Thanks to My Mother or Not Quite May 7th

I’ve been thinking for a long time that I wanted to send my mother a thank you for the things she did right in parenting me.  I’ve been compiling this list for a couple years.  I both wanted to send it and dreaded sending it because I never know how my mom will react.  It could be bad.  I finally wrote it.  I shared it with Ronnie and my therapist.  I waited and waited a bit more.

This wasn't about forgiveness.  Far from it.  It was simply acknowledging something, even if only 1 out of 1000, done right.  I wasn't dismissing, ignoring, or forgetting any of the harm done.  But, there were brief moments of good even though my mother has done nothing in the last 50 years to make amends in any way.

I asked myself if I was ready to send it.  I answered yes.  I asked myself what I wanted from sending it.  I responded that I wanted nothing.  Sending it would meet my need to share it with her.  I didn’t need nor want anything from her in response.  I just needed to say it to be good with myself.  It mattered to me.  It didn’t have to matter to her.

Finally, on the way to work one day, I mailed it.  There were no big feelings.  Thunder didn’t sound.  Lightning didn’t strike.  I just put it in the mail box at the post office and went to work.  After a couple days, I started nervously waiting for my mom’s response to my words knowing that she is not always in her kind mind:

Dear Mother:

Over the last 50 years, I have made much of how you didn’t meet my needs as a parent.  As I enter my third trimester of life, I want to tell you what I have appreciated all these years that you did right.

First and foremost, you taught me to play and to follow my creative flights of fancy.  I’ve noticed that many adults don’t know how to play.  Not only did you but you also passed it on to me.  You encouraged me to make up stories.  When I was small, you didn’t dissuade me from telling you about the little man named “Jingle Bells” who drove his miniature helicopter from his home with his family in the crystal cut living room lamp to work in the kitchen chandelier.  I was so young didn’t know Jingle Bells wasn’t a name. 

There were several ways you fostered creativity.  We always had lots of paper, pencils, pens, crayons, Mr. Sketch, scissors, paste and glue, and let us not forget lots of tape.  My brother must have used miles of tape to fix the unfixable.  We always had art supplies.

I will always remember fondly running at the marina when it was first built at twilight and humming the Pink Panther tune.  Laughing and playing.  Darting from one street light to another trying to hide as if I was a spy.  You laughed, played, and danced.  You taught me that it was okay to laugh at ourselves and thoroughly enjoy it.

There was another time later when we were riding the monorail in Seattle and decided an interesting woman stranger was a Russian spy.  I don’t know if you remember.  On the monorail, we decided she had injected my neck with poison and only she had the antidote.  We hurried off the monorail to wait for her to get off.  I yelled, “There she is!” And pointed.  You said, “A fine spy you turned out to be.”  We followed the poor woman up the escalators in Frederick & Nelson’s until we got near the eighth floor and called it off as she was looking increasingly suspicious.  I feel bad about that but it’s long gone.

Playing and humor has always given me great joy and allowed me to share it with others.  I am very grateful.  Thank you.

You made me clothes.  You did such a great job that no one at school ever knew my clothes were hand made.  Rather, I was so proud of them.  No one could believe you made them.  I remember you starting on a dress in the evening and asking if I could wear it to school tomorrow.  You worked through the night to finish it so I could wear it the next day.  I was proud.  I felt cared for.

You encouraged my writing.  I remember in sixth grade I was reading Mickey Spillane.  We were talking to someone, maybe Mary, about writing a dirty book. I said I could write a dirty book.  You didn’t believe me.  So, I wrote a story about a sultry woman in a neglige seducing a man.  It was pretty stereotypical but I made my point.  Writing has always sustained me in my life.  

I’ve done comedy.  I write stories.  I give them to others as if giving a flower.  I’ve used my skill to succeed at work.  Thank you.

You taught me helpful things about parenting.  Never take a child somewhere without something to do.  You can do a lot with just a pen and paper.  It not only helped me in my own parenting.  I have also entertained countless kids at restaurants and waiting rooms bringing smiles to both our faces.

You taught me to iron with speed and precision.  I’m not sure how anyone learns that skill anymore.  But, it has given me a good bartering skill.

You encouraged my playing outside, building and rebuilding my treehouse, riding my bicycle hither and yon, traipsing through woods.  I always had a bike.  I appreciate it.

You let me wear a cowboy hat, dress up in my dad’s air force uniform, and wear ties, hats, and leer in the living room mirror.  That leering in the mirror helped me hone “my look.”  Thanks.

You made sure I had wood, hammers, and nails for my outside building projects including the treehouse.

The playing outside also included you letting my brother and I sleep outside in an endless variety of configurations.  Probably sleeping in the treehouse was the best.  For years at school, Cathy Cavette carried on about how I woke her up in the middle of the night “just to look at the moon!”  Apparently, I knew a good thing but she didn’t.  I still sleep outside in the summer.  Thank you.

You named me Joceile.  I went through a spot at 19 when I didn’t appreciate the name.  Other than that, I have been proud of my name and enjoyed a certain notoriety because of it.  Thanks.

You let me have a robust relationship with my grandparents.

You took us to lakes all summer to play in water and sun.  An activity I came to appreciate more and more.

We had books.  There were always plenty of books to explore the world with.

We drove around endlessly especially around Pt. Defiance Five Mile Drive playing with the Cadillac convertible down sitting on the back pretending we were in a parade doing the princess wave.  We drove down back roads poking around and discovering the unexpected.  You told stories about Grandpa taking a “short cut” and coming to a bridge that was washed out.  “Not just washed out, but washed out 20 years ago!”

You taught me how to enjoy cemeteries and not be afraid.  Some of my best walks are in cemeteries.

You taught me how to go through second hand clothing in Goodwill and pick out the best clothes and get what I wanted.  This is a skill many people don’t have.

You bought us Lego and matchbook cars.  I still love Lego.  There is an adult Lego fan base.  I am one of them.  To this day, my favorite Legos are on my desk at work.

I had plenty of dolls and stuffed animals.  I still have my Winnie the Pooh and Santa Claus that Grandma Teresa made.

I’ve learned there is a lot to appreciate in life.  I’ve also learned there’s value in telling another person what I appreciate about them.  This is my gift to you on your birthday.  I’ve also learned not to wait.  So, it’s arriving earlier than May 7th this year.

Sending my love.

Joceile

*     *     *

Three days later, the first card arrived.  As per our arrangement, Ronnie opened and reviewed the card before approving it for me to read.  We established this routine in the beginning of our relationship because my mom would send things out of the blue that were either mean to me or upsetting.  We decided we wanted to choose how, when, and if my mother’s messages got to me.  Oddly, the card was a Christmas card sent to my mother from her mother, my Grandma Teresa, in 1962.  I was five.  

The card said that Grandma Teresa and I had gone shopping and walked around a lot.  She said I was perfectly happy and we split a milk shake.  Then, apparently I said I wanted to go to home, that I was more company than some grown-ups, and she loved it.  It was dated December 16, 1962 exactly six years to the day that my grandma died in Olympia.  A card from a distant past that I have no memory of.  My mother has all my Grandma Teresa’s stuff as well as the letters and cards her mother sent her.

My mother added a brief note saying how much she appreciated the “lovely long letter.”  She added she would write more as soon as “I can try to write so you can read it.”  My mother writes like a monk.  It looks beautiful but often takes several readings to figure out all the words.  She said she had a nice walk in the cemetery near her where my grandpa is buried and placed camellias on his grave.

Two days after that, the letter came.  Ronnie opened it, reviewed several items, and read the six page letter.  Ronnie has barely spent any time with my mother since the 80s.  She only knows her well enough to know she can be creepy and disturbing.  Reading the letter, Ronnie felt both alarmed at my mother’s craziness and sad for her absolute loneliness.  She thought I should wait to read the letter until closer to my next counseling appointment and definitely not before going to bed.

I was happy to wait until the end of the workweek.  When Saturday came, I decided I would look at the items and read the letter.  The items consisted of:  a stack of blank blue doily cards with white trim; four blank pinkish cut out heart shape pieces of paper—maybe for notes; an ad for a “Thick, Cushiony Ironing Board Cover” cut from a circular with the 1-800 number glued to it; and a 4x6 inch pink index card with hand printed laundry instructions for removing blood and ballpoint ink, washing wool with hair conditioner, and appropriate use of Woolite.  

My mother loves pink.  Most of her papers and cards are some variations of pink including the six page letter.  I started reading the letter waiting for something crazy or disturbing.  I found my mom’s regular craziness but contained in it was appreciation for what I had sent her.  She had reflections about talking to God and her dead parents and her appreciation for Christian Science.  She’s been reading Mary Baker Eddy’s book since I had a brush with Christian Science in high school.

She said her mother is with her.  She shared incidents of when her deceased parents had intervened in her current life.  When the neighbor across the street needed help, her dead mother stopped the old mechanical, mantel clock so mom would know.  She added that when the neighbor became too much trouble she told her mom, “Honey, if you stop that clock again—I will never start it so you can hear the chimes—ever again!”  According to her, Grandma Teresa now leaves the clock alone.

I read the letter carefully figuring out the problematic handwriting as I went.  But, there was nothing mean about me or anyone I love.  There was no outraged complaints about leftist politics or the end of the world.  The were no commands for me to do anything.  

I told a somewhat surprised Ronnie who came back from walking the dog, “My mom met my gold standard.”

“I didn’t know there was a gold standard.  What is it?”

“She didn’t say anything mean to me.  She didn’t tell me I had to do anything.”

“I didn’t know that was the bar.”

“Yes.  She’s crazy.  She talks to dead people.  That’s not new for her.  You know her great grandmother Stockdale was a well known psychic in Centralia?  She comes by this stuff honestly.”

Ronnie sighed, “I guess I haven’t read more than just a card from her in a long time.”

“It doesn’t mean I want to get closer to her.  I’m sorry she’s lonely.”  My mom talked about losing all her friends, being anti-social except with store clerks, and not driving after 11 a.m. due to her road rage.  “But, she’s keeping her craziness to herself and didn’t carry on about alarming politics.  I’d say I came out pretty good here.”

“Good to know,” Ronnie said.

I know there will be more coming through the mail.  She talked about my granny’s ironing board—I have no idea what happened to it nor do I care.  She talked about a zillion negatives she has from my Grandma Teresa’s picture taking days of Centralia, Olympia, and Yakima from the 50s and offered to have me take them to local historical societies.  She talked about my grandpa’s six foot long mounted long horns he brought back from Texas in the 60s on the hood of his station wagon.  She still has them.  She’s welcome to them.  But so far, I got off light.

She said she was sooo very thrilled to get my long “WONDERFUL” letter and said, “Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you!”  She said she was proud of me.  (She used the word “awesome” twice so I know that my mother’s contact with the world is current.)  That’s really all I could have possibly hoped for and totally met my needs for this experience of thanking her for what she did right.  Based on the circumstances, what more could I ask?  She got a letter of appreciation that most parents never get and she said thank you several times.  What more could I want?

You’re welcome, mom.  Happy Birthday.

L’Chaim.

Joceile

4.13.19

[Picture of pink letter, paper heart, doily paper, ad, and pink index card.]

I Just Want to Go to Sleep

With the advent of our aging bodies, my partner and I are constantly challenged by our ability to go to sleep.  I’ve always had nightmares which interrupted my sleep.  But with an aging painful body and various real and imagined injuries falling to sleep is a nightly battle.

I’ve tried a variety of things like reading, listening to music, meditating, ocean, rain, and water sounds.  Timing my medication like a pilot preparing their plane to lift off.  All in an effort to get into that zone where sleep overtakes me naturally like a gentle blanket.

Often, the blanket is scratchy, too heavy or too light.  It seems to have crawling bugs and nerve biting things.  Even if the temperature is just right, something is wrong.

I prefer to sleep on my side.  I can’t sleep on my right side because of a 40 year old shoulder injury from throwing a baseball too hard and too long.  Youthful idiocy with no medical treatment.  I fell in 2014 so I usually can’t sleep on my left shoulder.  I blame the dog because she was threatening the UPS delivery person at the time.  When my sports medicine doc gives me a cortisone shot in one of my shoulders, side sleeping is okay again for a month or two.

If I lay on my back, I get extreme lower back pain.  Really?!  I often fall asleep in the living room in my zero gravity chair which takes the pressure off my back, shoulders, and legs.  After many years, I found a leg pillow to elevate my legs in the bed.  It almost mirrors the zero gravity chair but not quite.  So, it’s 50/50 whether I can fall asleep in the bed.

I now understand why seniors are notorious nappers.  We can’t sleep at night.  It’s a stopgap to keep us more or less conscious most of the day.

Ronnie likes to read in bed.  After struggling for years to get her to turn the light off, I finally discovered the perfect eye mask.  No, not an iMask.  Rather, a mask to cover my eyes at night.  Still, I would imagine that I could see the light around the edges.  Then, to my astonishment, I discovered that if I put the covers over my head with the mask on and feel the darkness when I pull the covers away I still feel it’s dark.  I haven’t even told Ronnie this.  It’s just too weird.  So, no light is leaking.  It’s just a mental thing.

Because of muscle soreness and nerve twinges, we have a plethora of creams and lotions.  For a while, Ronnie had one spot on her foot that drove her crazy and she tried duct tape.  It’s supposed to fix everything.  It worked.  It also made her foot sticky.  I have neuropathy in my feet and legs.  I’ve discovered that ace bandages wrapped around my feet and up my legs a bit alleviate my discomfort enough to often fall asleep.

The bed is about three inches too high for Ronnie so there is a little jump and landing in the bed.  A jarring experience if I am already in bed nearing the magic sleep zone.  I’ve always thought of it as an enchanting acrobatic act. It’s the timing that’s not always right. 

It takes us both several minutes to get our pillows arranged properly to support our aches and pains.  If she’s waiting for me, I tell her to turn off the light.  I can do all this stuff in the dark.

As for cuddling in that way we did with our young bodies, that is out.  Occasionally, one of us braves discomfort for a few minutes to do a bit of cuddling.  The rest of the time, after we’re properly placed, we hold hands until one or both falls asleep.  Hand holding is more sensuous than I realized.  It’s far better than risking injury.  If we do go for a sexual act and accidentally hit our heads, my philosophy is that it’s okay as long as no one loses consciousness.

How lovely.  Senior love.  Good night, my dear.  

Joceile 

3.23.19  

[Picture of bed with several different pillow configurations.]

And Then There Was Scarlett

We lost our dog, Hawkeye, and our daughter, Alexis, went to Paris for a year in her third year of college.  We traveled to France for three glorious weeks with her as our fluent tour guide and came home to our one remaining dog, Baker.  It had been sometime since we had kitties in the house.  So, we traveled to our local Feline Friends to see what they had in the rescue department.

They had two really sweet siblings—a male tuxedo cat and a long haired white seal point mix female.  Oddly, they told us they were polydactyl meaning extra toes on their front paws.  That made no difference to us.  After being vetted, we brought them home and named them Sarkus and Scarlett.

Baker was utterly confused by these two little creatures.  She couldn’t decide if she should be scared of them.  Baker was far from an aggressive border collie mix.  The only time a neighbor dog jumped Baker she started screaming in dog language, “I’M BEING KILLED!  I’M BEING KILLED!”  The dog was so shocked by this display she immediately stopped the assault and backed off in total confusion.  Because the kittens were so small, we put them in a bathroom with a baby gate.  With those limitations, Baker was able to get used to them without being immediately assaulted by the little furry beings trying to get too close to her.  

Naturally, Sarkus and Scarlett were the two cutest kittens on the planet.  They wandered around the house sleeping together in cute ways.  We put them on the bed where they snuggled up together and with us.

They climbed on Ronnie and settled with her as she read in our reading chair in the bedroom.  Electronic cameras and the iPhone were just coming out so there were a boatload of sweet pictures.  The only fly in the ointment was that our daughter was not impressed that we got them while she was half a world away.  These things happen when you leave home.  Her friend, Crystal, was also in Germany at the time.   Both of them commented about not being able to see the kittens.

As I’m writing this reclined in my zero gravity living room lounger, Scarlett is sleeping on my belly, comfortably and cozy, softly purring. She has come a long way from that little fuzz ball kitten. 

As they got older, Sarkus became a sleek 18 pound panther. He was a ferocious hunter and had such a large neighborhood territory it was hard for us to conceive. He also adored Ronnie. He would meet her at the garage up by the road after work. He virtually owned Ronnie’s lap.  Ronnie who had always self-identified as a dog person was thrilled to be Sarkus’ chosen one.  He was her familiar.  It was a pleasure to see them bask in each other’s adoration.  So sweet, in fact, that I wasn’t even jealous.

Here’s a quick video of his little trill when you woke him:

https://youtu.be/EULWXhBGVAs

Sarkus ate birds, rodents, and small bunnies.  He was a virtual killing machine.  Once while gardening, Ronnie was treated to the horrifying screams of a baby bunny being consumed alive by Sarkus just up the path from her. Not pretty. Not a lot she could do about it at that point but listen to jaws munching bones.  Don’t get me wrong, Sarkus was a wonderful cat and great company for us humans.  He was as fierce a lover as he was a hunter.

At the same time, unbeknownst to us, Scarlett was quietly disappearing, living on the edges of our lives.  I saw Sarkus harass her often, stalking her as she was quietly curled up somewhere.  Scarlett was 8 1/2 pounds to Sarkus’ 18 pounds.  Here is a video of Scarlett happily laying in a box when Sarkus decided to pick on her:

https://youtu.be/Rl_AtxRdQW0

When people came over, Sarkus would sit brightly in a chair and partake of the human interaction.  He was handsome and engaging.  Without realizing it, we saw less and less of Scarlett.  Everyone knew and liked Sarkus.  No one ever saw Scarlett.  When people asked about her, we told them she was hiding under the bed.  We could see her but she wouldn’t come out.  Scarlett did feel safe with Baker and they often slept happily on the couch together.

Scarlett would disappear for hours in some safe garden nook of brambles outside in warm weather and not come when we called her.  There were anxious moments before we would find her tucked in an out of the way place sleeping soundly.  Upon seeing us, she would give us the evil eye as if to say, “Why are you people bothering me?”  I started sending pictures to Alexis entitled “Where’s Scarlett?”  She seemed to be in ever new and unexpected places.

Scarlett was not much of a hunter.  She once brought in a slug and carefully watched as it slimed across the floor.  She brought in small animals she found dead.  She notified us when Sarkus had brought in a baby squirrel that was happily zipping along the rough wood basement wall.  I caught that little squirrel with leather gloves.  That was how I learned to capture little rodents holding them in a circle in my gloved hands.  Holding that baby squirrel with it’s little head out enabled it to bite me right through the leather gloves.  Note: per the Centers for Disease Control, northwest squirrels tend not to have rabies.  Hence, no unpleasant rabies shots for the human rescuer.

It was the spring of 2013 when we were building a stand-up garden by the road for Ronnie that we lost Sarkus.  It was a lovely day.  We had been very productive in our building endeavors.  Later that evening, a neighbor knocked on our door.  She said, “I think your cat has been hit by a car.”

We ran up to the road.  Me thinking, “Not Sarkus.  Oh, not Sarkus.  Let him be okay.”  At the top of the driveway at the edge of the road lay Sarkus.  His beautiful sleek body laying there in a small pool of blood.  Yes, it was Sarkus.  He was no longer with us.

We brought his body to the porch in a towel. We held him and cried. He was such a great cat.  So beautiful.  So strong.  Now at only five, he was dead.  I held him for a long time as his body cooled.  I knew once I let go of his body I would never see him again.

I wrapped him in the towel and placed him gently on the deck so we could bury him the next day.  During the night, he did not come alive despite a small hopeful part of me.  Although his body was stilled, his coat was still thick and luxurious.  We buried him the next day in the side yard in an old towel and said our goodbyes.  That day Ronnie spray painted the side of the stand-up garden with “Sarkus Memorial Garden.”  If you drive by our house, it’s one of the first things you see.  She refreshes the sign every couple years.  Occasionally, new neighbors walk by puzzled and ask what it means.

Unexpectedly after his death, Scarlett began appearing more in our lives.  She started parading through the living room, sleeping on the bed, appearing in places we had never seen her before.  We would find her tucked in corners, nestled on clean laundry, or camped in a curl of blankets.  She’d suddenly appear on the table on the deck having just jumped down from the roof.  At the same time, we began to realize that Sarkus had been terrorizing Scarlett for quite some time causing her to be an on-the-edges cat who didn’t feel safe out on the unprotected landscape of a room.

Suddenly, Scarlett began to be everywhere including once again near or on Ronnie.  Scarlett was coming into her own.  What a great and odd surprise that in losing Sarkus we would gain Scarlett.  It was as delightful as it was unexpected.  Who knew?  Not us.

I would find her on the heating pad I used for my back.  As soon as I stood up, she made for it like a heat seeking missile.  Initially after Sarkus’ death, Scarlett would get settled into a new routine and be there all day every day for three weeks.  Then, some unheard bell would go off and she’d move to a new place for three weeks.  For three weeks, it would be the bed.  Then she’d rediscover Ronnie’s lap.

We noticed that Scarlett began playing with her imaginary friend, Fiona.  Suddenly walking across the floor, Scarlett would jump in the air, pirouette, and land running from her invisible playmate.  Then just as quickly, reverse course and chase Fiona around the house.  This activity occurred once a day or so.  It was Scarlett’s most active moments. 

The summer after Sarkus was killed Baker stopped being able to eat.  We took her to the vet who couldn’t identify anything wrong.  We were hand feeding her encouraging her to eat.  Baker had always been a therapy dog in Ronnie’s office with energy to spare.  Now, she obviously wasn’t feeling well.

We took her to the ocean with us.  Her movements were sluggish and her eating was problematic.  Baker was 11.  It wasn’t time to say good-bye to her.  One afternoon, I got a call from Ronnie at her office.  “Baker’s not doing well at all.  I think you should come get her.”

I rushed to Ronnie’s office.  I carefully loaded Baker, an 80 pound dog, into my car.  I headed for the freeway to the vet’s.  While driving, I was on the phone to the vet, “We’re on the freeway.”  I told the vet her symptoms.

“Bring her right in.”

“I’m on my way.  I’ll be there in ten minutes.”  I didn’t tell the vet that there was no way I was not bringing Baker to see her so I was glad she was on board.

The vet said that Baker was in bad shape but they were closing soon.  We needed to take her to the Tacoma vet emergency clinic.  Ronnie met me at the vet and we drove Baker together.  At the clinic, a stranger vet said they would need to do exploratory surgery to find out what was going on inside.  She added, “Once we open her up and see what’s going on, I can call you.  In the worse case, we would have to close her back up because there was nothing I could do.  But, in two years, I’ve only had to do that once.”

I clung on to that fabled statistic.  We gave Baker our love and cuddles before she was led away.  Baker who never liked to be separated from us gave a little last yelp when the door was closed.  For some reason, I didn’t realize that I would never see her again.  Maybe if I’d realized that I could have never let her go.  We opted to go home to Olympia to await word.

Later that evening, the vet called us to say that Baker was full of cancer.  It was inoperable.  She could close her up and wake her for us to say goodbye but that would be an unkindness.  We told her it was better to not wake her and put her to sleep.  We cried through the night.  We couldn’t pick up her ashes for several days.

Scarlett was now an only animal.  She didn’t seem to notice the lack of Baker, although, we certainly did.  We had not been without a dog since before getting together as a couple.  Ronnie needed time to process her grief.  I was just bereft and very, very dog lonely.

I went to hang out with other people’s dogs at their houses.  I borrowed other people’s dogs getting cuddle time.  Ronnie just wanted time.  I wanted another dog in the worse way.  That fall we were going to Montreal to visit her cousins.  We couldn’t get a dog before that trip.  I was angling for a new dog as soon as the trip was over.  In fact leading up to the trip and during, I was scouring the pet rescue websites looking for our next dog.

Baker passed in August.  Come December, Ronnie was not ready for a new dog.  But, I was determined.  Meanwhile, Scarlett continued to come out of her shell.  I looked at over 500 dogs on-line.  Finally, Ronnie capitulated.  We scheduled to visit a likely dog from Echo Glen Children’s Center.  Enter Sheba.

The children’s center had a program where the teenage residents trained rescue dogs in good canine citizenship.  We brought Sheba home for a trial weekend.  Although she was supposed to be good with other dogs and kids, we did not know about cats.  That first weekend Sheba and I fell in love.  I wanted a cuddle dog and Sheba was exactly that dog.

Scarlett, on the other hand, disappeared for the weekend.  Apparently, she was hiding in the basement under the purple chair.  Finally Sunday evening, Scarlett appeared on a dining room chair.  Sheba noticed her.  Both of them froze with gazes locked.  It was a tense stand-off before Scarlett bolted and Sheba lunged after her.  Oh dear, this was not a good plan.

We took Sheba back to the center the next day according to our agreement.  She wouldn’t graduate from the program for another couple weeks.  We worried about the long term affect on Scarlett.  Had we just found Scarlett in order to lose her again because of a new dog?

Once Sheba officially came to live with us, we needed a plan for returning Scarlett to the household.  Sheba was happily motivated by treats and willing to be trained.  In fact, food was one of Sheba’s most treasured loves besides us.  We established a training program.

Ronnie would go to the basement and retrieve Scarlett from under the purple chair.  I would keep Sheba on a leash by the living room recliner on a down stay.  Ronnie would put Scarlett on the dining room table and encourage her to stay by giving her a bit of wet cat food.  Wet cat food was new to Scarlett.  She found it very motivating.

Every time Sheba looked away from Scarlett I gave her a treat.  We were teaching Sheba to ignore Scarlett.  We did this every evening for ten minutes.  Scarlett was enticed to stay on the dining room table with wet food.  Sheba was rewarded for ignoring Scarlett.  We did this nightly for three months.  It was not an option to lose Scarlett to the basement and the purple chair because of Sheba.

Eventually, they made a truce.  That was five years ago.  Scarlett is now 11.  She has continued to come out of her shell expanding her interactiveness.  She now lays in the middle of the living room floor in front of the fire unconcerned with Sheba.  When Scarlett is in a loving mood which is more and more these days, she will cast what Ronnie calls her “come hither” look.  She tips her head as she rolls on the rug clearly indicating we should bend down and respond to her dazzling beauty by petting and doting on her.  It works every time.

She’s been known to sleep every day on the blankets in a large basket behind my chair in the living room.  Most recently when neither one of us are in the living room, she prefers to sleep in my chair without me.  She is not that impressed when I want to sit in my chair.  She either launches off it as soon as I get close or stays immovable until I scootch her out of the way giving me a feline comment of unhappiness.

Scarlett has a major startle reflex.  I don’t know if this is exacerbated by constantly being jumped by Sarkus.  At times, it has a domino effect on me.  We are quietly laying in the chair together.  She takes an offense at some noise.  Her startlement makes us both jump.  I haven’t hit my head on the ceiling yet but sometimes it feels close. It is very disruptive to our tranquility after which she settles back in.

Sheba is constantly prepared to bark at any approach to our front door real or imagined.  She also responds to low rumbling trucks on the road especially mail or UPS.  This too increases our mutual startle response.

With her long cream colored hair and seal point looks, Scarlett is incredibly beautiful in almost any pose she takes.  I recently discovered to my chagrin that of the 14,000 pictures I have taken with my cell phone 7,000 of them are of Scarlett.  This either speaks to her beauty or my Scarlett entrapment or both.

Scarlett has weighed 8 1/2 pounds forever.  We have bald eagles at our lake.  Occasionally, Ronnie fears that one of those big eagles will swoop down and grab Scarlett.  As far as I can tell, the eagles have not been scoping her out.  Scarlett also stays pretty close to home.  Eagles fly above our deck but I’ve never seen them land anywhere near it.

When we are on vacation, we always have someone visit Scarlett daily, giving her some wet cat food.  The idea of losing Scarlett is frightening.  She often likes to snub us for a couple hours when we return.  One night, we came home and she didn’t show up.  Ronnie went outside and called and called her.  Usually, I don’t get upset.  But this time, I went outside and I couldn’t feel Scarlett out there.  I just knew she wasn’t outside anywhere around the house.  Trying to manage my escalating fears, Ronnie and I both sat in the living room watching TV.  I was fighting not to cry at the loss of Scarlett.

Two hours later, out pops Scarlett from the basement.  With shouts of relief, I realized that the reason I couldn’t feel Scarlett outside was that the fool was still inside the house hiding in the basement.  Those first two hours of returning home can be very worrisome.

The downside of her Sheba training is that every morning at 7:30 when Sheba gets breakfast Scarlett is waiting on the dining room table for a tablespoon of wet food.  At times when Sheba is waiting for breakfast and pacing under the table, Scarlett reaches down and swats at Sheba’s tail.  Sheba is oblivious but I think it’s hysterical.

This has also opened up the dining room table as Scarlett territory.  She lays on the table under the light warming herself.  I call it Scarlett hanging out in Hawaii.  Unfortunately, she stalks our dinners while we eat.  This is not at all what we had planned.  Our cats have never hung on the dining room table and certainly not while we eat.  She reads the paper on the table with Ronnie in the morning and attacks it.  When Ronnie is paying bills, Scarlett selectively knocks items off the table.  Sometimes, these items are things Ronnie actually needs.

In the last year or two, Scarlett has decided that Ronnie’s lap is the place to be.  She has gotten more and more insistent about this.  Sheba has felt it was her job as a shepherd mix to corral Scarlett away from Ronnie’s lap.  Once again, a training plan had to be administered.  So every night, Scarlett and Sheba do a dance.  Scarlett waits for Ronnie to be properly positioned in the chair.  Sheba knows that once Scarlett gets on the pillow on Ronnie’s lap she will get a treat.  At times, it is agony for Sheba.  Let that damn cat get close to Ronnie and get a treat or just keep that damn cat away from the pleasure of Ronnie’s lap.

Ultimately, Scarlett wins.  Actually, it is a win-win because Sheba gets a treat.  Scarlett has decided she’d like a little of that treat too as Sheba gets one.  Ronnie breaks up second treat giving half to Scarlett and half to Sheba.  We are going through treats quicker now.

Scarlett has gotten so insistent in this lap business that if Ronnie is not ready she will settle for my lap.  That is until Ronnie gets settled.  No matter how comfy she seems with me when Ronnie assumes the position Scarlett is off me like a shot.  Ronnie appears to now be loved by dogs and cats.  Sheba lays next to the side of my chair so I can stroke her while I read.

This evening dance has been evolving.  A week or so ago, Ronnie got in the chair.  Sheba came up to Ronnie expectantly, tail wagging hopefully as if to say, “Okay, I’m ready, where’s the cat?”  Scarlett was sitting across the room on her catnip cardboard scratch languidly watching the dog’s earnest, “Let’s get this show on the road” moves.  Scarlett was not in a hurry.  Sheba looked at Ronnie, back at the cat, back to Ronnie.  “Well?  Well?  What’s taking so long?”  

Scarlett just watched.  If possible, I’m sure she had a sly grin.  Finally, she stretched, sauntered over, and lightly jumped up on the pillow.  Sheba finally got her treat.

Despite Sheba’s love of all things food related, she is not willing to eat anything she is not explicitly given permission to eat.  One of the initial causes of concern was with Scarlett’s food bowl which lives exactly at Sheba nose height on a little stand in the dining room.  Sheba doesn’t touch it.  Sheba doesn’t touch a bag of treats lying on the coffee table.  She waits until she is invited to eat her meals.  Odd but effective.

I did not know until a few nights later that Scarlett did not share Sheba’s attitude about no treats until invited.  If I am sleeping in the chair and Ronnie has gone to bed, Scarlett sleeps on my belly.  One night before I was settled Scarlett was sitting on the coffee table and appeared to be eating.  Looking closer, I saw that Scarlett would reach over to the little sandwich bag of treats, take one, slowly eat it before getting another.  Ah ha, so that is part of the disappearing treat problem.  She ate three or four of them before settling on my chest to look at me while I fell asleep.  Sheba would be aghast.

In the mornings I often nap in the chair.  Ronnie is not anywhere near her chair and Scarlett sleeps on my belly.  There is something wonderful about feeling her little body against me and listening to her purr.  Usually, Sheba is asleep next to the chair with my hand hanging over the side endlessly petting her.  I figure I am in loving animal heaven.

At 11, Scarlett has come into her own.  She and Sheba often sleep on the living room rug side by side in front of the fire.  If Baker were here, she would approve.  Having reached an equilibrium in the house, Ronnie and I have pledged not to change it.  No new kittens.  No new pups.  We’ll enjoy just the four of us in companionable pleasure doling out treats where appropriate.  Because, of course, the most important thing has happened.  Scarlett is home.

L’Chaim.

Joceile

2.8.19

[Pictures of sleeping Scarlett on lap.]

Sheba stories:

1. Sheba’s Love:  https://joceile7.blogspot.com/2016/05/shebas-love.html

2. Running Dog and I:  https://joceile7.blogspot.com/search?q=Running+dog