DatingGod

Wave Riders

Back in January I applied for the perfect public health job for me. A fellowship - so they'd be teaching and training me. An amazing project on a cutting edge aspect of health care reform. With a top notch non-profit with a 15+ year proven track record. Flex time for working hours. 1/2 hour free during work hours each day to exercise. Healthy stipend hiring range. 

I got an interview, and as they're in Chapel Hill, they humanely let me do it on the phone. I was really sick that day, but took some of those decongestants they make meth from and was able to breathe and think so did okay. I got a second interview, this time with the CEO, and again they humanely let me do it over the phone. This time I'd had a killer day in Hiveworld, and with the phone interview at 4pm, I drank a big mug of green tea beforehand, which made me a little manic, but again, I did okay. They narrowed it down to three candidates. For the third and final interview, they asked me to come in person. 

The week before, my boss in Cubicleland asked me to apply for a permanent position with them. The interview time of course was scheduled for the same day. I talked to my boss, and this is what a genuine prince he is: he let me take the day off to drive to Chapel Hill, and allowed me to interview for Cubicleland the day before.

After the Cubicleland interview, my boss called me into his office and said he hoped the Chapel Hill job went terribly and we had a good laugh. Then he said: seriously, there is opportunity for you here, in a couple of years, you'll be in management and in a great career for yourself. I thanked him, genuinely thanked him for all he's done for me, and told him I'd keep it all in mind.

I drove up to Chapel Hill, taking a half tab of a beta blocker my doc had prescribed so that I wouldn't have to manage that god-awful heart pounding that kicks in in interviews for me. (I used to be queen of the interviews, but now that I hate talking about myself, interviews are murderous :) And it worked. I met for a group interview with four people, plus another staff member teleconferenced in. They started out pretty guarded, but by the end we were laughing and making jokes and sharing inside comments about feng shui. They rocked the casbah. I actually had a good time at an interview, and was able to tell them and show them what I genuinely had to offer them, let them see what I'm genuinely like to work with.

The following Friday I got a job offer from Cubicleland. And on Monday, the non-profit. As crazy as this sounds, I told them both I needed to think about it. Because on Thursday, Jacinta got sick. (I didn't tell any of them what was going on, just that I needed some time)

I had a feeling I'd get the public health job too, but on Friday I made the decision to accept the Cubicleland job, because a move would be too hard on Jacinta. I looked at my sweet sister and got: f*ck the perfect job, let's get you healed.

But on Saturday, I faced how sick she was, and looked at the big picture. Not just what I wanted in the moment. But all of it. My life, the lives of the kittens, and Jacinta. After her treatments and tests, I was down to $2000. That's it. After that, if my car broke down or Baby Wallace's virus flared up again, we were toast. And accepting the public health job was out of the question, because there'd be no money for the move.

And it wasn't that I didn't want to go into debt for Jacinta, it's that what I had left wouldn't be enough. The next round of tests and treatments they wanted to do - another ultrasound $375, a feeding tube $600, tests and treatments for her lungs - would have used most of what funds were left. And if those three things didn't work, we'd be done. Not just Jacinta, but all of us.

And so in the early morning of Saturday, tears streaming down my face, I asked the vet: should I do it? Will it likely cure her? And she said that the other two vets she'd consulted with said that a case of pancreatitis this acute didn't bode well, at all, and since the treatments so far weren't working, at all, there was most likely an underlying condition like Cushings or heart disease, which would mean a whole new area for tests and treatments, which at that point, we wouldn't have the money for.

And then I looked at my friend, my sweet sister, and saw she was dying, she had been for days, and in that moment I saw the way through. I didn't like it. But I didn't grab ahold of her and cling for dear life like I had with Grandma, or The Hoon. Instead, I let the whole of the situation flow through me, let the truth of all of it, wash through me, inform my heart and brain and limbs. 

In that moment, I felt an adulthood I'd never experienced before. An ability to truly see my own living in the light of What Was Really Going on. I could see through Hope to the Truth that lay beyond it. For a flash of a moment, I was a warrior on a battlefield, and I saw that this was a battle that was lost. I could stay on the battlefield with my dying friend, and die with her, or I could help her die by my hand, not at the hand of the compassionless enemies coming for her, collapsing lungs and heart, or what Wallace, Emmaline, Malcolm, and I would face without resources.

I had them leave us alone in the room for a while, and talked to her, held her, her body just the week before sturdy and solid, now as light as a feather. Then I let go, and I helped her let go too. And I helped give her as peaceful a death as I could.

And of course, my mind has gone over and over and over everything. It wants to punish me, for the choice I made, because Jacinta is no longer here, and that is unacceptable to the mind. Someone is to blame, and because I took full responsibility for everything, because I only sought council from the vet, and only briefly, making the decision completely on my own, it knows I'm to blame.

If I would have had $5000, I probably would have tried. But I always empty back out at the knowing I had in that moment, the knowing I still have, that it wouldn't have mattered. It was the end of her life. With money we could have prolonged her living, but the quality was declining and would have steadily gotten worse.

And at some point during this week as I've been talking to her, wherever she is, I said that I hoped when it's my time, there's someone with me who will help me end my life peacefully, and that I die in their arms, knowing how much they love me. And I mean it. I hope that my own death will have the meaning in someone else's Waking Up, that hers has had in mine. Because the love that moved between us helped me grow up. 

It doesn't mean I'm off the hook. I know that I'll carry that in my heart and mind for the rest of my life. I took the life of my sister. Just as I took the life of my brother. That's how it is in this world. Death comes for all of us, and sometimes it comes with pain and suffering. But it doesn't have to. But the price? You have to be grown up enough to pay the price. 

And so Saturday I took her life. And Sunday the kitties and I were surrounded by a profound sense of relief, of love, of Yes. On Monday, the public health job offer came through. On Tuesday morning I picked up Jacinta's ashes, along with a small mold they'd made of her front right paw. On Tuesday afternoon, I accepted the public health job. And yesterday, I drove up to Chapel Hill and found the perfect apartment right outside of Carrboro, and signed the lease, with for the first time, all the kitties' names on it as well. (Can you imagine a place more perfect than one with a landlord who wanted the kitties' names on the lease because they're tenants too?)

I don't write much these days for so many reasons, but mostly it's because I usually don't know how to write about what I'm going through. It doesn't show up as Waking Up, but I'm pretty sure it is. It's about healing the life, about letting go into what Life wants, while at the same time, opening the arms and heart to what I want, what I feel is true for me. It's about holding the possibility, the hope, the opening, while at the same time holding the rejection, the ending, the closing at the same time. The experience is like walking a tightrope, a razor's edge, because you can't fall to either side. Or suppress emotion as it rises, nor hang on to it when it does. 

It doesn't sound like much of a big deal: to hold Death while simultaneously living Life. But it's huge. It changes everything. 

And there has been an enormous shift in my psychic and shamanic abilities. I've been able to use them for clients for years. But for myself? Not so much. Truthfully? Hardly at all. That's changing. And it's wild to watch.

I knew I only needed to set up the one apartment viewing, but I didn't know why. Was it perfect and I wouldn't need to look anymore? Will the public health job offer be rescinded and the landlord is so nice he'll tear up the deposit check and lease? When I got lost twice looking for the apartment, and then the landlord's home to sign the lease, I began to tone and chant, connecting to guides and animals exactly as I do when in session with clients. Driving down interstate 40, I did a healing session on myself. And I turned it over to that power I feel that's greater than myself (just like I do when with clients, so that the energy can pour through me, into them, but now it can flow into me, too). I didn't pray for the details of the How, only the result of the Yes: my ability to see what the real deal is, and then the courage to act on it, to do what needs to be done, whether it's say No Thank You, or sign on the dotted line.

And I don't know what's going to happen. I only know I'm following the same psychic and shamanic info I've been giving clients for years. Something in me finally acknowledging that I'm worthy of it.

So even posting is a tightrope act. Needing to write, to place story around what's unfolding, maybe to continue to leave breadcrumbs. But also protecting this process that I'm in, that I'm going through, from the bozos who do that to folks who are in the tender shoot rising from the earth and reaching for the sun phase of Waking Up. 

I'm so grateful for you folks out there who love and send me and Malcolm and Emmaline and Baby Wallace well wishes. For you gentle folks who somehow manage to transcend distance, your love traveling down the wifi and into our hearts and minds.

Much love to you too. We send you love and well wishes too. Keep to your course, burrowing inward. Keep trusting your life process. Keep living in motion the knowing that Life is unfolding your own Waking Up through the circumstances of your daily living. 

Know that you are loved. Always. All ways . . . 

Sweet Jacinta

This post is disjointed. Maybe I shouldn't press publish, but I get that I need to write it. Because I need to deal with my grief somehow, and this is all I know to do in this moment.

Like with The Hoon, I've known for months she was going to go. Even as I understood that taking her to the vet wouldn't do anything, wouldn't stop what was coming. But feeling it coming helped me be clear in loving her. Even though before then, for the past few years, I've been loving her like every day would be our last.

That sweet weasel was so loved. And she loved me so deeply, so hilariously and with so much slobber. Kittens are loving, but Jacinta and I had a long time love. 12 years. We knew each other's stuffs. I'll love her for the rest of my life. And if there is something after this, I'll be loving her in that space too.

But of course the past few days, with all I have going on right now, I've been distracted, and when she called to me on Wednesday early morning, when I was sitting here at this computer checking emails or surfing or something equally as inane, I remember kind of brushing her off.

Thursday morning she didn't eat. Thursday night when I got home, she still wouldn't eat, so I called the vet for an appt the next morning. By 8pm though  she was in bad shape. Throwing up bile. In terrible pain. 

1:30 am and $475 at the emergency clinic later, they ruled out liver and kidneys. 9am the next morning and $610 at the vet's they ruled out a cancerous mass, and diagnosed a mild to moderate case of pancreatitis. Almost tapped out for money, they loaded me up with DIY supplies - a hanging bag for sub-q fluids, syringes for pain and nausea meds, and for feeding. They kept her for the day to dole out professional love, attention and meds, and I picked her up after work, took her home.

But she only got worse with every passing hour. By 2am she was crying in pain, and I gave her pain meds, all the pain meds, all five doses for the weekend all at once. It helped. But her breathing grew labored.

By 4am I knew what the deal was. Actually, by the time I set up the first vet visit, before the emergency clinic, I knew. But you have to go through all the steps, right? 

The worst thing would be for her to die in pain, even if it was at home in bed with me, or god help us, by the side of the road like with Cassidy. The second worse thing would be for her to die in that godawful emergency clinic. So I kept a vigil. An all night vigil by the light of the full moon. Watching her breathe. Doing energywork. Speaking sweet words to her. I didn't talk much. Because I finally, for the first time in this life, understood that love doesn't need to be spoken aloud. But I know hearing the tone of it always made her purr, so I when she was in the worst waves of pain, I spoke to her in that language I always spoke to her in, and through her pain she could recognize.

If things got too painful, we'd go to the emergency clinic. If not, we'd hold out til the vet opened in the morning.

I watched the clock go 4. 4:20. 4;45. 5. On and on until we made it til 6:30.

We got to the vet's by 7am. They let us in at 7:45. 

Lungs filling with fluid. Maybe a heart issue. Maybe the pancreatitis was secondary to something else. Maybe Cushings. Maybe there was cancer that wasn't caught by the first tests. But it all requires tests, procedures, money. Lots of it. But would it even help? Would it make her well?

I just realized one of the things that has been so painful about the past couple of days is how I kept trying to distract myself from the fact that she was dying. Is that what I'm doing now? Trying to distract myself from the fact that she's dead? Or am I facing it more clearly by this writing?

But I do what I know to do. So I do this.

I had five appointments with holistic clients today. I cancelled them all, for folks to reschedule for tomorrow or next weekend. The old me would have muscled through them. Let my heart be all raw and ripped open and mythic. But this person I'm becoming understands that there is no need for heroics. I'm grieving. My sister died this morning. 

Then my mind, the cold, evil part of it says I'm a heartless bitch to kill my friend because it costs too much to keep her alive. I let it pierce my heart, because there's truth in that. I have about $2000 left in credit and cash. I know it wouldn't have been enough. I know the most any of this would have bought is a year or two. Maybe. Maybe only days. Or ten days, like with The Hoon. But I weighed all the possibilities, of having three other kitties to care for, a possible move for a new job in a few weeks, the insane debt load I already carry from school, from the first year out of school before I began making money again.

I told the vet point blank: no heroics. If you feel strongly, let's do it, but I don't want to keep throwing things at her, torturing her like she was last night. No more pain for her, no more suffering. We need to do the right thing. And she said doing the kind thing would be to let go. And even though I knew I didn't need her permission, or her approval, it helps me now, in this moment, when the evil part of my mind rises again.

And then my mind remembers last night, the pain, the suffering of my friend. And I'm so grateful I had the courage to tell the vet No More. And the vet said it's the kindest thing. And in the moment I felt an adulthood I hadn't before. Not out of my mind crying. Crying yes, but focused, clear thinking. 

While the vet prepared things, I talked to Jacinta. Just saying all the things I've always said to her, the same phrases over and over the years, the things I'd sing. She purred. And gave me the love look, the first time since before she got sick. In those moments, I felt her understand what I was doing, and feel relief with it. She could feel me loving her, loving her like I always did. Keeping her safe. Protected. 

Even if I couldn't protect her from death, I could protect her from pain. I could help her have a peaceful death. 

And so they gave her a sedative. Then took her in the back to get the iv port in place. Then came out and placed her in my arms, and let us be together for a while. I waited til she and I were ready, then when someone came in, very gently, to check, I nodded. The syringe emptied, and a few moments later, she flinched just a bit, then her heart stopped. 8:32. 

I stayed with her until her body began to lose warmth and I could feel she was gone. I smelled her fur one last time. Kissed her sweet head. Then handed her over to be cremated.

The vet computers went down. Estimated bill $500 more. They say I can pay it when I pick up her ashes.

It'd be easy to post this without talkinbg about the money. But of course this is also about money. About money, love, adulthood, courage, willingness, gratefulness, broken heartedness.

Driving home in the impossibly bright Carolina sunshine. Then to deal with urine and vomit soaked sheets, blankets, rugs. Clothes covered in urine and drool. In the wash. Needed to clean out the parts of her that were only about the last two days. Although a part of my mind inhales the scents, and yearns, because all it knows is this: this is Jacinta.

Malcolm and Emmaline and Baby Wallace, all so extra kind the past two days. To me. To Jacinta. They keep coming and laying on me, giving me love looks. Emmaline came twice last night to keep vigil with us, not scared away by the sound of Jacinta's pain and labored breathing. Baby Wallace keeps checking in on me, squeeking and sending me love. Malcolm is in my lap right now, purring, purring.

Outside my window, birds and trees. The sun feels obscene. But then I remember how much Jacinta loved the sun. And I feel how the sun and Jacinta will always be intertwined in my heart and mind.

I'm the only one left now of my tribe of the Hacienda of Ckats. We were about healing and chasing adventures and being bold and snuggling and snacking and watching tv and being a good family to one another. Brother Calhoon. Grandma Booty. Sister Jacinta. Now just me.

I have a new tribe. Yet we're not sure what our deal is yet. More shall be revealed. We're a young family.

Jacinta.

Can't take it back. She's gone.

I miss her.

I love her.

Baby in the sun, 2005:

 

Baby In The Sun, one last time, taken yesterday evening right after I brought her home, 3/18/11:

 

Hearth Tribe

I did three sessions yesterday. For the phone sessions, Emmaline and Jacinta hung out with me on the couch. As I talked with the folks, I held my face up to the sunlight streaming in through the open windows. Ever so often, one of the sweet kitties would nuzzle me, roll over so I could rub the talisman of Yes that is their silky belly fur, or they'd lick my fingers, reminding me I'm here, in my physical body, even as I traveled all over the place in my mind and heart and energybody as I read energy for the nice peoples. 

For the in-person session, it's someone Malcolm is madly in love with. When she visits, he always comes out and gets right up in her face, peering into her eyes with the most innocent expression of wonder. And when we do the energywork and she's laying on the table, he hops up and lays on her chest or belly. Yesterday, though, it was Emmaline who purred her Yes into the client's second chakra. And as I did the energywork, Emmaline would open her eyes, make that soundless small squeak of 'Yes' that is more of a flutter of her tiny lips, give me the sparkly love eyes look, and go back to blissful purring into the chakra.

I woke up this morning right before dawn. Because I turn the heat down to 60 at night, it's chilly. This morning, snuggled under kitties and covers, I felt toasty, except for my neck. No sooner than I had the thought, I felt a kitty rise up, walk delicately amongst the others, and maneuver back and forth for a moment before settling in at the most perfect angle around my neck and head. Furry and warm against my bare skin, nestled in my hair. Perfect. Sweet Emmaline . . .

I finally woke for good around 8 am, which is sleeping in super super late for me, but there was no push to get up. Instead I just lay there, all relaxed as one by one the kitties came around, doing their morning thing: 

Jacinta was purring, the loudest purr in our land. She purrs like a trucker, like a feline Harley Davidson, like ocean waves pounding the sand. She crawled over to tuck herself under my right armpit, where she nursed the cotton of my sleepwear as she has her entire life, since she came to live with me when she was an undernourished 6-month old. I'm used to the wet patch her sweet slobber will leave on the sleeve. I don't mind. I smooched her big ole head again and again. And the sound of trucker purrs filled the room.

Baby Wallace was staring out the window at the wee morning activities of things feathered or bushy tailed. But when he heard me stir, he waited til Jacinta had found a good groove, then walked right over to do his morning inspection of my breath. Deep, long sniffs of inquiry. He always squeaks, a single high pitched note that only Baby Wallace can make, (I'm never sure if it's alarm or feline for "a-ok"), then alternately lifts and bows his head so I can more easily rub his beautiful fiery puma face, run my fingers along his spine for a little massage, lightly stroke the enormous silken triangular amphitheaters that are his ears. This morning we did all this in slow-mo, til he felt satiated and wandered back to the window.

Emmaline then climbed me like I was a small hillock. She settled on the summit of my chest, peering into my eyes, silently giving me love looks. I rubbed her back and stroked her tiny face, telling her what a good girl she is, how beautiful, so sweet, so very sweet, "yes, yes, yes . . ." I say over and over.

Baby Malcolm, the tabby-stripey behemoth that he has grown into, circled around in and between the others. Most mornings he dives right into the preliminaries of Food Bowl Dominance Order, chasing kitties back and forth around the bed, then remembers that I give good rubbinz, comes for a scratch, then goes fuzzily postal on Baby Wallace, who goes postal right back, all paw smacks and head bites. But this morning, Malcolm was calm, sweet, chill. He tucked up on my left side, small snores and an occasional long squeak that sounded like "ahhhhhhhhhh". He knows when I finally settle in at the computer to answer emails, he'll claim my lap as his toasty chaise lounge. He can be coolio. Because the vibe is mellow, and food and more snuggles are most definitely on his horizon . . .  

I'm with my tribe. We sleep together, eat together. We watch tv together, stare out the window at the wind and birds and sky together. We do healing sessions for the nice peoples together.

If you would have asked me ten years ago if this would be enough, this life with kitties would be enough, I would have laughed. But Life has a way of knowing exactly what we need. I'm so taken care of. I'm so loved.

I'm so grateful for the days and hours and minutes, every second I have with my fuzzy tribe. And Life, if you grant us more, we humbly thank you, and offer up our Yes to you, to continue to use as you see fit . . . 

Thank you Life, for this morning, of fuzzy love and snuggles, of toasty warmth, and squeaky Yes . . . 

Thank you for our lives . . . 

Unhappy Endings

Flu-like symptoms for over a week now. Blisters coming and going on my palms, like mutant eczema. All of the cleansing apparatuses of a physical body in high gear. Funky, smelly, ick. Emotional cleansing too. Embarrassing emotional cleansing.

I actually screamed and shook not one but two cats last night. Sure there was a serious, serious willful poop malfunction involved in one, and in the other, a dumped over water glass inches away from an electrical cord hooked up to my computer, but still. It scared the crap out of everyone. And then I spent a half hour dealing with the demon possession of hatred I felt. And then an hour dealing with the shame. But when I faced them all again, with their enormous, frightened eyes, I lay down beside each one in turn, and apologized. And of course they forgave me, licked my cheek, purred, gave me the sparkly eyed love look, then slept on top of me all night en masse, like a multi-feline blanket.

I needed them. It was a rough night. Not physically - I actually had very little physical pain, which was a relief after the past few weeks. But the dreams were intense, woke me three times with energy that lit me up. I don't remember the first one, but the last two? Whoaaaaaaaaaaa.

Around midnight, I woke up with my body, mind, heart lit up with love. Actually, not love, but Love. That Big Love so rarely felt with another human being in a romantic setting, that when it occurs our current culture calls it "soulmate". Wow. I lay there in the dark, seconds away from how he smiled at me, the touch of his skin. The sound of rain clicked on the windows, the torrential downpour that has been constant here on the coast for the past few days. Kitties felt me wake and prrrped, snuggled in more deeply. Wow. Feelings of such Yes, such love, safety. Wow. I drifted back to sleep.

The dream continued, right where it left off.

And slowly began to turn. Into a nightmare. Not a scary nightmare. A sad one. So sad. From soulmate love to merely human love. Then no love at all. I woke up in a kind of shock. And as I lay there in the dark, I heard:

"All of your stories have unhappy endings."

Whoa. Whoaaaaa. Do they? And slowly I began to wind my way backward through all of the friends, lovers, jobs, homes, family, projects, everything, even the master's degree in the assured career. And saw yes, it's true.

I didn't feel any blame toward the people involved or victimy pain at my plight or righteous anger at fate. None of that. Just a quiet acknowledgment that my life has been hope/ dream/ want followed by opportunity/ synchronicity/ magic  followed by hard work/ creativity/ risk taking followed by pain/failure/ending. I couldn't recall a single thing that didn't fit with that.

I didn't know what to do with it, that information, that angle on the truth of my living. Nothing more came. Just that.

Jacinta was sleeping, pressed against my right shoulder. I turned and with my left armed circled her, tucked my hand under her, cradling her face, laying my head on her body, most of my weight supported by my pillow. Usually she didn't like to be touched while she slept. But last night she purred so loud it reverberated through me. And didn't stop. I fell back asleep like that, to the sound of loud rumbling feline Yes.

And woke relaxed. Okay. As if something had lifted. A little space. A little bit of moving room in my consciousness. I got up, made green smoothies, a gallon's worth, enough to last through work, fed kitties, showered, answered emails, got ready to go to work in Hiveworld, another day in Hiveworld.

And I realize: work is the place right now that  solidly, consistantly reminds me Who I Am. When I'm plugged in, being of service to folks who are struggling in their own Battle with No, my own feelings of funk fades. Whether it's with the holistic work or the Hiveworld work, it's the same energy: that vibrant flow of Yes that somehow feels effortless and vital and worth showing up for every single time.

It's okay that I don't have answers to the cleansings that are occurring, either my own or the folks I deal with. That my life has been filled with unhappy endings, or that the folks I'm working with are dealing with unhappy endings of their own. Maybe a few folks are genuinely stopping their stories altogether, but I don't see anymore how we have a choice in that. Either Life stops our story or it doesn't. All we can do is show up to what is showing up in our living. Face it. Do what needs to be done. Even if that action is simply to release the whole pile of goo as if it didn't even exist. 

Ultimately, none of it exists, but if there is a way to force this fact of non-existence into a solid knowingness of it, I certainly don't know how. I only know how to do the next thing, and right now, it's dealing with the stories that cause me and others to embrace toxic things and not let them go. We're all struggling to change our stories, to move them into tales of financial security, meaningful work, vibrant health, Big Love with family, friends, lovers. And that means less Toxic. And maybe Waking Up can happen with our arms full of Toxic, but I doubt it. In my experience, we let things go, one by one, the Toxic and the Love.

Right now, I deal with the Toxic. And I'm grateful for it. Both the experience of how it came to be be, and the experience of sheer freedom as it exits.

Onward. Further. What else to do with a life?

Weaselville Idol

Baby Wallace has decided he wants to be a pop star. How can I deny Baby Wallace anything he wants?

Here he practices for his audition doing his take on "Pretty In Pink", that delightful Psychedelic Furs hit from the 80s:

Emmaline joins in as his backup singer, although Baby Wallace has stated firmly that she will not be allowed to accompany him into the audition room. Emmaline says we'll see about that, Mr. Pinkypants.

And then The Call of The Nap overtakes her and she's out, snoozing and dreaming of feline fame where canine assisstants bring her feathered snacks in bed and she tells the paparazzi: Talk To The Paw. 

Jacinta says: f*cking kids and their f*cking noise. You little bastids and yer caterwauling make me wanna . . . zzzzz.

 . . . f*cking kids . . .  zzzzz . . .  gimme snack . . . zzzz . . . drool . . . twitch . . .  

Malcolm says: Who needs fame when you got all this lovinz so much lovinz and dinner is so purrdeliciouso?

 

It Ain't Easy Being Weaselly

Baby Wallace, interrupted in the middle of morning ablutions says: A Little Privacy Please! To which I reply, dude, this is payback for all those times you stare at me while I'm in the middle of mine. Seriously, Baby Wallace, you watch me brush my teeth or take a wee and the look on your face is simply . . . haunted. Why, Baby Wallace? Why???

 This is Baby Wallace's pirate impression. He's only interested in the seafaring life for the tuna. And the rum.

Aaaargh, matey. Where's the grog?

 

 Jacinta just wants to know why the hell I brought in all these kittens and their head biting and paw smacking and food stealing and the poops, oh my god the poops.

 

Baby Emmaline and Dastardly Malcolm,  so busted. (interrupted in the middle of one of their clandestine meetings about various snuggle & head lock techniques, the pros and cons of eating furniture, and whether or not to begin Tiny Weasel Revolution for World Dominance today or tomorrow or maybe later on this week if they keep getting access to plain whole milk organic yogurt. And cheese. Cheese figures prominantly in Tiny Weasel Revolution for World Dominance.)

 

 Dastardly Malcolm, when his dastardly has caught up with him.

 

 Baby Wallace says: those damm kittens work my last nerve . . .

 

 Emmaline, a cautionary tale on the effects of getting high . . .

It ain't easy being weaselly . . . but obviously these are pros . . .

Mommy's Little Pusher

Some cats do the catnip thing. Others are tunaheads. Jacinta? She likes to mainline a wide range of synthetic or semi-synthetic organic amorphous polymers of high molecular mass. With her tongue. Observe:

 

Above, sweet Jacinta licks a plastic banana walnut millet bread bag. Mmmmmmmm.

Below, you'll find her in what she has converted into her very own Den of Sin:

Sure, it looks like a linen closet converted into a pantry, but what it really is is where she goes to get her polycarbonate on.

Yeah, sure, I've tried everything to get her to quit - coaching her through withdrawal, doing a methadone-esque substitution with some of those soy-based "plastics", even Tough Love - but no go. And seriously, can you even fathom how much plastic is in a home? It's everywhere.

 

And so I surrender, because apparently, we all have our addictions to battle. But that doesn't mean I can't bring her breakfast in bed . . .

Slip N Slide Weasel Style

The bathroom rug, in its happy home.

The bathroom rug, after kitties have played slip n slide on it, which they do every single freakin day. I spend half my waking hours unclumping the rugs.

The kitchen, in all it's lovely be-rugged glory.

The kitchen, when I return from work after a long day slaving at the cubicle farm.

Yes, the weasels, caught in the act, their eyes aglow with: yo, don't harsh my mellow, either climb on a rug for a ride or get us another snack, Katmama. Otherwise, talk to the paw cuz the pointy swivel ears ain't hearing ya.

Or I shall attack your feet, Katmama! <<gripping, gnawing, insertion of tiny fangs thru thin socks>> Argh! Arghhhhhhhhh! Arghghghghghghghghghghg!!!
 
  
Different day. Same hijinks. I've learned that getting up in the middle of the night can be trecherous, little rug mines scattered all over and whatnot.

And the clothes drying rack? That ain't no stinkin' drying rack. It's a pitching range for feline paws. Those are not socks. They are potential feline fastballs.

Does this capture the majesty that preceded this pic? I think not. Best to picture two tabby felines swirling around in the sink like silky vermin, and then Katmama turns on the tap. Look at those paws fly!

Not really. I didn't turn the tap on them. See the bowl on the right? That's their water bowl. Dastardly Malcolm likes to pretend he's Mark Twain on the Mississippi and his paws are a paddleboat. Why is their water bowl here and not with their food bowls? Because they don't want it there. They want it here. How do I know?

Because I am the Katmama. I know these things. And I am here to serve . . .  

 

Live From Thursday Morning

My camera died a couple of weeks ago. Served me well for six years and then, as you may have noticed, the focus just went myopic, as elderly viewing devices are wont to do. My new camera has video. Maybe not the best, but a good place to start. Because why not? You deserve to see the weaselly wonders that are Baby Wallace, Granny Thug, Dastardly Malcolm, and Emmaline, our resident tank-flower hybrid. 

It's unedited (still need to learn imovie :) The lighting blows. The camera movement is shaky. But it's weasels! And that's just so dang cute. 

My first attempt at posting video. Enjoy. . . 

Weaselville, Live From Thursday Morning . . . from Katherine Turner on Vimeo.