February 2010 Issue

We did end up losing half of a very large tree last month right outside my office window.  It split right down the trunk during one storm, with a huge limb missing my office window by inches and nearly smashing the air-conditioning unit outside the kitchen window.  I happened to be sitting on the couch in front of my office window when it broke off.   Interesting.  Then again, that tree has had a grudge against me for years.  It was the one struck by lightning a few years back, which traveled down the trunk, became ball lightning when it hit the ground, and then floated about ten feet across the yard and zapped me.  About six months later I began to exhibit the first really serious symptoms of MS.  Coinkydink?  I doubt it.

Speaking of rural drama, I ventured outside (always a bad idea) one morning a few weeks ago when the wind was blowing razor-edged snow at about 30 mph and the wind chill was down around 2 degrees. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small cat making its way across the snow toward the house, which is very unusual because most feral cats around here take off as as soon as you step out of the door.  This one, however, seemed oblivious to my presence and headed over to the leeward side of the house near a vent into the crawlspace under the front porch.  There it huddled against whatever small warmth was coming from the house.

I’ve become used to seeing feral cats on our land over the years, and I’ve developed the ability to resist the impulse to invite them inside for a cup of joe and a better life.  We have more cats than we need already (though I really can’t think of one I’d be willing to give up).  But this cat was clearly starving and in distress, so I went inside and brought it out some cat food (shoot me now), of which it ate a bit, still showing no fear of me.  Then it put its head down and seemed to pass out.  I poked it gently with my boot and it didn’t react.  At all.  It sure looked like it was dying.

Crunch time.  It’s one thing to look past a feral cat twenty feet away in warm weather.  It’s another to watch one dying in front of you.

So I got a cat-carrier out of the garage, picked up the little critter by the scruff of its neck (still no reaction), carried it into the house, and put it in the bathroom off the kitchen.  I left it in the carrier and brought it some more food, but it was unresponsive.  It clearly had pretty serious hypothermia, but all I could do was keep it warm and hope for the best.

A couple of hours later, it seemed more animated and interested in food and water, so I made it a little bed next to the sink and reached into the carrier, intending to gently pull it out.  Bad idea.  The little darling had apparently thawed sufficiently to recognize me as its mortal enemy, and as soon as my hand was within six inches of its flank, it went completely berserk and did its best to bite off the tip of my right index finger.  Yow.  Blood everywhere, a la the old Julia Child SNL skit.  My finger took weeks to heal.

Long story short, Miss Psycho Cat eventually calmed down a bit and lived in the bathroom for two weeks, and is presently residing in the corner of my office in a little pink cat bed we bought her at Target.  She lets us pet her if we are very, very quiet and move slowly.  I doubt that she was truly feral.  She used the kitty litter from day one, she plays with cat toys, and she isn’t freaked out by the presence of other cats.  I think she was somebody’s cat and then spent some months, or longer, out there on her own.  I suspect she’s actually a sweet little cat.  But I have a history of believing a lot of stupid things.

What else … I was sitting in the car at the local Post Office a few weeks ago when an SUV with handicapped tags pulled into the lot and a 60-ish man got out and opened the back hatch.  He reached in and pulled out one of those new-style fancy collapsible walkers, and, as he unfolded it, I noticed that it was festooned with all sorts of doodads ranging from things that looked like saddlebags (handy, I suppose) to a cupholder (of course) and a long leather bag-like thing I couldn’t identify hanging off the right-hand grip.  I was paying this level of attention because I now have to use a cane to walk when we go out, so, as an official gimp, I have a newfound interest in mobility technology.  (I actually have two old-style walkers out in the garage, inherited from Kathy’s mother, but they’re the uncool silvery aluminum old-lady kind. No way.)

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