Yet Another Piece of my Spirit Flies Home

One week ago today, we said another sad, wrenching goodbye.  It’s taken me this long to write the essay because I’ve just been…numb.  We lost all four of our boys within less than a year and a half.  I’m confident the Universe doesn’t engage in such tactics, but I feel…punished. 

Our last boy succumbed to the failure of his beautiful body last Wednesday.  We don’t know how old he was…he was already full grown when he came to us.  He lived with us for almost 12 years.  I recorded his arrival into our family in kind of an offhand manner, back in August of 2009:

“Bozo—the beautiful runaway who showed up at the restaurant a couple of weeks ago, and is now ensconced in my bedroom, waiting to be integrated into the indoor cat community. (Such a stupid name for a gorgeous and obviously expensive cat...but the hubs started calling him that, and it has, unfortunately, stuck. Maybe I should just spell it "Beauzeau...")”

We actually DID start spelling it “BEAUZEAU-X”—which eventually morphed, as it seems all our cats names do—into something completely different.  “BOX.”  We called him Box.

Here is his story:

One day at the restaurant, I looked out the front window to see a gorgeous, BIG cat begging to get into the taekwondo studio across the street.  I’d never seen that cat before, and I spent a LOT of time in that neighborhood those days.  The beautiful cat looked lost and haunted, and he kept breaking into these fits of sneezing the like of which I’d never seen emit from any being, let alone a cat.  I remember worrying that he would get hit by a car, because he seemed so desperate to be somewhere that he wasn’t fully aware of his surroundings.

But, as I was tethered to The Job That Ate My Life, I could do nothing more than look out the window and worry as I went through the motions of my over-burdened existence.  Eventually, the cat disappeared, and I sent up a silent prayer that he was safe and back where he belonged.

When the evening crew came on shift, one of the kids came up to me and said, “Did you know there’s a cat in your car?”  I hurried out to my van…to find the big cat curled up on my back seat, sleeping the sleep of an exhausted lost soul.

I left the poor frightened boy where he was; he needed the rest.  And I thought to myself “If he’s still there when I get off work, he’s going home with me.”

He was, and he did.

When we got him home, we found that he was neutered and declawed.  Certain that he was someone’s treasured housecat who had got out and got lost, we took photos of him and posted flyers in the neighborhood. 

Box's mug shot for the flyer

The response we got to the flyer told us so much about the traumatic journey he had been on…and made us determined to give him a safe, quiet home where he could recover.

A flakey woman turned up at the restaurant in response to the ad.  My goal from the start was to get her to give him up, before I even knew her story; because I was convinced that anyone who had let him escape and wander the streets of Scappoose confused and afraid did NOT deserve to keep him.  After I heard her story, I was even more determined to get him away from her.

Seems this woman had a friend who worked at the local animal shelter, and for whatever reason, this friend had told her they had picked up a beautiful cat that looked like an expensive animal.  She went to the shelter and “adopted” him…not because she loved him or she wanted a cat, but because she thought he was a purebred of some kind, worth a lot of money.  I don’t know if her plan was to then sell him on craigslist, or whatever.  But she took him home…where she had a Chihuahua who had, up till this time, ruled the roost.  The nasty little dog proceeded to endlessly harass the cat.

So the cat would run out of the house every time a door was opened in his vicinity, desperate to get away from the dog. He would “run and run and run” according to the new “owner,” and the only way she could get him back was to get him cornered and throw a blanket over him.

We asked her what she knew about the sneezing.  She said she had taken him to the vet, where she was told he had probably had a very bad upper respiratory infection in his past, and it had done permanent damage to his sinuses and nose.  Though the infection was gone, he would probably be prone to these sneezing fits for the rest of his life. 

Oh. My. God.

Poor, poor kitty!

Apparently, by the time he ended up in the back seat of my van, flakey owner was fed up with chasing him all over the neighborhood.  It was not difficult to get her to hand him over to us.

So that’s how a damaged, traumatized, chronically sneezy kitty was entrusted into our care.

I would like to say everything went on smoothly from there, he was “integrated into the indoor kitty community” with ease, and he became one of the family with only the normal hiccups associated with introducing a new member to the household.  But that is not Box’s story.

Circumstances surrounding his arrival on our doorstep, and his own scars from the traumas of his first years, combined to determine his position in our household. 

First of all, I was working 70 hours a week and was stretched to my limits in every way.  I had very little time or emotional energy to invest in slow, incremental introductions where we could give him time to warm up to the other inhabitants of the household, and give them time to warm up to him.  And one of the “coping mechanisms” we couldn’t seem to talk Box out of was heading for any open door and running away when he got out.  This complicated things about a hundredfold.

The other human members of the household were more hindrance than help in this regard.  The husband was as strung out as I was.  His attitude tended toward, “Well if he gets out and runs away, let him go!” And we had the additional complication of my flakey sister living with us three days a week.  She could not be trusted to remember to play the “keep the kitty in the house” foot dance required to prevent our poor orphan from breaking out and disappearing.  So between being desperate to keep him in the house and not having time to introduce him properly to the rest of the indoor kitties, Box ended up staying in my bedroom.  Which was upstairs, away from any portals to the outdoors, and had a door that could separate him from the rest of the herd. 

Box became the “bedroom kitty.”

Box enjoying HIS fire...

...and his window.

 

Which he remained for the rest of our tenure in that house.  Ten years.

Don’t feel sorry for him, though.  Our bedroom was H.U.G.E. Between the bedroom, the bathroom and the walk-in closet, there was probably 600+ square feet of living space.  There are indoor cats who thrive in homes that small.  And he had a bed, two chairs, an ottoman, three windowsills and a fireplace.  Cushy carpeting and lots of sun to enjoy through west-facing windows.  And Mom and Dad to himself every night.  Up to that point, I had NEVER allowed cats to sleep with us at night.  Box moved in and claimed that privilege.  He did NOT have a bad life. 

Box in his "burrito." After many years, he got over his fear of being inside a blanket. He chose this one as his own.

When we sold the house in Scappoose and moved into our majorly downsized retirement digs in Eugene, I knew there was no single room in that house that was big enough to be “Box’s Room.”  My bedroom has room for a bed and 2 nightstands.  NOWHERE to put a cat box and cat food dishes.

So I had the bright idea of moving Box to the house in Eugene first.  We had possession of the house for three months before we sold the Scappoose house and moved all our things down to Eugene.  I brought Box down and installed him a couple of weeks before we brought the rest of the crew down.  I had no idea how that was going to work out, but it just occurred to me that this would be the right way to do things.

And what a success it was!  Beyond my wildest imagination.  The simple act of moving the other cats into Box’s house entirely changed the dynamic between Box and the rest of the herd.  The boys—Alvin and Theo in particular—no longer followed him around and bad-vibed him relentlessly as they had done in the other house.  Apparently, they accepted that this was his house, and they had better leave him alone if they wanted to live here, too.

So Box settled into comfort and amity in the midst of the family for the last 2 years of his life.  

Box's favorite bed...in the middle of the family room in Eugene.

And then we lost them.  All.  Between November of 2018 and last week.

Four boys in 17 months. 

We are down to 1 cat:  The Princess—that little black waif I bundled into a cat carrier and kidnapped off the Scappoose property at the last minute so as not to leave her behind at the mercy of the new owner’s 3 dogs.  We haven’t had only one cat in our home since 1977. 

I hardly know how to be.  I don’t think the Princess knows how to be, either.  She has spent the last 2 years trying to develop a relationship with a swiftly-shrinking family of brothers.  One after another, they disappear on her.  Sometimes I think she wonders if she’s next.

Box and the Princess on my bed in Eugene.

 

I am sad.  And I am tired.  And I wonder if I’m capable of withstanding the loss of one more sweet spirit from my life.  And I wonder why the Universe has seen fit to call all these pieces of me back to itself in such a short period of time.

We have been so blessed and so protected during the pandemic in every other way. 

But this…

Please.

Just…please.

Goodbye, my sweet, complicated, quirky Box.  We miss you.  So much.   

 

My favorite Box picture.  "Box of the Galaxy eyes." 💕💕

 

Show and Tell...Starting Over: Political Images I Love

 Well.  March was kind of a bust, wasn't it?  

I have some theories about why it's so difficult for me to write these days.  One of which has to do with the fact that I'm never alone for a long enough time to concentrate (without guilt) on writing an essay. 

That may change soon, however, as the husband has a hot job prospect on the hook; if he reels it in, he'll be going back to work and things will be going back to...well, a "normal" that looks more like the old normal, and less like hunkering down and riding out a storm...for a YEAR.

Just to show I'm still alive...

I have a couple of pictures--not taken by me--that I've collected over the past weeks, intending to share them here.

They pretty much speak for themselves.

...featuring Stacey Abrams.

And

...which is one of the best images I've seen of the choices Americans currently face.

Show & Tell...Monday: A Picture Worth a Thousand Words

I didn’t post yesterday, because I couldn’t find one picture worth “showing.”

Then today, I saw this:

Show & Tell Sunday: Finally Found the Owls

Three years ago, I tried to salvage an anxiety-shortened vacation by following a tip to a local place where I was told I might see short-eared owls.

Lo and behold, the tip proved good, and I got my first glimpse and photos of the little munchkins (which are not so little when they spread their wings.)

Unfortunately, in three years, I've returned to that location time after time, but have been unable to duplicate the experience.  

Until this week.

I finally hit on the right combination of weather (not rain), timing (just before it got too dark to photograph), and patience.  

And was well rewarded.

So of course, stoked by my success, I've been out there twice more in three days.

And got skunked both times.

Just goes to show, you have to take the gifts the Universe provides as they come.

   

Turnabout is NOT Fair Play

 

There’s no question that Twitter is a much less objectionable place now that Cheeto Jesus and many of his lying cohorts have been forever banned from its platform.

That said, it continues to be the first place one would go to witness glaring examples of why this country is where it is today.  And why we’re not likely to speedily recover from the crippling malady whose death grip we’re struggling to loosen.  Or not.

All over the internet, “blue-wavers” are pushing the “turnabout is fair play” directive for our narrowly Democrat-controlled government.  What they seem to have learned from four years of bottomless dive into the depths of leadership depravity is, “They did it to US, now we get to do it to THEM.”  Forty-eight months of passionately crying out about the hypocrisy, immorality, greed and dishonesty of Trump and his GOP buttsuckers and the takeaway is “Oh boy!  It’s our turn to make THEM suffer!”…?

These blue turds have raised their ugly heads and started yapping their perverted payback logic most recently in reaction to the weather disaster that hit Texas last week.  Apparently, because we don’t like Texas’ politics, we’re perfectly justified in denying Texans federal aid while they’re sitting in the dark freezing, with no running water.  Let Texas take care of its own people!  Texas has billions squirreled away in various nefarious pockets!

Let me be first to say I don’t approve of Texas leadership, politics, or economic theory.  The “theory” is all couched in free market and low tax and small government lingo.  The FACT is that Texas has had a longstanding dedication to making the rich richer and keeping the not-rich joyfully tossing the few pesos they have to rub together into the coffers of the rich, because “freedom.”  Texas has designed its infrastructure and government as a colossal upside-down funnel through which the rich suck up billions, which they then channel offshore to places where the money can compound without the burden of taxes, or of providing any guarantees of service, safety or livelihood to the peons they are bleeding dry. 

And that’s not even touching upon the not-so-tacit racism that boils deep in the heart of Texas.

Be that as it may, Texas is STILL one of the United States of America; in fact, the second-most populous state therein.  AMERICANS live in Texas.  Americans who are freezing, sitting in the dark  and have no running water.  In the middle of a pandemic.  While their political leaders head to Cancun to get away from the horrible conditions. 

And there are asshats with little blue waves in their twitter handles arguing that we should abandon those Americans because their politics don’t line up with “ours”.

I don’t know about anyone else, but to ME, that sounds way too much like the crap that Cheeto Jesus and his buttsuckers spouted during the four years THEY viewed federal coffers as their own personal pot of gold from which they meted out coins only to those who “liked” or “were nice” to them.  We screamed bloody murder about that, then.  As well we should have. 

As well we should NOW about those who would have us act in EXACTLY the way our “enemies” did, now that WE hold the purse strings.

Four years of impotent rage against Cheeto and his minions didn’t teach us NOT to be assholes. In fact, we’ve tucked the GOP’s dirty tricks into our own toolbag, and want to pull them out and use them against the “enemy”—the people whose politics are opposite of our own—because we CAN.

Now that we have the ability to point a loaded gun at the opposition, we don’t know enough to drop it in horror.  No.  It suddenly becomes allowable, even righteous, to pull the trigger. 

Because WE are the GOOD guys.

Maybe…not so much.    

 

Show & Tell Sunday: This is WAAAY Too Cool

 

I originally received this image via text from my niece. I was totally blown away by it. 

I felt like it embodied my spirit...or at least, the spirit I aspire to possess.

The artist is George RedHawk.  He is a Native American Artist who is also legally blind.

He says he creates these images to give his audience a sense of what HE sees, as his brain struggles to complete the incomplete information his eyes provide. 

I can't even imagine actually seeing the world this way.  I don't know whether it would be an enormous blessing or some kind of impossible burden to bear.

But the images he creates...are magic.

May He Spend Eternity in the Hell He Tried to Create on Earth

Much of my identity here on the interwebs is tied up in my liberal politics and my sanctimonious political commentary.  I've been speaking (writing) out about political issues since the Bush II Administration.  One of my first posts--back in October of 2003--was about Arnold Schwarzenegger being elected governor of California. So it's not like my blog hasn't dived into political controversy from the very beginning.

And I wouldn't be worth my salt as a progressive commentator if I didn't in some way make mention of the death of Rush Limbaugh this past Wednesday.  

I think if I got going on about him, I'd never be able to stop.  And I don't seem to have the will to organize a comprehensive post about a man who single-handedly perverted the minds of discontented white middle Americans for over 30 years--filling them with lies, racism, misogyny, disrespect, xenophobia and hatred.  A man who conjured up and normalized every dirty little secret residing in the soul of every disaffected white American from Atlantic to Pacific.  

"You hate blacks?  That's ok.  They ARE uneducated monkeys out to steal your women and jump ahead of you in the employment line." "You hate immigrants?  That's ok!  They ARE here to rape your sisters and steal your jobs!"  "You hate feminism?  That's ok!  Women belong at home behind the stove or in your bed with their mouths shut!" Et cetera.

Ahhh...see what I mean?  I was just going to write a short introduction for the pictures I'm going to post, and I'm already up to two paragraphs.

So, anyway...

In the heat of the Twitter moment, I made some comments about Limbaugh and his demise.  Twitter can be a great editor...the 280 character limit can really help one to distill one's thoughts.  So rather than go on for pages and pages of impotent rage, it seems easiest to just put my original off-the-cuff thoughts here:

Clarence Darrow wrote: “All men have an emotion to kill; when they strongly dislike some one they involuntarily wish he was dead. I have never killed any one, but I have read some obituary notices with great satisfaction.”

Darrow was much more PC than I.

Show & Tell Sunday: Four More Years! ❤️❤️❤️

 

Show & Tell Sunday: Wildlife and Instagram

Yes, yes...I'm falling flat on my commitment to post regularly.  Looks like "Show & Tell Sunday" is going to save my bacon.I do like to post my pictures.

Pictures.  

I discovered that I could go online to obtain the parking permit I would need at ODFW (Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife) sites--like Sauvie Island and our new haunt, the Fern Ridge Wildlife Area.  No stopping at the smarmy little convenience store on the island to pay for a permit! Have to admit, I was ecstatic at the idea of "contactlessly" obtaining that precious little scrap of paper.  Obtain it I did, and on Wednesday I took my jonesing for owl time 120 miles north and was amply rewarded.

 

We have also been spending a lot of time at Fern Ridge, which we were surprised to learn has quite a large area of wildlife viewing accessible by car.  It was there that we experienced our first encounter with mass quantities of Western Bluebirds.  People out here in the west do nothing but harp on and on about how the bluebirds are disappearing, and non-native birds are competing with them for food and nesting sites.  And up til now, I was inclined to believe this, since in 36+ years of living in Oregon, I've only had one other encounter with a bluebird.  Maybe they all moved to Fern Ridge, I don't know.  But there sure are a lot of them there.

 Up until the last couple of weeks, we haven't had a whole lot of success in the wildlife-viewing department.  We've been to Finley several times, and we've been haunting a place outside of Harrisburg where I once photographed short-eared owls.  But even though I've packed the camera every time, we've hardly had more than an eagle fly-by or two.  There haven't even been a lot of geese at Finley.  I was wondering whether the wildfire/smoke event we had in September had an impact on the wintering birds. 

Finally, in the last couple of weeks, some good bird viewing has come our way.  And, boy, did I find out how rusty I am at handling that fancy-ass camera and its huge lens!  I'm determined to take the thing out and get some practice.  

The other thing I found out is that yet another social media outlet has chewed me up and spit me out.

I finally got some pictures of which I was proud enough to post on Instagram.  And...well, the response has been underwhelming.  So...

Here.  Here is where my pictures will go.  To my own little corner of the internet.

A little lonely, a little echo-y.  But mine.

Here are the pics.

Enjoy! 

  

Show & Tell Sunday: Dodie

Not doing too well on the "posting regularly" thing, am I?

Well, since I started a "day" last Sunday, I might as well go with it.

Today's "Show & Tell" picture is of Dominique, the back yard cat.  On a distinctly sunnier day than we have been having lately. 

 

 

Miss Do has moved into the yard for good and all.  

During the summer months, she was content to camp out for the night on any available chair with a cushion on it.  It doesn't rain much during the summer, so open air or slightly under cover was adequate digs for the season.  But what about winter?  I had no covered spot out back that was not going to get wet when winter storms blew in.  

What about bringing her indoors?  Well, not so much.  She has been invited in the back door several times, but doesn't seem to view "indoors" as a place she wants to spend any amount of time.  She'll politely sit by the door for a spell, happy to receive a few pets and some love.  But she resolutely plants her nose five inches from the glass of the sliding door, and within ten minutes she makes it clear she belongs on the other side.  So, as summer waned and the nasty weather approached, I was desperate to make a place, either on the patio or the "shed deck," where she could stay at least dry if not terribly warm for the duration.

Husband and I set about creating a protected space where she could snuggle in and eat and sleep dry while the winter storms raged.

We extended the "shed deck" by six feet to make it 10 feet square.  Then we added a "shelter logic" canopy as a roof.  But a covered 10 foot square with no walls offers almost no reliably dry space when the winds start to howl and the rain blows sideways.  A trip to the Habitat ReStore scored us enough doors and windows to enclose the space on the south and west.  And, voila! 

 

The Dodie deck.

She's content to curl up on one of the several chairs enhanced with blankets, old sleeping bags and pillows.  She stays relatively warm and dry.  And has basically become queen of the back yard.

Husband demonstrating the Dodie-coffee lap sit.

Every morning, I take my coffee outside, she takes up her position on my lap, and we sit and watch the birds and the squirrels come to the feeders.

Makes up a little for the loss of my three boys over the past year.  The Universe never leaves me lonely for long.