Moving Day - or - Why People Suck, Part 2-Gazillion

So last night I'm driving up our street, which is one of the main roads in town (actually the old "river road" that goes back to Colonial days), Princess and I are chatting away when suddenly, nay mercifully, I see a flash out of the corner of my eye and slam onthe brakes. Here's why:

This sweet little boy ran across the road and damn-near under my tires. There were more cars coming, no time to get out, so I opened the door and said "C'mon puppy!" He hesitated for less than a second and came flying into my lap, trembling. I checked - he had a collar that had obviously been his for awhile, but no tags, no phone number written on the fabric of the collar, nothing.

We were less than a block from home, where the traffic dies out a little, so we went home, gave him a snack and some water, and then took him for a walk up and down the street hoping someone would be looking for him.

No luck.

So I called the local animal hotline, nobody there 'til Tuesday. (Budget cuts, dontcha know.) Called the non-emergency police and fire number, and they said I'd have to turn him loose or hang on to him until the shelter opens. Called the local SPCA (they will scan strays for chips) but they are also out until Tuesday. So we had an overnight guest. This is the sweetest little poodle-y guy...timid but clearly eager to please, and also flat-out terrified and panicked between the near-death-by-car encounter and being 'jacked by unfamiliar humans.

When we gave up looking for a bereft owner, we came home and soothed him. He climbed into the Princess' lap and after he stopped quivering, he passed out. He ended up sleeping with Therese, first in a nest she made from an old blankie, but somewhere in the night he hopped up into her bed and snuggled under the covers with her. When she got up for school, his head was on her spare pillow. This is a doggie who was loved and who loved his people. So what happened? How could such a gentle and nice little guy be out and about with no id and no one looking for him?

Easy. It's the last weekend of the month. Moving weekend. In our old town, there are lots of big old, historical houses - some on our road going back centuries to the Colonial era, followed by the ubiquitous Victorians, Cape Cods, Prairie, Four-Squares, Craftsmen, horrid 50's-70's split-level ranches....you name it, you can see the styles grow "younger" as you head further out from the center of town. (Ours is a Roaring 20's wealthy banker-real estate mogul's house, so we're on the edge of the city/township line). Many of these older houses have subsequently been divided up into apartments, indeed some were originally built to be boarding houses. (There are still original cement and iron hitching posts and mounting blocks in the front yards!)

Anyway, the last weekend of the month is when people move out of and into these dismal half and quarter-house apartments. Cats and dogs are thrown out like so many broken lamps and particle board entertainment centers...and left to fend for themselves. I have no doubt that this poor little dog suffered that same fate - he was decently but not recently groomed, hungry, thirsty, and way out of his element. No pets allowed at the next place? Sorry Curly, you're on your own. But what if I'm wrong? I can't (and really shouldn't) just take in a dog from the street - what if his owner really didn't take his tags off the collar and turn him loose?

I called a friend at the police department to ask what I should do - he sent an Animal Control officerette to pick up "Curly" for a 72-hour hold on the off-chance that someone cares enough to look for him. They will call me before making any more "final" decisions about what to do with him.

Well, friends...what do you think I should do? The Golden Retard and Labradork didn't seem to mind him once the ritual butt-sniffing and eyeballing took place....although Jack was not amused in the least. I think he was actually marking his jugular and other vulnerabilities so he could take him out if needed. They are roughly the same size and weight.

It's a cat-eat-dog world, after all.

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Darn right, says Jack....

Half a second too late

Quick Jack update:

He is so happy to be home! The second we let him out of the cage he got thoroughly inspected by the hounds...as if his manliness hadn't been violated enough over the past week, getting rolled around and tag-team-butt-sniffed by two massive dogs all night had to be the absolute limit...but he purred and rubbed noses with them anyway. He traveled back and forth between my lap and the beloved's until bedtime, when he came upstairs with us and curled up in the down blankies. The girls each reported feeling a warm gray lump on their feet in the night, and then this morning, I found him in the baby's room, asleep at his station on the rocker near the crib, with his head resting on a pair of socks he'd brought in to feed his "furless kitten." Yep, our heroic provider is back. I grabbed the camera but the creaky wood floor ruined the moment and woke him up.

He's still moving a bit slow, but is eating and doing his business, as it were, in a proper manner.

Still reviewing my French for my subbing gig, which starts tomorrow morning. I am so glad I took this week off for the conference I decided not to go to!

Calling all Jack fans...

UPDATE #3: 9/22/08: Jack is home! $700 and a th0roughly distressed bladder later, we are on a "wait and see" regimen. Thanks so much for all your prayers and warm wishes for our furry little baby-sitting, sock-slaying kittyman.

UPDATE #2: I have no idea what has happened, but update #1 from yesterday has disappeared! Anyway, Jack's still in the kitty hospital. He managed to remove his own kitty-catheter overnight last night, so was in rough shape again this morning. When the vet put it back in, Jack took it right back out. (Take THAT, Foley!) He is on 3 types of sedatives (anti-spasmodic, anti-anxiety, and a tranquilizer) to prevent a repeat, as well as IV antibiotics. The problem is not crystalline, it's blood clots and there could be permanent scarring and even more narrowing...which makes him very susceptible to these in the future.Poor, poor kittyman. We may bring him home Sunday or more likely on Monday.



...my poor Jackie is in emergency kitty surgery right now. He was fine and did his 5 am "wake humans up for breakfast" ritual yesterday morning, followed by the normal "sleep all day" regimen, but failed to show up for his usual "romp all evening with humans and doggies" routine. Happens every so often. Instead, he remained in the basement all night, throwing up, and when we found him curled up in a pile of laundry this morning, he could barely walk. So far, they are thinking some sort of intestinal blockage coupled with a UTI.


The vet was astonished at the rapid onset, could not catheterize him without really hurting him, and so they whisked him right away to knock him out, empty him out and see what's going on.


The Beloved, for all his USMC bravado, is a very tender vittle when it comes to the livestock. He's texting me about every 30 seconds. I am so worried...

Meet Jack...again!

YESSSSS!!!!!

I managed to get a few seconds of Jack between naps and "kills" for my maiden Mino post. As my dear Digi would concur, I reserve the right to annoy the crap out of you with cute kid and critter videos. ;-)

P.S. Steph, OH YEAH! I am SO using this for work...and the attendant writeoff, of course! (I will have to redact my Coldplay lullabye CD on the Amazon receipt, however...)

Jack the Cat

Meet Jack.

We love our animals around here. Loving your critters has its price, however. On my 37th birthday, I had to put my darling 15 year old black cat, Payton (yes, I am from Chicago!), to sleep. I adopted him from a shelter in Tucson, AZ. He was my baby before I had babies. He endured the additions of a husband, 2 kids, 2 dogs, 2 birds, and 9 moves - the worst being the last one - from So. Cal. to freezing cold Upstate NY. He killed a scorpion that had crawled into the Princess' bassinet when she was 10 days old. He slew all manner of insects, lesser reptiles, and rodents that dared to enter his domain, and in his last year, he leapt off the table and caught a bat in midair in my dining room. He had a stroke and went blind in the weeks before we had to let him go. It was horrible. We all stood together and wept at the vet's office, all touching him as he left us, and I held him in my arms, sobbing, for a few hours after he was gone.

A year went by, and I'd sworn off felines (Payton's adopted brother, Montana, had died shortly before we moved here, having been hit by a car after he escaped out a screened window...3 surgeries and $2500 later, he died anyway) forever. Did not want to commit another 15 + years only to have it end in that kind of heartbreak again. Then, one day, I went to get Wiley the Cookbook eater his medication at my vet's office. My vet works out of an old house he converted into an office. It is always immaculately clean, and I am struck by the fact that it has no animal-y smell. But this particular day, it did. BAD cat pee smell. I asked, and was told that it was free SPCA neutering day, and he'd done 12 surgeries on depressed male cats. I heard yowling from the back room.

Now, these canny vet ladies know what a sap and sucker I am...so they let me go see and pet the poor little guys. Immediately, this handsome grey face shoved out at me, alternately crying and purring. They opened the cage, and he jumped right into my arms, shaking with the combination of the effort, pain, and meds, and staring up at me with gorgeous green eyes. A young adult male, bones sticking out everywhere. I gave him some ear scratches, he burrowed his face into my hand, and from the nurses, I heard an "Awwwwww...." I immediately sensed treachery, and handed him back. They asked me if I was interested, I said NO and headed for the door.

"Reeeaaaallly?"

"If they can't place him in 2 weeks, call me."

So the SPCA calls me a week later and asks if I'd like to come visit him and make a donation. "Oh, all right."

I get there, and FIRST, they introduced me to his wife and kittens - she was a gorgeous silky black-haired thing with two little grey, and two little black puffballs, all with green eyes, nestled with her. GORGEOUS. But apparently, in addition to being the "wife," she was also Jack's mother - he was the cutest of her first litter, so they kept him, but did not spay or neuter either of them. (What did they expect?) The whole incestuous bunch were dumped at the SPCA by the disgusted owners. They were sure they'd place the babies, but not so sure about mamma kitty.

Then I got to see Jack, a few cages over. He was still scrawny, and he was wheezing. Not recovering well from the surgery, they said. He had a respiratory infection, and was on antibiotics, but was not rebounding. They'd separated him from his babies, and being a very "proud Papa," he was beside himself, being able to see but not be with them. I held him and brought him over to see the family, and he licked noses and rubbed faces through the bars. They told me he was sweet and "unusually nurturing" for a male.

Again, it was time to get out before I got involved. I'd dropped off a big bag of food and another of litter on the way in, whipped out my checkbook on the way out, and dashed for the door. "Still want us to call you if we can't place him?"

"Oh, all RIGHT!" as I fled..."and the rest of them, too."

So a week goes by. I get the call. Babies were all taken (I was pretty sad, actually, they were SO cute!), but Jack and wife were not having any luck.

"I'll be there tomorrow."

Went out, got all the supplies, and went to get the lucky couple...but Mamma had been taken an hour before by an elderly couple. So I got poor scrawny, sickly, bereft Jack.

Dogs tried to eat him, just once. (He took one half-hearted swipe at each nose and they folded). Kids came home from school and FREAKED with excitement. He stuck to me like glue, and just did not seem to be getting better. He took two more rounds of antibiotics to shake the infection, and finally started to gain some weight.

Summer came and went...then there was that wedding referred to in the "Year and a Day" post below...and Jack underwent a change. Not pleased to meet the Beloved, as he seemed to consider himself the man of the house. He became quite bold, almost protective of me. Even after the Beloved went back overseas, he remained clingy. He followed me everywhere, sat on me every time I stopped moving, and ran in front of me if the dogs came too close, staring them down. After a few weeks of this odd behavior, I awoke that fateful morning after drinking with my friends with a pair of red socks laying next to my face on the pillow. Odd. Jack was on or near me all day as I languished, sick as heck, until my friend teased me and I ran out to the drugstore for the pregnancy test. When I got home, there were four pairs of socks on my pillow, as well as one of his toy mice. I took the test. It turned blue. All became clear.

Each day, and each night thereafter, I had ritual gifts of hosiery left for me on my bed, in the bathroom, and if we were not careful to close our sock drawers or put away the folded laundry, I'd come home to a trail of socks leading me up the stairs and to my room. The record was 23 pairs. Without fail, the RED socks would be the tastiest treats left on my pillow. I have to believe he thought these were the nicest, bloodiest, and most full of protein. He slept at my feet each night (Beloved was still in Kuwait) and never left my side.

After the baby was born and while I still nursed, the sock slaying continued, but half would be delivered to me, and the other half to the floor next to the bassinet. He moved his sleeping spot to the corner of the bed closest to and right above the bassinet. He never went in it, he just stood guard. He now sleeps in the baby's room on the rocking chair next to the crib. The room is routinely filled with tiny socks, while the big socks still come to my room, just in case we have another "ugly kitty" on the way.

Jack is simply awesome. A bit odd with the sock fetish, but endearingly so. And he's a full, robust 12 lbs at 3 years old now.

Kitchen Tragedy...new project

BAD DOG!

Meet Wiley, the Golden Retard.

5 years ago, a year after we lost our first doggie boy to bone cancer at 8, we adopted him from the So. Cal. Rescue Retriever Society - a great organization. It was akin to adopting a child - we had to give personal and veterinary references, had our home inspected by appointment AND by surprise...it took about 2 months to complete the process.

Wiley was physically abused and locked outside all day by his former owners. He dug his way to freedom, escaped, was caught and put in a San Diego City shelter 5 times before his owners were fined into submission and were finally persuaded to give him up. His bottom front teeth were worn to the roots from gnawing on his chains and fencing. It took him a year not to cower at sudden movements, or at the sound of the beloved's deep voice. He immediately attached himself to my oldest for sleeping, and me for shadowing during the day. We almost renamed him Eeyore, at first, because he had such a sad, guilty look and sense of impending doom about him until he learned to trust us. Still does on days like...last Sunday. More on that in a bit.

He has only done a few really "bad" things since he came to us - tore up a beloved Raggedy Ann doll, got half of my favorite pair of Birkenstocks and did the same to a pair we got in London for the beloved, got all the Christmas candy once, and on occasion has been known to snout his way into the pantry to hunt and kill boxed goods, like mac-n-cheese, instant oatmeal packets, rice, and a kid-did-not-properly-screw-on-lid peanut butter jar. But all in all, he's been a wonderful addition to the family. After we moved here in 2004, we got him a little bitch buddy (aka, Lilli, the yellow Labradork) to dominate and that made all the difference - perked him up and made him all manly and alpha male-y, and gave her an adopted uncle to torment and take out all her puppy energy on. They have been living in neutered bliss ever since.

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So last Sunday, I pulled out my binder with all the old family recipes in it to make a cake - my great-grandmother's recipe, an old "ditto" (purple ink - remember that?) copy on yellowed paper that I've had since stealing it from my mother back in high school. Left the binder on the kitchen countertop, went to 5pm Mass...and when I got home, the binder and all its contents were torn apart and strewn on the kitchen floor. I was (and am) heartsick. I can get most of the recipes back from my mom, sister, and great-aunt...but the old handwritten versions (even though many were dittoes and xeroxes of the originals) were special. You know what I mean, I'm sure.

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This week, one of my wedding gifts from 15 years ago - the Betty Crocker Cookbook - was unceremoniously ripped from its shelf on the kitchen island and similarly devoured. While vastly annoying, this I can replace without feeling bereft as I do about my old black vinyl binder. Wonder what the heck was dripped on those, or what prompted this after 4 years of them being in the same place?!?

Well, the answer to all of this may die with Wiley, the BAD boy, but in order to recover, and maybe get some new ideas to freshen things up in my NEW personal binder, I've started a sub-blog - "Brookside Bistro" (cute, eh?) the link's on the blogroll (right).

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I'll be posting recipes here and there on the weekends as I reconstruct my binder (finally putting these on a computer after all these years, in the event of another catastrophe - wait, that offends my cat - DOGastrophe). Please, please visit and feel free to contribute your own stand-bys. I'm not asking for Aunt Agatha's secret pie crust recipe or other such proprietary family secrets, but anything that appeals to the masses, kid friendly, appallingly bad for you but yummy, calorie conscious (for after you've indulged in the prior category...), quick, all day, anything you like. All are welcome, I hope to add to your collection, and I appreciate your help!