Here, Kitty, Kitty!

it's twelve in the morning on September 25...and after some difficulty, we have liberated the cars from the garage we share with our in-laws. This is important, because the garage had decided to eat them, and staging a jailbreak during the morning exodus just wasn't going to work. Apparently, a long suffering bracket had finally drawn its last (may it rest in piece), and as a consequence the large garage door decided it didn't have to open up any more. Not only that, but it didn't WANT to open anymore. I thought the simplest thing to do was to tap on my young brother-in-law's window, get his attention, and hope that he would know to get the VERY PROTECTIVE chow-mix safely and quietly in another room, so that I could tell him what was going on...as my husband has just reminded me, it would have been quieter, and infinately more effective to just email Torey...but no, I have to do things the hard way. I succeeded in scaring the living bejeezus out of him, setting off the dog for the loudest five-minute barking spree I've ever heard, and so, of course, everyone came clattering and tumbling out. Sigh.



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I've been finding sleep more elusive of late...our big, old bed seems to shrink with the cold. At my feet, or in the crook of my knees lies our big white chunk of cat, Koda...who hunkers into whichever warm niche will restrict my movement the most. Above me a veritable bunker of blankets...(I'd like to see a nuke get through my fuzzy barricade!) that I put there, because I'm always colder than Jon is...and they bind me even further...and then there is my sweet, snuggly husband, who cuddles closer in his sleep...and usually ends up sleeping on my hair...If I do go to bed early, skipping a Moo-moment or whatever, I usually spend at least an hour and a half fighting my pillow into submission, without arousing that sleeping duo. It wouldn't affect Koda that much, he just doesn't move. As for Jon, I feel awful if my solitary wrestling matches wake him up, but I end up doing it anyway. In the morning, at the first cry of "my alarm clock", I feel like a painting by Picasso...with all of me at odd angles, and all of my parts decidedly in the wrong places.



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September 30, 2006:

I had hoped that we could somehow skip this phase, but Josh has officially entered into seperation anxiety. It doesn't matter who is in the room, or how many people adore him there, he must be in my arms or attached to my ankles. As a result, after another stint of Boiled-Bat-dom, I finally mastered the art of a ten minute bath while cooking dinner at the same time. I have found that I have just enough time before WWIII breaks out to gaze lovingly at steamy soapy water, splatter my head with shampoo...change "courses" in the microwave...rinse out my hair a couple of times...wave goodbye to the water that was JUST JUST at the most perfect temperature for soaking, and hurtle around the corner to halt the "abandoned banshee" wails coming from my otherwise adorable son. Jon will try to play with him, try to distract him, but his world is shattered and shuddering until he is back in my arms, with snot dripping down my neck, clinging with the desperation of one weathering a typhoon. Oh, Mom, Oh, Mom!...It was awful!...You were GONE! Oh, Mom! Dad tried to hold me, and he couldn't do it right! Oh, Mom!!!

I suppose I should be grateful...in four years, I'll be just this side of "EEEEWW, GIRLS, YUCK!!!"...because I don't count as a "real girl", I'm Mommy. Eight years after that will begin the phase where he won't want anything to do with me at all. (I mean, really, what do I know about boys? I used to call my brothers' Ape-Face One and Ape-Face Two...and out of pure spite they grew up to be reasonably decent, almost wonderful fellows with very few noticeable simian tendencies at all. Hmph!)

The thing that worries me the most is that nightmares have come with this phase...Some are mine...but mostly, Josh has been taking the brunt of them. I am afraid that he may have picked up an unintentional inheritance from us...Jon and I both dream in color and 3-D...we can taste, touch, feel everything in our dreams...This has always been lovely when we dream of, say, the Chocolate Room in the Gene Wilder version of Willy Wonka...but it plays merry hell, literally, when our dreams take the darker roads. Jon has occasionally suffered night terrors that had him thrashing himself awake...or just this side of awake. Sometimes it's taken me twenty minutes to calm him, and I can tell by looking at him that he isn't awake, but he thinks he has to fight something off. I think Josh has these abilities too. Around Midnight, he starts mewling like a kitten, then he clutches to the sides of the crib, then he gets into a crawl position, but doesn't move. This all occurs in a matter of minutes, and when I pick him up it's all shuddery-relief again...but he isn't awake. When Jon's bouts occur, it's during times of stress...bills, work...but usually, when I keep tabs on him, I have a good idea when to expect them, even if he doesn't. With Josh, the day can be normal...nothing out of the routine at all, he could be all sunshine and smiles and cuddles, and then suddenly, he scares himself in the middle of the night, and it takes about a half hour of soft whispers and nursing before he settles and begins to smile again in his sleep. I try very hard to get him to that point before I put him down again...it's what I would want done for me.

Tomorrow, we send him on another visit with Mom and the gang...and for the first time since he began spending a few nights a month elsewhere, I am wondering if I'm doing the right thing...


It's one now...he'll be up in less than five hours...More to come....


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It’s our first night without Josh in what feels like ages. We have not gone to see the latest blockbuster, we did not do a big romantic dinner on the town. Instead, we had a quiet sandwich and some soup and went directly home. Hibernation weather has set in, and we are just achy and tired. We curled up on the couch, turned out the lights, and very nearly fell completely asleep at 7:30, though we made it all the way to 8:30 before crawling into bed...As you well know, we live life on the edge. Koda, our chunk of white cat, was sick…of course, I didn’t pick up on this at a reasonable time, because where would be the fun in that? Nope…I had to realize this at one in the morning, when, after I kicked him off the bed (a normal and frequent occurrence), he dropped to the floor like a rock. Usually, he meows a mild, confused guilt trip in my direction before swaying off into the living room. Usually, you can hear the creak of each board as his not-so-delicate body goes traipsing across it. Not this time. Just THUMP! And then nothing. Mildly curious, I dragged myself out of the warm blankets and picked him up…this was my first true clue that something was wrong. Koda does NOT like to be picked up. I repeat, just so there can be no misunderstanding. Koda. Does. NOT. Like. To. Be. Picked. Up. I make a point of keeping a box of replacement jugulars on hand for the rare occasions when I do have to tote his shedding white carcass around, because he makes a point of ripping me apart at the seams. This time, he snuggled up and didn't fuss at all. That was odd. After looking him over, I hit the net to see what might be causing his distress, and came to the conclusion that he was in dire need of a plumber, because all of his sinks were clogged up. The website did not recommend Drano, so we took him into the vet the next day to commence a “Spa Experience” that will continue until Thursday at least. While it is not the All-Enemas-All-The-Time Channel, it’s fairly close. I want to feel sorry for him…I know it can’t be a fun experience…I know, too, that when they finished the first procedure he was TICKED. I mean, TICKED!!! I also know that the house has been strangely quiet without him…one might even venture to say “Calm”. I like calm…I’d forgotten what calm was like. Meanwhile, Jon took one look at the bill so far, and has decided to offer his spleen to the highest bidder. We hope we can find it a good home.

Do not fret, gentle readers…Koda will return. He will be a healthy chunk once again. He falls squarely into the Ed-the-Cat/Sandy-the-Lab category…not a brain in the bunch, but good-hearted, and blessed with a life-span that could put the Old Testament big-wigs to utter and abject shame. Sandy once got loose, and somehow got it into his head (and how lonely that little thought must have been in all of that great big space) to chase the neighbors cows. He chased the bull first (of course), the bull butted him into the electric fence - TWICE- and then a dazed and drooly Sandy wandered into the road, and got hit by the first truck that came by. He bit his tongue, and sustained no other injury…even if he HAD damaged his brain, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. He ended up outliving every other dog in his family. Then there was Ed. Ed is actually short for “Tread”…and he was so called because as a kitten, his head was run over by a Chevy nova. My Dad, who is all too familiar with Mom’s rescue routine, sighed, and picked up the squished cat to take it into the vet. This was during one of the peaks of the menagerie, but Dad didn’t see that this cat was going to make it…especially as the vet was having a rough day himself, and couldn’t see the kitten until about an hour and a half later. That said, when the “rare yellow tabby” was brought before the vet, he wiped its nose, checked its eyes, and said to my Dad, “Well, Gee…you’ve got a really healthy cat here.” So of course, Ed came to live at our house…and live…and live…and live, surviving generations of cats left and right, and if his eyes were crossed, and he walked like he was still trying to get his sea-legs well, we just counted him as the Keith Richards of Cat-dom. I think it caught us as much by surprise that he died of natural causes as it did him.

So yes, the Koda will return…although, if the plumbing problems persist, I think Jon may grab a Do-It-Yourself guide and take a plunger to his fuzzy butt. Of course, Jon may have to hock his ulcer to get the plunger…