Cooking with Cats

Ever since Mewcifer the stray cat pranced into our home and later, our hearts, I have become an unwitting student of cat behavior. For example, I can't tell you how many times I've been bitten before I learned to pay attention to the direction of Mewcifer's ears.  If those babies start turning back and flattening , look out. 

After a lifetime of having only dogs as pets, the biggest adjustment to having a cat in our house is the realization that cats jump up on everything.  In fact, the higher the object, the better.  I've even seen Mewcifer studying the ceiling fan, no doubt mentally calculating how high he'd have to jump to land successfully on one of its blades. 

Given Mewcifer's affinity for being up high on things, he's become a constant companion when I'm in the kitchen.  Not only does he want to see what I'm doing, but he feels it's his duty to keep a careful eye on anything pertaining to food.  I guess that's understandable, given his history as a skinny stray, but this cat reminds me of someone salivating while watching the Food Network.  The only difference is that he's able to reach out and steal a taste when I'm not looking.

Even though Mewcifer is officially a member of the family these days, I'm not very keen on having him snitch food from our plates.  His stealthy ways have caused me to keep a spray bottle nearby while I cook so that I can shoot him with a quick spritz of water if he tries to steal anything.

The other night, I was mixing some ground meat for hamburgers.  Of course, Mewcifer jumped onto the end of the counter so that he could supervise. 

I formed the meat into round patties which I placed on a plate to the left of me, squarely between me and Mewcifer.

Determined to keep an eye on him, I watched as he slowly crept near the plate.  Realizing I was watching him, Mewcifer quickly sat down and meowed angelically as if to say "I wasn't doing anything wrong."

I returned to my patty-making, still watching him from the corner of my eye.

Mewcifer slowly lay down, ever so quietly, to not attract my attention.

I didn't look at him but continued making the hamburgers. 

Mewcifer slowly and quietly rolled onto his side.  I still didn't look at him.

He froze in position for a minute or two, like a rabbit who believes you can't see it if it doesn't move.

I finished making the final patty and put it on the plate.  I turned my back on the cat briefly to wash my hands.  When I turned back around, I saw Mewcifer's front paw outstretched mere millimeters from the edge of plate.  He was about to snatch one of the burgers.

I grabbed the spray bottle and shot a quick spritz at him. 

And then, do you know what that cat did?  He actually had the nerve to make me feel guilty for squirting him.  It's true.  As he cleaned the water from the spray bottle off his back, he flashed his sorrowful golden eyes at me as if to say, "How could you squirt a helpless little kitty cat who loves you so much?"  I felt so bad that I gave him a few of his kitty treats - the ones he likes so much that we've renamed them Kitty Crack.

Talk about manipulative!  How did that cat turn his bad behavior around into something that earned him his beloved Kitty Crack? 

This ability alone is probably why we should fear cats taking over the world.  

Maybe I'd better grill him a burger as a peace offering.

Bailey the Conqueror

I've come to the conclusion that my dog is nuts. 

Not in the fun, oh-look-at-the-way-she-lays-on-her-back-and-chews-her-toenails cute way of nuts, either.  I'm talking about full-fledged, certifiably crazy.  If she were a human, she'd be on a therapist's couch somewhere explaining what went wrong in her early puppyhood and how the cat just doesn't understand her.

We adopted Bailey at the age of two from a family who could no longer handle her exuberant personality and frequent sprints out the back door.  At the time, a friend suggested quite poignantly that her running away meant she was trying to find me.  While I doubt that a creature who derives much pleasure from licking her own butt could formulate such a plan, we haven't had a problem with her running away in the three years we've had her.

Bailey is a great dog but she has a few issues.  Like many other dogs, she doesn't like thunder, fireworks, or loud noises of any kind.  She will stay glued to the leg of the nearest human until the storm passes or the noise is gone.  Fortunately, her loud noise anxiety only presents itself a few times a year.  Her fear of our living room ceiling fan is another matter entirely.

When we brought Bailey home for the first time, she refused to come into our living room for three weeks.  We had no idea why and just assumed it was because she was getting adjusted to our family.  Who could blame her?  Our family is definitely an acquired taste, one that's best eased into, especially if no tequila is available.

We figured out that the ceiling fan was the culprit when Bailey eventually came into the living room (to throw up on the newly-cleaned carpet, of course.  Barf is my life.)  We noticed that every time she was in the living room, she'd constantly look up at the ceiling fan.  Although the fan was stable and didn't make noise, its presence concerned Bailey.  Was she afraid of it falling on her?  Did her other family chase her around with one? 

Weeks passed and Bailey finally stopped paying so much attention to the fan.  Her acceptance of the fan  continued for over two years until that ceiling fan quit working and we had to replace it with a new one.  Once again, Bailey refused to come into the living room.  Apparently she didn't like the fact that this new fan is a dark wood color whereas the old fan was all white.  Who knew that dark wood ceiling fans are the natural enemy of the Labradoodle? 

We kept the fan turned off so that Bailey could get used to it without the worry of those spinning blades.   When she finally began coming back into the living room, she was even more cautious than she'd been with the old ceiling fan.  She'd glance up at it frequently as if to let it know she was keeping her eye on it and that it shouldn't try anything funny.

All was good until last week.  A blast of summer-like weather forced us to (gasp!) turn the fan on.  As expected, Bailey ran out of the living room and refused to set one paw back in it.  She wouldn't even walk to the back door in the kitchen because she could see the reflection of the spinning fan blades on the hardwood floor in the hall.

We tried tempting her with food.  We tried luring her with toys.  No luck.  She even refused to greet visitors in the living room because of her ceiling fan fear.  She was terrified of that ceiling fan and it didn't appear that anything could change her mind.

Then a funny thing happened:  we had a thunderstorm.  It wasn't a quick little thunderstorm either.  This one lasted for nearly an hour.  The thunder was loud and booming.  Streaks of lightning filled the sky.  Rain drummed loudly against the windows.  

Bailey was terrified and remained glued to my side.  She shook mightily as if someone had set her to the 'vibrate' position.  She was so worried about the storm that she walked with me into the living room, completely oblivious to the ceiling fan that she'd feared only moments before.

Apparently, dogs, much like people, don't respond to the lure of their favorite things in convincing them to move past their fear.  Sometimes, when the fear is deep, momentum is best achieved from the looming threat of something we fear even MORE.   I'm still working on this concept in my own life, but Bailey managed to figure it out herself.

Maybe she's not so crazy after all.

A PSA

I've been crazy busy this week.  Actually, I should say craziER and busiER than usual.  Life around here typically moves at a breakneck pace somewhere between mach 1 and insanity on most days, but lately, it's been ridiculous. 

Remember that saying, "running around like a chicken with its head cut off?"  That would be me, except I'm not a chicken, and I have a head - even if it is a head in desperate need of sleep and a touch-up.

Whenever I'm in these overwhelming, can't-get-off-of-the-hamster-wheel moments, all I can think of is getting through them.  I want to move past whatever events or challenges are stealing my time and attention and get to the other side as quickly as possibleso that I can enjoy life again.  I dream of a day when I can relax and not do anything.  I fantasize about stopping time. 

For an equally busy friend of mine, time has stopped for her and her family, but not in the way any of us would want.  Her twenty-something daughter was tragically killed by a speeding drunk driver who plowed into her car as he failed to stop for a stop sign.  One single, senseless, selfish decision by someone has caused a young life to be snuffed out too soon and a family to be torn apart.  Someone's bad judgment and irresponsibility has stopped the clock for them, freezing  this painful day forever in their memories.

Today, as I work to meet all of my duties and responsibilities and challenges, I'm going to do my best to appreciate the fact that I'm still here, and my family is still here.  I'm going to remember how blessed I am to have such a full life to live.   It may be messy and tough to manage but it's mine and I'm grateful for it.

And I'm going to hug my kids.  Tightly.  Even the too-cool older ones.  And when they complain, I'm going to hug them again because some moments can't be repeated too often. 

You might want to do the same.

49 Candles

Last week was my birthday.  Number 49.  Ever since my friend Marcelle told me that I was aging myself too fast by converting my age to dog years (it's 343,) I've decided to use a different animal this year:  the elephant. In elephant years, I'm only 28.8, which instantly makes me feel more youthful with a much better memory.

I hadn't been looking forward to this birthday.  It's not that I fear growing older; I don't.  My trepidation stemmed from knowing that I wasn't going to be able to celebrate my birthday in the typical way.  We've been extremely short of money lately and our situation wasn't going to improve any time soon.  I knew I'd be celebrating my birthday without any presents or even a dinner out.

This past year has been brutal in ways that surpass my usual complaints about gravity-succumbing body parts or fading memory.  I often think that it would be so much easier to give up, cry uncle, and pick up my marbles and go home.  The idea of welcoming my 49th year of life amid such circumstances didn't seem right or fair, but there it was.   It's reality, whether I like it or not.

After spending days entrenched in MEPE (the Most Epic Pity-party Ever,) I decided that what I wanted more than anything for my birthday was a day off from work.  The fact that I couldn't afford it (I'm paid hourly with no sick or vacation time) and therefore shouldn't do it entered my mind, but I promptly chased those thoughts out again.  I needed this day off.  My mental health needed this day off.  After all, anyone who's a parent knows that weekends are not days off but days ON, loaded with an overwhelming amount of duties and responsibilities.  I hadn't had a day off since Christmas, and we all know how un-relaxing that particular holiday can be.

So I scheduled my day off.  I asked my oldest son if he would wake up early and get his brothers on the school bus so that I could sleep in.  He agreed.  I'd been so short of sleep that if getting more of it was the only thing I received on my birthday, I'd be a happy mama. 

I woke up when I heard the school bus drive past my house.  Knowing that I didn't have to hurry to get dressed for work or feed anyone breakfast or lunch felt so liberating.  Time was my own for one entire day, and realizing this made me outrageously happy.

I poured a cup of coffee and drank it leisurely with Mewcifer the cat sitting on my lap.  I allowed him to stay for as long as he liked since there wasn't anywhere I had to be.  With my lap occupied by a cat, I figured I might as well dive into those books I'd been neglecting. 

Something is definitely out of balance with your life when reading a book feels like a vacation, but that's exactly what it felt like.  For once, I didn't have to worry about interruptions or a too-loud TV in the background.  Instead, I read contentedly amid the sound of chirping birds outside. 

A couple of hours later, I checked my email and my Facebook page.  Both were full of birthday greetings from friends. I felt loved and remembered.  It lifted my spirit to know that in spite of what life may throw my way, there are still plenty of people who care about me. 

The sounds of birdsong were suddenly interrupted by the telephone.  I didn't recognize the phone number so I didn't answer it figuring it was a phone solicitation or a political call and I did not want to deal with either of those on my birthday. 

The answering machine began recording, and I heard a young voice say, "Happy birthday, Mom."  It was my son Evan.  I grabbed the phone just in time to hear a whole crowd of people, his entire 6th grade class, singing happy birthday to me.  Evan had been concerned about my birthday and our lack of money.  I guess this was his way of making my day special.

The class finished singing and then I heard Evan say, "I love you, Mom."  Yes, my nearly 12-year-old actually told me he loves me right in front of his classmates.  With tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat, I managed to choke out a thank-you to all of them for making my birthday such a happy one.

No  better gift could be found in a store for any amount of money.

As I've grown older, I've learned that the tougher the times, the more readily we appreciate small kindnesses.  It's these little moments, all strung together in between the dark spots, that make a great life.  Years from now, I probably won't remember feeling so sorry for myself, but I do know I won't forget the birthday when my son's entire class sang to me.  And that memory alone will be enough.

Things I've Learned from my Cat

It's hard to believe that FrodoJoseKitty, the stray cat who appeared at our back door a week before Christmas, has now been with us for almost three months.  He had many things to learn about living in a house when he first came to us, but lately I feel as if I'm the one who's learning from him.

The Cat on Time Management:

No matter how busy you are, take time to sniff every flower.   Just don't eat them or the crazy lady with the spray bottle will find you.

There's always time for a nap.  Even something as important as pulling all of the plastic grocery bags out of their storage spot can wait if it means a chance to nap in the warm sunshine.

The Cat on Opportunities:

Never ignore an open door.  You don't know when you'll have the opportunity again so leap while you have the chance.  Unless it's into a tub full of water; that never ends well.

Every day is an adventure.  Adventures in the pantry, adventures in the basement, adventures in the attic... there's always something new to discover!

The Cat on Relationships:  

Nothing unites like an early morning bird/squirrel hunt through the sliding glass door.  Even if you're as different from one another as a dog and a cat, you can always find common ground with someone else. 

Sometimes it's worth it to allow the dog to sniff your backside.   Especially if it means you can sneak a morsel or two of the dog's food while she's otherwise, um, engaged. 

The Cat on Not Taking Things Personally:

Just because others don't like it doesn't mean it isn't wonderful.  To them, it's just a dead stink bug, but to you, it's a victory.  Even if others don't always appreciate your gifts, that's no reason to not feel proud of yourself for offering them.

Never go to bed angry.  Although you were scolded for walking on the stove or stealing a drink of milk from someone's glass, you can always make up for it later with a purr and a cuddle.  No one can resist a warm kitty in the lap unless, of course, that kitty's just finished eating tuna fish.

The Cat on Contentment: 

All you really need are the basics. Nothing is more important than food, water, and a warm, dry place to live.  Kitty treats and a nice neck massage every now and then don't hurt either.

Home is where your people are.  Whether of the two-legged or four-legged variety, nothing says "home" more than the folks you share your space with.  Be sure to show your love for them in some way other than tearing up their shoelaces.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot to do today.  There are birds to watch, naps to take, flowers to smell, and a very wise cat to cuddle.

The No Good, Terrible, Really Wonderful Bad Day

"I'm having a bad day."

Those words, coming from my husband Dan, never fail to strike fear in me. What he really means is that since he's having a bad day, my own day is about to become a whole lot worse. I think there must be some fine print in the marriage vows which states that both spouses should suffer equally. If he's down, he's going to drag me down with him.

I resisted the urge to tell him that a "bad day" is when your toddler paints his crib rails with poop, or the 6-year-old projectile vomits red Twizzlers all over the light-colored carpeting. A bad day is when the dog lets you know she's having stomach troubles by leaving smelly piles of awfulness all around the house.

Anything else is merely a distraction.

I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table with Dan. If my day was going to become dramatically worse, I at least wanted to be well-caffeinated for it.

"It's only 6:30 a.m. What could possibly have happened this early? You're not even out of the house yet!" Of course, I asked this in my most understanding voice.

"I don't know what happened. I was on the computer, and all of a sudden, the screen went black. I can't get it to come back on. I think it crashed."

Wait....what? The computer? My WORK computer?Crashed?

On a scale of bad days, this trumps poop-painted crib railings. A computer crash is a tragedy of epic proportions and means that I'm destined to have a bad day all by myself, even without my husband's help. How will I work? How will I check my email? How will I find out what my friends are up to on Facebook?

Once Dan left for work and I'd gotten the kids off to school, I sat down at the computer to see if I could revive it using my most technologically-advanced computer technical skills: I wiggled the mouse. Nothing happened. I tried unplugging it and plugging it back in. Nothing happened. I even said a Hail Mary, hoping for some divine assistance. Still nothing happened. The computer was as dead as dead could be. My lifeline to the interwebs was officially cut and I wasn't at all happy about it.

I phoned the office to let them know that I wouldn't be able to work until my computer was fixed and then sat for a moment to ponder my situation. Here I was, all alone in the house and unable to work. I suddenly had an unexpected day off with nothing in particular to fill it.

I didn't know what to do. With no work projects, email, or internet lures to compete for my time, I felt lost. Am I really so addicted to technology that I can't find something to do now that I'm without it?

I made another cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table. A male cardinal was feeding three baby birds outside the kitchen window, a sight I would have missed had I been in my office on the computer. Now, with no schedule to obey, I was free to watch the birds as long as I wished.
When I grew tired of bird watching, I went outside and pulled some weeds, surprised by how peaceful and relaxing weeding could be early in the morning.

For lunch, I took the time to make myself a healthy meal and savored it, rather than gulping down something at the computer while I worked.

I took the dog for a walk. I painted my toenails. I took a nap. I even caught up on some long-neglected reading.

When Dan came home from work, he asked if I was able to fix the computer.

"No, it's still dead. I think we may need a new one."

"That's terrible! You must have had a really bad day."

I thought about the different ways I'd spent my unplugged and unexpected day off.

"Actually," I replied with a smile. "It wasn't bad at all."

Stopping Time

There's nothing like a camping trip to help you reconnect with nature and provide some much needed R&R.  Of course, for moms, "R&R" means doing what you always do for your family except in a more rustic environment with fewer modern conveniences and surrounded by unseen creatures who'd like to eat you for lunch. 

It's definitely not an experience for the faint of heart.

Then there's the way that I choose to camp. 

No tents or public restrooms for me.  No way!  My version of roughing it entails camping in a 32-foot travel trailer with dual slide outs, a microwave, and a full bathroom.  Lest you think there is no suffering at all on my part while camping, consider the sacrifice that I make in the name of family togetherness by living without cable TV or (gasp!) WiFi.

It's rough, I tell you. 

So there we were, my husband and I, our three boys, and our dog, in our cozy RV on a wooded campsite for the weekend. With enough provisions to last a family of five into the next ice age, we were prepared for anything that might come our way.

Well, almost anything.

For some reason, the clock that hangs in our small little trailer kitchen refused to keep time properly.  It ran fine for a while but then it would stop again as soon as we weren't looking.  I swear, it was like having a toddler in the house: you don't dare take your eyes off of it for a minute.

We hunted around the trailer for some batteries and replaced the clock's battery with two different ones that we'd found.  Each time, the same thing happened.  The clock ran for a while and then stopped.  As someone who's excessively dependent upon the clock, I found this quite uncomfortable.  How on earth will I know what time it is?  How will I know when I have to...to...

...do what?

Evan, my youngest son, wasn't concerned at all about the lack of a functioning clock.  There were games to play, caterpillars to catch, ice cream to eat, and exploring to do.  Watching his pure enjoyment of the simplest moments compelled me to join him.  Before I knew it, the ever-present chatter in my head had quieted.  I was surprised to realize that for once, I wasn't thinking or worrying about anything.  It felt good to simply exist in the moment, finally having nowhere to be and nothing special to do.  

With no measure of time to dictate my day, I let the lunch dishes sit in the sink and watched the birds instead.  I leisurely read an entire magazine from cover to cover.  I made dinner when we felt hungry instead of when the hands on the clock hit a certain time.  I stayed outside at the campfire instead of going inside when the sky grew dark.  I went to bed when I felt tired instead of when the clock said I should.

Best of all, I enjoyed my family as it was, in all of its wonderful, messy, imperfect beauty.  In a blink, we will all be older, busier, and more distracted.  One day, the five of us will no longer be together.  Life, as it's designed to do, will ultimately pull us toward different paths in very different directions. 

What a gift it was to enjoy a weekend together, unfettered by the demands of time and responsibility, when the only thing that mattered was enjoying each other's company.

Some people receive epiphanies from burning bushes or near-death experiences.  Apparently I received mine from a temperamental clock.