Tag Archives: cat


Random thoughts, my usual fall-back blog topic, seems too, well, random. Musings sound so much more meditative, more thoughtful. Since I’ve been on a short four-day weekend “vacation”, my time to muse meditatively has been productive.

Technically, this was a “staycation”, although it was really anything but. “Staycation” would suggest “staying”, easing back onto the patio chairs, and doing nothing but reading, resting and drinking something tall and cool. In reality, these four days have been more movement-oriented, though there have been quite a few tall, cool, ones.

So technicalities aside, these are some of the musings I’ve mulled over during the past three and one-third days:

1. Massages are well worth the money spent. They’d probably be even more worthwhile if the MASSAGEE paid attention to the MASSAGER’S caution to “take it easy for the day…don’t do anything heavy duty.”  That cautionary note must have missed the part of the brain that understands and processes messages, because two hours later, my electric Mantis appeared on my patio. Freshly repaired, and bearing shiny new rotors, it begged to be tested. So I hoisted the little tiller to my herb garden and happily tilled away. My husband offered to move some flagstones for me, then stood back and grinned. Only he knows how truly excited I was to be able to use the Mantis. Just a year ago, I wasn’t in any shape to do gardening of any kind, and we weren’t sure when or if I’d get to do so again. I even pulled weeds and smiled…much to the chagrin of my massage therapist, Joy Stemen. who chided me for ignoring her.

2. Listening to Car Talk on my morning run makes me wonder what car mechanics think when someone comes in with a car problem and explains the solution as suggested by Click and Clack. There’s probably a lot of eye-rolling. Anyway, I’ve been planning my own call to Car Talk. All the callers are from big cities…never any little towns like Bluffton, Ohio. I want to be the first. And I have the perfect problem. A few months before we retrieved our 1997 Dodge Caravan from our daughter, she’d turned on the van only to find the dashboard dark. Nothing lit up. Hm…she drove to the Dodge dealer and explained the problem to the woman at the service desk. The woman grinned and accompanied her to the van, where she gave a hearty smack to the top of the dash. Bingo! On blinked the dash lights. Her comment? “Fixed that problem, eh?” This happened again a few weeks ago, so Fred whacked it once and they blinked back on. But I’m just curious enough to call the  Magliozzi’s for their take on this curiosity…if only to hear them mangle “Bluffton”.

3. Yesterday, we moved more of our daughter’s “stuff” to her new apartment. Ike, of course, went along for the ride and as soon as he stepped in the house, the cat went into hiding. We looked everywhere. High, low, under beds, in closets, behind the fridge. No Casio. Anne, however, was not giving up. After about 30 minutes of looking, she got down on the floor and found a hole about four inches in diameter, leading to a larger space in the cabinet area. Peering inside, she saw two bright eyes staring out at her. You have to understand. Casio is not a kitten. He is a more-than-full-grown cat. Huge, in fact. Almost as big as Ike.We managed to entice him out with some catnip. How can a cat squeeze his body into a hole smaller than his head?

4. I am of the belief that one cannot have too many white shirts. My daughters used to laugh when I went shopping because they could predict I’d return with at least one white shirt. This is true. I still do this. I’m sure my therapist would have some Freudian explanation for this fixation. If I lined all my shirts up by color, there would be a gazillion white ones — each different — followed by other hues in singles. Oh, except for black. I am also of the belief that one cannot have too many black shirts. I’d say it is fortunate that the girls no longer get to examine my shopping bags, but it doesn’t matter. They come home and go straight to my closet to count the whites. And the blacks.

5. Why do some people have such nice, pleasant dreams and I have such stupid ones that wake me up at ungodly hours? I used to blame this on my mother’s side of the family, because she has equally odd dreams. But a Pannabecker cousin recently mentioned that my dream sounded like the ones she has. Guess I can’t blame it on the Suters anymore. The most recent one involved someone’s dogs having puppies in the car while my oldest brother was driving. Cute though the puppies were, they were expelling worms. Ewww…but even that one doesn’t match my all-time worst nightmare of pulling nails from my skin. In handfuls.

6. My friend and running partner, Mary, and I received the same Mother’s Day card. Mine came from my daughter, hers from her father-in-law. When I got mine, I called my daughter to thank her and ask if they came in other names. Dead silence on her part, then a big guffaw. “Mom, think about it. What other name would work in the “punchline” on the inside?. Eat, drink and be…?” This proves to me…once again….that there should be a club of Marys. We could count how many of had to smile politely as old men teased us as children, “How does your garden grow?”

I wonder if other people muse their days away like I do?

The cat who would be Queen

Peaches the cat, AKA The Queen, has done it again. At nearly 20 years of age, she has successfully proven that she still has the upper hand. Or the upper mouth, to be more specific.

Over the years, she has done a fairly decent job of being a cat, despite her tendency toward suggesting she is, in fact, human. Periodically, she chases down birds and rabbits, and deposits them like peace offerings on the front porch. On those days, she stands guard over her catch, meowing loudly to announce that she has done her catly duty.

Her first rabbit offering sent first one, then another, and finally a third, female gagging and stumbling onto the couch, at which time a certain male was summoned to dispose of her catch. She seemed a bit irked by our refusal to place a crown on her head, but dutifully went about formulating her next plan of attack.

Peaches in a rare mellow mood

Just for the record, I’d like to once more make it clear that I do not particularly like cats. Kittens, yes. If only they’d stay kittens. And again, I’m going to blame the addition of Peaches to the household on the Elder Daughter. Soon after we moved into this house almost 20 years ago, the cat showed up and we found Lindsay surreptitiously offering Kitty a bowl of milk. We all know what happens when one does that. So okay, the cat stayed and she’s still with us. She’s had more than her share of nine lives.

Anyway, a few years ago, she began showing signs of anxiety — in the form of loud, mournful howls. She’d stand outside the front door, bellowing until someone would let her in. Instead of hightailing it for the basement, her inside home, she would stalk through the house releasing an increasingly loud howl.

Off she went to the vet, who pronounced her in perfect health except for a bit of anxiety and/or dementia. Hence the howling. Little pink pills (dubbed “Kitty Prozac” by a certain family member) were dispensed. One a day should do the job. Easier said than done. We probably went through five pills before one finally went down her extremely angry throat. And yes, we’ve tried everything…hidden it in cheese and/or peanut butter, begged, cajoled, and… my personal favorite, one person to hold the cat still while the other risk life and limb to shove the pill to the back of her throat while blowing in her face to make her swallow. Here’s the problem. She has extremely sharp teeth and very strong jaws. It’s just not a pretty picture.

But eventually, we gave her a pill three days in a row, at which time she went into mellow mode and the howling ceased. For awhile. Not a long while, but awhile. Periodically, we yank out the pills and begin the routine over again.

So…last night the howling began. Here’s how loud it is. We can see the neighbors peering out their windows to see who is being persecuted. Then they call to see if she is okay. Read: Please tell your cat to shut up.

We tried. We really tried. We ended up with scratches on our hands and a very hairy pink pill clinging to a tiny bit of peanut butter. She managed to eat the rest of the PB. But guess what? She quit howling. It seems all we have to do now is dangle the pink pills in front of her and she gets the picture.

Good kitty. Good Queen Kitty.