Happy Endings

So Shayna and her mom met the homeless kitties at Friday's adoption fair, held at my workplace, and I'm happy to say it was love at first sight. 

After engaging with the playful pair in an empty office for about an hour, both daughter and mother knew that Tuna and Mya were coming home with them. They were going to rename their new pets, but Shayna decided that Tuna was a cute name for a cat. And the other cat's name is Mya, which is an anagram of her mother's name, Amy. Was this destiny or what? 

I'm just so glad that what started out as a painful week, losing Chloe, ended on such a happy note.  

Farewell Chloe

Today I was talking with Shayna, my young co-worker, complaining about how I can't get my new Kindle Fire to work and it's not that it's defective, it's me, I'm stupid, when suddenly, out of the blue, she switched gears and said, "We're putting Chloe to sleep today." 

Huh, what?

She said it matter-of-fact, as if we were talking about the weather and she was noting that it looked like rain. But her lower lip trembled ever-so-slightly. 

"She's our family cat," she continued. "She's 20 years old and in failing health. She can't eat, can't walk, can't poop. It's time."  Shayna kept her stoic face, but I noted that her eyes were a bit watery and although she was smiling, it looked forced. I did some quick math: "If you've had Chloe for 20 years, that means you were just..."

She finished my sentence for me. "Yup, four years old. I've had her my whole life. It's time though," she repeated. "She can't eat, can't walk, can't poop." I knew she was reciting the litany to convince herself, and told her she was doing the right, the humane thing and she nodded reluctantly. But still, I recognized all too well that look of pending loss and my heart broke for her. God knows I've been there. As animal lovers, we all have.

I shared my own experience of losing Elvis and what a blessing it was to have Olivia while I was grieving for my sweet boy. Never did I think of Olivia as a replacement for Elvis, but she was a new life, a new spirit, a homeless dog that needed love and needed me as much as I needed her. Olivia helped fill that cavernous hole in my heart. Might Shayna consider another cat one day? 

"Absolutely! she said, her sad face growing bright at the thought. "My mom and I would like to adopt a bonded pair."

Then I remembered that the SPCA is holding a pet adoption at our workplace on Friday and a little light bulb went on over my head. "It might be too soon, but I know the director of the SPCA. Would you like me to shoot him an email and ask if he has a pair of cats that need to be adopted together?"  I asked. Sure, she said with faint enthusiasm. Then she whipped out her cell phone to share pictures of her sweet Chloe. "It's time," she repeated under her breath. "It's time."

The second I was free, I shot an email to the awesome Scott Delucci of the Peninsula Humane Society/SPCA. He answered within minutes. As a matter of fact, he did have a pair that needed to be adopted together and this was such a rare request, he was thrilled with my email. If my co-worker was interested, he would send the young pair to our adoption fair on Friday so Shayna could meet them. He included their photos with a video link of the cats romping and playing. 

I shared this with Shayna, who smiled for the first time that day. As she watched the video, she mentioned that Chloe had been so old and so sick for so long, she had forgotten how playful cats could be. She forwarded the links to her mother who confessed that she had already been perusing adoption websites. For the rest of the afternoon, I could hear Shayna simultaneously straddling sadness over losing Chloe and stifling joy over the possibility of opening her heart to two new lives. On Friday, her mother is joining her to meet the homeless kitties. 

And so goes the circle of life. Fingers crossed for a happy ending.

You Go On, I'll Stay Home

Poor Olivia. Yesterday, when I asked if she wanted to go "bye-bye," I'm sure glorious visions of Central Park or Iron Horse Train danced across her little canine mind. She probably wasn't figuring she'd accompany me on a visit to Scout's House for an article I'm writing about the rehabilitative center for animals.

And I'm doubly sure she wasn't counting on sampling their equipment, such as the underwater hydro-therapy treadmill specially designed for dogs and cats. 

She doesn't look too thrilled, eh?

But upon our return home, I made it up to her with a nice two-mile walk--during which, at the point of no return, the clouds burst open and drenched us with a "last-day-of-summer" rainstorm. We were soaked to the point of soggy.

All of which may leave my girl thinking that some days "bye-bye" ain't all it's cracked up to be. 

Date with a Bad Boy

Yeah, I've been absent from blogging lately, but there's a good reason. Really. 

I've met someone. He's handsome, smart, shy, a bit quirky, and just about the most interesting man I've ever met.  And he's a serial killer but hey, like your fella's perfect?

Yes, I've discovered Dexter, the Showtime series about a guy who holds a day job with the Miami Police Department as a blood spatter analyst. Oh, and he kills people in his spare time. But Dexter is a serial killer with morals, mind you. He only offs those who deserve to die. Rapists who are free because of legal loopholes. Pedophiles who are careful to cover their tracks. Murderers who fly under the radar. Bad people, bad bad people.  

Still, the premise has never appealed to me in spite of its popularity over the past eight seasons. Because c'mon, how could anyone sympathize with or like a serial killer? What does this say about society when a killer is our hero?

But for years, every morning on my hour-long drive to work, I've been listening to Vinnie on Alice Radio talk about his favorite television show, Dexter. Dexter this, Dexter that. Dexter, Dexter, Dexter, that's all he's talked about. How great is Dexter. How riveting is Dexter. Did you see Dexter last night? Such a great show, Dexter. And finally, I caved in. I had to watch at least one episode of Dexter so I could then mentally chastise Vinnie for his lowbrow taste and commend myself for favoring more classy fare like Downton Abbey. Besides, Bates the butler was kind of hot as a jailbird.

What is it with me and bad boys?

Anyway, I ordered Dexter through Netflix. And plowed through Season One. Season Two. Season Three. At the shocking season finale of Season Four I practically tripped running up my stairs to get to my computer so I could change my Netflix orders from one disk at a time to two. My mental apologies to Vinnie. He was right. The show is THAT good, although it does concern me a bit that I'm so enamoured with a serial killer.  But really, his victims are getting their comeuppance. And Dexter Morgan, well, he's just so gosh-darn cute.

I have issues, yes.  Not to mention only four seasons left before Dexter permanently signs off with Season Eight. Sigh. What will I do without my favorite serial killer?

Hmmm...I hear there's this dude named Walter on a show called Breaking Bad.

Puppy Love

I suppose these expressions on my face (see above) encapsulate what most women feel like when they hold a baby--a human one, that is. Me, I'm missing the mom-gene. Never longed for children, never imagined myself pregnant, never stuffed a pillow under my blouse and pretended I was carrying precious cargo.

Oh, I like kids. Other peoples' kids.   

But show me a puppy or kitten or calf or doe or any other baby animal and my heart absolutely positively explodes with a ferocity of seismic proportions. Like this baby pygmy goat I'm holding in the first photo: three-month old Queenie. She was a part of the petting zoo that came to visit our preschool last week. As I held her, she nuzzled her little head under my neck and I could feel the two rough spots where her horns would one day grow. I inhaled her delicious scent of milk and hay and found myself contemplating, "She's not that big, she could play with Olivia and fit through the doggie door, plus I have nice patio garden...."

Seriously, folks. What would I do with a goat? Holding Queenie made me lose all perspective.

As with Bella, the puppy Mt. Bernese in the second picture; she was doing her best to teeth on my necklace and I was so enamoured with her sweet puppy breath and velvety fur, she could have been trying to devour diamonds around my neck and I wouldn't have noticed. I didn't care that Bella would eventually weigh 150 pounds and have the potential to take up roughly one third of my living room. All I could think was, "I SO want this dog."

On second thought, maybe I do have the mom-gene. Just for the four-legged variety.

Words To Live By

"Today me will live in the moment unless it's unpleasant, in which case me will eat a cookie."

~Cookie Monster

Retirement and Tomatoes

If I spent as much time studying and monitoring and pruning and observing and tending to and fawning over and checking on and obsessing about my retirement fund as I do my tomato plants, well....

I could have retired when Duran Duran was still a Top 40 band.

My neighbors must think I'm a nut job. I'm on my bedroom balcony morning and night, following the progress of my four plants no less lovingly than if I'd birthed them myself.  I'm making sure the heavy vines have adequate support, pinching off dead stems, and watching for invasive bugs or hungry birds. The cherry tomato plant is already producing, but it's the heirloom ones that I'm lusting over. Come to mama, babies, come to mama.

As for my retirement fund? Gulp. According to the slightly crazy financial guru Suze Orman, I'm about 20 years behind the eight ball and can retire around the same time that North West is old enough to legally change her name. And so I've given Robin, my financial advisor, full reign to manage what chicken feed I've squirreled away. She's been a busy gal: I'm getting almost daily notices alerting me that she's trading here, swapping there, selling this and buying that. 

I just hope she's better at managing my meager monies than I've been these past few years, otherwise I'll have to plant more tomatoes. 

They may be all I have to eat. Come to mama, babies, come to mama.