Category Archives: our furry overlords

Moving Is This Message

Posted by Tata on

Tata: Remember that time we were watching Trading Spaces and Hildi brought in cardboard furniture? I said, “Fire hazard” and you said, “I hope that’s industrial cardboard.”
Siobhan: Hildi is evil and I’m still afraid she might touch me. Remember that room with hay on the walls?
Tata: Even memory loss won’t protect me from that. So what’s this about high end cat furniture?
Siobhan: Buckle up, baby!

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Cardboard cat holder: $320.

Cardboard cat holder: $49.

Cardboard cat holder: $54.

Frills What Frocks What Furs What

Posted by Tata on

This evening, I went back to volunteering at the food pantry after months away, nursing the arthritic hip. I climbed on my bicycle, pedaled three blocks, locked up my bike and limped to the pantry room. My neighbors in the tiny town laughed and seemed happy to see me. We sorted donated canned goods, pastas, baking ingredients, breads and baby foods, placed them on labeled shelves, cleaned up sticky messes and stacked bins in a closet. After an hour, I pedaled three blocks, locked up my bike and limped into our house, where I gleefully cha-cha-cha’d and collapsed in a happy heap on the couch. Yay! ZZZZZZZZZZZ ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ snort zzzzzzzz.

Sweetpea, fuzzball extraordinaire, lounges beside me on the couch. You can still plainly see spots where the vet shaved rings into her fur at her neck and above her front paws, giving her a poodly appearance. She likes to snuggle up next to me and drift off to Dreamland, paws twitching. More than once, Sweetpea’s snoring caused us to stop what we were doing to track down an odd, buzzy hiss. We haven’t heard Sweetpea snore since she came home from the hospital. She’s lost a few pounds and sleeps lightly. We understand. She’s still traumatized, but she wants to hold hands. I will take that.

Stumble You Might Fall

Posted by Tata on

As diagrams go, this one provides bad guidance.

Today, we visited Sweetpea at the vet’s office. She appeared dazed, but looked much better than yesterday. Her fur was smooth and almost pink again. It took her a few minutes to trust us and accept me. When she purred again, finally, I felt hopeful. We forced her to eat tiny spoonfuls of baby food; afterward, she nestled into the crooks of my arms but did not purr. I asked the vet if she would survive this episode. He burst out enthusiastically: she’s doing very well, she’s a day or two from going home. I nearly collapsed with relief. We steeled ourselves and left her with the people who care for her in ways we can’t, but soon, we will bring her home to our happier house.

All With Hope, All With Hope

Posted by Tata on

To press up, one pushes down.

I’m not going to sugarcoat this: I don’t feel like talking. Our household has taken a few hits over the past few days and we have yet to learn how serious they might be. The ground is shifting under my feet and I’m not sure if hanging on is possible or even a great idea. I may resort to Morse Code distress signals with castenets because if I’m uncertain how upset I should be that should be funny.

In fact, I don’t feel like talking to anyone. Even so, I keep answering the phone. Yesterday, my mother was surprised to hear I’d taken a jicama to the checkout line in her grocery store and chaos ensued.

Tata: The cashier was a large, happy man who asked what it was and couldn’t find jicama in the computer, so he called the line supervisor.

Cashier: Passion! What’s the code for a jicama?
Passion: How much is an enema?
Cashier: Jicama! Jicama?
Tata: J-I-C-A-M-A. It’s produce.

Mom: Did she find it?
Tata: Yeah, it was $1.49 a pound. You should go buy one of those.

Today, Mom called to tell me she’d gone to the grocery store and I once again answered the phone!

Mom: I got a jicama. What do I do with it?
Tata: Take a very sharp knife and peel it. Then cut off the top and bottom.
Mom: Mine doesn’t have a top or bottom. It looks kind of like a potato but it’s shaped like an heirloom tomato.
Tata: Peel it. You can shave it onto your salad or cut it into a small dice and saute it with onions.
Mom: Is it a fruit or a vegetable? What is it?
Tata: It’s crisp and light like an apple or a pear, with a delicate sweetness. You will like it.
Mom: I will like it. That sounds good!
Tata: This is so exciting!

I didn’t tell her Sweetpea is in the hospital and I was coping by preparing mountains of delicious food, but she didn’t have to tell me she’s coping with frustrations of her own. She’s getting over pneumonia and wants to get outside and do yardwork, which could put her in the hospital, so instead she prowled around the produce aisle. I don’t have to ask how she feels. She’s got castenets.