Remember Me?

Hello, strangers. It’s been ages.

What’s new? Well, I am more frightened than ever about the future of this country: the perpetuation of Drumpf’s Big Lie and the millions of dangerous white fools, many in high places, who buy into it; gun violence; the delusional wing of Republicans in general; assaults against Black Americans and Asian Americans, not to mention rampant xenophobia in general; continuing tragedy at our border; the social and economic impact of Covid and the danger of anti-maskers/anti-vaxxers; it goes on and on. Each day when I read Heather Cox Richardson’s Letters from an American, I find it as sobering as it is enlightening. And that’s just news in the U.S. Around the world, it’s equally awful: out-of-control Covid in South Asia and elsewhere, tragedy in Gaza, and so much more.

Instead, let’s move on to news in the land of Wormlips.

First, you might have noticed that Bloggy here has undergone something of a metamorphosis. I’m not at all happy with its new appearance, but am unable to change colors and layout and fonts and stuff, so it is what it is. The reason for this transformation is that I finally relocated the blog to a new web host, for myriad technical reasons involving security and speed. The process was unbelievably complicated on my end (even though the hosting company did all the deep-dish database stuff), necessitating my spending hours online in the last few days with tech support and bravely venturing into technical waters that, though shallow, were way over my head.

Now to other matters: Man, the pandemic has been so very long and I’ve done so little during it that I’ve had nothing to report to this blog, month after month after month. But now that things are just beginning to open up a little more (I got my vaccines in February and March), I’ve been able to find a few things to do other than pacing from the back window to the front window of my house hundreds of times a day, like I’m caged.

The very day I got my second vaccine, I booked a flight East to see Small (my mother) in Delaware in April. It had been a year and a half (and three canceled trips due to Covid) since we’d last seen each other. I was a bit uneasy about the Lyfts, planes and airports, but all went well. What made things quite wondrous was having used mileage miles to upgrade to first class, where there was a bit more space between passengers. Still, it wasn’t buckets of fun to wear a mask for nearly twelve hours. During eating time, I pulled it down just long enough to take a bite, and then replaced it for chewing. By the end of my meal, it was full of cracker crumbs.

Despite constant explicit reminders to the contrary, one entitled old man on the plane in the seat across from me kept his mask off for most of the flight, as he slowly nursed his glasses of wine. And the crew never said a word him. Why do some people act as though the rules apply to everyone but them?

I arrived Chez Small just before dark. As always, she awaited me on the granite front steps of her house on Thissell Lane as the shuttle drove up. This will never happen again; she has since moved into a retirement home nearby, so this was my final visit to her beloved house in the country.

The next day, my sister, along with her hubby and shy dog, arrived for two nights! I hadn’t seen them for 2.5 years. 

You know what’s strange? Ever since her birth 64 years ago, I’ve been taller than Kate, even the last time we saw each other. So imagine my shock and dismay when I realized she suddenly has a good inch or two on me. How did that happen! Actually, I believe I know the answer. My spine is twisted and bent with scoliosis and is, apparently, getting more so, so I am shrinking fast.

During the visit we made multiple runs to Small’s new apartment, bearing books and lamps and blankets and china and stuff. The new place is small but cheerful and full of light, with a bank of four windows in the living/dining area that overlooks a courtyard and garden.

Every night, come evening, we’d return to the old house to relax in the only room (save the bedrooms) that still had furniture.

Before I left, we got to sing some old songs together:

For her relocation, Ma had to downsize dramatically to fit into her new digs, so she shipped a bunch of her possessions east to west, giving me a big furniture upgrade:

Back in California: I’ve gotten to see my grandchildren in Chico a few times this spring, quarantining for two weeks before each visit to keep them safe. Ruby (almost eight months old) is giant:

Jesse likes Great Granny’s giraffe that she sent when she cleaned out her house:

And Ember is as active as ever:

Last week I had the pleasure of hosting Em at my house. Most days, we took a short walk around the neighborhood. One sunny afternoon we were cheerfully traipsing up a residential street when we saw a grumpy old man on the sidewalk in front of his house without a mask. No big deal. I just did the usual: steered us off the sidewalk around him, to the edge of the street. At that moment, he started saying something to us. The exchange went as follows, as we continued past him:

By this time, we were well beyond him but he continued loudly to harass us. My blood suddenly boiled, and, still walking away and without looking back, I raised my voice: “Mind your own BUSINESS!” Then I was ashamed for losing my temper in front of Ember. But I couldn’t tolerate our being bullied.

Molly has been encouraging me for a long time to get a pet because she knows that they can be great for mental health. Last May, as you will remember, I tried adopting a dog, but that didn’t work out so well. The rescue organization had advertised that Bessie was a gentle lab cross who loved other dogs (which I’d specified was a requirement) and had no separation anxiety or other behavioral issues. In fact, she turned out to be mostly pit-bull, dog-aggressive and deeply neurotic and fearful. Nonetheless, my heart broke when I had to return her a month later. Since a year has passed, Molly got me thinking about cats instead, though I’ve never been a cattish person. She sent me links to a handful of adoptable ones, including a bonded pair whose description was irresistible:

[Cat One] Picture this. It's a cold winter evening and you've got your hot cocoa and the fire is in the fireplace… What’s missing? Elliott. He loves to chill and be with you. He loves laps, blankets and warm fires. He'll give you someone to cuddle during your sad moments. Elliot would be a great cat for first-time cat families. He's easy-going and friendly. He loves to explore and hang out with people.

[Cat Two] Midnight is friendly and warms up quickly… a petite girl who will bring joy and warmth to her forever home… She loves treats and pets and will make a great first pet.

So I sent in an application and was approved. The same day, Molly and I met up at the shelter to check them out. I couldn’t tell much about them in that setting, but they seemed fine. On the second day of Ember’s visit, after a bunch of emails back and forth with the agency, Em and I ordered massive amounts of cat supplies and then went to retrieve them, technically to foster but possibly to adopt. Em and I (she was the brains and I the brawn) assembled the giant cat tree, with significant whining and crankiness from me.

But once again, the online description didn’t much reflect reality. Elliott was largely indifferent to me and certainly didn’t approach my lap, though he did like occasional attention and was generally a relaxed and sweet guy. Midnight, on the other hand, was so nervous that I could rarely get near, no matter how gently. Suitable as first pets? Elliott, maybe, but not Midnight. I found myself wishing he could be adopted solo. A strike against him, though, was that, despite my having provided a ton of cat toys and scratching posts and attention, he and Midnight managed to destroy the underneath of my bed, tearing apart the webbing of the box spring and pulling out vast amounts of batting and foam stuffing. Midnight looks quite smug in this photo:

Despite all this, I did consider keeping them both. I’d been told initially that I’d have at least a week to make an informed decision. But before that time passed, I got word that a pushy couple was seriously interested in adopting them, so I had to make a  premature choice. In the end, I decided to let them go. Once I came to that conclusion, I was ready to move on. So when the (vaccinated) couple arrived for the meet-and-greet at my house, I hoped they’d fall in love. Instead, both cats (even mellow Elliott) fled under the bed and refused to emerge. It didn’t take the couple long to decide it wasn’t a good fit for them. To make matters worse, they insisted to the rescue folks that the cats had already “chosen” me and that I should keep them. Nonsense.

I agreed to keep fostering them a bit longer, and did give them lots of love as well as a break from stressful shelter life. But the next day the rescue organization decided, to my relief, that it would be better if I returned them so they didn’t get too used to being here. As I eagerly prepared for their departure, I got news of a ringworm outbreak at the shelter, and a request to keep them longer.

Days later, after two weeks together, it was finally time to pack them into their crates. But alas, as I feared, I wasn’t able to get anywhere near Midnight, leave alone insert her into her box. I tried and tried but failed. I was so frustrated that I was shaking. I made the mistake of taking my blood pressure 15 minutes later (it’s been high all of a sudden and I’m under doctor’s orders to monitor it daily). Scary spike. In the end I had to call the woman at the rescue place to come to my house to get the little shite. When she finally arrived hours later, she tried treats to lure Midnight. No go. Then she chased her around the room for a bit with a big towel. Nope. Finally the woman cornered the cat and got her by the scruff of the neck, struggling at first to get her into the crate. The room echoed with bitter yowling. Elliott was pretty easy, as I expected.

Oh, and the day before they left I noticed a round scab above Elliott’s eye and panicked that it was ringworm brought from the shelter. That’s why, for his last day here, I didn’t want to pat him when he approached for attention, which I still feel awful about.

I do believe that Molly was right that a pet can be a great thing, but not this pair. Sadly, Ember seems to be quite disappointed in this outcome, and also in my apparent inability to commit to keeping an animal. That breaks my heart. I hate to let her down. But I felt it had to be this way.

After Elliott and Midnight left, with ringworm on my mind and endless clumps of black cat hair on white curtains, sheets, blankets, towels, and bedspreads, I thought it best to haul it all into the basement for a hot water with bleach wash, per ringworm-eradication protocol. I wiped down beds and windowsills and tabletops with bleachy water, as I awaited word from the shelter with Elliott’s diagnosis. Six long hours later, to my enormous relief, I got the report: negative test. Poor Elliott. Because of my fears, I never gave him a proper goodbye. I really was  pretty fond of him. Sweet fella.

I devoutly hope that soon the right people come along. He’d be so much easier to place if he wasn’t saddled with neurotic Midnight. Oh well. A seasoned, patient cat person will, I hope, come along soon and give them the love they deserve.

Postscript: Well, I guess it ain’t over till it’s over. The shelter woman just wrote me another email: 

I was thinking about something while driving them back. Elliot seemed to really like you. He’s not that affectionate with everyone.  Would you ever want to try again with Emmy or Elsie [his two other friends] and Elliot…or if I can pull some strings just Elliot?

Oh, if only this had come up in the beginning of our stay together. Multiple times I thought that it was a pity I couldn’t adopt only him. But now I feel I’ve moved beyond that, and it’s too late to go back. Still, I’m considering it. This is hard, and my heart hurts.