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And Then, We Were Seven

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It wouldn’t quite be fair to say I wasn’t considering adopting another cat, but I definitely wasn’t considering adopting two.

Turns out, life had other plans.

Ever since Ned’s passing two years ago, I’ve lived with four cats. Some people think this is a lot of cats, but it didn’t seem like a particularly large clowder to me. A few months ago, I considered adopting a diabetic ten-year-old tuxedo cat named Julio. The problem was that Julio is on a very strict diet to manage his diabetes. Since all my cats are grazers, there would be no way to keep him on his diet. So although he’s a lovely boy, I concluded that I wouldn’t be able to take him in.

The next possibility was a five-year-old blind cat named Owen. He’d been dumped in an apartment building parking lot. He was sleek, pewter-gray, and incredibly sweet. I was supposed to be writing his bio, but instead, I decided to adopt him. The next day, as I was completing an adoption application, I received an email advising me that Owen had died earlier that day. Apparently, he’d had an undiagnosed tumor on his spleen, and it burst that morning.

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Pauses, Breaks, and a Few True Lines

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Olivia. Photo by me.

Back in the spring, as I approached the end of my 100-day challenge, I wrote this:

There’s a part of me that’s scared that if I stop writing every day, I’ll lose my momentum and the story will fade from my imagination. I want to believe that a hundred consecutive days of writing will protect it, but I’m not certain. . . . I’m afraid to take my hands off the wheel for fear the story will stall out.

Turns out, I was right.

I kept writing 1,000 words each day for nearly two weeks past my challenge date. Then one night, I gave myself a break. I was entitled, I thought. I was tired. I needed to pause the writing, to organize what I had so I could figure out what I still needed. I’d been writing in chunks, and I took some time to move the chunks to Scrivener so I could arrange and rearrange them in some sort of order.

This was good and helpful work, or at least it felt productive at the time. Shifting from creating to organizing helped me to discern what existed and where the gaps were. Next, I would sit down and explore the existing work to figure out how to fill those gaps.

At least, that was the plan.

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1,000 Days of Spring 2024, Day 11

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Charlotte, My Chief Encourager

We’re getting into a routine, Charlotte and I. At about 9:45 p.m., I put the kettle on to make tea (decaf at that hour). While the water boils, I put my glass of ice water, the journal in which I make book notes, and the little pouch containing my flash drives on the round bookcase/end table next to the recliner. Then, I make tea and place it next to the ice water so I’ll have choices.

By this time, Charlotte knows what’s going on. With my Surface and lap desk, I settle into the recliner, and she hops up in the chair, reclining next to me. I haven’t sorted out whether she thinks it’s her job as managing editor of Tuxedo Cat Press to oversee the drafting of the next book, or whether she’s being kind because hanging out while I write used to be Ned’s job and she doesn’t want me to be lonely. Either way, it’s lovely to have her next to me as I craft the new story.

I’m almost afraid to say it, but so far, it’s going well. I suspect some of this has to do with the fact that I’ve been thinking about the story and making notes for the past couple months, but I think a bigger factor is that I’ve been writing regularly. This is the eleventh day that I’ve written at least 1,000 words, and the routine definitely makes a difference.

This, I think, is probably why so many established writers counsel aspiring writers to write every day. Doing something regularly keeps the flow going, whether it’s exercising, watching what you eat, practicing the piano—or writing. The reality is that sitting down to write is less intimidating when it’s just what you do every day, like brushing your teeth, and you don’t have to spend time and energy deciding whether you’re going to do it.

Today, writing my 1,000 words (slightly more, actually) took less than forty-five minutes, leaving me plenty of time to put everything away before the eleven o’clock news. Granted, a lot of people can’t devote forty-five minutes to writing every day. To them, I say, “Do what you can.” If you can only spend ten minutes writing, then spend that ten minutes. Whatever you can do, try to do it every day, or at least as regularly as you can. Don’t give the creative well time to dry up.

Advent

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When my sister was in fourth grade, her teacher assigned the class to interview someone with a list of questions she had prepared. Julie chose my father. One of the questions was, “What do you dislike?” Dad’s answer was prompt and memorable: “Waiting and lumpy gravy.”

I don’t recall ever encountering lumpy gravy, but I do have substantial experience with waiting. Suffice to say, I am my father’s daughter on this issue.

Sometimes, though, the wait time isn’t nearly long enough. Take the holiday season, for example. Traditionally, everything was crammed in to the roughly four-week period between Thanksgiving and Christmas. This year, though, I noticed that Christmas preparations seemed to begin as soon as the last trick-or-treaters trooped down the driveway with their bags of candy. My neighbors had had a pair of 12-foot tall skeletons in front of their house since mid-September; within a week of Halloween, the skeletons had been replaced by a giant inflatable snowman and a Santa statue. (The snowman deflates approximately every other day, but they’re vigilant about reinflating it.) It’s as though people decided that they want more time to get ready for the holidays so they don’t have to fret about delayed packages and sandwiching holiday obligations between regular ones.

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Boop

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Ned

It’s been a curious few days.

If you’d asked a week ago, I’d have said my sweet Ned would likely be gone by now. Not only is this not the case (thank you, God!), but he seems . . . brighter.

I can’t explain it, but I’ve known this cat for more than fourteen years, and I know what I see.

For instance, on Monday, I picked Ned up and walked over to the window. The carcass of a stink bug is caught in the screen. (It was alive on Sunday, as was the much larger insect on the exterior window frame. Apparently, the big guy had himself a snack, leaving a husk with legs stuck in my screen.) As soon as I stopped beside the window, Ned perked up, his attention fixed on the dead bug. After a few seconds, he began surveying the backyard. It was the most alert I’ve seen him in days.

On Tuesday, as I was working, Ned came to the office door and mewed for a treat. He did this all summer, often multiple times throughout the afternoon, but he’d pretty much stopped in the past few weeks. He did it again on Wednesday afternoon. Obviously, both times, I immediately stopped work and took him to the kitchen for a Squeeze-Up, his favorite treat (and one he can eat). On Tuesday, he ate half; on Wednesday, he ate nearly an entire one.

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Blessing Ned

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Ned – July 29, 2023

TW: cancer, impending death

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Ned went to church today.

It’s not often that you see a cat in church. In fact, I don’t recall ever seeing one. Certainly none of my cats ever set a paw inside a church before today. The closest any of them came was last year, when Ned attended the Blessing of the Animals, held to celebrate the feast of St. Francis of Assisi, and that was held outside, on the church’s front lawn.

For weeks, I’d been thinking about bringing him to the Blessing for what will be his last time. You see, Ned has cancer. In the spring, he was diagnosed with lymphoma in his stomach. He started chemotherapy at the beginning of June, and he responded beautifully. By the end of August, he’d gone from 7.5 lbs. to 9.1. His appetite was strong, and everything seemed to be headed in the right direction. It was a very good summer.

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Herding Cats

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Relaxing on the hotel’s king-sized bed. October, 2017

As one who has lived with cats for nearly thirty years, I know all too well what it means to say that something is “like herding cats.” (For those unfamiliar with the expression, it means that you’re trying to gather and organize disparate items/events/personalities and it seems that each has a mind of its own and wishes to go off in a different direction.) Even when you love the cats dearly, as I do, herding them can sometimes drive you a little bit nuts.

An apt corollary would be “like indie publishing.”

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New Challenge, Day Four

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Tootles

This is the part where I try to sort out the rules of this challenge. Obviously, since I made it up, I can do whatever I want with it. My ultimate goal is to finish my book, and tonight’s writing did not move me closer to that goal. On the other hand, I did write tonight, which is a good thing, and so I’m inclined to say it counts.

Tonight’s writing was a bio for a lovely young tiger cat named Tootles who is looking for her forever home. If you want to check her out, you’ll be able to find her on the Protectors of Animals Facebook page, most likely in the next few days. (I’m not responsible for scheduling posts, so I can’t be more specific.) She’s a wonderful little cat, and I’m hoping that my bio helps her find a loving forever home.

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The Grand and Glorious New Year’s Clean-Out

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It’s been a year.

Which is why I cleaned out and defrosted my chest freezer.

The chest freezer is in my basement. I originally purchased it when one of my cats had digestive issues. When all else failed, I cooked for him because that’s what you do for a beloved family member. (Also, it was preferable to the nightly Buddy butt-washes—my sweet boy was rotund, long-haired, and blind, which meant he wasn’t stellar at cleaning his back end after a trip to the litter box.)

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Remembering George

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For many, 2019 was difficult; for nearly all of us, 2020 has been immensely more so. Some have complained vociferously about having to spend much more time at home in order to slow the spread of the coronavirus. Their unending litany—“I’m so bored! I’m so frustrated! I hate staying home! I want to go out!”—overlooks one simple point: the incredible luxury of actually having a home to stay in.

Many have been unable to shelter at home for the most basic reason of all—they are homeless. One article suggests that through the end of October, 2020, the COVID-19 mortality rate for sheltered homeless persons in New York City was seventy-five (75%) percent higher than for those who have homes. (The article noted that due to a lack of data, it did not include mortality rates for unsheltered persons—in other words, those who were living on the streets rather than in a shelter.)

December 21 is National Homeless Persons’ Memorial Day. Last year, I attended a service honoring those who had died over the previous year while experiencing homelessness. As the organizer said, for many of them, this service would be “the only remembrance and recognition of their passing.” Afterward, I shared the following essay about the service, and about a homeless man named George who changed my life.

As we face the longest night of the year, let us not forget those who have no home in which to take shelter from the darkness.

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December 21. The shortest day of the year. The longest night. The greatest darkness.

How fitting that this day is National Homeless Persons’ Memorial Day. Across the country, memorial services honor and remember those who have died in the past year while experiencing homelessness. Continue reading →