Anniversaries

You know what day it is. A day when we should all be remembering those young men and women that we have repeatedly sent into harm's way, by lying to them, telling them they were fighting for their country, or democracy, or freedom, or some such other bullshit.

A day when we should be weeping over the fact that so many of them come home broken in body and mind to a nation that seems to have forgotten all about them, except when it comes time to buy yellow ribbon magnets from China for a dollar or two. A day when we should be doing something about the fact that SO fucking MANY of our vets are unemployed, or homeless, or struggling to get by.

Today is all those things. If you know a veteran? Give them a hug or a thank you, call them up to say hello, take them to lunch or dinner, offer to help them out with something, anything. It could be something as small as picking up groceries, babysitting their kids, polishing their resume, setting up their computer, taking their damn dog for a walk. Do something. Anything. Just to let them know you appreciate what they went through while they were sweltering in a trench somewhere getting their ass shot off or getting water tainted with decaying corpses and rotting food thanks to George Bush, Dick Cheney, KBR, and/or Halliburton.

If you don't PERSONALLY know a veteran, you can always volunteer with one of the many fine organizations that help our vets in various ways.

These men and women risked their lives and their minds and bodies to do what they saw as their duty to the nation. You don't have to agree with their politics or their service to do them the kindness you would do any other human being. Step up and do your bit for them, and remember, in one month's time, a WHOLE LOTTA them will be coming home from Iraq.

If you're a business owner, you can help by hiring them. If you're working for a big corporation, ask them if they're interested in hiring veterans. If you work at a restaurant or other service/retail business, ask your employers if they will offer vets discounts, then publicize those discounts. Everything you do helps.

And, if you're a voter? Get your ass out there, register to vote, make sure all the vets you know are registered to vote. They don't have to vote for YOUR candidate. Just make sure they vote. Offer to drive them to the polls if they're disabled. Help them register by mail. But make DAMN sure they don't vote for Mittens Romneycare, because that miserable plastic-faced billionaire bastard is talking about PRIVATIZING the VA. After G.W. Bush's disastrous experiment with Walter Reed, I don't EVAH want to hear about veterans lying in pools of their own piss while rats run across the floor and mold spreads from leaky ceilings.

Today is also a very sad day here at La Casa de Los Gatos. It is the anniversary of my father's death. Dad fought in WW II, and was on the losing side, initially, so he spent some time as a POW. He came back from the war deaf in one ear, due to shrapnel, and with an enlarged heart. He lived a long, and mostly healthy, life, but his war stories were enough to give us kids nightmares for weeks. And I know he suffered from PTSD, although he was a gentle man who turned it inward into deep depression rather than outward into beating his wife and kids.

Goodbye, Dad. I still miss you so very much. I think I always will. You loved me and you taught me to love myself, even if the lesson took a long, long time to root itself.

Today is also the anniversary of Zingiber's death. For 14 long years, he was with me every moment, a fat, silly, fearful, neurotic, sweet, affectionate, jealous, possessive, overweight lump of love. I miss him every single day. No one has ever loved me the way that fool did. No matter what I did to him — and here I have to admit, shamefacedly, that there were times when he got on my very last nerve, and I did yell at him and torment him in various small ways — he never, ever held anything against me, not even for a second. I could attribute this to his complete and total brainlessness, I guess, but every night when he put his fat, furry little head on the pillow next to me and breathed softly and warmly into my ear, I realized that he might have been as stupid as the day was long, but that was real love in those big green eyes.

I miss you baby. I wish I could tell you one more time just how much.

Stumble It!

Caturday!

Of a long weekend, no less!

Happy Fourth of July, all. Enjoy lying back, relaxing, resting, hanging with family and friends.

This feline is crawling into the overgrown garden for yet another valiant battle with the goddamn weeds. They're taller than me right now (OK, so I'm height-impaired, let's get THAT out of the way shall we, and quit the snickering?), especially the dog-fennel, and the buddleia has dead branches that could prove to be a fire hazard. Wish I had rappelling gear to make me feel secure on those slopes, but them's the breaks.

Missing our Zingiber more than ever, on these warm summer days when he would walk through the tall weeds, his eyes the same perfect shade of green, the giant whipping plume of his tail marking his passage through the overgrown garden. His quiet cat-smiles (that slow, lazy blink of the magnificent orbs) at all the other small life.

I never saw Zingiber kill anything, not even a fly. Poor sweet silly feline, gone and so sorely missed.

For all you other cat-lovers, here's a thoroughly enjoyable video:

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O Death, Where Is Thy Sting?

Right here. It's stung me too many times this year to toss it off casually. Two family members (I think both were the last of their generation); too many feline friends.


Dad died last month. He was in his 90s, so it came as no great surprise except, apparently, to my inner child or summat, because I keep catching myself speaking or thinking of him all the time, in the present, or worse yet, as if he was actually present.

It's been almost exactly a month since I got the phone call. I had made reservations months ago to spend a couple of weeks around Thanksgiving with him. Let us give thanks for those parents we have left. Those relatives, of any degree of relativity. No, not really. I'm not terribly fond of my relatives. Although I was very fond of Dad.

I've been told I look like him. (A piece of flattery that would earn anyone a place in my good books, or on my Xmas list.) He was a handsome man. All I know is, I got his teeth (fragile), his feet (flat), and his tendency to tear up in old age. Also, thick eyebrows, early graying (he was 30 when he went completely silver, but the fates were kind and gave me an extra decade to get used to it), and a reading addiction I just can't shake. Thanks, Dad.

My father was a good man. One of the few I've ever met. His word was his bond. He never said anything he didn't mean (and because he was a gentle man, that meant he often said nothing at all, because he couldn't bear to be mean); he never told a lie. I miss him a great deal already. But he's been gone for several years now, fading a little each year. Losing his hearing, and then his sight, and finally even words. At first, at the beginning of his long decline, he would answer my questions with "I don't know. I don't know how to say. I've forgotten the words." In the end, he could not speak at all, although his brain could decipher that we were making patterns of sounds. He attempted to join in, but could only produce strange, disjointed noises, shouts, barks, mutters, all cadenced just like his normal speech.

Hard as it was to hear that he was gone, it wasn't intensely painful. After all, he was no longer mobile, nor continent, and the last stroke left him with a feeding tube. If he had understood what was happening, he would have hated every minute of it. So perhaps it's just as well that multiple small strokes took away his power of understanding.

But barely had I placed his bones in a funeral urn, crushing them with my hands, when came more bad news: Zingiber died suddenly, a week after my father.

O grave, here is thy victory. Stop taking my nearest and dearest away. Or at least slow your pace a little. Over the past decade, I've buried two sets of parents (natal and in-law); lost too many dearly-loved friends; and said goodbye to six cats and a dog, two charming chickens, and several bunnies. I'm done. I want a year or two without funerals and burials and mourning. Is that too much to ask? I'm feeling my own years, and I've spent thirty of the past X years worrying about, and taking care of (in my own incompetent fashion) my parents. They're gone, now, and I really have stopped caring. I don't want to give any more hostages to fortune. I'm ready for my own last trip to the banquet, goddammit. Ready to be worm food. Life sure is a lot bleaker without my dearly beloveds. Goodbye, Dad. I wish I could have talked to you more, but I really did spend every single day's worth of vacation over the last three decades with you. And Mum made every second of it a hell, so I'm sorry I didn't bite the bullet and sit through her needling, her vicious jibes, and her petty, pointed remarks and stay for the delight of your company. I couldn't do it, in the end. I just couldn't take any more. I'm sorry. I have always loved you, and I will always love you. And I always felt your love, Dad, surrounding me, making my life a better place. Making me all the good things I have ever been, or could be.

Goodbye, little Zingiber. I'll tell your story, my love. It will live in my heart always, just as you will, with my beloved father, and my sister, and all the others I loved who left me behind in their dance between matter and energy.

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Caturday!

And we're still not ready for our long-awaited Caturday guest!

So we leave you with a Gustav story for your amusement.

Gustav with his momma, Greta

Gustav and his Mum, Greta came to stay at La Casa de Los Gatos some seven years ago. Gustav's story is quite sad, really. Some idiot adopted his mother Greta but never had her spayed and, when she got pregnant, dumped her on the streets to fend for herself. You see why we don't approve of teenage pregnancy? Some other nasty soul, when Greta went into labour, kicked her into a drain and poured some sugary substance over her. Fortunately, a kind hoomin came along and found ants trying to eat the mother and her babies alive (ugh!) and rescued them all.

The kind soul took them home, cleaned them off, and proceeded to find homes for them all. Gustav was not the best looking of the bunch, so he was placed together with his dear sweet Mum, in a home with a young lady who liked cats.


Unfortunately, the young lady had a boyfriend who didn't like Gustav. He's never been an "easy" cat. He's loud, jealous, clingy, possessive of his mother, possessive of his hoomins — he was really meant to be an "only" cat. Unlike Bandicoot, he doesn't have a friendly open temperament and a sweet nature. The Coot visits all our neighbours fairly regularly and introduces himself to their guests as well, and offers to jump on anyone's lap for a quick belly petting or ear-scratching. Nor is he like Madu, who is basically an indolent catloaf and won't move if a stranger comes into the room. Actually he won't even open an eye to see who it is, sometimes, but, if petted, will purr loudly enough to be heard a couple of rooms away.

Gustav isn't gorgeous like the lovely Gojira, whom everyone falls in love with at first glance. She can be as difficult as she likes, with her plush, silvered gray fur, her lithe and delicate figure, her long, pointy paws, acid-green eyes, little pink sticking-out tongue. She's too beautiful to expect anything but indulgence. Nor is he a big silly fluffito like Zingiber, who runs away screaming from strangers (but they laugh rather than get annoyed because he's so big and fat and fluffy and looks so ridiculous waddling as fast as he can to get away).

No, Gustav is nervous and twitchy and shy and suspicious. He won't come when called. He won't make eye contact. He leaps away when touched. He has a loud, raucous, Siamese-type voice. He also has herpes, which makes both his eyes kind of pinkish and watery. He's a scrawny fellow. He cries a lot. His markings aren't exceptionally beautiful or distinguished.

So, of course, the boyfriend didn't like poor Gustav. And is the wont of some cruel hoominz, he would kick or hit Gustav whenever the poor kitteh was in the room. (Nasty jerk, we sincerely hope he comes back as a cockroach for his next seventeen lives and is beaten and eaten by cats!)

Some months of this, and the saint who placed Gustav heard about it and insisted on taking both Gustav and Greta back into her own home. But, like our dear friend Lizzy, of 922Cats fame, she had more beasts than house to house them in, numbering in her menagerie this handsome fellow:

Corky at home

as well as several tortoises, some of them maimed; a veritable herd of cats of various ages and sizes, mostly rescues from horrible fates; several drop-in ferals (to whom Gustav did not take kindly); birds; and deity only knows what else. Fish? Frogs? Could well have been.

In the event, Saint Francis Assissi II was getting ready to move to a far and distant land and could not take the entire menagerie, so we were asked to please take Corky, Greta, and Gustav. Having burdened ourselves, at that time, with SIX indoor cats, three ferals, three rescue opossums, and a family of skunks (not to mention the raccoons and that goddamned herd of deer that come by and eat our tomatoes, roses, and wisteria to the fucking ground alla time) we debated long and hard. But what could we do? What would you do?

So we got on a plane and filed the paperwork and paid for the vet visits and special carriers and flew for hours and came back with two cat carriers and one very upset dog. And thanks be to the deities of furry beasties, we managed with the help of Madame X and her wonderful partner to schlep the beasties up the stairs and into the house. Greta was wonderful and easy, but Gustav attacked all the other cats (though never us) from day one.

It has been some seven years now. A year after she came, Greta threw a blood clot and almost died on the spot. We took her to the emergency clinic and they did not think she would make it, so we said goodbye to dear, sweet, beautiful Greta.

Then, two years ago, Corky lost control of his bladder and his back legs. We helped him get up and down and cleaned him and tried to give him the best life we could (and he had a horrible pre-adoption story, too), but in the end none of us — not the poor doggie nor ourselves — could take it anymore. So we said goodbye to the best little doggie in the whole wide world. Goodbye, dear Corky. You were such a good dog, dear.

Corky getting ready for walkies

Gustav was still on tranquilizers owing to his habit of suddenly attacking any cat within attacking distance. One of the indoor cats (the mother of Madu and Gojira) decided to uphold her lifetime feral status by running out of the house at high speed and refusing to return; another outdoor inhabitant took off one day and has yet to return (dear Simona, please come home, all is forgiven, love, tpc). Bob-the-almost-Bobcat also took off, never to return. And Faridah left for a trip across the rainbow bridge. The possums moved on, the baby skunks grew up and moved away, the raccoons moved over the hill (one family recently returned, to Madu's great chagrin).

The half-blind deer vanished, probably victim to our local cougar. One of the males, with a fine set of antlers, has also disappeared, but one of the boy babies now has a nice, if small, antlerage and fair bids to replace the old fellow. At least we've seen him leaping about on the hillside with a couple of does and some of the cutest fawns. They took some herbage out of the tomatoes, but we responded with chicken wire, so we've had a good tomato crop this year. Although we still mourn the loss of the Sterling rose. (pigs!)

Gustav discovered toys. We took him off his meds, and one night we heard the strangest sounds coming from downstairs. We put all their toys in an old milk crate under the dinner-wagon. Sneaking downstairs, we found Gustav carefully lifting several toys out of the milk-crate before finally settling on a fluffy to play with. The yellow fluffy was the toy of choice for some months, although he would still take his terrycloth bunny and blue racoon out. Finally, he settled on the terrycloth bunny and began taking it upstairs to bed with him every night.


This was good. He had never played with toys before, and it was good to see him enjoying himself. Also, the more tired he is, the less aggressive he is.

The high point of Gustav's life with us came during the catnip incident.

We used to put the catnip on a high shelf in the closet, in a ziplock bag. Periodically, we'd take out a few pinches and sprinkle them on the floor, and everybody would go wild. We figured the catnip was safe high on the shelf because the two fatties were way too fat to climb up there for it, and Gojira (the only other climber) was too intimidated by Gustav to try for it.

Imagine our surprise when we walked through the front door to find the entire floor of the house covered in catnip and five cats lying around on the floor, paws-up, looking blissfully stoned! Apparently, Gustav had climbed up and "liberated" the nip, ripped the bag open, and shared generously with friends.

We now keep the 'nip in a glass bottle in the freezer. Even if he gets the damn door open, he's going to rue the lack of opposable thumbs.

He's totally rehabbed, by the way. He now sleeps close to us — still nervous and twitchy, but happy to get ear rubs and chin scratches, and mostly good to everyone else. Mostly.



To everyone on the Gulf Coast as Hurricane Gustav prepares for landfall: May you all be safe and protected and may your furry friends be safe with you. Gustav apologizes for the coincidental naming. This is one thing you can't blame the poor fellow for.

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Entertainment: Belated Caturday Post

Yesterday the weather was truly and stupendously yucky, with a blanket of fog enveloping Casa de Los Gatos, and a mingy drizzle of rain throughout the day. Your hosts at this fine blogging establishment were forced to tunnel through Cattitude to get a spot in (our very own, we might add) bed. Five lumps graced the sleeping space for much of the day, with lasers muted to mere slits of malevolence. Bitter complaints ensued at every attempt to change position (reading in bed is not easy, when one's arms are pinned down).



Thus, blogging was light. No one felt much like it. No inspiration came from the Cats and Catlets, either.

In between muttered dreams, they murdered dust bunnies for exercise. Attempts by your hosts to flee the prison of the bedspace were futile. We were permitted the occasional meal break and bio break, usually accompanied by much nagging along the lines of, "Get the hell back into my sleeping space! I need your body heat, beyotchez."

We're not naming any names. The issuers of the erstwhile threats continue to slumber close by, and inspection of our body parts reveals evidence of recent encounters with overly sharp claws (how did those scratches get there? And when??), encounters that were clearly lost, since the winners have no shame about staying right close to the humanoid heating pad. We don't see any scars on their furry butts.

One of them appears to be dreaming of tasty mice - he's been making little running motions with all four paws, interspersed with growling noises deep in the throat, and the occasional SMACK! of furry lips.

At any rate, the sun's out now, and it's a beautiful clear day, and three of the five louts have been summarily evicted (leaving the worst clawdaddy firmly centered in the bed ON MY FUCKING PILLOW), so it's back to blogging as normal ... insofar as anything at Casa de Los Gatos could ever be considered normal.

Yes, yes, I know ellipses are meant to imply elision, not pauses as in the spoken word, but don't go all Twisty Faster on my ass, fer cryin' out.

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Gardening

It's been a long time since I put up a gardening post. What with all the stress around the layoff and preparation for the visit to the maternal unit, there hasn't been much time for garden-minding.

Winter's been dancing around the edges of Autumn, killing the buddleia flowers while occasional odd days of warmth and sunshine bring the leaves to life. The shasta daisies put forth an occasional white-rayed flower with a deep gold heart. The alyssum has never stopped blooming, a froth of white cascading down the hill, making silvery-green pools around the feet of the bougainvillea.
The bougainvillea (the one with wicked thorns) is blooming wildly, all magenta and light green, while the other, less thorny individual has lost all its flowers and is concentrating on growing long, slender branches, gold-leaved, for next year's flowers.
Blackberry is invading everywhere, as is the seedy wild dill. It's lost most of its feathery fronds to various depredations, but occasionally lifts flat, gold, umbelliferous heads among its silvery bluish trunks. Oddly, the plumbago continues to bloom, pale flat bluish heads peeping through the packed trunks and leaves.
The Luculia is finally blooming, with its tiny pink balloons of buds and cerulean stamens against the deeper pink of the fragrant blossoms. One can't hardly walk past the front door without brushing its perfumed daintiness. And the solanum is blooming, much more than before, every two leaves seem to be sheltering a deep purple, yellow-throated cluster of blossoms. And the burmese plumbago, low-growing and bronze-leaved, is putting out flowers of an impossible gentian violet, although the leaves are redder than usual from our cool nights. The irises did not set their second bloom this year. I wonder why?



Down on the hill, the rose is sending forth long, thorny canes, invading the space of the echium, the ceanothus, the oleander, and the manzanita - almost crowding them out, in fact. I must teach it some manners.

The last of the scabiosa, the pincushion flowers, are blooming, deep burgundy and pale pink. The whites, creams, and darker pinks seem to have gone to seed, and lots of little seedlings are springing up all over the hillside. Nigella seedlings are everywhere, too, and I expect a glorious spring crop of blues and whites. Even the blue flax set most plentifully, and here and there the glorious gold gloriosa daisies and Mexican cosmos (nearly the orange of a marigold) and calendula, gold, orange, and yellow, and even Iberis, pinks, whites, and mauves, are blooming, punctuating the weedy greens of the hill.

My blue fescue (festuca ovina) survived everything that's been hurled at it this past two years, although a more golden variety cacked hopelessly under the deck.
The dietes (scourge of my garden!) is finally cut down to the point of a single blooming mound, but continues to propel itself into spots where its not wanted. The yellow iris took quite a beating, but I think it will survive. The white oleander at the bottom of the hill hasn't stopped blooming since March! A perfect white lace veil of blooms. And here and there I find a little treaure, a Canon Wendt linaria, or other toadflax blossoms, pink, yellow, mauve, dark gold, the occasional cluster of pink evening primrose, a lonely fleabane in all its glory, dark gold hearts, pink and white rayed flowers.

A garden is a wonderful thing. I don't know how I'd survive without mine. And later when the heat and sun wanes a bit, Bandicoot will come to call me in, or simply to sit by my side, companionably staring out at all the small life from the shade of my brimmed straw hat. We'll talk in low tones, he'll lean against my side. Madu may wander in and try for a hummingbird (they're much too fast for him, thank goodness, that indolent marmalade lump!). Gustav might cry from the deck for his "substitute mamma" to come back up. And perhaps a certain tub of marmalade, who shall remain forever unembarrassed by the bruiting about of his name will come to chide me for not paying attention to him, and only him, who deserves me more than anyone.

Miss Dainty Paws is far too precious to venture into the lower garden, where some passing canine! might be able to feast its lowly eyes upon her silvery gray visage and poison-green eyes. She'll be up on the high hill, looking down at us all below, unfeared by mouse or bird. She's fast enough to hunt them, but too small and light. I often worry an owl will carry her off some night. Unlike the other lumps which would require mutant eagles of vasty wing dimension. She'd make a tasty mouthful for a tiny pterodactyl.

Luckily, I needn't worry about those. Off to the garden, then!

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Caturday??!?

Yes! It's Caturday!

I threw my back out last week and I've been in so much pain, but I feel better today, although that might just be the muscle relaxants and pain meds talking. I am (very carefully) headed outside with the iPod and a book. Maybe I can get some reading done. Maybe I can even cook tonight. (Yucky week of store-bought food, feh!)

Zingiber is snoring his head off in bed. The others are all outside, roaming in the sunshine. I hope that silly Madu has not found someone else to get in a fight with - he's always coming home covered with scabs and scratches and his pretty nose and ears all marked up. For a good-looking kid he sure is one stupid little piglet. Good thing we all love him so much.

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Caturday!

Egon's right, you know.

As far as they're concerned, every day is caturday.

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Caturday!

Every parent has their favourites. Dem's mine. Zingiber casts me a "Whaa?" glance while Gojira studies him avidly. As in "Does yu has a flavour?" avid. She's lying on her favorite spot right now - my injured knee, off of which I had hauled her barely a minute ago, holding her all squashed down on the bed with her chin flat on a pillow while I munched her velvety gray ear. She always meeps in protest, but the outrage is undermined by the endless purring.

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Caturday!

Gustav reads using his belly

I confess, dammit!

Whaaa?

Disciplining Zingiber

Whaaa?

My little hooligans. The garden's calling my name quite loudly, so I'm off to rip out some weeds. Yesterday's haul was three gigantic trashbags. Hopefully they'll all still be alive when I return.

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Caturday!

So sez Maru, and because she makes me laugh a lot, I'm going along. Besides, she's so fucking uncivil, it makes me feel all extended-pinky-tea-sipping.

And today at Casa de Los Gatos, it rained and thundered and lightninged for a good part of the morning, which forced those poor overworked felines to assume the positions:


You talkin' to zzzzz

I swear to god this child was asleep till I brought out the camera:


Madu pretends to be awake

Zingiber: Faking it so well.


Whaaaaa? Gzzzzzaw ...

Who hates you, asshole? Schnorrerrrrrr ...



And, least but not last - or WEvs, Gussie:


I Hate You

so much, I could forget to eat or pee because I needed to hate you ... zzzz

At least they're consistent.

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Felinquents!

At long last, I have managed to upload all kinds of photos of The Chiyuldrun! I'm so pleased. It's like having prezzies all over and over again!
I'll admit it - I love getting prezzies. Sister sent one last week. Beautiful, mirrored, beaded, tasselled hanging thing. A small work of art. I locked it in the office, because I could see Gojira's poison-green eyes flicking interest waves at it. Gojira, aka The WahWah Petal:

seen making Slitty Eyes of Revulsion at camera and minder while simultaneously showing a little pink tongue.
She's been her usual Bad Self today, rubbing her chin on my computers while attempting to chew through the velcro cable strap on TOPWIL's computer. Later she tried for the camera strap, which is when I decided to punish her most severely by holding her to have her photo taken. She thinks photos don't do her justice. Her beauty is too great to be captured by some silly little machine. On the plus side, she did give me a friendly finger-lick, which was very sweet of her. She has the longest, daintiest pink tongue. Not at all like the sandpapery rasp of her dear darling sweet Uncle Zingiber:
He is the sweetest kitty ever. If only he weren't such an unqualified lump! He used to weigh 20 lb, I think he's down to 19 now. He loves me utterly and I love him too. My Fat Boy. Such a silly bee. Other names: Zingy Burrito, SillaBle, PumpkinLumpkin, BreathofDeath, StinkyFur. His tongue will take your skin off in sheets. And, he's a compulsive licker, with sticky spit. Ugh. Still, he has the sweetest disposition, and apart from weighing a ton and walking over me as if my middle name were "Rug," he is a dear.
And he's very fond of The Bad Little WahWah Girl:

Bit blurry, but I think that's because they did not want to be photographed in A Compromising Position, and moved at the last minute. Or he could just be holding her down to keep her from sproinging about at high speed.

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