Chyna earlier this summer.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Good days, bad days
The thing about living is that you have to take the good with the bad.
I know that is a cliche, but the thing about cliches is they are always based in the truth.
So, an impending birthday had me looking for good things, hoping for some fun and a little break from work and the stress of recent weeks.
But before that could happen, I came home to let the dogs out and found Chyna, our part-Siamese cat on the front stoop. It is unusual, especially at the end of the day, for the cats to be in front of the house because that side faces west and the sun is quite hot there in the afternoon.
I opened the door and let the dogs out. Chyna did not flinch.
I scooped her up and she was completely limp - no resistance whatsoever. Normally, she is a chatty cat, like most Siamese. She has a guttural, raspy voice and always responds to us with a growly meow, snapping her tail like a bullwhip.
Except on this evening.
I brought her inside and tried to make her comfortable in the den. I brought her food and water and she ate and drank - something I took as a good sign.
Not knowing what was wrong with her, we quarantined her on the porch overnight, away from the rest of the animals - cats and dogs alike.
The last time we looked at her, she spoke to us a little and whipped her tail weakly.
But in the morning, she looked the same. Maybe even worse. So we took her to the vet - waiting outside until they opened the office.
They confirmed what we knew, that Chyna was very sick and her condition was critical. We left her there to have bloodwork done, with a promise that we would be called as soon as anything was confirmed.
Chyna did not have feline leukemia or feline AIDS, both common maladies for outdoor cats or indoor/outdoor cats which is what all our cats are.
But she was severely anemic, dehydrated and had a mass in her stomach that probably was cancer. Her mouth was yellow, a sign her liver was shutting down. She would need a blood transfusion to stay alive, but the likelihood that she would live through a trip to an emergency center was very unlikely.
So we had a horrible decision to make, complicated by the fact that Chyna is my step-daughter's favorite pet. Whenever Olivia comes home from college, Chyna always looks for her. In fact, when she was home at the beginning of August, Chyna came inside two or three times, which is unusual in the summer. I am so glad because Olivia got to play with her kitty and will have those memories always.
The best we could do for Chyna was to let her go.
This sadness colored the rest of the weekend. Even when we were having a good time, something was not quite right.
When I fed the cats in the morning, I put out three bowls of food like I always do. When I realized what I did, I just couldn't empty the third bowl.
There are a lot of roaming cats in our neighborhood. Some snack here. I have long suspected that our cats snack elsewhere.
Chyna might not be coming home, but we'll leave her bowl out for her friends.
I know that is a cliche, but the thing about cliches is they are always based in the truth.
So, an impending birthday had me looking for good things, hoping for some fun and a little break from work and the stress of recent weeks.
But before that could happen, I came home to let the dogs out and found Chyna, our part-Siamese cat on the front stoop. It is unusual, especially at the end of the day, for the cats to be in front of the house because that side faces west and the sun is quite hot there in the afternoon.
I opened the door and let the dogs out. Chyna did not flinch.
I scooped her up and she was completely limp - no resistance whatsoever. Normally, she is a chatty cat, like most Siamese. She has a guttural, raspy voice and always responds to us with a growly meow, snapping her tail like a bullwhip.
Except on this evening.
I brought her inside and tried to make her comfortable in the den. I brought her food and water and she ate and drank - something I took as a good sign.
Not knowing what was wrong with her, we quarantined her on the porch overnight, away from the rest of the animals - cats and dogs alike.
The last time we looked at her, she spoke to us a little and whipped her tail weakly.
But in the morning, she looked the same. Maybe even worse. So we took her to the vet - waiting outside until they opened the office.
They confirmed what we knew, that Chyna was very sick and her condition was critical. We left her there to have bloodwork done, with a promise that we would be called as soon as anything was confirmed.
Chyna did not have feline leukemia or feline AIDS, both common maladies for outdoor cats or indoor/outdoor cats which is what all our cats are.
But she was severely anemic, dehydrated and had a mass in her stomach that probably was cancer. Her mouth was yellow, a sign her liver was shutting down. She would need a blood transfusion to stay alive, but the likelihood that she would live through a trip to an emergency center was very unlikely.
So we had a horrible decision to make, complicated by the fact that Chyna is my step-daughter's favorite pet. Whenever Olivia comes home from college, Chyna always looks for her. In fact, when she was home at the beginning of August, Chyna came inside two or three times, which is unusual in the summer. I am so glad because Olivia got to play with her kitty and will have those memories always.
The best we could do for Chyna was to let her go.
This sadness colored the rest of the weekend. Even when we were having a good time, something was not quite right.
When I fed the cats in the morning, I put out three bowls of food like I always do. When I realized what I did, I just couldn't empty the third bowl.
There are a lot of roaming cats in our neighborhood. Some snack here. I have long suspected that our cats snack elsewhere.
Chyna might not be coming home, but we'll leave her bowl out for her friends.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Welcome Mr. Peanut
Over the weekend, Shenandoah County held its inaugural Route 11 Yard Crawl – an event based on a popular 100-mile yard sale on some road in Kentucky or Tennessee.
I have participated in several yard sales in my life, but I am not one to go roam through different sales on a Saturday morning. I’ve done it, but it does not consume me.
Truly, I was interested in two things on Saturday.
I have participated in several yard sales in my life, but I am not one to go roam through different sales on a Saturday morning. I’ve done it, but it does not consume me.
Truly, I was interested in two things on Saturday.
One, I hoped and hoped that it would be a successful event. Shenandoah County’s have a history of not pulling together. Each town or hamburg wants to make sure its needs are taken care of first. Shenandoah is a geographically divided county and loyalties and allegiances tend to be divided north, central and south.
I am happy to report that it was a great event. From Strasburg to New Market, Route 11 was covered with yard sales and other various events. Some areas were better organized than others, but there was something going on simultaneously along this main artery from 6 in the morning until 3 in the afternoon.
The second concern I had was that the little group of folks from the humane society could make some extra money for the projects that we are working on to help abandoned and unwanted animals in Shenandoah County.
Again, I am happy to report that we made more than $400 and we did not have big ticket items to sell. Most everything was $1 and under. I think $5 was the most expensive item we sold.
It was a sunny day, which worked in our favor, but it was blisteringly hot. Which actually worked in our favor, too, because we sold cold bottles of water to the parched travelers who walked in front of our area next to the Valley-Herald office.
I brought $40 with me Saturday. I thought I might find something to buy.
As it happens, I did find something I could not leave at the sale. I found Peanut.
Peanut is a small, 9-year-old dog who is a terrier, Chinese Crested mix. He was rescued from the animal shelter by a humane society member who has fostered him for more than a year while looking for a home for the little guy.
Peanut in no way resembles any dog in my house. Well, he and Tip might be the same colors – black and white - but Peanut is about a tenth of Tip’s size.
I’ve always favored big dogs. Why have a little dog, I’ve been known to say. You might as well get a cat.
But there is just something about Peanut. He has the wiry hair of a terrier complete with the beard whiskers. Between his Longhorn terrier ears is a startling, scraggy mane of bright white hair that usually stands on end. Had he been my dog from the beginning, I would have been tempted to call him Beethoven based on the pictures I have seen of the wild-haired composer.
Your first impression is likely to be that he is ugly, but there is something more going on. He has Barry Manilow Syndrome. So ugly, he is cute.
I first met Peanut about six months ago and was smitten then, but I knew my husband would give me hell if I brought home another animal. Three dogs and three cats are plenty when you live in town. So I ignore the siren’s song and went home and told my husband he was lucky I hadn’t brought another dog into the house.
“NO MORE DOGS!!!” he groused in his deep coach’s voice. “Somebody has to go first.”
I don’t think he was talking about himself, either.
So as I played with Peanut on Saturday and took him for a walk and then took him for a ride in my air conditioned car, I debated about the logic of bringing yet another critter into the Rinker household.
It was a short debate. I listened totally to my heart and completely ignored the part of my brain that was standing up in the back, shouting “Think this through!”
I brought Peanut to the house. I told my husband that he needed to come outside to see something.
“You better not have brought some damn animal home.”
It’s uncanny how well he knows me. It’s not like I bring animals home every week. In fact, he had more pets than I did when we got married.
He took one look at Peanut and I think his heart melted too. There’s something about a tiny, ugly dog that can’t find a home that sounded a note in my husbands large, sympathetic heart.
When I left to go back to the yard crawl, I said “See ya later.”
“See ya,” he grumbled back at me. “I guess I’ll see you too, dog.”
I took that as tacit approval of Peanut’s move to our house.
So the grumbly coach was not at all surprised when I came home, worn out, sunburned and carting a small wire-haired dog.
“Hello, Mr. Peanut,” my husband said, patting the little dog on his head. “Here he can sit on the couch with me.”
I think it’s the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
More to come.
I am happy to report that it was a great event. From Strasburg to New Market, Route 11 was covered with yard sales and other various events. Some areas were better organized than others, but there was something going on simultaneously along this main artery from 6 in the morning until 3 in the afternoon.
The second concern I had was that the little group of folks from the humane society could make some extra money for the projects that we are working on to help abandoned and unwanted animals in Shenandoah County.
Again, I am happy to report that we made more than $400 and we did not have big ticket items to sell. Most everything was $1 and under. I think $5 was the most expensive item we sold.
It was a sunny day, which worked in our favor, but it was blisteringly hot. Which actually worked in our favor, too, because we sold cold bottles of water to the parched travelers who walked in front of our area next to the Valley-Herald office.
I brought $40 with me Saturday. I thought I might find something to buy.
As it happens, I did find something I could not leave at the sale. I found Peanut.
Peanut is a small, 9-year-old dog who is a terrier, Chinese Crested mix. He was rescued from the animal shelter by a humane society member who has fostered him for more than a year while looking for a home for the little guy.
Peanut in no way resembles any dog in my house. Well, he and Tip might be the same colors – black and white - but Peanut is about a tenth of Tip’s size.
I’ve always favored big dogs. Why have a little dog, I’ve been known to say. You might as well get a cat.
But there is just something about Peanut. He has the wiry hair of a terrier complete with the beard whiskers. Between his Longhorn terrier ears is a startling, scraggy mane of bright white hair that usually stands on end. Had he been my dog from the beginning, I would have been tempted to call him Beethoven based on the pictures I have seen of the wild-haired composer.
Your first impression is likely to be that he is ugly, but there is something more going on. He has Barry Manilow Syndrome. So ugly, he is cute.
I first met Peanut about six months ago and was smitten then, but I knew my husband would give me hell if I brought home another animal. Three dogs and three cats are plenty when you live in town. So I ignore the siren’s song and went home and told my husband he was lucky I hadn’t brought another dog into the house.
“NO MORE DOGS!!!” he groused in his deep coach’s voice. “Somebody has to go first.”
I don’t think he was talking about himself, either.
So as I played with Peanut on Saturday and took him for a walk and then took him for a ride in my air conditioned car, I debated about the logic of bringing yet another critter into the Rinker household.
It was a short debate. I listened totally to my heart and completely ignored the part of my brain that was standing up in the back, shouting “Think this through!”
I brought Peanut to the house. I told my husband that he needed to come outside to see something.
“You better not have brought some damn animal home.”
It’s uncanny how well he knows me. It’s not like I bring animals home every week. In fact, he had more pets than I did when we got married.
He took one look at Peanut and I think his heart melted too. There’s something about a tiny, ugly dog that can’t find a home that sounded a note in my husbands large, sympathetic heart.
When I left to go back to the yard crawl, I said “See ya later.”
“See ya,” he grumbled back at me. “I guess I’ll see you too, dog.”
I took that as tacit approval of Peanut’s move to our house.
So the grumbly coach was not at all surprised when I came home, worn out, sunburned and carting a small wire-haired dog.
“Hello, Mr. Peanut,” my husband said, patting the little dog on his head. “Here he can sit on the couch with me.”
I think it’s the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
More to come.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Mystery Walk
When I was working out after work one day, a friend mentioned a program on the treadmill called “Mystery Walk.”
I was intrigued.
I have been using the treadmill for about two years now, but I seldom change the incline, just the speed and distance. Occasionally, I will jog for a couple of minutes, but never very long.
It’s hard for me to stay focused on the treadmill, so I have a variety of games I use to keep me from staring at the second hand on the clock tick each sweaty second away.
Primarily, I count. I count in fours – one, two, three ONE. One, two, three TWO. One, two, three THREE.
Only after I reach a specified goal – say 200 – can I look at the clock to see how many minutes I have left.
Then there are the days when the music that is playing matches my gait. This doesn’t happen often enough when the radio is on the Oldies station. I mean, the way-Oldies, not rock Oldies (which really don’t seem that old to me at all). It’s hard to step to “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” and actually burn a calorie or two.
So, Beth was telling me about the Mystery Walk. Instead of choosing a program of hills and varying speeds that you can watch on the grid, Mystery Walk will switch things up and keep you guessing, a big question mark on the screen.
First, you have to reveal your weight. Beth told me that she always adds some pounds in hopes that the machine will take it easy on her.
I had just weighed before I went to the gym, so I decided to log in the actual numbers. The first time I tried to punch in the numbers I accidentally hit 543 pounds. I don’t think Beth meant to pad the numbers that much.
You also have to program in how fast you are willing to walk and how high an incline you can take. I usually walk at about 3.2 mph, so I selected that speed and opted for a very low incline – this being my first Mystery Walk.
In recent weeks I have gone from counting to reading library books. Nothing constructive. I’m reading fiction by a Miami Herald journalist turned novelist. I enjoy the references to the newspaper business and he has a squirrelly way of looking at things.
With Mystery Walk selected and my book squarely in front of me, I hit Start and away I went.
Only, really slow. Usually, I don’t warm up – I go straight to 3.2. Mystery Walk had me meandering around 2.5 forever, or so it seemed.
I started reading about a woman who discovered she had a winning lottery ticket. The treadmill made a funny sound and the ramp started to rise. It went right past 1 and 2, right up to 8. My calves tightened as I tried to climb the hill. I checked the grid out and apparently instead of choosing 1.5 on the incline level, I put in 15.
Yikes.
Mystery Walk started to feel like a Mystery Ride at the fair. It cranked up the elevation and dropped the speed. As soon as I became accustomed to the climb, it dropped and the speed cranked up.
It was not easy to read while being bucked around for 30 minutes.
I am proud to report that I hung on for the entire half hour and even for the two minute cool down – which, trust me, I needed.
And, I’m pretty sure I will take the Mystery Walk tomorrow too. But when I program the walk, I might add just a few pounds.
I was intrigued.
I have been using the treadmill for about two years now, but I seldom change the incline, just the speed and distance. Occasionally, I will jog for a couple of minutes, but never very long.
It’s hard for me to stay focused on the treadmill, so I have a variety of games I use to keep me from staring at the second hand on the clock tick each sweaty second away.
Primarily, I count. I count in fours – one, two, three ONE. One, two, three TWO. One, two, three THREE.
Only after I reach a specified goal – say 200 – can I look at the clock to see how many minutes I have left.
Then there are the days when the music that is playing matches my gait. This doesn’t happen often enough when the radio is on the Oldies station. I mean, the way-Oldies, not rock Oldies (which really don’t seem that old to me at all). It’s hard to step to “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” and actually burn a calorie or two.
So, Beth was telling me about the Mystery Walk. Instead of choosing a program of hills and varying speeds that you can watch on the grid, Mystery Walk will switch things up and keep you guessing, a big question mark on the screen.
First, you have to reveal your weight. Beth told me that she always adds some pounds in hopes that the machine will take it easy on her.
I had just weighed before I went to the gym, so I decided to log in the actual numbers. The first time I tried to punch in the numbers I accidentally hit 543 pounds. I don’t think Beth meant to pad the numbers that much.
You also have to program in how fast you are willing to walk and how high an incline you can take. I usually walk at about 3.2 mph, so I selected that speed and opted for a very low incline – this being my first Mystery Walk.
In recent weeks I have gone from counting to reading library books. Nothing constructive. I’m reading fiction by a Miami Herald journalist turned novelist. I enjoy the references to the newspaper business and he has a squirrelly way of looking at things.
With Mystery Walk selected and my book squarely in front of me, I hit Start and away I went.
Only, really slow. Usually, I don’t warm up – I go straight to 3.2. Mystery Walk had me meandering around 2.5 forever, or so it seemed.
I started reading about a woman who discovered she had a winning lottery ticket. The treadmill made a funny sound and the ramp started to rise. It went right past 1 and 2, right up to 8. My calves tightened as I tried to climb the hill. I checked the grid out and apparently instead of choosing 1.5 on the incline level, I put in 15.
Yikes.
Mystery Walk started to feel like a Mystery Ride at the fair. It cranked up the elevation and dropped the speed. As soon as I became accustomed to the climb, it dropped and the speed cranked up.
It was not easy to read while being bucked around for 30 minutes.
I am proud to report that I hung on for the entire half hour and even for the two minute cool down – which, trust me, I needed.
And, I’m pretty sure I will take the Mystery Walk tomorrow too. But when I program the walk, I might add just a few pounds.
Monday, August 01, 2005
To the sea
Memories are tricky.
On Sunday I visited a place that existed mainly in my memory.
When I was a little girl, I remember going to the "beach" at Douthat with my Aunt Helen.
Well before I ever saw the ocean, I had this faux beach experience on the sandy shore of the swimming area at Douthat State Park near my hometown of Covington.
I remember the crowded beach. Towels and blankets and chairs and people covering every inch of sand.
From the water's edge I could see the wooden platform that looked like it was a mile away where teenagers - "the big kids" - were draped in conspiratorial conclaves. The boys would show off, diving close to the platform, splashing the girls who were trying in vain to keep their tresses dry.
In my memory Douthat loomed large.
It was a shock on Sunday when I left the restaurant along the lake where we had just enjoyed breakfast and walked over to take a look at the beach of my childhood.
Water in the small cove sparkled invitingly, and water rippled against the boat dock across the lake from the shore. The beach was a tenth of its size in my memory.
I asked Mom if it was the same. I mean, it's been 35-plus years since I built sandcastles there. There could have been erosion. There may have been a tsunami.
She immediately heard the disappointment in my voice and knew exactly what I was feeling. "You were so little when you came here. It must have seemed much bigger to you then."
Well, it did.
It's disturbing when memory and reality meet in the harsh daylight. I felt vaguely betrayed.
I wonder what else wouldn’t measure up in my 43-year-old eyes.
What about the beautiful white marble statues in Brookgreen Gardens near Litchfield, S.C.? Are they really miniatures?
The deep snows, what about those deep snows when I was in elementary school. So deep I could barely walk. So deep I was almost as scared as I was excited. Were they only ankle high?
Lost in thought, I watched a pair of teens on hydrobikes cycle their way across the glassy lake.
I’ve forgotten so many things. So many memories are cloudy, thin as a wedding veil. I think that’s why I was so disappointed to find the true Douthat, because the Douthat of my memory was one of the few truly clear ones.
Can you remember the first time you visited your elementary school as a teenager or adult? The halls that seemed so wide to you as a child suddenly are cramped and close. You had to bow at the waist to drink from a water fountain where you once had to stand on your tip-toes to reach the stream.
A noise behind me made me turn around and I watched my brother, Scott, and my niece, Gracilyn, come around the side of the restaurant.
“I want to go down there, Daddy,” Gracilyn said, her blond hair flying as she moved ahead on sturdy legs soon to be 4 years old. “I want to walk by the sea.”
“That’s a lake, Gracilyn,” my brother told his tyke, but the words hung on the humid air and were swallowed by the noise of late summer locust. She headed toward the stairs that would take her to the water’s edge. To the sea.
She walked past me, stepping on rocks and examining moss on the sides of trees as she made her way to the water.
I’m not going to tell her it’s just a lake.
She’ll find out soon enough.
On Sunday I visited a place that existed mainly in my memory.
When I was a little girl, I remember going to the "beach" at Douthat with my Aunt Helen.
Well before I ever saw the ocean, I had this faux beach experience on the sandy shore of the swimming area at Douthat State Park near my hometown of Covington.
I remember the crowded beach. Towels and blankets and chairs and people covering every inch of sand.
From the water's edge I could see the wooden platform that looked like it was a mile away where teenagers - "the big kids" - were draped in conspiratorial conclaves. The boys would show off, diving close to the platform, splashing the girls who were trying in vain to keep their tresses dry.
In my memory Douthat loomed large.
It was a shock on Sunday when I left the restaurant along the lake where we had just enjoyed breakfast and walked over to take a look at the beach of my childhood.
Water in the small cove sparkled invitingly, and water rippled against the boat dock across the lake from the shore. The beach was a tenth of its size in my memory.
I asked Mom if it was the same. I mean, it's been 35-plus years since I built sandcastles there. There could have been erosion. There may have been a tsunami.
She immediately heard the disappointment in my voice and knew exactly what I was feeling. "You were so little when you came here. It must have seemed much bigger to you then."
Well, it did.
It's disturbing when memory and reality meet in the harsh daylight. I felt vaguely betrayed.
I wonder what else wouldn’t measure up in my 43-year-old eyes.
What about the beautiful white marble statues in Brookgreen Gardens near Litchfield, S.C.? Are they really miniatures?
The deep snows, what about those deep snows when I was in elementary school. So deep I could barely walk. So deep I was almost as scared as I was excited. Were they only ankle high?
Lost in thought, I watched a pair of teens on hydrobikes cycle their way across the glassy lake.
I’ve forgotten so many things. So many memories are cloudy, thin as a wedding veil. I think that’s why I was so disappointed to find the true Douthat, because the Douthat of my memory was one of the few truly clear ones.
Can you remember the first time you visited your elementary school as a teenager or adult? The halls that seemed so wide to you as a child suddenly are cramped and close. You had to bow at the waist to drink from a water fountain where you once had to stand on your tip-toes to reach the stream.
A noise behind me made me turn around and I watched my brother, Scott, and my niece, Gracilyn, come around the side of the restaurant.
“I want to go down there, Daddy,” Gracilyn said, her blond hair flying as she moved ahead on sturdy legs soon to be 4 years old. “I want to walk by the sea.”
“That’s a lake, Gracilyn,” my brother told his tyke, but the words hung on the humid air and were swallowed by the noise of late summer locust. She headed toward the stairs that would take her to the water’s edge. To the sea.
She walked past me, stepping on rocks and examining moss on the sides of trees as she made her way to the water.
I’m not going to tell her it’s just a lake.
She’ll find out soon enough.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)