Tag: Guest Blogger

 

Last week I had a conversation that stunned me. The person with whom I was conversing is reasonably intelligent. And yet………

The subject: Feral cats. I live in a suburban neighborhood in South Central Pennsylvania. As I am typing this post, I can look out and see neighbors walking their dogs. There are also a few cats roaming around, collars and tags visible. Clearly, they are someone’s pets. My two cats are collared, tagged and micro chipped; they are not allowed outside. There is also a group of cats roaming the neighborhood that belong to nobody.

Last week we took the first of the feral females to our vet to be spayed and vaccinated. There’s another female and one male in the wings, waiting their turn. A large dog crate is set up as a recovery area in our garage, which I clean and restock with food and water each day, until next week when I can release her back into our yard. The cost of this endeavor will mean our beach vacation fund is gone.

The conversation went something like this:

“Well yeah, I did notice some cats out back. So you’re saying you had a neighbor’s cat spayed?”

“No. The cats are feral.”

“Didn’t your vet check to see if they have chips?”

“Yes. The cats are feral.”

“How did they get here?”

“They were either dropped off by someone who didn’t want them or they were born to a feral mother.”

“Don’t they have collars and tags?”

“No. The cats are feral. They have never had human contact except for me. I had to work really hard for many months to get them tame enough to get them into a carrier and take them to the vet.”

“Why didn’t you just let them go? Someone would take them in.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice? I hope that happens. Until then, each female can have about 3-4 litters of kittens a year, with 2-8 kittens per litter. That’s lots of cats for people to take in. If they remain outside the kittens that survive will eventually start to reproduce.  And right now the SPCA in our area has about 600 cats waiting for homes.”

I’m not doing this because I’m some selfless patron saint of cats. I’m doing this because I do not relish the idea of netting drown kittens from the bottom of my pool. I do not wish to clean up the remains left after the raccoons have their nocturnal feast.  I’m doing this because my two cats, my beautiful spoiled pets, were the only two we were able to rescue out of the 29 kittens (that we are aware of) their wild, unapproachable mother gave birth to in the year she roamed the fields behind my parent’s house.

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We learn so much more when we listen than we do when we speak.

We learn so much more when we reach out to people who aren’t like us. What insight do we gain when we only surround ourselves with like-minded people; people who support the views and opinions we already have?

We may not end up agreeing, or changing our view or even understanding. But at least if we listen, we will almost always learn.

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Nothing I have ever said has caused more of a reaction than three little words I uttered last week: I’m going gray.

Seven years ago, I let my medium brown color grow out to its’ natural salt and pepper. Then after a few years I hit the bottle again. Fell right off the wagon and into Miss Clairol’s open arms. I got my state cosmetology license back in 1978, so I can dye in privacy if I like. I wasn’t even that upset when I accidentally dropped a glob of color on our new floor. (BTW, Magic Eraser will remove permanent hair dye from hardwood without removing the sheen!) Then last week I decided I was sick of my chin length, choppy bob. And so I got it cut short; very short. With that cut came the decision to go back to my natural color.

I got positive comments on the cut. The comments about the color decision have been interesting to say the least.

“I’m not ready for that!” was a popular reaction.

“You’re so brave!” Actually it was more brave (stupid) standing over that new floor with color glopped on my head.

My favorite, hands down? “You look like you’re about 35 on this picture. Let’s see how old you look when that color grows out.”

Well, I am going to be 55 in May. So maybe I will actually look -gasp, choke- FIFTY-FIVE!

I’m not able to understand what is so bad about looking one’s age. And even if I color my hair and that shaves a couple of years off of how I LOOK, that doesn’t change how old I AM. I think back to when I really was 35. The next year was one of the most difficult of my life. Not sure I would want to repeat that one. I happen to think gray is lovely, and I happen to think that it’s not such a bad thing to look my age. Most importantly, I stopped caring what other people think about how I look YEARS ago. Probably when I was about 35.

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This week I said yes to afternoon duty for my friend’s 15-year-old dog. My friend passed away last summer. This dog was her baby, the same as my two cats are my feline children. When the nest gets empty the maternal instinct needs a focus, I suppose. Adult daughters have jobs to go to, and elderly pets that lose their primary caregivers deserve to be kept to their routines as much as possible. Somehow a pet seems like a living reminder. They become even more precious. This “baby” needed some day care.

It’s nice to have something be that excited when it hears your key in the door. It’s nice to have someplace to be every day at approximately the same time. It’s great to have to take a daily walk, no excuses; because after all it’s not for YOU it’s for something else. It’s somehow inspirational (and yes, hilarious) to administer heart medication concealed in a potato roll to a geriatric dog and then have that dog drag you down the sidewalk. One rather small, extremely well loved and cared for elderly dog that has lost her human parent. I think we’re an excellent match.

I’ve never owned a dog. I like dogs; I just never knew what to do with them. I’m learning, though. I have a teacher named Sweet Pea.

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Last week I posted a photo of a miniature snowman being melted in my oven, captioned “Piss off, Frosty!” as a way to say I am ready for spring. (Our snow blower had broken mid storm that day.) That got more likes than almost anything I have ever posted, and the comments were all laughter and humor.

I also posted a story about a mysterious water puddle in my basement and my husband’s and my search for the source. That one ended with him flushing the powder room toilet upstairs, while water rained down on my face as I was looking up at the basement ceiling. Again, lots of “likes” and laughs from my friends.

Then I took note of the people who posted their little challenges as full-blown, stress inducing complaints. Sure enough, the comments were all friends joining in the outrage. These were life shattering catastrophes like not enough foam on top of their latte and the “stupid idiot working the drive thru window forgetting the ketchup packets for my French fries!”  I almost expected to see an angry, torch-bearing mob marching through the snow in the direction of the golden arches.

Lesson learned: Anger and frustration are contagious. But so is humor. It’s all in how we choose to spin life’s little challenges.

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