Books and other stuff I feel like discussing
By education and experience - Accountant with a specialty in taxation. Formerly a CPA (license has lapsed). Masters degree in law of taxation from University of Denver. Now retired. Part time work during baseball season as receptionist & switchboard operator for the Colorado Rockies. This gig feeds my soul in ways I have trouble articulating. One daughter, and four grandchildren. I share the house with two cats; a big goof of a cat called Grinch (named as a joke for his easy going "whatever" disposition); and Lady, a shelter adoptee with a regal bearing and sweet little soprano voice. I would be very bereft if it ever becomes necessary to keep house without a cat.
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Roseanne
In the spring and early summer of 1992, Mr Woodstock was working at a small neighborhood pet shop located in a strip mall near our house. The owner would take litters of healthy, weaned kittens and puppies in as inventory. One day he came home and told me about a little gray kitten with a crooked tail. The shop owner was concerned that the tail was a defect which would make her unsaleable, so she instructed Mr W to cage the little scrap in the back of the store away from her littermates. I telephoned one afternoon and heard this absolutely incredible noise in the background. "What on earth is that noise?" "Well, this little kitten I told you about doesn't like being separated from the rest of her brothers and sisters and she's vocalizing to high heaven." "That sounds like Roseanne Arnold trying to sing The Star Spangled Banner," said I.
When we discovered a day or two later that the shop owner had called a local vet clinic, and made arrangements for the kitten's tail to be amputated, I swung into action. Since we had a key to the shop as part of Mr W's employment, we went over there one evening and brought Roseanne home - I had given her a name before I ever saw her.
All I was doing was saving her from amputation. I already had another cat - a Siamese male kitten dubbed Sinatra who was to hold first place in my heart. I had no plans to fall in love. The tiny gray cat felt differently, as any cat owner can explain to you. Just as she refused to be caged by herself without comment, she would be no one's afterthought. First place in my heart would just have to expand to have room for two cats. She grew up, of course, and began to display attitude to match her namesake's persona as well as the raspy voice.
I held her on my lap this morning as she went to her final resting place. The vet was extraordinarily gentle with her and with the two of us. Sometime over the last weekend she suffered a stroke and was partially paralyzed on her left side. At first we hoped that some specific pressure on a spot on her spine, or something similar could be quickly identified and corrected, but 5 vets in various exams could locate no specific cause. So we made the most excruciating decision (and I've made that decision before for other pets). The best I can describe it is knowing we were doing the right thing, and at the same time wishing beyond all reason and sense that the decison would never have been necessary.
She never got very big - usually weighed between 5-8 lbs. This gave her speed and agility, which two successive male feline companions never learned to adjust for. A race through the kitchen on the slippery tiled floor would end with her leaping up to a chair, and her pursuer slamming into an open door with a speed and impact worthy of the National Hockey League. A friend remarked upon hearing this story "age and experience will always outwit youth and skill!"
She knew her name, and would come when I called her. Sometimes not knowing where she was, I would call for a minute or two. When I thought to check the basement stairs, I would see her downstairs gazing up at me with a question in her eyes. "Were you calling me? I'm on my way."
She loved to sleep on a pile of blankets, or on the bedcovers in disarray and making a good place to cuddle. Many many laundry days after we had washed the sheets from our bed, we delayed until our own bedtime to remake the bed, unwilling to disturb her sleeping on the piled up quilt and pillows. I once saw a quote on a cat calendar that the Prophet Mohammed is said to have once cut off the sleeve of one of his cloaks, so as not to disturb his sleeping cat. No matter how many other opinions I might hold about Islam - on the issue of sleeping cats, the Prophet and I are in perfect agreement.
Early in her life the vet wanted a stool sample to check for worms. Two kittens, two litter boxes, I figured it was the vet's problem and they both went off to his kennel for a few days while we were out of town for a wedding. He told us that each morning when he came to work she was sitting on his reception counter: "you thought you had a cage that would hold me, didn't you?" Poor Sinatra, who was quite a bit heavier than she, was left behind in the kennel they had been sharing. The vet eventually found the weak spot in the chain link enclosure where she had pressed herself against the side of the cage and wiggled her way out to explore his office on her own.
She loved liver, and recognized the smell of cooking poultry. A roasted turkey or chicken usually meant a smashed up liver presented for a treat. Other meals featuring chicken included an audience as we ate - two blue eyes fastened on us with an intense stare - to provide a reminder that if we had liver up there we better serve it soon.
She was very attentive to moods and health. Raising our voices for any reason - even to call to each other in another room would earn a rebuke from her in her best "Roseanne" voice. If we were angry at each other or going on about some non personal issue, she would interrupt the tirade with a reminder to lower our voices.
I ran a high fever one summer, not too long after we brought her home. She would jump on my bed a couple of times a day, and feel my cheeks and forehead with a sheathed paw - kind of like a worried grandmother. And until the fever broke, she stayed where she could see me, moving from room to room if I switched chairs or went to lie down. After the fever broke and she had felt my cool face, she took off and went back to her normal routine.
No black shoestring in the house was safe. White shoestrings could abide in corners and remain in kicked off shoes in the middle of rooms in perfect safety. Every black pair of shoes we owned was vulnerable to being chewed upon and liberally dosed with cat spit. Exasperation filled many mornings as we reached for a pair of shoes and exclaimed "oh, yuk!"
We all - including the other cats - learned that when she lifted a paw in the air she meant business. More than once we suffered a scratch on hand or wrist, and the other cats would both immediately back away at the sight of her paw poised for a blow.
Although she had Siamese "points" and beautiful blue eyes, she wasn't very vocal. Sinatra died rather suddenly in late 1999, and at her next checkup the vet inquired how she was doing by herself. She had begun to talk quite a bit, now the only cat in the household. The vet remarked with a grin "She probably told him what to say, and he said it." Knowing her "top cat" position in the house, I think he was probably right.
Several years ago she began to limp noticeably. Arthritis was diagnosed and she began to take regular doses of prednisone and glucosamine. The prednisone is known to be a mild "upper" and she became more and more affectionate and cuddly. She preferred Mr Woodstock's lap, but would purr only very gently as he held her. When I leaned over to place my palm on her back, her purr would deepen and become audible. We called this "the mom purr"
Even in her fifteenth year, she still enjoyed playing with a strand of leather strips, or a small feather on the end of a twisted wire. As all domestic pets do as they age, she spent most of her time sleeping. I could see the end of the road was much closer than I would like. But until late last week, she was in good health for an elderly cat.
I will miss her very, very much. I will never forget her, and I will always love her. My sweet little Roseanne, who refused to be ignored and who would be loved. No questions asked and no excuses accepted.
When we discovered a day or two later that the shop owner had called a local vet clinic, and made arrangements for the kitten's tail to be amputated, I swung into action. Since we had a key to the shop as part of Mr W's employment, we went over there one evening and brought Roseanne home - I had given her a name before I ever saw her.
All I was doing was saving her from amputation. I already had another cat - a Siamese male kitten dubbed Sinatra who was to hold first place in my heart. I had no plans to fall in love. The tiny gray cat felt differently, as any cat owner can explain to you. Just as she refused to be caged by herself without comment, she would be no one's afterthought. First place in my heart would just have to expand to have room for two cats. She grew up, of course, and began to display attitude to match her namesake's persona as well as the raspy voice.
I held her on my lap this morning as she went to her final resting place. The vet was extraordinarily gentle with her and with the two of us. Sometime over the last weekend she suffered a stroke and was partially paralyzed on her left side. At first we hoped that some specific pressure on a spot on her spine, or something similar could be quickly identified and corrected, but 5 vets in various exams could locate no specific cause. So we made the most excruciating decision (and I've made that decision before for other pets). The best I can describe it is knowing we were doing the right thing, and at the same time wishing beyond all reason and sense that the decison would never have been necessary.
She never got very big - usually weighed between 5-8 lbs. This gave her speed and agility, which two successive male feline companions never learned to adjust for. A race through the kitchen on the slippery tiled floor would end with her leaping up to a chair, and her pursuer slamming into an open door with a speed and impact worthy of the National Hockey League. A friend remarked upon hearing this story "age and experience will always outwit youth and skill!"
She knew her name, and would come when I called her. Sometimes not knowing where she was, I would call for a minute or two. When I thought to check the basement stairs, I would see her downstairs gazing up at me with a question in her eyes. "Were you calling me? I'm on my way."
She loved to sleep on a pile of blankets, or on the bedcovers in disarray and making a good place to cuddle. Many many laundry days after we had washed the sheets from our bed, we delayed until our own bedtime to remake the bed, unwilling to disturb her sleeping on the piled up quilt and pillows. I once saw a quote on a cat calendar that the Prophet Mohammed is said to have once cut off the sleeve of one of his cloaks, so as not to disturb his sleeping cat. No matter how many other opinions I might hold about Islam - on the issue of sleeping cats, the Prophet and I are in perfect agreement.
Early in her life the vet wanted a stool sample to check for worms. Two kittens, two litter boxes, I figured it was the vet's problem and they both went off to his kennel for a few days while we were out of town for a wedding. He told us that each morning when he came to work she was sitting on his reception counter: "you thought you had a cage that would hold me, didn't you?" Poor Sinatra, who was quite a bit heavier than she, was left behind in the kennel they had been sharing. The vet eventually found the weak spot in the chain link enclosure where she had pressed herself against the side of the cage and wiggled her way out to explore his office on her own.
She loved liver, and recognized the smell of cooking poultry. A roasted turkey or chicken usually meant a smashed up liver presented for a treat. Other meals featuring chicken included an audience as we ate - two blue eyes fastened on us with an intense stare - to provide a reminder that if we had liver up there we better serve it soon.
She was very attentive to moods and health. Raising our voices for any reason - even to call to each other in another room would earn a rebuke from her in her best "Roseanne" voice. If we were angry at each other or going on about some non personal issue, she would interrupt the tirade with a reminder to lower our voices.
I ran a high fever one summer, not too long after we brought her home. She would jump on my bed a couple of times a day, and feel my cheeks and forehead with a sheathed paw - kind of like a worried grandmother. And until the fever broke, she stayed where she could see me, moving from room to room if I switched chairs or went to lie down. After the fever broke and she had felt my cool face, she took off and went back to her normal routine.
No black shoestring in the house was safe. White shoestrings could abide in corners and remain in kicked off shoes in the middle of rooms in perfect safety. Every black pair of shoes we owned was vulnerable to being chewed upon and liberally dosed with cat spit. Exasperation filled many mornings as we reached for a pair of shoes and exclaimed "oh, yuk!"
We all - including the other cats - learned that when she lifted a paw in the air she meant business. More than once we suffered a scratch on hand or wrist, and the other cats would both immediately back away at the sight of her paw poised for a blow.
Although she had Siamese "points" and beautiful blue eyes, she wasn't very vocal. Sinatra died rather suddenly in late 1999, and at her next checkup the vet inquired how she was doing by herself. She had begun to talk quite a bit, now the only cat in the household. The vet remarked with a grin "She probably told him what to say, and he said it." Knowing her "top cat" position in the house, I think he was probably right.
Several years ago she began to limp noticeably. Arthritis was diagnosed and she began to take regular doses of prednisone and glucosamine. The prednisone is known to be a mild "upper" and she became more and more affectionate and cuddly. She preferred Mr Woodstock's lap, but would purr only very gently as he held her. When I leaned over to place my palm on her back, her purr would deepen and become audible. We called this "the mom purr"
Even in her fifteenth year, she still enjoyed playing with a strand of leather strips, or a small feather on the end of a twisted wire. As all domestic pets do as they age, she spent most of her time sleeping. I could see the end of the road was much closer than I would like. But until late last week, she was in good health for an elderly cat.
I will miss her very, very much. I will never forget her, and I will always love her. My sweet little Roseanne, who refused to be ignored and who would be loved. No questions asked and no excuses accepted.
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