“We’ve made this trip too many times,” my husband said as he put down the empty cat carrier and unlocked the back door. We had just returned from the vet’s office where we had “said good-bye” to our feisty, loyal, intrepid, tortoise-shell cat. She had literally walked into our lives one morning in September, 2010. Within the first few months of her stay with us, Whodatcat had eliminated the post-Katrina mouse infestation that no catch and release mouse trap, sticky trap, or the snap-them-in-the-neck-and-kill-them trap had been able to do. She even quite generously shared her bounty with us, placing little game trophies on the back step or in our dog’s feeding dish.
We’ve owned dogs and the occasional cat for at least forty-five of the fifty years we’ve been married. We’ve made the lonely trip home seven times—eight if you count my classroom gerbil. It never gets easier. I know some people who have decided to forgo the joy of pet ownership because the pain of parting with a beloved companion is more than they want to endure. I can respect that choice, but it’s not for me.
I am genetically wired for pets, dogs in particular. (See The Dog Gene, July 2016.) I will always have dogs and possibly another “accidental cat.” When I sign on for that owner/pet relationship, I know that somewhere down the road I’ll be faced with making the decision of when it is the right time to end the animal’s life humanely.
Deciding when to euthanize a pet is like selling stock. It’s unlikely that a person will be able to pick the optimal time. For most of our animals, my husband and I waited too long. Whether it was out of selfishness—we wanted more time with them—or cowardice—we weren’t strong enough to make the decision, we prolonged the life of a terminally ill pet that was probably in more pain than we wanted to admit.
Whodatcat was diagnosed with inoperable, aggressive, intestinal cancer before Christmas. If she hadn’t vomited blood, I would not have suspected she was ill. The veterinarian gave us choices, and we picked the middle road. He prescribed a steroid to drizzle over her food to reduce inflammation. She ate heartily and seemed to thrive. We knew, however, that the cancer was continuing to spread throughout her body every minute of every day.
Last Friday, she vomited blood again, came inside, ate her breakfast, and attacked a chair. In other words, she seemed perfectly normal, except for the throwing up blood part, which is pretty hard to ignore. We talked to the vet. We could increase the steroids, he said, and give her medicine to stop the bleeding and quell the nausea. Maybe she’d have a couple of more months. She’d still have cancer. It would continue to spread. Then, one day she wouldn’t seem to be perfectly normal. She would stop playing. She would stop eating. She would be in pain.
We made the decision to put her down that afternoon. I held her as the vet gave her the sedative. She relaxed into my arms. She was warm, she was comfortable, and her fur was soft. She was still beautiful. We told her good-bye and headed home with the empty carrier.
Did we time it perfectly right? Maybe we got out of the market a little too soon, for us. But for Whodatcat, we were able to spare her the pain of a lingering death. For Whodatcat, I think we timed it just right.
Since ancient times, people have gathered together to share their meals. We sometimes dine alone, but more often than not, dining is a social event. Never before have I been more aware of this than during September, when I chose to go on the Whole30 Diet. If you’re not familiar with it, Whole30 is similar to a Paleo Diet. To give you a short version, permitted foods are meat, fish, shellfish, poultry, nuts, eggs, and fresh or frozen vegetables and fruit. Dairy, grains, legumes, white potatoes, pasta, sugar, additives, and alcohol are forbidden.
It had been more than a few years since I’d taught in a classroom setting, and when I had, my largest class numbered twenty-three students. After taking early retirement, I tutored one-on-one in the S.T.A.I.R. program, led Junior Great Books discussion groups, and, as a volunteer docent, explored the butterfly gardens of City Park with young children. Each of these activities involved groups of fewer than twelve children.
We added pictures and diagrams from the internet and from my downloads. I spent some time looking over the students’ replies to the writing prompts and chose a few to share. I was impressed by the quality of their responses.
Then I had a chance to answer their questions. Just as I had been impressed when I read their writing prompt responses, I was equally pleased with their questions. “What inspired you to write this book?” “What was the hardest part about writing?” “Where did you get the ideas for your characters?” “How do you get a book published?” were just a few. They listened to my answers and responded with more questions if they weren’t clear about something I’d said.
posted Fitzgerald’s quote on my Facebook page when I returned from Italy recently. If my garden is a litmus test of this statement, I’d say the first half of the hypothesis is correct. Azaleas bloomed as they always have this time of year—great splashes of hot pink, coral, and magenta—like a Georgia O’Keefe painting. Live oaks wore pollen “worms”—thousands of tiny yellow ribbons in their hair. Sparrows twittered in the bushes, and the honey fragrance of alyssum permeated the air. Spring had arrived on schedule, even without me here.
think inside the box…more likely to say “no” than “yes.” I hate flying.
Travel forces me to at least look outside the box and question the rules. It makes me push my limits a bit, stretch my tolerance of things different. I can guarantee I’ll never make the ninety foot dive from a bridge into the sea on the Amalfi Coast. Neither will I eat pigeon in Orvieto or horse rib in Ostuni. But I do want to hike the Walk of the Gods from Positano to Amalfi town. And salami and cheese for breakfast now seems as common as bacon and eggs.
The small manger scene had been a gift from my mother-in-law when our oldest son was a toddler. The Italian molded resin and wood Nativity set held up well over years of handling by our three boys. I had wanted a creche they could touch and play with, using their imaginations to re-enact the story of Jesus’s birth. And imagine they did! In their minds, baby Jesus was not the divine Lord, but rather a mischievous little boy, just as they were. He rarely slept peacefully in the manger, but could often be found riding the donkey, petting the sheep, or up in the hayloft—a concerned Mary climbing the ladder to watch over him.
I stand at the back window of our French Quarter apartment at dawn. As the sun rises over the west bank of the Mississippi River, its rays brush the spires of the St. Louis Cathedral. No, that’s not a typo. The Mississippi River, flowing south from Minnesota to the Gulf of Mexico, lies south of New Orleans, running west to east here. It cuts a ninety degree turn at Algiers Point, flowing south again and putting the river, at that location, east of the city, even though to travel to Texas and points west of New Orleans, one must cross The Big Muddy.
You’ll find yourself dropped off at the end of Canal Street. There you’ll discover several cemeteries, where the dead might spend eternity in a tomb grander than their residence in life. After visiting a cemetery, you can transfer to the Lakeview bus—number forty-five for you out-of-towners—and ride out to the south shore of Lake Pontchartrain, which is located on the north side of the city.
North Peters, Decatur, Chartres, Royal, Bourbon, Dauphine, Burgundy, and Rampart run down river from Canal Street. The first block from Canal is the 100 block, second block 200, and so on. The French Quarter ends at Esplanade, which is the end of the 1300 block. Cross streets run from the river to Rampart, the lower numbers starting at the river.