I have always known I was the stereotypical “crazy cat lady.”  It is a label I have accepted in part with embarrassment and in part with pride.  Why is it the compassionate ones are always labeled crazy and animal killers are considered normal?  I do not mean to sound harsh but I believe it is the absolute truth.  Obviously I cannot pass through pet stores and visiting shelters make me so despondent I have no words.  I suppose I am just not strong enough.  Anyway, I was minding my own business one day when these two popped up on my Facebook feed.  It was a last ditch rescue plea from a local shelter and I could have cheerfully strangled the friend who posted it.  They just haunted me.  First, if you are not a cat person and did not know this most orange cats are male.  I believe they used to be even more rare but current statistics place them at 80% male and 20% female.  Calico cats (three colors:  black, orange and white) are almost always female and tortoiseshell cats are as well.  (They have two colors; black and orange.)  So this little rare pair were both girls.  I confess I went for the kitten (a dilute calico) but her cries as she was taken from her mother will haunt me the rest of my days.  It was AWFUL.  Equally so was seeing her near starving mother reaching her paw out of the cage to her kitten.  Their cries echoed down and through the corridor and looking at the mother I KNEW she knew he was going to be killed.  In that instant I uncharacteristically ordered the mean, immune officer who had callously grabbed the kitten by the nape of the neck to put her back immediately with her mother where she belonged.  And then I announced I would be taking them both.  This haughty proclamation was followed by a texted plea to my husband not to divorce me.  His response was, “You got them both, didn’t you?”  And then I knew he was the kindest, sweetest man in the whole world; possibly the only one who truly understood and accepted me.  When we met I had seven cats.  Yep; seven.  And he loved them all.  Judge me; make fun of me; but they were my family.  I needed them just as much as they needed me.  And I do not regret one single rescue.  Returning to my story, I was not prepared to take two cats and one kind officer went and emptied out a box of printer paper so I could get them home.  I remember feeling ill carrying them, as the mother weighed less than four pounds and her kitten who even knows.  Something happened when I took the mother.  She knew I was keeping them together and she just seemed to let go.  I was afraid she would die because she had not been eating in the shelter.  I am sure it was because she could smell the death.  After leaving them to our bathroom upstairs with food and water something miraculous happened.  She started eating and gained enough weight to nurse!!!  Soon her little kitten’s tummy was full of Mama’s milk and they would lay together purring contentedly.  I began a sort of perverse reverse mental count of how many days they would have been gone contrasted with how well they were doing at the present.  And so I named the Mama cat Soleil which in French means “sun” and Giverny is where Monet lived when he painted his famous waterlilies.  Both kitties are rare in that you also do not see many dilute calicos.  Notice she is more gray and pink and white as opposed to black, orange and white.  Her muddled tones reminded me of Monet’s pond, which we had just visited.  They needed antibiotics and eye drops but flourished.  Giverny still remains tiny and our little one’s eternal “kitten.”  So if/when someone crinkles their nose when they discover our cats I remember the sound of them crying for each other that will haunt me as long as I live.  I will wear the crazy label; at least I know they were saved and are a loved, cherished part of our little family.  The renowned French-German academic Albert Schweitzer once said, “There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life:  music and cats.”  Both have been a refuge for me as I have struggled with the loss of both of my parents.  So really I do not believe, in my arrogance, I “saved” these cats.  I believe they saved me.

“We’re having a girls’ day!” is something my little one often likes to say.  It warms my heart.  Really mostly I’m working and doing chores, feeling guilty I’m dragging her with me.  But she makes our mundane time special; filled with laughter, imagination, and adventure.  In between rounds I scheduled time for a manicure and pedicure, or mani/pedi, and my little one asked if she could have pink sparkly princess nails.  Winking at me, the ladies fussed over her and gave her the palest of shimmer on her still-baby nails.  She felt so special and held so still.  Afterward she did not want to wash her hands for fear of her polish coming off.  She thanked everyone in English, Spanish, and Vietnamese just like I’d taught her and said it was our best day ever.  I confess the day picked up when I discovered the Hawaiian themed nail salon served tropical frozen drinks!  I almost dropped my teeth when they handed her a strawberry one.  Again with a wink and smile I realized they’d given her a virgin one, while Mommy’s lime one had a hit of rum.  Oh she was SO thrilled!  She said, “Mama!  My first margarita!” but it came out more like “marmameetuh.”  How precious this time is, and these moments.  I realize looking back I never regret time spent with my father while he worked.  I learned so much from him either about how to do something or life or just what his own childhood was like.  German theologian Walter Benjamin once said, “Counsel woven into the fabric of real life is wisdom.”  And now I carry that fabric with me and I am sewing it into the pieces of Maris’ life quilt.  Someday she will do the same for her children.  I hope and pray her scraps are filled with love, beauty, strength, happiness and memories that she will hand down and that they will last long into the next generations.  I can only pray and aspire to be the example my parents set for me.  So my little girly got a little mani … and maybe a special memory woven in along the way.

Look at my girl!  I don’t care; she was the most beautiful baby I have ever seen!  I believe I may have mentioned (shamelessly bragged) before she got a perfect 10 on her APGAR test in the hospital.  Oh WHERE did the time go?!  I remember being terrified of bathing her because she was so little.  She has always loved the water just as her namesake would suggest.  (In Latin Maris means “of the sea.”)  My husband and I loved her paw shaped birthmark (“stork bite”) which, ironically, she got about a week and a half after she was born.  We reluctantly had it removed when she was about 2 1/2.  Surprisingly, it was never remarks from other children; it was always adults making the comments.  For a long time I used her Godmother’s sweet reply that the angels had kissed her.  But it became harder and harder to ignore as she grew more aware.  The defining moment for me was an adult pointing straight at her face and asking what had happened.  I will NEVER forget her lifting her tiny hand up to her face and wondering why she was being pointed at.  Burk strongly felt we should have it removed because he didn’t want her to feel self conscious.  Now, two years later, she is upset with me for removing her “special wolf paw mark.”  Everyone who knew us was freaked out that it looked like she was touched on the cheek with a perfect wolf paw print.  My Daddy used to say hindsight is 20/20.  I can only pray she will not regret the decision we made in her stead forever.  American author Bret Harte once wrote:  “Never a lip is curved with pain that can’t be kissed into smiles again.”  I kissed that mark a thousand times.  I loved it; it was a part of her.  It belonged to her.  God gave it to her.  And at the tender age of three she started expressing her upset that her mark got removed.  It took two laser surgeries to have it removed.  I pray that I can kiss her lips into a smile again, and that she will not always regret the decision we labored over on her behalf.  And, for the record my darling, I do believe you were kissed not only by the heavenly angels but by the wolves as well.  I am proud of you for embracing it.

This photo of my folks is fuzzy and out of focus.  I fear my memories are becoming the same and I do not want that.  I want to remember them; their love, their warmth, and their strength for as long as I have breath.  It is especially important so that I can pass that along to Maris.  She is their legacy and the living embodiment of my entire life.  I try to stay upbeat in my blogs but OH how I miss them!  I tell my little one stories about them every day to keep them alive for her.  This was taken when I was in the Miss Texas USA pageant in Padre Island and it was the very first time I had ever been anywhere outside of Dallas with my family.  I believe I was 24.  I discovered Mama’s love for the ocean and remember marveling at how my dark red father’s feet were impossibly white — a shocking reflection of his mixed heritage of German and Choctaw.  I would say we were all in our prime then.  It is before my parents had any health problems that surfaced and I weighed less than 110 pounds, eating whatever I wanted.  I lost to who would become Miss Universe and I ate her cheese danish every day for breakfast so I got two.  I only got to spend one night with them on that beach in Padre Island but I remember I saw them in a whole new light.  I have been so fortunate to travel since I have gotten married and it is terribly important that our daughter never become blasé about such a privilege.  The French novelist Marcel Proust once wrote:

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”

I want to continually see the world and people with new eyes — always seeking out the best.

Oh dear God what has happened to my house?!  I think it’s called “my child is home from school.”  I could not believe the state her playroom was in.  Little pieces of Lord knows what were everywhere!!  I walked in, took one look around, and wanted to give up and go straight to bed.  Before I had a child, I always thought mine would be the house they’d come to.  I have a new iMac that was not inexpensive which some kid cracked within MILLISECONDS of coming in to play.  I especially love that his Dad covered it up and I did not discover it until later.  That’s when I realized once again our child was actually very good and has not touched anything she wasn’t supposed to.  I’ll never forget her third birthday (the last in our home) when a little boy broke a piece of Native American art whose artist’s work is in the Smithsonian.  The mother asked if “it was worth much” and when I looked horrified she asked how I managed to keep “nice” things out.  “Nice” and “priceless” are quite divergent.  But at least it taught me just how good my little girl really was.  As I write and I’m thinking this through I realize she was simply playing with her own things in her playroom.  The rest of our house remains intact.  Sometimes toys spill over from her room to the loft and I ask her to please keep certain things in specific areas.  So for instance her kitchen things need to stay in her kitchen; outside toys like bubbles stay on the porch, and she has a designated table for coloring, etc.  This room was the result of me not reminding her to put things away for several days as I have been really sick.  I came across a quote from the comedienne Phyllis Diller which I thought was apt:  “Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing up is like shoveling the walk before it stops snowing.”  Thankfully my karate kid girl is learning the value of discipline and responsibility.  I had her put everything away under my guidance of restored order.  I want her to be free to play … I just don’t want to see any more Play-Doh tornadoes; the wolfies have had rainbow-colored poop for days.  We’re not in Kansas anymore Dorothy.

Pictured here is Alamo, Tux, and Cocoa.  They have been clients of mine for years.  I came across this in my Timehop on Facebook from three years ago.  This is one of those stories which is funny now but was absolutely HORRIFYING at the time.  My client’s mother-in-law I believe had passed away but they had her old meds still hanging around.  So I was making my rounds and I discovered all these chewed open pill bottles — EVERYWHERE.  I completely freaked.  Oddly enough, first I worried about the plastic.  So I went and got them all white bread (which they thought was a treat) to coat their stomachs with since I had no way of knowing who had ingested how much and of what.  Next I lined them all up and DEMANDED to know WHO had done this!  If you’ll note, Alamo (on the far left) looks guilty and Cocoa (far right) wouldn’t meet my eyes.  Well she was a rescue, poor thing, and the sweetest doggie in the world — as Pitbulls often are despite what people have done to them.  So who does that leave?  Look at Tux in the center looking all unrepentant.  Sure enough, he was the culprit.  Fortunately, he was not hurt by the THIRY some odd prescription bottles he’d managed to open.  I swear I turned grey that night.  I prayed and prayed they would all be OK.  I tried to give them a doggie sobriety test (they’ve never looked at me the same since then) and I stayed over later to make sure no one vomited.  WHAT a scare!  American reporter and humorist Franklin P. Jones once said, “Scratch a dog and you’ll find a permanent job.”  And so it goes.  Tuxedo got showered with freaked out love and attention … and lots and lots of scratches.  Alamo and Cocoa justifiably demanded the same.  My job as a petsitter is to give as many scratches and as much love as I possibly can.  Fortunately, I am happy to take on the task.