A dog, a cat, and a grandson

 

Sophie on the mend.
She looks pretty raggedy, poor sweet baby.

Update on Sophie: as of this morning, her pancreatic enzymes are down though not yet normal. She is better but still has a long way to go, and truthfully, she looked pretty pitiful and sad when I visited her this afternoon. I think partly she just doesn’t feel good but partly she wants to be home—she headed for the door several times. The tech said she is a good patient, sweet and docile during baths (she had three today because of a pee problem). I did tell Sophie she had a whole internet army praying for her. I am so grateful for all the prayers, concern, and care you have sent. Christian said, “Having a sick pet is like having a sick child,” and he’s so right. Sophie’s health problems have turned my life topsy-turvy.

The diagnosis is pancreatitis, and the vet is guardedly optimistic. If I got what he said right, dogs recover from pancreatitis better than people do. There is a strong possibility she is also diabetic and may have to be on insulin—we’ll cross that bridge when and if we come to it. Meantime, Soph is to stay at the vet’s clinic until Friday. As I told her today, “Only two more sleeps.”

I guess I’m pet minded today, but I discover treasures when Windows or Microsoft or whoever pops up my memories daily. Today those invisible forces sent a picture of Wynona Judley, the only cat I have ever loved. Wywy was a stray kitten on a Minnesota country road when Jamie found her—don’t ask, he was in college, selling encyclopedias door to door. He carried Wywy around in his truck all summer and brought her home—at least we assumed it was a she until the vet corrected us. Sometime during Wywy’s reign at our house, Jamie moved out, married, and moved on. I insisted on keeping the cat and had him until he was nineteen years old and had to be put down for his own sake. He was gentle, sweet in nature, beautiful, and a true gentleman. We think he had a bit of Maine Coon in him, because of his size, coat, and disposition. I might have another cat if I could be sure it would be like Wywy.

But today the vet told me Sophie does not like cats. One wandered close to her cage at the clinic, and she went ballistic. I don’t think she’s ever been around a cat that I know of. And I’ve had her since she was eight weeks old.

Kegan chatting with George Mitchell

My grandchildren are pretty cute too. The Tomball Alters spent a day in a nature reserve in The Woodlands (Houston suburb, a planned community, for those of you outside Texas). Along the way they came to a statue of George Mitchell, and Kegan, my youngest grand at fifteen, decided to have a chat with him. Kegan’s mom sent me the picture. Immediately I had to find out who George Mitchell was, so I went online. The first entry by that name was a two-time senator from the State of Maine who held several other government positions. Didn’t seem likely there would be a statue in Texas. But then I came across a George P. Mitchell, who had much to do with improving fracking (as an opponent of fracking, I’m not a lot impressed by that). But he was also apparently the force behind the development of The Woodlands. He had ten children, so the children on the bench with him are some of those ten. Kegan hasn’t yet commented on what they talked about.

We’re done with turkey! Oh, there’s enough in the freezer for soup, including the broth that Christian made from the carcass. Jordan is put off by the idea of cooking a carcass, so the soup will wait until late January when she travels. I’ll fix it for Christian, Jacob and me. (Not sure where she thinks the meat comes from if not the carcass, but I won’t pursue that!). Much as I love the traditional turkey holiday dinner, I am glad to move on. Last night we had a pork tenderloin that I was only medium happy with—if I could find a recipe I really liked, I’d be a happy camper. It just doesn’t have enough fat to make gravy, and yet I find sliced tenderloin dry and a bit bland.

Tonight we had sockeye salmon—the deeper orange color is a real contrast to Coho or King salmon, but then so is the price. So we had sockeye, with an herb topping, which I didn’t think was much, but Jordan and Christian raved about. Central Market didn’t have watercress which I think is the basis of a good herb sauce, so this one had too much basil. I made a cucumber salad but discovered one cucumber made a skimpy salad, so we added halved cherry tomatoes and artichoke hearts, with a yogurt/lemon dressing. That was really good!

My fixation now is on caviar—but more about that in tomorrow’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate column.

Again, my deepest thanks to all who have expressed concern for my Sophiedog!

Highlights from a stand-out day

 

Yesterday was a stand-out day because of two things. First was that friends Subie and Phil Green took me with them to get second booster shots at Tom Thumb grocery. What I dreaded turned out to be a pleasant experience. I woke in the night before worrying about it and couldn’t figure out why—in recent years I have been poked with more needles than I can even begin to count. I am not afraid of shots, so why was my antenna aquiver. When we got to the grocery, I realized it was a very long walk from the handicapped parking to the pharmacy. Told Subie I’d really like to drive one of the store’s motorized carts if I could figure out what to do with the walker. After she skeptically asked, “You know how to drive one of those things?” she volunteered to push the empty walker. So we paraded through the store—Subie with the walker, Phil led by his seeing-eye dog, and me bringing up the rear in my grocery cart. Don’t get Indy 500 ideas—they don’t go very fast at all

We got our shots after a wait that wasn’t too long. Today Phil has no after-effects, Subie has a sore arm, and my arm is tender to the touch but nothing more.

What I learned from this incident is that when I am anxious about leaving my secure little cottage, it’s anxiety about negotiating unknown territory. The walk from car to pharmacy would have taken me forever and left me breathless and exhausted. The motorized grocery cart made all the difference. In the spirit of recognizing that and planning ahead to take care of myself (yeah, that’s a hard lesson to learn), I have requested that we take the transport chair to church Sunday. It will be my first Sunday in physical church in two years, and I am mightily looking forward to it—but only because I won’t have to negotiate the walk from car to pew amid an Easter crowd. Thanks to Jordan.

The other thing that happened is that my longtime good friend in publishing, Fran Vick, sent me a picture of her with the only cat I’ve ever loved—Winona Juddley, so named by my son Jamie. I am a dog person who has never loved cats, exceopt this one who wormed his way into my heart. Jamie found him abandoned as a young kitten on a country road in Minnesota (please do not ask what Jame was doing in Minnesota) and brought him home. Wywy had an identity problem—born male, he identified as female. Or we identified him as female. For a year I kept telling Jamie not to let her out because she’d get pregnant. When Jamie finally had the money to take her to the vet, that good doctor said, “I can tell you why this cat isn’t pregnant.” When Jamie moved on with life, Wywy stayed with me—a beautiful, large, fluffy animal (part Maine Coon we think), and I adored him. I never knew until Wywy that cats could have such sweet dispositions.

This particular night, Fran had come from Dallas to support me at a program where I was being interviewed. Rather than drive to Dallas late, she spent the night. About one o’clock a stray cat came to our glass front door to taunt Wywy, who howled pitifully. So I picked him up—bad mistake. In his rage, he bit me (I am quite sure he ddn’t realize it was me), and when I lifted my arm, the cat came with it. Blood everywhere, and when I woke Fran she helpfully said, “Judy, that’s deep.”

We were in the ER until three or four, getting antibiotics and whatever. For Fran that ended that night. For me, it went on for days as I had to return to the ER for an antibiotic infusion—my hand was red and huge with infection. But it didn’t diminish my love for Wywy, though I swore if it happened again, I’d get a broom.

I had Wywy until probably 2015. When it was clear he was miserable, almost unable to breathe, Jamie came from Dallas to hold him while the vet put him to sleep. (I’m getting teary writing this). And then Jamie cradled him in his arms taking him out to the vet’s truck (it was a house call). I miss that cat to this day, and now I miss Fran because we’re older and our lives have gone separate paths.

She was director of UNT Press when I was at TCU Press, and along with Gayla Christiansen of Texas A&M Press, we called ourselves the three ladies of university publishing. We had lots of good times, plenty of sleepovers fueled by wine and good food, and now have wonderful memories.

The cat night is not one of our best memories. But both Fran and Wywy are memories I cherish.

The Short,, Happy Life of Travelin' Jack

My neighbors lost their cat, probably not quite a year old, yesterday. Hit by a car  and by the time he got to the emergency vet, there was no way to save him. Jack may have had a short life, but it was colorful.
He wandered up my driveway one summer night when several of us were on the deck--a teenager of a cat, long legs, skinny. Sophie immediately had a barking, growling fit, and this stranger of a cat retreated. But the next day he showed up on Susan and Jay's front porch and spent the day sunning himself. Susan put out food and water and for a while we all thought he was content.
But then he traveled on. Susan was fearful that something happened to him but she also knew the travelin' nature of cats. One day we heard about a cat that had been hanging around the school across the street, so Susan and Elizabeth went to look for him. The teacher who found him had taken him home but could not keep him. Arrangements ensued, and Travelin' Jack was delivered back to Susan and Jay.
Susan began an intensive campaign to semi-civilize him and introduce him to the dogs. She kept him in luxurious quarters in the basement and went down often to visit and play, leaving two frustrated dogs behind a closed door at the top of the stairs. Jack began to get venturesome and would meow at the door at the top of the steps. And then there was the day he swished his tail under the door--and one of the dogs bit off the tip. Susan expected blood all over the basement but Jack seem none the worse for the experience--except his tail was shorter.
Gradually introductions were made, slowly and carefully, and the dogs were more curious than hostile. Jack began to have the freedom of the house, and eventually he and one dog began to sleep on the bed together. After several weeks, Susan felt he was acclimated enough that he could wander around and would probably stay on the property. Apparently, yesterday, he wandered just far enough off to meet a car, but, injured, he made his way home and back to his basement security place, which is where Susan was drawn by his painful meowing.
I have long believed that we don't choose our pets--they choose us. And Travelin' Jack knew right where he wanted to be--with Susan and Jay. I think, similarly, Sophie chose me. Over the years of raising four children, I've had countless dogs and a few cats choose me--or one of the kids. And each time we lost one, it left a great, gaping hole that is slow to fill.
So all we can say is what Susan said: Travel safe and happy, Travelin' Jack. See you on the Rainbow Bridge.