LEAPER! My body chose fright over flight. I sat rigid, hoping it would hop its way out of the room. Kess saw it, too, and dropped to the floor to fix his gaze on it, his dilated pupils driving the blue from his eyes. It jumped toward the door; he stared and slowly crept after it. It jumped again; same reaction. The third time it jumped, it was outside my room! I leaned over and slammed the door. Kess gave me an exasperated look, reached a paw under the door, and brought it back inside.

Stupid cat. He finally killed it when it stopped amusing him, but by then I was another few years closer to thirty-five.

When I was accepted into graduate school, I knew I could take only one animal with me, and that was going to be my dog. Lynne would have kept Kess, but we had some friends who wanted him. He enjoyed a long, happy reign over two human slaves and two Great Danes who devotedly served King Kess. Not a bad life for a discount cat.