Tag: cats

Legacy Writing 365:185

Debby with Winky the kitten.

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.

End of an era

My mother was an avid magazine reader. I can remember from the time I was a child what seemed to be a steady flow from the mailbox to her lap, as she curled up in her favorite chair, cigarettes and ashtray at hand, and depending on the time of day, her cup of black coffee, iced tea (sweetened), Diet Rite, Coke, Tab, or Diet Coke on the table next to her. The magazines: Time, Newsweek, Reader’s Digest, Saturday Evening Post, Look, Life, Ladies’ Home Journal, Better Homes and Gardens, Good Housekeeping, McCall’s, Redbook, TV Guide, Southern Living. No matter where we lived, those magazines with their articles and fiction, recipes and photos, were a constant. But since the times were a’changin’ as fast as our addresses, she also read Mad, Rolling Stone, Ms., and Mother Jones. I don’t think there was any magazine she wouldn’t read, and even after she lived on a fixed income, she kept up a few subscriptions.


She’s holding Joe Willie the cat here, but next to the end table, you can see her bucket o’ magazines. If your eyes are really sharp, you can also see her lit cigarette. She’s in her early forties in this photo.

By the time she died in 2008, those magazines were coming to her at my address.


Even though I wasn’t as absorbed by them as I apparently was in infancy, I would flip through them and then find homes for them: waiting rooms in clinics and doctors’ offices, Lynne’s break room at work, online friends who might enjoy them. Finally the subscriptions began to run out, and today I got this with the October issue of the lone remaining subscription:

The slogan for Ladies’ Home Journal is “Never underestimate the power of a woman.” I concur, but I would add, “Never underestimate the power of a woman who reads.” A lifetime of books and magazines kept a woman who had to drop out of school in eighth grade to take care of sick family members–whose only work outside the home was as a hospital, Red Cross, and museum volunteer–smart, savvy, aware, and connected to generations of men and women, many of whom thought she was pretty damn special. When I saw my nephew recently, he recounted a story of how her “boys” (a group of gay men who befriended her in her seventies) were going to throw a Wizard of Oz party, at which she would go in character as Dorothy (which was, after all, her name). They were able to find everything for her costume except the ruby slippers–so essential that without them, the party was canceled.

No matter; she pretty much thought all of life was her party, and everything she read was her guidebook for making it more interesting.

Cats! Murder!

Tuesday night I went to Murder By the Book to join a packed house celebrating the release of Dean James’s new mystery. Writing as Miranda James, Classified as Murder is the second in his “Cat in the Stacks” mystery series. The first, Murder Past Due, was a New York Times bestseller. I am delighted for his success, because I’m not sure anyone I’ve known has done as much to support other writers with good advice or book promotion than Dean. Though he’ll be the first to admit that the cat pictured on the cover is not exactly Diesel, the Maine Coon in the novel who is librarian/amateur sleuth Charlie Harris’s sidekick, I agree with him that the covers are engaging.

Long live cat mysteries! I feel sure the marvelous Mr. and Mrs. North novels by Frances and Richard Lockridge were among the first I ever read, and I’m glad Dean’s cozies have joined that group.

Christmases Past, No. 3: Our cat, the legend

One Christmas both my father and my brother were stationed overseas (different countries), and we were a household of women. Well, except for the dog and my sister’s cat, Joe Willie. Here’s Joe Willie as a TV-obsessed youngster:

He got his name because of his four white feet. Quarterback Joe Namath, who led Alabama’s Crimson Tide to a 29–4 record over three seasons and later had a stellar career with the New York Jets, was known for many things, including his white football shoes when the rest of the Jets wore black. Joe Namath also had a reputation as a ladies’ man, and our Joe Willie was as legendary in our neighborhood.

These were the days before we knew to spay and neuter our pets, and therein lies a cautionary tale.

I’d like to think my sister took this photo because she was feeling the Christmas spirit as Mother and I decorated the tree. But I suspect she was documenting that once again, I’d robbed her closet for something to wear, because that’s her wool shorts-and-sweater set. Thanks, Debby! It’s probably about the last time I could fit into your clothes.

Once our tree was decorated and all the presents tucked beneath it, we decided to go with Mother to a party at some friends’ house. As we were leaving, we encountered a female cat on the porch, crying at Joe Willie in the window and begging him to come outside to…play.

“Nope, he’s staying in tonight,” my mother said. “You’ll have to find another boyfriend.”

What she failed to consider was that Joe Willie wanted to go out and…play. We came home to a tree all askew, ornaments scattered around it. Even worse, we had to get a new tree and my mother had to rebox and rewrap all the gifts. This Christmas is always referred to as “that time the cat peed all over everything.”

May your Christmas be cat urine-free.