from the porches

my therapeutic walk

I awoke this morning, and as I climbed out of bed, I realized my feet hurt.  My legs hurt.  My body felt like I had been run over by a semi. 

And then I remembered yesterday's walk at rehab.  My therapeutic walk.  This is how it started:

Craig opened the rehab door and called Truett's name.  "Good-bye," I said and gave Truett a quick peck on the cheek.  Then I exited out the automatic sliding doors. . . irritating doors that open with the whisper of a breath if you are close enough.

I looked to the wetland area next to rehab and thought about grabbing my camera from the back seat of the car and scanning the wetlands for hawks or creatures.  But then I thought, "No.  Use this time for a therapeutic walk. . . and then reward yourself with a mocha from Starbucks."

So I headed to the city block, as I call it, and decided to walk.  It would be good for my mental and physical health I rationalized.  In the meantime, I saw a man walking on the path towards me, so I decided to walk against the grain. . . I decided to walk in the opposite direction.

Slap! Slap! Slap! 

Pound! Pound! Pound!

My feet  beat a path around the city block. 

But then I realized the man was approaching me on his walk around the city block.  "What do I do?  Do I keep my head down?  Do I say 'hello'?  Darn.  I should have gone his direction and then I wouldn't have any anxiety.

Lap one complete.  I didn't look up at the man.

Lap two.  He smiled and I smiled.

Lap three.  He said,  "It can't get any better than this." 

"Yeah," I answered and thought, "Oh, yes it can.  I can be drinking a mocha about now."

I know this sounds ridiculous, but I did not want this stranger to think I was a wimp . . . a pretender. . . so I sped up my pace to match his.  I estimated where we would next meet.  Either by the cordoned-off live oak tree, or by the park bench, maybe even by the trash cans across from Starbucks. 

I don't know.  Crazy things cross your mind when you are exercising.  I mean really exercising.  I mean really pounding the pavement to keep up with some stranger pounding the pavement in the opposite direction in a city block.  

I felt this man was pushing me.  "I can't quit,"  I thought.  "He will know I am an imposter.  He will know I'm a novice.  He will just know who I am."

So I kept on clipping.  (I like that word.  Truett said how was your stroll and I almost slapped him).

In the end, my time was up.  I got no Starbucks Mocha.  I collapsed in a chair in front of those stupid doors at rehab and I exhaled.

Ahhhh!  That felt good.  

"Was that GOD walking opposite me? " I wondered. 

Hotel Molly

Molly (aka, Ears Flat Back) was taken to the ER in Gainesville Saturday afternoon.  Right in the height of FSU/FL fans driving I-75 into Gainesville. 

"Meow!"

"It's okay, Molly.  We'll get your leg fixed.  Shhhhh!"

"Meow!"

Molly, our feral yard cat, usually climbs our front porch screens in the afternoons; but I must admit, I had not seen her for a couple of days.  I figured it was because I was preoccupied with you know who.  However, mid afternoon yesterday, Molly appeared on the screened window ledge, with one paw arched up.  One swollen paw arched in the air. Well, you know me: Snake bite!

"Lord!  I don't need this!" I told Mom.  "She's a YARD CAT!"  But, I had no choice.  Back in the summer I had Molly spayed because my twin sister fell in love with her and talked to her and then Molly became our front porch screen cat. (Thanks a lot, Sherry.  I'll send you half the bill!)

Molly (aka Ears Flat Back) was the only feral yard kitten that ever brought me pleasure.  I know I took photographs of her as a kitten . . .  claws latched on to my Australian Shepherd, (Bubba's ear,) taking a free ride around the yard.  But, I suppose I thought that photo too silly, so I deleted it into the ethernet. :{

I had no choice yesterday.  So I asked Truett, "Do you want to ride with me?"

"Why are you wasting your money?  It's just a yard cat!" he said.  (But what Truett doesn't know is that LIFE has gone on without him since January 29, 2011).

Anyway, with the help of my friend, Deanna Landrum, we captured Molly and I took her to an ER in Gainesville.  Well, outright they told me the bill would be $94.00.  So, I was pleased.  I could have taken her to the Shands ER and the basic bill would have been $125.00.

The good doctor outright told me about four plans: (1) they look at the wound for $125.00

STOP!  I am NOT A Math Person!

Step 2: They could shave her leg  for more money.

Step 3: They could put her to sleep and x-ray her leg for broken bones for more money.

Step 4: They could test her for snake venom.

I asked the Doctor, "What would you do if this were your cat?"

Of course, the ER doctor said, "I can't say!" 

Well, I went with the four step plan for a total of $430. The Works! and all  (For a feral yard cat, mind you!)

Fortunately, only step one and step two needed to be applied.  Therefore, my 75% deposit of $325.00 was an overpayment.

Duh!

Until, the young receptionist couldn't get the computer to read my deposit and stated, "You owe $225.00.!"

Okay.  We all know by now I AM NOT A MATH PERSON: so when she said that, I said, "No, mam.  You owe me money!" And I felt proud because I can do a little bit of math!

Poor Molly.  Here I am dickering over money and she has had her paw shaved that showed she got into a cat fight and had an abscess on her leg.  Yet, I am dickering over money!  Aaaaay!

So, here we are right now.  Molly's hotel suite is in the outdoor weight room, fully equipped with a cat bed, kitty litter box, food, water; and above all, safe from my hateful black and white male cat that will soon take a ride to your neighborhood! As you can see in this photograph, the other yard cats are envious because they are laying on the steps of "Hotel Molly!"

In a couple of days, Molly will be freed.  But, as I fed her tonight, I said, "Molly, can I come and live with you?"

 

killer cats

This is Roger and Punky:  My killer cats!

Today when I came home from visiting Truett, Roger raced to the side porch and leaped on a chameleon.  He tossed it up.  Rolled on it.  Tossed it up and flung it into the air.  At one point I heard Roger meowing in distress and the chameleon had locked onto Roger's paw between his toes. 

"Oh, hush!" I stated as I grabbed a paper towel and yanked the lizard off Roger's soft spot between his toes.

Meanwhile, Punky was searching for his chameleon.

And he found it!

GROSS!  Now I have to find Roger's. 

Maybe this explains why I have cat puke on the kitchen floor!

GROSS times two!

especially roger

 
I'm about sick of one stupid, blasted cat. 

ROGER! 

Roger thinks he is in charge in my home! 

Our computer backup drive went on the blitz yesterday and this cat, ROGER, followed me around for an hour until I unplugged the computer in the kitchen.

 
"You're not talking about this cute little kitten, are you?  The one that got locked in the refrigerator the first night we had him?"  The one that is the star of Roger and the Refrigerator?"

 
Oh, yeah!  This is the Roger I'm talking about.

Anyway, our computer back-up battery system went out on the kitchen computer, and this cat . . . Roger . . . went ballistic! 

He MEOWED and MEOWED until I finally went into the kitchen, as he rubbed himself all over the backup battery, which was emitting a loud shrill sound.

"Shut Up!" I screamed, as I tried to ignore a cat. 

But, that didn't make one iota of a difference to Roger.  He kept on rubbing on my  legs and meowing and meowing and meowing.  And that made me think of whining and whining and whining from a four year old.

Finally, I had had enough!

I turned the computer off.  In fact, I jerked all the cords out of the wall socket and said, "There! Now shut up, you stupid cat!"

I turned the backup battery off. 

I unplugged the lamp; but that wasn't good enough for Roger.

 
No!

Roger bit my calves until that horrid, squealing, screeching, mal-functioning battery back-up system was totally dead.

I hate having a cat in charge of my life!

Especially Roger!

 

fixing molly

 
Molly, originally named Ears Flat Back, is our loving yard cat.  The one that has at least two litters of kittens a year.  Maybe more.  Sometimes I see her coming from under the deck of the swimming pool and wonder if she has had kittens there, ones that will one day show up at my front door for food.

 
When my twin was visiting several weeks ago, she convinced me to get Molly spayed.  "Look how loving she is," Sherry pointed out. "Molly just wants to be loved. She will make a good indoor kitty." 

 
So last week Molly got spayed and the doctor said I had to keep her in the house for three to five days so her stitches could heal. 

 
You would think locking Molly in the back porch would be easy.  But it wasn't.  For three days Roger and Punky sat on one side of the glass door and meowed to Molly; while Molly stared back and meowed.  And let's not forget about the puppies who charged the door yapping and yapping and me screaming, "SHUT UP!"  For three long days and nights.

 
At one point I let Roger into the back porch. In a flash, Molly's fur puffed up and she whipped around and chased Roger into a corner, hissing and slashing the air with her claws.  Poor Roger was stunned and so was I.  At that moment I decided Molly will not become one of the house cats, as loving as she seems.

 
No.  Molly is content to lay on the outside window ledge and taunt Roger, even though she is fixed. And I'm good with that!

 

hole #6

 
This is a photograph of Clay's Golf in the Rough golf course which is on our back property.  When Truett and I were playing golf several years ago, we often took Clay with us to Quail Heights in Lake City; but we all know how expensive things became, so we told Clay, "No more."

 
Clay accepted this and then said, "Can I build a golf course on our property?"

"Sure," we answered.

So for the past several years, Clay has taken great pains to manicure his golf course.  Sometimes I see cars drive up and two or three people standing at the top of a rise and I know Clay has convinced them to come play on his course for free. . .(with a few wagers in between).

 
Clay is taking a respite for a year and a day; but the one thing he asked me to do was to take a photograph of hole #6 on his golf course and send him a picture.  So I'm doing that in the morning.

 
This is Clay's beloved Hole #6.  Outdoor carpeting from Lowes. Gopher turtle holes to the right. . . and sand.  Lots of sand.

I miss Hole #6.

tennessee & slim

 
Tonight's post is about the last several traumatic days in my life. 

No.  Nothing is wrong with Truett! 

No.  Nothing is wrong with Mama! 

It all has to do with my yard cats and kittens.  Do you remember when I showed pictures of kittens from mama cats that Clay told me were boys?  Well, these kittens are so cute.  I would watch them every morning and evening climbing on the cook shed chairs, leaping in what used to be basil, and nursing their moms.  (Shhhhh!  Cats are my favorite pets, but don't tell my puppies!)

Anyway, last Friday I decided to call the local Humane Society because the feral yard cats were costing me a fortune.  Plus, I know there are little girls and boys who would love to adopt a pretty kitten. 

The phone rang at the Humane Society and a young man said.  "We'll be there today." 

But they didn't come.

So I called back bright and early Monday morning of this week and kind of reprimanded whomever answered the phone. 

"Okay, mam," the fellow said. "Our guys will come out this afternoon and set live traps."

And they did. 

And then my trauma began because after the traps were set, Tennessee and Slim clearly said, "Call us in about an hour if any cats are in the traps.  We're working Fort White this afternoon and we'll come back and pick them up."

So an hour later, I dialed Slim's cell phone and he said, "Okay.  Just throw a sheet over the cages and we'll pick them up tomorrow morning.  We've had an emergency and are headed back to Lake City."  I told Mom they were probably swimming in the Ichetucknee River!

Let the real trauma begin.  

The next day there was no sign of Tennessee and Slim. 

So I called the Humane Society three times that day and plainly told them that three cats/kittens had been in a cage without food and water for over 24 hours and I thought that was inhumane. Furthermore, I wasn't supposed to feed the remaining six kittens that hadn't been caught, so everyone suffered.

 
People, it has taken five days to catch the majority of my kittens.  Five days of me looking at pathetic little caged kittens who only wanted to nurse their moms or play with their brothers or sisters.  Five days of me apologizing to little kittens, heads down, obviously traumatized as well.  And they didn't even know my name or that I love kittens.

Slim and Tennessee came back this afternoon and hauled away another little grey kitten.  Slim chased the daddy cat with a long handled grabber, much like Truett's, only made of aluminum.  But, of course, the daddy cat zipped out of the yard.  Both of these guys know the daddy cat is probably uncatchable.

Mama keeps saying,  "Let's keep the last three"; but I told her we just can't.  I know she wants her own kitten to love, but it can't be a feral yard kitty, and it's most certainly not Roger or Punky.

Next week my yard may be free of all cats.  Who knows?  The Humane Society knows my name now because I've pestered the fool out of them all week about their lack of concern for 24 -hour caged pets.

It's too bad Tennessee and Slim aren't fathers.  They may have a different outlook on life; but, alas,they're only kids doing a man's job.

moms and sex 101

 
As a mom, we can all identify with making that decision to discuss sex with our children.  Do we or don't we?  And if we do, what do we tell them?  How much do we tell them?  At what age do we tell them?  These are hard, difficult decision that moms and dads have to make when raising children; and so often sex education 101 begins with our pets.  You know.  The difference between a boy and a girl pet.   In this first picture, you may remember Ears Flat Back,  aka Molly. Because Molly was so aggressive and playful as a kitten, well, I just assumed she was a boy.  But, she wasn't; therefore she had kittens.

 
Now this is a photograph of Bull.  Bull is one of Molly's kittens.

 
And this is Simon, another of Molly's kittens.

So here's the story about the sex part.  About two months ago I asked Clay to tell me if Molly's kittens were boys or girls.  If there were any girl kittens, then I would have to find homes for them or give them to a shelter.  If they were boy kittens, then I figured they would fend for themselves and find a home with girl kittens on somebody else's farm.

Clay said, "Mom, they're all boy kittens."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Yes," Clay answered. "That's why I named this one Bull and that one Simon and the other one Pete." Hmmm, sounded reasonable to me.

But I didn't trust Clay's judgement 100% because I did not want a yard full of cats.  After all, I make the mistake in thinking that Ears Flat Back was a boy just by his/her actions.  Also, It took me years to become yard-cat free and I didn't want to fall into that trap again of naming, loving, and feeding yard cats. 

So I said, "Clay, turn those kittens upside down now and look.  Right now!  I need to know if they are girl kittens or boy kittens."

So one-by-one Clay flipped two little black kittens and one spotted kitten upside down to check the sex of each.

"Yep, Mom!  They're ALL boys!"

 
Now I'll digress as you take a look at Bull's kittens. 

Truett and I agreed early on in our marriage that he would have the sex talk with Clay and I would have the sex talk with Merry Jennifer.  My part was easy.  When I thought the time was right, I told my daughter that I thought she was old enough to learn about female stuff.  She cut her eyes at me and stated, "Mother, I know all about it!  I learned about it at school."  Who knows.  Maybe she said she learned all about sex from her friends, but it didn't matter because I was off the hot seat.

 
You can only imagined how shocked I was to find that Bull, (the black and white kitten), had kittens of her own.

"CLAY! GET OUT HERE NOW!" I screamed.  "YOU TOLD ME THESE KITTENS WERE BOYS!"

"Well, I guess I was wrong, Mom," he answered as he headed back to his house.  "But, that's easy.  We'll call this one Bullette and the other one Simone."

 
Now I'm wondering if Truett had his sex talk with Clay at all.  I guess the sixth grade teachers didn't teach it either because at this moment I have at least eight baby kittens that I will have to find homes for.  Four from Bull and four from Simon!

Sex 101 from this mom and dad evidentally was a bust!

copacetic

 
Come on, Roger.  Get up.  Show these people what you can do.

 
You wouldn't believe it, but Roger, my grey Manx cat, controls my house. 

Roger controls Mom; because if Roger wants out on the porches, then, by golly, Roger goes out on the porches. 

Not once. 

Not twice.

But anytime any adult is around.

 Roger gets his way!

 
"Come on, Roger! Get up and show these folks what you're really made of!"

Or not.

By the way, if you have children who went to Fort White Elementary School and who are now nine, ten, or eleven years old. . . well, your children heard me read my book entitled, "Roger and the Refrigerator."  Just ask them and they will tell you all about Roger. (That is, if your children were good listeners).

 
Come on, Punky!  Show these fine folks what you can do.

 
That's right, Punky. Show these fine people your tricks.

 
Obviously, my two fine, smart, intelligent cats are not up to performing for you tonight.

However, you will notice that Punky has found a nice resting spot. . . the cage that I will soon slam the door on and take him to the vet in. (Why do I feel so devious?)

I'm just waiting until I can find the time; but I will tell you, that Punky's urinary tract infection may not have been one at all.  It seems to have straightened itself out since I switched catfood.

Everything with my cats seems copacetic at this point.

And that makes me happy.

Also, you may notice that I have not written about my two daschund puppies. 

But, if you know MaryAnne Gilmer. . .then ask her.

 

punky and the catnip

 
"Hey Punky!  How about some catnip!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Was that fun, Punky?"

"Meow!