September 1, 2011 · 8:30 am
In 415 blog posts I haven’t yet written about my cats. Sure, I’ve mentioned Ricky and Lucy a time or two, but they’ve never been the subject of the blog. There’s a reason for that.
Six-and-a-half years ago, a wise person cautioned me that people who talk about their pets are boring. I don’t necessarily agree but–except in the most personal company–I’ve borne that advice in mind.
That wise person was my son. When my husband and I began thinking of getting a pet after not having had one, we consulted our son, primarily because he suffered from allergies. He said he’d support our getting a cat under the firm condition that we not become “pet people.”
To his mind, “not being pet people” came in two parts: not talking about pets to anyone and not putting their pictures on Christmas cards.
I honored this condition for a while but, when our son went off to college, Ricky and Lucy achieved human status and bumped him from his place in the household hierarchy. Yes, I’m a Crazy Cat Lady–what of it?
Last week I noticed a blog featured on Freshly Pressed, WordPress’ selection of best posts. It caught my eye because it didn’t include more than a few words. Simply, there were pictures of cats. Lots of pictures of cats. Cute and funny pictures of cats. Here, have a look.
I thought, if the good people at WordPress deemed this sweet display worthy of featuring, then I might be free to express my ailurophilia for just one day in this space, usually devoted to the written word.
Meet Lucy, who likes helping me in the office:
Now meet Ricky, who works feats of marvel and self incarceration:
Please don’t unsubscribe. I’ll be back with words next time.
June 4, 2011 · 1:25 pm
We’ve talked before about collective nouns. Recently I got thinking about the vast variety of verbiage assigned to collections of animals and insects.
We know that there are herds of cattle, elephants, caribou, antelope (or is it antelopes?) and zebras. We know that are prides of lions.
Did you that a group of rhinos is a crash? How about a troop of baboons, a sleuth of bears or a pod of walruses?
I didn’t know it at the time, but I’ve seen grists of bees and, appropriately, intrusions of cockroaches.
My son sees rafters of turkeys and bales of turtles on the roads where he lives.
I hope that I shall never encounter an ambush of tigers. But while we’re talking felines: What got me thinking about these words was a recent episode of one of my favorite TV shows, The Big Bang Theory. In fact, this whole blog post was a pretext for sharing a clip from this video, the first 50 seconds of which focus on the collective nouns pertaining to large numbers of my favorite domestic creature.
Because I currently have most of my faculties, I have only two, Lucy and Ricky. Who knows, one day I might assemble a full cast: Fred, Ethel, Little Ricky, Carolyn Applebee and Mrs. Trumbull.
Filed under All Things Wordish, Hearth and Home, Movies, Television and Radio
Tagged as antelope, bale of turtles, caribou, cats, cattle, clowder of cats, crash of rhinos, glaring of cats, grist of bees, herd, I Love Lucy, intrusion of cockroaches, pets, pod of walruses, pride of lions, rafter of turkeys, sleuth of bears, troop of baboons, zebra
May 10, 2011 · 10:29 am
I’m a woman without a kitchen.
This is Day Twenty-six of the most modest of kitchen renovations, and between now and Day Twenty-nine, we’re losing all access to the kitchen, the largest room in our house and the space through which all people and pets must pass.
As I’ve told you several times already, my husband and I painted this large room ourselves, a significant feat for several reasons. It took almost a week.
Now the contractors are here to refinish the floors, a process I’m told will generate significant amounts of dust. Instead of writing my blog, I spent the morning hours removing the remaining items from the counters and sealing up all of the cabinets because, if gobs of pine dust fill my drawers, I will surely melt. I’m already teetering on the edge of sanity.
My husband is away and the plan was for the pets and me to move out for the week. I’m still not sure how that is going to work out. Ricky and Lucy are already completely confused. Every day is a scavenger hunt for their litter boxes and food dishes. I notice them consulting with each other as they approach the search.
This morning they are locked in a bedroom until I can map the next step. A ride in the car will most certainly do them in. Trust me. When this is over they’re going to need some therapy.
Meanwhile, I have newfound respect for do-it-yourself-ers and even for those who live with large home renovations executed by others. I’ve heard stories of people washing dishes in bathtubs and eating out of their microwaves in the basement for weeks and months on end. We’re not even touching cabinets or counter tops or more than one appliance, and it’s rattling.
You know that feeling when the electricity goes out and you walk in a room and try to switch on the light? And then do it again five minutes later? Any bets on how many times in the next three days I bump into plastic sheeting as I try to enter my kitchen?
I wonder what the special is at Nick’s Diner.
December 2, 2010 · 7:43 am
I blog today with a broken heart. In fact, my hands are shaky and my knees are weak, I can’t seem to stand on my own two feet.
Some time ago, I introduced you to Elvis. As cheesy as this might sound, my family and I fell hopelessly in love with Elvis, a 19-year-old deaf, arthritic cat when, about two months ago when, for whatever reason, he left his family and came to live on our side of the street. We suspected that he suspected that his long life was coming to an end.
I pretended that Elvis came to me, the hospice lady, for comfort and end-of-life care. The reality is, I fed him, as did our next door neighbors, who also provided him with a warm bed on their front porch. We all know what animals do when you feed them. But I took Elvis on as my latest hospice patient, giving him as much food as he wanted and wrapping him in a towel when he was too confused to take cover from the rain.
Yesterday, while away on a business trip, I received a message from our neighbor that Elvis had returned home to his family, where he died. According to the note, Elvis “spent the last several nights curled up inside, comfortably on a pillow.” As with most hospice situations, and as it should be, the patient died surrounded by family.
When I get home, I will kneel at the spot under our bushes where Elvis made his temporary home and remember how he brightened my life with his sweet purr and the meow that sounded like a duck quacking.
I can only hope that, wherever animals go when they die, Elvis lives on in his own Graceland.
Godspeed, Elvis. Love ya, buddy.
October 27, 2010 · 8:18 am
If you are looking for cheap amusement, plant yourself in the waiting room of any veterinary office and eavesdrop.
Of course, one person’s amusement is another one’s pet crisis, so it isn’t my intention to be insensitive.
Last Saturday afternoon, as my husband and I were waiting for our twin tuxedo cats to be seen for their annual physicals, we couldn’t help but overhear the receptionist’s conversations.
“So you say Lila needs more Prozac?”
“What kind of breathing problems is Little Bit having?” Let’s just leave it that Little Bit was neither a cat nor a dog.
I suppose I giggled too soon. The next thing I know we were being told, “Lucy is obese. She needs to go on a low carbohydrate diet so she doesn’t develop diabetes.” I guess that’s better than last year’s words from the vet,” Lucy needs dental surgery.” Perhaps if we hadn’t fixed her teeth she wouldn’t have tipped the scale at almost 17 pounds, blessherheart.
After we got instructions for getting Lucy off the Fancy Feast, the veterinary tech consoled us with heaping helpings of Halloween candy and sent us on our way. That is, after we forked over more money than at my last doctor visit. Of course, conversations at the human doctor aren’t as fun to overhear.
October 19, 2010 · 8:13 am
I have a new love in my life. He is black, has advanced arthritis, is mostly deaf and is 96. I am head over heels crazy about him. And I know he loves me. His name is Elvis.
Elvis is a 19-year-old cat who ran away from home, from across the street, about three weeks ago. He divides his time between our yard and that of our next door neighbors, with whom we share a driveway. In fact, the driveway is his favorite place to sleep. He doesn’t respond to the sound of a car engine or horn, which means I have to physically move him when I want to get in or out of the driveway.
The poor little guy is fur and bones, with a raspy Clint Eastwood-esque meow, with which he greets me every morning, before and after I go to the gym. He follows me to my front door, hoping to get a look at my house cats, Ricky and Lucy. It’s our little ritual. He still has quite a purr going, and he is wildly affectionate. He doesn’t seem to have any interest in going home; perhaps he knows something about his future that he wants to keep on the DL.
I love Ricky and Lucy dearly, but I have a special fondness for Elvis. Ricky and Lucy are my babies, but Elvis is my man, my scrawny little hunka burning love.