LifePundit

Cat Rescued after Eight Days in Tree!

She's down! After one week living in a squirrel's nest 30 feet above the good, safe earth, the cat is down.

The Humane Society said not to worry, cats were survivors and would come down. Animal Control doesn't rescue cats from trees. The fire department didn't answer either phone number (I didn't dare call 911). I couldn't find any macho bubbas to help out, either. You could hear the cat crying from our bedroom. It was enough to tempt us to shoot her down, just so we wouldn't feel so bad for her.

After calling anyone I could think of, my hairdresser made two very good suggestions. One was to get a piece of PVC and run a loop of rope through it. Use the PVC to reach up to where the cat is and loop the rope around its body. Tighten the rope and lower the cat down. (This idea was after she called her husband because she was worried about the cat.)

The other suggestion was to call our local TV station that has a program about solving local people's problems and tell them I have a very photogenic problem they can solve. So I did and left a voicemail.

Next I told Paul that I had called WIS-TV, which horrified him because he didn’t want them out here filming (they never called me back) so he sprung into action. Not that he had been inactive before, but he liked the idea of the rope and the PVC and arranged that very thing. Trouble is, he could only get the cat's foot or a neck hooked. It was like fishing for a cat in a tree. The cat was over 30 feet up.

Then Paul did something I couldn’t believe. He shimmied up the tree like Mowgli in “The Jungle Book.” He went up like a squirrel. No grasping of tree limbs (since the tree was bald in the middle section), just arms and legs around the trunk. I thought he was probably going to find out whether or not he could fly, but he made it. Then he caught the cat and climbed down by setting her on different branches as he went down, then would go down a little, grab the cat and put the cat on a lower branch, etc. Of course at one point the cat hung onto the tree and wouldn’t let go.

The cat is FAT! Not obese, but robust in figure. One week in the tree and no food. I don’t believe this cat ever came down. The cat food I left out and the tuna were untouched until Tiger found them. I think it was a 300 lb. cat that is now a 200 lb. cat. She’s got a beautiful coat, lovely green eyes and is so friendly you can’t take her picture. (I’m trying to do a flyer to stick in mailboxes – this cat has to be somebody’s pet.) The first thing she wanted to do was come inside. And she rubs on you and rubs on you and rubs on you and purrs and talks. I could get used to this cat. Of course, that would make 4.

I took the cat to a nearby vet clinic and they scanned for a microchip. No microchip but they confirmed that it’s a female cat. I asked the attendant to check and he pulled up her tail. She squirted poo on him – I didn’t know cats did that. They had a word for it and said that cats do it in the wild when they’re scared. If I even mention this to my husband, I’m sure he won’t even like the idea of a poo-squiring cat sleeping on our porch while we look for a home.

It's so nice to have her out of the tree. She was up there one night when it was only 20 degrees! Now, to find her owner or a home. (Or talk Paul into letting us have four cats, two horses, a dog and a rabbit.)

Lion Cubs on Display at Our Zoo

Our zoo just put "our" lion cubs, born last June, on display this week. Four frolicking cubs! Too cute for reality. I can't wait to see them. To see more photos, go here.

We might have more than our share of rednecks, heart disease (#1 in the country -- I'm so proud) and alligators, but we have an extremely wonderful zoo and botanical garden -- Riverbanks.

We also have some wonderful fiction writers. And this is really a great place to live, especially this time of year. Sunny and low 70s right now. How hard it is to work when I could go out in this weather and see those lion cubs.

Maybe that will be my reward for after NaNoWriMo.

How to Get in Trouble While Minding Your Own Business

I just wrote a nice post about how some men go "dear hunting" when they say they're out "deer hunting," (in other words, they are out cheating on their wives instead of hunting) but I accidentally deleted the thing and don't feel like writing it again. If you want to read the news story, it's here. I especially liked the part where one man had a whole pack of coon dogs but didn't go hunting. On the way home from being up to no good he would pull over to the side of the road and roll in the mud so he'd look like he'd been hunting.

As for me, I'm here minding my own business and I continue to get fall-out from that. As I've already whined, my mother-in-law invited a bunch of relatives down from up North for Thanksgiving. We didn't know these folks were coming and had plans to have a low-key Thanksgiving at home while I worked on my novel and Paul finished (I hope) his renovations for his new office. We were even going out for dinner that day -- not cooking for the three of us. Our lives are already out of balance. Paul sometimes gets home after I'm already asleep.

But my mother-in-law isn't interested in what's going on with us; she's interested in getting me to put on a show, a Martha Stewart Thanksgiving at our house for her to brag about to her friends. Apparently, in her social set (middle school) at the retirement community, there's a big competition going on about what your children and DILs do for you. I don't know who else is keeping score, but she is. 

In fact, she has completely recreated herself. She's an English lady (she's lived in this country over fifty years and never been an English lady before) who has tea in the afternoons. She's never had tea in her American life until she moved to this community. And she's got magazines all about The Manors of England all over her coffee table. Nobody has ever seen her subscribe to these before or have any interest in doing things the English way. In fact, when I met her she was all about Danish Modern. Maybe one day when I'm feeling mean I'll do a whole post about how one can recreate oneself to a higher social status in the retirement community. It's just the same as middle school. Honest. Only with afternoon tea and a few props.

Back to Thanksgiving. I told her that maybe we could do that, but only if Paul's office is finished so that the building supplies that are stored in our den and living room will be out of the house. I didn't say no. I said I didn't know. And she blasted me and said to forget it.

Now it's clear that my hesitation has been conveyed to others and we've offended the relatives from up North, who thought that we would be glad to see them (we always are) and, to use their words, "would jump at the chance to host Thanksgiving."

Yes, but not this year, this month, this time.

When I tried to explain that I have two editors interested in my book and I need to work on that instead of moving building supplies (to where I don't know) and getting ready for company (more company than our dining room will hold, by the way), it was clear that no one understood why I couldn't do that later. That's what happens when you're a writer. People figure that you can always do it later. What they don't understand is that later was a long, long time ago. I need to do this now.

I checked again with Paul to be sure that he, too, wasn't mad at me. He said absolutely not, that "time kills a deal." What if the editors who are interested move on to other publishers, change jobs, leave the industry? Now is the time. Now is my time. And even so, it will be a few months before my manuscript is ready to send.

But the relatives are saying, what's a few days? A week?

It's the possibility of losing my story. My momentum. My confidence. I am one day away from writer's block. I've had writer's block last for years. But now, I'm writing. And that's what I'm called to do and that's what I'm going to do.

And it's not that I'm being inhospitable. I've offered as many relatives as would like to stay in our guest room and other nooks and crannies. I do welcome them and would love to see them. I'd try to get in my writing hours before they're awake. I just haven't agreed to cook a feast and empty the house of all the things that are supposed to go into the building. (And I assume people will know better than to use the toilet and sinks piled up in the middle of the den.)

I also understand that this is a tough time for some of the visitors, who are connected to Wall Street financial companies and other businesses under enormous stress. They are now talking about canceling their visit down here because of the "atmosphere" around Thanksgiving.

They are hurt and offended. I'm afraid this has damaged our relationships! They have always been kind and generous with us and we are overdue in reciprocating. That's one thing that really hurts me about this, but I'm not the one who did the inviting and started the manipulations. We can't really reciprocate when we are snowed under.

If you're going to invite people down and invite them to somebody's house for Thanksgiving, shouldn't you at least talk to the "designated" host and hostess first?

I don't understand how having healthy boundaries and minding my own business could create such a ruckus.

Curing My News Addiction

I need to cut back on my consumption of the news. I know all I need to know now. Actually, I know more than I need to know for my mental health. I'm going to limit my time spent staying current on the news. Although being informed is part of being a good citizen, I need to take a break.

Say, for the next four years.

Obama is getting the worst job in the world. I hope he's a quick study and proves to be up for it. I will be praying for him and for all of us. Yes, God bless America.

Life, Death, Hemorrhoidal Cancer, Evolution, Sub-prime Mortgages, God's Will and Everything Else

Teddy Kennedy got brain cancer and P. J. O'Rourke got hemorrhoidal cancer, which I can't  even spell.

Very funny, touching and even theologically profound op-ed here.

I wish him well, and if he figures out the right color of bracelet he should be wearing, I'll wear one for him.

Hat tip: Instapundit

Blogging is Too Much Fun to be Permissable Procrastination Tool

Nancy, you missed me! Thank you!

I haven't been blogging for three reasons:

1. I didn't have anything nice to say, and so I didn't say anything;

2. When I wasn't whining about how nothing works in this house, I was out having fun with friends (yes, I have one or two left) or inside getting really mad at technology and putting more duct tape on my computer (figuratively speaking) because I'm not about to get a new one as long as they all come with Vista;

3. I've had a chance to "audition" to be a speech writer for a person (non-politician) for whom I'd very much like to be a speech writer. I'd like to say that I've been working non-stop to land this great gig, but I've mainly been stressing over it, losing sleep and doing acceptable procrastination activities, such as cleaning my office, doing laundry, exercising and hauling lightning-damaged electrical equipment to the dump. I also took two carloads of stuff to the church garage sale (proceeds go to Habitat). I didn't allow myself to blog because blogging is fun and nothing fun is allowed while procrastinating.

Approved procrastination activities are the things you should do every day or every week, but save them up until you have a project.

If my house is clean, my laundry is sparklingly done and my blown TVs are in the dump, you know I am procrastinating heavily.

There are others "auditioning" for the speech writer job. I sent my speech in yesterday and am not sure how I feel about it. I don't know the man, have never met him, and have only seen short clips of him on the Internet. I don't know his message or his style or what he wanted to say to this particular audience. I don't know the history or future plans of the institution he heads, though I am impressed by it. I suspect my style is too conversational and not eloquent and dignified enough, but who knows. Maybe he'll like it. I have him being humorous in several places in the speech I wrote for him, which is something entirely missing from everything else I've seen or read that he's done. He's more a "thousand points of light" kind of guy than a "did you hear the one about ....." fellow.

Still, all audiences like a little levity, and I don't think he's anti-humor. Or maybe I'm just not all that funny. Or maybe I am funny and he's not. Or maybe he'll love me because he'll love the adoration of awake, laughing audiences. Assuming he gives the speech a try and doesn't use one of my competitor's more grandiose ones that start off with stupid, convoluted structures like "Four-score and seven...." Who'd hang around and listen to that? Nothing memorable there.

Anyway, in theory, I would love this steady work and love to write speeches (especially since I don't have to give them, in case the jokes fail). But, if he doesn't feel like my style works for him, it probably wouldn't be a good fit anyway.

In the meantime, you won't believe how clean my house is.

Addicted to Self-improvement Books

There are so many ways I could improve myself. All I have to do is buy the right book.

Yes, yes, I know that as a Christian the only self-improvement book I need is the bible. Maybe I can pick up a self-improvement book about that. Maybe I already have. I'm not low on self-improvement books.

In the middle of the clutter I have several on getting rid of clutter. Some have even been opened, marked up, mused over, tossed back into the clutter. I have books on how to write, how to eat, how to exercise, how to make yourself happy, how to improve your love life (not the racy ones, sorry to disappoint), how to raise a daughter, how to deal with Alzheimer's, how to train a horse, how to take care of a farm, how to save enough money for retirement by not buying books....

My current self-improvement books seem a bit at odds with each other. I'm part of a bible study that's examining the other gods that we let slip into our life, the ones that turn into "putting another god before Me." I do a lesson in the morning. Sometimes the lessons mention how body image and the effort devoted to losing weight/getting fit can be a kind of interfering god that comes between you and the real God. After I've finished that lesson, I pick up the diet solution book (mentioned in previous post) and work on how I'm going to care more about myself and put my body image and health first. Well, that's not exactly what it says, but it feels like there's something in conflict with these two.

I can make a very good case for taking care of my body with diet and exercise because it is the temple of the Lord. I'd be lying about why I'm doing it, but I could make the case. The truth is, I'm doing it because I'm VAIN.

Maybe there's another self-improvement book I could use to balance out these two. Bridge the gap. Smooth over the conflicts.

A friend of mine is also addicted to self-help books. When she and her husband were getting married and were consolidating their book collections, he was amazed at all the self-help books on her shelf. He said, "If I'd known you needed this much help, I never would have married you. I hope you're all fixed now."

We're never all fixed. And that's okay, too. But what I need to do is start WRITING self-help books instead of buying them.

First I'll need a clever title. Something like: Help Yourself! Stop Buying Self-Help Books and Start Living.

Bathing Suits, Weight Watchers and Hunger

This is me in a few weeks. I've ordered this suit from Lands End. It's on backorder. That will give me time to get down to this size AND grow my hair long.

Well, maybe not quite this size. This may be a few months away. And I'm actually going to get my hair cut, not grow it out. But you get the idea.

I like swimsuits that look like tennis dresses. Yes, I am that old. The last time I wore a bikini was three years and many pounds ago. Lapse of judgment in a foreign country, egged on by my husband. I felt silly wearing the bikini, and right now, nobody would want to see me in one. They'd be scarred for life. So, it's tennis dress-looking swimsuits for me. And if this one doesn't come in on time (or look okay), I've already received this one below, also from Lands End. Mine is just the same but has a blue skirt bottom.

Somehow, I can't muster the smiles these models have when wearing these suits. And honestly, if I looked like these models, these would not be the suits I'd be wearing.

For the first time in forever, I am motivated to change. I joined Weight Watchers last Monday night at a local church. Sadly, I just got a phone call that they didn't have enough people sign up so they're canceling for now.

Paul said the funniest thing he has ever said. "Why don't you go stand in front of Wal-Mart and recruit? You'd find a lot of eligible people."

I'd probably lose a lot of weight in the hospital, too, recovering from the assaults. "What you mean 'Would I like to join Weight Watchers?' Do I look fat to you?" And then she'd beat me to death. Or just sit on me till I was squashed into nothingness.

But motivation is motivation. I'm going to diet off some of the moving parts I have acquired in the last few years. Those places that keep walking after I've stopped. Those pointy little things on my hips that made Lily think I had tennis balls stuffed under my new tennis-looking swim skirt (since that's what I do with real tennis balls in my real tennis skirt). Mean child. Tells the truth.

I've downloaded The Beck Diet Solution to my iPod and am going to brainwash myself into "thinking like a thin person." I got the workbook on Amazon. It looks just right for me.

I've got sticky notes all over the house with my motivations on them. And cards where I've written the reasons I'm going to do this. (None of them say, "so I can wear a bikini.")

My cleverest one is "Baggy clothes only hide who you really are."

My saddest one is "People treat you differently (better) when you are smaller."

My scariest one is "You're going to live a long time. You'd better be sure you're healthy."

My truest one is "So what if you're hungry? You're going to eat again in a couple of hours. Hunger is good."

My best one is "I like me so much I'm going to choose me over food."

Do I dare say I'll be reporting my progress here? Will I be posting a photo of me in these suits?

Not unless I can figure out how to Photoshop my head onto these pictures.

Wish me luck! And send carrots.

Kindness Can Look Like a Tomato Plant

My father's room in assisted living has a window that looks out into an area with bird feeders and raised flower beds. The staff there knows of my father's love for gardening, and last week when they were planting summer flowers in their gazillion raised flower beds they did something different for the one my father can see from his room. They planted it with tomato plants.

One of the staff came to him and said, "Mr. C., do you see what they're doing?"

"What?"

"Look out of your window. Do you see what they're planting?"

He looked. "Tomatoes," he said. Then he went outside, dragging his oxygen with him. He watched for a minute, then asked the lady planting the tomatoes, "Where's your lime?" he said.

She looked at him strangely. "I don't have any. What do I need lime for?"

"Blossom end rot," he said.

I wish he had said things such as, "pretty plants," "good job," "thank you." But no. It was "Where's your lime?" You're doing it wrong. Oh well. He is who is he. The lady managed to change the subject to her divorce problems. From here on I'm pretty fuzzy about what happened. My parents have been married for 72 years and a stranger confessing things about her divorce was more surprising to him than planting the tomatoes without lime.

Honestly, I think it was hard for him to perceive the kindness behind this act of planting tomatoes where he could watch them from his room. Or maybe he did perceive the kindness, and was lost on how to respond. Plus, he just planted 150 tomato plants in his garden in the country (with much help and all the right ingredients). What does a man who get three meals a day in assisted living need with a giant garden? Gives him something to do. A place to go. Life bursting with life.

He planted 150 tomato plants and he doesn't even like tomatoes. Seriously. Won't eat them.

I am touched that the people who care for my parents are that insightful and kind. Lime or no lime, I think it is beautiful.

He Promised Me a Rose Garden

I've been buying myself flowers but that may end because I'll be cutting flowers out of my own yard. Roses! Paul has promised me this rose garden (the roses in the photo montage). He's going to plant the roses, put in a drip or soaker system, and then I get to do the rest. (Which I hope will be growing roses and not killing roses.) I used to grow roses before Lily was born. I was covered over in roses of all kinds, from antique roses with packed, curled faces (and heavenly aromas) to experimental roses I got to report on to tree roses to about 25 hybrid teas.

All you have to do to grow roses is start with good stock, plant them correctly and in full soon, water them regularly, spray once a week and feed them. I'm a little worried about the sunshine here -- so many trees (except in the pasture, and horses eat roses so that won't do).

I can smell them already. Will be reporting back.