Cecelia Cat

I remember the afternoon quite clearly. My husband announced from his recliner of command, “A kitten keeps walking back and forth by the patio door. I’m going to feed it.” Please understand that up until that moment we had enjoyed a season of blissful freedom from pets.

 

“Sweetheart, I’m sure the cat belongs to someone. If you feed it, it’ll stay.” I might as well have been whispering in a windstorm. He fed it. It stayed.

 

 

During our married life, we have had too many pets to count, dogs, cats, birds, a ferret, and salt water fish to name a few. We have a shelf in our store room completely devoted to animal supplies to prove it: dog shampoo, flea spray, flea dip, tick control, flea combs, collars, leashes, a Pooper Scooper, food bowls of various sizes, toys, fish tanks, pumps, filters, nets, tubes, gravel (why on earth would anyone save gravel?), various bottles of medication, brushes, bird cages, perches, grit (small gravel); ad infinitum. We could take online bidding to a whole new level with our start-up, PP of PP, Pleasing Plethora of Pet Paraphernalia.

 

It became Cecelia, who became Ce Ce. When she selected us she couldn’t have been more than two months old. Please understand, Ce Ce is a beautiful cat. Her satiny black and white coat and the way she kneaded my husband’s paunch like bread dough, all the while purring like a Harley at a stop light, won our hearts.

 

 

The next day we restocked the shelf with new equipment: cute little furry mice toys, cute little feathery bird toys, cute little sparkling balls, cute little—well, you get the idea. Walking down the hall during the day became an obstacle course; at night it transformed into a mine field. If you don’t believe me, try feeling your way to the bathroom in your tender bare feet, barely awake, through coal mine blackness, and stepping on a plastic ball filled with tiny bells. The ball cracks and thin plastic shards find a new home in your instep producing an amazing display of long forgotten Marine Corp vocabulary. I wonder if my husband, just for an instant, regretted that generous first bowl of pussycat food.

 

Ce Ce adores my husband. He sits and pets her while she massages his soft middle and rhythmically rumbles. The responsibility fallen to me is that of food supplier, personal trainer, and maid. Ce Ce soon learned that the family she so carefully selected could be easily controlled. My husband would pet and snuggle with her whenever she jumped up onto his lap. I would feed her whenever she meowed and bit my leg. I need to clarify that only a millisecond passed between the warning meow and the calf crunch, not enough time to race to the cupboard, open a can, and plop it in the bowl. Perhaps it had to do with the food. I tried anticipating Ce Ce’s bouts of hunger, repeatedly switching brands, and finally researching cat food on the Internet. Reeducated after an hour of surfing and studying, I learned that cats in their natural state are carnivores that eat raw food, such as birds, mice and lizards. Enlightened, I decided to make cat food using the BARF diet. I’m sure that BARF is an acronym (perhaps Basic Awfully Raunchy Food), but I’ve found it to be a relatively exact description the  inclination I feel after making up a luscious pan full of BARF. The best BARF contains ground bones, rather than ground bone meal; therefore as responsible cat owners it behooved us to purchase a $200 grinder. Into the grinder go pounds of raw skinless chicken thighs with the bones, chicken hearts, chicken livers, egg yolks, and lots of vitamins. Out comes red slop; BARF. Stir it all together, bag it, and freeze it and you won’t have to go through the process for another week. Ce Ce likes her BARF and is prospering on it. She has grown into a beautiful large cat.

 

 

On the way to becoming large, Ce Ce went into her first heat. Now I’ve seen cats in heat before, but Ce Ce does everything with gusto. Our tender tabby became possessed with a passion for prowling. She traveled from door to window caterwauling in earsplitting tones that produced the same inner response as would Howard Hughes’ fingernails dragging over a chalkboard. Male cats perked up their ears and descended on our borders from the entire neighborhood.

 

 

I approached my husband regarding the matter. Bless him; he rewarded my best persuasive efforts by agreeing not to let Ce Ce out. After all, one cat proved more than enough. Leaving the house required a carefully devised plan of escape. One of us would distract Ce Ce with a toy, food, petting; anything while the other ducked out the door. Petting her lost its attraction. If you just touched her she immediately pushed her backside high in the air in your direction. No, thank you.

 

Once again, I hit the Internet, this time researching feline estrus, and learned that the psychotic event can reoccur as often as every three weeks. I called every vet in the area for an appointment for Ce Ce to be spayed. They either charged prices that would make my credit card company salivate or couldn’t offer a date for eons. In desperation, I turned to the county’s spay and neuter service. Their prices seemed fair and they offered first come first serve procedures. So, as soon as Ce Ce returned to sanity, we set our alarms for 4:30 am. In the pre-dawn hours we packed up Ce Ce, drove to the facility, and waited by the locked gate.  Surely, this would be the day. It wasn’t. Three other motivated cat owners materialized from nowhere and beat us out. Disgruntled, I spoke to the attendant who granted us the golden appointment in three and a half weeks. What ensued was a bureaucratic mess.  It turned out that the county commission had just voted to turn the facility over to the humane society. In the interim, my appointment slipped out of their computer and the new phone service hadn’t yet been connected so I couldn’t contact them. Meanwhile, Ce Ce went into heat again, in less than three weeks. Apparently sensing that I was up to no good, she intensified her flirtatious efforts, but this time the human won. She passed out of heat on the day of her renewed appointment.

 

Did I mention that Ce Ce awakens ready for three things, food, a trip to the litter box (where I fulfill my role as maid) and vigorous play? Demanding that we arise and comply with her desires by scratching voraciously on our recently painted bedroom door, Ce Ce leads me to the refrigerator where I grab the BARF and slop it in her dish. By the time I’m dressed, she’s ready for some exercise. I’m expected to “bowl” select toys down the hall in her direction. She hides around a corner and pounces out just in time to catch the object.

 

 

I run and grab the toy and the game begins again. We both get a good workout. If I should take too long to begin aerobics, or if I quit too soon I stand the risk of a full fledged attack. We’re talking blood here. Ce Ce attacks not only with her sharp little pointy teeth, but claws envied by Edward Sissorhands. My husband remains unscathed, but somehow my legs offer a special appeal. Is it that they resemble pre-BARFed chicken legs?

 

 

Ce Ce’s not vicious by nature; she simply wants to make a point: Read my mind or you’ll wish you had. Once again I hit the Internet searching under “reading a cat’s mind”. I learned that you can tell a lot by their body language, particularly by noticing their ears and tail. Laid back ears and twitching tail means head for the hills. I also learned that you should talk to your cat. So I did.

 

 

Since our little talk the relationship has improved greatly, in direct proportion to my improved powers of observation. We spend a lot of quality time together and I really love Ce Ce, but sometimes do I wonder who’s whose personal trainer. What do you think?

Morning Joy

Restless, I turned toward the window. A bleary awareness of light penetrated my sleep anesthetized mind. Morning.  Reluctantly, mechanically, I crawled from my warm nest and performed the perfunctory grooming tasks before pulling on my jogging clothes. A drink of juice and out the door I strode. In the predawn hush I stretched and then turned toward the park. The earth waited in quiet reverence, still tucked in the womb of the morning. Already, the eastern sky glowed with the soft fuzz of a ripened peach.  Hurry, I thought, the magic’s about to begin.

As I swung into the park my stride slowed, for a vision of wonder grew before my eyes.  Fog rose from the tranquil lake waters and crept up and over the lawn softening images of immovable oaks and gumbo limbo. The tightly wrapped bud of a wild morning glory peeked from a lakeside thicket and relaxed in eager anticipation of the sunrise. 

Ever so gradually rays from the still hidden sun played a visual symphony of splendor upon the sky. First, dusty periwinkle blue clouds glowed with edges of fiery tangerine. Then, shafts of golden light spread upward reaching toward the western horizon.  Suddenly, the white hot sun burst into view washing the atmosphere in hues of deepening ruby orange. The earth blushed with the radiance of fresh light as it threw off its misty shroud.

On cue, the trumpet like morning glory unfolded. A field of diamonds spread across the grass sparkling in the growing light. I began to run. A flock of white ibis, flushed from their mangrove beds, took wing whirring past me, their flight feathers gilded with sunlight.  A red-bellied woodpecker churr-churred for his mate as if to say, “Come, this tree has the tastiest bugs.”  Tiny grass skippers flitted across the field seeking out miniature flowers rich with nectar.  

 

   

 

 

 

My feet beat out a cadence, a heartbeat of rhythm that said: clean, fresh; new. Thoughts ricocheted like ping pong balls in my mind as I jogged to the other side of the park: one more chance, a fresh start, a new outlook; restored energy for another day.  As the sun mounted high on morning’s wings, three brightly colored hot air balloons floated under baby pink and blue puffs of cloud.  I imagined myself floating so high above yesterday’s issues and today’s challenges. Could I too see with a new perspective? Yes. Morning joy had given me that confidence. Invigorated and ready, I turned back toward home.   

 

  

 

 

 

 

I can fly!

 I’ll never forget the day my husband challenged me to learn to fly. I’d just finished a ride in a very small private plane that ended with me cradling my head on my knees and begging the pilot to “Land, please. Anywhere; just land!” After that terrifying and equally humiliating experience, my husband who purported to love me, wanted me to—take flying lessons?

The short of it is that a bit of feminine pride forced me to accept his dare and, yes, I did learn to fly. I even got my private pilot’s license. It’s an accomplishment that has helped this faint-of-heart to affirm again and again, at least metaphorically, “I can fly!” This Cessna 150 looks just like the one I soloed in.

Today, I’m launching myself into the air once more, this time as a blogger. The prospect has chewed at the recesses of my mind for months and I have successfully suppressed it, until now.  Armed with my laptop, fueled with research on blogging hosts, and all practiced up on other people’s sites, I think I’m finally ready.

There’s so much that I want to share with you.  I’m in love with life. Every morning I awaken to the gift of a new day. It’s a fresh page filled with surprises, challenges, discoveries, and so much to learn.  Two of my current passions are writing and photography. I’ve waited through motherhood and a career for the opportunity to pursue them. Last summer I quit my job so I could do just that. Since then, I’ve finished writing a children’s novel and joined a camera club.  

My book is about a North American river otter born as one of two pups in the secure recesses of a verdant tree island hammock in the Everglades.  Nurtured by his mother and inseparable from his sister, a series of calamities tear at his self-confidence. His strict father, whom he idolizes, accuses him of negligence in his sister’s life-threatening encounter with an alligator. Shortly thereafter, his father abandons the family to travel with a male otter pack.  A monster hurricane destroys the otters’ den sending mother and pups on an Everglades wide search for a new home. Arriving in the Pinelands, an angry panther and a lightning s parked fire separate the young otter from his mother and sister. Lost and alone he continues his journey, a quest for love and self-identity. The first picture below was taken in the Everglades and the second on my patio. Otter John, of Wild Florida Productions, Inc. generously brought two of his otters to my home just so I could observe them at play in our pool. Visit him and all of his amazing animals at his website: http://www.otterman.net/John%20Bio/bio.html .

 

   

I love the natural world that unfolds before my eyes each morning. It’s a dream and a challenge for me to capture that beauty with my Nikon D40X digital camera. Right now I’m in the transition between point and shoot and photographic artistry. Little by little I’m experimenting with Photoshop Essentials. Through my local photography club I’m learning and growing. The members are knowledgeable and friendly. Each month we have two meetings. At the first, photos taken to fit a specified category are judged and critiqued.  Out of that, two photos are chosen, one judged best of show and one chosen by the members.  The second is a program meeting.  I always leave those meetings challenged and motivated.  Kat Silverglate, the inventor of photocrylics was one of our recent speakers. Check out her fascinating website:  http://photosbykat.net/about/ . Field trips both near and far invite our participation. Here are a couple of photos that I have submitted at club meetings for critique.

     

I would love to hear from you.  You might like to comment on my blog or share your interests with me. That way we can get to know each other.