A Song in Your Ear

I have a cold. I know I'm not going to die with this cold, but I feel pretty miserable. When I sleep with a cold, it's more frightening that it usually is. I have bad dreams when I sleep with a cold.

Earlier, I started to fall asleep early in the afternoon, right at the beginning of Blitz's nap time. As I walked down to my bed where I knew I'd sleep better than on the couch, Blitz ran ahead of me. I'm sure he hoped for tuna flakes.

'Tuna flakes in the morning.
Tuna flakes at night.
Tuna flakes in the afternoon.
Look at my sweet face,
not at my little belly.
Ignore my little belly.
I'm a little fluffy.
I'm cute and starving to death.
Tuna flakes in the afternoon.'

I could almost hear Blitz singing. Do you remember those songs you used to make up when you were a kid, the ones about Snickers and Coke, the ones that weaved in and out of 'I am stuck on BandAids 'cause BandAids stuck on me' and 'My bologna has a first name, it's O-S-C-A-R' and 'Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty or more, the Bloody Red Baron changed the score.' Yeah, those songs. Even when I'm ninety-three, those songs will run through my head. If I forget my dignity and sing them out loud, I will annoy the nurses. Those songs are intended to get stuck in your brain and never come out like a parasite that grows too intertwined with your lungs and your veins that it can never be excised.

Blitz sang one of those songs. I'm sure of it. I'm glad the catchy little tune hasn't gotten into my ear. I'd be singing that when I was ninety-three too. The nurses will speak with my grandchildren of dementia but I know the truth. They will be parasites, those songs.

I shuffled into my room and got into bed. I set the TV to a movie I'd seen a million times so I could sleep right through it without being drawn in. Pride and Prejudice, Keira Knightly's version. Blitz jumped up onto the bed and laid down on his pillow. I rolled over so I could pet him to thank him for coming into bed with me. He didn't sleep with me at night any more and I missed that.

The hard part with falling asleep is that it's hard to keep your hands from relaxing and falling away from something you're stretched out to touch, even a soft little kitty.

I tried to keep my fingers in his fur. I really did, but as I slipped into the cloud between awake and asleep, I could feel my hands relaxing and falling away from Blitz. I was sad. I liked feeling him touching me.

Just as I was about to snap down into the bubble of sleep, I felt a movement, a warm paw. His paw came across my fingers to remind me he was with me.

'I'm here with you,
while you sleep
sick little Mama,
I'm here with you,
while you sleep.'

I could almost hear a song. He shifted and fur enveloped my hands, soft fur warming my hands as I slid into the void. Some things stay with you while you visit the void, a soft touch, and the feel of someone purring a song in your ear. 

Thank you for listening, jb

A Good Reason to Keep Weapons Out of the Living Room

Blitz still played with dog kibbles. I heard him in the kitchen , rattling a kibble back and forth. If it were a jingly ball or a krinkly one, I'd have been amused, even when they got lost under the stove. But they, being food, felt different when they get lost under the stove.

Mike turned to me and raised an eyebrow.

So, when I finally relaxed next to Mike on the couch, when my work day was finally over, when I was tired and I'd earned a rest, I got annoyed when I heard that little kibble preparing to get lost under the stove.

There were a couple of places where kibbles got lost in my kitchen: under the stove, under a microwave cart that didn't have a microwave on it, and in a narrow place between the fridge and the dishwasher. The fridge was just low enough there, that the kibbles got wedged and I had to take a butter knife to dig it out and that thing always came out with dog and cat hair stuck to it. I knew things got sterilized in the dishwasher, but I wondered, 'what if it didn't and I ended up eating that shit?'

If I ate that shit, I'd probably have gotten a better immune system. It turned out that all that antibacterial soap was bad for our immune systems. It was funny how doctors told you to wash your hands during flu season, but turned around and told you to stop using the antibacterial soap. And the bathrooms at the doctor's offices still used antibacterial soap.

So, I didn't like when I had to dig those little kibbles out from under the edge of the fridge with a butter knife.

And the microwave cart. That thing was big, loaded, and hard to move, but I still had to vacuum under there periodically. Dust bunnies.

Because of Blitz, it got dust bunnies and dog kibbles. And my vacuum sounded like it was breaking whenever one of those things got sucked up and spun around for a while. What would twenty of them actually do to my vacuum?

Did I ever tell you I loved my vacuum cleaner. It was a Shark. Seriously, it was a good design. I could vacuum corners, ceiling, and the main part of the carpet as I went along. I just wished it had a lower center of gravity so it didn't fall on my foot when I took the wand out and stretched up to catch cobwebs from the skylight. That was it's only flaw. The rest, the little fur spinner, the way it was so easy to empty, engineering at its finest.

No, that was not a commercial. I'd been working on getting paid for the work that I did. I'd have liked to get paid. I was going to get paid for my volunteering soon, but the tenor of the work was already changing. Don't you hate when that happens?

So, I was telling you about the dog kibbles under the microwave cart. Since I'm afraid of the nasty sound my vacuum makes when I vacuum up those things, I have to stop the vacuum and lean over to pick the hunks of fur, dust buffaloes, and dog kibbles. It really sours my appreciation for the dog kibbles.

Teddy ate Hills I/D diet. The cool thing about I/D was that when I opened the bag, it smelled like an Arby's roast beef sandwich. I kid you not. I'd never tasted one of the kibbles, but that smell was so much better than the vomit looking and fishy smelling stuff I spooned out for the cats. It made feeding him much nicer.

The problem was that the furry ones under the microwave cart didn't smell like that any more. And they were furry and gross. Plus, I was always tempted to pick out the fur and make Teddy eat them anyway. Was that so awful? Sometimes I did and sometimes I didn't. I never said I was consistent.

And cleaning out under the stove?

That took a broom, time on my knees, my aching knees, and a headlamp. I really hated what I found when I cleaned out the space under my stove. I wouldn't have had to do it nearly as often if not for Blitz. Remember Blitz?

So, imagine all those jobs, the furry butter knife, the rattling vacuum cleaner, and the aching knees, when I finally relaxed on the couch to an episode or two of Breaking Bad with Mike and I heard one of those kibbles being batted around in the kitchen.

Yeah, it was a good thing there were no weapons in my living room.

Thank you for listening, jb

A Warning Cry

You know, we're cruising along here. The kitten is a cat. The dog finally got his own minion, the kitten-cat. Last week, we had to tell Teddy he wasn't allowed to chase Blitz out of the living room. Since then, Blitz has gotten much more relaxed around us in the living room. He lounges on the couch. He lounges in the recliner. He sits in laps, my lap mostly.

But we still may have a problem. Seth may be having some moments of dementia.

The other day, Seth walked down the stairs and stood at the bottom and cried. This was the loud kind of crying, like when I accidentally burned turkey burgers on the stove and Seth felt the need to warn me the house was burning down as I rushed around trying to open windows and clear smoke. Mike was pissed about that one. We had to wash the walls and cabinets in the kitchen to get the black out. Let's just say that I do a whole lot better when I don't eat sugar. Sugar is not my friend. My mind goes completely haywire when I eat sugar. No sugar. None.

But Seth's crying was loud like that, a foghorn warning, sirens screaming, coyotes hunting. He had water. He had food. His litter box wasn't too far gone with kitten poop.

Who knew what it was?

"Seth honey, come on up stairs. Here kitty, kitty. Come on up," I shouted down the stairs.

And he came upstairs, looked at me on the couch, leaped into my lap, and stood there as if trying to find his dignity.

We may be in for some days with Seth. I'll let you know.

Thank you for listening, jb

Truly Feral

Hi!

I didn't die. I'm really here. I've just been on vacation, right?

Nope. No vacation.

I wrote a kitten book and I just finished it yesterday and sent it off. I have to apologize to all eight of you readers because even if you might be interested in reading a book about a feral kitten coming home, you've read almost all of it here. I hate reading a book and getting half way through and realizing that I've already read it. Don't you?

As I sit here, Blitz is running back and forth in the kitchen while playing with one of Teddy's dog kibbles. It will most likely get stuck under the stove and make my vacuum cleaner sound like it's breaking when I suck it up.

The little dirt bag.

Here's the thing that didn't make it into the book.

My mother called the other day. She's pretty healthy and all, but she has gout. I hope to God I never get gout because when I do, I'll begin every conversation with normal humans with, "I've got this pain."

Honestly, now that my joints are starting to feel crunchy, I'm beginning to understand why so many old people go on and on and on. And fucking on about their aches and pains.

"You don't know pain until you've had gout," she told me.

I resisted the urge to talk about the time I was in the hospital and the X-ray technicians needed me to stand upright for the myelogram and I kept passing out because my broken back was lighting up a whole bunch of nerve pathways at one time, hot, cold, cut, punctured, burned, and abraded all at one time.

I hate when people tell me I don't know pain.

But it wouldn't have made her feel any better about her pain if I'd argued that I did know pain. It would just make her feel like nobody was listening to her own pain. We humans really suck at listening, me especially.

So, I tried to listen and tried not to imagine too carefully what gout felt like. See, I hate seeing those 'funny' videos in which some poor slob does a face plant scorpion slide across concrete because I feel actual pain when I do.

Maybe that's why humans are terrible at listening to our parents complain about pain, because we can feel some of that pain. I tried to change the subject from gout.

"I wrote a book about my cats, Ma," I said.

"That's nice, Dear," she said.

Apparently, she can't comprehend the time and energy involved in writing a book, even one about cats. So, I let her go back to the gout and the way she couldn't walk for a few days and the doctor said, and she said, and the gout isn't gone yet, but feels a little less like an icepick was driven through her foot.

"How is your kitten?" she asked.

Wow. I'd settled in for the long haul and I'd reached the end of the trail about a half hour before I thought I would.

"He's funny. He likes to tuck a dog kibble under the kitchen rug then worm under it with his head and shoulders. It's a wonder I haven't stepped on him while I cook."

And I went on and on about my kitten. And on.

Finally, I caught myself. See, I'm the age that most women are becoming grandmothers. Nick is way too young for that, so I've satisfied that need by treating two cats and a dog as if they are babies.

It wouldn't surprise me if my friends laugh about that when I'm not around. I wouldn't mind. It would be true. Better that than to nag an eighteen year old boy about when he's going to give me grandchildren. That is never going to be fodder for the dinner conversation. It sucks to be on the receiving end of that question.

So, I managed to quell my grandmotherly instincts and ask my mother about her cat.

"Oh, Baby is doing just fine."

Baby is not a good name for any pet. It's just embarrassing. Baby.

Can you imagine going to the sliding glass door, opening it, and yelling, "Baby! Come here, Baby! Baaabeeeee?"

Mortifying.

"Baby is beginning to get old. She's fourteen."

I thought I remembered that she got her cat just a few months before I got mine so that would make Baby twelve, thirteen at most. But these kind of conversations were futile unless you were trying to ascertain levels of dementia. I was not. If my mother was going senile, I didn't want to know about it yet. She had begun to change long-standing family stories, but I figured she was entitled to that. I had no intention of worrying until she seemed to forget something important. When I'm eighty-five, I want to be able to change my stories too. I don't want some young punk telling me I remembered it wrong.

I'd phased out of the conversation for a bit.Thankfully, my mother was still talking about Baby. She was more of an indoor cat than she had been. She still didn't like anyone but my mother. She disappeared every time anyone came to the house. My mother told the whole story about how Baby came to her door when she was a kitten, a cold and starving feral kitten that was already more than half grown. I had heard this story. I knew that part was true. I'd only ever petted Baby twice, both times when I'd opened the door after everyone left my mother's house, both times when I'd been completely silent and had a bowl of food in my hands ready for her. Baby was almost completely feral. The only other person she liked was her veterinarian, the traveling vet who had examined my grandma's cat Buddy before he traveled to my house. But Baby was more than skittish. Baby was a one woman cat.

"Baby spends more time on my lap and now she sleeps with me at night," my mother said. She went on about her Baby. I guess I'm not the only one who wanted grandkids, or rather great-grandkids. Then she said that Baby also asked to be let out to the garage when she needed to use her litter box.

"Seriously? She asks to be let out?" 

Imagine not letting a cat have her litter box in the house because it was too messy. Yuck.

Then, she dropped the bomb.

"Who knows which of us is going to live longer, me or Baby. I really don't know what I'm going to do with Baby after I die."

And then, she let the conversation hang. I hated when she let the conversation hang. I resisted the urge to tell her that she wasn't going to be able to do anything when she died. Really, it was so tempting when she was angling to get me to agree to something.

"We can take her if you need us to. I'm sure she would be okay here."

I wasn't sure she'd be okay here. I had no idea if she'd be okay here. At least with my grandma's cat, Buddy, he'd let me pet him and brush him. Buddy had always liked me even when he didn't like anyone else. He'd liked Nick. Nick was the only great-grandkid that Buddy had let pet him. That made it easy.

But I told my mother that we'd take care of her, that she didn't have to worry, that we had room for one more cat even though she informed me that Baby hated male cats and dogs. We had two male cats and a dog. That was going to be so fucked if it happened.

Eventually, my mother had to get off the phone to go to her quilting meeting. Mike wandered into the kitchen where I still sat on the footstool. A lot of times, I sat on that footstool while I had conversations with my extended family.

"So, my mother made me promise to take her cat, Baby, if she died."

"Oh man, I've never even seen that cat in eleven years it's so wild."

"Yeah, and she hates male cats and dogs too. And she goes outdoors whenever she wants."

"You're going to have to bring her here? Really?"

"Yup," I said. "I am. I promised."

Mike didn't say another word, just shook his head and made himself a ham and cheddar sandwich.

Then, as he walked out of the kitchen with his sandwich in hand, he said, "You had better pray that your mom lives a nice long life. That cat would be absolutely miserable here. You know that, right?"

I know that.

Thank you for listening, jb