Holy crap doesn’t begin to describe the day we had last week.
Actually, how it all started may have been an omen. Loretta and I were driving to Mare Island to trap Spot, the last of many feral cats we relocated from under a condemned building, when we heard a strange sound. Seems a screw was embedded in my tire. Now don’t get me wrong; that didn’t stop us.
Don’t worry, we reached our destination without a flat and quickly caught Spot, who’ll be happy to join his buddies at their new outdoor home. Spot’s feeder monitored the trap while we headed elsewhere on the island to check on other ferals. So far so good. That all changed when Loretta’s eagle eyes spotted some distressed dogs in front of one of the island’s many abandoned military buildings. Continue reading →
I know, it sucks, right? And my condition exists for one reason only: Hilary. Yep. She is totally, entirely and wholly to blame for my current predicament. I suppose you noticed I used 3 adverbs just then. That’s because simply one isn’t nearly sufficient enough to describe the depth of Hilary’s responsibility for this nearly 64-year-old-once-healthy-person now having the back of a 98-year-old.
How can I blame sweet little Hilary for this, you ask? First of all, she isn’t so sweet. Don’t let that smile fool you. But she IS little. Barely reaching a diminutive 5’ 1” doesn’t hide the fact that the woman is no pushover. Nobody messes with Hilary. But I must admit she does have a generous side she shares with her friends. Unfortunately, she considers me one. I’ll explain…
Last week you met Taffy, the latest member of my furry family. So now I’d like to tell you what life has been like lately. Now don’t get me wrong; what I’m about to say doesn’t imply I regret my decision to adopt that little monkey. She is both a treasure and a challenge.
Let’s start with the challenging part, shall we? This will give you an idea as to how I spend a good portion of my time at home with Taffy. Picture the two of us standing in the rain in the backyard. It’s 7 a.m. and Taffy is staring up at me, quizzically, while I repeatedly say, “Go potty, Taffy. Go potty.” That scenario is quickly followed by more expressions of total confusion.
Last month, a few days after my sweet Nellie died, I took a detour at the animal shelter through stray dogs. Small dogs and puppies are housed in a room near strays where potential adopters view the pups from a windowed hallway and subsequently fall in love at first sight. And that’s where I first saw her.
Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t need another dog. Nellie is irreplaceable, as are all my pets. But I remembered a cute adoption dog I’d seen recently and thought I’d stop and say hello. Turns out he’d already been adopted, but as I went to leave, there in the last run sat a tiny red dog politely staring back at me with equally tiny eyes. Her kennel card said “Phoebe.”
Phoebe’s feet and chest are white, with a stripe running from her nose to the top of her head and with ears far too big for her. In a word — adorable. So I said, “Well, who are you?” Not a peep escaped her mouth, which, by the way, sports an overbite. Still, she inched forward, her fluffy tail swaying back and forth like one of those feather dusters.
They say with age comes wisdom. I’m not so sure I believe that. You see, I’m not exactly a spring chicken so you’d think I’d be pretty smart by now, wouldn’t you? There’s no doubt I’ve learned stuff along the way that’s helped me navigate through life. But in some areas I’m still quite lacking. And for that I blame my poor memory. How can I acquire this wisdom if my memory is on strike?
For instance, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve misplaced my keys. When I walk into the house, I should have a routine where I put them, don’t you think? Sounds reasonable to me. If I had a routine it would go like this: place the keys in a bowl on the counter. How hard is that? Apparently very.
Where my keys shouldgo
My mind is like a game of leap frog. It jumps from one thing to another. So by the time I exit the car, walk to the door, open it and walk in, I’m already on to another thought. I think I’ll make myself a grilled cheese sandwich then water the annuals. Oh, and I suppose I should fertilize while I’m at it. And so it goes…
Any conscious thought about keys became lost within the 20-foot span it took me to get into the house. Poof! Continue reading →