Cat Toys -- Flash Nonfiction

Kočka

Kočka, that's my name. I've been told it's Czech for cat. 

I first came to live with these people in the hot time almost two years ago. I was very small and very sick. I don't remember much about it, but I've heard stories.

"Heat stroke," the man told the young woman who found me. He said to bathe me in cool water.

She asked him what she should do with me then. She said she couldn't keep me because they already had three cats.

He said, "Take him to the animal shelter." But his woman said to bring me by their house first.

They didn't have any pets and that woman wanted me to stay with them.

"Happy Father's Day, Dad," the young woman said, handing me to him.

                           

When I was little I'd let them hold me some. I never did like pettin'. Mostly I'd rather play. Not with fancy, store-bought toys. I don't know why humans bring those things home. Personally I prefer used drinking straws, or wine corks. I like twist ties. And I like those plastic packing straps.

Once I found a toy mouse. Nobody knows where it came from.

My favorite toy was always the little foil balls that the man made for me. Sometimes I could get him to play fetch. He usually got tired of throwing it down the stairs before I'd get tired of bringing it back to him. 

I also liked to bat those balls underneath the cook stove. Then if I sat and looked expectantly at the stove, eventually one of the humans would notice. Humans are so much fun to watch. They'd get a long stick, hunker down, and fish around under the stove until they retrieved the foil ball. And sometimes there's not even a foil ball under there!

I like the man's fish tank, too. I've never caught one but if I jump at the side of the tank they swim away really fast. I've checked that tank out from every angle. Haven't found a way in yet.

                           

One day the man said "Let's go to the pet store and get some fish."

I'd never heard of rescue dogs or adoption events, but that's apparently what they were having at the pet store. My humans brought home two puppies. They didn't get any new fish that day.

Lily's the one with feathers and Cooper's the smooth-coated one. They like to wrestle and play chase. They are the best cat toys ever.

#atozchallenge

A Man Called Ove -- Book Review

So would you like to know how to pronounce this man's name? http://bit.ly/2fd53xy  Check it out.

I think this is the best book I've ever read. Funny and beautiful and sad -- all tear inducing. That's the problem with reading. You read a really good book and get all teary-eyed and you can't see to get past the funny, beautiful, sad pages. At least when it's a movie, the movie goes on. Or an audio book.

But I read the book. My friend Lou handed the book to me after our walking group on Tuesday, November 22. Her only caveat was that I return the book to the library before December 5th. (Thank you, Lou!)

I am not a particularly fast reader, but this book I finished this morning -- two days after receiving it. Yes, it's that good.

A Man Called Ove (by Fredrik Backman, translated by Henning Koch) is about a difficult, lonely man who has lost the only person who ever understood him, his wife Sonja. He has decided to commit suicide and join her. Such a simple, honest decision. One would think.

But he is surrounded by humans. Totally incompetent, treacherous humans. These humans, completely innocent though they may be, inevitably bumble and stumble their way into his life and interfere with his plans.

Ove's attitude toward everything and everyone except his Sonja is summed up in the following paragraph. He's driving the everything and everyone in his Saab.

          "Ove looks at the group assembled around him, as if he's been kidnapped and taken to
     a parallel universe. For a moment he thinks about swerving off the road, until he realizes
     that the worst-case scenario would be that they all accompanied him into the afterlife.
     After this insight he reduces his speed and increases the gap significantly between his
     car and the one in front."

Backman's (or the translator's, I'm not sure who to credit here) language is pristine. He employs Hemingway's mot juste to say the most with the least and best words. And interestingly, anyway to me, he tells much of his story in present tense. The present part of the story. The rest he tells in the more commonly used past tense. (I know. I know. Only you grammar Nazis will even notice.)

Ove's present is explained as we read, discovering his past. As clearly and gracefully as a river winding its way through the countryside to the sea. And as inevitably.

I finished this book with my own cat annoyance snuggling in the throw on my legs (as long as I didn't try to pet him. My cat doesn't like to be petted. He bites. Rotten cat.)

Definitely Five Stars out of Five!

What Kind of Animals Are We?

                                                                         image from confidentcameramoms.com

Once Upon a Time
In a Galaxy far, far away
A Mouse chewed through a Lion's bonds
And a Father prepared a feast for his profligate Son.

Is there one of these stories you do not know?

Like many humans I've thought about what separates us from the other animals on our planet Earth. I always argue with myself and others that humans are simply one among many animals. Yet I continue to look for that which sets us apart. And, truth be told, makes us special. Of course being a human makes me want us to be special.

Many years ago I met Jane Goodall. She was speaking to a group at the University of Oklahoma, home of the Institute for Primate Studies. Dr. William Lemmons and researcher Dr. Roger Fouts were studying primate behavior and communications to better understand the development of human communication.

You may remember that Dr. Fouts worked with the famous chimpanzee Washoe teaching her American Sign Language for the Deaf. And that's an interesting story in itself -- but maybe for a different day.

Back to Dame Goodall.

Being me, I hurried out and bought her book In the Shadow of Man and read it before I went to hear her speak. She documented observations of chimpanzees making and using tools. Most particularly modifying twigs to fish for termites and leaves to absorb water for drinking from a source too difficult to access directly with mouth or tongue.

Before that I had accepted, as had many better educated than I, that the thing that makes humans different is their ability to fashion and use tools. Oh, I was so smug because I am a member of such a superior tribe.

Hah! Have you watched videos of crows doing what crows can do. Click here. Okay, the crow in this video did not make any tools, but he certainly  used tools to get his treat. And, shoot! The crow is not even in our Class -- taxonomically speaking. You know -- Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, etc.

And that brings us back to the opening lines of this blog post. Stories. My daughter pointed out to me this morning that humans are story-telling animals. It's how we understand ourselves and the world around us. It's how we teach our children what they need to know to be successful or even just so-so humans.

I know who I am because I know my stories. And I know who you are because of the stories you tell me about you. Sometimes we tell stories about other beings to explain ourselves.

And we find those stories in as many ways as there are us.

We hear stories in music. Think of Sergie Prokofiev's "Peter and the Wolf," or John Williams' scores for the Indiana Jones movies and the Star Wars movies.

We see them in dance. "The Nutcracker" is the first to come to my mind. And if you've never seen Dubstep, click on it and watch a few minutes. This young man is amazing.

The visual arts tell some of the best stories. In fact, sometimes when we see sculptures or paintings or photos we see our own stories -- my immigrant ancestors arriving in New York Harbor and the average-joe farm families they founded.

                            

                                     image from en.wikipedia.org      image from madisonartshop.com

We tell scary stories about fictional creatures to safely test how we might deal with terror. We tell scary true stories to learn how our brothers and sisters have dealt with terror. We tell our stories to people we do not know who do not know about our world. We listen to their stories and get to know a little more about them and their world.

And, in the best of both worlds, we discover how much we have in common and how much we are all deserving of respect and admiration.

We are story-telling animals. We humans.

Signs, Signs -- a rant

Bachelor Elk Herd and tourists July 29, 2015

Sorry, y'all, but this post is a rant. See this glorious view of the Front Range Mountains. My daughter Grace took this picture from the car window as we drove easterly on Trail Ridge Road through Rocky Mountain National Park. As you can see there is a group of elk taking their leisure in the high mountain sunshine and an even larger group of humans endangering themselves, their children, and the fragile tundra plant life to get close to these wild animals. Wild animals, I might add, with full-grown antlers that they very well know how to use.

Signs all along the highway remind people to park only in designated areas. With a rise of more than 4,000 feet to its 12,183 foot high point, its many hair-pin curves, and its abundant unfenced wildlife, the highway is dangerous enough without cars parked hither and yon and people wondering back and forth willy-nilly across it. How can a traveler enjoy the grand vistas while they're worried about running over somebody's poorly supervised four-year-old? Or maybe running over that thoughtless somebody?

The signs warn against approaching wildlife. It's exciting to see marmots and chipmunks and pika and mountain goats and big horned sheep and elk and mountain lions and bear. But even the little critters bite. The big ones can do you much more harm. And if they do, they can be, and too often are, killed by the authorities.

The signs advise people to stay on the trails. Above tree-line the ground is not barren. It is covered with beautiful and fragile alpine tundra plants. Now these plants are amazing survivors. They must tolerate extreme weather conditions. They've evolved to survive grazing and trampling by the native animal population. They haven't had time to adapt to the more than three million humans who visit from June through October which is when the highway is clear of snow enough for human travel and the earth is clear enough for these plants' growing season.

These signs are not posted for their artistic qualities nor to provide practice for an apparently reading-challenged tourist population. These signs are to protect lives -- of the tourists, the other animals, and the plants.

Manner of Death and Means of Murder

Lone Star Tick Image from
dailynewsdig.com

“Death by misadventure,” a phrase describing manner of death catches my ear and stimulates my imagination. “Unintended consequences” does too. Both spring from the concept of “accident” but imply some sort of human intent, though not necessarily “good” intent or “well considered” intent.

The idea of someone meriting a Darwin Award by bumbling into their own death does not make for a good murder mystery, in my opinion. However, if a third party bumbles into someone’s death while that third party is involved in some nefarious activity – now I’m interested. Or if the dead person colluded in the crime. Or some other crime.

If the dead person were an innocent, and the murderer a jealous lover or crooked business partner or a crazed serial killer, the story very well may not be a mystery at all, but a news story. And those stories can and do inspire murder mystery writers.

All murder mystery writers understand that the most dangerous animal in the woods is homo sapiens sapiens – modern humans. Naturally, the fact that most murder mystery readers are modern humans makes them inordinately interested in what their confreres do or have done to them.

As to “means of murder.”

Agatha Christie was particularly fond of poison. Check out the Agatha Christie section of Torre Abbey Gardens in her hometown of Torquey, England. (May have to add Torquey to my Bucket List.) John LesCroart’s The First Law uses guns – up to and including a major shoot-out. (Maybe I should put San Francisco on the Bucket List.) Nevada Barr in Ill Wind takes advantage of a geologic peculiarity. (Definitely should put Mesa Verde on the ole Bucket List. It’s a lot closer to my house.)

My husband’s education and a lot of his professional experience is in the field of Veterinary Medicine. He says “The most dangerous animal in the woods, after man, is the tick.” Just imagine a man with a tick.

What an intriguing thought. Ticks, as described in Wikipedia, will make your blood run cold and reach for the DEET. And that’s just reading about them.

They have eight legs like their arachnid relatives, spiders and mites. They meet all their nutritional needs by sucking blood. They can carry disease-causing bacteria, viruses, and protozoa. Indeed, they can carry more than one pathogen at the same time making diagnosis and treatment more difficult.

In far southeast Arkansas, where we had a veterinary clinic, my husband provided blood samples from our patients with ehrlichiosis to Dr. Sidney Ewing at Oklahoma State University School of Veterinary Medicine. Ehrlichiosis is caused by members of the genus Ehrlichia, a genus of bacteria named for the German microbiologist Paul Ehrlich. One of those little beasties is Ehrlichia Ewingii, named for OSU's Dr. Ewing. (Rather a perverse honor, I think – having a disease causing agent named for you.)

Ehrlichiosis in dogs and humans has long been successfully treated with Doxycycline but some of our cases were proving to be drug resistant. And untreated or unsuccessfully treated, the disease is lethal.

The important thing in treating any tick-borne disease is beginning treatment immediately which requires early diagnosis or at least awareness that the sufferer has been exposed to a tick so treatment can be started. 

Just think, if the intended victim had not been in the woods – maybe did not even live in an area known to be a tick-bite risk area . . . .

The murderer could acquire the ticks elsewhere. Overnight by UPS then give the little buggers easy access to a blood source to keep them alive – say a mouse the murderer is not particularly fond of. And then access to the victim -- say in the hair behind the ear.

The local medics wouldn’t know to ask about recent tick bites or look for ehrlichia or promptly start proper treatment. Voila – Murder by Tick.

Goodbye Gracie Lu

Scott and Gracie Lu

Today I helped euthanize my daughter dog Gracie Lu.

She was.

She was beautiful and enthusiastic. She was fierce and loving. She was a lap dog and an indomitable hiker. She was almost four and a half years old.

She hunted mice and birds and snakes. Indeed she kept bigger game out of our backyard. Mule deer wonder through our neighborhood, but they knew not to scale our fence while she stood guard. And Bentley, our neighbor’s senior dog might outweigh her two to one, but I don’t think he ever won the through-fence verbal war between them.

Gracie came to live with us almost three years ago. She moved from Florida to Colorado following a young man to his new job. His work didn’t allow enough time for him to spend with Gracie so he put her up for adoption on the Dachshund Rescue website.

Our Bassett Hound Bess and our Dachshund Oscar were very senior and we needed new blood for the pack. I saw Gracie the first day she was on the website. I’m an early riser so I had to wait more than three hours to call the number. I wanted to make a good impression and everyone should be up and about by 8:30 even on a weekend. He graciously agreed to bring her to our home so we could see how she would fit.

He brought her in and put her on the floor. Bess and Oscar ran to see the strange dog. Neither growled or threatened, but she was terrified and leaped into my husband’s arms. Not the young man’s but Scott’s.

She was a full-size, smooth-coated, dapple Dachshund, about a year and a half old. And her name was Gracie Lu. Our human daughter’s name is Grace and my favorite restaurant is Lucille’s Creole Café. And she was in my husband’s arms. Of course she fit. She fit very well indeed.

Bess because of her seniority and innate good sense was the alpha dog. Oscar was Oscar. He didn’t care who was top dog, he was going to do his own thing anyway. (I think he may have been a cat in a previous life.) And Gracie Lu was too unsure of herself to aspire to high place. Her integration into the pack was virtually seamless.

A few months later we put Oscar down. He was fourteen years old.  Then it was just Bess and Gracie until we let Bess go. She was over fifteen. With her exuberance, Gracie inspired Bess to youthful entertainments until the end.

Gracie was down to just humans in her pack. She was not unhappy being the only dog. But we needed a new dog for her to train up. Last month a new dog came to live with us. You can read about her. Just click on  Maggie May.  

From that first leap into Scott’s arms Gracie Lu never hesitated to jump – onto our bed, off of our bed, down steps into the basement (for which she was chastised) and back up again. We have a ramp down from the back door to the patio originally installed for my father’s use, then used by Bess. Gracie leaped onto and off of it from whatever angle she might come to it.

My first Dachshund Sebastian had Intervertebral Disc Disease so we knew what might happen, but some Dachshunds do not develop that problem. Oscar didn't. And really there’s no way to prevent its development or, for that matter, Gracie’s jumping.

Sebastian had Laser Disc Ablation at Oklahoma State University’s Veterinary Teaching Hospital (my husband’s Alma Mater) Back then it was a new treatment. Sebastian did reasonably well with only minor episodes which could be treated with prednisone and cage rest. Until he did not and had to be put down.

Two weeks ago Gracie suddenly presented with pain. She didn’t try to jump onto the bed. But she still walked, indeed ran, normally. She continued to eat well, drink well, and be interested. We took her to the vet and she put Gracie on pred and cage rest. At first it seemed to be working. Then yesterday Gracie began to have problems walking. And sitting. She couldn’t squat properly to urinate.

Scott and I talked about it. Surgery was still a possibility, but her future would include more episodes of varying degrees of severity until at last nothing restorative could be done.

We decided that if she did not improve with the conservative treatment we would not put her through the surgery.

This morning she could not stand. She could still wag her tail a bit. And she did. She had a good breakfast.

My husband had eye surgery yesterday and couldn’t go with us, but he called Wheat Ridge Animal Hospital and explained what was going on. He’s a vet so he was able to talk to them doc to doc. He carried her out to the car in her crate and told her goodbye.

They were expecting us at the veterinary hospital and took us right in. They immediately took her to the back. While they put the catheter in place, I filled out the necessary papers. They were so sweet to me. But I assured them that I understood what we were doing, that I wanted to hold her while they euthanized her, and that I appreciated them and what they were doing for us.

And I told them that I was only sorry that this same service could not legally be provided to humans when it was time. I meant that and I mean that.

Having dogs and cats means saying goodbye. Our lifespans just do not match. And we love them just as much as we love our human family members. I am okay with this. I am more than okay. I celebrate the animals I’ve loved and lost. I celebrate the people I’ve loved and lost.

Losing loved ones after sharing however long we have together – if they know we loved them and we know they loved us – it is the purest form of sorrow – no darkness – only light. And tears.

Bess

Elizabeth  2000 - 2014

 

    Our good Bess. We got her as a pup in August 2000. Her people had taken her to a pet shop in Louisiana for sale along with several of her siblings. Lucky for us, she didn't sell and they gave her to us.

 

    Her working title was Scrunch, no doubt because of all that wrinkledy skin. Basset Hounds, in addition to being a full dog long and half a dog high, have enough extra skin to make an extra little dog. In honor of her breed's English heritage, we named her for Good Queen Bess. And the fact that Elizabeth the First had no offspring went right along with our plans for our Bess.

 

   She had the traditional Basset sad face, but she was the most cheerful dog we've ever had. She was completely oblivious to the vagaries of weather. Be it cold or hot, sun, rain, or snow, she loved the outdoors. She bayed 'possums until they passed out from fright and treed 'coons standing watch at the base of the tree until one of her humans could persuade her to come inside for the night.

 

    She was born in Arkansas, moved to Oklahoma, and then to Colorado. She didn't mind the moves as long as she had her family. Over the years, that family included cats and dogs and birds. And her humans -- a mom and dad and grandpa, two brothers and two sisters, a niece, and two nephews.

 

    We miss our Bess.