Decision made

Toby the cat was rescued from a parking lot in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. No one could locate him; he cried for a day and a night. Then a little girl played the kitty app on her phone, and he came running. No onlooker volunteered to take it, so Carol and I scrapped our plans for another day at the Three Rivers Art Festival, and concentrated on getting the scrappy kitten back to Ohio, where he devoured a bowl of water logged adult cat food, and became the topic of my first blog entry.

We found him on a Saturday, and at his trip to the vet on Monday he weighed in at a pound. The vet put him at four weeks, and pronounced him lucky to be alive. Lucky or not, he seemed reasonably content, and grew up to be a very long haired black and white, with a “Got Milk” mustache and very short legs. I told him his mama left him behind because his legs were so short.

There were two cats in the house, Purrl, the indoor/outdoor cat, and Ryon, a young rescue. Purrl, of course, had no use for either cat, but Ryon and Toby got along. Ryon fell into the habit of licking Toby’s ears. I never saw the favor returned.

Ryon and Toby

Toby did not know how lucky he was, until a January day some years ago that Ryon took an afternoon nap and did not wake up. There was no other cat to lick Toby’s ears. He took to licking the arm of any available person and rubbing his ears on the wet spot. Truly pathetic. I asked if his legs were too short to reach his ears (they really aren’t, in a stretch).

Ryon 

When we go to the vet, there often is a large crate with a few kittens. I think Dr. Mike helps the local Humane Society get them adopted. Laura always wants one, of course. As sweet as kittens are, I’m not tempted. Pets are a responsibility, and there now is that problem of longevity. Toby is under strict orders not to outlive me, but a kitten could be iffy.

Toby boarded down the road for the week we were in Wisconsin. Thinking of his great longing for an ear licker, I asked the technicians to introduce him to the common room of cat boarders as quickly as possible and let me know how Mr. Feral took to new cats.

Toby is a feral cat, and does not resemble any domesticated cats I’ve known. In the beginning, he was the kitten who had to make up to adult cats. Now he is the adult cat, set in his ways, though still wishing for an ear licker. To consider a kitten for him, I’d need to know he could be social.

Monday evening I peeked into the cat room. Cats everywhere, lolling about, snuggled up to other cats—cat stuff. And Toby, lying in his condo, door wide open, looking out. I asked the technician how his week had gone, if he’d made up with any other of the boarders.

They said his door was open, all day, every day, and he laid in the opening all week. The cats came up to investigate him, and he tolerated it without flinching. But, he never came out and said “Hi, my name is Toby. What’s yours? Do you do ears?”

So, he can stop playing pathetic cat with me, and realize his paws do reach his ears.

Toby

The cat prevailed

Vacation plans for Toby were firm, but fluid. He was boarding at a local kennel. And the kennel must be quite tired of me by now. Last week I made his reservation for Saturday, on. But the weekend forecast came up quite ugly, and I changed his reservation to Monday.

The polar vortex shifted, the weather moved a little north, and travel along two Great Lake shores to Wisconsin looked probable for today. I changed Toby’s reservation to this morning. I confess that all those times I called and listened to the times the kennel is open to take in and discharge pets, I never picked up on the crucial one. Though they are open twice a day throughout the week, on the weekend they are open Saturday morning and Sunday evening.

He Who, on a summer day.

I called yesterday to change Toby’s reservation to this morning, and the recording finally penetrated. I left a desperate message, but the call was not returned. Late in the afternoon I called Ann. She does run a kennel, and the cats have their own room, with sunning perches and everything. “Sure, bring him along.” Listening to him moan for several hours would not be pleasant, but perhaps Pride and Prejudice or Harry Potter would lull him to sleep.

Laura and I worked through yesterday with the resolve of vacationers leaving nothing to chance. The car is packed. Suitcases are open on the floor, and packed. All the last minute items are listed, and bags to tote them are open on the table. We are as determined as two people who’ve had no vacation in three years.

I’d been in bed a short time, and half asleep, when I became aware of muffled plopping noises. “Why are kids out in the street with fire crackers, in this rain?” I wondered. Eventually I got up and looked out the window onto the street. Fat raindrops, landing solidly. I went back to bed.

We are encased in ice this morning. I looked at the weather maps. Lake Erie and Lake Michigan are wreathed in purple and blue—freezing rain and freezing cold. I texted Ann, It’s No Go. Toby will be keeping his Monday reservation after all.

The front garden bench, through ice.

July 20th was 19 weeks ago

It's over for another year. I have Saturday's back.The band uniform is at the dry cleaner for the last time.  Saturday's don't start for real until next week, though. It was Saturday when I went to bed last night. 

It was nearly noon when we stumbled out the door today to take on Saturday shopping. Miss Less Awake than I rummaged in the back end of the car for several minutes before she handed me the shopping bags. She won't carry "granny" shopping bags into the store.

Our market is one of those new build warehouse sized emporiums so beloved of millennials. It's simply a rebranded Giant Eagle. Too big for me; Laura heads off with the shopping list and I wait on the wrong side of the registers until she finally comes down the chute and is directed to a lane. "Please proceed to Lane 13!

This time Laura sorted out a red bag and a green, in honor of the season. Her best laid plans went awry; we still came home with a couple of plastic bags.

After lunch, we set out to find some more ornaments and the star to top the tree. I thought about this over the week and decided on a garden center. They specialize in seasonal decorations, and seemed a great idea. One block down the road I had a moment! Why was I heading across town when we have a fine nursery across the street.

We bought a wreath, all the rest of the ornaments, and a star for the top of the tree.

Toby is happy to keep watch over the tree now. No more hiding underneath.

Perimeter patrol

My cat ownership goes back to my college days, and I've never permitted a cat on a counter.

At the old house some cats were hell bent on hitting the counter when the two leggers were done in the kitchen. Purrl was an awful offender, looking for the last splatter.

Toby had Purrl to show him how to do it, but was never interested.

The first time I saw Toby in this window he raised two paws and said, "You caught me, but it's the only south facing window I can reach. Don't take it away from me."

And, I haven't.

As you can tell, he did have a job to do up here. Something has his attention. He is all purpose.

Watching him settle in is worth the price of admission.

Of all our treasures up there, 

only the bird moved.

Look at that tail, just so, around the butterfly, under the bird.

And look at those ears! Something he must know about is happening on the street.

The lonely life of an only cat

Waiting for Emily

Keeping Laura from the edge

Keeping the outdoor cats away

General surveillance

Occasional mischief

"Don't be thinking I did it!"

Last night Laura shut him out of her room.

It's been very hot, and cats just make it hotter.

Toby meowed piteously.

I invited him to share a corner of my bed.

He stalked out, still protesting.

Toby carried on for an hour.

Laura slept through it all.

The first day of the next nine months of my life!

For Laura, school started today. She has not been in school since April. For many weeks she was up and about early, the old routine. But, for six or eight weeks, sometimes she’s up; sometimes I get her up when I do, eight in the morning. Plenty soon for an old lady.

I asked last night about her alarm, and am assured it works and she would set it. I woke up this morning at something after five, at full alert. No light down at her end, so I went on down, knocked and Laura flew straight up. First the glasses, then squint down at the alarm. “It will go off in one minute, Grandma,” she sighed. I left her getting up any way, and went back to bed, knowing she would make the bus at 6:20.

Then, at 7:20 the front door slammed shut. Emily, off to work. I have no idea why one slams the door and one doesn’t. No matter. I looked at my alarm. I never set it. I flipped the alarm button to on, rolled over and slept until it rang. It was the principle.

Went to work, came home, had lunch. No responsibility except getting Emily at 3 from work. Think I’ll go clean the kitchen counters and the sinks. They’re teenage clean, but not grandma clean.

On my way to work.

Cat on the other side of the blind.

I C U

Every morning for the past week this cat has landed from his three foot high spring directly on the middle of my body, unceremoniously stalked across my body, braced his hind feet against my back for leverage and thumped at the bedroom shade until he is behind it, on the windowsill. It's seven thirty am, mind you. I don't know, except the men begin work on the new lots behind us about eight am, and perhaps Toby is the time master.

Today the band will be photographed, prior to practice. They are to take their uniforms to change into. Walking past Laura's bathroom door, she was struggling into the shirt. This uniform is so complex I'm surprised these kids don't march in the under uniform some day, in protest. Yes, Hudson has matching underwear. Blue shorts and white shirt.

Being the grandmother, I had to say "You're supposed to change at school."

"I know. I just want to see what it looks like."

Waiting

               

Waiting can take half a day at a time from life, or more.  Some waits better than others. I waited half a day for the washer and dryer to arrive and be installed. Except for not plugging in the washer, it went well.

I waited half a day for Time Warner to arrive and install cable TV and internet. Things went well until the tech realized he had overlooked my PC on his work order. He rushed the end of the job of pulling more cable to get the wireless router into position. Hold this thought.

When I first looked at this unit, it was lacking the “driveway.” It was lacking a tenant, too, but from the instant I knew I wanted it, I wanted the drive in so I could carry out a scheme of turning the front area into a flower garden. The big plus will be someone else roto tilling. I simply will top dress and move plants in, or get new ones. The complex is down to one handyman, who told me he would do the job last Tuesday. Now management tells me it will be the end of this month. Still not too late, I suppose.

An enterprising young man named David did drop around and offer to get the ground in order for me. “My friend and I were thinking of renting a roto tiller…”  His age certainly did not exceed 14, and though I see he has posted a notice on the mailboxes to “do your gardening,” I think his imagination is ahead of his ability here. I said I’d keep him in mind for later.

There was no readily available TV to watch at the old house, so Laura and I were looking forward to our fill of HGTV, and whatever teenagers watch. I really had my heart set on the local channels, and made the Time Warner tech demonstrate them to me when he set up the TV—before I pointed out there was a PC on his work order, too, not just the girls laptops.

When I turned on the TV for the local news Friday, there were no local channels. CNN, yes, Channels 3, 5, and 8 stared back with blank screens. I called Time Warner, which sent a “fix” straight to the box. The change was to no TV at all. Time Warner robo called to ascertain my degree of happiness, and since it did not exist, gave me a live tech, who spent close to an hour not solving the problem. I must wait until tomorrow evening for another live tech to come to my door and resolve the issues.

In the meantime, here is a cat that does not wait. He simply “is.” 

More reality

 Ten below this morning.

But, the overnight snowfall had to go.

"Me, too."

"Me, too."

Pictures up in the bedroom.

"I thought you had more."

"I put them back in the closet."

Fat brown headed cowbird on the suet. Another on the ground.

My sister quilting one of her scrappy quilts.

Laura, prepping more scraps to be cut into little bits.

Reverie

This morning I set myself the mind boggling task of filling in the 2016 township calendar on the website. Before I started on the calendar, I put up a picture of the road super, retired after thirty three years. I found the perfect picture, don’t you think. 

Trustee and zoning meetings on the calendar are fairly straightforward, but when I get to brush and leaf pick-up, I boggle, my mind and my eyes wander. I looked up at a picture that has been on my wall for twenty years. Everything in this house is old, me not the least among the detritus.

I love that picture, Stalking the Wild Yarn. My friend Nina presented it to me one winter, the seasons I set up shop in her antique gallery and waited for the spring to arrive.  Below that, exhibitor buttons I accumulated over the years at the big fall show in Louisville, St. James Court Art Show.

I loved that show, and never did it alone. I always took Ann or Beth, or both, who did more than help set up, tear down and sell. Both of them could keep the map of Louisville in their head and knew how to get to the restaurant and the motel, even if we were lost.

Did you wonder about the ostrich head? The speech bubble says “They’re how much?” Linda came across that, an ad for a long forgotten product. She presented it to me shortly after we both exhibited at the Letchworth Park fall show. It’s actually a fall color weekend event; the exhibitors are an afterthought; the sort of show where artists stand outside their booths and declare to the sky “God strike me dead if I ever do this show again.”

I was behind my booth on a smoke break and walked back to the front past one of the millions examining the jacket from hell and saying to the world, “They’re how much!?” “They're obviously made of solid gold, you fool,” I said on my way by. From the other side of the sidewalk Linda’s husband Dick looked up from their booth, crossed, patted my back and said “Take a break, Joanne.” So I went and looked at leaves for fifteen minutes.

The postcard came from Laura, in the mail, more than ten years ago. The front door picture—Nina, again. She set herself the project of photographing every front door in Boston. They are famous in the community, and displayed at most events. That’s Angus, the best Cairn terrier who ever lived, looking out the front door. The only Boston door with a dog, Nina said.

You all know Toby, the spoiled cat. Good lord, how much stuff can I accumulate? Back to the cat and the yarn and suddenly I saw the dust. All of it. I dusted down the wall and went back to work.

The responsibilities of an indoor cat

This is Purrl, our last indoor/outdoor cat.

He was fourteen years old when he departed last January.

Purrl was the last of a long line of indoor/outdoor cats who took the business of rodent eradication (and the occasional bird) seriously.

This is Toby.

He takes his job of surveillance equally seriously.

Like a general with no army.

Toby is not so sure about outdoors.

He two excursions between the legs of a grocery laden two footer coming in the door have been stopped short by "Where do you think you're going, young man! Get back in the house!"

And Toby obediently trotted back up the ramp and into the house.

Even the mice he has waylaid have not inflamed his desire for more from the outdoors, which they smell of. 

Toby simply comes into the living room with the butt and tail of the evidence protruding from his lips,

and a completely unharmed but greatly startled mouse is deposited on the railing when Toby is carried out and instructed, "Drop it."

Toby sits in the window watching my handicapped bird at the feeder.

The bird is not a sparrow, but a house finch. Watching it up close (and it lets me within a couple feet of it), the bird's wings are deformed, the cause of the hovercraft style of locomotion.

Toby keeps track of the finch through the studio window.

And the chipmunks, squirrels, and doves on the ground, and the incessent squadrons of birds at the feeders.

And then there are the chipmunks. 

Without Purrl, we have companies of chipmunks in residence.

They completely ignore Toby,

who, in retalliation, ignores them as completely.

Toby deigns to overtly betray his presence to the little intruders.

See how perfectly they understand each other!

The appearance of the "Neighborhood Cat" however,

and the chipmunk disappears 

and Toby flys from window to window to let Neighborhood Cat know this house is completely defended by the indoor cat.