The Team

The last two posts have been verbose but without pictures.  It occurred to me that I should start photographing his team--so here's a start.

The top picture is Dr. Nair and Dreama (the oncology nurse).  The bottom one is Dr. Nair's nurse, Lerin.

Need more--there are so many people on his side.

And it's all working.  Checking dates-- on August 5 (a few days after he started treatments) his hematocrit was 20.2 (should be at least 41), his hemoglobin count was 6.8 (should be at least 13.5) and his platelet count was 23 (should be at least 140).

After 6 weeks of treatment, the hematocrit is 31.4, the hemoglobin is 10.2, and the platelet count a whopping 287.  And, as you can see in the pictures above--he looks fine.  Has still had no side effects.

So - as far as having cancer goes, this is about as good as it gets.

The New Normal

OK--last post took us up to Bob's first treatment on the 31st.  It's now Sept. 8.

Things are going well.  He's on two drugs.  One is oral (4 big pills a day) that he takes all the time.  The shots he gets for 7 days (with a break on weekends) and then a couple of weeks off.  During the time "off" he goes in twice a week for blood work and evaluation.   He's finishing his second round of shots tomorrow.  He'll do a few more rounds and then go to Shands for another evaluation.

And this is our new "normal."  We go in either every day or every three days, for 2-5 hours depending on whether or not he needs a transfusion.  Transfusions are normal--have to replace the cells the drugs are killing off.

The clinic is pleasant.  The nurses are all very nice.  If it's the afternoon, there are volunteers with a tea cart--coffee or tea and cookies (sometimes homemade) and if you're lucky, cupcakes from a bakery).  Usually there's a therapy dog visiting (we've met six of them so far.)  If we're really lucky that day, we're in treatment pod #16 - tucked in a corner with a window overlooking trees.  We settle down--Bob in a recliner and me in the chair -- with our tea and cookies and books.  When he's finished, we might do a little shopping and then head for home.

Normal.

We do count our blessings:

This was caught relatively early.  In fact, it's not even officially full-blown leukemia.  It's a precursor (myelodysplastic syndrome) which is basically leukemia but just not quite as bad yet.

We have financial security.  Insurance is covering most of it, but there are a lot of copays, and when he goes to Gainesville we'll be renting a place for him to stay (there is a Hope House there, but it sounds like it's basically a dormitory -- we'll get something a bit more private).  We'll also be paying someone to house-and-critter sit, and covering expenses for the friend who will help stay with him (he needs to have a full-time caregiver for three months--so, our friend Kim will switch off with me there as I run back and forth to check on the house and critters)

We can get this initial treatment in town.  The clinic is about 45 minutes away--but there are people who have to drive for hours for their treatments.  Even when he has to go to Shands, that's only three hours away.

We genuinely like his doctor and all of the nurses.  They're very caring.  When we're in the waiting room, it's common for one (or more) of them to come out and sit and chat to see how he's doing.

Bob is healthy.  That sounds weird to say about someone with cancer (again, "Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln . . .").  But his blood pressure is good, his blood sugar levels are good, his cholesterol count is good, etc. etc. etc.  He's in good physical shape.   The drugs aren't bothering him.  We feared extreme sickness, mouth ulcers, not wanting to eat, not worrying about keeping his hair out of the way when he was throwing up because his hair would be gone - and none of that has happened.    He gets tired easily (his hemoglobin count is less than half of what it should be) but otherwise feels OK.

The oncology nurse said he's a rock star.


Of course, there are inconveniences.  We have to be careful eating out--no salads, nothing raw, no buffets, nothing where the food has been sitting out (which sadly means giving up our little Mexican tienda for awhile).  We're on a well--even though the water is fine, the protocol is that well water needs to be boiled.  So we boil--a lot (he needs to drink at least three quarts a day to keep the toxins flushed out, and he does--which probably contributes to his rock star status).  We've adapted--it's easy enough to put the kettle on anytime we're in the kitchen and fill a few mason jars to put in the fridge.

He can have salads if I make then.  Anything raw has to be soaked in a vinegar/water solution.

I give a Ham Sandwich as an example.  Old protocol:  put mustard on bread.  Get ham from package and put on bread.  Grab a handful of lettuce and put on bread.  Put on a top piece of bread and eat.
New protocol:  put mustard on bread.  Put lettuce in salad spinner and cover with vinegar/water.  Get ham out of package--put in skillet to frizzle (have to be careful of food with a large surface area).  Put ham on bread, dry off lettuce and put on bread, top and eat.  Wash skillet and salad spinner.

But I'm so willing to do this.  I though there would be a massive amount of food limitations--there's not (it helps that we have always tended to have a rather healthy diet).  No rare meat, no undercooked eggs (sigh--no more putting a fried egg on top of almost everything for that lovely running yolk to make a sauce).  No alcohol.  Exercise caution eating out.  Oh--and no good cheese.  Another sigh.  Grocery store cheese is OK--but no blue cheese, or soft runny brie - basically, no cheese that's still alive.  But that's about it.

Speaking of which--it's lunchtime.

The Saga Continues

We left off meeting with Dr. Nair on Wednesday, July 31.

By then we were a little batshit crazy.  There had been too much running around like crazy, alternating with doing absolutely nothing.  One of the reasons I'm writing this is just to get it straight in my head.

It had started in early June, with Bob's usual annual appointment.  That's when his bloodwork was wonky and they sent him to the hematologist.  For 10 years he had been on a medication for gout (although it had been 9 years or so since an attack) that can cause anemia.  He was told to go off of it for 3 weeks and then come back for a followup.

So 3 weeks of doing nothing--and not worrying that much.  Normal activities, went swimming twice a week.  Figure things are probably improving now that he's off the drug.  Go in for the follow up (July 2).  Doctor looks at his bloodwork.  Looks at him--his palms, his inner eyelids.  We leave 6 hours later after he's had an emergency transfusion.

We were rather in a state of shock.

He has a bone marrow biopsy the next day.  Then again we do nothing for a week.  Go back, get the diagnosis of leukemia, and told that we need to go to Shands for a consultation.  Then came the really crazy time--because we wanted/needed to do SOMETHING and it took a week just to set up the appointment, another week and a half away.  Bob had an echocardiogram to verify that his heart is strong enough for chemo, and another transfusion just to keep him going.

We go to Shands.  We consult.  We wait another week (by now we are climbing the walls). Consult with Dr. Nair.  Find out he can be treated at home (happy dance!).  Now we have to wait for treatment to be approved--possibly another week of doing nothing but chew nails.

That was Wednesday (July 31).  Thursday morning at 8 we get a call:  can he come in at noon for his first treatment?  Yet another blow out of left field.  With fear and trembling we go in, not knowing what to expect (I was expecting maybe a couple of hours on an IV, followed by observation).  We get ushered into a little curtained cubicle.  Vitals are taken.  Nurses come in with gowns and gloves and check and double check the numbers on Bob's wristband.

They lay out four little syringes.  They give him four tiny shots and tell him he can go home.

It was rather anticlimatical.

Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln

How was the play?

Odd to look at my last post--about 2 1/2 months ago.  Life was normal (at least for us)--picking up baby opossums, cuddling a vulture.  You know, normal.

Things shifted a little.  Not suddenly and dramatically, just sneaked up on us.  The possums grew up and left (well, some escaped a bit sooner than I had planned, but my philosophy is that if they can figure out how to escape then they're independent enough to leave.)

I developed some intestinal problems.  Not going to go into details, but enough that I got a referral to see a specialist and finally schedule that colonoscopy that I had been avoiding (why that's supposed a be a routine procedure for those of us "of a certain age" I don't know).  While I was waiting on that, Bob had his usual annual physical.  We weren't expecting anything to come of it; he had been feeling a little draggy, but we both do that every summer.  The human body just isn't really designed to handle this much heat and humidity.  But his bloodwork came back a little wonky--so he got referred to a hematologist.  So for awhile we had to be visiting our two specialists and getting some more tests done--and somewhere during that time I spit out a crown and had to go get that glued back on, so now it's time for a dental implant but I'm not going to worry about that.

So while this was going on I looked at Bob and said "y'know--if I have colon cancer and you have leukemia, then we're screwed."

At least I don't have colon cancer  (in fact, the violence of the colonoscopy prep solved my problem).

But Bob does have leukemia.  We got the diagnosis on July 9--two hours after Fiona (our twenty year old cat) died.  I think that may be a definition of a crappy day.

The next two weeks were mostly waiting--and more tests.  Our doctor (Dr. Nair) wanted us to have a consultation at Shands and we had to wait two long weeks for that.  At the consultation we were told that his best therapy would be to go into the hospital here for two months for the first rounds of chemo.  Then after a short break, he would have to go to Gainesville for the bone marrow transplant--and stay there for three months.

It felt like a jail sentence.

We spent a lot of time holding each other and crying.  If I'm totally honest with myself, I viewed his first two month's interment as my practice for widowhood.

We tried to take some sort of control.  We bought him a laptop (because he usually uses the desktop computer but wouldn't be able to take that with him).  We bought me a lightweight battery-operated weed whacker and he taught me how to use the riding lawnmower so that I could keep the yard more-or-less under control.

We waited another week to meet with Dr. Nair again after the Gainesville doctor had time to go over Bob's case with the board there and consult with him.

We met.  Dr. Nair smiled.  It had been decided that Bob would be a good candidate for a new drug.  And his first rounds of treatment could be given outpatient.

Outpatient.

Bob asked if he was sure.  No hospitalization?  Really?  Say it again?

He could stay at home.

We may have cried again a little.

Fuzzy Vultures?

As often happens this time of year, Bob and I went down to Florida Wild Mammal to pick up some babies to foster (in this case, opossums).  We won't be doing it as much this year--I'm down to one small release cage.  We *meant* to tear down and rebuild the other one over the winter--but winter was short and our physical labor was mostly picking up the ever-continuing storm debris.  And while my back deck is screened in and has often housed various small creatures, all the extra cats sort of demand that it be used for a "catio."

But I digress--we went down to Florida Wild Mammal.

And, as we usually do, we looked at all the animals they care for (I never ceased to be amazed at the type of people who can do this day in, day out, 365 days year).  A beautiful night heron.  A swallowtail kite.  Bunches of baby birds demanding to be fed.  A turtle just wandering around.

And then Jess, without saying anything, opened the door of a large crate and two little characters straight out of Sesame Street came tumbling out.  Big pink fuzzballs with funny little black faces.

I automatically fell to my knees--and with much excitement they came running over to see if I had any treats;  alas, I did not, but that didn't stop them from poking and nibbling.

The front part of my brain--the intellectual, analyzing part--actually managed to identify them.  This was ignored by my inner 6-year-old who was making squee sounds and cuddling them up and finally crying out "what ARE they???"  (I knew what they were--fuzzy, pink, cuddly, and completely adorable.)

Because fuzzy and adorable is not how people usually describe vultures.

Small but Fearless

Saturday before last I was heading out to do a living history demo (did I take pictures?  No.  Imagine people in 1800's dress doing 1800's things).  I drove off, and a few moments later came back up the drive and walked into the house.  "What did you forget" asked Bob.  "I forgot to move the tree out of the driveway."  Yep--another tree down.  So he got out the chainsaw and cleared enough out of the way to get the car out.  Then when we had time we took the rest of the tree down (because, of course, it was in my walking path.  I think Nature is telling me I don't have to do my walking, because trees keep landing in the path), and did our by now routine of cutting up and dragging to the burn pit.

When we sat down to take a break, Bob noticed something tiny and green on his arm.  Fortunately he looked closer before brushing it off, because it was the tiniest perfect praying mantis.

Forced perspective is making it look much bigger than it was--which was about 1/4" long.  Despite it's diminuative size, it was still agressive (as mantis tend to be--thank goodness even adults are not large) and when I got the camera closer he attacked it!  Then we had a lively search to find the almost invisible beastie to move him to a safe leaf.  

Not too long after than a coyote ran past us and into the woods--maybe 20 feet away.  Life in the swamp can be interesting . . .

Whirlwind Visit

For many years my brother would come visit from Boston to help us with the Halloween Howl and for our father's birthday (which happened around the same time).  Then Dad stopped having birthdays and we stopped doing the Howl so those visits slacked off.  Instead, I took to visiting Boston in the fall (about the time I  get really sick and tired of the endless hot sticky summers here and ready for New England crisp cool weather).  But last fall there was That Storm and things to do here, so I didn't go.

But Mike is a person who enjoys experiences--and every time we talked, I would end up talking about The Storm and what it had done, and I finally told him that he should just come down and see for himself.  Which he did.

When we get together for a visit, it's usually for three days.   That doesn't seem like much, but there is the old saying that "fish and guests grow stale in three days."  That's not exactly the case with us.  We do more of a feedback loop--you know when you get a microphone too close to a speaker and next thing there are loud screeching noises?  We don't necessarily screech, but we do make noise.  As in talking--a lot.  Continuously.  We never seem to have those pauses where suddenly there is nothing to say.  We start talking around 7:00 a.m. when we get up and pause about 10:00 when we go to bed.

By the second day I think I saw blood trickling out of Bob's ears . . .   It's just that Mike is interested, enthusiastically and vocally, in *everything.*  It's what I find delightful in him, and what makes me happy that he's my friend as well as my brother.

Day One was Storm Sightseeing.  Things are pretty normal in Tallahassee now--you still see some downed trees and blue tarp roofs,  but nothing that couldn't happen in a normal bad storm.  Then, as you go west and south, it just keeps getting worse and worse.  90% of trees snapped, more and more remains of buildings.  It can't be described, just experienced.

So we visited Amanda and family (who get to move back into their house this week, 7 months later) and on to Mexico Beach to visit Della and Don (they have walls now, and electricity, but months to go before they're out of the RV).    Mexico Beach has been cleaned up to an amazing extent, but then you look at rows of concrete slabs and realize that those used to be houses (One slab still had a couple of toilets in good condition).  The public pier is gone.  There is no gas station or grocery store yet.

[Eight months ago you could rent one of these posh houses on the beach for $1500 a week]

Then you keep going east and in less than an hour you're back to normal again.  We went to the little town of Carrabelle to eat at the Fisherman's Wife, where Mike was so enamoured of the shrimp that he trotted back to the kitchen to compliment the cooks--and try to get a sneak peek at how the shrimp were cooked.  (and yes--the food is caught by the fisherman and the restaurant is run by his wife--we've met her) The cooks looked grateful but confused--they grab a handful of shrimp, toss it in some lemon pepper, and pop it on the flaptop for a couple of minutes. That's it.  Mike couldn't figure it out--how come they tasted so amazing?  I had to explain that the restaurant owns it own shrimp boat--they were fresh-caught local shrimp.  It's the difference between a vine-ripened home grown tomato and one from the grocery story.

Monday was Take Your Brother to Work Day.  I could have taken off from my volunteer job at the museum but Mike wanted to see what I do.  So we cleaned cages, fed the deer (which brought out the little kid in him when I handed him the bucket and said he could let the deer eat out of it if they liked and he said "but I thought that people weren't supposed to be the animals" and I told him that people in general weren't but today he was an honorary keeper).  He got an extra bonus later when he overheard a couple of the staff talking about a short in the electric wire in one of the habitats.  He speaks electricity so he went off to help.  At one point he was asked to go check on it, and realized that he was walking into a habitat with a bobcat about five feet away from him.

Then we went home and he got to go play in Bob's room with the models for awhile because I had to make an emergency run to the vet with Stumbles whose face was badly swollen (infected tooth--she's fine now)

Tuesday I had planned to take him to Marianna to see the caverns  - - and more storm damage - -  but it turns out that the park is still closed and will be for an indefinite time.  They got hit pretty hard.  So we went to Apalachicola instead--a pretty little town, fun shops and good Southern food.

And then it was over.  Took him to the airport Wednesday morning and with a bit of sadness bid him farewell.  He had a long day getting home.  I went to work, joined Bob for a swim, and then went home, sat on the couch, and totally crashed.  I hear he did likewise.

Miss you, bro.  Can't wait until we get together again.

And Now We're Twelve Again

So a couple of uneventful weeks went by after Tiberius found his new home.  Then we heard a dog barking in the woods behind the house--which is not at all unusual, but something we keep an ear out for because we have had problems with strange dogs attacking our animals.  This one sounded like it was on the other side of the stream, and it was a lost and scared sort of bark.  And it went on for hours.  I finally made my way down to the stream (not an easy task--it's still all storm debris).  I just wanted to make sure that the dog wasn't caught under a limb or stuck somehow.  I caught a glimpse of a small brown dog about 50 feet away and he took off through the underbrush so I knew he wasn't stuck and I came back home.  He barked awhile longer and that was that -- we figured he found his way home or his owners found him.

Fast forward two weeks to last Thursday.  A small dog--same size and color--runs across our yard, tail tucked, heading towards a row of houses at the end of our property.  We think nothing of it (too small and scared to do much damage)

Friday Bob sees him desperately trying to get bits of the cat food we toss out for the peacocks.  Soft hearted him, he put out a bit of food and went inside.  Came back out--and apparently the dog is capable of reading the cat hobo signs that say "soft hearted suckers live here."

This is the hobo sign for "kind woman lives here"

 He was on the bench on the front porch, cringing.  At first Bob thought he had an interesting coloration--sort of a striping down his sides, like a tabby cat.  Then he realized it was the dog's ribs.  He was starving.

*OF COURSE* we fed him.  Tiny amounts that disappeared the moment that we set them down, with whining for more.  We dribbled food to him for the next seven hours until he finally had enough and went to sleep.

WE HAVE A DOG.  I don't do dogs.  I'm a cat person.  Dogs are needy and want attention and want to please you and need training.  Cats just let you know when they want something.  To make things worse--he's not even what I call a real dog.  He's a frippin' chihuahua (or mix).  I think chihuahuas are the most annoying excuse for a dog ever.  But I don't let anything starve when it has asked for help.

Sigh--on to the usual attempt to find an own.  Flyer postings.  On line postings.  Check at the feed store (communication central on Highway 20).  Nada.  Zip.

OK--we don't do dogs.  We'll feed him for the weekend and then, sadly, take him to the shelter and wish him luck.  Yeah, that worked.  I think Bob and I blinked simultaneously.  He was scared and hungry and wanted to be scratched.  He left the cats alone (surprisingly, they ignore him). He stood patiently for a bath.  He relaxed a bit.  And we knew that if he was in a cage with other dogs barking he would be terrified.  He went to the vet instead of to the shelter.

So we seem to have a dog. (Bob named him Tweek) Mostly he stays on that bench.  When he comes inside he follows me around and sits by my feet.  At night he goes into his crate without a fuss.  He's actually a good little doggie.

But fingers crossed--the social media blitz has given us a nibble and someone is coming to meet him tomorrow.  In a way I'll miss him, but I'll be back to *just* 11 cats and that seems OK to me.

Edit:  4/14.  The first prospective owner decided that she wasn't really ready for a dog yet (she had recently lost hers) but another couple came by and bless that little dog because he acted as cute as possible and they took him. Tweek has a home!  (and yes, I do miss him, but just a tiny bit, like I miss all my fosters.  But now I won't judge chihuahuas or the people who like them quite as harshly because he really was a good little dog)

And Then We Were Eleven

Last January I posted about cat #12, Tiberius.

Tiberius was a problem.  He was very friendly with us, got along OK with most of the other cats, did some hissy-boo at Wilhelm and Apache-- and became a mortal enemy of Hamish,

There was a lot of cat choreography done to try to keep the two separate (even after we had him for 5 months we never could let Tiberius in the house--I at least wanted Hamish to feel safe indoors).  It got to the point that I wasn't even seeing Hamish during the day anymore--but if he did show up, Tiberius would blindside him and run him off.

I missed Hamish.  He used to follow me around and want tummy rubs.  Now, even at night, he was growling and on edge and the rest of the cats were getting nervous.  I was starting to be afraid that Hamish would leave.

It came to a head one day when Tiberius attacked and Hamish jumped the fence into the neighbor's yard.  I went to go get him, and he fought me.  I finally got him into a carrier and inside.  That was it--I was crying, but told Bob "Tiberius has to go"

I *hated* the thought of taking him to the shelter--it's slammed now, because of the number of pets being rescued from the Bay county area (I may have mentioned that there was a major hurricane there).  And he's an adult male.  We had tried to find him a home when we got him, and we tried again.

Then the Cat Goddess smiled on me.  I was going to post an ad on Craigslist--and I saw one of someone wanting a barn cat.  I thought that might be OK--he'd been living outside anyway.  And I thought it sounded positive that the poster said that she would prefer free because she would be paying for the shots and neutering (and hey--Tiberius already had both of those)

So we corresponded, agreed to me--packed Tiberius and food and his favorite bed and went to the meeting point (because it's a good policy not to tell people you meet on Craigslist where you live).  I was still feeling horrible about "getting rid of him" and told Bob that if we heard banjos we were going to turn around and leave.

The new owner got out of the car--and I recognized her!  She works with the Florida Wild Mammal Association (the place where I get my foster possums and squirrels).  He was going to a rehabber!  They take care of animals.  Maybe it would be all right.

And it is--she sent me pictures.

It doesn't look like he's spending all of his time in the barn.  And even when he is, it looks like he doesn't mind it too much.

He just looks so relaxed and happy (and gets along with her two older female cats).  And within two days Hamish was following me around and wanting tummy rubs.  Sometimes things work out.

A Bit Of Downsizing

Our refrigerator has been slowly dying for the last year or so.  It was really annoying during the 8 days that our power was out (I believe I may have mentioned the hurricane a time or two already) when we had to run the generator all day just to try to keep it cold (eventually we gave up and just piled everything into coolers, and ended up tossing most of the freezer contents).

And then the electronic controller went out, pinging happily so that it sounded like an arcade in the kitchen.  And it was stuck on ice, so I couldn't get water through the door anymore.  Sometimes I don't realize how many times a day I grab a quick drink as I walk through the kitchen (I noticed this during the 8-day power outage--I tended to stay a little thirsty).  Time to say goodbye.

Appliance shopping we went.  We had it fairly well narrowed down--we didn't need one with WiFi, or a coffee maker, or one that would keep a shopping list (other than a piece of paper stuck to the front that we could write on). I didn't need a special freezer compartment sized to hold frozen pizzas, or a wee shelf in the door for juice boxes and holders just for sodas.  We didn't need to talk to the International Space Station, or one where the clear glass front would light up when you knock on it so that you can see what's inside.

I did want some amenities.  As well as two crispers, this old one had a snack drawer where we kept our cheeses and sausages.  I liked that.  And I really wanted to be able to get ice and water through the door.  Preferably with the two separate, so we wouldn't have to punch a button to keep changing it.

The big decision was to go smaller.  There is always a tendency to keep filling a fridge, to use it for permanent rather than temporary storage.  Smaller would keep us from doing that.  And we went for energy effecient (reasoning that it would be easier to keep it cold with the generator next storm season).  Our old one was  26 square feet; the new one, 22.

Funny how I stressed over that during the next week before it was delivered.  What if it was too small?  What if I needed more?  Then I gave myself a reality check.  Wasn't this the classic definition of a First World Problem?  What if I had Too Much Food?  I thought about Amanda, with a hungry husband and two kids, living in their tiny rental with an ancient fridge that *might* be 18 square feet.  Or Della, with the RV fridge (and the nearest grocery store in the next town)?  Get real.

Delivery day came.  When we ordered it, we had told them that it would have to be delivered on a small truck--the big box truck wouldn't be able to come up our narrow canopy drive.  Repeated that when we paid for it--"please make note."  Talked to their dispatch the day of delivery.  So of course I stepped outside to see two men walking up our drive.

"Bringing me a new fridge?"
    "Yes, ma'am"
"And they didn't tell you to bring the small truck?"
    "Someone else has the small truck, ma'am."
"Shall I get our pickup truck?"
     "Yes, please."

They got the thing wrestled into and out of the pickup and into the kitchen (and also the old one wrestled into the pickup) and then discovered that it didn't come with the hardware to hook it up to the water supply.  $3 part--but 15 miles to the store.  I was impressed--one of the guys McGyvered a solution and got everything working (although he did warn me to be careful if I pulled out the fridge to clean behind it--yeah, I'm going to be doing that).

So it's in, and it's a little packed (we keep a lot of condiments) but we'll be eating it down (if the chickens settle down--at the moment we have 7 dozen eggs in there.  We need to make more friends).

It's supposed to be fingerprint-resistant stainless.  Guess what I see already . . . .

Hard Shelled House Guest

I've got four of these little guys sitting in a box in the guest room.  They were hatched at the museum and have been living there (they're about a year old now) but now they need to be released so I've brought them home to the swamp.  The next couple of nights are still going to be chilly, though, so I'll wait a couple of days.

Having them around reminded me of Bob's Great Turtle Adventure last year--which went unnoted because that's when the blog was in haitus.  Last June he found a disturbed turtle nest just outside the barn--where we sometimes have to drive one of the cars or the jeep.  Normally we just protect nests when we find them, but this was in a bad place.  Moving turtle eggs is tricky--just handling them can kill the proto-turtles inside.  But he carefully as possible moved them to a bucket of dirt that we put on the back deck.  And he cared for that bucket of dirt, day after day, week after week, eventually month after month--checking it, misting it to keep it moist, moving it so it was warm but not too hot.  Normally eggs hatch around August.  Which came and went, as did September.  One day in October we were out for most of the day, and talking in the car about that bucket, and saying that it was just about time to give it up.  We came home; I put some stuff away and then went out to see him on the deck, sitting and looking at the bucket of dirt that he had cared for, with an odd look on his face.

Because it was filled with baby turtles.

The miracle had happened--12 of the 15 eggs survived to produce wee turtles.

Then came the hard part.  After months of caring for that bucket of dirt that turned into a bucket of tiny turtles -- he let them go.  That's how it works in nature--they're on their own from the first moment.  He gave them a head start--they didn't get eaten as eggs (the most common fate) or upon hatching.  We gave them a day to get used to being out and around, and then took them down to an eddy in the stream and watched them slide into the water and paddle off in their 12 different directions.

Chairs with a View

We have a back deck on the house, off grade, with a lovely view of the woods.

  Most of the deck has been wired in for the use of whatever animal needs a little TLC (say, a sick chicken) or my various fosters (squirrels, opossums).  Otherwise it's for the use of the cats.  But a wee bit is for us.

But I don't spend much time out there.  It was sort of an area for general purpose dumping of whatever temporarily needed a home (OK,  I'll confess.  Mostly for fleeces I can't resist buying, even though I have enough fiber to keep me spinning for an unnaturally long life.)  I am putting this in past tense because I did clean it all up about two years ago when we had the house repainted, with the intention of having a sitting area for a cup of tea and a book.

Two years, and the sitting area hadn't happened.  What I needed was a place to sit.  I had a folding wooden chair out there, but it hits my back just in the wrong spot.  But my problem is that I'm really really bad at spending money on anything (except, it seems, for fleece and fiber).  When I do buy something, I want a certain degree of excitement over it, not "meh, it'll do."   So for two years I looked at outdoor furniture, and for two years I went "meh."  Especially since unless you go for plastic the stuff's pretty expensive.

Finally I spotted it.  At a new pop-up thrift store next to the gas station where we sometimes get a hamburger (don't judge--they make good burgers).  Two metal chairs and a love seat.   A style you used to see on front porches everywhere--so I don't know if I should call them "vintage," "retro," "old fashioned,"  or just "dated."   But I love the look, they're quite comfortable, and the price was certainly right.

Of course, they needed a bit of love (like a few hours with a pressure washer, wire brush, scraper, and a couple of cans of spray paint.)

But no table.  I was resigning myself to a couple of years of looking at "meh, it'll do" tables and not getting one when I remembered that stuck in a closet were a couple of sheesham  wood tables (which I liked well enough to keep but didn't really have any place to put them).  Dug one out, cleaned it up, and voila!  My sitting area!

Now to get that book and cup of tea.  Fast.  Here--the time between "uh, it's only 50 degrees and a little chilly to be sitting in a metal chair" and "ugh--it's 85 degrees and the biting flies and mosquitoes are driving me crazy" is about three days.  Better enjoy them while I can.

Except . . . sigh.  I have often discussed with my friend Gill that I lack the "clean gene."  Other people seem to be able to clean--I just uncover more dirt.  So, sitting in my chair with my tea and book, I found I had to keep my gaze up to that lovely view.  Because right in front of me is the low wall of the deck.  Where we have the squirrel feeder (after I release my baby squirrels I of course forever put food out for them.  Where the squirrels run back and forth.  Uncontrolled, unhousebroken squirrels.  I couldn't help but notice that what was supposed to be a khaki tan wall was, well, sort of a streaky brown.  So out came the bucket and cleaning towel and magic eraser and *then* tea and book.  No--I'm not posting a before picture--it was sort of gross.

Odd Coincidence: Tablet

I was reading the Neil Gaiman short story "The Truth is a Cave in the Mountain."

Near the beginning, a strange wee man approaches a crofter's house, seeking a guide to a mystical cave in the mountain.

Sensing something supernatural, the crofter tells his young son to go inside:

"Calum, go back to the house."
"But da --"
"Tell your mother I said she was to give you some tablet.  You like that. Go on."

Expressions crossed the boy's face--puzzlement, hunger, happiness--and then he turned and ran back to the white house.


Hmmmm-- tablet?  When I think of tablet, it's this:

The current generation thinks of this:

Previous generations might have thought of this:

But, in general, it's something to write on ("quick, my tablet.  'Tis meet I write it down.")

On the other hand, it can be a pill.

Neither seemed to fit in with the context of the story.  I assumed it was something to eat, put it in the back of my mind to look up, finished the story, probably read another one, did other stuff, and forgot about it.

For two days.  Then, I was perusing Pinterest--that source of all things random.  There, amidst the pictures for tightening your butt, keeping the house from smelling of cat pee, how to make a salad in a mason jar, and steampunk costume--was a recipe for Scottish Tablet (did I mention the story takes place in Scotland?)

Apparently it's a cooked milk sweet, similar to the Latin dulce de leche.  (Combine milk, butter, sugar, and condensed milk and cook it down.  Sounds sweet enough to make your teeth curl)

In the back of my mind, I was hearing the theme music of "Twilight Zone."  Seriously--what are the chances that I would hear this obscure term twice in two days?

Now I want to make some.  And maybe write about it.  On a tablet.

And The Year Winds Down

Weird.  I was looking at the list of my posts and noticed that this one was still labeled "draft."  So although I wrote it in December I'm just now posting it.  Better late than never?  (Now that I've reread it I think it's because I stopped to take a picture of the finished project and never came back)

I was thinking about trying to catch up with 2018 before 2019 started--but that's two days to do 11 months so might not happen.  And it's really hard to remember what you did in a year.  As well as getting out of the habit of writing, I also got out of the habit of taking pictures.

So I looked back at my last post for 2017--with not so much resolutions as goals.  Some of them remain untouched--but glory be!  We did one!  The Den!

Some people are house proud.  They design their houses, choose the right furnishings and accessories, have a home they can show off.  Bob and I tend more to just sort of camping out, using whatever happens to be handy.  Over the last few years we've been making some improvements (like getting new countertops in the kitchen and painting the cabinets. and dumping the junk in front of the barn and putting in the carport).  The den had sort of random furniture shoved in willy-nilly--much of it Walmart pressboard which was supposed to be temporary but became permanent (because, honestly, entertainment centers don't excite me enough to spend a couple of thousand dollars on one).  Our shelf of DVDs and CDs had been on a shelf above the TV--then when we got the big screen they sort of became *behind* it and to find one you had to get a footstool so you could look over the top of the TV.

In the back corner there was the so-called "vet center" where anything animal-related and a lot of things not animal related piled up.  To get to it you had to squeeze behind a chair.

No, there are no "before" pictures.  I don't want to admit that a couple in their sixties live like frat boys.

First, as always, came the culling.  I wrote quite a bit about that last year, and it continues.  One just tends to gather things over the decades and then it's so much work to go through the pile.  But we did.  We have a lot of first-aid gear--but I decided that between us we have four arms so we don't need any more arm slings than that.  I have only one right wrist that acts up sometime so how did I get three braces?  It's just such a slog, but we slogged on.

Other things were harder--sentimental.  We don't even have a record player anymore, and we really don't listen to music that much, but we still had about four shelf feet of records. Moody Blues from high school.  60's rock.  A Nutcracker Suite that was my favorite Christmas record when I was a kid. The problem with things like that is that you really can't bring yourself to toss them in a dumpster.  And hey!  Some of them might be valuable.  Those we finally bundled up and took to Vinyl Fever (a vintage record store) and told them to take them.  Flush with success, we did the same thing to our weeded-out DVDs (those went to a video lounge).

In the meantime, we looked at entertainment centers.  Meh.  Then one day we were in Home Depot and this was on a deep discount sale:

I don't know who called whose bluff, but there's our new TV stand.  It's the right height, it's got a ton of storage, and it ever has a power strip for charging our various devices.

After that, the rest fell into place.  I had told Bob that if I could have the corner where the vet center had been for my spinning supplies, he could have its previous spot for a new gun safe.  With those two in place, we could then build some shelving (black pipe, keeping with what seems to be an industrial theme, with burned wood shelves) complete with a bespoke niche for a spinning wheel.

Oh--and I got bored with the plain white lampshades in that room and steampunked them:

The finished lineup:

And yes, we kept one section at the end of the shelf clear because there is usually a cat on it.  We bow to the inevitable.

So one goal for 2018 at least was met.  The rest?  To be continued . . .

Another One Bites the Dust

I do my best (and actually usually succeed) to take a daily walk around our property.  I worked it out that three laps around equals a mile (I have no idea if it really does.  I just counted the number of steps to walk around and calculated at 30 inches per step, so maybe.  Does it matter, as long as I get outside and walk?)

This daily walk was disrupted by Hurricane Michael (aka The Storm).  I literally could not find the path because everything was knee-deep in what used to be the tree canopy, and there were trees down over much of it.  Three months later, we got the last loop of the path cleared.

Until last week, when another tree hit the ground.

We've been keeping an eye on it.  It was in a group of 3-4 trees that came down behind the house, still sort of upright but leaning.  The lean was parallel to the house, so it wouldn't hit if it came down, and with the tangle of other trees it would have been too dangerous for the tree guys to try to take it down.

The root end of the group of trees.

  The one that just fell is the one going across the picture

--the root ball is hidden in the underbrush

So we just let it stay there.  But recently it started popping and cracking and slipping a bit.  Then one night I went outside to call for one of the cats.  With a sound and feeling hard to describe--cracking and rending and swooshing  (picture the old Batman sounds--BAM!  SWOOSH!  THUD!)  it came down.  I was about 20 feet away and could feel it hit the ground.  I yelled--I like to think I was using colorful language, but I just wasn't that coherent.  It was like all that energy had to be released from me somehow.  We paced the tree out--over 100 feet tall.  That's a lot of power when it comes down.

We wondered why it fell when it did.  For once, we haven't had much rain.  Or wind.  It takes a lot of force to drop a tree.  What could have caused it?

The answer:  Life.  Spring comes early in the south.  Although about half the rootball of this tree was pulled up, the other half was still in the ground.  The tree doesn't know that it's, well, dead.  So it's budding out.

That's hundreds of gallons of water being sent out to the tips of the branches (as I said, this was a *big* tree).  Enough to tip it over.

It's sort of philosophically sad.  The attempt to continue to live is what finished it off.  But who knows?  We're going to (very carefully) cut back the branches that are in the way, but leave the others alone.  We might end up with a leafy arch over my path.  Life finds a way.

Neil Gaimen's Handwriting

I like journals; at least, I like the *idea* of journals.  I collect notebooks--and then I don't ever write in them because I have lousy handwriting and I don't have particularly deep or pithy thoughts and it seems a shame to mess them up.

I've started at lot--but then they go by the wayside.  Except for my first blog that lasted for something like 7 years before I loss access to write in it.  Maybe it's because a blog doesn't mess up the paper or depend on my handwriting.

Maybe it's because I look at examples of other people's journals.  Even the currently popular "bullet journal" where you keep track of day-to-day stuff seems a bit fancy.

Examples:

A reading list (some journals have "blank books" so you can write titles as you read them)

Resolutions

The day the dog stole their shoes

Have to admit that I really like the last one.  And you can find sites that tell you how to draw banners and borders and how to mix fonts and sample pages such as coloring in your daily moods.  Sometimes it seems that journaling is about journaling.  And all I want to do is sort our my life, keep track of things (from details on an art project to remembering to make an appointment at the vet).  Just some scrawls.

So the books remain blank.

But I've been reading a lot of Neil Gaiman lately.  Often, at the beginning of his books, he tells you a bit about the craft of writing, what inspired him, where he wrote it.  What really comes through is that writers write.  That may seem obvious--but it doesn't mean that they sit down and write a novel (or a poem, or a short story).  It means that they write *all the time*.  Whether inspired or not.  Words have to go down on paper, and eventually, if you're lucky, they turn into something.  And a lot of writers actually write--pen on paper (the Harry Potter books were written by hand in a coffee shop).  Gaiman often writes by hand (he likes using a fountain pen).  One of his books--Coraline--had a sample of his notes and rough draft.  And I stared at it for awhile:

Because that's not great handwriting.  No banners.  No flowers (OK--there's a sketch).  It eventually became a book which became a movie.

I don't know what I'm going to do with this epiphany.  But maybe I'll mess up some of those notebooks.

T(iberius) N(eptune) R(ex)

TNR is short for "trap, neuter, release" which is a program for dealing with feral cats.  The concept is that a cat will defend its territory and keep other cats from moving in, and a neutered cat won't create more cats.

I'd like to think that this really works.  But several of my cats (Nazgul, Apache, and Wilhelm) spend most of their days outside, and the yard is their territory, but that didn't prevent Hamish from moving in last year.  So now I have Nazgul, Apache, Wilhelm, and Hamish patrolling *their* territory, and that ought to be enough.

In theory.

Shortly after The Storm, Wilhelm (the tuxedo cat) started acting a little freaked out.  He'd be out in the yard, see me, and dash for cover under a bush.  I figured he'd settle down after a bit.  After all, The Storm had been pretty horrendous, and now all of the yard looked different, and there were three strange cats in the house.  One day I saw him run under the deck, and got down on my hands and knees to peer under it with a "hey, little guy.  What's the problem?"   Picture me kneeling there, head sideways, right eye peeking under the porch.  The left eye can see on top of the porch, where I see Wilhelm sitting with that "Whatcha doin'" look on his face.

Hmmmm.  I switch back to my right eye.  There's still a tuxedo cat under the deck.

No. Way.  No. Freakin' Way.   There is no way I'm adopting another cat.

Of course the first step to adopting is to stick a name on a critter, so we didn't.  But we did tag him with his destination:  TNR: Trap.  Neuter.  Release.

The trap part was easy.  Sit down and wait for him to jump into my lap.  Neuter, equally easy.  Take him to the vet in the morning, bring him home,. slightly altered, in the afternoon.  It's the release part we're having trouble with.  He didn't get the concept of "be free, little cat."   He just moved onto the front porch.

And yes, we could take him to the shelter.  But they're pretty full right now because The Storm left a lot of animals homeless, and they're taking them in from Bay county as well.  An adult male is rarely a top choice for adoption, even a healthy friendly one.  So he has living space here.

It's caused a bit of a problem trying to let my cats in and out because they don't want to go past him.  So in the evening he gets moved to the back screened in deck (with heated kitty cave) and back out the next morning after our guys go out. Yeah, nothing complicated there.  For times in between,  Wilhelm has come up with the "Kitty Uber."  If he wants in, he makes a fuss until I go outside with his carrier, whereupon he jumps in it and talks smack as he's carried past Tiberius.

Uh, yeah.  Tiberius.  Really couldn't have a cat with just initials.  We threw out a few names (including Trevor Nigel Rothchild) but ended up with Tiberius Neptune Rex.

Sigh.  At least (so far) we haven't let him into the house.  Have to stop somewhere.

The Year of the Cat(s)

2018 was a record year for cats.

Bob and I have always had cats.  To be honest, too many cats (if there is indeed such a thing).  To be precise--6 cats.  Somehow it always seemed to remain fairly stable at that number.  And we really tried to keep it there.  The line in the sand.  That which separates us from Crazy Cat People.   Somehow we thought if we ever broke the 6 cat rule, then the landslide would happen and Goddess knows how many cats we would end up with.

And then came little Wilhelm.  Found in a gutter during a deluge, maybe two weeks old, and we never did successfully find out who actually found him and how he got passed around until he landed in Bob's office.  But there's no way I could bottle raise a kitten and then give him up.

So.  Seven cats.  Now what?   We retired at the end of that year, and Bob confidently said that would probably solve the cat problem as we usually got them as campus rescues.  We clung to this belief, sort of ignoring the fact that of the seven cats, three were from campus, one was foisted off on us at our vet's, and the other three had simply shown up in the yard.  It was a convenient thing to forget.  It was 2014 and all was well.

Until February 2018.  So far, so good.  No cat "tipping point" had happened.  Then this handsome gentleman showed up.

It's not uncommon for a stray to occasionally show up in the yard.  The incumbent cats generally make them unwelcome, and we do variations of "shoo shoo."  This one had been spotted for a month or so, but ran off at the sight of us.  Until one fateful day when he ran off, turned at the protective edge of the wood, and meowed at me.  I just stood there going "Oh, crap."  Bob came over.  "What's wrong?"  "He meowed at me."  "Oh crap."

One thing non-cat people don't understand.  Cat don't generally meow.  It's a kitten thing--and sometimes the mother will meow at the kittens.   Cats meow at their people.

He had me at meow.    We had been claimed, without getting a vote in the matter (or the other cats, for that matter.  There's still some grumbling going on).  By the next day he rubbed our ankles and wanted his ears scratched  We made him a warm cat bed in the barn, but I looked out a couple of nights later (when it was due to be in the 20's) and he was sleeping on a plastic chair on the front porch.  So of course a warm bed and just possibly a dish of food happened.  I told him he wasn't our cat for about three weeks, then gave in and made it official (meaning he got his shots and neutered).

So--Hamish the Moggy.  Which translated from Northern English means "James the Cat" but it sounds so much better in a foreign language.

He's a mystery.  Totally sweet--the techs at the vet's were cooing over him.  Sociable.  Litter trained.  Obviously loved, obviously used to being indoors.   Foreclosure cat, maybe?

Eight cats.   But eight is OK, right?  No worse than seven.  We can stop anytime we like.

Until mid-October.  I might have already possible mentioned that there was a HUGE FRICKIN' HURRICANE on October 10.  A few days later I get a call from Della (Bob's sister, who lives in Mexico Beach, where that bastard of a hurricane came ashore).  Even under normal circumstances Della talks really fast.  These were not normal times and it was like listening to a vocal machine gun.  Early in the morning before I had my tea.  I sort of made out "do you want cats?"  and mumble something to the effect that I already have 8 cats.  Then awareness dawns and I realize she's talking about *her* cats.

I don't think of Della and Don as having cats, because when we go visit we are rather overwhelmed by dogs.  Three of them super active (a Jack Russel Terrier and two corgis) and one who simply takes up most of a room (the Newfie).  But she also has three cats, who had done what cats do when Della and Don were prepping to evacuate and disappeared.  Much as she hated it, she had to leave them to weather the storm.

But her house is one of the only ones to have survived ("survived" is being used loosely here; let's just say that most of it is still standing).  She and Don and the four dogs will be living in an RV in the front yard for a long time to come.  The cats need a home.

So three more are in the household.   And they are amazing.  I was expecting them to be totally freaked out.  First they have to be in a house that is being ripped apart inside, household goods flying out the windows.  Then they are dumped onto the back deck of a strange house (I opted to put them on the screened deck for a couple of weeks to have a place of their own to calm down).  They came out of their carries, looked around, thought it was pretty cool--tables to climb on, warm kitty caves, plenty of squirrels to watch, no yappy dogs).  Within two weeks they were in the house and settled down.  My cats hissed a bit, but simply got ignored.  So now the tribe includes:

Tula--about 14 years old, long haired tortoiseshell.  Bob loves torties--and it appears to be mutual.  She's not as grumpy as her picture looks.

Red Bug (which Bob insists is R-e-d-d- B-u-g-g ReddBugg as in "RagMop.")  Actually he's gone through the Durham Ellis Island, because Don found him as a kitten in some pine straw and named him Chigger which I think is a horrible name for a cat.  Della gave us RedBug as an alternative, and it works because he's a ginger.  About 6 years old and hard to get him to hold still for a picture.

And finally the little heartbreaker Stumbles.  She was born with cerebellar hypoplasia, which is a fancy way of saying she's not wired quite right.  She has balance issues and falls over easily (but it gives her a quite cute prancing walk).  She was a rescue when a meth lab got raided, and at one point had been set of fire--she's got cute little round ears because they had to be trimmed.   And, like the others, she had to  ride out a hurricane and then get dumped in a strange household.  If any animal deserves to be skittish and shy, it's her.  Quite the opposite--she's a confident little cat, very friendly and playful.

Of course, we're just babysitting these guys--but probably for at least a year.  And we've already gotten attached so Della and Don might not get them back . . . 

But it is a little crazy sometimes.

Breakfast in the Durham kitchen

And, as the saying goes--but wait, there's more.  To be continued . . . .