In Which Arthur Was Really Pissed

The other day I texted Kris to ask whether she would be interested in any of the furniture that I was moving out. There are several pieces that were pretty cool while we were married, but that I use only for accumulating piles of stuff, and my life would be better with an empty space where they once were, and eventually something more appropriate.
She was eager. The Chinese cabinet, the rice chest, the kitchen table and chairs, and above all the vintage chaise lounge were of interest.
In a world ruled by economically rational self-interest I would consign these items and be done with it. Perhaps I still shall, for I owe Kris nothing. But I knew that she valued them once and I felt better making the offer. We're never entirely rational.
Kris accepted gratefully, and asked if she could come over to take measurements. When she arrived, I was exercising Arthur outside on his leash. She spoke, and Arthur hissed. He stared at her, growled, and then ran for the door. I let him in, removed his leash, and then discussed the furniture with Kris. Arthur was still angry. After all the measurements were taken, we sat in the kitchen and discussed when to pick up the items. Arthur went in the corner, raised his tail, and pissed.
I could not be angry at him; his emotions were sincere.
Kris and I went to get a pizza at Proletariat as we had so many times before. While our conversation reminded me why we had been friends, it also reminded me that our conversations ultimately became boring. She complains, and expresses joy very little. She paid for the pizza, which was only fair considering the furniture, and she had brought over some cake for me to enjoy, and she offered to clean the carpet (...in retrospect, she wants the carpet and that she shall never have...) but ultimately it was a conversation that was pretty much nothing.
Kris had her own reasons for going her own way, and this conversation confirmed what I had decided after dancing on the matter: I don't want her back. She's not very interesting.
The furniture will soon be gone and that will leave room from potential.
After she left, I took some recycling out and Arthur made a sprint for the door. He walked into the front yard and took a long, long piss. When he was done, I took him inside and we agreed it was better now.

Closing Argument: Hearing on the Charge that Randy is a Crazy Cat Person

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury ….

I submit that I am not a crazy cat person. I admit that I have more cats than ex-wives ( and I have a lot of ex-wives ), but I am innocent victim of circumstance. Consider:

When I bought my house, I was determined to have no cat.

A cat must poop indoors or outdoors.

If indoors, there is the catbox - not my favorite thing. 

If outdoors, the cat kills birds. Outside cats die sooner, what with coyotes and cars and feline leukemia, contracted by contact with other cats.

1. My firm determination lasted a solid three months. One spring day a hungry young pink-nosed tabby marched through an open door bawling boldly she had no fear of humans so feed me now! She inhaled a can of tuna hardly stopping for air, and when she looked up I felt like the Grinch at the end of the Christmas special - I actually felt my heart grow two sizes.

I got a catbox.

2. Imp I named her. She Is a perfect delight but for one thing: she wants to play all the time. I must go work, so Imp needs a playmate.

I went to the Furry Faces Foundation at the Alaska Junction to see their a wall of cats, each more worthy than the next. Two in the same cage stood out: Michelle and Shadow.

Michelle is a miniature milk cow, just furry: white with black splotches, large, bony, placid.

3. Shadow is a pleasant middle-aged tabby, with an expression of perpetual worry. Ordinary toys she ignored - fur mice or lasers - sunlight refleZcted by a mirror is catnip to her. I dithered: which would be better with Imp? The adoption counselor spoke up: they are best friends and never apart. This was a ploy. It worked. I brought both home. The Feline Trinity: Michelle the bossy, Shadow the worrier and Imp the hyperactive made a happy family.

4. Last year the humans reshuffled living arrangements. Michelle moved out with the ex ( which was for the best: they were very attached.) Moving in with my sister-in-law and her spouse came three cats: Ginny, Chesterfield, and the mysterious Gandalf.

5. Ginny is a small spunky woman cat with big hair and a personalty to match. She’s the diva, the dancing queen, the center of attention and if she’s not the center of attention she’ll push something over. It’s all about her.

6. Chesterfield is a large galumphing adolescent, a tall redhaired boy in a crewcut, the sort whose body grew faster than his brain, so it rattles in his skull a little bit. He is always pleasant, never hissy and he likes sports. If he occasionally crashes into things it’s because just forgets where his legs are; he has no malice.

7. The third new cat is the mysterious Gandalf, a midnight black shorthair who silently appears, looks around, and seems to evaporate although I know that’s not possible. The ladies assure me that Gandalf is very verbal with them, but I have never heard him make a sound. Perhaps he has nothing to say to me.

8. With those three new cats we were a stable household of eight souls and would be that way today but for a graduation requirement of Nessa, my sister-in-law. For her final vet tech program project, she selected Arthur, an elderly grey with hip, thyroid and eye problems. His owners could not afford his treatment and continuing medication. In the old days he would simply have been put down but this is 2017. We found him a home: ours.

It is easy but mistaken to define a person by their disabilities, whether human or feline. If I told you Arthur has one eye, a bad hip and chronic anxiety you might think you knew him, but you don’t. Arthur is affectionate and playful and loves to explore the neighborhood on a leash (He would prefer to explore on his own, but: car-coyotes-leukemia.) He and I are the old men of the house; we look after each other and the youngsters.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury: now you have the facts. I ask you:

* Would you have done any differently?

* Is this madness, or is it fate?

* Am I crazy cat person or merely fortunate in my feline friends?

Find me innocent - maybe a little too innocent.

Thank you.

May 2017 Memes

Not funny but important. These guys stepped up and paid the price.

I created this one years ago but it never goes out of date!

...

Late afternoon Tuesday I signed the paperwork for refinancing my home. This is an great improvement in my situation, as I was legally required to get Kris off the mortgage by the end of the year and I was dreading having to fight over that. Also in the refi process I was able to bundle my high-interest student loans into a lower, secured loan, representing an improvement in my cash flow. Finally, I'm taking some of the equity out so I can upgrade the heating system at my leisure over the summer, rather than in a hurry in the winter. Life is good!

Flowers on Mothers Day

My front yard!

Earthquake Strapping!

Today's project was Earthquake Strapping!
 It sounds really butch but is just some metal bands stuck to the wall. Since the wall was concrete I got to play with an especially special special drill, then figure out how to insert the fasteners with no room to swing a hammer. ( I went to screws for the last couple of attachments - the rachet was easier.)

Kids Who Have Been Traumatized

Sherry posted a link to "Dr. Ross Greene, Educating Kids Who Have Been Traumatized" and this got me thinking.

I can relate. My siblings were frequently struck with objects and it did not make them behave, it merely made them sneaky and blame-shifting. Myself as well, I suppose, and it can stick with you a long time.
 For example, today I wanted to accomplish a minor but important piece of home maintenance (earthquake strapping my water heater) which I had delayed because doing anything new with tools runs the risk of being shouted at or being struck for doing it wrong....or so my brain tells me even though that hasn't happened since I left my birthplace. Fortunately for me there was a countervailing anxiety of screwing up the refinance, so I let the two abusive adults shout at each other in my head and just got the job done, and felt pretty good about it too. I've had half a lifetime to become functional.
I can hardly imagine what this would be like for a child but it can't be good and it certainly can't be functional.

Blue bells in my yard

Here's one of the salvage plants from the yard of a neighbor who wanted the plain grass look. They bloomed the 1st year but now they've settled in and are really taking off! In Fall, I'll need to divide the row of them not shown, so if you'd like some of this hardy perennial, stop by!

Sunday Baking Ritual

I love the ritual of baking. 

I'm not a fancy baker or a frequent baker, but I like to turn the oven on, mix something in a bowl, pour into a pan, slide it in, close the door and wait. The smells fill the house. I wash the dishes, then check inside the oven. Anticipation builds, and at last consummation: delicious baked goods!

What could be better than this thoroughly satisfying sacramentum!

Now to every thing there is a problem, and with baking it is Too Much Of A Good Thing. Today I made pecan pie from a mix. It fit in an earthenware pie pan from my sister and the pure bacon fat from last week's bulk bacon cooking lubricated the dish ok. I ran the procedure mid-afternoon; the pie came out perfect and at 4 o'clock wanted only a short time of cooling.

It is now shortly after six. The pie is 2 hours old and 1/3rd gone. I am not sure where it has gone but the cats say they didn't get any.

Are those crumbs in my beard? I remember very little. My blood sugar seems funny though.

I called upon the elves in the basement to help me. They took what was left of the pie and assured me they would protect me from it, or it from me, or most likely both.

By this time next week, I will have forgotten, no doubt. What will I bake to excess then?