About Cats Who Do Messy Things In Inappropriate Places [A Rant]

This is Raisin, our nearly 13 year old beloved cat.

Raisin was the smallest of a large litter of kittens born in our niece's tack barn, offspring of a stray purebred Siamese and an itinerant tom-cat.

Raisin has always been beset by what our vet called a "delicate digestive system."

To put it more plainly, it is a rare day when she doesn't barf at least once.

Raisin has tiny little cat bones and is waif-ish in spite of having been presented with every possible variety of cat food, including pricey gourmet kibbles and dainty tidbits in small tins.

She prefers morsels of steak [with sauce] begged from J.'s plate or a spoonful of ground beef which he has warmed in the microwave.  When offered the tinned treat dished out to the other cats, she is inclined to rear back from her saucer in horror at the mediocrity of the entree.  On occasion she will condescend to lap at a dollop of strained chicken meant for human babies.

In defense of Raisin it needs to be noted that she usually announces an incipient bout of vomiting with a loud and mournful "Wah, wah, wah---merow, ow, ERP."

If we are in attendence the mess can be deflected from a rug, the edge of a cushion or chair. When taken by this affliction in the small hours of the night she is usually considerate enough to leap down from the bed.

This saves the quilt, but presents a hazard when one unwittingly walks across the bedroom in the dark.

Lately our daughter and son-in-law's two small dogs are often in the house.

The cats have on the whole accepted this--not with pleasure, but with huffy resignation.

Raisin has been spending hours in the middle of our big bed rather than napping in her favorite livingroom rocker.

This forenoon, daughter G. headed into our bedroom to view herself in the big mirror.

"Eeeeuuuugh!" she yelped. "Mom, there's a pile of cat puke on your bed!"

The bed was, of course, empty of felines. Raisin, who had been there moments before was sitting in the hallway.  Sitting there gulping.

I have a streaming head cold and have felt rather sorry for myself since last evening.

The prospect of stripping the bed set me on a rant.

J. summoned by my stuffy wails, declared that ,"Nobody SAW Raisin do it, so she probably didn't do it!"

[Is it obvious where his sympathies lie?]

G. and I snatched off the quilt, the light-weight blanket, the top sheet. The offending stuff had soaked through to the bottom sheet and all the bedding needed to be laundered.

I plodded downstairs to the laundry with the hastily wiped up quilt, G. followed with the bundled sheets.

Later I pegged the clean quilt on the line to whip in the breeze, staunching my drippy nose with one of J.'s handkerchiefs as I bent over the laundry basket.

G. pegged out sheets and pillowcases, helped me spread clean linens over the immense bed.

Raisin has now taken up her spot on the fresh bedspread--flanked by Charlie and his daughter Jemima--all on my side of the bed.

It is a good thing that we adore our cats.

[Wah, wah, snuffle, sneeze!]

Domestic Activity

J. has been fretting for a week that he wanted a lemon meringue pie.

Actually, he has announced this need for the pie at several very inopportune times--such as 8 in the evening, when I wasn't about to launch a pastry marathon.

This noon J. decided he needed to go to Lowes to buy a new head for the strimmer.  M. G. and D. went along as part of getting acquainted with their new territory.

It seemed a good time for me to catch up on domestic chores.

A load of laundry was pegged out to flap dry under bright blue skies.

I produced the lemon pie and two fruit pies which went into the deep freeze.

I also made 4 plump loaves of oatmeal/molasses bread.

When the tribe returned from Campbellsville I was presented with a lovely Easter lily.

I should have taken a photo in daylight.

Grandson D. thought he could get a better image of the plant by setting it on the floor.

He was immediately mobbed by the cats, who wanted to see what he was doing.

Here Teasel investigates the lily.

After two days of intermittantly heavy rains the garden is--again--too wet for either planting or weeding.

We all pitched into yard work late this afternoon.

J. buzzed about with his rejuvenated trimmer; D. roared around on the riding lawn mower. M. dug out some over-grown clumps of something I think might be liriope---variagated thin foliage that turned brown in winter--no flowers.  G. raked dead leaves and debris along the front porch, while I pulled out Virginia creeper, lengths of poison ivy and handfulls of weeds.

J. took the clippers to the box hedge, somewhat hampered by the presence of Willis the Cat.

D. brought out the push-mower and ran it along the edges of the perennial beds.

Willis was very interested in all that we were doing. As I turned over dirt along the edge of the porch I uncovered a series of mole tunnels.  Willis pounced on them, running his stripey "arm"down the openings.

G.'s neurotic and elderly chihuahua chased Willis.

T-baby, the Maine Coon Cat tackled Ginger Pisser [the feral tom] as he approached the cat dish in the car port.  The war song of disgruntled cats filled the air. The dogs barked.

G. rushed to save her darling T-baby.

Mixie [the chihuahua] chased Ginger into the woodpile.

Accompanied by this melee of animals, we worked on until nearly dark.

The ever-helpful Willis

We hope for a sunny dry day tomorrow as the asparagus roots still have not been interred

in their prepared trench.

Waiting and Marking Time

As dawn came sulking in on Thursday morning, I realized new snow had sifted down during the dark hours.  I had been in the living room reading, a circle of cats around me, during the night, but there was no sound of wind to blow the snow against the windows. We had a few days of warmer temperatures and the old snow, too long with us, shriveled and receeded in sunken, grubby layers.

The deer have circled the dooryard, making fresh trails of pointy hoof prints in the new whiteness.

The photo above was taken late on Friday afternoon.

This was taken Saturday morning just as the sun opened one eye to the east. Sunrise was a pale peachy band of light quickly swallowed up in a grey sky. The foothills to the west have been swaddled in hovering gloom nearly all day.

I took this photo with the camera on the "night snapshot" setting which intensified a slight blue shadow and smoothed out the contours of the snowy yard. It was too cold on the west porch to fiddle with settings and try for a more realistically colored shot.

Back in the house I aimed the camera through the relatively clean window to record the clothespins bobbing on the line and the gnarled fingers of ice clutching the porch roof.

Raisin, the spoiled, beloved, bulemic cat-in-charge.

I have been researching special feline diet foods with the help of Heidi.  Yesterday J. and I ventured into the Wind River Mercantile and I handed over the proceeds of several hours quilt making hoping to present something that her majesty will eat and keep down.

In addition to regular "pukey days" Raisin has taken the notion that whatever meat is on our plates is surely more appealing than whatever has been offered to her.  As J. says, she prefers her steak medium done with sauce!

I've worked on quilt orders at home this week. Jemima keeps me company but gets easily bored. I love those plush brown paws curled over her nose.

The house we live in has been listed on the market for nearly a year.  During that time we have had two or perhaps three rather lackluster showings.  When the Baldwin Creek spec house finally was sold after months of delays, negotiations and head-banging frustrations, J. concluded that this was no time to continue in his trade of house building.  During better financial times we talked of selling the house we live in and building a more modest one, a "keeper", on the lot across the small pond. We told each other rather complacently that we would have sufficient funds stashed away to live comfortably and J. would build another spec house or two at a less frantic pace than usual before succumbing to full retirement.

The downturn in real estate was slower to strike oil-rich Wyoming than in other areas of the country, but it appears to be entrenched, particularly for the upper/middle price range homes we have been building.

I have felt that we had few options beyond gritting our teeth, tightening our belts and staying put.

When J, prompted by son-in-law, began investigating attractive rural places where we might "retire" and put our funds to best use, I said, "Right!  You're asking for a miracle--sales of land, a house, motor homes and equipment, in the dead of winter in a depressed economy."

I beleive I was wryly challenging God as well as J.  I have to state that God has a sense of humor!  J. sold two motor homes in less than 10 days.  Tractors, equipment, and small trailers which have been lined up for months with "For Sale" signs have attracted buyers, and last week we endured 4 house viewings in 24 hours. [If God or anyone else thought that amusing, I, as chief house-cleaner-in residence did not!]

The upshot is that the two couples who each came back for a second viewing wanted the house and we have signed a contract with the first ones who offered.

So now we begin to skitter down the usually bumpy road of a sale closing.  If everything goes smoothly [it usually doesn't!] we could be homeless in 30 days--if there are delays we might still be in the  house 60 or even 90 days from now.

At what point does one pack all but two plates, two bowls and two mugs? The books--where will I find enough boxes for the books?  How will I ever sort all the STUFF which was plonked in the storage shed nearly four years ago?  At what point are we sure enough of our available funds to make an offer on property in the desired "new" location 1500 miles away?

Rhetorical questions all, and no doubt God is biding His time with an anwer we haven't guessed.

I think I would be wise to start packing. If there are delays the cats will enjoy climbing over and into boxes and helping me to haul half-forgotten belongings from the depths of closets. Daughter's suggestion is that we relegate most of our worldly goods to the dump. I don't think so!

Our family gatherings often turn to remembrances of what are fondly called "typical Whitehurst journeys"--replete with details of blown tires on over-loaded borrowed trailers, transmissions which gave out on the great plains, hysterical memories of the cafe in Nebraska where the waitress mixed up our orders and kept appearing with forgotten side dishes. Of such are the family chronicles written.

I count the vehicles which have to be driven across the country, all the bits and pieces that must go with us.  I picture the cats, stowed in the motor home with mournful furry faces pressed to the windows.  Shall we tie the horse to the bumper?  Who will be rounded up to be part of this ludicrous convoy?

I daresay we will survive this upheaval one more time.  Where ever and when ever we go, I can think of reaching the destination and hauling my battered armchair from the depths of a van, unearthing the mugs, the tea and the kettle, flopping in triumphant exhaustion while the cats prowl the corners of a different house and the old horse explores a strange and greener pasture.

The Quiet of Snow

I was in the kitchen a few minutes after 7 this morning--small chance of the cats letting anyone sleep in.

With the cats fed and their litter boxes cleaned, I stood at the south window savoring my mug of coffee. As I watched, the finest of snow flakes began to fall, blown sideways by a little ruffling of wind.

Like the cats, Pebbles the Horse is aware of that moment when anyone is awake and out of bed. J. was still sleeping, so I hauled on wellies and a warm old jacket.  As soon as she heard the garage door creak up, Pebs began to whinney and snort.  As I approached with feed bucket swinging from my hand, she cavorted in circles, kicking up her elderly heels, tossing her head.  The bag of special feed for founder-prone equines was nearly empty, so I mixed a handful of her old sweet feed with it--a treat for her, I'm sure. [My hands are small, so I don't think that "handful" could cause a problem.]  She made all manner of appreciative horse noises--worth the cold trek across the yard without my quilt-lined Carhartts just to see her performance.

Across the pond and down toward the old barn.  Everything is white and nearly soundless.  Even the sparse traffic on the road below us made little noise.

Teasel is feeling better and being ever so cooperative about the antibiotic she has to have twice a day from a dropper. She does keep her herring-bone-patterned tail wrapped rather closely. She hasn't quite recovered from the indignity of having me hold her down to examine the abcess on her bum---nor of having "Doctor Bill" scrub and lance the nasty thing.

Dear little Raisin is looking so old and frail.  Her food has never set well, a "delicate stomach"  no matter what diet we try. Always a small cat, she is now very thin.

Sparrows and juncos are busy at the feeder and on the ground under it.

Startled by my camera, the birds whooshed from the feeder and resettled in the tree behind the guest cabin.

The sun at noon.

The paperwhites planted in mid-November are showing growth. They never sprout and stretch at the same rate--always one or two which lag behind.

I put potatoes in the oven to bake for a late dinner. Our good neighbor gifted us with half of a huge Hubbard squash she and her husband raised and there is that, seasoned with butter and a dash of maple syrup, to eat with the potatoes. As I puttered in the kitchen the weak sun moved in a low sweep toward the west, back-lighting the sparrows on the dark bare branches.

J. has been down the pasture path to his "shop" and then into town to buy gas for the tractor in order to plow the driveway. He came in to warm his hands, placing his gloves over the propane fireplace to thaw. The cats thronged to see what was going on [you recall curiosity and cats?]

 decided that they did not recognize his red winter jacket and the woolen "bomber" cap he resurrected from the closet this morning.  As one, they skittered toward the bedroom door for safety, then couldn't resist peeking out to see if he was really someone they know.

Indoors and Out

Teasel sleeps on the bed after supervising our morning activities. Teasel greatly enjoys food and I have been calling her "Teasel the Tank."

Charlie, the dad cat, looks appealingly innocent.  Moments earlier his son Chester was under the rug atop the hassock with Charlie pummeling him, while Teasel jabbed a wiley paw under the rug for good measure.  Charlie has led the tribe this evening in wild surges through the rooms, crashing headlong into his cardboard box under the picture window, banging his head on the same window in an ill-judged leap for the sill. The sobering moment came with a crash in here.  I was taking cookies from the oven, so it was a bit later that I came in to find my ironing board upended, iron on its side with water puddling out, fabric strips in a muddle on the floor.

Charlie and Maisie's daughter, Jemima, is such a sweetie. She favors the top of this bookcase.  A leap into my old wing chair and a bounce up to the top shelf, and she can keep tabs on whatever I am doing.

Pebbles the Horse is recovering from a frightening bout of laminitis brought on by injudicious consumption of grass which had been frosted. This was a danger to her health that we had to learn the hard way.  She has been a month in this "starvation pasture" and none too pleased about it. She is being fed very carefully with a non-sweetened grain mixture created especially for horses who are subject to founder.  She has a water tub, and hay. She is bored with her confinement to such a small area, although pleased this week that J. has been working on the side entry roof and she can watch him.  If she creates a big enough fuss, chances are he will fetch her a carrot. It is a relief to see that she is once again stepping smartly.

Silvery bare branches against a clear blue sky. I was surely intending to include the bird in this shot--but zooming in has not identified which bird it is.

 

I am always intrigued by the patterns of branches against the sky. I tend to gaze up into the heavens, fiddling with the camera's zoom feature until I am dizzy and losing my balance on uneven ground.

In spite of living for a decade in Wyoming, my identification of native trees isn't good. These may be either young cottonwoods or aspens.  At any rate, you can see how the wind has canted them.

Cottonwood leaves, brown but still glossy, lie scattered on the dry rough ground and catch in clumps of dried weed.

If I were not lazy this evening--and if I was sure I could locate my book on wild plants, I would label this photo!  Maybe sorrel? 

J. has been working on the side entry roof this week. I expect that come spring we will be dealing with starlings who would like to nest in this newly sheltered spot.  They are such messy pests.

The kitchen window with its plant-laden sill faces the new entry roof.  This is the eastern exposure of the house.

A side view of guest/rental cabin, house and attached garage, taken from across the pond.  The "Sky Trak" which J. used to put the cross beam in place, and SIL's plumbing van add to the view.

The pond with a crinkled coating of ice, reflects the blue sky and the shadows of the over-hanging cottonwoods. Fallen leaves and twigs are caught in the cold slush.

This post has been a bit of an adventure---my first attempt at using the newer format.  I can see some advantages, such as the better photo uploads, but a few things are boggling my very untechnical brain. Perhaps I'll eventually be able to provide a "link" without pasting in a url.  There is always hope.