Tag: pets

Frankie

Saturday and a big day of being out of the house. I had planned on not doing much outside the apartment vis-a-vis errands, but Paul’s state ID expires today (and he only realized it last night) so somehow only getting the mail today has morphed into the DMV, Costco, lunch out, and the mail. Ah, well, I can come home and write in my easy chair. I finally figured out why my Macbook Air doesn’t sync with my Microsoft accounts; it needed to have Word updated and the passwords reset…so now I can access everything from the laptop, which makes life ever so much easier for me. I was actually working on the revision of “When I Die” yesterday when Paul decided he was done for the day and came downstairs so we could watch Mary and George (still superb) and more of the second season of Vigil, which is absolutely fantastic.

I did get some chores done around here yesterday–I laundered all the bed linens and another load of laundry, and worked on the dishes, which need to be finished this morning, and did some picking up and organizing–and while I am relatively certain these errands are going to wear me out today, at least I feel rested this morning. I was still a big tired yesterday from the week, and when I woke up was a little groggy. This morning I feel ever so much better, frankly, and so I hope I can go ahead and make it through the day.

I have been watching with macabre enjoyment this bizarre civil war within the Republican party, and am not entirely sure how this is all going to end up. Yesterday the news broke and went viral about South Dakota Governor Kristi Noem, one of the potential VP candidates for the right, who wrote in her self-promoting-I-am-to-be-taken-seriously-on-the-national-stage-book-about-me-in-an-election-year that she hated a fourteen month old puppy who “couldn’t” be trained (that’s a you failure, Madam Adulteress) so she decided to shoot him in a gravel pit–and then shot a goat she didn’t like on top of it when that didn’t sate her bloodlust. I immediately knew when I saw the Guardian article about it that she was 1) pretty much finished and 2) not really aware about the divide between urban and rural when she wrote that in her book. I know exactly the kind of mindset she has about animals–she’s rural–because it’s the same mentality my parents had about animals because they grew up on farms and you don’t have animals in the house as pets, for one thing, and for another, when you grow up on a farm and are used to killing animals for food–cows, pigs, chickens, etc.–you don’t get really sentimental about them because they die. I also knew it wasn’t going to play well with voters and most Americans, because most of us love animals and try to do whatever we can to save them, not shoot them. She also doesn’t get it, still; she defended herself with a post or statement of some sort where she talked about that very thing–and how many animals on her ranch/farm/whatever she’s had to put down recently. Way to throw gasoline on the fire, Madam Adulteress!

And way to not understand the American electorate. And if you don’t know that the vast majority of Americans love animals and especially dogs–you’re probably too ignorant and out-of-touch with most Americans to lead anywhere other than an extremely rural state, and most definitely not the entire country.

Interesting how many Republicans have been horrific dog owners–Noem, the Romneys, and the Huckabees of Arkansas.

My parents may not have had any sentimentality about pets, but they also didn’t have any.

Ah, Mary and George. I hope you are watching, Constant Reader–even if you aren’t into history, the show is the kind of bitchy back-stabbing plots and subplots and twisty/turny show that reminds me, with its wit and bitchiness, of some of the greater nighttime soaps and even of Real Housewives shows. I also like how fluid everyone’s sexuality is at the Jacobean court. I really need to read a bio of King James; I’ve certainly read enough about his mother Mary Queen of Scots and his son, Charles I, who lost his head during the second English civil war. I know Antonia Fraser, whose superb Mary Queen of Scots I read when I was eleven, wrote a bio of James that I always wanted to read but never did. Perhaps this is the proper time? I also should read bios of Louis XIII and Cardinal Richelieu to get a stronger sense of the time period…and I really am beginning to think I might be able to start writing Milady, my long-dreamed-of novel, later in this year.

And on that note, Constant Reader, I am heading into the spice mines to load the dishwasher and get the day’s business started. Have a fabulous day, and who knows? I may be back later.

Memory

Ah, how I love cats.

I’ve been putting my cats into my books now for quite some time.

It’s kind of funny, because I never wanted to be one of those people–posting pictures of my pets, writing them into my books–until, of course, I actually acquired a pet. It never occurred to me to put Skittle into any of my books, until we lost him to a very rapidly advancing cancer when he was only seven.

Skittle was such a beautiful cat.

Skittle came to us when he was about six months old, when we were still living in the carriage house. (We’d gotten a mouse, and were advised by friends, neighbors and landlady to just get a cat…to which were both like “Really? We don’t want a cat and we know nothing about them” but after the third mouse sighting, it was, yeah, we need a cat. We got Skittle on Christmas Eve, 2003, as a bit of a Christmas present to ourselves. (We never saw the mouse again.) And cute and tiny as he was, we had no idea what a cat was like or what was normal behavior for them…and he had us completely charmed and under his thumb by the end of the day–head butts, making biscuits, cuddling and a non-stop purr machine. Skittle was beautiful, but was afraid of the outside for a while. He’d been found at about two weeks old in the middle of the road in a rainstorm, so the sound of cars scared him for a long time, and he was terrified of going outside for the first few years. Then one night I was coming home from a party–Paul was staying in the Quarter for the TW Fest, and I was home taking care of the cat–and the front door didn’t latch. When I got up the next morning the door was wide open, and Skittle was nowhere to be found. I called him a few times, and he came out from under the main house and sat down on the walk, nonchalantly cleaning himself as a very-relieved me ran and grabbed him.

After that, we had to watch and make sure the door closed because he’d dash out if he had the chance. He always let us catch him eventually, but he liked to explore and check for vermin and other live toys to torture. He was a great hunter, and could take a palmetto bug out of mid-air with a massive leap. He loved to play fetch, was very affectionate, and loved people, always winning them over by winding through their legs and rubbing against them, begging to be petted. He was also long-haired and I swear he shed that entire coat at least three or four times a year; his hair was everywhere. He also was smart–he trained me to know what four different noises he made were: food, water, litter box to be cleaned, and I either want to be petted and go to sleep on you in your chair. When I had a laptop as my primary computer (from 2003-2010), I had it sitting on a metal tray at eye level while I used a separate keyboard, and Skittle loved to go to sleep up there. When I got an actual desktop computer again, he lost his place to sleep while I worked, and he did. Not. Like. That. One. Bit.

He got sick first over Memorial Day that weekend, and he was dehydrated. The vet rehydrated him again and he was back to his normal self…but over Labor Day he was sick again. It was cancer, and from the first diagnosis that Tuesday after Labor Day and when we took him back a few weeks later….it had spread to all of his organs, and it became just a matter of time. Keeping him alive would require three months in the hospital, thousands of dollars, and no guarantee he would make it through.

We were both devastated when we brought him home that Wednesday night, and we made an appointment to send him over the Rainbow Bridge for Saturday. We spoiled him that Thursday and Friday–treats and tuna, as much as he wanted. Ironically, those last few days, he seemed like himself again to the point that I had to be the monster on Saturday morning and convince Paul it was better to let him go now, rather than watch him decline because he wasn’t getting any better; it was almost like he knew so he wanted us to remember him the way he always was. Paul spent that entire day after we got back in bed, while I was an empty shell of myself, removing all reminders–toys, food, etc. because every time I found one I’d start crying again, so I rounded them all up.

I wanted to get another cat, but Paul was so heartbroken, he wasn’t sure he could handle another so soon. (I was also heartbroken, but I also knew we had to rescue another one.)

Scooter was such a handsome fellow, too.

Thursday the vet called to let me know Skittle’s ashes were ready for us to pick up, so I went over there on my way to work in the morning and picked them up. They had some cats there for adoption from the SPCA, and there was a beautiful orange boy, named Texas, who was so sweet I wanted to take him home right then. But I didn’t know if Paul would be upset if I brought home a replacement cat, so I didn’t, but I remembered him and thought I’ll talk to Paul about it tonight.

Paul was asleep on the couch when I got home from work that night, and so I turned on the television and thought, “I’ll ask him about Texas when he wakes up.” I read while something was on television–a Real Housewives marathon, I think–and about an hour later, Paul sat up on the couch, completely freaked out that he’d just seen a mouse looking at him from the top of the recycling bin. I hadn’t seen anything. He was just dreaming–and his subconscious was letting him know it was okay to get another cat. Thirteen years later, he still insists there was a mouse. So I told him about Texas, told him to go by and look at home and if he wanted him, to make all the arrangements and I’d pick him up after work. Paul fell in love with Texas, and nothing would do except that I pick HIM up from work and we’d go together to get him.

Scooter jumped out of the crate and hid under the coffee table, which was a bit concerning. But after about an hour of us leaving him alone, he came out, crawled onto the couch and onto Paul, laid down on his chest and started purring and headbutting him, and then he came over to me and did the same. We renamed him Scooter that first night, and for thirteen years, we had this incredibly sweet ginger boy.

Such a sweet boy. Around this time was when I realized that if I started putting MY cats into my work meant they would live forever. So I gave Chanse’s friend Paige (who hadn’t yet appeared in a Scotty book an orange and white cat named Skittle. I gave Scotty a cat named Scooter, and I can’t remember which cat I gave to Valerie in my cozy series; it was either Skittle or Scooter. Jem also has a black cat in Death Drop, but he is fictional–what else but Shade?

We had Scooter for thirteen years. He had a bout with diabetes, but insulin shots cleared that up (thank God; I hated giving him those shots) and he was mostly healthy. One morning last summer before I went to work I noticed Scooter was huffing–and having trouble breathing. I tried to soothe him, but I could tell he was terrified…and thought, Oh no, this is probably it for him, how am I going to break it to Paul? Later that morning he called me at work to tell me we needed to take Scooter in, and we were probably going to lose him. We took him over that morning, and they called us later to let us know it was congestive, and he wasn’t going to make it. They had him comfortable, but whenever they took him out of the oxygen thing he’d start huffing again. It was, alas, fatal, so I walked over there and held him while they put him to sleep and he crossed the rainbow bridge. I sobbed all the way home, and still can’t think about him without tearing up.

The house felt so empty without a cat. But finally we steeled ourselves and headed to the SPCA to pick out a new rescue.

Sparky!

And we brought Sparky home, and I’ve been entertaining you all with tales of the kitten here ever since. He’s a darling, and he’s getting so much bigger than the little kitten with a big voice and adorable energy. He picked us out–just as Skittle did–and I love that he’s got orange coloring, as you can see above.

And I guess I’ll have to start another series so I can immortalize Sparky, too.

Theft, and Wandering Around Lost

Work at home Friday!

Not that I mind going to the office, of course, but I love working at home on Fridays because I don’t have to get up early. Although that hasn’t been much of a problem this week, in all honesty; I’ve not had to force myself out of bed one morning this week, not have I dragged and been tired all morning. I’ve slept well every night this week (probably just jinxed it) which has made a significant difference. I think perhaps my theory yesterday–the release of stress and the absence of anything causing me anxiety because I finally caught up–has probably had a lot to do with why I was able to sleep so deeply and well this week. Now, hopefully this weekend I can start making progress on a deep clean of the apartment, prune out some more books, and perhaps get some other things started. I’ve kept up for those most with the daily shit I always let pile up–laundry, dishes, filing–so I won’t have to spend much time this weekend getting that shit caught up, which is kind of nice; I am not behind going into the weekend.

I really need to do something about the cabinets, to be honest, and perhaps it IS time to reorganize the counters. And maybe we can order our new refrigerator this weekend. One can but dream, I suppose. I slept late this morning, which felt great, but we’re both a little concerned about Scooter. He’s not himself these last few days, and so we are thinking about taking him into the vet to get him checked out. He also hasn’t been howly-bitchy lately, either. He gave me a rather weak attempt at a fill my bowl you cretin this morning, but it was more sad than demanding. He is about fourteen, which I’ve been thinking about lately (sorry, death of loved ones is much on my mind this year, sue me) but I was dreading having to have the conversation about “we may be losing him” this soon. Last night when I got home from work he slept in my lap briefly but then gave up and went to lay on the floor in front of the dryer in the laundry room–he always likes it in there were one of the appliances (whether dishwasher, dryer, or washer) are in operation, I think the vibrations on the floor appeal to him and soothe in some mysterious cat-fashion–but I was doing chores and not paying attention to anything, then realized oh you should play Spotify through the computer and that was when I noticed that I had my iMessages app open on the computer and Paul had texted me around three to call him. I finally did when I saw the text around eight last night, and that was when he told me his concerns about Scooter, which while it saddened me that it wasn’t just my imagination, I was also glad that I didn’t have to be the one to bring it to his attention and talk him through it. He does seem better this morning, but I think we still need to take him to the vet to be checked out. Who knows? It may not be something fatal, but something that medications can clear up. It’s just that he’s so old; we’ve had him for almost thirteen years and they said he was two when we adopted him, which would make him fifteen. He’s such a sweet thing. And no matter how many times I tell myself well if we lose him we can rescue another cat from a grim existence inside a cage , and give him a great life, but that doesn’t help all that much, really.

The trade-off for the great joy a pet can bring you is the sorrow of losing them. On the other hand, I also wouldn’t want to outlive a pet, either; stories about pets whose owners/parents died on them always break my heart. I still mourn Skittle and my childhood dog, Sandy–and Sandy crossed the Rainbow Bridge when I was nineteen, so over forty years ago.

I’m going to try to keep my sadness at bay–Mom always said worrying was just borrowing trouble–and focus so I can be productive today and not get behind on things the way I was before. And work makes for a marvelous way of escaping sorrow, when it isn’t paralyzing.

I did get started last night on the pile of dishes and some laundry last night, which I need to finish this morning, I have work at home duties to do and a couple (how lovely that sounds!) of emails to answer. I want to finish writing some more drafted blog entries that have been there in my drafts forever–or delete them, accepting the fact that I will either never write the entry or it needs to be a longer form personal essay or its no longer topical. Clean the drafts out, Gregalicious! I was also a little pleased with myself for finishing two other draft entries yesterday–one about writing Games Frat Boys Play and one about my story “Solace in a Dying Hour”–the anthology This Fresh Hell, in which it appears, dropped yesterday and you can click on the title link there to order a copy–isn’t it lovely how I try to make things easier for you, Constant Reader?–so I am making progress on that front. At one point I was trying to write entries about each and every one of my books; I got away from that when life got out of my control yet again, and it’s not a bad idea to go back to this stuff. I think I had also stopped with both Need and Timothy on deck; I am going to try to get back on track with that. Hell, the older entries about Scotty and Chanse books might even be on Livejournal, of all places. (Ye olde blog is still up and findable over there; I used to take the entries private after a few months because the blog had been plagiarized a few times; but I think the last year or so are still up.) I’ll have to check to see. But I’ve been keeping Queer and Loathing in America since December of 2004; next year I’ll reach my twentieth anniversary of blogging. (!!!)

I also worked on organizing and cleaning up electronic files, which is much more time-consuming than one might think–as much as I love being organized, that sadly doesn’t carry over to my computer files, the cloud or the back-up hard drive. Ever since I discovered I can do file-searches for when I need one, I allowed it to get completely out of control, which was an enormous mistake that I regret to this day. There’s a lot of treasure in my files somewhere–ideas, thoughts, inspirational images as well as images from history that may be of use at some point with some book or story. The problem is I keep finding more things every day that I think well this will come in handy when I write X and so it goes into the files. I hoard books, paper, and electronic files, apparently.

I also realized yesterday that the new short story collection–which now sits at over seventy-seven thousand words–was missing a published short story, which, when added to the document, will take it over eighty thousand, which to me is the bare minimum for such a collection; so I could actually go ahead and add it in and send the collection off to my publisher to see if they want it or not. I’d want it to be at least ninety thousand, though, so I’d need at least two more completed stories for it out of the files. Something to ponder.

And on that note, I am going to head into the spice mines. Have a lovely Friday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you again probably later.