Just Wondering...

Settling Into Our New Life

In a couple of weeks, we’ll celebrate the first anniversary of our “down-sizing” into this tiny house, with half the square footage of our previous domicile (and no garage, where our house in Scappoose possessed one of the three-car variety…) We dumped loads of “stuff” we’d pack-ratted for almost 2 decades;  which, it turns out, I do not miss.  We brought along with us things we didn’t think we could or would—notably one small, wild black cat, who is now fully integrated into the household (mostly.)

Over the months, we’ve learned that this house and its surrounds come with their own cast of feline characters.  Shortly after we moved in, I met a woman in the neighborhood who informed me that the area has a “thriving” colony of feral cats.  This has come clear to me in the persons of at least 3 of that number who have decided that my yard—with its covered sitting areas, its birds and its “Mo Memorial Food Dish”—is a fine place to visit and set a spell on their rounds of the neighborhood.

There is “Grey,” a big, lanky but muscular tom, whom I believe is not neutered.  He has marked everything in the yard, including all the places I normally sit to enjoy the outdoors.  I’m fairly used to the smell of cat piss, so it doesn’t bother me overmuch.  He lords it over the memorial food dish, though he chooses to only nibble on the contents, so obviously he is not hungry.  Being that he’s not neutered, I’m inclined to believe he’s NOT a member of the feral colony.  So I mostly chase him away (gently.)

We also entertain “They,” so named because they are black and I haven’t been able to get close enough to determine their gender.  They are less in-your-face than Grey; They seem an affable sort, but clearly undesirous of a physical relationship with humans.  They will also pick at the memorial food dish, but, again, not as if it is their sole source of nourishment.  They indulge in one particularly interesting behavior:  Often, when we’re out in the yard exercising the dog—throwing her disc for her to chase and bring back—They will sit just on the other side of the chain link fence, watching the sport, like a parent at a child’s soccer game.  I’m not sure what fascination this holds for them; I can only speculate that perhaps They grew up in a household with a loved (or at least not hated) puppy or dog before they were turned out into the wild to fend for themselves.  Kind of breaks my heart. 

And then, there is Dominique.

Why Dominique?  People of a certain age might remember “The Singing Nun” in the 1960’s, and her hit song “Dominique.”  Husband came up with that name for this character. The little bee-dub (our abbreviation for “black and white cat”) is very chatty—she regales you with a constant monologue of surprisingly forceful “mew! mew! mew!” the moment you step out the door.  Husband dubbed her “the singing cat,” which led to the “singing nun” reference, which led to Dominique.  Works for me.  I had been calling her “Paleface,” because her face is mostly white, and I didn’t immediately know her gender.  I have since ascertained that she is female, and that she has been spayed—evidenced by the very tip of one ear having been snipped off, the mark of a spay-neuter operation carried out on a feral cat colony. 

We’ve also ascertained that she is not planning on being the aloof, touch-me-not, feed-me-only feral kitty in the back yard.  She has progressed from running to meet me as I scoop food into the memorial dish, to begging at the back door for meals.  Where she once spun and hissed and dodged when I brought out the food, now she will allow a soft stroke of her back as I draw my hand away from the dish and she digs in.  She’ll devour her breakfast and then sit under my chair while I drink my morning bracer.  Today, she hopped up on a padded stool next to me, and we sat in quiet amity while I sipped my coffee.  I think we like each other. 

None of my sisters have animal companions any more.  They all seem to think it would be unfair to take in and care for an animal that might outlive them.  I just cannot subscribe to that theory.  I’ve told my family that, I may not go out purposely LOOKING for another animal to add to our family, but as long as the Universe brings animals to ME, I’ll have faith that we’re meant to better their lives in some way for whatever time we’re allowed. 

We’ve never NOT had a houseful of animals companions.  Just now, we’re supporting a family of one dog and four indoor cats…and one “singing cat” who seems bound to become a member of the indoor clan at some point.  If this is what the Universe asks of me, it’s not in me to refuse.          

Scary Times

Our world has become a very frightening place, for those of us of "a certain age."  And even those of us NOT of a certain age, if the twitterverse is an accurate sampling.

Those of us with health anxiety issues--from which I had been suffering mightily all winter--are hanging on by our finger- and toe-nails.  My sanity rides along a rail as gossamer as monofilament.  Ordinarily, a day at work or a shopping trip might serve to distract from the tingling terror that resides just under the surface of my skin. But, well, THAT isn't happening right now.

I'm grateful for my house--which we hammered into livable shape just in time.

I'm grateful for my little yard, with its birds, and its feral cats, and its view of the sky, and its places to sit.   

I'm grateful that this little place is not in danger of being repossessed because we can't pay a mortgage--which we do not have. 

I'm grateful that we have 2 cars sitting in the driveway that belong to US alone, that no bank can take away from us.

I'm  grateful that the Universe urged us to arrange our lives in this way, in time to face this crisis.

I'm grateful for so many things.

But I'm also frightened, and, at times, almost out of my senses with anxiety. 

So there it is.  That's me.

And this is where you'll find me for the foreseeable future--

 

This One, I Like

Right on:

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To all the 🌹Revolutionaries screaming “Bernie or Bust” (again...)

I think this lady knows what she’s talking about.

Super Tuesday