Soul Thumping

My Christmas "Yeah!" Countdown: Christmas Bird Houses!

Watching the cardinal feasting from our bird feeder on Sunday, the cardinal being decked out in his brightest red finery of the season, made me think of decorating the bird feeder for Christmas--I held that thought for only a nano second...any longer and I would have acted on impulse.

I can imagine our bird friends gathering at the feeder (aglow with tiny blinking lights, oh, and a wreath), enjoying their sunflower seeds, chirping about their decision to stay here for Christmas this year rather than flying south.  Maybe next year I will festoon the feeder, but the idea did inspire me to search for Christmas bird houses this morning, and viola:

 

From the More Chic Than Shabby blog:

 

 

From Yard Envy, the Gingerbread bird house:

 

 

This picture is from the Christmas market in Hamburg, Germany and I like the grouping of the houses...posted on Diary of a Mad Hausfrau blog:

 

 

Ah, snowy and serene, from Melody Maison:

 

 

From Happy Together, the Sugar Plum bird house!

 

--Fortuitous Observer

 

 

Things I Found Aesthetically Pleasing Today - Day 8 Siamese Kitties

My own Siamese, Kwinn, is of course the apple of my eye, but I did a search on Siamese cats today and these lovely lovely little creatures popped up and I was so in love that they are the things I found aesthetically pleasing today!  Me-ow, me-ow!

 

First up, from http://www.siamesekittens.com/:

 

Next up, from http://kittysites.com/breeds/siamese/breeder.shtml

 

From http://dogs-cats.wikia.com/wiki/Siamese

 

From  http://philadelphia.olx.com/aca-reg-siamese-kittens-iid-3499241

And of course, I have to post my own picture of my little boy (ok, he is 11 in cat years and 60 in human years, so not so much a little boy) Kwinn...

 

--Fortuitous Observer

 

Are Your Cats Ready to Know About Your Past?

This morning was a miserable morning for Kwinn, our Siamese cat.  As he lay curled in a nice warm ball of sleep, I plucked him up and deposited him promptly in his cat carrier for yet another trip to the vet (his 7th in less than 45 days).  I felt so bad that I had to do this to him again.  I was filled with desperate remorse.  I tried cooing to him, reassuring him I wasn't really taking him to his slaughter.  He cried.  I cried.

Kwinn had dental surgery last week in which 6 teeth were extracted from the poor cat (yes, 6 and I was surprised he had any left), and because of his neurotic nature, he is traumatized beyond belief.  On a scale of 1 to 10, his neurosis is at least a 12.  Poor cat.  I blame it on centuries of Siamese cat inbreeding (as always).

The vet visit this morning went rather well.  His dental work seems good, with no infection, though he has lost a substantial amount of weight.  We got the "all clear" signal and I thanked the Dr. and scurried to the car, cat in tow, apologizing profusely to my scared little Siamese for being a terrible mother to such a sweet quadruped.

Now, on our drive home, Kwinn became highly vocal, as most Siamese cats tend to.  His chat was full of venom and rage toward me, understandably and he would not be cajoled.  So, what do I do?  I chat back of course, but this chat wasn't the usual, "I'm so sorry little Kwinny, I'm so sorry you are in pain.  We are almost home now little cat, I promise."  No, this chat started because I passed a street that I used to turn on to go to work, over 15 years ago.  The street reminded me of things in my past, so I just starting spilling my life story to my cat.  Things I used to do, where I used to work, my personality back then, etc.

Before I know it, he is quiet.  No more chatting and growling at me.  He's listening to me.  So, I keep going.  I tell him about a favorite dress I had when I was 25 (a cute red silky little number).  I rattle off the names of the friends I had back then and where they are now (if I know).  I was on a roll.  I compare myself now, the mommy that Kwinn knows, to the person I was then.  I was so young and full of optimism.  My trip down memory lane soothed my otherwise un-soothable cat.

When we got back to the house, I let Kwinn out and he promptly swatted his sister (our other cat, Kat) in the head and hissed in her face (I'm told by my vet this is called aggression transference) then ran upstairs to hide before he was subject to any more torture.

I had to head out to work, but before I did, I find him on the bed upstairs.  I give him a look and a soft pat on the head, and his little blue eyes looked back at me and I almost thought I saw him nod.  My past secrets are safe with this cat.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Strangers in Our House - A Home Sellers Hell

In May of this year, Poseidon and I put our house on the market.  We went through the entire process of making our lived-in home look like an unlived-in squeaky clean doll house, at our realtor's insistence.  We rented a storage unit and moved many of our more fun belongings into the storage space so that our home resembled something like a house maintained by a Stepford wife.

For 6 months we made the bed every morning upon rising, wiped down everything we touched, vacuumed more than should be legal, and scooped cat poop out of the litter box every morning (that is a lie...I scooped it out once or twice each week, tops).  We made sure toilet lids were down, cat hair was swept out of sight (which usually meant under the rug), our goofy Cleveland Browns night light in the bathroom was tucked inside of a drawer--I mean really, who wants to buy a house from people who actually root for Cleveland?  I even went as far as making sure our more liberal magazines in the bathroom magazine bins were shuffled to the back--I mean really, who wants to buy a house from a pair of socially liberal thinkers?

Poseidon and I actually kept a nice, clean, neat household for nearly 6 months.  We did this because strangers were/would be going through our home.  Strangers who would decide if our home was good enough to become their home.

Now, when I started writing this post, my intent was to mention that we've decided to take the house off the market and Poseidon and I will more than likely turn our apple-pie tidy house into a trash pile that could double as a model home for an episode of "Hoarders."  However, after mentioning the bit in the above paragraph about strangers exploring our home, my train of thought chugged down another track entirely:  there were actually creepy strangers in my home!

Not only did these interlopers peer into every room in our house, they examined and critiqued every nook and cranny.  One such ass, I mean, prospective buyer, went so far as to comment about a little tiny spider web that attached itself to our bedroom window while we were on vacation.  Give me a break you boorish nimrod, I mean prospective buyer.  My cat can knock down a spider web with one little whisker.  Spider webs aren't permanent fixtures that convey in a real estate transaction you degenerate, I mean potential buyer.

Another inane home shopper broke off a piece from our living room window (probably while trying to open it).  A woman house shopping for her daughter and new son-in-law commented to me personally one day while I was working with flowers in my yard that our house was just lovely, but she didn't like the fact that our neighbor had a sail boat parked in his driveway.  She said in a snarky voice, "Is that thing always parked there?  I don't like that at all."  I looked at her said, "Yup, it's been parked there since I bought the house 3 years ago.  I don't think it has ever seen water."  Why is this petticoat house shopping for her newly married daughter anyway?  I wanted to punch her in her face so she could go back and report to Buffy and Biff that our neighborhood was not a good fit for them.

What makes me smile the widest smile now, after the fact, is that on at least 3 occasions, our cats (they probably took turns) puked the most pulchritudinous hairball piles that in no way could have gone unnoticed.  If only we had had a video camera installed to capture the horrified look on the faces of those blockheads (I mean potential buyers) as they tripped the light fantastic over our cat's "welcome to our home" offering.  Ah, that does make me feel better.

 

--Fortuitous Observer 

Cats Are Like Wives...or Not

A few years ago I was on a project for work that required me to travel every week from my home in Nashville to Seattle for 8 months straight (in other words, Seattle was my home for 8 months).

Every Sunday night I had a car pick me up from the SEA-TAC airport to drive me to my hotel in downtown Seattle.  I got to know the driver fairly well, and we always chit-chatted about my life in Nashville or his new plans for his family.  One evening we got on the subject of my cats.  Cabbie Joe (I will call him that to protect his identity), who was from Nigeria, had a hard time understanding why people (and by "people," I believe he meant "Americans") wanted to own pets.  In his country, he explained, animals are not pets.  He started rattling off numbers on how much money "people"  could save if they didn't have pets.  He had apparently researched this topic well, unless the statistics he spewed at me were made up on the fly.

I had to agree with him (the figures were staggering when I heard them), but asked, "What about companionship?  Pets provide companionship."  He replied, "I have a wife and children for companionship."  I was tired, and didn't feel like getting into a huge philosophical debate with him.  He also believed that I, as a woman, should be married and not traveling around the country for work (this was a discussion we had had on a previous week).

Later that evening while checking emails from my hotel room, I started to give the pet conversation some thought.  Not because I necessarily agreed with him, but because he was extremely firm in his belief about not owning pets and he was very aggressive in getting his point across.  Perhaps he had a strong dislike of animals.  I don't know.

I mention this now because my poor Kwinn has been to the vet 3 times in the last week and a half.  I love this cat with every fiber of my being (I'm not exaggerating this time), but I'm beginning to detest going to the vet as much as he is.  Not just because of the cost, but because he is a rude little bastard when we arrive (understandably...I'll give him that), he pukes in my car each trip, and gives me the cold shoulder for days afterwards.

Last night, after cleaning the cat vomit from the cat carrier (after returning home from our 3rd vet  visit), for a split second I believed that perhaps Cabbie Joe was right after all.  For a nano second.  Then I went through the house looking for Kwinn to apologize for thinking such terrible thoughts.  I found him, hiding under the bed in the guest room.  I lifted the bedskirt and reached out to pet my beloved little companion.  On cue, he growled at me, turned his head the other way, thinking he should have just had a wife and some kids.

 

 

 

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Crying Over Spilt Road Kill

I truly have cried on occasion over road kill (even opossum), and even if actual tears don't well up, I always get a lump in my throat and my heart breaks for the poor animals.  I have so much more empathy for animals than humans.

I bring this up today because I nearly ran over a squirrel this morning on my way to work and I would have been mortified if I had (fortunately for both us, he was a fast little bugger).  I remember, rather vividly I might add, once in my early 20s when I was headed to a party, I ran over and killed a baby bunny that darted out into my path of destruction.  I saw him, but I couldn't stop in time (and it was dark).  I was so distraught that I turned around and drove home.  I could not see going to the party after that.  Had I run over a person rather than I bunny, I probably would have still gone to the party--after the police were finished with me.  I'm quite sure I would have.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Creepy Cats Creeping

My title being an example of alliteration is purely by accident, but I was observing our two cats a few moments ago and it jumped squarely into my brain and would not budge, so I had to start writing.

When Poseidon and I come home from work in the evening, we split a can of wet cat food between our two cats.  Though I personally find the smell and texture of canned cat food nauseating, this is a fabulous feast for them.  They have a bowl of dry food that sits out all day, every day, which I'm sure is boring, so when that tin of wet food snaps open, those cats run at it like junkies who have just spotted a crack dealer on the corner.  Whether it's Poseidon or myself who arrives home first, as soon as the door opens, they circle like a pack of hungry wolves, wanting that sweet (I personally can't vouch for the taste, but they really like it, so I'll use "sweet" to describe the stuff) treat they know is coming any minute and they literally cry (ok, meow) until the food is placed in front of them.

On Saturday and Sunday, they are always a bit confused when chow time actually occurs, but they begin their assault around 2pm in the afternoon.  I suppose when you do nothing all day except sleep, eat, and poo, it is easy to develop a faulty sense of time, so whether its 2pm or 6pm, it doesn't really matter...to them, it is Fancy Feast o'clock.

I swear, they have a detailed map, with their battle stations plotted and well-armed.  They take turns slinking on the carpet, bellies to the rug, inching closer, and closer.  Each time I look up, they are a few inches closer to us than they were the minute before.  They stop, like statues.  I doubt they are even breathing.  They are simply waiting and watching, daring each other to get a little nearer.  If they have our attention, we will remember something very, very important.  What is it again?  Oh, yeah, FEED US!!! 

Kwinn lets Kat do the dirty work, and then he looks at her like, "See, I told you they weren't going to feed you yet."  Then minutes later he gives her the look, like, "Go try it again, go try it now."  Kat even goes so far as to jump up on the sofa next to us and start poking us with one paw (I'm not kidding) and meowing.  If we ignore her, she flits away, only to try again within minutes.

The last time this happened, I came up with a brilliant counter-attack.  When Kat jumped up on my lap and poked me, I poked her back.  She was stunned.  Completely mystified.  She looked at my finger, and her belly where I poked her, then looked at me again as if to ask, "What the hell was that?"  I stared at her, she stared at me a bit more, then she jumped down, walked over to Kwinn, rubbed up against him as if to say, "Tag, your it," then flopped down to take a nap.

For just a few blissful moments, I deluded myself into thinking Poseidon and I were actually in charge of this household, until hunger won out in the end, and Kat re-armed and hit her target:  my cheek with her sharp paw.  Resistance is futile.  Bon appétit kitties.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Thursday Night Theories

My ramblings tonight may not make much sense to most people, but I had to commit them to paper (or screen, if you will):

 

• I think most of CocoRosie's songs are written while they are doing a heavy volume of valium (I'm not dissing, I love CocoRosie...simply an observation).

• Kwinn (my Siamese) is vomiting again because he truly wants to piss me off.  He's not the most brilliant quadruped on the planet--due to the inbreeding--but he knows how to push my buttons.

• A car nearly backed into me tonight while the driver had one hand on a Wendy's fast food bag, and another on the wheel while a cell phone was glued to the driver's ear...guess the gender...yup, a stupid broad.  Most women (and I'm allowed to type it because I am a chick) should NOT be allowed to have a license.  Period.

• Insomnia is someones cruel, cruel idea of a joke (going on 4 nights with no sleep now, so excuse my lack of giving a shit).  Last night through around 4am this morning, I watched reruns of "Three's Company" for longer than I'm willing to admit and the theme song will not leave my head, and if I owned a gun, I would probably consider putting it to my temple just to make it stop.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Sparky...At Last, a Farewell to My Friend

Sparky...my friend...my farewell at last

When my twin sister and I were four years old, my parents adopted a miniature toy collie from a farmer wanting to get rid of him.  A miniature toy collie is a collie breed on tiny, short legs, maybe bred with a beagle, but I'm not sure.  Anyway, when we got him, he was already 2 or 3 years old and set in his ways, but my sister and I treated him like a newborn.

This dog followed us everywhere.  He was our protector, our best friend.  If my dad raised his voice at us, Sparky growled at him and my dad would quiet down.  Sparky was...Sparky.  My best friend, my protector, my mentor, my parent.

When my sister and I were 15, Sparky went on one of his million hunting trips, but this time was different.  It had been 5 or 6 days since we had seen him, which was unusual and I had a sick, dark feeling in the very pit of my stomach that I refused to acknowledge.

My father found him a few days later, dead.  I believe he had been shot, but I don't remember the details, and my father didn't want to give us the details.  Though I had already been a child who went through depression, and a teenager who was forever plagued with chronic depression, this was the worst thing that could ever happen to me.  Not my Sparky.

Years later, I still carry a sadness about his departure and I have decided to address it...

I'm 42 years old now, Sparky, but I carry you inside of me like no one else and I have still been unable to express my gratitude to you.  It might be silly as an adult to wipe the streaming tears from my face when I think of you, because you were a dog, but I cannot begin to describe to people who didn't know you, how human you were and how important, so, so very important you were in keeping me sane and alive...I miss you Sparky...I've written these words so quickly so I wouldn't censor or edit them, so I apologize if they are garbled:

I remember you hunting like a warrior...you were an old soul, and free, and though free spirits don't always have to leave, you did.  I can't fault you for that.  You were wise and knew it was your exit, stage left...i'm sure you thought of us and a smile curled around your lips as you slipped into the warm sleep of a content being who was ready to appear elsewhere, where needed.  Thank you for licking my tears.  I know you craved the salt and wanted to take away the hurt, and I craved the care.  Thank you for your protection and for allowing me to experience the cliched "unconditional love."  You were my rock, and when you left, I sank, as though I were tied to you like a stone.  Your memory allowed me to float, just enough above water to exist for over a year.  I was numb, and sometimes I still am numb and I reach for you in my dreams, but oddly enough I never see you;  I feel you though, and maybe that is more comfortable to me.

I've been afraid to think of you so often because I don't quite like tears and the lump your memory puts in my throat.  It hurts.  It is heavy and hard to swallow; so hard that is feels unbearable and I want to pretend you never existed so I don't re-live the pain.  That goes away soon enough because I do want to remember you, always, and I do.  Words cannot express how I've missed you the past several decades.  It warms my heart now that I'm forcing myself to remember you, which includes the pain of losing you.

Your melancholy down-turned eyes were so brown and beautiful and in the most paradoxical fashion, held so much happiness.  Yours was the most free spirit I've ever known and you have made me want to be strong and independent and love the way you did; your flight helps me fly today; your love and concern was so beyond you.  Do you know this?  Any of this?  I think you do.  I think you were my Bodhisattva, Sparky and I'm sorry I haven't pulled you out of my pocket in such a long time.  You were (are) the most incredible being I've ever known and you did more to get me through my sad childhood and utterly lonely teenage years than any human being could have and for that I thank you and at this very moment, I'm combing the burs out of your beautiful carmel-colored coat and you are licking my tears and we are both ok.

--Fortuitous Observer

Do I Genuinely Need Validation...From My Cats?

Do those cats have any idea how hard I worked on the pillow I made for them?  Hell, no...ungrateful little quadrupeds.

I decided to use some scrap fabric I had to make a "kitty pillow."  I designed it myself, painstakingly sewing little squares of discarded fabric together to form a hip, ultra-groovy pillow for our two cats to park themselves on next to the fireplace.  I had visions of two cats who were so proud of their new one-of-a-kind pillow that each would prance in the window sill, taunting all of the other cats in the neighborhood for being so square and not having a mom as cool as their mom.

Ten minutes after putting the final stitches on the pillow, I laid it on the floor, anxiously awaiting one or both of our cats to pounce on it, so excited to even think such a glorious creation was made just for them.  I honestly expected that to happen, but then I became keenly aware of my ability to flip swiftly into the land of delusion.

Neither cat gave a damn about that pillow.  Oh, I did get some strange glances because I had plopped something down in front of them that was foreign, and being they are creatures of habit, nothing new introduced into this household (no matter how insignificant) is ever welcomed with open arms until the proper amount of scrutiny has been given.

My feelings were hurt.  I know this is crazy, but I think anyone who has ever read my blog understands that I'm neurotic, and I no longer offer apologies or explanations.  The thing of it is, I feel my cats are my children, and if they don't respond automatically to something I've done for them, I grow anxious and sad, feeling unloved and under appreciated...from creatures who don't even have opposable thumbs (showing how far they have truly evolved--sarcasm).  I will add this to the, "Why Poseidon and I should not procreate" column of our "Baby or No Baby Decision" list. 

If there is a 12-step program for pathetic?   

--Fortuitous Observer