Every blog post I've tried writing the past month or so is shite or depressing, so I haven't posted any of them. I do think there's enough dreariness in the world without banging on about it. And sometimes, through no fault of our own, the black cloud hangs over us and seemingly stalls. Then, equally as random, it moves along.
Summer is galloping along at an alarming rate here. It's been quite dry, which should mean that I've had lots of time for sailing. But, no. Work stuff has been galloping along, too, and my idea of going for a quick sail after work has been dashed because i'm so mentally tired by the end of the work day, that I don't feel all that safe going boating.
My neighbour up the street, M, who's been a marine electrician for years and who rewired Retrouvé for me finally had some time to go sailing. He had started a seasonal business about three years ago, but it didn't take off as he had hoped, so he's called that a day and found a part-time job doing something else. He's a new grandpa, and his granddaughter thinks he's the most wonderful thing ever, so he has been babysitting and visiting a goodly bit. Finally, we had a Saturday where we could go sailing, and the weather co-operated. We got down to the shipyard, and only when he asked me which dinghy was mine did I realise that the last time he went sailing with me was quite a while ago indeed, since this is my third summer with my dinghy Twig. I know, not nautical sounding in the least, but that's the name that came to me when I got her and asked what her name should be. Some things you just don't question.
I walked over to the edge and looked down at the floats. Twig was missing. I blinked and looked again. She was still gone.
I went over to the shipyard's office to notify them, but the door was locked. Next, I went into the dock house where my friend has her schooner. SFB was there with the office manager for the schooner, and I blurted out that Twig was stolen. I felt sick to my stomach. The first mate offered me use of one of the schooner's skiffs, and I took it. He also said I should talk to Tug, the guy whose business shares the other half of the dock house. SFB said I should notify the Harbor Master. He was right, of course, and once M and I were out on the water, I decided to radio the Harbor Master. Only my radio didn't seem to be sending out a signal. When it rains, it pours.
I had my cell phone and got a signal so called him on his phone and let him know. He said no one had reported finding a missing dinghy, and I gave him the particulars. He said I ought to call the police and file a report.
M and I turned around a bit early when we heard thunder. Well, actually, we heard thunder, M's wife called M and said that it was thundering at the house, were we still on the water? M would have stayed out longer, but about five minutes after the phone call, I thought it best if we turned around.
About two minutes from the house, six raindrops splashed on the windshield, so we beat the rain.
I talked to the police. Sadly, they've had a number of reports like mine and in most cases, by the time the owner sees the item's been stolen, it's already been resold. Twig is a really nice dinghy and could be resold in about five minutes.
When I was able to talk to one of the owners of the shipyard the next day (the office manager would be in the day after), he told me I should talk to Tug and see if he has anything on his security camera. Tug works pretty much Monday through Friday.
I was busy all day at work on Monday, but found some time Tuesday to talk to Tug. He kindly agreed to look at the tapes to see if he could see anything, and would put the word out about my missing dinghy. He related that a number of times, items that suddenly sprouted legs and walked away, suddenly walked back. He also mentioned that the last time he caught a thief red-handed, the thief was taken off the premises via ambulance. Tug is not someone i'd want to have as an enemy.
In the meantime, I wanted a dinghy on hand. If I singlehand, I can take my kayak, if there's one other person, then that person can use Himself's kayak if Himself is not going, or we could have the other person wait on the dock and I can sail over from the mooring and pick that person up. But there are a few people who like to help at the beginning and end of the sail who would not be able to pull themselves out of the kayak easily and onto Retrouvé. Some balance and upper body strength is required, and two sailing chums, who are more portly wouldn't be able to do it at all.
I decided to search Craig's List and I found a used dinghy, same brand as Twig. The poster had a picture and said that boat was that model. Same model as Twig. Naturally, I was suspicious and hated that I was. But, I had to know. So I emailed, asking if he could send a picture of the actual boat. He did, and it wasn't Twig, so I was quite relieved. The asking price was less than the deductible on my boat insurance and I figured it was probably in my best interest to get this one. Should Twig magically reappear, having two dinghies wouldn't be so bad. I could sell one, of course, or keep two in case four of us go sailing on Retrouvé as both dinghies carry two adults.
I picked up the new-to-me dinghy on Saturday. She's been well maintained, but she is used and looks it. She has seen a lot of water. She's well balanced, easy to row, and is less tippy than Twig. She is at the float in the same spot Twig had been, and she's got a sturdy lock and chain.
I've mostly moved past it, and there's a part of me that never wants to find out who did this. If I see that person or group of people in public someplace, i'm not so sure that i'll behave with decorum. I may have a bad day and decide to slap the shit out of them; yet I know they're not worth the jail time.
In other news, Phoebe decided to pee outside the litter box. Repeatedly. Even when I made sure I scooped regularly, and even when she was quite near the box, so I called the vet. I don't want this to be a battle of wills, and I don't want to be held hostage by cat urine. But, just in case there was something physically wrong, and besides it was time for her yearly rabies shot.
So, I took her. She was very good at the vet's. He listened as I told him about her new behaviour, but otherwise everything else was pretty much the same, except she was sleeping more. But, I figured, she's 15 and I have to remind myself that's middle geriatric age for a cat. She provided urine and blood samples. Urinalysis looked good, except it was a bit watery. The blood test results would come in a few days.
The data show that she has kidney disease. The vet was surprised at how high her numbers were given what I told him about her activity level. He said there was a slight chance that she had an infection and suggested an antibiotic as a prophylactic, and then talked about kidney meds. A pill given twice a day. Special food that was low protein and rather bland. I wrote down what he was saying but went numb.
Pills twice a day? He's got to be joking, and I've told him before how when I tried feeding the cats "better" food (READ: healthier), they looked at me as if to say, "What IS this swill?"
Of course, once I made the vet appointment, Phoebe stopped peeing outside the box. That suited me just fine because i'm okay with not having to clean it up off floors and carpet.
I went to the office to pick up the antibiotic--one full syringe once a day for a week, the pills, which need to be split into two and one-half given twice a day, three cans of the special food available only at the vet's--two of these are the "less boring" kind and one of the "boring" ones, and I also picked up "pill pockets" which are treats with holes in them where you can put the meds in and give it to the kitty.
They told me that if Phoebe did not eat the food to bring back the unopened cans, and they'd refund my money. The vet said that if she absolutely refuses it, then to give her the food I have been all along. After all, he said, it's quality of life. He didn't add, "Giving her the food she likes will give her less quantity," but I'm certain he was thinking that.
I got home and cried. Cried because of stupid people who take things that don't belong to them. Cried because i'm sure Phoebe tried telling me again and again she wasn't well, but I'm apparently as thick as mince.
I have tried giving her the antibiotic. I have been unsuccessful. She runs away at a pace that qualifies for the Olympics. Even my one-dimensional nose can smell the antibiotic, so it's little wonder she's off to the races when i'm within ten paces. For a bit, she was running away from me any time I approached. This was not how I wanted our last months to be, so I gave her a day where I didn't do anything out of the ordinary. No weird food, no syringes, no pills (hadn't tried those at all). And once she settled down, I tried giving her the pocket pill treat. She was having none of it. I decided to put it in her dish. Still nothing. After a bit, I took four of the crunchy treats she likes and studded this pocket pill treat, put it back in her dish and walked away. Success.
Subsequent pocket pill treats have been gobbled eagerly. I could kiss the person who made those. Yes, they're spendy, but they make giving pills unbelievably easier.
The vet said that Phoebe should also have fish oil. They had some at the surgery that was likely eye-wateringly expensive. He said if I liked, I could get the gel capsules and break one open as that's the perfect dose. JoJo could have one, too, and I was glad he understood the "I want what she's having," thing that goes on in multiple pet households.
On the day I got my new-to-me dinghy, I knew I might get back later than their usual lunchtime, so I tried one of the little cans of the special food for Phoebe and a can of regular stuff for Jo. Phoebe has taken to eating either upstairs or in the kitchen, and Jo likes eating outside when the weather's nice. So each had enough food and happily ate it. Phoebe looked a bit at the new food after a bite or two, sniffing around it, i'm sure to see if I had hidden anything in it.
I returned a bit after their usual lunch time, and both were eating up the last bits of their larger than usual breakfast. So, all was well.
I've decided to work the special food in on rotation. As time goes on, I may have to give Phoebe only that and nothing else.
The vet wants to take another blood sample in a month's time to see if the meds appear to be doing any good. They won't reverse the kidney damage she has sustained but ideally, the medication will retard its advance.
I hate to take any sort of pills, even vitamins, and I figured i'd need to give myself this month to get used to the new routine for I need time to adjust as much as Phoebe does. If all goes well, then we'll see if we can keep to this. If she doesn't show improvement, then we need to have a different conversation. I did tell the vet that first and foremost, I want Phoebe to have good quality of life. Although she's sleeping more than before, she doesn't appear to be in pain, she's still interested in what's going on and doesn't seem ready to go. Winters are long here even for a mostly indoor cat who loves basking by the coal stove.
For the moment, although she still stares at my hands to see if i'm hiding anything (I show her they're both empty to put her mind at ease), she has forgiven me for taking her to the vet and for being thick as mince. She approves of the treats and thinks the fish oil a treat. And i'm holding on to every one of these days, knowing that they may be the last of the good days and end all too quickly.
Monday, August 24, 2015
Thursday, July 23, 2015
The First Days of Spring
Today, a really nice thank you note arrived from the latest houseguest. I can only hope that as he works through his grief, he can start feeling those first days of spring in his heart. I cried as I read the note, and was so thankful that I listened to that inner prompt that told me to call to see how he was and to extend an invitation to visit.
Why do i bother?
A few years back, I bought some asparagus crowns, dug up the old asparagus bed that had been started years before but now lay fallow, and planted the crowns. I did it a tad too early, seduced by a warmish, early spring day, and the crowns struggled to survive.
Then, when the boat was being transferred from the jack stands to the trailer, a sailing friend was helping me and when the truck driver with the lift asked if he could back up a bit, sailing friend said, "Sure, there's plenty of room," and ignored me saying no, as he backed up right on the asparagus bed. A few came up next year, but most decided to abandon the attempt, and I bought more crowns and waited.
Last year should have been the year that I could collect a small supply of asparagus safely, but the spears that came up were still quite spindly.
This year, disgusted with my patient waiting being fruitless, I decided to plant in the rows between where the asparagus should have been, just a few vegs.
I got some tomato, pepper, musk melon, watermelon, pumpkin, and squash plants. Also six kale plants. Added a couple of scarlet emperor runner beans, which were seeds I had and wasn't sure how viable they were. Planted some radishes and beets.
And the asparagus grew. Not thick enough to really collect, but I guess word on the street had reached them that it was now or never.
After I planted everything, we had a bit of a cold snap, and the pepper plants have been pouty ever since, except the cayenne pepper plant.
Slugs decided to come and nosh, so I sprayed an organic spray and outlined the plants in diatomaceous earth. The slugs denuded a few of the marigolds, which I had planted around the plants as protection.
sigh.
The squash and pumpkin plants have flowered, but then the flowers drop off and there's nothing. Unsure if it's because nothing decided to pollinate it. The beans are climbing the trellis. The lone cucumber plant I got so I could make some pickles flowered and the teeny cornichons were coming along nicely. A bright spot in an unpromising bit of ground.
The tomatoes flowered and some plants have green tomatoes that look good.
The kale had gotten to a pretty good size. I planted them a bit too close together and thought today would be a good day to cut some of the leaves for a meal.
So, I awoke to brilliant sunshine, and after hanging a load of wash on the line before starting my work day, I took a walk over to the garden.
I noticed some of the volunteer violet plants had their leaves shorn clean off. The tomatoes were untouched. And I went down the line. The tops of most pepper plants chewed, more violet volunteers neatly trimmed, beets dug up, with one small one left. The cucumber plant is half its size and sports three small cukes. The kale was the hardest hit: among the six plants, there might be ten leaves left.
Two more new sprouts of asparagus waved in the light breeze as I surveyed everything.
I consoled myself by picking raspberries and eating about half as many as I picked.
Then, when the boat was being transferred from the jack stands to the trailer, a sailing friend was helping me and when the truck driver with the lift asked if he could back up a bit, sailing friend said, "Sure, there's plenty of room," and ignored me saying no, as he backed up right on the asparagus bed. A few came up next year, but most decided to abandon the attempt, and I bought more crowns and waited.
Last year should have been the year that I could collect a small supply of asparagus safely, but the spears that came up were still quite spindly.
This year, disgusted with my patient waiting being fruitless, I decided to plant in the rows between where the asparagus should have been, just a few vegs.
I got some tomato, pepper, musk melon, watermelon, pumpkin, and squash plants. Also six kale plants. Added a couple of scarlet emperor runner beans, which were seeds I had and wasn't sure how viable they were. Planted some radishes and beets.
And the asparagus grew. Not thick enough to really collect, but I guess word on the street had reached them that it was now or never.
After I planted everything, we had a bit of a cold snap, and the pepper plants have been pouty ever since, except the cayenne pepper plant.
Slugs decided to come and nosh, so I sprayed an organic spray and outlined the plants in diatomaceous earth. The slugs denuded a few of the marigolds, which I had planted around the plants as protection.
sigh.
The squash and pumpkin plants have flowered, but then the flowers drop off and there's nothing. Unsure if it's because nothing decided to pollinate it. The beans are climbing the trellis. The lone cucumber plant I got so I could make some pickles flowered and the teeny cornichons were coming along nicely. A bright spot in an unpromising bit of ground.
The tomatoes flowered and some plants have green tomatoes that look good.
The kale had gotten to a pretty good size. I planted them a bit too close together and thought today would be a good day to cut some of the leaves for a meal.
So, I awoke to brilliant sunshine, and after hanging a load of wash on the line before starting my work day, I took a walk over to the garden.
I noticed some of the volunteer violet plants had their leaves shorn clean off. The tomatoes were untouched. And I went down the line. The tops of most pepper plants chewed, more violet volunteers neatly trimmed, beets dug up, with one small one left. The cucumber plant is half its size and sports three small cukes. The kale was the hardest hit: among the six plants, there might be ten leaves left.
Two more new sprouts of asparagus waved in the light breeze as I surveyed everything.
I consoled myself by picking raspberries and eating about half as many as I picked.
Friday, July 17, 2015
Another day, another house guest
Several months back, a woman I know from my last location died. Her death wasn't entirely unexpected, but her departure left a gaping hole for many people, especially her husband. She'd been his bride for nearly 42 years.
About two months after she died, I called him because I had been thinking of him, and though I sent a card immediately after I heard about her death, I had done little else. My experience is that when someone close to me dies, i'm usually quite busy immediately following the death but a few months after, when most of the Things that Need Doing are done, I find myself really starting to ache. So, after a few days of pushing away the desire to dial the phone, I caved.
He was glad to hear from me, and we talked for nearly two hours. We laughed, we cried, and he did most of the talking whilst I did most of the listening. Towards the end of the phone call, I told him if he needed a geographic change for a few days, he was welcome to visit; we've got a big guest room. I went on to say I knew it wouldn't fix anything, but sometimes a change of scenery is welcome, and as he likes hotter temperatures, he should wait until summer was in full swing here and even then to bring long sleeves and trousers because it often gets chilly at night.
He thanked me for the offer, and I wondered if I sounded too much the way some people do when they want to supply comfort. They say stuff, and mean it, but there's no follow through.
I also told him he could call at any time. Which he could. Again, I knew although I really and truly meant it, and although he knew that, he most likely wouldn't. He's always been a very private person and, like me, prefers to work things out by himself.
So it was with some surprise when I found him on the other end of the phone when I picked it up about two weeks back. He was quite chatty and told me he was going to take me up on the invite offer.
JoJo is a bit put out since this is the third person to be sleeping in "her" bed this summer (she claims the guestroom bed as her own). I couldn't get a lot of time off work, but I did supply him with area maps and goings-on so he can explore a bit on his own. Phoebe has deemed him worthy of allowing him to be her doorman, even if he doesn't understand she needs to be pet as well and complimented, but he shows promise that he can be trained.
He's been a wonderful houseguest. He cleans up after himself, selected a wonderful wine to go with last night's dinner, and we've laughed and talked a lot.
He didn't come with when I had my piano lesson. I didn't expect him to want to sit there while I was murdering something on the keys, the way I do when first learning a new-to-me piece, but I thought he might want to walk around the town during my lesson, as it's in a different one from where I live.
I returned from my lesson to find his eyes a bit red. He started reading an anthology of poetry I had and the page fell to the Thomas Hardy section. Many of the Hardy poems in that anthology concern themselves with loss and death. He read aloud "I Look into my Glass," and I could feel tears well up in eyes.
"I should have gone with you," he said.
I nodded in agreement, but sometimes, a piece of poetry can remind us that we are not the first or only ones in a place of hurt, and comfort us in a way that nothing else can.
Sometimes, the best thing we can do when friends are hurting, is to provide a loving space where they can simply be as they process their pain. Years ago, when my grandmother was dying, this friend had done that for me. And, while i'm sorry he's in a place now where the roles are reversed, i'm only too glad to repay my debt of gratitude as much as I can.
About two months after she died, I called him because I had been thinking of him, and though I sent a card immediately after I heard about her death, I had done little else. My experience is that when someone close to me dies, i'm usually quite busy immediately following the death but a few months after, when most of the Things that Need Doing are done, I find myself really starting to ache. So, after a few days of pushing away the desire to dial the phone, I caved.
He was glad to hear from me, and we talked for nearly two hours. We laughed, we cried, and he did most of the talking whilst I did most of the listening. Towards the end of the phone call, I told him if he needed a geographic change for a few days, he was welcome to visit; we've got a big guest room. I went on to say I knew it wouldn't fix anything, but sometimes a change of scenery is welcome, and as he likes hotter temperatures, he should wait until summer was in full swing here and even then to bring long sleeves and trousers because it often gets chilly at night.
He thanked me for the offer, and I wondered if I sounded too much the way some people do when they want to supply comfort. They say stuff, and mean it, but there's no follow through.
I also told him he could call at any time. Which he could. Again, I knew although I really and truly meant it, and although he knew that, he most likely wouldn't. He's always been a very private person and, like me, prefers to work things out by himself.
So it was with some surprise when I found him on the other end of the phone when I picked it up about two weeks back. He was quite chatty and told me he was going to take me up on the invite offer.
JoJo is a bit put out since this is the third person to be sleeping in "her" bed this summer (she claims the guestroom bed as her own). I couldn't get a lot of time off work, but I did supply him with area maps and goings-on so he can explore a bit on his own. Phoebe has deemed him worthy of allowing him to be her doorman, even if he doesn't understand she needs to be pet as well and complimented, but he shows promise that he can be trained.
He's been a wonderful houseguest. He cleans up after himself, selected a wonderful wine to go with last night's dinner, and we've laughed and talked a lot.
He didn't come with when I had my piano lesson. I didn't expect him to want to sit there while I was murdering something on the keys, the way I do when first learning a new-to-me piece, but I thought he might want to walk around the town during my lesson, as it's in a different one from where I live.
I returned from my lesson to find his eyes a bit red. He started reading an anthology of poetry I had and the page fell to the Thomas Hardy section. Many of the Hardy poems in that anthology concern themselves with loss and death. He read aloud "I Look into my Glass," and I could feel tears well up in eyes.
"I should have gone with you," he said.
I nodded in agreement, but sometimes, a piece of poetry can remind us that we are not the first or only ones in a place of hurt, and comfort us in a way that nothing else can.
Sometimes, the best thing we can do when friends are hurting, is to provide a loving space where they can simply be as they process their pain. Years ago, when my grandmother was dying, this friend had done that for me. And, while i'm sorry he's in a place now where the roles are reversed, i'm only too glad to repay my debt of gratitude as much as I can.
Thursday, July 9, 2015
I may scream like a girl
A week or so ago, a former neighbor, K, stayed chez moi for a few days. She had a family reunion not too far away from where I live now and decided she'd take a week or so and visit friends, staying a day or two at each place and catching up.
I was working during her stay, so she'd find things she'd want to see or do during the daytime, and we'd meet up at suppertime to catch up. Sometimes we went out to eat, sometimes we ate at home.
I don't know that the cats remembered her, per se, because she wasn't often inside our house. K has a couple dogs, a horse, a donkey, some chickens, and her latest foray into the animal world has her keeping bees as well. She arrived in the rain, giving me a jar of honey and four bags (!) of my favourite potato chips that cannot be found here, at least not regularly.
We talked and laughed as if only a few days have passed since we last saw each other, and it was a fun visit. Her plan was to leave Wednesday morning and stop at a friend's south of me, stay there a day or so, and then head home. On Tuesday morning, she regaled me with how there was a bat in the house, how she had felt the rhythmic puff of air on her face that caused her to wake up. Phoebe was sitting in the middle of the room, watching it circle. K felt the bat was flying too close to her for comfort, and switched on the light. It flew out of the room, and K left the light on while she tried getting back to sleep. She thought of waking me but didn't know what good that would do. I was on the other side of the house and upstairs, oblivious to any drama going on in the guest room. I am a sound sleeper, and K is, too. She said it was the rhythmic puff of air that seemed to stir her enough so that she woke up. We looked around the house and didn't see anything; so, perhaps the bat found its way out.
On Tuesday evening, the cinema the next town over was showing a rebroadcast of "The Audience" with Helen Mirren. I had seen it when it arrived earlier in the year and very much wanted to see it again. K hadn't seen it and thought it'd be grand to go. We went to one of her favourite restaurants beforehand to get a local dish then off to the cinema we went. This encore presentation was a bit longer than the first one because they had a question and answer segment at the end where the small audience were theatregoers who had seen the play performed both in London and New York, so they gave their opinions and also asked Helen Mirren some questions.
We ended up getting home around 10:30 pm, which was a bit later than planned. We also discussed the possibility of the bat's still being in the house and what should we do? Fervently hoping he had found a way out wasn't quite enough to allay our fears, and I suggested that we open the sliding glass door. That way, in case he awoke and wanted to go out, he'd have an easy way out.
We looked around the house, again seeing nothing, hearing nothing. The cats did not indicate that they saw him anyplace. I was walking behind K as we came into the living room a second time, when she stopped suddenly, and I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck.
"I found him. Look left. In the curtain."
And there, to our left, I made out a smaller, brown blob behind the lacy curtain. The little fellow appeared sound asleep.
Now, I live in an old house, which I've mentioned before. K also lives in an old house, about the same vintage as mine, so she's had experiences of wildlife finding its way in. We discussed the best way of getting this bit of wildlife out. It was too late to call anyone to ask for help. It would make the most sense were we to capture the bat and unhook the curtain rod, carry the whole shebang outside and let the bat fly free. Sounds easy enough. Except...
The curtain rod hooks into its attachment so a simple lift and separate wasn't going to happen. It would be turn, click, lift up, and away for both sides. In order for me to reach that, i'd need help since i'm short. So, maybe using the boat hook would help? I got the boat hook and tried on the dining room window that has the same setup. No, even harder to do with the boat hook. I'd have to get a step stool if I wanted to reach easily. I could just about reach the one side, but the other would be lopsided and if K were to be cupping the bat...
K is enough taller that she could reach him. I had gauntlets I use for the woodstove. Like most protective gear, they're sized for the average sized man, so my hands swim in them. K's hands aren't any bigger than mine or marginally so at best, so they swum on hers, too.
We talked about other ways to do this. I had no butterfly net available. I couldn't think of anything I had that would allow us to capture the bat easily because even if we opted to use a container with a lid, he was on the inside part of the lace curtain, so we'd still need a way to take the rod off the wall. We could cut the curtain, which seemed rather drastic.
We could just close our bedroom doors. Only Phoebe hates when a door is closed, and if I left the sliding glass door open, hopeful that the bat would make its way out, who knows what would make its way in? And I doubted i'd be able to sleep, really. Still, there was some sense in closing the doors we could so that we could limit where it went, at least somewhat.
So, we closed doors. Phoebe walked with me, and promptly complained as her litter box is upstairs in the other upstairs bedroom. She doesn't need her box all the time, but she wanted that access that an open door provides.
It was getting near 11 pm, and we agreed that we ought to try something. K suggested that she'd put the gauntlets on, approach the bat, and cup her hands around it. My job was to free the curtain rod so we could carry everything outside. I'd need to stand on tiptoe to do this, as that was easier than dealing with moving around a stepstool. K could cup the bat because she was taller and could reach.
We both looked at each other for a moment, perhaps to draw strength or courage from each other. I felt pretty tapped out of both at that moment and felt it was obvious to anyone who looked. K's face was working on being resolute. "I have to tell you," she said slowly, "I may scream like a girl."
"Oh, sister, i'll be screaming right there with you," I replied.
We each took a deep breath, and she approached the sleeping bat. She paused, squared her shoulders, focussed her gaze, and calmly reached her hands to cup the bat. I could scarcely look. The anticipation was palpable. I'd often heard the little "cheep-cheep" sound bats made outside and did what I could to prepare my ears to hear that once the bat was startled. But this one didn't go "cheep-cheep." Rather, he made a buzzing noise like a bee, which was completely unexpected. K screamed, throwing up her hands, and ran towards the guest room, which is off the LR, through a teeny hallway and stage left. I screamed and ran into the DR, stage right. The bat meanwhile flew in circles in the LR.
"Go outside, OUTSIDE, please God, direct the bat to go outside," I said, first to the bat as if it understood what I meant and next to God to interpret for me. K and I called to one another, each having a different vantage point. We decided keeping lights on in the guest room and DR would contain the bat more or less in the LR, which was the darkest of the three places, and the darkest spot of all was the open slider door.
After several minutes which felt interminably longer, the bat stopped flying. Had he made his way out? We hesitantly crept into the LR.
"I see it," said K, and here she pointed to the other LR window. He was perched on the wooden frame at the top, hanging upside down, peering at us.
We discussed options. It would be hard to put a container over him, and we had furniture to contend with by this window. We were too revved up to consider going to bed and just seeing what happened. If only we could guide him in some way to the door. I recalled a neighbour boy who lived next door to my grandmother. He liked catching bats, and would string a sheet across a line. The bats would fly into it, and he could close the sheet, scooping them up in it, and then releasing them. But how could we do that?
K agreed we couldn't, but what about a towel? Maybe snap a towel, stun the bat, and then take him outside?
I got a beach towel, which was longer than the bath towels I have, and I got the biggest jar I could that had a wide mouth and lid. K swallowed a few gulps of white wine for courage, and she went back into the LR. She snapped the towel, touching the bat. It dropped to the floor, and she scooped him into the jar, screwed the lid on enough so that he couldn't get out while in the house, and walked outside. She may have made little yells. I know i did. I closed the screen door as she unscrewed the lid, and opened the door as she hurriedly made her way back inside.
Phoebe had watched with great interest but kept her distance. Jo had been outside, not wanting to let such a beautiful summer night go to waste, and now, she thought it might be time to come in. She wanted to come in via the LR sliding door, of course, and the bat emerged from the jar, sitting quietly beside it. Jo cast her eye over to it, and I begged Jo to come in. She feinted a step or two towards me, but the lure of Something Interesting on the edge of the deck won out, and I closed the door, watching desperately as she wended her way slowly towards the brown blob. I prayed fervently that she'd lose interest or...
and just like that, the bat flew off.
Jo watched it fly, made her way over to where it had been, and sniffed. After two or three inhalations, she determined there wasn't anything interesting enough to make her stay there, and came inside.
Meantime, K and I were ecstatic. The bat not only was outside, but it flew away. We hoped it would let other neighbourhood bats know about the Screaming Mimis who lived there and best not to visit. We hugged each other, I picked up the towel to add it to the clothes in the hamper, and felt my stomach do flip-flops. As the adrenaline ran out, I felt suddenly very tired and overwhelmed. K decided she'd have a glass of wine and wind down by checking her i-Pad for news and emails. We both also thought taking a shower was a good idea, and i went to the upstairs bathroom to take mine. The guestroom has its own bathroom, which K would use.
And yes, in the shower, i cried. They were tears of relief as well as frustration and gratitude. Relief that the invader was gone, gratitude that i didn't have to face that alone, that someone was tall enough to reach, that we didn't have to kill anything, and frustration that i felt so damn useless. I would have liked to have been braver than i was.
I screamed like a girl and did nothing. K screamed like a girl and took action. The bat, realizing it needed to move along, wanted to and couldn't see the huge way out we had left for it to find, wanted it to find.
I wondered how many times we've been in situations where well-meaning people have done what they could to point us to the next step where we need to go, but all we do is go in circles, not understanding their screams or gesticulations, nor realizing just how close we are to where we need to be for this chapter to end and the next to start. And i wondered about the times that we seem paralyzed by the situation and all we can do is scream. Why is it sometimes that happens and other times, we have that extra something to make us take action as well?
I need to get a butterfly net. I'm thinking of it as my insurance policy that if i have it, i'll never need to use it.
Oh, and i also found out that bats need a space that's 1/16th of an inch to get in someplace. That's 1.5875 mm, metric folks. Which means in nearly every house, there's at least one way in, and in an older house, probably many more.
K made it home safely and has gotten a lot of mileage out of the bat story. She's eager to visit again, and i was very happy to tell her that I've been bat-free since. I hope it stays that way.
I was working during her stay, so she'd find things she'd want to see or do during the daytime, and we'd meet up at suppertime to catch up. Sometimes we went out to eat, sometimes we ate at home.
I don't know that the cats remembered her, per se, because she wasn't often inside our house. K has a couple dogs, a horse, a donkey, some chickens, and her latest foray into the animal world has her keeping bees as well. She arrived in the rain, giving me a jar of honey and four bags (!) of my favourite potato chips that cannot be found here, at least not regularly.
We talked and laughed as if only a few days have passed since we last saw each other, and it was a fun visit. Her plan was to leave Wednesday morning and stop at a friend's south of me, stay there a day or so, and then head home. On Tuesday morning, she regaled me with how there was a bat in the house, how she had felt the rhythmic puff of air on her face that caused her to wake up. Phoebe was sitting in the middle of the room, watching it circle. K felt the bat was flying too close to her for comfort, and switched on the light. It flew out of the room, and K left the light on while she tried getting back to sleep. She thought of waking me but didn't know what good that would do. I was on the other side of the house and upstairs, oblivious to any drama going on in the guest room. I am a sound sleeper, and K is, too. She said it was the rhythmic puff of air that seemed to stir her enough so that she woke up. We looked around the house and didn't see anything; so, perhaps the bat found its way out.
On Tuesday evening, the cinema the next town over was showing a rebroadcast of "The Audience" with Helen Mirren. I had seen it when it arrived earlier in the year and very much wanted to see it again. K hadn't seen it and thought it'd be grand to go. We went to one of her favourite restaurants beforehand to get a local dish then off to the cinema we went. This encore presentation was a bit longer than the first one because they had a question and answer segment at the end where the small audience were theatregoers who had seen the play performed both in London and New York, so they gave their opinions and also asked Helen Mirren some questions.
We ended up getting home around 10:30 pm, which was a bit later than planned. We also discussed the possibility of the bat's still being in the house and what should we do? Fervently hoping he had found a way out wasn't quite enough to allay our fears, and I suggested that we open the sliding glass door. That way, in case he awoke and wanted to go out, he'd have an easy way out.
We looked around the house, again seeing nothing, hearing nothing. The cats did not indicate that they saw him anyplace. I was walking behind K as we came into the living room a second time, when she stopped suddenly, and I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck.
"I found him. Look left. In the curtain."
And there, to our left, I made out a smaller, brown blob behind the lacy curtain. The little fellow appeared sound asleep.
Now, I live in an old house, which I've mentioned before. K also lives in an old house, about the same vintage as mine, so she's had experiences of wildlife finding its way in. We discussed the best way of getting this bit of wildlife out. It was too late to call anyone to ask for help. It would make the most sense were we to capture the bat and unhook the curtain rod, carry the whole shebang outside and let the bat fly free. Sounds easy enough. Except...
The curtain rod hooks into its attachment so a simple lift and separate wasn't going to happen. It would be turn, click, lift up, and away for both sides. In order for me to reach that, i'd need help since i'm short. So, maybe using the boat hook would help? I got the boat hook and tried on the dining room window that has the same setup. No, even harder to do with the boat hook. I'd have to get a step stool if I wanted to reach easily. I could just about reach the one side, but the other would be lopsided and if K were to be cupping the bat...
K is enough taller that she could reach him. I had gauntlets I use for the woodstove. Like most protective gear, they're sized for the average sized man, so my hands swim in them. K's hands aren't any bigger than mine or marginally so at best, so they swum on hers, too.
We talked about other ways to do this. I had no butterfly net available. I couldn't think of anything I had that would allow us to capture the bat easily because even if we opted to use a container with a lid, he was on the inside part of the lace curtain, so we'd still need a way to take the rod off the wall. We could cut the curtain, which seemed rather drastic.
We could just close our bedroom doors. Only Phoebe hates when a door is closed, and if I left the sliding glass door open, hopeful that the bat would make its way out, who knows what would make its way in? And I doubted i'd be able to sleep, really. Still, there was some sense in closing the doors we could so that we could limit where it went, at least somewhat.
So, we closed doors. Phoebe walked with me, and promptly complained as her litter box is upstairs in the other upstairs bedroom. She doesn't need her box all the time, but she wanted that access that an open door provides.
It was getting near 11 pm, and we agreed that we ought to try something. K suggested that she'd put the gauntlets on, approach the bat, and cup her hands around it. My job was to free the curtain rod so we could carry everything outside. I'd need to stand on tiptoe to do this, as that was easier than dealing with moving around a stepstool. K could cup the bat because she was taller and could reach.
We both looked at each other for a moment, perhaps to draw strength or courage from each other. I felt pretty tapped out of both at that moment and felt it was obvious to anyone who looked. K's face was working on being resolute. "I have to tell you," she said slowly, "I may scream like a girl."
"Oh, sister, i'll be screaming right there with you," I replied.
We each took a deep breath, and she approached the sleeping bat. She paused, squared her shoulders, focussed her gaze, and calmly reached her hands to cup the bat. I could scarcely look. The anticipation was palpable. I'd often heard the little "cheep-cheep" sound bats made outside and did what I could to prepare my ears to hear that once the bat was startled. But this one didn't go "cheep-cheep." Rather, he made a buzzing noise like a bee, which was completely unexpected. K screamed, throwing up her hands, and ran towards the guest room, which is off the LR, through a teeny hallway and stage left. I screamed and ran into the DR, stage right. The bat meanwhile flew in circles in the LR.
"Go outside, OUTSIDE, please God, direct the bat to go outside," I said, first to the bat as if it understood what I meant and next to God to interpret for me. K and I called to one another, each having a different vantage point. We decided keeping lights on in the guest room and DR would contain the bat more or less in the LR, which was the darkest of the three places, and the darkest spot of all was the open slider door.
After several minutes which felt interminably longer, the bat stopped flying. Had he made his way out? We hesitantly crept into the LR.
"I see it," said K, and here she pointed to the other LR window. He was perched on the wooden frame at the top, hanging upside down, peering at us.
We discussed options. It would be hard to put a container over him, and we had furniture to contend with by this window. We were too revved up to consider going to bed and just seeing what happened. If only we could guide him in some way to the door. I recalled a neighbour boy who lived next door to my grandmother. He liked catching bats, and would string a sheet across a line. The bats would fly into it, and he could close the sheet, scooping them up in it, and then releasing them. But how could we do that?
K agreed we couldn't, but what about a towel? Maybe snap a towel, stun the bat, and then take him outside?
I got a beach towel, which was longer than the bath towels I have, and I got the biggest jar I could that had a wide mouth and lid. K swallowed a few gulps of white wine for courage, and she went back into the LR. She snapped the towel, touching the bat. It dropped to the floor, and she scooped him into the jar, screwed the lid on enough so that he couldn't get out while in the house, and walked outside. She may have made little yells. I know i did. I closed the screen door as she unscrewed the lid, and opened the door as she hurriedly made her way back inside.
Phoebe had watched with great interest but kept her distance. Jo had been outside, not wanting to let such a beautiful summer night go to waste, and now, she thought it might be time to come in. She wanted to come in via the LR sliding door, of course, and the bat emerged from the jar, sitting quietly beside it. Jo cast her eye over to it, and I begged Jo to come in. She feinted a step or two towards me, but the lure of Something Interesting on the edge of the deck won out, and I closed the door, watching desperately as she wended her way slowly towards the brown blob. I prayed fervently that she'd lose interest or...
and just like that, the bat flew off.
Jo watched it fly, made her way over to where it had been, and sniffed. After two or three inhalations, she determined there wasn't anything interesting enough to make her stay there, and came inside.
Meantime, K and I were ecstatic. The bat not only was outside, but it flew away. We hoped it would let other neighbourhood bats know about the Screaming Mimis who lived there and best not to visit. We hugged each other, I picked up the towel to add it to the clothes in the hamper, and felt my stomach do flip-flops. As the adrenaline ran out, I felt suddenly very tired and overwhelmed. K decided she'd have a glass of wine and wind down by checking her i-Pad for news and emails. We both also thought taking a shower was a good idea, and i went to the upstairs bathroom to take mine. The guestroom has its own bathroom, which K would use.
And yes, in the shower, i cried. They were tears of relief as well as frustration and gratitude. Relief that the invader was gone, gratitude that i didn't have to face that alone, that someone was tall enough to reach, that we didn't have to kill anything, and frustration that i felt so damn useless. I would have liked to have been braver than i was.
I screamed like a girl and did nothing. K screamed like a girl and took action. The bat, realizing it needed to move along, wanted to and couldn't see the huge way out we had left for it to find, wanted it to find.
I wondered how many times we've been in situations where well-meaning people have done what they could to point us to the next step where we need to go, but all we do is go in circles, not understanding their screams or gesticulations, nor realizing just how close we are to where we need to be for this chapter to end and the next to start. And i wondered about the times that we seem paralyzed by the situation and all we can do is scream. Why is it sometimes that happens and other times, we have that extra something to make us take action as well?
I need to get a butterfly net. I'm thinking of it as my insurance policy that if i have it, i'll never need to use it.
Oh, and i also found out that bats need a space that's 1/16th of an inch to get in someplace. That's 1.5875 mm, metric folks. Which means in nearly every house, there's at least one way in, and in an older house, probably many more.
K made it home safely and has gotten a lot of mileage out of the bat story. She's eager to visit again, and i was very happy to tell her that I've been bat-free since. I hope it stays that way.
Monday, June 29, 2015
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Death is nothing
at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing
has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and
the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever
we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak
to me in the same easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your
tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at
the little jokes we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without
effort, without the shadow of a ghost upon it. Life means all that it ever
meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere
very near, just around the corner. All is well.
Henry Scott Holland, (27 January 1847 – 17 March 1918) was Regius Professor of Divinity at the University of Oxford
Henry Scott Holland, (27 January 1847 – 17 March 1918) was Regius Professor of Divinity at the University of Oxford
*******************************
Perhaps there'll be a time where I can read this without shedding a tear. But like many others in Blogland, the tears flow freely as I think upon a sweet Welsh terrier I never met and her pack who must now learn to live without her running with them on the beach or up the Gop or demanding the copilot seat in a certain Berlingo. RIP, Meg.
Friday, June 26, 2015
Marriage equality
The Supreme Court has declared that same sex marriages are legal across the US. In my state, it's been that way for awhile. In states where they bitterly oppose this, things could get interesting.
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