The Nine Lives of Cats

My cat has apparently used up another of his nine lives. I thought he was dying. Wynona (wrong name for a male cat, but please don't ask) was 19 last spring, probably in May, so he's had a long and happy life. I've had him since Jamie brought him home at about three months of age. Jamie had found him, a kitten, abandoned on a country road, and kept him all summer. He grew into a beautiful long-haired domestic, with a good touch of Maine coon in him. One friend, a cat lover, called him the world's most gorgeous cat. Beautiful as he was, he also has been a sweet, affectionate creature, craving love--not a mean bone in his body except the time he was enraged at another cat and bit me when I tried to pick him up. I made three long trips to ER from that experience, but it's another story.
Wynona is not in good health. He has kidney disease and a diaphragmatic hernia, which means his intestines are up in his chest cavity, stressing his heart and lungs. Last week, I had to have him shaved--he was covered with mats, some so large and close to his skin that they must have pulled and caused pain. After he was shaved, he looked like one of those skinny old men who needs suspenders to hold up his pants.
I guess it was the shaving that did it, though he seemed all right the first few days. But about three days ago I couldn't find him. He didn't come out to eat, didn't sleep on my bed and demand to be fed at 3 a.m. He didn't eat, and he barely used his litter box. By yesterday, I thought when I came home in the afternoon I'd have to start searching closets for a dead cat. Instead he was by the back door. He still wouldn't eat, and he yowled a bit but then he went back to his hiding place and stayed there.
Last night he slept on my bed again and I woke and took him to eat about two a.m., carrying him on my shoulder, but he ate nothing. This morning he showed some interest in food but again refused to eat. But when Jacob and I came home from school he was sunning himself by the back door, and he ate just a bit. I've been putting food and water by the closet where he hides, and the food disappears. I do have to be watchful to be sure the dogs don't get it, but they haven't.
Wywy has already used up two lives with similar behavior--once when I subjected him to the indignity of a flea dip and, more recently, when I brought the puppy home. I don't suppose he has all six or seven lives left, but I am now waiting to see what happens. Signs are encouraging. I didn't rush to call the vet because in my mind Wywy (his nickname) has signed a DNR or I've signed it for him. One of these times, probably sooner than later, it will be real. But I don't want to make the decision for him. So I'm waiting and watching. Cross your fingers for Wywy--and me, please.

Falling into a routine

After two-and-a-half weeks with the new pup, my days have fallen into a routine--not a good routine, mind you, just a routine. In the morning I feed the cat, take the pup out until she pees, then lock her in the bathroom while I take Scooby out and feed him, Then back to the bathroom to brush my teeth, gather my towel, hairbrush and comb and the pup and proceed to the kitchen, where I feed her, wash dishes left from the night before--usually a wine glass and a water glass-and wash my hair. Towel my wet hair and comb it back to dry. The trick here is to get the pup back outside to poop without disturbing the older dog--some days it works, some days it doesn't.
Then on to the office, where Sophie, full of energy, runs amuck, chewing on everything but her numerous toys, and I spend a lot of time refocusing her attention. Aftr an hour or so, she runs out of steam and naps. My clue to hop up, make the bed, water the plants, etc. When she wakes, it's time to take her out again, and then depending on my day return to the office or put her in her crate so I can run errands.
Lunch and dinner provide similar juggling acts--take care of cat, older dog, and pup without letting them cross paths because they don't do well together. I'm hoping that will change when Sophie is older and not quite so full of energy--but, omigosh, does she have energy. I bless the days that Jacob and Jordan come and let her run wild in the backyard.
Am I writing? Well, not much. But I have finally, with lots of help from a friend, ordered bookmarks, and by myself I designed a flyer for the signings that will also do as an "If you're oiut of town, here's how to order" flyer. I'm keeping up with emails, writing blogs, including a few guest blogs, and generally trying to be professional about life. I've 2,000 words on a new novel, and every morning I think I'll get back to it, but it's like the weather forecasts: they keep telling us that in three or four days the temperature will go down into the upper 90s, but when the time comes, it never does. And now Hurricane Don is not only going to miss us, it's not much of a hurricane anymore.
I know my days will change and grow easier as Sophie grows older but right now I just keep reminding myself what it was like to have a new baby in the house. Except new babies didn't chew everything in sight (including my hands and feet) with sharp little teeth. Tonight, she destroyed the handle of a wicker basket, which I quickly took away because those little slivers could get in her lungs.
Sophie is truly an amazing, loving little creature--but she's not a placid dog. I said I wanted a dog with spirit, and oh boy, did I get her!

Cat in a closet

Last week I was convinced my 19-year-old cat, Wywy, was trying to die. He ate little on Wednesday; Thursday he disappeared and ate nothing, though I put food, water, even milk out. Thursday night I was convinced I would wake up in the morning and find him dead somewhere. I woke up early worrying about it--and there he was sitting in the doorway to my bedroom. But he still wouldn't eat. I discovered his hiding place--a closet where I store extra blankets on the floor. He's burrowed himself a nest. I emailed Jamie, whose cat he once was, and we decided to make him comfortable and assure him he was loved. By Saturday noon I was sure he was on his last legs--he has major health problems--and I geared myself up for the inevitable call to the vet Monday morning. Saturday afternoon, for no reason, he came out of hiding and began to eat voraciiously. He went back to sleeping on my bed, even walking on me when he thought it was time to eat; if I got up in the night, so did he, asking for food. He began to sleep on my bed in the daytime. I'm not sure if this was a fit of pique over the puppy, his way of protesting, or if he perhaps used up one of his nine lives. He did this once before, after he was flea dipped which he considered a huge insult. Today he's still himself, though not eating quite as much. But he sleeps on my bed and greets visitors, so I guess for a while all is well.
Meantime, Sophie the puppy has discovered how to climb out of her playpen. The only place I can confine her is her crate and I hate to do that too much. But this morning when I cooked, this afternoon when I napped, and tonight when I needed some Scooby time, she was crated. She had a high old time when two friends came for dinner and spent much of the evening playing with her, but she's always ready for more. I may grow old before this is over, but we really had a better day today. Our best times are when I work in my office, and she can play or lie at my feet. When she's sure of company, she settles down and lies quietly--so lovely. I hope it's a forerunner of times to come.
Scooby has made no progress in getting used to her and seems to look grayer, but maybe that's the contrast to a black puppy. Or maybe he needs another summer haircut.
More from the animal kingdom later.

Cats, dogs, and grandchildren

My cat is 19 years old. Last weekend, son Jamie who found the cat as a kitten and brought him home, was here and asked why his breathing was labored. I realized that I'd seen his sides really heaving and when he sits on my desk, I can hear a squeak as he breathes. Put my ear to his chest--scientific, no?--and heard rattling. A call to the vet resulted in a likely diagnosis of asthma or allergies but they should see him. Nothing so simple, although no pneumonia. He has a hernia in his diaphragm, so his intestines are all pushed up into his chest, making it hard for him to breathe. Solution is an expensive, difficult surgery, which we aren't doing for a 19-year-old cat. After all, he's the equivalent of 99 or so in our life span. The problem may be congenital but if so, how did he live such a long and happy life. I'm betting it happened recently, for who knows what reason? Something we'll never know.
My dog is also aging--12, but that's getting on for an Australian shepherd. Abused before I got him, he periodically develops new fears. These hot days I bring him in after lunch, so can nap in the cool. Suddenly, he's afraid to come in the house. Today was the worst. He looked at the door, looked at me, stared off into space. I left the door open and went back into the kitchen. He came in but when I went to close the door he beat me outside. I tried putting a treat just inside the door--he snatched it and went back outside. I left and forgot about it for a while. Finally when I tried again, after much coaxing and loving talk, he came hesitantly up the stairs and in. None of this seems to bother him at night, when he comes right in. I wonder if the heat is making him crazy.,
I've had Jacob the last three evenings--at least he has no serious illnesses and no fears. Two of the three days I've picked him up at school--and woken myself from a deep nap to do it. Today I was so sleepy that when I got him home, I went back to my nap while he,exhausted from playing at day-care, watched TV. But we have peaceable suppers and good companonship. This is all training for next year when I'll get him at 3:00 every day.
Oh, and then there was the major car repair. Nope, it hasn't been my most peaceful week nor one full of accomplishment. Hope everyone has a good weekend--stay inside and stay cool.

Somebody please align the planets

My newspaper horoscope today said to let go of pet projects, something I've actually done with a bit of success. But I haven't gone deeper to explore the alignment of the planets and what it means to someone of my sign, Cancer. I don't need to--I know they've been out of alignment for several days.
Yesterday I had to take my car for repair--one of those annoying little warning lights went on. $500 later and at the end of the day I got my seven-year-old VW beetle convertible back, supposedly good as new. Meantime, in the early morning I ended up with five-year-old Jacob, so I took him to the dealership and then shopping with my friend Jeannie. This meant a lot of transferring of the booster seat--not a major problem, just an annoyance. At Tuesday Morning, Jacob spent at least thirty minutes in the toy aisle, walking up and down, commanding, "Stand right there, Juju," and then putting his hands to his head and saying, "Come on, Jacob. Buy something." He finally settled on a really cheap $2.99 toy, which he promptly left at my house.
I had not one but three social engagements last night--and they all fell through. First, two good friends were to come from out of town so I could cook them a gourmet meal and we could have a sleepover. One had a death in the family, and they had to cancel. Then I was invited to a dinner party, with my contribution to be guacamole. I had made a large batch of guac when the host called to say he had gout and was cancelling. I gave most of the guac to my neighbors. They were going to a neighborhood BYOB party and invited me, but by the time I got the car home I decided it was hot and I was tired. Truth be told, I was in a funk.
Today started off better, and I was all geared up to take the cat to the vet. With cats, if you miss that first attempt to put one in the crate, you might as well give up. Yep, I missed, and the cat was on alert. So instead I gave him his hydration treatment, for which he was quite docile--I think he's getting used to it. Then I ran by the vets to exchange their crate for a larger one and went to a TCU luncheon featuring a TCU Press book. While there I discovered that I have double-booked myself for lunch Friday--one appt. at 11 and one at 12. I'm going to camp at the restaurant and the noon people will meet me there. Jordan called to ask if I could keep Jacob after school. A friend had unexpectedly lost her mother and Jordan would be making an extended sympathy call. So I expected her to bring him about 4:15 and happily went to get a nap before that. At 4:30, I woke with a start and called to see where she was--at the friend's house. Where was Jacob? At school. The part of the message I didn't get was that I was supposed to get him. So I rushed off to the day-care, which is only across the street.
Tonight made up some for the confusion. Betty and I took Jacob to The Tavern, which we have discovered is one of our favorite restaurants. She and I split deviled eggs--we'd done that last week and loved them--and then an order of scallops with salad. Jacob had a grilled peanut butter and banana sandwich with lots of good thin fries. Christian came and met us at the restaurant, so I took Betty home and came home to settle down.
Tomorrow doesn't promise to be much better--take the cat to the vet at nine, meeting with a web designer at ten, lunch with a good friend at 11:30, pick up the cat, and come home and prepare for class that night. What can possibly go wrong? A whole lot!

The puppy that wasn't meant for me

I've been noticing that Scooby, my now twelve-and-a-half-year-old Aussie (if my math is right), mostly sleeps day and night, especially if he's outside and it's hot. Inside, with me for company, he's more alert, but I think he's bored, and I've decided he needs a buddy. He may not agree, but we'll see. I found some adorable pups on the humane society web page and off I went to see them--with Sue, who had gone with me to "interview" a collie for my friend Gayla (Gayla now adores that dog!). These pups were seven weeks old, a Shih Tzu/terrier mix, and the one featured in the photo looked more much Shih Tzu than terrier. To my amazement--and Sue's expectations--there were several other people waiting to see the pups. We filled out applications and three of us all decided we wanted Marcie, the little one whose picture drew me in. The woman in charge drew names out of a hat--literally--and to my relief, I didn't get the dog. She was so tiny! And she had so much training ahead of her. I couldn't have left her out in the yard or anything. The other three pups were more wiry and terrier-like--they didn't call out to me like Marcie did. So we left puppyless.
My official line is that I'm waiting for the Lord to put the right dog in front of me--and believe me, I'll know when it's the right dog. But I admit I'm helping a little by surfing the web, making some inquiries, etc. Scoob meanwhile is lying on the floor looking at me as if to ask, "What are you up to?"
Meanwhile, there's Wywy the cat. I tried--twice--this evening to give him an infusion and really did better than before, but one time I didn't have the cat low enough below the IV bag. I'm honestly not sure how much liquid I got into him, but I tried. And now the bag is empty. I'll get refills and try again next week.
I've also spent much of this afternoon and evening fighting with Google, trying to build a new web-page. So far, Google has won. Upshot is I have two new sites established, and I'd like to delete both of them but can't figure out how. I'll keep working--or maybe shove the whole thing and try a new host. Google doesn't seem to have any support at the other end of the phone and, for me, that's a real handicap.
My horoscope says something about my intense personal magnetism today--between dogs, cats, and Google, it doesn't seem to be working.

Cats and diets and writing

For those who were kind enough to express concern about my cat, I'm glad to announce that he's doing much better. A visit to the vet this morning showed that he's gained 6 oz. in the last two weeks, and everything about him is better, except that he still has just a bit of his bladder infection. In general, the vet said he's doing well and I may get to keep hydrating him for two years. My second attempt, done without moral support from anyone, was relatively easy--I arranged everything (like an OR or something) before I went to get him. Occasionally while the IV flowed, I'd feel him tense to jump, but I just held firm and talked softly to him. We made it through 2 cc. I did that yesterday, feeling it wasn't fair to inflict on him the traumas of an infusion and a vet trip in one day. Is he grateful? Who can tell? He's a cat.
I promised some time ago not to keep blogging about dieting, but I can't resist saying this: I have gone off Weight Watchers. I told my doctor I was worried about my weight (even though I'd lost weight the day I saw him) and his advice was essentially to quit obsessing about Weight Watchers. So I quit. I joined a free site called LiveStrong (sponsored by the Lance Armstrong Foundation) that counts calories, exercise, and how much water you drink. I haven't learned to enter my exercise or water consumption, but the calorie lesson is a whole new thing. Raspberries and bananas were point-free, but they're sure not calorie-free. Eggplant is close to being calorie-free. But I'm not going to obsess about it. Tonight I had an antipasto plate with a side of asparagus risotto--and I have't checked the calories. Who can figure out an antipasto platter, and I'm sure I don't want to know about the risotto--but it sure was good. And wine and chocolate? They're really high in calories--there is no justice in this world! Honestly feeling a weight off my shoulders. I'll report from time to time.
I'm in a writing quandry. My desk is clear of projects--oh, yes, there's that second novel to revise. But in the next few weeks several family things will take me away from desk time, so should I start revising now, knowing I won't finish? I've been waffling, reading novels, doing busy stuff, but I think I'm going to get serious about starting the revisions. Of course then there's my memoir class tomorrow night, and Jacob the night after, and Mother's Day. But I'm tired of being without purpose--it makes me antsy. (Yes, it's a compulsive nature.) And besides, I would really like the second novel to come out on the heels of the first.

Anticipating what you already know

Do you ever read a book or see a movie for the second or third time and still find yourself getting anxious as the scary, climactic, whatever part of it approaches? That's what's happened to me tonight--I'm doing the absolute last read-through on my mystery, and as that climactic scene approaches, I'm distracting myself, turning to other things, etc. I don't know if it's because the scene always scares me a bit--it really does--or because I'm afraid I'll see the flaws in it. As I've read through, at this late stage, I've thought of totally different ways the plot could go, pieces that I didn't think worked, etc. I guess I'm at the point of chewing it to death and I best get it done and back to the editor. But the part about reliving the tension of the scene holds true too. Years ago I wrote a short story, "The Art of Candle Dipping" (now free for download on Smashwords) that affected me that way. The story garnered some acclaim, and I found myself reading it aloud to an audience on more than one occasion. And darned if I didn't cry each time. Other people's books do that to me but I'm not sure what it means when your own writing makes you emotional--is it ego, a sign that you like your writing, or, praise be, a sign that it's pretty good? I have no idea, but I'll have to wait for reaction to this particular ending. Meantime I'm almost through with that final edit . . . and itching to lose myself in reading something by someone else.
My big accomplishment for the day: I hydrated the cat. Gave Wywy 2 cc. of Ringer's solution subcutaneously. Moksha, the wonderfully kind and gentle petsitter, came to watch and help--and he actually got the needle onto the tube, so I have to learn to do that before next week when I do it alone. It went pretty well, except early on in the procedure Wywy decided he'd had enough and bolted from my lap, a move I wasn't expecting. In the flurry of the moment I didn't think it through and thought he'd go running off still attached to the tubing and bag of solution. I bolted after him, and nearly tripped over the tubing. Moksha meanwhile, had a much calmer head--after saving me from tripping, he turned off the drip. The needle, of course, had slipped out of Wywy's back when he ran. I retrieved a now-angry cat, Moksha put a new needle in place, and we proceeded. I was ready for the tensing of muscles that would indicate a break for freedom and kept a firm hold, all the while talking softly and encouraging. We finally got the 2 cc. into him, and then I fed him--showing him I wasn't mean.
Betty and I went exploring tonight and split a really good deli sandwich and each had cole slaw. Really reasonable meal, although the wine was pretty weak. Decor meant for a motorcyle gang--I swear the waiter looked at us as if to say, "What are you two ladies doing here?" I was glad when another older couple came in. Not a place we'll go back to, but we drove by a place I've wondered about for a long time. I came home, looked it up on the web, and decided it must be our next dining adventure.
Colin called tonight and we talked a bit but then I said, "Oops, Betty's here. We're going out to dinner." His response was, "You have a much busier social life than I do." I do hope he's glad his aged mother isn't sitting home withering.

Good friends, good food

I fixed the best spaghetti ever tonight--pardon my modesty, but it was so easy and so good. I got the recipe from Mystery Lovers' Kitchen, where I believe it came from guest blogger Wendy Lyn Watson, author of ice cream shop mysteries who lives in North Texas and will be visiting TCU this spring. I'm looking forward to meeting her. The original version was vegan with Gimme Lean sausage, but I used grass fed beef.
I discussed the meatballs in the last post. The sauce is simply diced and crushed canned tomatoes (a large can of each), a small can of tomato paste, 1/4 cup red wine, and basil and oregano. True plain Italian taste without fancying it up. Made the sauce last night and refrigerated it. This afternoon, I stirred in the meatballs and put the whole thing in the oven to cook. My guests munched on provolone, Genoa salami, and gherkins (maybe an odd combiantion) until I boiled the pasta and called them to dinner. Served a huge green salad, bread that no one ate, and that was it. Good dinner.
Better conversation. Bright, literate, involved people. We talked about everything from cats (all cat lovers, which Wywy took advantage of) to constitutional theocracies and a lot about the current state of the Episcopalian church, since they are all members and Katie is active on the national council. We laughed and told stories and generally had a good time.
Note the new picture on my blog (how can you miss it?). Taken at the Botanic Garden by my friend and neighbor Polly Hooper, who was dismayed that even the evergreens at the garden are brown. She took lots of shots, but I liked this one because I thought it made me look happy, which I am.
Wywy gave me a scare today. I left the office to find he'd thrown up between the living room and dining room. When I went to clean it up, I saw him (and heard him) lying on his side in the door to my bedroom on the wood floor--totally unlike him. This is a cat who likes soft surfaces. He was meowing pitifully. I picked him up and found he left behind two pieces of poop (fortunately not on me). I loved on him, then set him down to see what he'd do. He was wobbly, but then seemed to get "at himself." After a bit, he was asking to be fed, and I noticed he jumped up for his food and then up to my bed. Tonight he's the same old self. One possibility: a tummy distress, though I can't think whate he ate. But I'm also wondering if cats have mini-strokes. He showed all the symptoms. I'll call the vet in the morning just to ask. Wywy is almost nineteen, and I know his time is limited.
Good day. I'm tired and going to read a bit, then go to bed.

Finishing a project

There's something  unsettling about finishing a project--a sense of triumph, yes, but also a moment of almost bewilderment. What will I do next? I sent off the rough draft of my Texas food book to the editor today--if she likes it and I end up with a contract, there will be a lot more to do. But for the time being it's out of my hands. Oh, of course I'll find snippets and recipes here and there that I want to add, but  for the time being it's done. And I wait.
Meantime, I can go back to my novel--no wonder the poor thing suffers. I work on it for a while, then abandon it, then have to go back and pick up the threads, each time hoping I'll have an epiphany about where the darn thing is going. I know roughly, but I'm really plowing through this first draft. Then there's the project my agent told me about--but I've heard nothing from him again or the publisher.
My mom always used to tell me that the Lord works in mysterious ways, and I am convinced over and over that it's true. Today, when I sent that first draft, the editor wrote back and asked if I'd be interested in co-authoring a book. She has a project, about women in the American West, that really interests her but needs some help. I replied of course I'd be interested. So, maybe, there's my next project.
Meantime, it's a busy week ahead, and tonight, with no project on my desk, at least no immediately active one, I'll read a mystery. There's been some posts on the Sisters in Crime listserv about what you do when you finish a project. Suggestions range from starting the next one to cooking to taking a vacation. My answer? Read a mystery.
Fixed a nice, light supper tonight. Some of that good tuna I get from Oregon, with chopped red onion and tomato, basil, capers, salt and olive oil. Yumm! I ate more than I thought I would. Did a bad thing (for the cat but one he liked) and drained the tuna water over some kidney diet cat food. Talk about self defeating! But Wywy was happy.

My father's words . . . and cat report #3

When I was about 20, my parents were departing on some trip (they traveled a lot) and at breakfast my father looked at me and said, "Judy, if anything happens to us, you will take care of Jenny, won't you?" Jenny is my cousin in Canada, maybe three or four years older, bipolar though I've never known the actual diagnosis. At the time, all I could think was "Nothing can happen to my parents!" But now all these years, his words come back to haunt me. I have not seen Jenny since I was about 14, and we spent some time together at my aunt's cabin on the lake the family had called home for years. But my aunt declined and was no longer able to take care of Jenny (and has since died), so for the last three or four years, I have had power of attorney and managed Jenny's affairs. She is in a provincial nursing home, where they seem to love her quirky personality and put up with her neediness. Yesterday I had to cancel her daily companion--it was costing more than Jenny's pensions bring in. And her trust funds are dwindling (though in provincial nursing homes, they take care of you no matter what). She has been diagnosed with breast cancer--thank heaven for Canada's socialized medicine. But still I am trying to be a responsible steward--and it's hard long distance. I cannot understand Jenny on the phone, so I have given up on phone calls. Occasionally she dictates a notes to someone to send to me. Both the companion and the nursing home staff member who is my contact have told me how often Jenny talks about her dear, dear cousin Judy, asks about my children, etc. So today I sent her a copy of my cookbook/memoir, with its pictures of the children and grandchildren. And I resolve to write to her more often. I've just been absorbed in counting the pennies and ignored the human factor, and I'm a bit ashamed.
Meanwhile, for those who are following my cat report: Wywy is better today, sleeping on my desk, etc., begging for food--but not eating. So this morning I bought a can of whitefish in tuna sauce cat food (I know tuna is the worse thing for an older male cat with even mild kidney disorder, but . . . .) and I bought cottage cheese, which I know she loves (but I'm afraid will give her diarrhea). She is scarfing them down, so I've lost all my cat food principles. I'm going to start trying to mix in the kidney diet food gradually. This is the fourth day since her traumatic visit to the "spa."
Tonight Jeannie and Betty and I had dinner at Betty's Star Cafe. Jeannie and I split chicken fried steak (who could eat a whole one?) and I was stuffed, could barely touch the mashed potatoes with cream gravy that I had longed for. Thoroughly fun, though I'm full and feel like I've fallen off the calorie wagon.

Hard thoughts on writing, some memoirsand some critters

If you follow this blog at all, you probably know I am about 12,000 words into a mystery. I keep putting it aside for other things, even while I read all those posts on the Sisters in Crime and AgentQuest listservs about persistence, keeping after your writing, writing is hard work, etc. As I sit at my desk, trying to drum up free lance projects which require more research than creativity, thoughts flit through my head about that mystery--how to toughen it up, make it different from the thousands of cozies editors see every day. And then I go back and rewrite that first 12,000 words. It occurred to me yesterday that I am running away from the hard work of writing, looking for the easier, distracting chores. I used to know a historian who said, "A page a day is a book a year." Some days I'd do six or eight pages, and then coast on my laurels. But I think I'm going to go back to Don's advice--I'm going to write something new on that novel every day. You see, last night I rewrote again--the characters keep taking firmer shape in my mind, which occasions all that hard rewriting. Even now I've thought of something I didn't rewrite last night and have to, if things are going to work out the way I think they will.
Right now I'm reading a book with a wonderful title: I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti. The recipes are good, basic Italian, and I'm enjoying it. Author is Giulia Melucci. Just finished It is Well with My Soul, the autobiography (with a co-writer) of 106-year-old Ella Mae Cheeks Johnson, the first black woman to receive a masters from Case Western Reserve University (in social work). It's a good lesson in communication and parenting--words are everything.
Critters: Yesterday morning I glanced out the front door and saw something with a long hairless tail scooting across the porch. Having been invaded by rats a couple of years ago, I was really apprehensive. It proved to be a possum--I think that's who's (or what's) eating Scooby's food when he doesn't. Later when I went down the driveway I saw that the possum had a buddy. I'm not much on judging the size of possums, but I thought these were young. My neighbor said he had no idea either. When I was unloading groceries later, one came quite close to investigate. I shooed it away gently--what would I do if it got into the car to investigate my groceries? I know when cornered they can be mean, so I surely don't want to corner these.
I finally found a reasonable bird feeder that looked squirrel proof and hung it in the yard yesterday, but so far no birds.
But I had a cat underfoot all day. My fussy eater smelled the chicken I was cooking and would not get out of my way. Finally I put a few scraps in her dish and poured a bit of broth over it. She lapped it up, but today I was cooking vegetables--not her deal at all--and she was still underfoot. If I wanted her in the kitchen, she wouldn't deign to be seen there. "Dogs have masters, cats have staff."
Good dinner tonight with company--my successor as director of the press and his wife. We had wine and salmon tartare on the porch--hot as it's been, there's a nice breeze. But we decided dinner indoors would be better because of the noise of the traffic. My cold supper was a hit--the chicken loaf was good as was the roasted vegetable salad. Nice company, a pleasant evening.

A contented cat

This is a contented cat, sleeping happily on my desk, where he prefers to spend most of his time. Wywy (full name Wynona Judley) is 18, an old man now. When he was a kitten, Jamie found him on a back rural road in Minnesota and named him Wynona Judley. Only months later, we learned he is a he not a she, so now we have pronoun confusion--he, she, it. It doesn't bother Wywy a lot, but it bothers us--Jordan hates it when I say he, and half the time I say she. We are pretty sure he's part Maine Coon and is surely the most affectionate, attention-needing cat I've ever known.
Today is my brother's birthday. I won't give away his age, but he's six-and-a-half years older than me, so you can figure it out if you want to. I called early this morning with birthday greetings, only to find out I owe him a public apology for last night's blog. He never thought I had a brain tumor--that was my interpretation of what he was saying (give me a little medical knowledge, from having been around doctors all my life, and I am dangerous). What John didn't realize was that I don't have an awkward gait when I'm not suffering from my fear of open space--I walk as well as anyone else (and probably more smoothly than he does, since he has that sort of bowleg-old-cowboy gait). He thought I had some neurological deficit, but I assured him that isn't true. When I'm confident, walking next to someone, I can walk with the best of them. Anyway, he's a wonderful brother--I looked long and hard at brother b'day cards but they were all so sappy I couldn't buy one. And as I told him, nothing jumped out at me and said, "John would like this for his birthday." So he may get a present in May or July. Who knows? But I am delighted to see him, at an age he never thought he'd live to see, happier than he's ever been in his life.
And speaking of age, I visited my friend Charles last night. Since he's been on the nursing care floor of the retirement home, he's gained almost twenty pounds and is one happy, bright camper. Friends from his Unitarian church were there, and we had a really fun time visiting. Charles is a delight and an inspiration.
Lovely wet day with slow, drizzly rain that really did a lot for the plants that Greg put in yesterday. I spent the morning cooking (what else on Sunday?), but it really wasn't much. I put together a tamale pie casserole that I'd made the sauce for last night--you make it with polenta instead of masa. And I made a pot of Reva's good beans (Reva was Charles' wife) and took both to neighbors Margaret and Dennis Johnson for a going-away party for Sue and Alex and Hunter. The Johnsons are wonderfully hospitable in a beautiful house, and it was a really pleasant evening.
But I'd spent the rest of the day doing stuff--running and emptying the dishwasher, riding my stationary bike, showering, checking emails, and, of course, reading. Then lulled by the rain I had a good nap and was up and ready to go to the 4 p.m. party. Jay and Dennis came to get my casserole and pot of beans (the latter was really heavy), and Susan walked across the street with me. I managed to send the rest of my casserole home with Christian (Jordan stayed home sick and Jacob arrived wearing her boots and a cowboy hat--wish I'd gotten a picture of that!). I also sent some beans with him but brought quite a bit back with me.  So I've got leftover to start the week, but they are non-fattening. I don't want to talk about all the cheese in the tamale pie, but it sure was good.

Cats and Company

My eighteen-year-old cat, Wywy, has developed strange new habits. I know cats always pick one spot and return to it for a time, maybe months, before they move on to another. Wywy used to sleep on my feet on the bed, but no more--I miss the warmth. Wywy (we have gender confusion here--for the first almost year we thought it was female but now know that he's a male, still we can't stop calling the cat "her"--so bear with me). She has decided the absolute best place in the world to be is my desk--when I work on the keyboard she lays her paws on my arm, then gradually moves onto the keyboard, where she sometimes causes all kinds of havoic. Reading the newspaper is impossible--she lies in the middle of it. And she licks my arm and hand and occasionally takes a nip, which I prefer to assume is a love bite. Occasionally it's a bit stronger, though she never breaks the skin, but I swat her when she does that. When I push her away with determination, she cleans herself--on the desk where I eat a lot of my meals. Not an appetizing thought. I have learned to lock her out at breakfast, when I eat cottage cheese, and lunch, when I often eat tuna salad. She stalks both.
Because of her age, I decided that feeding her on the top of the bathroom drawers was impractical. I started doing that to keep Scooby, the dog, from her food. She used to jump up on the seat inbetween the sets of drawers and then up to the counter where I fed her. Lately she just jumps up on the seat and stares at me, waiting for me to boost her all the way up. So I started putting her food on the floor--figuring I could keep the dog away from it because he has set habits that don't include the bathroom. Well, I put fresh food in the dish on the floor, and she jumps up on the seat and looks at me. I have to pick her up and physically put her down by it. She will actually walk by a dish of fresh cat food to jump on the seat. As I told someone, I don't think she's the brightest star in the sky.
My friend Elizabeth told me they used to have a small set of stairs that they put up by the couch (when they were still letting their dogs on the couch) so the miniature dachsund could climb them to get up. One day she was vacuuming and put the stairs against the wall. The dog climbed them and then looked severely puzzled, like "Where is the couch?"
Company for dinner tonight. I'm on a kick of comfort food, partly due to budget and partly due to the cold weather. So we had meat loaf (I have the best recipe ever!), brussell sprouts cooked with bacon grease (good heavens!), chicken broth, and brown sugar, then sprinkled with crumbled crisp bacon and a cheese-rice casserole.
My friend Barbara gave me this recipe. She and I went to high school together in Chicago, but she has lived in Jackson MS forever. This was from her stepmother, and she calls it Luella's Rice. You mix 1 cup Minute Rice (absolutely the only time I use the stuff), one can cream of celery soup, one cup sour cream, one cup grated cheddar, and one can green chilis. Bake it for 30 minutes at 350. Delicious, not good for you, but I did use Healthy Choice soup and low fat sour cream.
Lovely lively company tonight--my neighbor Sue and my friends Gayland and Katie. Gayland had a harem, but he didn't seem to mind the talk about kids and school and all that. Katie's grandchildren and Sue's youngest child go to the school across the street from our house, and Katie uses my driveway to pick up her grandsons. We all interrupted each other, laughed a lot, and had a jolly time. It was nice to sip wine in front of the fire. I'm a happy camper tonight--and I haven't written a word. Back to that tomorrow.

Thoughts on rewriting

As regular readers of this blog know, I've been putting off going back to my second mystery for some times now--yeah, even months. The manuscript sat there like an accusing stack of papers, saying "Look at me." But I am a master at putting things between me and something I dread doing. Saturday I decided instead of reading someone else's mystery, my time--and I had a lot of it that day--was better spent reading my own novel. So I dug in. And you know what? It wasn't half as bad as I thought it would be. I think the thing that kept me from it was a deep, hidden conviction that it was beyond rescue, so bad, with so many holes in the plot that you could drive a truck through, that I really should throw it away.
Well, that wasn't true. Yes, I saw holes in the plot, places where people's motivation didn't hold up, places where coincidence played too big a part. But it wasn't beyond hope. I made editorial notes like crazy all weekend and am ready to dig in and edit--except that this is a busy week, filled with all kinds of other things from health appointments to lunch to staff meetings, plus cooking for my Christmas party.
But what I decided is that the first time through on a novel, you just write, whatever comes into your head, and a lot of it doesn't make sense. But when you go back, it makes more sense than you thought, and an adjustment here and there, a beefing up of this person's motive and that person's story, makes it much better. Even after I make all these editorial changes, I'm not done, and I know it. But I've taken a gigantic step, and I'm really happy about it. And I think the novel iis good.
When I write articles, I always know that the first draft sounds like an idiot wrote it, but I can fix it. Why didn't I believe that about novels?
So cold and wet in Texas today. I rushed off to a doctor's appt. this morning, then at lunchtime my friend Carol came with cat carrier to help me take Wywy to the vet for a checkup (expensive!), and we met a friend of hers at the Tokyo Cafe for lunch--great sashimi and great company. Home for a nap, shower, bike ride (indoor of course) and to pick up one indignant cat. Then dinner with Carol and Kathie--our early Christmas dinner and gift exchange. Lots of fun. Kathie is rushing off to Georgia Friday to greet her first grandchild, due to be delivered tomorrow. She's as excited as can be, and I'm happy for her.
'Tis the season for great joy--even in sloppy, cold, wet, Texas weather.

A S unday brag

I just have to brag: my son Jamie completed his first Ironman Triathlon--a swim (1.2 miles), a bike ride (56 miles,) and a half-marathon (13 miles), all longer than the sprint and mid-triathlons he's been doing. Jamie did it in 5 hours 29 minutes and looked great in pictures Mel took at his finish. I forget the times of the winners but they were professional athletes. I am very proud of Jaim and just a bit relieved he came through in such good shape. Thanks to Mel for posting on Facebook at the end of the race. The race was--oh, surprise!--at DisneyWorld in Orlando, so they'll stay the rest of the week to let the girls "do" DisneyWorld (and the adults too). They took Maddie when she was three and a half (and Edie was something like six months) so in a sense this is Edie's trip--and Jamie's.
Meantime I was running a race of my own this morning with Jacob, who woke up early and wet. I got going slowly to a chorus of "I want" and decided we must teach the child to say "Please may I have . . . ." The other thing I'm trying to teach him is that if he wants me he should come find me and not stand in he playroom and shout, "Juju!" over and over. Finally once when he said "I want to sit here on your lap and watch TV," I countered with, "Well, I want to go put the clothes in the dryer," and he said, "Oh, okay." I wish someone had been here to take a picture of me at my desk with Jacob on my lap and the cat in my face on the desk, each of them glaring at the other out of jealousy. Jacob firmly believes cats should not be on desks or tables, but I can't convince Wywy at this age. Jordan came for an early lunch, they went home, and I piddled--re-organized the front porch, emptied trash, put fresh linen on my bed and Jacob's bed, etc. and finally took a nap. Had no-point veggies for supper so I'm going to treat myself to a small piece of chocolate, sit on the porch for a bit (may be a bit cool again) and then come in and write. Life is good.

A contented cat

This is Wywy, sleeping on my desk. Usually when she's on my desk, she's in my face (often asking for food) or her tail is swishinh back and forth over my keyboard--makes working difficult. But this afternoon, she was sound asleep, didn't budge when I took the picture. Wywy, now 18 and in good health, is a mis-named cat. Jamie found her as a kitten on a rural road in Minnestoa where someone had put her out to die. He brought her home and kept letting her roam free (I'm a big believer in indoor cats because they have such a much longer life span). I kept telling him not to let her out because she'd get pregnant. When he finally got together the money to take her to the vet, I said, "I don't know why she hasn't gotten pregnant." The vet, by then an old friend (we'd had a lot of animals while the kids grew up and Jamie was then in his early 20s), said, "I can tell you why." Okay, it's hard to tell the gender of cats, but Jamie was embarrassed and said, "Mom, this story never leaves this room." Of course, since, he's laughed about it. But by then we were in the habit of referring to Wywy as "she." When I say "he," Jordan says, "You know how I hate when you do that." Sometimes I refer to her as "She, He, It." When Jamie left home I told him he could go but he couldn't take the cat--she's mine. She is the most affectionate cat I've ever known (never mind that once, enraged at another cat, she bit me when I foolishly picked her up--a bad bite requiring ER trips). She loves on everyone who comes to the house and has particular favorites and particular fans. After some research, I am pretty sure she is part Maine Coon, and they have a reputation for gentleness and affection.

I'm back to watching Weight Watcher points big time, having realized that last week I exceeded my daily points every day but one, although I didn't use up all my bonus points--just a good bunch of them. (I think maybe there's a misleading safety cushion in those points.) Charles is fond of Susan and Melinda in my office, and they think he's wonderful, so today we met him at his favorite restaurant, The Black-Eyed Pea, for veggie plates. The waitresses all know him, and when I saw we were going to be late, I called and asked if Charlie was there. They quickly said yes and told him we were on the way. He was in fine fettle and we had a great time. I refrained from squash casserole--that stuff really costs a lot of points--but had carrots, green beans, black-eyed peas, and mashed potatoes without gravy. Did a trick I learned from Melanie, the southern belle in the family, and put the peas on the mashed potatoes. So good. But my appetite must be shrinking--I couldn't eat it all. Tonight I grilled a quarter lb. of salmon in my Foreman Grill (a wonderful invention though I rarely use it for anything but salmon) and had steamed fresh spinach with lemon. Delicious--and I had enough points left over for a bit of chocolate.

So tonight it's on to write a bit more on the novel and go back to reading my Libbie Custer novel--the difference in voice is still amazing to me.

Pimiento cheese

Pimiento cheese is definitely a southern thing--I don't ever recall having it or knowing of it until I moved to Texas some forty-plus years ago. But, not being a pepper lover, I sort of avoided it. Then I tasted it tentatively, and now every once in a while I want some. I always buy it in the smallest possible container and end up throwing most of it away--one sandwich or a half sandwich and I'm done. I never served it to my children as they were growing up, and Jordan says to this day she doesn't like it, probably because so many of her friends' mothers tried to urge her to eat it.


The other day though in Southern Living I encountered a recipe that sounded really good and decided to try it. Of course, I doctored it a bit. It called for a jar of roasted red peppers--forget that! And by mistake I bought the smallest jar of pimiento, so I had half the amount specified for the amount of cheese I had. Where it called for chopped pickled jalopeno slices, I sort of guessed at the amount. I know Melinda in my office makes her spread really hot, and I always presumed she used quantities of Tabasco or chile powder, but the jalopenos sounded good. The recipe also called for cream cheese and just a touch of mayo, plus a mix of sharp and mild cheddar. It's hard to make because you end trying to process a really stiff ball of food. But I had a sandwich today for lunch, and it was really good--a much smoother texture than what you buy, and because there were more jalopenos than pimientos, it had a nice bite without the pepper taste. Of course, most who like jalopenos would say my spread is so mild that you'd barely know the jalopenos were there. I was sort of pleased with the result. I'll see if Jordan will taste a bite tonight. (She did, says she still didn't like it, but she really wants to like pimiento cheese--go figure!).



We took Jacob tonight when we took dinner to Jeannie and Jim and sit on the patio with a glass of wine--Jeannie's patio always has a breeze when no air is stirring anywhere else. To encourage Jacob about a car trip, Jordan kept saying, "We're going to Jeannie's!" So in the car he kept saying, "Jeannie's, Jeannie's." He was not the least disappointed. He thought Jeannie was wonderful, and he discovered porch swings for the first time--also thought that was wonderful.


I'm weary with mysteries tonight, thought I appreciate, Bebe Bahnsen, your comment--I did read tonight a lot about the serial killings of elderly ladies in Columbus, Georgia in the '70s. And I do think there will be a serial killer in the new novel. But the AgentyQuery list has me sort of discouraged. I may call a couple of old friends in publishing tomorrow and see what they say--one an editor of westerns and one an agent, with whom I long ago agreed to disagree. Wonder if he's forgiving? When I read and learn on these websites, I realize I was never very smart about "planning my long-range career." I just wrote and waited to see what would happen. Now, at this late stage, I must move beyond that. I would think I have a lot going for me--publication history, awards, memberships, etc.--but who knows in this world what that means. Meantime, I'm reading about Scotland.



My old cat got very finicky today. He wasn't eating, whereas he's usually after me every hour on the hour when I'm home to feed him. So of course I went from frustration at him to worry. I threw out the food in his bowl and put in fresh. No interest. Finally I gave him some straight "people" tuna, which is the worst thing you can give a cat with incipient kidney disease. He loved it, and after that he began to eat. So now I have this can of tuna in the fridge. Do I give it to him? Will he be spoiled and refuse to eat anything else? Do I throw it out? Owning a senile cat is not easy, folks! Here's a picture--not very good--of Wywy. Jacob adores him; Wywy hates Jacob. Wywy's name is Wynona--but after he'd had that name for quite a while, we discovered "she" is a he. To this day, I have a gender pronoun problem and often end up saying, "He, she, it." If I say "He," Jordan, who is so used to "She" says, "You know I hate it when you do that!" Actually, Wywy is a lot prettier than this picture. He has a huge, fluffy gray tail, and he can be very sweet.

A stalking cat and the dilemma of publishers, booksellers, and authors

My cat, at age 17, has become a stalker. He's always been affectionate and used to get on my desk and rub on my arm until he got a little love, but now he stalks. He sits on the end of the desk and stares intently at my dinner while I'm eating--as though willing the food to jump off the plate and to him. Tonight I locked him out of the study and enjoyed my supper in peace. When I'm in the kitchen he stares at me accusingly. He skulks around under the kitchen cabinets, looking for crumbs. The whole thing is he's hungry. His teeth are so rotten that he can no longer eat the dry food I used to leave out all the time. Now he eats the special kidney-diet canned food from the vet--read expensive there. Now I would give this aging friend all the food he wants--he deserves it at his ripe old age--but he wants fresh food every time. It's a delicate balance to give him enough but not too much--if it's left in his dish, even for an hour or two, he scorns it. My Scottish genes are too strong. I'm not going to throw out a perfectly good hunk of expensive food. So we're at war. I've won the early morning battle, I think by kicking visciously when he started to stalk me in the bed. Now he waits until the dog gets me up, and his dish is always cleaned of every little bit. So I know he can do it. Meantime, I alternate between feeling angry and guilty.
The Sisters in Crime blog is very informative and educational, and it's gotten me to thinking it's hard for both publishers and authors. Something I read last night made me think it's not wise to publish with the first independent small press that shows an interest--just when I was thinking okay, if a press likes my mystery and will do a decent job, I just want to see it in print. Agents don't want to look at you after you do that, and bookstores likely won't carry your book because it's probably nonreturnable. Ah, returns, there's the rub.
Bookselling is the only business I know where retailers can return unsold stock. My son Jamie is in the toy business, and the man who mentored him in that business, married to a publisher, used to rant, "Returnable! That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Once something is sold, it's sold." But it isn't. Returns are a long-standing tradition in publishing, and since "big chain" stores rely on them, we're not likely to get it to change. But the blog mentor today, a bookseller, pointed out that if a publisher tries to push a book on non-returnable terms, he reads that as a signal that the publisher doesn't have real faith in his title. But for publishers, returns are a nightmare, especially in January or February and midsummer when stores clean out their shelves to prepare for a new season.
And what does this mean to an author? Well, a publisher may be reluctant to take on a new author, envisioning cartons of returns. And if you publish with a small, independent press, your book will probably be sold nonreturnable and bookstores won't be anxious to carry it because who knows if they can sell it
Writing the book is the least of the problems, but it's where I'm stuck. I have one mystery ready to go, featuring a real estate agent who renovates old houses. It's out right now to one agent and one indie publisher. Should I work on the sequel? Should I start a new book--maybe I could achieve more depth, and it seems logical with my background and interests that I write about cooking--but there are so many mysteries about cookiing, what can I do to make mine stand out. A dilemma.
I'm reading a lot of fiction right now.

The trip that wasn't and other things

Tonight I should be on a plane to Scotland. It left, without us, at 5:20 from DFW. By now I've grown accustomed to the missed trip and almost put it behind me, but the day does have a certain poignancy. Jeannie's husband is doing well, will be moved from ICU to Progressive Care tomorrow and probably to a rehab facility late in the week. He's out of the woods, and that is the greatest blessing. And, I must confess that excited as I was about this trip, I am not a comfortable traveler. It was a challenge for which I'd worked myself up, so now I have that feeling of "Whew! I don't have to worry about getting on a long flight across the pond." Granted, excitement over the trip was a much more dominant emotion that uncertainty about travel, but that element is still there. Jeannie said Jim looked at her today and asked, "Is this the day you were going to Scotland?" and when she said yes, he said "You'll go later." We will, and maybe the exchange rate will be better. Meantime I've got a new book to read: The Creaky Traveler in the North West Highlands of Scotland: A Journey for the Mobile but Not Agile. Boy, does that fit me!
I've read my first novel on my Kindle, amazon's hand-held reader, and I liked it a lot. I had stockpiled books on it in preparation for Scotland and now decided I should start reading them. So I read an Aurora Teagarden mystery called Real Murders and got hooked on it. Found the Kindle every bit as easy to read as a book, though I'm sure I'm underusing it. I keep meaning to read the directions but that hasn't happened yet. Also anticipating Scotland, I'd sloughed off on the projects on my desk, but tonight I worked on my chapter for Grace & Gumption: The Cookbook and tomorrow I'll get back to being seriuos about Scots in Texas. I don't like not writing. Writing is a whole big part of who I am.
My cat and I are at war. He wants fresh food every time he's hungry, while I maintain he should eat the perfectly good food that he left behind in his bowl. I even take a spoon and fluff it up so it's easier for him to eat. Sometimes he doesn't even check the bowl. He just comes to stalk me, sits at my desk and stares at me forlornly. If I get up for anything, he leaps head of me and heads for his food dish. Now I know he's old--sixteen, I think--and needs indulging, but he's carrying it way too far. There was a period when I thought he was fading--his once luxurious tail looked like a rat's tail, he was thin, and he just didn't look well. The vet couldn't figure it out. But I sent the fantastic pointsettia I'd had since mid-December home with Melinda for her to plant, and Wywy improved quite quickly. His tail filled out; I think he gained a little weight; he was interested in my tuna fish and scrambled eggs and almost anything I ate. No poinsettia next year!
Speaking of food, I was in the doctor's office last week and I've gained eight lbs. So I'm cutting down on the outrageous amounts of butter I've been cooking with and cutting out the chocolate sundae I loved in the evening. No more Girl Scout cookies in the afternoon. And pretty much I'm off red meat, though not a strict thing. I bought a ton of vegetables when I shopped this weekend. My goal is seafood and vegetables--sounds good to me. Oh, yes, I'm off cottage cheese. Once before I quit eating cottage cheese and lost so much weight my brother was alarmed. But these days I'm not eating so much of that for breakfast and am eating oatmeal, which is supposed to make you lose weight. If I'm gaining because of oatmeal, I'm going to feel really cheated.