Everything Sirious
I love that this book was written by two fabulous writers. I love that each one was able to portray the challenges of race relations so beautifully. I love that it’s a story about issues we face as a society today. I love the fact that love can conquer all. I loved this book – well done.
Well done. I’m not one for series books, as I read so much and base that on library availability which means I can never read a series in a timely fashion – plus I want to end each book with a feeling of completion. This is a doable series, however, in that if you only read this one, that would be fine, as it’s an entire story in itself. The writing style, and a twist at the end of course leads one to want to read the next in the series, as well it should; I assume that will be true at the end of each book. I particularly liked this story as a good part of it takes place in Rio, a place I had honeymooned and one that really made an impression on me, so much of the description hit home. A story of a search for one’s identity and beginnings, and in doing so, finding a beautiful though sad love story. Very very well done and yes, I will be reading the next in the series!
The Indigo Girl by Natasha Boyd
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Absolutely excellent book. Great writing, great story, great characters, great everything. Historical fiction taking place in the US in the 1700’s about a young girl who is put in charge of her father’s plantation holdings which are heavily mortgaged and how she turns things around. The main character champions both women’s rights and race relations in a wonderful and believable way. Really enjoyed this book.
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Out of the box experiences! The bane of having a cat. The number one reason for cats being turned in to shelters or rescue groups. Without a doubt, the most frustrating, the most common, the most damaging issue with cat ownership.
Yes, believe it or not, one of the easier ones to solve, IF you can take the time and do the detective work. And herein lies the road to returns – too many people don’t want to take the time, or don’t have the patience to try to figure out what their cat is trying to tell them. As Director of the Siamese Cat Rescue Center for 20+ years, I have scooped and monitored litterboxes for thousands and thousands of cats. Were there some whose litterbox issues could not be solved? Sure, but the numbers were miniscule compared to how many we could solve. And I mean miniscule. 20 maybe, out of, literally, thousands of cats who came in with box issues.
They are speaking to you, you know. And if we could all understand those meows, resolving the issue might be easy. But since we don’t speak cat, we must learn to understand what they are saying by doing some puzzle solving.
1) Let’s start with the basic tenets: your cat is over six months of age and is spay/neutered. What? Your cat is not spay/neutered yet? Stop reading right now, take care of that, and then, if the issue continues, read on. Females or males, if not spayed or neutered, are highly likely to pee (urine is directed downwards from a squatting position) or spray (urine is directed horizontally from a standing position) if they are not spayed or neutered. Read that again. Females will spray as well.
2) You have been to the vet and had the cat checked for urinary tract issues. You could be wasting your time spending lots of energy trying all sorts of behavioral strategies when it could be something as simple as an infection. Both males and females can get UTIs (urinary tract infections), crystals in the urine, even bladder and kidney stones (though less common). Particularly if your cat has been fine in the box, nothing has changed in the household, and out-of-the-box experiences begin, it’s time to take a trip to the vet. No one likes to spend money unless necessary, but infections and crystals are easily treated once you know about them, so rule them out first.
3) There is an issue with the box itself. Now imagine yourself at the last restaurant, concert venue or other public place you have been, and you need to use the restroom. You find where it is (was it obvious?) and you look at the row of toilets. How many of us are going to choose one that has not been flushed? Or smells awful? Or has urine on the seat or the floor? You know the drill. We are walking down the row of toilets peering in each one to find one that looks halfway clean. Your cat is no different (and arguably cats are cleaner than most humans). They don’t want to use a toilet that is full, or filthy, or smells. They want one that is clean. Because they may need to go more than once during the day, hopefully (see below) they have more than one litterbox to choose from. The box they choose needs to be clean, which means not just keeping it scooped, but keeping it odor free. This may involve scrubbing the box on a weekly basis (or as needed). Remember that a cat’s sense of smell is much better than that of a human.
4) There is an issue with what’s inside the box, assuming we’re not talking feces and urine. In other words, what kind of litter are you using? It may be nice and fine that you prefer dust-free, flushable or some sort of organic litter, but is that what your cat likes? Cats have very sensitive noses, so not only can they detect long-term urine smells, but they are also often overwhelmed by the scented litters. While many times it is possible to convert a cat from one type of litter to another, cats with sensitive feet (in particular those that are declawed) are often averse to anything that feels too gravelly or rough on their paws (pelleted litter for example). Additionally, while it may make things easier for us, many cats absolutely hate plastic litterbox liners.
5) There is an issue with location. Flash back to the public venue you were last in when you needed to use the restroom. Was it clear where that restroom was? Was it down a dark hallway that was kind of intimidating? Did you have to go up or down flights of stairs when you were feeling a bit arthritic? Was the bathroom located where it was terribly smelly, or loud, or sketchy in any way shape or form? Ideally, all of us would like to have a pleasant and relaxing experience when we use the toilet, even if it’s a quick one, and your cat is no different. So rethink locations that are in closets, down the stairs to a dark corner in the basement, behind the noisy washing machine, etc.
6) What about the type of box? Is it hooded, because you don’t want to see or smell it, but your cat is afraid of tight spots or dark places? Is it big enough the cat can get in, turn around, dig to China, and use the box without going over the edge? Does it have a high lip they have to climb over when they are old and achy? Is it motorized and makes a scary noise if they linger too long?
7) Finally, let’s talk about the number of boxes you have. Keeping in mind what has been discussed above, unless you have nothing else to do with your time other than scoop litterboxes, you likely need more than one box. The general rule of thumb is one box per cat, plus one more. This will ensure that there is always a clean box available when the cat needs to go. If you don’t have room for more than one box, and you have litterbox issues, then rethink the number of cats you take on. If you won’t use a public restroom that hasn’t been flushed or cleaned, don’t expect your cat to be happy doing so.
Cats are very clean creatures, and they function primarily by smell. They also have good memories, so it only takes one or two negative experiences to turn a cat away from a particular box or location. If the box is uncomfortable in any way (where it’s located or what’s inside of it), they are likely to pick another place to go. How likely are you to return to a public venue where you had an awful experience?
In Part 1, we’ve touched on medical considerations, as well as talking about the location and the physical box components that are important. In Part 2, we’ll discuss the environmental, emotional and psychological issues which may affect litterbox behavior. (If you like this post and want to read more, please subscribe to the blog – you will be notified when there are new posts!)
Suki. She was everything I said I wanted. Young, check. Healthy, check. Cute, check. Playful, yup. Never one to waste a minute, before my cat of 18 years had been in the ground 24 hours, I was scouring the internet for Siamese kittens. The best way to get over a heart break? For me, it was to give my love quickly to someone else. We always had multiples – several dogs, a number of cats – but Beeky had been my soulmate. He was the one who kept me sane during tumultuous teenage years; the one I snuck into the college dorm; the one who moved with me to the big city and was with me through the start of both married life and motherhood. While we had other cats, no one was able to read me like Beeky, and when he passed, I was anxious to find his replacement.
Suki came from a family breeder – not registered, nothing fancy, but certainly a decent upbringing. There were six siblings, but several had already been claimed, so I had a choice of two females – both so cute – how can you go wrong with a Siamese kitten? After careful consideration, I went for the one that appeared to be deep in thought, surely a sign that she was soulmate material. While she was young, only 8 weeks, and tiny, only 4 pounds, I figured this would give us a great start on the bonding process. Plus it was May, and as a teacher, my summer stretched in front of me with nothing much to do but focus on my new best feline friend.
It was, and was not, a busy household. I was married, but my husband worked out of state, so was only home on weekends. I had one daughter, aged 7, who was on the quieter side; while involved in plenty of extracurricular activities and friendships, very few of them happened at our home, a six acre spread out in the country. The busiest part about it was the other animals – at the time we had three dogs, a rabbit, two goats and several ducks. Plus we had several cats who had always been indoor-outdoor and were not about to convert to indoor only; with Suki, however, I was heading towards the mindset of indoor only.
So how to raise her as my soulmate cat? Well, it only made sense that some of her personality would come from genetics; I had met the parents and they certainly seemed like nice cats – no skitziness, raised underfoot, busy but involved family. I figured the rest was up to me – I needed her to bond tightly with me, and being not one to sit around much, I fashioned a sling-like pocket that I put her in while I trapsed around the house doing whatever it was a somewhat ‘single’ parent did while caring for a seven-year-old child, three in-house dogs, four cats, the rabbit, goats and ducks. Day in and day out I worked to make sure we spent as much waking (and sleeping) time together as possible. I would be her favorite person, and she my favorite cat.
And so it went for those formative three months – we were together day and night (to the best of my ability). Did you know that seal females are very smart, but also typically very independent? They can be quite opinionated and determined, and often don’t like to be told what to do. They also, in general, will fill the role of queen bee, choosing their companions – both human and feline – and blossom with routine and predictability. Despite all my efforts – and my determination to have Suki fill the role of Siri’s soulmate, she was not having it. She liked to do her own thing and was certainly not going to be told who she should bond with. She was not much of a snuggle bug, and I had wanted an ‘in your arms’ type cat. She definitely was not going to be molded into something she was not, and the ‘carry around in the sling idea’ expired the minute she figured out how to jump out of it. The other felines were tolerated, but were clearly below her. As time went on, and yes, the animals continued to accumulate (three dogs became six, four cats crept up to seven), Suki made it perfectly clear that she was one unhappy camper. Not only did she dislike all the animals, she was also not that keen on me, despite all that early together time I had manufactured.
The lesson here? Soulmates only happen once in a great while. You can’t force them, you can’t finesse them, you should consider yourself lucky if you do find one. At one point after we stopped intaking cats into the Rescue program I counted how many personal cats we had over the years, and came up with some crazy number – I think it was in the 60’s. (This is because we typically took in the older cats who only had a few years, so while we had a great many, we also lost a great many.) But in all of those family members, while there were many cats that I absolutely adored, and there were many that fell into the ‘pretty good’ category, there were only four that made it to soulmate status. Suki? She was a nice cat. But my take-away from the experience with her was the lesson, not the cat.
Today’s bake was a good one – and while somewhat involved, the end result is amazing. Recipe from Frosted by Bernice Baran. The cake is a chocolate sponge cake, so is very light and airy. I chose to do 10 individual small cakes rather than one large sheet cake, as I am giving these as holiday gifts. The sponge cake is then topped with a dark chocolate ganache which thanks to a few poke holes in the cake, drips down into the sponge. Using a dark chocolate makes this ganache more on the chocolate side than on the sweet side. On top of this is a French buttercream (my first attempt) which involves beating egg yolks until thick, then streaming in a very hot sugar syrup, beating that a long time, and then adding butter and again, beating another 7-10 minutes. The result is a very silky but not overly sweet buttercream frosting. I think this frosting may come in second to good old ABC frosting. Guinness in both the cake and the ganache. And yes I went totally overboard and paired it with homemade vanilla ice cream. High marks for this!
Sit ups here I come!
You came to me on December 22, 1998, just three days before Christmas. Your step-grandmom had adopted a new sibling from me, Celeste, whom she loved dearly. But you just hated Celeste. You had never asked to live with your step-grandmom; your dad had left for the Rainbow Bridge and she was kind enough to take you in. While she provided you with a loving home, the two of you never connected, and it was clear you were an unhappy cat, which translated into an unhappy owner. Adding a sibling made matters worse. I told your step-grandmom that this was not the usual procedure – that I did not place a cat and take a cat in return – but I could tell from her voice, and from yours, it was the right thing to do. So I did.
Down you came to the Virginia Rescue Center. And, as is custom, off we went to the vet to get you checked out. So extremely agitated were you, throwing yourself against the sides of the carrier, yowling up a storm beyond anything any of us had ever heard, that the vet suggested something I never told you, but I refused to listen to her. They had to physically restrain you and heavily sedate you in order to be able to even get close.
Turned out your mouth was a shambles! No wonder you were so crabby, most of your teeth were rotten or falling out. A dental certainly was in order. And so we did one, removing most of your teeth. Surely this would make you happier, and to a very small extent, it did. You came back to the Center to settle in and build a reputation as the “Halloween Hisser”. Adopter after adopter that came through the house was taken aback by your attitude, something unparalleled in my cat experience. You certainly came across as one crabby cat.
Then along came a family in Chicago. Everyone involved felt certain you would be the appropriate fit, except perhaps you. Off you went, complaining loudly, to your new home, and back you came, just a few days later, having protested enough to terrify the family and alert the neighbors. Despite all the in-depth screening and conversations we’d had in advance, this clearly wasn’t the right fit. We were all disappointed; you were extra stressed after enduring several plane rides, and we were back to square one. After some time you settled back into your Virginia routine, still determined not to like anything about anyone.
Determined not to be a loving cat, yet looking at me with those adoring eyes. Determined not to be affectionate, yet rubbing against my legs every time I stood up. Determined not to purr, yet giving small sounds when I kissed your head. Determined not to belong to anyone, yet laying contentedly on the pillow every night. And I, determined not to fall head over heels, did. I thought you would have to stay. I knew you wanted to stay. I kissed your soft head, dodged your clawless paws, ignored your constantly crabby voice, and loved you regardless. I gazed into your big eyes, avoided your territorial stances, shared the bad and the ugly with potential adopters, and loved you even more.
Then, one day, along came two angels. They visited you many times. They listened to your rude words. They endured your angry swats and your toothless hiss. They left, but visited again. They talked – we talked – you hissed. They coaxed – we considered – you grumbled. They cajoled, you lunged, they loved you more.
Tonight you have gone with them to your new home. While you don’t believe it now, thrashing and swearing inside the carrier, they are taking you to a wonderful new life. They are earth angels, and you will go on to live out an amazing life with them and their cats. They will adore your crabbiness, your angry voice, your hissy fits, and your big blue eyes. They will kiss your head, avoid your swats, talk soothingly over your yowls, and love you forever. They will give you warmth, comfort, security, safety, and most importantly, unconditional love.
Many cats have come and gone. Each one is special, and a certain sadness accompanies the wonderful feeling of sending each off to their new home. But for you, Sebastian, for you who was crabbier beyond belief, I sit here and weep, for I will miss you deeply. With your departure has gone a piece of my heart.
Be happy, my friend. Live long and well, and learn to love Kristin and Josh, the rescue angels who could see through your exterior to the frightened insecure boy underneath. I will love you forever.
“Aunt” Siri
(Post adoption note – Sebastian went on to live a long, full and happy life with these two adopters, successfully adjusting through a number of moves and life changes. In 20+ years, this was the only time we actually did a ‘trade’ – taking a cat and adopting out a cat to the same person. In this case, it was the right thing to do, and just goes to show you, nothing about Rescue is black and white.)
First lesson on this triple layer 6″ cake – the size is deceptive. I rarely make a three-layer cake, and I don’t use my 6” pans that much. Since I give most of my baked goods away, I was thinking that this wasn’t going to make all that much to share. Wrong. Because it’s three layers (and the layers really rose nicely), and because it’s rich, each slice can be thin and be plenty for one person. I easily got 8 slices and could have gotten 10 from this dessert.
The recipe called for vanilla bean paste, which I have not yet found in the stores (but currently have on order from Amazon). Instead, I used a vanilla bean, scraped. I’ve started using vanilla beans more, and while expensive, they really do give much more of a vanilla taste than just the extract. So try using one when the taste is key – ie the main focus is vanilla. Btw, I’m also finding quite a difference in the quality of the vanilla beans, and can’t tout Penzey’s Spices enough for their quality and pricing.
Finally, this was my first attempt at an American Meringue Buttercream frosting. (The cookbook I’m using to work through these different types of frostings and fillings is a fantastic one – highly recommend Frosted by Bernice Baran from whence this recipe came as well.) I thought this frosting to be kind of a mix between an Ermine taste and an American Buttercream, although Ms. Baran mentions the similarity to Royal Frosting. It’s super easy to make, made with pasteurized egg whites and no cooking (but lots of beating).
Overall, this cake was definitely very yummy and very well received.
When Siamese Rescue began (1998), there was so much I didn’t know – not only about the business of rescue itself, but also about cats and cat care in general. Sure, I had owned cats my entire life, and yes, many of them happened to be Siamese, but I was totally unprepared for the challenges that rescue would bring and the experiences it would provide. Every cat left us with something, and those lessons would serve us well, as the Rescue grew to help over 13,000 cats in 20+ years. Tiki, one of our earliest guests, showed us that rescuing cats went a lot further than managing their physical needs.
The call came on a Thursday evening; I had just collapsed at home after a full day in the special ed classroom. Having gotten my name from the local shelter, Mrs. B. had been watching a large male Siamese cat rambling around her back yard over the past few days. Assuming he belonged to a neighbor, she had watched his health slowly decline as she waited for his owner to take action. By Thursday morning, the cat was clearly struggling, his breathing labored. Realizing the neighbor was not going to take action, Mrs. B. insisted that I get there straight away.
When I arrived, I found all nine saggy pounds of “Tiki” hunched in a corner of a makeshift crate, looking very miserable. His lips hung in a rumpled fashion on his face; his eyes streamed water. Gathering him up, I called the vet, catching him just before closing and begging him to wait until I got there.
Ushering us in right away, the vet hummed and hawed, poked and prodded, examined and injected. Unable to either afford or get to the closest 24-hour emergency hospital, I headed home armed with a small pharmacy and with the understanding that there really was little hope for this lad unless I could convince him to eat. His fractured pelvis would heal itself, the extensive dental he desperately needed could be done at a later date. The immediate concern was getting him some nourishment. Without their sense of smell, many cats go into a slump and literally starve themselves to death, and Tiki was well on his way. A large-boned cat, his skin fell in folds and his expression held the look of a defeated soldier. A likely throw or fall from a moving car, said the vet; the human rejection and physical trauma painfully obvious.
Working out of my home and knowing he needed to be isolated from any other cats, Tiki got the upstairs bathroom. Covering the floor with soft towels, I was confident in my ability to provide an appetizing cuisine. Having done rescue now for a month or so, I had all the mainstays in the cupboard: various gourmet cat foods, both wet and dry, baby foods, tuna, canned shrimp, sardines, cottage cheese and so forth.
Over the next 24 hours I exhausted all these possibilities and then some. Tiki lay in a crumpled heap, showing not the slightest interest in anything put in front of him. His breathing was so loud and labored it could be heard through the door, putting my husband’s snoring to shame. Humidifiers, Eucalyptus oil, Vicks – nothing seemed to make the slightest bit of difference.
By Sunday, I realized I was very close to losing him and really needed to step up my game. But what to do? He was so depressed, completely closed to the world. Attempts to play had been futile, petting and brushing him evoked little response. A fishy calorie supplement on my finger inserted into his mouth dribbled out with no interest. (I was not yet versed in sub-q fluids). The situation was definitely a bleak one.
Figuring it was close to impossible to make things much worse, I decided to give up worrying about his physical ailments and instead concentrate on his psyche. Armed with towels, heaters, a blow dryer, shampoo, and nail clippers, I drew a long warm bath. Very slowly I lowered him in. Tiki lay like a rag doll, not having the strength to give even the slightest protest. I scrubbed and rinsed, soaped and soaked. The sweat trickled down my neck as the heater warmed the air to a steamy 95 degrees. Tiki molded to my hands in whatever form I needed, barely flicking a whisker as the bubbles enveloped his body. He was so relaxed, I wondered if I was going to lose him right then and there. And yet, as I continued to scrub, a light began to glow in Tiki’s eyes. Slowly stretching his neck, his tongue raked weakly across my hand. A muffled sound came from his throat, a very sorry attempt at a purr. With his eyes half closed, a look of sheer contentment crossed his face.
Fifteen minutes later, after soaping him ears to paws, I lifted him onto the softest towel I could find. Rubbing him briskly, I told him all about his future. Listening closely, he purred and stretched, arched and yawned, and when he couldn’t stand it any longer, took a paw in helping with the clean-up. Licking briskly himself, as well as me, he began to purr full throttle.
Next came the blow dryer. Tiki stood stock still with a very pleased look on his face while I blew and brushed and fluffed him clean. We finished with a nail trim and ear cleaning, and the once sad-looking Meezer was now a silky, handsome (saggy) bundle of contentness. I could almost see the positive energy flow through his limbs as to my delight, he lumbered over to the food bowl and began eating like there was no end in sight.
Six weeks later, I was packing Tiki’s belongings for his trip up north. He had made a remarkable recovery; sleeping in my daughter’s arms every night, crawling into our laps while we watched TV, smiling at us with that silly toothless grin he had. Still needing help up and down the stairs, Tiki had filled out most of his folds and blossomed into a handsome, distinguished gentleman. While a look of disapproval flickered across the vet’s face as I described the bath episode, he was astonished at the change and improvement he saw.
Tiki went on to live happily ever after in upstate New York, settling in with his new family and his best friend, Pippin. His teeth were fixed, his pelvis healed, and he got his second chance at life in a wonderful home. His personality was just like a marshmallow, said his owner, molding to whatever lap presented itself and taking whatever came his way in stride.
From that point forward, we spent an equal amount of time fixating on the cats’ mental baggage as we did addressing their physical issues. While we could fight for them, they had to fight for themselves as well, and they weren’t going to do that unless they felt safe and secure, loved and hopeful. If they didn’t feel loved, they didn’t want to live, and if they didn’t want to live, we were very likely to lose them, regardless of any physical interventions.
I’m guilty. I suspect many of us are, as it’s often hard to see the flowers past the weeds. As a gardener, I focus on that weed – that thing marring my beautiful bed, my spread of comfort and projected perfection. If I can just remove that weed, taproot and all, the world will right itself and the blossoms will open their faces to the sun with happiness.
I had a traumatic childhood – welcome to the world – it has taken me a number of years to realize I don’t stand alone. But when, as a teenager, you’re elbow deep in unhappiness that permeates your soul, and then as an adult, you’re lugging that heavy baggage everywhere you go, you tend to concentrate on the ‘woe is me’. Oh sure, I looked outwards. Even today, as we drive down the road, I stare at each house we pass, wondering what’s happening inside. Does that window showcase a functioning family unit, filled with conversation and smiles? Or is there a small child in there, cowering behind the screaming and violence? But until I came of age where I really absorbed the news stories and read all the published memoirs of survival, I thought my experiences were some of the worst. I now realize they pale in comparison to many.
That’s not to discount my experience in any way; even in my 60’s I am still working on my demons. It’s been a long process. As I approached the world of paychecks, I focused on careers where I could ‘fix’ things. When I picked substance abuse counseling as a career in college, a very wise professor took me aside to discuss my direction. While certainly a worthy cause and a field ripe with need, he said, unless I could make peace with myself and my history, the suitcases I was carrying would never get unpacked. He had a point, but I knew I needed to be in a field where I could help others. I shifted focus first, to rehab counseling, then working with the hearing impaired, and finally, when dealing with school politics became overwhelming, to rescuing cats. By making the world a better place in however small a way, I would help to create happiness for others.
Now, in the last third of my life, I am working to focus on how much I have to be thankful for, and to appreciate the small things. I still get enjoyment in giving to others, realizing that at least half of my personal pleasure comes from making someone else happy. For the other half, I am learning to dance with my demons. While my ideal remains a pristine garden bed full of beautiful blooms, I’m working hard to take the weeds in stride.
