The Kittens Have Left the Building

Something has gone amiss in my room, it smells like human beings instead of litterbox. I can walk freely in my room without worrying about baby felines running under my feet. I can sleep at night without kittens batting at my face. Instead of having to move bundles of kittens off of my bed, I have the entire bed to myself. It feels wrong.

I got so used to having the kittens around that I’m not really sure how to cope with this empty feeling. It’s like they were never here! I cleaned my room top to bottom. But some days, when the wind blows just right, I smell the smell of kittens, the ghosts of cats past. A soft mewing noise emanates from a dark corner in my room.

But does it? No, it’s my mind, playing tricks on me again. A single tear trickles down my face, a physical manifestation of the grieving process. How long will I cry? Nobody knows. People keep giving me sympathetic looks, but I don’t want their pity. I just want kittens.

But we gave them back to the shelter because our foster time was up. They were confused when they got to the shelter and terrified of the barking dogs and mewing cats. It was a metaphor for my life. Crammed into a box, unsure of what’s happening, and hoping I will see the sun once again.

*curtain closes*

- Daughter

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More Bad Trips

kitten break

Not one of Daughter’s Ninja Kittens, but could have been.

Based on second-hand information gleaned from my Significant Other, apparently one of Daughter’s kittens was accidentally stepped on a few days ago.  It’s been easy enough stepping on Daughter all these years, so a once-removed skittering feline receiving the same treatment doesn’t seem all that far-fetched to me. 

Please note that the photo above is not one of Daughter’s foster kittens, but it is my fanciful representation of what it may have looked like had either Daughter or her roommate actually broken its leg. 

They didn’t, and the kitten eventually resumed playing with its sibling within a short while. 

Notice, also, that I do not refer to either kitten by name, thus avoiding the predictable lamentation from Daughter about bringing one home from college.

“No, and what kitten are you talking about?  I don’t even know their names.”

That kind of thing. 

It’s my understanding that Daughter’s period as a foster mom for the Mama Cat and her two kittens ended within the last day or so, as it was time they were returned to the shelter and placement in permanent home(s). 

I applaud Daughter for her personal sacrifice in caring for the cats, and I know it’s difficult to return animals that have been in your foster care because you do grow attached, no matter how hard you try not to and no matter how ornery, aggressive, and just plain unpleasant the animals might be. 

I know, because we had a German Shepherd like that for over eight months.  That story ended happily, however, as she was eventually reunited with her canine brother, and they both spend their days running together to their hearts’ content with a great family with a big yard in the country not too far from here. 

But today, for me, was another reminder of why I spend my days now refereeing rather than playing soccer. 

Oh, I could play well enough.  I just couldn’t walk for several days afterward, not to mention the real and ever-present risk of incurring serious injury. 

To be honest, it’s gotten fairly bad for me in terms of physical pain, just as a referee.  Parts of me hurt afterwards that I never used to have any trouble with at all. 

Beginning with my feet.  After completing a couple of games, it’s as if I’ve been hung upside down and beaten with a rubber hose on their soles. 

Yep.  They hurt a lot.  Podiatry appointment in three weeks, by the way, thank you. 

Next comes my back; my lower back, specifically.  Though I stretch and twist throughout the game in my best Denise Austin impersonation, I can barely bend over by the time the final whistle blows.

And even my eyes hurt, if you can believe it.  My vision is already just naturally deteriorating because of age, and after four hours in the sun, my peeps look like someone dribbled a mild acid solution in them. 

But all of these aches and pains pale compared to what happened to one of the players this morning. 

There was no collision, no fancy footwork.  This poor guy was just running down the field, mildly changed direction and suddenly went down in a screaming heap. 

Screaming.  Really screaming. 

Having witnessed someone blow out a knee on the basketball court (several times, actually), I know the pain must be excruciating because the yelling is so loud and persistent (and usually very high-pitched, strangely enough — Note to Self:  When in horrific pain, be sure to vocalize in a manly fashion). 

But today it was clear this guy hadn’t ruined his knee.  Rather, at least his tibia had snapped, and probably his fibula, as well.

How can I make that assessment?  Well, the lower leg itself looked bad (I won’t say how bad — just use your imagination), and everyone within about 50 feet of him heard a wicked snap when the bone(s) parted.  After attending to his immediate needs and making sure he was somewhat comfortable (I mean, how comfortable could we make him), we all stood around and watched the EMTs work and joke with him. 

One of his teammates also snapped a bunch of photos for the league newsletter.  It was all rather convivial, in a macabre sort of way. 

Turns out this player works in a hospital nearby, which is where the ambulance took him, and he was in good spirits when they carted him off the field in a gurney.  Perhaps the massive amounts of morphine had something to do with his improved, non-screaming disposition. 

He looked to be in his mid-thirties, maybe older, and I hope he’s not done with soccer forever now, though I can understand why he might want to switch to playing canasta in the future.  It’s going to be tough coming back from that injury. 

And to be honest, I have seen much, much worse on a soccer pitch, but I won’t describe the details here.  I probably wrote too much about this one already.

But even though I walked away today “sore, soaked, and slightly punchy” as the old TV ad used to say, I was thankful that I made it through another couple of matches without feeling too bad physically, without getting physically assaulted, and without leaving via emergency vehicle. 

My thoughts tonight are with the injured player, and today’s events just proved to me that all bad trips are relative, after all. 

- Dad

I Loathe Myself!

catherine

“Yes, it’s love! Well, not really.”

The instrument has not been invented that can measure how much shame I feel. 

I am truly not worthy.  I am a moron.  I am a complete idiot.  I feel awful.   

And I’m not being hard enough on myself, either.  That’s how bad this is. 

You see, what I have done is unforgivable, certainly within the pantheon of television program royalty. 

What was my onerous transgression? 

I watched the final episode of The Bachelor with my wife by my side on Monday night.   

Oh, how far the mighty have fallen!

I have lost the moral high ground which Downtown Freaking Abbey has always afforded me.  Gone are the regular Sunday night meetings in my living room with The Finer Things Club, featuring watercress sandwiches and demitasse tea cups. 

Lady Mary’s alluring rebuff to her now-deceased and beloved Matthew, “Careful.  You’ll make me untidy,” has been replaced by Catherine’s response to Sean, “I don’t see why there would be any waiting period. I want to be his wife.”

Jeepers. 

And in the spirit of full disclosure here, I became sleepy during the finale and actually turned in for the night before Sean made his selection.  There might have been a small measure of redemption for me had I just left it at that.  But since my Spouse DVRs any television program with either “bachelor” or “real housewives” in the title, I knew the balance of the unseen episode was lurking somewhere on that server.

Yep.  The next day I watched the last 30 minutes I missed. 

“Absolutely pathetic,” you say? 

I agree.

To make matters worse, I found a certain element of “creepy” permeated much of the program.  To my observation, Sean’s father seemed more than a little suspect in terms of his interaction with the two female finalists.  He was, in fact, a bit too welcoming and weird with them. 

He may have said, “You would be a wonderful addition to our family, if Sean chooses  you.”

What I heard was, “If my son stiffs you, I am probably available.  I know I’m already married to Sean’s mother, but don’t worry about that.”

I don’t know.  Maybe these folks would fit into Downtown Freaking Abbey after all, but some of the main characters would have to die, so I am not sure if that’s really an option.

Do people actually think any of this is real?  Is the drama sincere?  I mean, come on, Repo Wars seems more authentic.

You might wonder, why did I lower myself so?  Quite frankly, there was no much else on, and I was somewhat fatigued.  Perhaps my brains was a bit frazzled.  Maybe I wanted to bond with my wife and try to understand her fascination with this type of crap thing. 

I suppose there really isn’t a very good explanation.  Sometimes sh stuff happens. 

I guess the main point here is that everyone stumbles once in a while.  And I do believe there is a Road to Redemption.  I do not know, however, how many episodes of Masterpiece Theater cancel out one The Bachelor.  I’m still calculating, but I’m thinking the answer is “many.”

In the meantime, I have begun the Twelve-Step Recovery Process.  I have already completed Step One, which is admitting I have a problem.  I’m currently fighting through some of the other stages, but I have found that kitten photos and blurred pictures of the Amish somewhat diminish the bad taste of The Bachelor

But not entirely. 

I have to come to terms with what I’ve done and am determined to move on from here.  I must re-center with Zen-me and focus on the Way Ahead. 

And figure out the remote control programming features to filter/block future episodes of The Bachelor

After all, that is the safest route, but it will also necessitate incurring the wrath of the adult females in the house. 

That’s a small price to pay for true love, I figure.

- Dad

I Bought Fancy Toys for the Kittens but They Only Play with Their Poop

"Are you hiding poop in there?"

“Are you hiding poop in there?”

I don’t really understand why the kittens find poop preferable to the six jingley play balls and the pricey carpeted scratching post with feathers. They have ignored all of my efforts to impress them with material things. Maybe because they have self-sustaining entertainment: their own poop. I wish I had known this before I dropped a pretty penny trying to create a fun environment for them. I would have gotten bigger litter boxes or just filled my entire room with litter – oh wait, that’s already happened – had I known that they would enjoy what happens in the litter box so very much.

Every time I go into the room, the kittens are doing their darnedest to turn my room into a raw sewage dumping ground. Their toys sit sadly in dark corners, untouched save for some half-hearted pawing all the while the kittens thinking to themselves: I wish this was poop. 

This is what happens: they paw around balls of poo in the litter box until they successfully get a piece of it out. Then, they proceed to play table hockey amongst themselves using the poop as the puck.  I’m lucky if the poop is covered in cat litter. God forbid if it’s not and they step in it… they sprint away from me and track their feces to places unreachable by humans thus forever leaving their excrement as eternal monuments. The only positive aspect of this poop-flinging is that it forces me to constantly vacuum and clean. My room alternates between being a toxic waste site and being spotless.

I have taken to sleeping on the couch because I found it hard to sleep with kittens running across my face at 3am. Aw, cute little kittens with their cute little paws running across you! No, you are mistaken. I know where those paws have been: in and around their own poop. Mostly IN.

As for the mama cat, Ginger Rogers, I had the misfortune of catching her out of her favorite hidey-hole under my bed. She looked at me with murder in her eyes and hissed her meanest hiss. She’s missing a few teeth so the effect is sort of a lisp-y hiss and is slightly less intimidating than a regular hiss. I think she might be hating me less because instead of hissing for thirty seconds while spitting, she only hissed for fifteen seconds while slowly retreating under the bed. I’ll take it!!!

- Daughter

Sociopath?

Watch me be the new Norman Bates on HuffPost Live!

http://live.huffingtonpost.com/r/segment/a-little-white-lie/51341b182b8c2a536b000254

I had to defend lying today via HuffPost Live and I think I maybe succeeded? Or at least, that’s what I’ll tell myself so I can sleep tonight.

Not that I will sleep tonight anyway because kittens will probably run across my face at some point. They see my face as one of those little Zen gardens and their claws as the little rakes. So when they scratch me, really, they are just trying to restore order in the universe. What wise kittens.

In other news, spring break is next week! I’d like to pretend that I’m going on some fabulous trip but really, I’m just going to be in the fetal position, crying about my thesis, and not going anywhere – literally and figuratively. I feel like I’ve come down with a raging case of snow blindness from staring at the white pages of all these books and unfortunately, there are 5490523094583209 books to go through still. I might just write the words “snow blindness” on a piece of paper and turn it in in lieu of my thesis because I’m post-modern like that.

It also doesn’t help matters that the images I’m analyzing feature Lindsay Lohan. Can you think of a less motivational figure to want to analyze in photographs? I sure can’t. I don’t regret this thesis topic at all.

- Daughter

 

 

The Kittens are in the Rebellious Teen Phase

Go home, Kitten, you’re drunk.

But seriously, I walked into my bedroom today and found a kitten asleep in one of my shoes. The smell of tequila and regret wafting through the air mixed with Tidy Cats: Multiple Cats Formula cat litter smell. I sensed mischief.

I consider myself to be relaxed in my parenting style. I let Loki and Thor be themselves, even when it walks the line between good taste and Ke$ha. As long as they are not hurting themselves, I let them be. But this is where I draw the line.

Substance abuse. It’s a serious problem among our nation’s youth. And I will not enable my adopted children to become a statistic. First tequila… and then what, cat nip? And then, they’re going to go and knock up some stray on the street.

You can barely take care of yourself, Loki. I’m not even sure you know how to walk. How are you going to take care of a litter of kittens? How do you expect to provide for a family when all you’ve got is a scratching post and a plastic ball to your name?  Are you satisfied with that kind of life? I raised you better than this. 

No, you’re big adorable blue eyes will not sway me. Stop it. Drugs are bad. Stop trying to hypnotize me.  

I don’t care how cute you look asleep in the shoe. This is not acceptable behavior and I will not tolerate it under my roof. 

Dear God, it’s… so cute. I’m dying. Okay, stay with me forever. You are forgiven. 

- Daughter

Kitten Chronicles aka Blog Post Filler

No! I’m not posting pictures of my foster kittens because I don’t have enough time to write up a quality post! It’s not like I’m miserably – nay – hopelessly behind on my senior thesis. It’s not like these last few weeks I’ve been privileging writing my blog over my school work and thus, now have to scramble to make up for lost time. STOP SUGGESTING THESE TRUE THINGS, PEOPLE OF THE INTERWEBS.

My Dad suggested I stop the blog for a while. I immediately said, “LOLZ, Dad, NO!”

Except I didn’t. I just never texted him back because I actually considered his suggestion for a half-second. I’ve overloaded on classes so that I graduate on-time (ish), I’m taking all writing-intensive courses, and have taken up learning to fiddle on roofs (much different from regular fiddling).

But, in that half-second, I realized I can’t stop.

I MUST GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANT.

Okay, so here are pictures of my kittens, Loki and Thor, in lieu of substance. Sorry. (Not sorry.)

005

008

019

023

003

- Daughter

 

 

They Have Arrived: KITTENS

My apartment is now home to a mother cat (tentatively named Ginger Rogers) and her two crazy kittens whom we have named Loki and Thor. We don’t know their sexes yet but my kittens don’t subscribe to conventions like gender roles so it’s a moot point; they’re trailblazers in borderline gender identities in the feline community.

Ginger Rogers seems very displeased about the arrangement and Loki and Thor seem confused but content. On the way home from the shelter, all three went into a cardboard carrier. Ginge was not happy about this and shoved herself into a corner of the box, asking herself how she had gotten here. Knocked up at only one year old, the father not even in the picture… what was she doing with her life? But the kittens were quite the opposite: trampling all over each other in a brave attempt to discover the marvels of this cardboard wonderland.

L and T are completely unaware of their mother’s disdain for their existence as evidenced by their use of her body as a trampoline and a launching pad. That’s their main form of exercise besides clawing their way up my body via my clothes, using their claws as tiny, adorable grappling hooks.

Below are grainy, fuzzy photos of Loki, Thor, and Ginger Rogers. Sorry about the horrible quality. They were taken at night and the kittens would not stay still and pose even when I prompted them with encouraging comments, “Show me some personality, Loki! You’re a Norse god for Pete’s sake, SELL IT TO ME!!!”

Tomorrow, expect  high quality photos!

photo (2)

Right out of the can, no manners.

Right out of the can, no manners.

NOM.

NOM.

 

- Daughter

How to Build a Kitten Fortress

Preliminary stages of Kitten Fortress

Tomorrow, I’m getting my foster cat and kittens. In order to prepare, I built a kitten fortress underneath my desk. I put down a blanket that is nicer than the one on my bed that will probably just get pooped or hairballed on. I also put one of my old shirts in a corner so they get used to my wonderful human smell. The mama cat will probably hate me and try to disembowel me but maybe, just maybe, she will sense that I will be alone forever and take pity on me.

Anywho, here are the steps necessary to create a kitten fortress (makes a great Easter gift!):

1) Gather materials. Make sure they are sturdy, but do not expect them to stay clean. Because they will not. Kittens are not known for their table manners.

2) Deconstruct a cardboard box. Place cardboard box in a niche somewhere in your house to create a cat habitat. Make the box look at horrible as possible so that your landlord will hate you when she shows people the apartment.

3) Decorate the cat fortress on the outside with pictures of castles…. so it looks more like a fortress and less like a piece of processed, dead tree. Upon completion of this step, your landlord will be distracted by the beauty of the fortress and have no room in her heart for hatred.

4) Add kittens. Do not stir; let mellow for 48 hours.

5) Abandon all social activities and barricade self in the fortress with the cat and kittens. Never leave.

- Daughter

Study: Kittens Impair Brain Function

My roommate and I may foster kittens because I don’t want to have to wait until after college to become a cat lady; I need to get a move on already. I am nothing if not an over-achiever, you see.

We went to a local animal shelter to meet a mama cat and her two babies. As soon as I pet those tiny kittens, everything was right in the world.

I don’t have anything to say today because this is the only thing my brain is capable processing:

 

HOW AM I SINGLE?

- Daughter

Talismans, Stress, Downton Freaking Abbey, and Power Kittens

Badness, Be Gawwn!!

Badness, Be Gawwn!!

So I’ve been working my a really, really hard lately.  So much so that most of the routines and thoughts that define my regular life have completely gone out the window the past few weeks.  It su is challenging.  But not as challenging as lesbian break dancing and Christmas bingo (Note important blog tags, Daughter).

It’s a known psychological phenomenon that everyone handles stress differently; violently, meekly, and otherwise.  I fall squarely into the “otherwise” slash “let’s buy more lottery tickets tonight” category.  Though I haven’t actually studied psychology, long years of reading (and badly pronouncing)  Sturm und Drang poetry has prepared me well for this time in my life.  (Another note to Daughter – I understand obscure German references do nothing to increase blog readership, but what the he heck.)

In the meantime, I’m trying to get through everything the best I can while simultaneously making plans for ultimately escaping the drama and settling into my dream job — spending mornings on the beach with a coffee, and playing basketball at lunch.  I do realize, however, that most of these employment situations were spoken for long ago, but it doesn’t stop me from continuing my search.

Anyway, my holistic, spiritual spouse has been somewhat concerned with my state, and has begun a stringent course of therapeutic talisman treatments.  Maybe years ago I simply tolerated her placement of the odd crystal under my pillow or mug of the mulberry root extract tea, but I managed to turn the corner in the believability quotient at some point and began to think all these things actually might help — they certainly didn’t hurt, unless I stepped on one of them.  I now “religiously” carry in separate pockets an angel and some kind of black rock; one watches over me, and the other sucks away all the bad energy.  I think.  I also wear a necklace, strung with apparently stolen stones from Easter Island, for positive energy and good vibrations.  Go figure.

The thing is, on this trip I’ve come close to losing two of the big three.  Each time I thought one was gone, it magically reappeared.  I’ve been that frazzled.  But I also go through a similar routine when these of near misses happen, in which I reason through the idea that the talisman had essentially completed its work with me and was needed more urgently somewhere else.  Or I’m just losing my mind and getting older.  It’s one of the two.

Tonight, for the first time in weeks, I was able to not work for a few hours, and after becoming thoroughly depressed watching a piece on SportsCenter detailing how easily millionaire athletes go broke, I channel-surfed my way to PBS and landed on a Season Two episode of Downton Abbey.  While the girls in my house clog the DVR with various Housewives of . . . crap, I find solace in the banality of Edwardian England, and the elegant evening wear, quite frankly.  It just felt good escaping there, at least momentarily.

But the absolute highlight of the week was last night when Daughter texted me the photo of her, bottle feeding MamaCat (see my earlier blog post, for Sandy reference) from many years ago.  While I take a lot of grief for what’s known alternately as “The Tire Swing Incident” or “The You Two Will Have to Leave the Emergency Room While I Stitch Up Her Lip Incident” in my family (you guess which one applies to whom), what Daughter may not remember is that she was frequently the son I never had (but really do) when she was small.  In those days, I used to take her everywhere with me.

Sure, I liked her company, but there were certain advantages, too.  “Hey, why don’t you cut ahead of us in line since your little girl looks tired” — that kind of thing.

Yep.  A few things frighten me about Daughter.  The trove of kitten and puppy photos, for instance.  What’s that about?  The weird haircut thing started early, too, it seems, and there are still some issues regarding her understanding of the exact definition of, “if you get this, I will take care of it.

But in the end, she reminded me of a special time in both our lives, and lifted my spirits for a moment while I flailed in the emotional maelstrom.  I guess the only other thing that would have made me feel better would have been a lesbian break dancing Christmas bingo TV special, but we’ll hope that happens during next year’s Festivus celebration.

Thank you, Daughter.

- Dad

If This is Possible, Then so is World Peace. No, Really.

You're touching my back.  Knock it off.

You’re touching my back. Knock it off.

Take a close look at the above photo.  Well, try to ignore the clutter around the dog and cat in the photo.  Focus on the dog and cat.  To paraphrase a line from Ghostbusters, “Dogs and cats sleeping together.  Mass hysteria!”

Let me say that, although we have always had pets in our family, I had no idea about Daughter’s fixation with cats and strange cat photos until I started reading her posts.  I’m okay with it, of course, but she may have a little too much time on her hands to have amassed such a collection of “cute” kitty pics.  Probably another blog there, perhaps, but I digress.

The cat in the pic, Sandy, is the matriarch of the pride in our family, which at one time numbered seven total felines (elements of two of her litter generations).  She came into the house as a cast-off runt of a feral mother, once again, given to us by one of Daughter’s friends (see my previous post for reference).  She was given the name, Sandy, and was hand fed and nursed into survival.  Usually it seems that animals instinctively recognize when they have fallen into good times — never the situation here.  From the git-go she was an “ornery cuss,” whose bad disposition only worsened with time.  Before we got wise (like, how could we not have been?), she birthed two litters in quick succession and, presto, we had a house full of cats — much like the Tribbles in Star Trek (Daughter also feels my media references badly date me and confuse readers).  At this point in our lives, cats were simply everywhere.  In a nod to familial connections, we used to keep a photo of the father pinned to the wall above the phone in the kitchen.  After doing his damage (twice), however, he was never seen again in those parts.  His photo eventually disappeared, too.

With each passing year, MamaCat (nee Sandy) transmogrified into something out of Frankenweenie, except the dog in that movie was nice (Please note recent media reference).  Tim Burton couldn’t imagine what she became:  a holy terror.  And best of all, she saved the worst of her abuse for her offspring.  She couldn’t stand them and went out of her way to make her displeasure known:  scratching, biting, growling, howling, hissing — whatever negative cat noises you can come up with, she vocalized them, and followed up with physical violence.

She’s been with us over seventeen years now, and in those idle moments of life remembrance (like when I can’t sleep most nights), I honestly don’t remember seeing her around all that much over the past two decades.  She mostly hid out, and when she wasn’t hiding, she was attacking someone or something.

Then, a funny thing happened about five years ago.  She had a stroke.

One day, she simply couldn’t walk.  We took her in to our wonderfully supportive vet, expecting her to say the kindest thing to do was to “put her down,” but instead she just said, “Let’s give her a few days and see if she perks up.”

If nothing else, MamaCat is a survivor.  Slowly, she regained her mobility and strength, and within weeks she was pretty much back to normal — except for one thing.  She was nicer.  No, she didn’t magically become a lap cat, but she certainly became more sociable and friendly — at least with humans.  My years of college study led me to conclude the stroke had killed off more of her bad gray matter than whatever was left behind.  Good matter?  Indifferent matter?   I’ve got no science to back up my observations, but the theory still holds some water, I figure.

She still hates her remaining two grown kittens (both sixteen themselves), and she actively bites, growls at, and scratches Daughter.  But at night, she now sleeps in a basket at the foot of our bed, and actually allows me to pick her up for a few seconds occasionally.  It’s also frightening to admit this, but I can even rub her tummy (I hate using that word, but it’s appropriate for her) some evenings.  Such acts “pre-stroke” were not simply unthinkable; they weren’t even possible.

So, let’s back up a moment.  About five years ago we adopted the most wonderful, loving White German Shepherd.  He is both a dandy and dandyish, but will attack anyone who approaches Mom, knocks on our front door, or tries to deliver packages or mail (we’re a “known” address with UPS, Fedex, and the US Postal Service).  The trickiest part of blending him into the family was working with MamaCat.  Did she accept him?  No.  Did she attack him?  No.  Did he care one way or the other?  Apparently not.  He doesn’t like cats hovering near his food dish, but that’s about it.

Our DandyDog has a hard time getting comfortable, so we have a variety of beds and cushions throughout the house for his convenience.  One of his primary, most cherished locations is at the foot of his Mom’s bed.  The indentations on that cushion are molded to his frame, and he spends most nights there — until recently.  It seems MamaCat has taken a shine to that particular spot, and she parks herself prominently at the beginning of most evenings.  It’s her own “Occupy” movement, but she literally takes up, like, 10% of the available space.  DandyDog usually wanders by, looks perplexed (a common expression for him), then collapses on the rug near Mom’s side of the bed.

Until today.  MamaCat and DandyDog not only shared the same space, but were actually touching.  Though it didn’t look like either was particularly comfortable with the set-up, they were, in fact, together.  I suppose it was more of a journey for the cat than the dog, but it was a feat nonetheless.  And unimaginable both within the context of the entirety of this one cat’s life and the behavior that defined same.

I don’t know that there’s any great truth involved with all this, except that change seems possible, even after years to the contrary.  I can imagine MamaCat yowling in her best Rocky Balboa — “If I can change, then you can change.” I think that was Rocky III, maybe IV.  Again, dating myself.

Seeing change like this happen gives me hope, provides context, and gives me something to ponder as I get older and become less likely to change.  You see, I guess I’m a lot like MamaCat myself.

It’s also helpful when I’m out of blog ideas.

- Dad

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