from the porches

Roger

For those of you who do not know the story about my cat, Roger, I will tell you now.  In 2006 we had a couple of back-to-back hurricane winds and rains so Truett decided to remodel our old farm house.  (Thank goodness we had the money back then!) 

During the reconstruction, I gave my last three Maine Coon cats to the vet because the doors were open with lumber being brought in.  When Truett finally said, "Kill the cats!" I took them tearfully to the vet, who also raised Maine Coons.  I was so sad, but knew my cats would find a good home.

Then on Mother's Day of 2007, after the renovation of our home, Truett asked if I wanted a kitten.  "Of course!"  I screeched.  So we went to Lake City to a pet shop and there was the tiniest, sweetest, little Manx kitten ever.  We brought him home and discussed names.  I thought, "Stripe" or "Sweetie".  But Truett came up with the name Roger.  "Roger!  Who names a kitten Roger?"  Anyway, Roger became the name of my cute little Manx kitten.

On the first night Roger was at my home, he went missing.  I wrote a children's book about this disappearance through "Student Treasures", a student publishing website.  I told about Roger's disappearance the very first night he was here and how Truett and I searched the whole house.  Ultimately, we found Roger in the refrigerator because it seems Truett would get up around 4:00 A.M. and eat cereal or drink milk.  Thus, my book was called Roger and the Refrigerator.

Many of my facebook readers have heard the story about Roger, as well as their parents. 

But, anyway, Roger is now almost seven years old.  He is very opinionated...like Truett.  He is very stubborn like Truett.  Roger will stare at a door for five minutes until I open it for him.  "OKAY!  Roger!  You win!" I blast.

You know, recently my daughter bought a new Maine Coon kitten, named Jackson, to appease her grief.  But, I have come to find out that opinionated, stubborn Roger is my saviour.  Why not?

I would post facebook photos here, but I don't know how.

Anyway,  I love you Roger and I love you, Truett!

Popping Pills

How I give pills to my cat, Roger:

1.  Find Roger.  Look on the porches.  Look under the hanging clothes.  Check under Mom's bed.  No need to check the refrigerator.  That happened when he was a kitten.

2.  Sweet talk Roger.  "Hey big boy.  It's time for your medicine.  Yeah, you're a good kitty."

3.  Reach down and pick up this forty-two pound cat and carry him to the round oak table in the small dining room.

4.  Sit down in a chair with Roger's back to my chest and take a deep breath and then exhale.

5.  With my left thumb and middle finger, grasp Roger's jaws and pry his mouth open.  I have to keep a watch-out for his claws that are now hooked into the oak table and my left arm.

6. Shove a pill into Roger's mouth while he gags and drools thick phlegm out of his mouth.  Wipe the phlegm off of my blouse. . . and off of Roger's mouth and throat.

7.  Reassure Roger he is a good boy even though I have claw pricks on my left arm which are now bleeding.  "Yes, you're a good boy, Roger.  Yes, you are."

8. Wipe Roger's drool with a kitchen towel and repeat the process two more times.

9.  Once again, reassure Roger he is a good boy.  "Good boy, Roger.  We'll soon be done.  Just a couple of days left, buddy."

10.  Place Roger carefully on the floor and fix a stiff drink, wipe the spots of blood off of my arm, and collapse!

Pill popping is not fun for me or Roger.

Roger is Home

Roger is home and I will say he is doing much better than the last time I saw him.  Roger is supposed to be resting in a cage, but Roger wants things like they use to be.  "Lay down, Roger," I tell him.  But Roger sits up and places his paws on my legs, wanting to be scratched on the head and under his neck.  Wanting the way things were.

In anticipation of Roger coming home from the vet with two fused vertebrae and another one in question, I had Clay bring the dog crate into my closet area, a pretty big room, I might add.  The dog crate would provide Roger with a larger confined living space.  I had a kitty litter box in place and food and water ready for Roger so he could recuperiate in style. 

Once we walked into the house, the dogs went nuts!  Flat out crazy nuts!  Yapping and yapping and yapping and scratching my legs and I quickly snatched Roger up in my arms, forgetting about his spine injury. 

I hurried to the TV room and shouted to Mom, "Mom, help me out here!  Put these dogs out!"  But my mama just sat there watching a movie.  Evidentally, she did not hear me.  So I stood in front of her with Roger dangling from my arms and two barking dogs at my legs.  "HELP ME!  PUT THESE DOGS OUT!"   And I will say that my mama trapped one dog on the front porch and cornered the other one while I put Roger safely back in the dog cage in my closet area.

I then bribed the dogs with a treat and shoved them outside.  After I came in I saw Punky, my orange Manx cat standing at the bedroom door leading to the closet area where Roger was.  I reached down to pick up Punky; and in a flash, I remembered I've NEVER EVER been able to pick up Punky, my feral Manx.  Well, needless to say, claws and hissing ensued and I haven't seen Punky since.  I tried luring him into the closet area with Roger by sprinkling catnip on the floor; but no dice.  You see, Roger and Punky are best friends and I know they want to see each other.

As the evening has worn on, I ultimately put the dog crate outside because Roger is sleeping in his favorite spots on the floor in the closet area.  Punky is yet to be seen.  Roger is not stumbling near as much as he was a couple of days ago.  The dogs are still irritated.  I still have a pill to shove down Roger's throat tonight  . . . but, I'm seeing progress in Roger and I'm glad he is home!

 

Is this Punky?

This is a photograph of Merry Jennifer's Mother's Day card to me.  I looked at that cat and thought, "That's Punky, but I don't recognize the chair." 

Hmmmm!  Interesting.

Now, this is Punky.  Look back at the first picture and notice the tufts. 

Did someone come in my home and photograph my boy?

Molly, the hunter

Molly, aka "Ears Flat Back" is a great hunter.  Here she is on top of Clay's house. 

"Okay, Molly.  What are you hunting?"

"Squirrels, Mommy!"

"No, Molly!  You are not getting Clay's squirrels!"

"But I want them!"

"Get over here now, Molly!"

"Yes, Mam!"

Molly is a great yard hunter.  She has killed birds, lizards, moles and obviously...squirrels.  So why do I feed her cat food???

 

 

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!