Farewell L'il Cat

June 5th, 2021 marked the end of the road for dear Sambo.   19 years is a long time on the Earth for a cat, and Sambo had a better life than most.  Born with her pelvis not attached to his spine, I thought her first trip to the vet would also be her last all those years ago.  But no,  Sambo healed and became a housecat and spent her days warm in the winter, cool in the summer,  food always available and never wanting for affection.

The first 9 years were bliss until I moved in here with Sambo's mother in 2010.   They didn't see eye to eye on most things, but they both loved me.   Mother Sweet Pea passed in 2019, so Sambo had good year and a half to enjoy solitude once again.

Her last few weeks were a downward spiral of not eating enough,  losing weight,  cognitive changes, and finally a decision to let go.  

Sambo, who everyday kept my kitchen chair warm until I chased her off so I could eat breakfast, is now under the Ginko tree with Sweet Pea.  (separate sides, of course)

 

Sweet Pea 2000 (circa) - 2019

We buried Sweet Pea today. People who know the love of a pet, know how tough it is to say goodbye.  I'll just write a few words to mark her passing.   Sweet Pea, who arrived in my greenhouse and gave birth the summer of 2001, now lies under the Ginko tree in the back yard.  She was preceded in death by her mate "Old Whitey" who died long ago, and a son, Bootsie Bell, who died
in 2006.  She is survived by Sambo, her youngest, a daughter.   Sweet Pea and Sambo never got along but managed to co-exist the last 9 years of their lives together, without drawing blood. 

Sweet Pea was known early in her life for her hunting abilities, and also her keen intellect.  A Tuxedo cat,  she had the classic markings except for a spot on her left front toe. 

She will be sadly missed by people who visited with her here. 

Sambo is now the Queen of the House and probably won't shed many tears.

19 Cat Years

Things aren't going well for Sweet Pea. She's been my near constant companion for so long now, I just assumed she would be here forever.   Like that science fiction story that Harlan Ellison wrote about a boy named Jefty.  Jefty was Five.  He was Always Five. Jefty never grew up and got old.
It made for a strange story.

Sweet Pea showed up here pregnant all those years ago and gave birth to kittens in my greenhouse.  Two of them survived. Sweet Pea was so small. She was always a petite cat.  I think that was the problem.

Boots Bell was her beloved boy kitten. He died young back around 2006, when he was hit by a car.  The dear cat climbed all the way up the double terrace to die under a bush by the house.  Sweet Pea climbed right in beside him. That was her boy.  She followed my bro-in-law to the woods where he
buried him. She knew.   She had also lost her mate, "Old Whitey,"  a stray cat with a broken tail, on the same highway.

But Sweet Pea became an inside cat after only a few years.  Inside cats live longer, and better.  Her other kitten, a female, became my mom's cat. She is still here, too.  But Sweet Pea never liked Little Sambo, the runt kitten.  They are still hissing at each other today.   (Usually when one passes by too closely to the other.)

Well, I'm tired.  Decisions have to made and I can't make them right now.   I'll just go hug Sweet Pea
a little closer.  She knows me.  But in addition to being very sick, she is starting to act bewildered.
Like life is washing over her and she is powerless to  really grasp it.

Hello World

Hello, again.  I'm still here.   It was a mild winter, but a long one when you consider that I've been pretty much house/work bound since November.   Caregiving keeps you in the house.  But it's planting season, and I've got a greenhouse to fill.  Trying to work out a walkie talkie communication system with Stella.   Her brain doesn't 'get' it.  And her arthritic fingers can't push the button in hard enough to make it work.

I'll figure something out.

That's my grandfather, in someone's wedding a long ago time.  I've spent some time on Ancestry dot com this winter filling up the family tree.   Up to  545 people as of today. I also took the DNA test. 73 percent Finnish and the rest mostly Eastern European.  It's cool to see whose DNA matches up as 4th cousins or so and see where they live on a map.   One of the many fun aspects of Ancestry. 

I started researching the family after dad died in 1998. Back then is was snail mail. Writing to distant churches in faraway countries trying to get birth records.   It was a tedious process, but even then I managed to go back to the 1600's for some lines.  Now I am expanding that work..... into husbands of cousins, and 7th great grand aunts, and all these different family relationship labels that autopopulate as people "match up" in my tree and others.

The Last Rose of Summer

It's September 22, the sunflowers are fading and I see the last Rose of Summer.  It's on Aunt Adeline's bush. Dead long these 28 years,  her rose bush is still here.  It's orange...the same color as the sunrise forming in the East as I look out my bedroom window right now.   Sweet Pea is still here beside me hindering my typing somewhat. Nuzzling my wrist, wanting attention. 

Trump is still in office, the summer was a nightmare from a caregiving standpoint, and I've so far managed to avoid a nervous breakdown, but have come close a few times.  Stress does that.

But it's Saturday, and maybe I can score a little downtime.  Never further away than a holler from the other room, but downtime.  Much of my life has been lost to Twitter.   Trying to keep up with the carnival of smoke and mirrors and "look over here's" and the daily drumbeat of lies, perversions, and BS that has defined the current Presidency.   Perhaps the Jewish folks have it right with Shabbat.  A day to unplug.   I've been listening to Rabbi David Wolpe's sermons quite regularly and feel a kinship to his way of thinking.  He is a great Rabbi.  A Great teacher. 

Oh the clouds have spoiled the sunrise.  No more Adeline's rose colored sky.  Dreariness has replaced the hope for the day with  muddy grayish blue skies.

Well, here it is. A post.  Hopefully more posts to follow as I really missed this space.

The Sunday Morning Muse, March 18, 2018

It's Sunday and the sun is rising up over the city through my window,  on a chilly 21 degree day.  I really notice the floaters in my eyes getting worse when I look at the sunrise, so that detracts from the glory of the moment somewhat.  My one friend got rid of his floaters with surgery. Punctured his eye in three places and took out all the fluid inside and replaced it with saline.   My eye doctor says I'm not ready for that yet.  Don't know if he meant physically, emotionally, or both.  It does sound like an exquisite form of torture. But I digress.

I am a caregiver to my 87 year old disabled mother.  No, this blog isn't going to be about that.  This is my escape from that.  Yet, at times, like today, I feel compelled to write that right now there is yodeling coming from the other room as she is listening to a German program on the radio.  Not ideal conditions to create deep thoughts and convey them to you on this blog.  But I'll just move along.

The snowbells are up....and I spotted two crocuses  ( croci?) yesterday near the house.  I measure the year by flowers.  Snowbells are always first....we'll be waiting for the daffodils and tulips next. Will Trump be impeached in lilac time or must we wait for the Sunflowers?

St. Patrick's Day 2018

  Happy St. Patrick's Day to all the Irish and their decendents! 

The sun is coming up on this special day.  We still have the holiday flag flying outside..... but Easter has already taken over here with bunnies and eggs edging out the clover leaves and leprechauns. (Put them up too early, I guess.)

Ireland means Van Morrison to me.  The old curmugdeon is  still out there performing and making new music and that is a good thing. 

Tura Lura Lura....

The Sunday Morning Muse, March 4, 2018

So...before we were rudely interrupted..... now what was it we were going on about? Well, let's just begin anew.  It's Sunday and the sun is rising above the city and I'm feeling this inner stirring to
write again.  I'll need a few posts to find my bearings, so bear with me. :)

"It's a cocky old world," Aunt Millie used to say.  Yes, it is dear.  Oh, if you had lived to see what it's become! I'm still here on your hill, the land where your father settled on at the turn of the last century.  Since that time, many are gone. First went those who remembered World War I,  and now the last few veterans of World War II are disappearing. You counted the widows on the hill remaining of your generation, and now the next generation of widows are dying off  as the cycle continues.

Some things remain.  The daffodils still come back each spring where the steps used to be going up to the old "Bum" School.  The bulbs planted sometime in the 40's or 50's..... no way to tell. The school
is long gone, the land overrun by thickets and locust trees.... but the path of the steps is laid out each year for a short time.  The path of daffodils.

Waiting for spring again.  The birds are up this morning, their songs carrying in the cold air as I took
food out to Yellow Cat.  (More about him later.)

It's good to be back.

The Sunday Morning Muse, March 13, 2016

'But I don't want to go among mad people,' said Alice. 'Oh, you can't help that,' said the cat. 'We're all mad here.' - Lewis Carroll

 ---

Pretty much sums up the current political climate.  

CoCo's Last Day

CoCo's world was growing smaller. On her last day I held her and we walked in the sun on the driveway. She could hear the birds and feel the warmth of the sun. We walked back in the house and I took her to mom to say goodbye, then to Janet the caregiver who gave CoCo her lunch everyday while I was at work. Back on the porch I gently sat her down and she ate one last cat treat, then I put her in her hut.  I took a pinch of catnip and set it on her pillow, while we waited for her 10:30 appointment with death.

 I sang to her in the car on the way to the vet. The little made up ditties that women sing to cats. I talked and she meowed now and then. A weak little noise, letting me know she was still there. One last look at the day light as she popped her head up from her box.

We sat on the bench outside. Not enough time. They took us in so soon. I could have sat on the bench longer with my little friend, but it was time to go.

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( We buried her that day under her favorite tree, the Ginkgo, in the backyard.  The picture above is her in better times.... she used the tree as a scratchbox and there was a ring around it as high as she could reach.)