Imprisoned

Welp, it was to be expected. Our little jailbird didn't last four hours in his first cell. He was found, perched on the toilet, trying to jump to the sink. Given this was a day after his hip surgery, and he was hopped up on fabulous painkillers, Buck decided at the rate Roosevelt was going, he'd loose his other hip in two weeks.

So, despite Roosevelt's protests, he was transferred to cellblock Master Shower, where he's been holed up ever since. His alternative was the dog crate, so--though he doesn't appreciate this--he's winning.

The kettle bell is there because Roosevelt has figured out he can charge the door and open it.

Roosey's visiting hours are quite generous. Leon, Luna, and the Sunshines have all spent time visiting. For the first few days, Marty, Buck and I cuddled in the shower with him. This caused all sorts of problems for the older generation who prefer not sharing confined spaces with cat boxes (even ones which are cleaned out twice a day). 

Yes, that is a ridiculous orange (fruit) pattern on his new neck pillow.  

We thought our kitty was initially on a hunger strike, but it turns out the cone made it so he could not eat his kibble or drink his water. This caused Roosevelt to bang his tin cup on the shower walls, howling like a crazed asylum inmate during the hours of 11 p.m. to 5 a.m. Buck sleeps on the other side of the house, so he did not hear the plaintive cries from Roosey. However, Marty and I were well aware of the cat's opinion of his cone. A decision was made and with the magic of Amazon, Roosevelt has a new neck pillow--which he hates. But at least he's more comfortable. 

Why take advantage of the exercise yard when there's a perfectly good lap?

The warden (Buck) gave the edict this past weekend that if Roosevelt wanted to start moving, he could do so in the exercise yard--the master bathroom. However, precautions were taken to ensure he wouldn't climb, jump or escape. Doors were closed--though Leon shows his regular solidarity by shoving his paw under the bathroom door when his brother is outside of his cell. To his credit, Roosevelt hobbles for a few moments and then perches himself on my lap and purrs, love bombing me and letting me know he'd appreciate my assistance in his planned escape. And just to drive this point home, when it is time to go back into his cell block, he is now strong enough to trip me as I'm trying to leave, so it is taking more than one Sunshine to lock him back in. 

One week to go.   

 

Church Shopping

I think we have kinda sorta settled on a church. We are attending All Souls Catholic Church in Sanford--about 4 miles from my home. For now. My daughter sings in the choir (and they are good!). I suspect Buck has his eye on a long haired beauty in the pews. Marty likes the priest. Mass is generally 60 minutes. 

The jury is out on the priest for me just yet, however, he's interesting enough in his message. And other than today, he isn't normally long winded. Also, I don't find the congregation to be friendly, but they aren't self-righteous, culty-church-lady-sanctimonious either. All that said, I'm just happy my family will go to church, so we are going there. 

However before a decision was made, Buck and I did check out the local Church of Christ (about 5 miles from my home, also in Sanford). I liked the vibe for my first visit. The people were friendly. No electric guitar. The pastor was interesting. Buck seemed to enjoy himself. However, the service went for 90 minutes and Marty isn't interested in coming with us. If All Souls doesn't work out, I'd give this place another shot. 

The Wandering Jew

While on my walk this morning, this followed me home. What was a girl to do? 

A teensy twig from a wandering Jew. Also known as the "purple heart plant."

It was growing off the sidewalk, albeit in someone's yard yards feet inches away. I ask you, should I have left it there for someone with little taste to trample all over it? Should I have left it to the homeowner who would have overlooked it because it was only a small sapling from the larger plant? And if it was already on the sidewalk obviously the homeowner wasn't paying attention to this plant anyway. Right?

Right????? 

By the time I had come inside from rooting this sprig in a pot, my family gathered around me to stage an intervention. They used words like, "crazy plant weirdo," and asked if I'd "lost my mind" and suggested that my "misdeeds" were not in keeping of the values they were raised in, nor was it probably legal to "steal"--they said STEAL!--this twig. Steal my foot! It was just there. On the sidewalk. Possibly attached to the parent plant in someone's yard. But I don't remember. All I know is I tied my shoes and then it was in my hand, begging for soil, water and fertilizer.     

In my own defense, I never trespassed in another yard--unlike the mass of trick or treaters who walked through mine last night. I took found this off the owner's property. And at this point, it looks a lot happier than when the poor sapling followed me home. 

Solitary Confinement

Roosevelt is home. And he is unhappy. If he could walk (softly) and carry a big stick, we'd all be in trouble. To express his sentiment at being let out of the dog cage and upgraded to the bathroom for the next two weeks, he's knocked his food and water bowls over. He's also barricading the door with his body. On the positive side, he isn't sleeping in his litter box right now. 

We'd all love to have Leon visit him, however, Roosey has two open wounds (the other from the IV drip) and Leon would take advantage. Plus, Roosevelt isn't in a mood for visitors at this very moment. 

This fool, laying on his stitched leg and pushing the door shut so nobody can enter. (Picture taken with me standing outside and reaching around door.)

Well, This Happened

 Victoria from book club called me. Me!? To be fair, I was on the phone with my world traveler friend in Arizona when she rang. But, curious and full of trepidation, I called Victoria back. 

It turns out Victoria just had a pacemaker put in and cannot drive. She remembered I liked cats and wanted to know if I knew of a mobile vet or groomer who might be able to come by and clip her kitty's nails. I suggested a scratching post. Turns out, Kitty doesn't do scratching posts. I also offered to drive Victoria to her vet of choice later in the week if she needed to get Kitty taken care of that quickly. 

Victoria obviously wasn't expecting that level of Southern hospitality. That smile I'd been waiting for from her came through over the phone. However, she declined the offer, figuring it was too much work for her and Kitty under the circumstances. Then, Victoria asked if my hand was healing (Hand and wrist yes. Finger, maddingly no.) and said a few other pleasant things about our book club.

We left the call with well-wishes and me offering to help with Kitty if the need arises. I wished her a Happy Halloween and sat down, utterly astonished, and wrote this blog.  

The Thursday Murder club

A couple of weeks ago, we had our first "official" murder mystery book club meeting. Held at the public library in Deltona, a local suburb, about a 20 minute drive from my house, I ended up arriving a bit too early. 

While sitting out of the way, waiting for book club to start, I heard a woman yell--yes, yell!--across the library to the front desk that the room she wanted to use was locked. At the sound of Victoria's voice, I figured it was time to wander over and settle in for our meeting. 

With about ten minute to go before book club started, Victoria and I were the only members. Unsure about how to approach her "we do not visit before the meeting" edict, I sat and waited for her to initiate a conversation. Fortunately, Victoria did as much, demanding to know what happened to my hand, and followed up by telling me about her cat, how much she loves Halloween, and how she decided our murder mystery book club would be called, the "Thursday Murder club." 

I pointed out not only was that the name of our book to discuss that day but the name was already taken. "Sue me," she shrugged.  

Eventually three other participants arrived and I wasted no time inquiring about everyone's well-being. I shared how Victoria just told me she likes cats and whipped out my pictures of the Overlords to let the gang ooh and ahh over, prompting the other pet owners to do the same. Even Victoria joined in. And just like that, the ice was broken and the edict not to visit before the meeting now shattered. 

However, Victoria then threw a curve ball my way. I was to be the leader of that day's discussion. I pointed out I did not sign up for that particular endeavor and a bit of notice that I had been randomly chosen is considered protocol for such things.    

We had a lively discussion and I made sure everyone had a chance to share. The questions were the basic who, what, where, when and why-type but I guess the way I phrased them sounded like I knew what I was talking about. 

Then came time to pick next month's book. Being proactive, Eileen, one of the sweetest and more timid of the ladies offered to lead the next discussion. She also suggested "Agatha Raisin and the Deadly Quiche." Victoria said she hated the story and Eileen's face fell. However, the rest of the gang mutinied and that's what we are discussing on the first Thursday in November. 

The book was an easy read and I sent Eileen a note last week, telling her I enjoyed the story. She wrote back thanking me, because she had thought about retracting her suggestion, given Victoria's reaction. I reminded her this is HER book club too--she has a say in what we read. Eileen told me that made her feel better. 

Though next month's book isn't great book club fodder, I expect it will be a lively discussion. If not, I will work on my own personal mission of getting Victoria to crack a smile.

Roosevelt Update

After several hours at the local vet, and at the emergency vet hospital in Daytona Beach--where the only orthopedic veterinarian resides in a 100 mile radius--it is official. Our sweet Roosevelt has broken his hip. 

Roosey is a young cat (about 18 months old) and is relatively healthy otherwise. So there's no reason not to perform surgery. We are told he should recover nicely. When Marty and I left the vet hospital and I looked at the astronomical estimate we're committed to. I said to Marty, "That boy owes me grandchildren."*

Our vet said the injury is common in young male cats. The analogy for this type of injury that was created was along the lines of a 22 year old man, out past 11 p.m. in the wilderness with his buddies. Before fate slaps him upside the head, the young man in question utters the words, "hold my beer." Essentially Roosevelt's underdeveloped frontal cortex talked him into doing some dumbassery stunt thinking it would go well. Our theory is this happened when he zoomed out of the house two days ago and tried to jump the fence.   

Currently, Roosey is sleeping in the dog crate, doped up on two different pain meds and curled up dozing in the (unused) litter box instead of his comfy pillow. When Buck wakes up, I have a few ideas on how to modify this arrangement to create more room in his cellblock, but it will take a bit of engineering. 

Looking forward to the day he can do this again.

*Lest you have an opinion about who should pay for Buck's cat's surgery, please keep it to yourself, thankyouverymuch. Marty and I are fully aware of what we are doing and don't need others sharing their thoughts with me about our young adults and their life journey. I've heard from enough people over the summer who offered their unsolicited opinions. I wrote the above because I'm interested in grandchildren. Eventually.