Herbie and the Catnip Banana

For 13.5 of his 15.5 years, Herbie the cat has lived with me and with Guinness. 

All of a sudden, there’s just me – pretty boring. Pretty sad. 

When I picked up some supplies at the pet food store, I asked for suggestions that might cheer him up. The young man suggested a catnip banana. I’d already purchased some catnip mice, which seemed far more appropriate. But we were at a low ebb, all ideas welcome. 

When I got home, I began building a ‘playground’ for Herbie – hiding the mice and banana under some tissue paper atop a strange battery-powered toy donated by my friend Marie. 

It was not an immediate success. Mostly he just watched as the tissue paper undulated enticingly. Then, literally, he leapt into action.

I got down on the rug and helped animate the field. He played for at least 10 minutes (almost a record attention span for my sweet blond). 

This morning, I put out his dry food. He ate a little. Then he ate a little of other offerings. Then he meowed as if he needed something else. So I picked him up and petted him. When I put him down, he meowed some more. I got up. He led me into the living room – site of the playground. I got it. 

And we played again. We are going to be okay.

In Memoriam

His favorite toys were fuzzy balls – little fabric balls with sparkly extensions (until the sparkly extensions wore off). 

With them, we played fetch or catch. For catch, I’d throw balls up the stairs and he would bat them back. By himself, he played a sort of soccer, propelling the glittering things all over the house. 

His adopted brother, Herbie, had no interest in fuzzy balls. 

Guinness played with other things – all kinds of other things – even other cat toys. And he chewed stuff – cardboard boxes, manila folders, random papers. But his favorites were the fuzzy balls. 

On Monday, May 2, after four months working with the vet and the steroid shots that kept him going, we had to give up. 

He lay on a blanket, close to my extended right arm as I pet him with my left hand and talked to him about how cool he was. 

 Even then, he purred. Not as loud as before – when he sounded much like a tractor. But he purred for a while. Then silence. 

What a great buddy he had been since the day I brought him home in October 2002 when he was almost one year old. 

In his memory, I filled a glass vase with fuzzy balls and attached a laminated photo. I think he would have liked that.

Happily Ever After

I recently participated in a Roads Scholar Writers Workshop at the Green Lake Conference Center (900 acres somewhat northeast of Madison and southwest of Green Bay). We had assignments following the theme of Lost and Found. Here's one of the pieces I wrote, Happily Ever After, 

She believed them all: Cinderella, Snow White, Maybelline, “An Affair to Remember,” and Seventeen magazine. 

Not to mention several thousand years of patriarchy distilled into her father. 

 When it hailed on her August wedding day, she carried on. 

 When her husband couldn't sustain a career and began drinking, she carried on. 

 When he became the world's foremost authority on everything in the world, she carried on. 

 When he tried to erode her already fragile sense of worth, she faltered but carried on. 

 He cut her 'allowance'. 

There was never enough money for groceries but plenty for luxuries. 

Parental tensions began to erode their sons' behavior. 

 Some things, many things, were wrong. 

 Her doubts became stronger than her faith in fairy tales. 

Her survival instincts grew stronger than her fears. 

She catapulted out of suburban nirvana landing at the edge of the city, on her feet, 

She tore her sons out of their dream of family. Wounded, they survived. 

What happens when a myth dissolves? 

You create a new reality – out of your own resources, out of your own character. 

And gradually, you carry on. 

 Of course there is never a happily-ever-after.... but you come pretty close.

Morning Routines

When sentient beings have lived together a long time, they develop routines. 

My two cats and I have lived together for more than 13 years. When we were younger, our routines were different. They evolved as we aged. 

To begin, I am often awakened by Guinness jumping up on my bed, near the pillow. Herbie is usually already snuggled in so if I do not immediately arise, Guinness will hunker down, accepting human strokes. Herbie, alerted, will amble up toward my face and plop down. I think it’s an equal time thing. 

So we stay, the three of us, just enjoying the gentle coziness. 

But it cannot last. I get up and shower. Herbie will sometimes follow me into the bathroom, begging fresh water and sometimes walking into the shower stall after I’m through, then leave, leaving little paw prints on the tile. Usually, he then goes back to bed. 

Guinness waits until I have dressed and completed my morning ritual then he follows me into the bathroom to help me put on my glasses and hearing aids. Actually he’s not much help. He jumps up on the vanity then puts his paws on my shoulder and jumps so I pretty much have to hold him. 

Sight and hearing restored, we descend after I call out to Herbie that I’m going to make breakfast. 

Common sense dictates that I fix the cats’ breakfast first, then mine. Guinness sits on the floor to the right of my feet as I eat and read the paper. After waiting what he considers long enough, he gently pats my ankle with one of his paws. If I don’t respond, he jumps up on the table, on the newspaper. He gets my attention. He winds up in my arms, purring. 

After breakfast, as I am washing up, Herbie will wander into the kitchen, looking needy. Like Guinness, he needs his morning cuddle. He gets it. 

Then, finally, we are ready for the day ahead.

An 'I Love Lucy' Day

I knew when I saw the bacon-wrapped artichoke hearts in the ‘here’s-something-easy-but-good’ case at the grocery store, that I should not buy them. You were supposed to heat them on a cookie sheet. Bacon spatters. The goop inside the artichoke hearts would probably melt. 

But they sounded so good. 

At least I could have used a rimmed cookie sheet. 

But I did not. So I put them in the oven and, only a few moments later, watched smoke billow from my stove. And heard the smoke alarm. I took them out, turned on the stove fan, and opened the back window. 

And then I put them back in the oven! 

And smoke billowed and the alarm sounded and this time I opened another window, the one in the back storm door, breaking a finger nail. 

Eventually the delicacies were done and I pulled them out of the oven and the smoke and the alarm subsided. 

Then I looked at the oven – a greased catastrophe. 

So, what the heck, I turned on the oven cleaning unit (the process takes three hours). And smoke billowed and the alarm sounded . . . eventually subsiding. 

Fortunately, the weather was mild. Open windows were not totally unreasonable. 

Then I looked at the oven racks. Arrgh. 

Seeking counsel at the local hardware store, I purchased a number of cleaning products and, following their advice, put the racks in the bathtub and applied and scrubbed. They will do. 

And the bacon-wrapped artichokes were good. 

Now all I have to do is clean the bathtub.

All Hail Epsom

When more than 15 inches of wet snow falls on your property and you feel compelled to shovel walks (front and back) and sidewalks and the area behind your garage so you can get your car out ... and move branches that have fallen over the sidewalk and back walk and the end of the alley . . . and you are well over – way over – retirement age but you can’t call anyone to help you because the electricity is out and your landline isn’t working and you could use your cellphone but the people you might call aren’t in your directory … you just do what you need to do.

And that evening, as if you ever had any doubt, you bless the existence of Epsom salts and bathtubs.

I even looked it up and here quote directly from Wikipedia:

Magnesium sulfate (or magnesium sulphate) is an inorganic salt (chemical compound) containing magnesium, sulfur and oxygen, with the formula MgSO₄. It is often encountered as the heptahydrate sulfate mineralepsomite (MgSO₄·7H₂O), commonly called Epsom salt, taking its name from a bitter saline spring in Epsom in Surrey, England, where the salt was produced from the springs that arise where the porous chalk of the North Downs meets non-porous London clay.

So all hail Epsom. And sunshine. 
And the fact that it isn’t supposed to snow again until tomorrow.

Solitaire

When my mom used to visit us after our respective divorces, I could not help but notice how much time she spent playing solitaire. 

 I did not understand it then. 

I did know that when my dad divorced her (to marry his secretary) after 36 years of marriage, Mom almost committed suicide and almost certainly, lost her raison d’être. Or most of it. 

Although she could be funny and charming and graced my life and the lives of my kids with laughter, there was a bone-deep sadness about her that was almost palpable. 

She’s been dead more than 20 years. So why do I think about her – and her games of solitaire now? 

Because I’ve hit my own low ebb recently – saddened and hurt (and angry) about a recent personal experience. 

 And I have become keenly aware of how much computer solitaire I have been playing. 

It used to be a ‘break’ – a quick distraction from whatever I was working on. Then it got to be a bad habit – almost an obsession. Then when I hit an emotional bottom, it almost took over my life. 

At least I was aware enough to stop long enough to try to figure out what was going on. 

 I play four simple games and my computer tells me how many games I have played. Suspecting the worst, I added up the totals. And the total was more than 7,000. That’s over an extended period of time – certainly well over a year, maybe two. But still. 

If an average game takes about five minutes, then I have wasted the equivalent of 24 days of my life. And I don’t have that many days to waste. Indeed, who does? 

Have I become my mother, drifting in a morass of self-pity and loneliness? I don’t think so. Having become aware of what I was doing, I can stop. I will stop. And I will pull myself out of this particular hole. I’ve been in holes before. I know how to do this. 

And I will.