So I have this foster cat, Winter. Seems I’ve had her forever. Sometimes 21 days feels that way. Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining. Well, maybe I am. But give me a break. The cat is both adorable and a pain in my keister. Well actually, more like my shoulder. Or my arm. Or my neck.
Winter is as you’d imagine — mostly white with blue eyes the color of Tahoe sky on a brilliant January day when the sun shines on pillowy blankets of snow, all sparkly white and beautiful. But sometimes it can be too bright if you’re not prepared for it…kinda like my foster.
You’re probably wondering what I mean. Then again, maybe not. The thing is, Winter is wonderful 97.5% of the time. Probably the most loving cat I’ve ever fostered. But she has a tendency that might make her adoption a bit, shall we say, difficult.
Winter’s MO is that she’s a big hugger. Never seen anything like it. She jumps onto the arm of my office chair to wrap her arms around my neck. Winter then proceeds to nuzzle my face with what I interpret to be adoration. What can I say? She loves me. Never mind that she’d love anyone sitting in this chair. Continue reading →
I can’t believe I’m old enough to say this but back in the day, whenever I left the house, I didn’t have a cell phone in my purse. That’s because they weren’t invented yet. Unlike today, I was able to function just fine without staying connected every second of every day to every human being I know. If I needed to talk to someone, I waited until I got home to dial them from our rotary phone.
Yep, my family had a dial-up phone ages ago. Now don’t get me wrong; I wasn’t around in the day of switchboards like on the Andy Griffith Show where Andy has to ask switchboard operator, Sarah, to ring Aunt Bee for him. Please, I’m not THAT old!
Anyway, our phone was beige with a long coiled cord that stretched from the kitchen nook into the dining room, where we sat and gabbed. But for many years prior, the cord was only 2 feet long so we had to stand to talk. This was also the day of party lines. Know about those?
Well, I’m two-thirds of the way there so I figure #3 is lurking nearby, ready to pounce. Will I be driving, swerve to avoid a deer and crunch my car against a tree? Will I be walking the dogs when Skip, for the millionth time, stops directly in front of me for no apparent reason, whereupon I nosedive onto the sidewalk, breaking said nose? Or, more likely, it will have something to do with cats. It usually does.
Take injury #1 that occurred 3 weeks ago. I was trapping ferals for spay/neuter and using our new remote control drop trap for the first time. What an awesome invention. Cats are smart little buggers and they sometimes catch on to the fact that I’m trying to capture them, especially when I have to be present to operate a normal drop trap. They seem to know I’m hiding 50 feet away in the bed of a pickup, not-so-clandestinely peeking over the tailgate.
But with a remote control trap, I can be 200 feet away. Sometimes I need binoculars to see whether it’s a crow under there or a small black cat. But after testing the trap, I noticed it sometimes jammed when I pulled the trigger, failing to drop down all the way. This is not good. The cats were watching, like furry little spies, from behind wheels of parked cars, so I decided to test the trap again but catch it before the heavy metal hit the cement with a bang, scattering the ferals.
I slept three and a half hours Friday night. This is not particularly unusual for me. That’s partly because ever since menopause my body says: Who needs sleep? Why waste all that time with your eyes closed when they could be open? That’s what my body says to me and unfortunately, I usually listen.
So Friday night (actually early Saturday morning), I was sound asleep, having finally dozed off somewhere around 12:30 a.m. watching Stephen Colbert. Then one of the dogs started whining at 4:00 a.m. It was my Greyhound, Nellie.
Nellie happens to have the bladder of a camel so I know at that hour she was simply bored and wanted to go outside to eat poop off the hill, keeping me waiting at the back door until she has her fill. Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not exactly psychic. I know Nellie eats poop because she returns chomping on it. Anyway, I didn’t fall for her whining this time and told her to go back to bed. Trouble is, now I couldn’t do the same.
My mind started thinking of my ‘To Do’ list for Saturday and it was a long one. So I read a magazine for a half hour, hoping it would bore me to sleep. But it didn’t. So I watched a program I’d taped. Then I watched another. By 7:00 a.m. I was still awake but starting to doze off. That lasted until 7:30 when the animals decided they’d had enough rest for the night and it was time for me to rise.
Last Friday I’m driving to Forgotten Felines to deliver feral cats being relocated to new outdoor homes. On the way, I stopped to quickly train a group of ladies who volunteered to feed cats living near the fairgrounds.
While at a stoplight, my phone pinged. I glanced at it on the passenger seat. It was Forgotten Felines. Why were they contacting me?Something must be wrong. So I picked up my phone to read the text. Damn! It said they needed to postpone until Monday but to keep driving if I’m already on my way.
Relieved, I put the phone down. Then I glanced to my left. There, staring back at me, was a policeman.