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.
I knew he didn’t have long to live. And he was nothing like I wanted. I wanted someone I could mold – someone I could grow with, who could grow with me. I was going to shape their personality – going to make them just like my last one – going to create a replica of my first soulmate I had growing up. I had to have a kitten.
I had searched everywhere. Watched the classified ads. Scanned the bulletin boards. Even posted a few “Wanted” ads. Nowhere could I find that perfectly pointed, bat-eared complainer to be my bud. True, it wasn’t the heart of kitten season. But they were still being born, I knew it. The neighbor down the road had a slew of them – black, orange, tabbies, calicos – but no Siamese. The dumpster at the Landfill was overflowing with them – and I even saw one that mimicked a tortie – but they were feral. I had never imagined it could be this hard.
And then I came of age. The internet. But of course. They had everything, or at least, a way to find it. And so I did my search.
Low and behold, there it was. A goldmine. The candy shop of all candy shops. One stop shopping. I scanned the pictures, all 115 of them. Available in every color, shape and size. My eyes glistened. I could feel him calling to me. Just a click away, the address loomed larger than life. There was a local rescue that was jam packed with cats – who knew?
The tips of my fingers tingled as I scanned the photos. Would he be there waiting for me? Would I know when I saw him? Would I see it in his eyes?
My heart sank. “Left in a basement for 8 years, I nip for attention.” “Got given up for eating the dog’s food and throwing up everywhere.” “Sensitive stomach, special diet needed.” Oh no. None of these sounded right. They were too old. Too encumbered with issues. Too behaviorally involved. I had just lost one, the heartache had been so deep. I just couldn’t go there again. Besides, they would never bond with me. They had loved someone else – I could never be the apple of their eye.
Maybe if I called. Maybe there were other cats not yet on the website. Maybe they had my soulmate waiting in the wings. Maybe I could explain just what I needed and someone would understand. What did I have to lose?
“… an application process. We don’t get kittens that often…..We concentrate on matchmaking of personalities….. 3-5 days to get approved….. You’ll be assigned an Interviewer….You should be approved before visiting…..” Goodness. I wasn’t adopting a child. This sounded like an incredible amount of work. Since none of the other adoption avenues were fruitful, I guess I didn’t have much to lose. Might as well start the process, though it certainly seemed more tedious than necessary.
(Five days pass by…….)
So I’m finally approved. While I know they are only concerned I provide a good home, I feel as if they have checked me inside, outside and upside down. I’m on my way to the Rescue Center where I’m hoping the cat of my dreams will be waiting. Someone small, cute, bouncy, silly and mischievous, all wrapped up into one. Someone who will pounce on my shoelace and climb on my shoulder and snuggle in my hair. He’s out there, I just know it……
The cats know why I’m here. Some of them come running, having mastered Adoption 101. A few amble nonchalantly in my direction. Several peer from atop perches scattered around the room. My heart beats fast. I talk with each one, and we carefully size each other up. Introductions are made. I wait for that moment – that clicking of souls as we search each other’s eyes for the sign. An edge of panic creeps in. What if he’s not here? What if, of all these cats, my soulmate hasn’t yet arrived?
The Director is patient. She discusses each cat in depth – their likes and dislikes, their quirks and idiosyncrasies. They all seem nice, but no one fits quite right. Just as I was afraid – they’re all too much of this, too little of that. I try to squelch my disappointment. I can wait, there’ll be another time. I have to work hard to keep my tears in check, as I listen bravely to the Director telling me not to worry, that someone will come along….
As I turn to leave, a twitching ear poking from under a blanket-covered lump catches the corner of my eye. Not holding out much hope, I figure ‘what the heck’ and point to the lump. “Not the best candidate,” says the Director. “An older gentleman, medically involved and behaviorally challenged, he’s on his umpteenth home in the same number of years. We figure he’s probably here to stay, which is fine, but he will be close to impossible to place.” My curiosity is peaked. I lower myself to ear level and gently lift the corner of the blanket…………
Three years later, and I still haven’t gotten the kitten who will pounce on my shoelace and climb on my shoulder and snuggle in my hair. Instead, I got a cat who upchucks when he’s bothered, who pulls his hair out when he gets nervous, and who often doesn’t make it to the litterbox. I got an old guy who sits on the side of the tub and holds deep, meaningful conversations with me, who snuggles in my arm with his head on my pillow every night, and who, without reservation, adores me for me. While he looks nothing like what I expected, I truly have found my soulmate.
Lies lies lies….she waltzes in here half-dressed – hasn’t even brushed her teeth some mornings! LATE for breakfast no less. I mean, we expect to eat by at least 9am and sometimes, SOMETIMES on Sunday mornings we don’t eat until 9:01!!! She IGNORES our constant requests for FRESH tuna and scallops and instead has the NERVE to feed us canned junk. On warm days we PROMISE to stay on the black top and not venture off onto the grass and she REFUSES to even let us peek out the door. We tell her again AND AGAIN we are just FINE and to quit poking and prodding us and she INSISTS we get back into that d**n carrier and go see Dr. So and So when we just want to be left alone to snooze. She interrupts our afternoon naps with Beethoven sonatas and she tells us we have to smile and purr and kiss up to the gobs of beans who troop through here every weekend. She is downright MEAN AND AWFUL! Get us OUT OF HERE SOON and into a REAL home!!!!
Day in and day out I trapse through the crowds of animals in our shelter, but it is one night, after midnight, when it hits me. The expressions on all those furry faces as they look at me, ever so expectantly, stop me in my tracks. There they sit, on the cat tree, inside the condo, behind the bag of food, inside the open carrier. Under the blanket peeking out; standing right in front of me. Umpteen eyes watching, waiting, and hoping. There are big eyes, small eyes, all sorts of colors, beaming their innermost thoughts at me. Sure, some of it is ‘did you bring treats’, but on a deeper level, I see hope, trust, belief in my ability. How can they have so much faith? How can their history tinged with reality translate into such a magnitude of confidence? Yet they have it. You can see it. And the pressure can be overwhelming. For we, as Rescuers, have made a commitment. We have promised each one of them that there is hope. We have worked to overcome their past and told them we could brighten their future. They accept our promises. They have faith in us, even as we struggle to recreate their story. Trusting us with their lives, they take it day by day, confident we will fix things. They have learned that the hands here are good ones, whether they bring breakfast or antibiotics. It matters not, for we have given them reason to believe. And we walk in that door, early in the morning, late at night, and there they are. Ready. Waiting. Wondering if the promise we made them is about to come true. Doesn’t matter that it’s nearly midnight, or that the sun hasn’t even risen yet. Maybe. Just maybe it will be their turn to walk into a carrier and go to a furever home. They wait patiently, relying on us to rebuild their future. I want to give them my heart. My soul. To lay down with each one of them in my arms. To show them what it will be like again one day. I want, more than anything, to bring their dreams to reality, tonight. Another day comes and goes. An extra scritch here, a soft word there. But it’s not the same as a home. It’s not what they dream about, what they hope for, what we promised. Not yet. We’ve done good, but we are far from finished. We will get there – because they believe in us, and we won’t let them down.
Today’s adventure in baking was a recipe from a tried and true website, Sally’s Baking Addiction. I have made umpteen recipes from that site, as well as purchasing one of her cookbooks, and everything is always excellent. Chocolate peppermint cookies. Well, it goes without saying that you have to like peppermint, because they are quite pepperminty. The cookies are a nice combo of chocolate and peppermint and are a bit chewier than a sugar cookie but pillowy enough not to be dry in anyway, AND they have chocolate chips in, yum. The cookie is topped with an American buttercream flavored with peppermint, and then topped with crushed candy canes which gives them a nice holiday color. Rich, pretty, and a great choice for gift giving (today it’s the UPS and Fed Ex driver). I’ve given them about an hour sitting out in the air so that the buttercream gets a light crust on it and then I can stack them carefully for gift giving. Highly recommend her website and recipes!
You’re getting slower my friend, but that’s okay. You look a bit confused, a bit dazzled at times by the same environment. The light in your eyes is there, yet it is blurred. Your voice is raspy – you ramble on and on about things that were, and are, and should have been. You look up, ever so loving, ever so needing, yet ever so confused. Your daily sojourns become residences; your historical curiosity becomes confusion. You enjoy, and appreciate, and bask in the warmth of a kind hand, a warm heart, a soft voice – yet you are bewildered. Each visit is a trek of immense proportions; a journey with destination unknown. You appreciate yet question, determine yet query, navigate yet search the horizons. A soft touch, a reassuring sound, a gentle whisper, and all is calm.
You may question; I will answer. You may be lost; I will find you. You may search for dinner; I will bring it to you. If you can’t find the litter, I will show you, and if I can’t, I will clean up for you. I have made a commitment to you – I will honor that commitment; I will encourage, protect, provide for and support your needs. I am there for you, because you are you, and I love you.
Six years ago we put up a screech-owl house. It wasn’t easy, mind you, given it had to go 30 feet up in an old tree on a slope. Having always loved birds, and with a fairly good-sized feeding station behind the house where I track the species that visit, I was anxious to add the screech-owl to the list.
Year one and two the owl house stood empty, but year three? I screeched in delight to see brown ears poking up, only to discover that the ears belonged to squirrels, not owls. (Maybe it would become a Bed and Breakfast?) They taunted me with their antics, making it clear I was personally responsible for increasing the squirrel population on our property. And then year four rolled around, and the brown ears no longer belonged to a squirrel, but to Scout, as I called him, a rufous-colored Screech. Apparently solitary, he kept watch while I mowed the lawn and worked in the garden, tracking my every movement. I can only think he was checking out the facility to determine its suitability, for this past year he returned, this time with a mate, and the Scout family came to be. What started with one owlet soon increased to four, and many an evening was spent watching them watching me.
Late August they fledged, and this anxious grand-owl was trapsing through the woods, evenings on end, hoping to catch sight or sound of the new family. A few whinnies later and they have disappeared for the winter, turning the property over to, you guessed it, the squirrels.
Okay, so I am guilty. I don’t even have that much money and I am guilty of doing it. Something breaks? You get a new one. The flashlight not working? It’s not the batteries, could be the bulb. Heck, for a few bucks at Walmart I just get another one. My daughter rips her shorts. I’m not a seamstress, we bought another pair. The handle broke off the rake the other day. They say it’s guaranteed for life. Too much work, too little time to write the company, package the rake, and return it. By the time I purchase shipping materials and pay postage, I might as well buy a new one. And the cost to get a repairman out to fix the washing machine almost equals what I would pay for a brand new one on sale.
Our busy schedules, our need for immediate gratification and solution, and the pressure of getting it all done leads, in many instances, to us ‘throwing out the old and getting new.’ While we may teach our kids the value of saving money by watching for sales or working within a budget, our actions often belie our words. We toss things aside when they break, or get old, or simply take up too much space, and buy new ones.
Unfortunately, this mentality can permeate all aspects of family life. And in some families, nothing is sacred.
Think about that 75 pound dog the neighbor got ten years ago as a cute little puppy? He now has hip dysplasia, can’t always make it down the steps, and occasionally messes in the house. There’s no one to help him down the steps as he’s so heavy and no time to clean up the accidents on the floor. The 15 year old cat who for, yes, 15 years has been someone’s faithful, lifelong bed buddy? He is now confused, meowing most of the night, and the parents can’t take it – busy lives, they need their rest. And that pair of kittens the kids got for Christmas? They’re now full-grown cats, sharpening their claws on grandmother’s antique chairs, giving mom a headache.
These are just some of the stories we hear in rescue – the list goes on and on. The folks who have too much going on in their lives and have no time to worry about the cat who now has glaucoma and can’t see; the ones whose kids grew tired of the puppy they got for Christmas when they have to walk it before and after school; the family whose kitten grew up to have food allergies and now requires a special diet. What are these people to do? They’ve been saddled with something that no longer fits the mold – something that is no longer easy, convenient, or inexpensive.
Well, if it’s like most everything else in society today, you toss it out. “We can always get another cat when we move,” the mother tells her sobbing daughter. “The dog will be better off in the shelter where she has a chance to be adopted by someone who has the time,” says the dad. “I just don’t have the time or the money to deal with this problem any longer,” says each person in the parade of individuals that walk through our shelters’ doors.
So shelters and rescues suck it up. We take what we can fit, what we can cram into every spare cage and corner. We help what we can afford, with budgets that are already stretched too thin. But despite our best efforts, our endless compassion and hard effort, there are too many animals out there in need, too few cages, too little money, and not enough help. We are just spread too thin. So what happens to those animals that we can’t get to? To those animals that don’t fit in our already crammed cages, or for whom there isn’t a spare penny? Yup, you got it. Many of those animals will actually make a trash bin.
So have at it. Toss that flashlight and by yourself a new one. Get that new dishwasher you’ve been needing when it goes on sale. But a pet? They are family members. Be responsible. Teach your children the right thing. You brought them into your family. It’s not up to someone else to take care of them when they become a challenge. Think carefully before surprising those kiddos with the gift of a pet for the holidays. While there are, in some cases, legitimate reasons for rehoming a pet, not having spent the time upfront to consider the responsibility a pet brings with it, is not one of them.
