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  • Your One-Year-Old: The Fun-Loving, Fussy 12-To 24-Month-Old
    Your One-Year-Old: The Fun-Loving, Fussy 12-To 24-Month-Old
    by Louise Bates Ames, Frances L. Ilg
  • Your Six-Year-Old: Loving and Defiant
    Your Six-Year-Old: Loving and Defiant
    by Louise Bates Ames, Frances L. Ilg
  • Ragnarok: The End of the Gods (Myths)
    Ragnarok: The End of the Gods (Myths)
    by A.S. Byatt
  • The Well-Trained Mind: A Guide to Classical Education at Home (Revised and Updated Edition)
    The Well-Trained Mind: A Guide to Classical Education at Home (Revised and Updated Edition)
    by Susan Wise Bauer, Jessie Wise
  • The Bay Area Forager: Your Guide to Edible Wild Plants of the San Francisco Bay Area
    The Bay Area Forager: Your Guide to Edible Wild Plants of the San Francisco Bay Area
    by Kevin Feinstein, Mia Andler
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Friday
Oct082010

Elegy

“She’ll never play with you or sleep with you or let you pet her very much. You understand this, don’t you?”

The San Francisco SPCA is an anecdotally difficult place to find a pet. Like a lot of shelters in the city, they operate at full capacity thanks to the no-kill law, so when they place a pet, they want the adopting biped to be aware and committed, ready to take the animal away never to darken the shelter door again. But the light browbeating the shelter worker dished out with a stack of paperwork gave some credence to tales of people leaving in tears without a new fuzzy companion.

Yes, I understood, she was a timid cat, unable to be a companion animal. Yes, I was aware of her lack of interactivity. This didn’t bother me. I’d come for a working cat. Construction two doors down had driven mice out of a nest, and they had entered my in-law studio through an opening in the linoleum under my kitchen sink. They hadn’t found my cupboards, but were exploring outside of the kitchen. My ex-boyfriend had moved out with his cat twenty months before, her scent must have dissipated enough to let them come. I needed a mouser. I secured a verbal okay from my landlady and my friend J drove me to the SPCA.

The eight and a half pound tabby being caught and popped into a carboard carrier was the first female cat I walked past that morning. I wanted a female adult cat, and she stared through the glass of her kitty condo with leafy green eyes. She jumped down when I approached, and a round spotted tummy swayed on her small frame. A small note on the door named her Lollie and declared her as shy; I am a sucker for the cat that plays hard to get, so I asked to see her.

J, the volunteer and I sat in her little room. Lollie crouched in the corner before coming out, sniffing each of us, until she got to me. She butted my hand with her head as I scratched her ears, stepped up into my lap to touch my nose with hers and run her whiskers along the frame of my glasses. Another volunteer came in with her food, and she mrowped at me until I petted her while she ate. I decided to stop looking and start filling out the adoption forms. I discovered that she had been in shelters for about a year, first at SF Animal Care and Control, then SPCA, that she was roughly three and a half, and that she had no other history, aside from being scared of most of the volunteers who came in to feed her, scoop her box, and attempt playtime. An hour and a half later, J drove Lollie and I home, I set up her box and feeding area, and opened the carrier.

I didn’t see much of her for about thirty-six hours, aside from one incident where she got stuck under a freestanding cabinet. She moved about quietly during the first week, startling me one night while I was reading for class.

“Bandit. I think that’s your name, sneaky thing.” She took some scritches and flounced off.

As weeks passed, Bandit came to me for petting and left when done, played occasionally with the cat dancer, slept closer and closer to me at night. I can count on my hands the times she sat on my lap. I respected her boundaries and waited for her to come out of her shell. We moved in with Patrick and his housemate J a year after I adopted her, and she flourished in that house, becoming increasingly playful and vocal. In 2005 Patrick and I moved into the house we recently left. A smaller space, but one we would fill, first with Faolan that fall, and Seamus two years later.

Bandit adjusted to the move, she mostly adjusted to the dog. Seamus, I think, was her Waterloo. She began peeing and pooping on the bed. Not regularly, not in relation to the cleanliness of her box, just every once in a while. One poop incident in the crib. More hairballs and more puking up her kibble, requiring me to slide under the bed with a bucket of hot water, a rag, and a paint scraper every few months. She still slept on the bed, choosing Patrick over me in our first year of co-sleeping, but also slept under the bed among her small piles of loose fur and urp that were unreachable with the vacuum. She took to howling in Seamus’ room while I desperately tried to nurse him down at naps and at night. She spent most of her time in our room, hiding from the tiny boy who loved her quite loudly.

We have a video shot on a Flip camera somewhere. It’s Seamus’ first movie. Bandit is his subject. In it she dashes away while he pursues, calling her to him, keeping her in frame.

This winter she began eating periodic strikes, causing me to switch foods and flavors in search of something she would eat consistently. By spring I ditched dry food entirely, buying cans by the dozen that still sat ignored until ants came in and swarmed them. We moved this summer to a bigger house with more safety zones, in a town where housecats spawl on their porches. Birds visit the large bush outside our window, and she spent the first month exploring the new space, obsessing over the basement, and staring out the window at the flocks roosting on the other side of the glass, ignoring her.That hopeful start quickly devolved as she spent August refusing to eat, refusing to use her box, and puking often after eating.

Friends suggested I find an animal behavioralist, put her on Prozac. Or since she was healthy but had a “high normal” thyroid, perhaps I should pursue that? Patrick and I both resisted. Medicating Bandit would remove her cat-ness, we felt. We’re also not heroic measure people when it comes to our animals. We love them, we care for them and see them through acute health issues, but as Bandit had gotten increasingly timid, medicating her through a chronic condition or long illness was going to be difficult at best. We didn’t want Bandit’s everlasting present to be defined by fear of us shoving pills down her throat in hopes that she would display calmer behavior.

On the beginning of Labor Day weekend, I came home with Seamus after a trying day (and trying weeks prior) to find that she had pooped on the couch and bed. Furious, I chased her under the bed, flushed her out, and dumped her onto the porch while I cleaned up the mess. She jumped from the porch to a living room window and let herself back in. She spent the rest of the day going in and out via the window, and being affectionate. By Labor Day, none of us had seen her in twenty-four hours. We’ve searched the neighborhood, left out a box of worn clothes so she could pick up our scent, crawled under the house. She has not shown up at the local shelters, nor does she appear on their dead lists.

Over eight and a half years, I’ve waited Bandit out. I waited for her to get used to her life with me in our tiny studio, waited for her to adjust to new places and family members. Always providing her with clean, safe spaces, watching her to suss out her needs and meeting them. I never expected her to climb into Seamus’ lap, but I hoped she might let him pet her one day without sneaking up on her while she slept. I hate to think that she was ill and the vet missed it, or desperately unhappy and I missed it. I suspect she’s found a place to die, given the combination of eating strikes, puking, and basement fascination. If so, I hope to hell that my one act of anger gave her the means to get what she sought.

Not having her messes has made things easier. But I miss her.

 

 

Wednesday
Sep292010

Oh my busy head

It’s been a pretty productive week thus far. I’ve mapped out my running/walking route (six miles, no wonder Faolan’s so tired) and done it twice this week so far, I deep cleaned the bathroom, have just about caught up on laundry, made applesauce from six pounds of apples that had gotten soft, and unpacked five crates of stuff. I’ve got an essay and a half lurking around my head, a semi-solid plan for work, and I dredged up a pattern I bought ages ago to make Seamus some elastic-waist pants to see us through this phase of accidents.

Why yes, I’ll have another glass.

Monday
Sep062010

Beginning Fall

Happy Labor Day to those who celebrate/observe/loaf in honor of the day. I got Seamus down an hour ago and have been wondering just where in the hell all of the summer snuck off to this year. I’ve been trying to pin it down, and here’s what I’ve got thus far:

Late May: Patrick celebrated twenty years of sobriety, half of his life, and all of his legal drinking life. Three goddamn cheers to high bottoms. Also, I noted that the Taurean birthday gauntlet that runs from late April to late May is now completely anxiety-free, which was my own little teachable moment about relationships.

June: Seamus had what is now know as the Worst Potty Training Accident Ever, forever confirming that despite developing a routine with him regarding well, any functions, I still need to be vigilant around him. Which is depressing because I’m not sure how to mete out independence within a framework of all eyes and ears on the boy. We had a horribly long ER visit involving a pediatric urology consult, steri-strips, and a return to diapers until he healed up. Two weeks later Seamus climbed right back up onto the potty ring where it all occurred, proving that under his two year-old wildness lurks a brave kid.

We looked at one last fixer in Alameda before caving and asking K, our realtor, if she handled rentals. Alas, no, but her mother had a place available. It’s a Craftsman cottage divided into a duplex. We have the two-bedroom front unit, our neighbor C has the studio in the back. K and her family live in the divided house in the back of the lot, and her sister will be replacing their current downstairs neighbor in a few weeks. We do the occasional swapped playdate, and the kids play together in the shared space between the buildings.

Patrick turned forty at the end of June, and instead of finding a babysitter and going out, he attended his company’s fifth anniversary party while I packed and prepared the house for an ad hoc birthday barbecue. Please note that being the wife of someone working in a start-up is not fun. It never has been, but this is a lovely shining example of the non-fun. Adult time? What the fuck is that?

July: We called in every favor we had and moved. I got most of the upstairs packed before I got run down and needed some rest days, so that got moved painlessly, but the garage….Sigh. On the plus side, someone now understands that he has too much stuff, and that he needed to choose between his stuff and his family. The progress through it all is slow, but we’re still here.

Seamus had a few potty accidents and preferred pull-ups the first couple of weeks post-move, but he appears to be completely potty trained. He’s wearing pull-ups at night and still resisting strange toilets, but he will use them, and we haven’t had very many accidents. I’ve stenciled a bunch of training pants, and we’ll keep him in those till he’s more proactive in using the toilet before we leave the house, at bedtime, etc. Given that he’s a boy, and under three, I’m pleased with how this has worked out.

Seamus starts his play-based preschool next week. He expressed some anxiety about it tonight while playing with Blue, the rubber stingray my sister gave him.

“Oh Blue, I’m so sorry you can’t find your friends. Mama, the stingray can’t find his friends at school!”

“He can’t?” I pick up the stingray and try to make eye contact. “Blue, you will find your friends at school, I promise. They may not be the friends you play with now, but you will find your friends, and you will play with them and have a good time.” I put Blue down and looked at Seamus. “Just like you, Baby. You’ll make friends at your new school too. Okay?”

“Okay.”

August: Much like July, Shea and I struggle for a good routine that gets him the stuff he needs - quiet time, play time with friends, a regular bedtime - and allows me to do the other stuff I am supposed to do around here (unpacking, general house and book keeping, etc.) All this has done is remind me that I am not cut out to live on a farm somewhere with four kids, unless we’re sharing property with another family and only two of said kids are mine. Being the solo caretaker of a boy who can climb anything and undo all manner of latches makes going to the bathroom (among other tasks) really really difficult. I bought Scream Free Parenting as a result of this.

September: Kind of awesome so far. Patrick took some PTO days so I could do something other than worry about Seamus, and while it was housework, the shared care and time off made for a massive improvement in how I approached some of Shea’s less savory behavior. We went apple picking on Saturday and brought home twenty pounds of apples, apple-pear juice, artisanal breads, and a ton of barbecue. Yesterday was the Rail Fair at Ardenwood Farm, where we met up with friends and rode nineteeth-century steam trains. Today was a hike in the bird sanctuary with my mom and sister. Tomorrow brings storytime at the library and the farmers market. Seamus is sleeping under homemade blankets I sewed this past week during our heatwave. We’re muddling through. Once he starts school, I can figure out the job thing and get rid of the pantry moths, start running again and find a dye kit for the couch. I didn’t mention the Sharpie incident? File it under Vigilance, Failure of.

Tuesday
Aug102010

Memoriam, at a distance and by surprise

I just realized that today’s the third anniversary of Sea Monkey 1.0’s due date.

I am absolutely fine.

Saturday
Aug072010

Afternoon Movie

Title: holmgrrl vs The Bathroom

Alt. Title: Fuck the Former Tenants

Language: English, with cursing in English and Spanish (subtitled)

Synopsis: After finally getting a large chunk of time free from Seamus, I clean up the house and prepare to clean the tub, which has been grossing me out since I rinsed some shampoo of off a sliding door and released a tide of pink shower scum. I turned on all of the lights and threw down with some Bon Ami and SalSuds. And scrubbed and scrubbed and was vanquished by poor water pressure and no-slip stickers, caked with accumulated plaque.

But I’ll be back for the sequel. With bleach and steel wool.