I am all for the idea of celebrating groundhogs and actually having a day where we take a few moments to see if one particular groundhog sees his shadow. The thing is that Punxsutawney Phil, the groundhog we put so much faith in, is a pet groundhog which is likely removed from some comfortable hole or house or something, and taken outside for a brief moment in the chill of the first Monday in February to see if he sees his shadow. If he were a wild groundhog in Michigan, he’d be out of his mind to even step out of his hole for even a second. See, it’s been like 20 degrees around here lately. And yesterday, we got over a foot of snow.
In spite of the snow coming down all day yesterday, our deck was visited by a bunch of critters which came to fill up with corn and sunflower seeds before the storm. Five cardinals showed up, which is a new record for us, including the two, below. Along with them: dozens upon dozens of chickadees, sparrows, finches, a flicker, woodpeckers and a sudden appearance of a flock of starlings. Point is, there were a lot more birds at my house the last two days than groundhogs. But who’d want to see if a certain bird saw its shadow this time of year?
While the birds were eating their fill, some squirrels showed up, including this one.
I liked him a lot.
So I took lots of photos of him.
Based on numbers alone, today would have been better off being named National Squirrel Appreciation Day. But that day was celebrated a few weeks ago. Point is, there were a lot more squirrels running around yesterday and today than ground hogs.
We also have a bunch of muskrats coming to our yard to eat. Consider this group of three muskrats pigging out together before the storm. But who, besides me, would support a national muskrat day to celebrate these guys?
This morning I woke up to this view out our bay window this morning.
The birds continued to come in, including this dove, which hung out near our brush pile for a while first.
The muskrats actually pushed their way from the waters’ edge through the snow–sometimes on top of it, sometimes under it–to get to our backyard today. Another compelling case for national muskrat day. And he even saw his shadow for real.
I also saw deer tracks in the backyard. But we seem to celebrate deer by shooting them in the fall. So it’s not like we could call this national deer day or anything.
Later, as I drove to go cross-country skiing, I saw turkeys crossing through the snow. But we celebrate turkeys on Thanksgiving…by eating them. So nobody would vote for this being national turkey day.
So after great deliberation and a few wintry photos, I resigned to the tradition of calling today Groundhog Day in spite of the fact that the groundhog that was living under our deck–and may very well still be there–is sound asleep like most groundhogs, and the fact that no groundhog except Phil, the pampered ground hog, would possibly see his shadow today.
Okay, it wasn’t my idea but I happen to think it’s a good one, celebrating squirrels one day a year! And according to people who keep track of this kind of thing, Wednesday is National Squirrel Appreciation Day. So here’s to the chubby squirrels.
Here’s to squirrels that aren’t chubby enough.
Here’s to the brave squirrel we named Stumpy.
Here’s to the squirrel that’s more black than red.
Here’s to the squirrel that’s more red than black.
Here’s to the squirrel that would just assume eat alone.
Here’s to the squirrel that happily shares our deck with other critters.
Here’s to the black squirrel with the mostly black tail.
Here’s to the black squirrel with the brownish tail.
Here’s to the black squirrel with the grayish tail.
Here’s to the gray squirrel with the gray tail.
Here’s to the squirrels that hang out with us in the summer.
Here’s to the squirrels that stop by in the winter.
Here’s to the two baby black squirrels that shared a nesting box with a third sibling.
Here’s to the three baby black squirrels on their first day out of their nesting box.
Here’s to the baby fox squirrel that peeked out at us one day.
Here’s to the young fox squirrel sampling an orange…and deciding he liked it.
Here’s to the young fox squirrel checking out a persimmon…and deciding he didn’t like it.
Here’s to the pregnant and nursing squirrels.
And here’s to all the squirrels that spend just a little bit of time with us. Happy Squirrel Appreciation Day!
In November, my sister, Aby, said she was coming “home” to spend some time with my mother. Aby lives in Illinois, and during her visit “home”, she got to talking about what “home” really is, to her and to her children. We were at P.F. Changs. It was a bit noisy. I had a beer. And I remember thinking that I hadn’t thought about “home” all that much, and I wonder what got her thinking about “home?”
Afterwards, though, I thought about it for a bit. In fact, for quite a bit. Over time, I came to the conclusion that for me, Aby and our brother, “home” growing up was where Mom and Dad and our siblings were. Going “home” after school was to be with our family. Then, when our mom and dad got divorced in the early 1980s, our “home” was sold. My mom moved into a condo, my dad into a house in another town and I, in college, suddenly didn’t feel I had a home any more. I felt homeless.
Now, looking back at the time of my parents’ divorce, if “home is where the heart is” then I could have adopted the attitude that I had two homes, instead of just one. My mom’s condo could have been considered “home” and my dad’s house in another town could have been my second “home.” But those places didn’t quite seem like home to me.
But why? What else made a house a “home?”
Then I thought about the home I bought in 1996 with my husband, Mark. If ‘home is where the heart is,’ well, let’s just say that Mark has a big heart, loves me as much as my parents (he says more!) and he’s now the person I go home to every day. He is the primary “heart” in my home.
But just looking at that photo it’s obvious there’s a lot more to this place called home. Home is also where two dogs engage in bone wars…
…where a young cat plays with the dogs…
…where an old cat grumps mostly wants to be left alone…
… where animals are tended to until–and including–their dying day…
…where wildlife can get corn and sunflower seeds year-round, whether they come in alone…
…or with a few of their pals.
Home is also where I can wear sweatshirts, jeans and a baseball hat and they don’t have to match because unless I go outside or answer the doorbell, nobody else will see. Home is also where my outfits get even worse when I stain or paint.
Home is where I can ponder cleaning now and again and actually do it even less often.
Home is also an imperfect place whose imperfections I can ignore or fret about–the crack in the kitchen ceiling, the brass light fixtures in the hallway that don’t go with the rest of the house, the crack on the bathroom floor. At the end of the day in my home, it’s the hearts that matter. The rest can–and does–wait.
Home is also the structure whose walls hold the photos of days gone by, capturing brief moments that happened inside and outside these walls. On winter days in particular, I look at those photos and know how blessed I am.
Home is also where what I say or do stays in my home. It’s like being in Los Vegas without all the crowds. And unlike Los Vegas at night, it’s safe in my home–my thoughts are safe, my actions, my words, secrets, and expressing whichever part of me I want to…even if I’m not sure what part that is.
Home is also where I roll over in the middle of the night and find someone who loves me at my side, that same someone I can call cute names without anyone else hearing.
Home is where my step kids come to visit with stories of their travels, their careers, their hopes and dreams. Home is also where we laugh and sometimes cry, and raise a toast to one another in celebration.
Home is also where home-made cards are cherished like no other presents, no matter what home they were made in.
And while only two of the four step kids lived here for any length of time, I hope they know that my home is their home when they need it to be–it’s where they can always come no matter what.
That, of course, got me to wondering how they define home. And so it goes.
Prior to moving my mom into an assisted living place the end of May, my mom had lived alone in a condo for over 20 years. For most of those years, she lived independently and had kept up a place that had been the gathering place when my siblings visited from their distant states. Mom’s condo was also where Mom and my siblings met my future husband, Mark. And it was where my mom’s friends had come to visit. To my mom, her condo was her home.
Several weeks ago, when I told Mom that we’d gotten and accepted an offer on her condominium, I took her to her condo one more time. I had left all the drapes and curtains opened so potential buyers could see the nifty view out the back. The shot above is out her living room window. The one, below, through the basement sliding door.
Mom’s response to seeing the house like that was to shut the curtains “so nobody can see inside.” What she’d feared the most living alone was somebody peaking in at her. So shutting the drapes in every room before she left was apropos.
As she walked back up the basement stairs she turned off the lights behind her, making the place all the more cave-like. She stopped at the main level for one more look around, pausing at the fireplace to reflect upon how her neighbor had cut the tiles for her and how she and I had installed the tiles together. “Yup,” I said, hugging her, “and I think we did a nice job.”
As Mom walked past the dining room, she paused and asked what my plan was for the rest of her furniture. I told her a man was coming to buy her buffet, dining room table and chairs the next day. With that, she opened a random cupboard in the kitchen, made sure the pantry was empty and took one last peak into the one-car garage. She shut and locked the garage door and said she was ready to go. It was oddly unemotional, and I wasn’t quite sure what to think.
The next day I met a man at Mom’s condo who bought up all of her furniture except her monstrous sofa-bed. I didn’t have the heart to tell Mom that due to health concerns, nobody would take her sofa-bed in the basement and that I’d have to get rid of it myself. I charmed the furniture buyer and his friend and Mark and we all worked together to carry the beastly sofa to my car. Twenty minutes later, we paid $15 at the transfer station and dropped off the sofa for good.
The last item to find a home for was her old fashioned dollhouse. Mom had bought a kit many years ago and spent countless hours putting it together, adding a roof, fencing, all sorts of stuff. On the inside, she’d decorated rooms, and she’d bought furniture and miscellaneous pieces over the course of many years. Her request to me was that I try to get some money for it. Mark and I loaded it into my car in the hopes I’d figure out an easy way to make Mom some money.
With the dollhouse in my car, Mark and I had only a final sweep through the condo to make sure we hadn’t missed anything. We opened every cupboard, every drawer, and throughout the house we found all sorts of things I’d overlooked before: an old towel and luffa in the bathroom, a glass pitcher in one cupboard, and an entire cupboard we’d missed on previous sweeps that contained a bunch of very stale crackers and cookies. How’d I missed those? I also loaded up the last of the cleaning supplies, the last waste basket, a few rolls of paper towels, three brooms and a toilet bowl brush. And then I locked the door for the last time, wondering all the while what the new owner would find that I left behind.
Matk and I stopped at GoodWill to donate the items that were donate-able, then went to Kelly’s Consignment in Okemos where we learned we can bring the dollhouse to consign in early November. We unloaded that into my garage temporarily, put the crackers and cookies and toilet brush in the trash. And with that, the job of moving mom’s stuff was done.
The next day I went to the closing and signed on the dotted line. Afterwards, I squared away the water bill and energy bill, and cancelled Mom’s house insurance . Oddly, as I drove to work I felt rather empty. In several strokes of the pen I had made disappear the central gathering place for my brother and sister visits. In the same few strokes, I’d gotten rid of all my obligations related to Mom’s home–no more wondering what might be happening inside her empty condo, no more running off to sign papers for the title people or the realtors, no more calls to the maintenance people about the need to fix this or that on the outside. And no more stuff to sort, store or get rid of.
Mixed with the sense of relief, though, was a type of guilty feeling for having free time on my hands. In fact, when I took last Friday off to go fishing with Holly–who moved to New York on Monday–it took me until the moment captured below to relax and really start enjoying myself.
To make sure I continued getting used to having fun in my new spare time, Mark and I went fishing on Sunday, too. Afterwards, I took Mom to the grocery to get some “necessities.” And that was a good thing, because I was starting to miss her.
Sometimes it’s not only who you know, it’s who other people know. In my case, I know my boss and she knows her mom and her mom is a member of the Book Club of Grosse Ile. And it was because of that set of connections that I was invited to present a one-hour summary of my book to the members of the book club. Immediately, I was glad I dressed in a pant suit.
Inside, we were guided to the meeting room by a man who told us to tell someone else where an extension cord was for our media needs. The room was set up like this. My first thought: “I better not spill anything!”
Within a few minutes, I was introduced to Katie Hartwell, one of the book club members and the person who’d been my primary contact over the last couple of months. Then a waitress walked in to offer me some iced tea or lemonade and I told her I’d brought a bottle of water and was all set. Another person came in with two long, entangled extension cords. While Mark and I set up, ladies started signing in and putting on name tags.
By 1:00 the room held about 35 women, all of whom had given up an hour of their time away from a perfectly blue sky, zero-wind, 75-degree day to listen to me blab on about… I was about to be introduced when one lady pulled me aside and asked me what it was I was going to tell them. “I’m going to talk about my book, which is about raising a whole bunch of pets my husband kept bringing home.” “Oh,” she said. “I had a dog once, but I can’t have a dog where I am.” “Well, I said, have you ever considered getting a hamster?” She thought that was quite funny, and as she told her friend and they both laughed, I wondered if perhaps introducing these ladies to the messy world of my messy animals wasn’t my best idea.
At 1:00, Katie introduced me and I started off by thanking them for allowing me to talk in spite of the fact that my boss’ mom, Pat, wasn’t able to be in attendance due to her rehabilitation from a fall. Then I began my presentation, by t started talking, by giving them two reasons why–per the topic of my talk–Why There Will Always Be Something Underfoot in My House. Reason 1 was that I married a guy with 4 kids and kids like pets, so I figured I’d have a pet or two. I also introduced my first book, From Zero to Four Kids in Thirty Seconds. And I showed them the nifty book cover that I designed like my wedding cake such that the bride’s fishing pole was connected to a larger fish than the groom’s fishing pole. I think they liked that.
The second reason I provided for the fact that there will always be something furry underfoot in my house is the fact that Mark had a PhD. in biology and loved critters. And from there, I introduced each pet wed raised over about 18 years, going chapter by chapter, showing photos of my book and reading two sections.
An hour later, I reached my last slides, showing that because of Mark, and as evidenced by Winston, Snickers and Preto, creatures are still coming into my house.
As I began packing up my media and re-tangling the two giant, orange extension cords, I looked up to see a woman asking if I’d brought copies of my book. Over the next 15 minutes, I sold 5 copies, with, which a $100 honorarium was the best way in the world to wrap up my book promotion. Best of all were the comments:
“You’re a regular comedian,” one said.
“That was a great way to start our season,” one said.
“I enjoyed it very much. And I think you’re a saint,” said another.
“I think that it helps that he’s handsome,” said another woman, who caught on to the fact that most of the critters that came into the house were Mark’s fault.
Another woman said, “I was so glad you didn’t show any photos of any snakes or other scary thing.”
Another said she was on her way to see my boss’ mother, recovering from an accident, and that, “I will report favorably.”
As I was chatting, one kindly woman got me a plate of fruit and nifty chocolates that might have been petit fours. I sat down to chat with a few of the women, conscious the entire time of the whiteness of the table and the slipperiness of the melon pieces I attempted to cut with a knife. I cut and nibbled carefully as one of the women told of her dogs and cats, another about how her son had ferrets once upon a time, another about other pets. It seemed they all had had at as least one pet or another, and they were all happy to share.
It was about 2:20 when I thanked them, took the last of my unsold books, and found Mark outside waiting for me on a bench. Nearby was a member of the book club sitting on one of those walkers with a seat, waiting for a ride. She was telling Mark how funny I was, and I thanked her for taking time of out of such a beautiful day to come hear me talk. As Mark and I walked back to the car, she said something about how it was nice to have met the handsome hero of my books. “Too funny,” I whispered to Mark. “One of the other ladies said I was the hero.”
Mark and I drove the two-hour drive home and after tending to critters, Mark poured two glasses of champagne.
We raised a glass to my boss, Dina, and her mom, Pat, for inviting me to speak at the Country Club on Friday. And we raised a glass to Katie Hartwell for getting to the event early to help us set up, and for writing a nifty little blurb in The News-Herald on Sunday. We raised a glass to all the ladies of the Book Club of Grosse Ile, with an extra sip for the ones that thought I was funny. Finally, we raised a glass to the end of the book promotion. What’s next, we’ll have to wait and see.
At some point a writer has to start writing again which means book marketing must come to an end. My book Something Furry Underfoot came out as an e-book in May 2013 and a paperback in September 2013 and I’ve done marketing on and off since then. My second to last marketing event was a short, fun interview on Pamela S. Thibodeux’s awesome site. The interview was her Saturday Spotlight on September 13.
On September 26 I will end my marketing of Something Furry Underfoot at the Book Club of Grosse Isle. The Club meets at the Grosse Isle Golf and Country Club. I was invited to speak by my boss’s mother who is a member. The bummer is that my boss’s mother fell while visiting my boss last weekend and is undergoing rehab. And that means that I won’t get to meet the very person that is responsible for setting up my last promotional opportunity for Something Furry Underfoot. That hardly seems fair. More on that in my next posting.
The topic of my one-hour talk at the Golf and Country Club is: Why There Will Always be Something Furry Underfoot in My House. Surely, you know the answer to that after reading the posting about the Thousand Dollar Kitten. The black kitten named Preto is now fully recovered from his botfly bite (and the tapeworms that followed afterwards) and an absolute joy to play with.
So this is my heads up to myself, perhaps, that marketing will be done for my book soon and I will have to choose to either start another book or venture off into a new hobby, like underwater basket weaving. I’ve not done underwater basket weaving yet and I hear there’s a venue for that somewhere tropically warm. In the meantime, watch for more photos and occasional blog postings about nature, pets and life. And watch for fun stuff on my FB sites, too.
Once upon a time, Mark decided to take his son, Arthur, his nephew, Terry, his good friend, Jack, and me, to Canada to go fishing. The location Mark chose was Kasba Lake in northern Canada. For months prior to our August 1 departure, new fishing lures arrived in the mail to my house about every third day. When it came time to pack, Mark realized, “We have more lures than we can possibly use in eight days. And if we took them all, they’d weigh more than the 50 pound limit we can have for luggage.” Packing was a lot of fun. I think we weighed our bags four times.
To get to Kasba Lake one must either first fly or drive to Winnipeg. Since Mark and I had spent a small fortune on fishing lures, some of which remained home, we opted to drive. Lucky for us, Jack had spent his money on a brand new Chevy Traverse, so Mark, Arthur and I loaded up in that and drove and drove and drove to Winnepeg. There, we met Mark’s nephew, Terry, and hopped onto an airplane that took us further north.
The plane looked something like this.
We took some small plastic bottles with us to take the edge off.
Two hours later, we arrived at Kasba Lake Lodge.
At the lodge we were fed a yummy breakfast. Note the fine accommodations.
Afterwards, we helped load up the float plane. Luggage went into the floats and into the back of the cabin.
This is a view out the window of the float plane. There seemed to be more water than land.
The pilot, Larry, told us the airplane had a great engine that would allow the plane to continue flying even if something went wrong. How ominous.
While Jack sat in the co-pilot seat, Terry, Mark and I sat in a middle row seat, and Arthur sat in the back with the luggage.
About twenty minutes after we took off, we landed on the water and tied up to a dock in front of our outpost cabin, which was our home for 8 days. It’s on Tabane Lake.
The cabin was made of plywood, with a screened-in porch decorated with a lot of duct tape. Duct tape held the glass onto the front door, duct tape held the bits of screen together where a bear had punched it in a year earlier, and you can see duct tape on the ceiling in the photo, below. The cabin consisted of one main room with 4 bunk beds, a stove, fridge and sink.
The bathroom was a tiny affair. The shower dripped the entire time and the one side was so flimsy it could probably be pushed down by a hoard of black flies. But, as Mark said, at least we had indoor plumbing–on a previous trip, we had an outhouse.
Food and beer had been left in coolers and in the fridge. We soon learned that in Canada, a case of beer is only 15 beers, whereas a “flat” of beer is 24. We had to order more beer via satellite phone with Larry mid-week because of our wee misunderstanding (as in, “Bring in a flat, Larry!”). Indeed, Larry flew in mid-week with beer, dish soap and other essentials, not including mustard, which Jack watered down so as to last longer. We were the last group to use the cabin for the season.
Our meals consisted of burgers on the grill, steak, and fresh lake trout, amongst other tasty food, compliments mostly of Chef Jack, with help from Arthur. I must say that the Arthur-Jack rub on the steaks–consisting of Tang, coffee grounds, orange peels, and Mesquite rub–was simply amazing.
I soon discovered that some men snore at an amazing volume, and with the drippy shower as accompaniment, it was a bit too much for me. I slept on the porch most nights. The citronella candles mostly kept the mosquitoes at bay, adding their own symphony to the air. The lovely cotton liner provided to line the sleeping bags actually stayed in place the first night. After that, not so much.
Our eight day stay consisted mostly of fishing, of course. Arthur hadn’t caught too many fish in his life, so we were all excited when he caught his first lake trout…puny little thing that it was.
And when Terry caught his first northern pike ever, it was cause for celebration. But not as great a cause as when his second-ever pike was 41 inches. Of course, Mark would later beat this fish by two inches.
In addition to fishing in the lake, we also explored three streams, one of which had killer rapids that tried to flip Terry and Jack, another of which took most of the way to get to, and another of which was kinder and gentler. Everyone caught at least one grayling, none of which cooperated for photos.
The first few days of fishing were warm enough for a nifty dip in the lake.
But mid-week, the temperatures dropped and the warmer clothes came out.
Between bouts of fishing, I fell for a few of the local critters, including this rabbit, which may or may not be an arctic hare.
The rabbit did something I’d never seen before: it took off swimming across the lake. I held my breath the entire time it was swimming, knowing that a big pike wouldn’t hesitate to eat a rabbit. Luckily, it circled back and returned to land about 500 feet from the lodge. We still have no idea what it was doing.
I also fell for the resident jays. They showed up the first evening and searched around the hull of our boats. It didn’t take them long to find some trail mix that had accidentally fallen over in the bow.
I quickly discovered that the jays loved the nuts in the trail mix, but not the raisins or M&Ms. That worked out great for me, because the raisins and M&Ms were my favorite. So, I shared the rest of my trail mix with the birds. I put some on the boat…
…and I put some on a burning barrel. Jack took up the sport, sharing his walnuts and peanuts by making small piles on the ground.
Other birds we saw included a boreal chickadee, a redpoll, common loons, an arctic loon, eagles, gulls, arctic terns, three birds I will have to get identified by my Alma College birding pal, and this shorebird.
I also took time to shoot the smaller things…
…including the lichen and other macro-life.
And let’s not forget the fresh blueberries!
Of course, bears like berries. And we did see some bear tracks on another island.
In the arctic, the sun doesn’t set in August until around 11 p.m. Most nights, it was worth staying up for the sunset.
And sometimes, there were still things to do.
The week went by in the blink of an eye. The fishing was fast and furious, especially for pike. The overall size of all three species of fish–lake trout, pike and grayling–was smaller than Nueltin Lake and smaller than at the main lodge, where, at Kasba Lake itself, one lucky guy got a 36-pound lake trout.
But the numbers of fish kept things interesting all week. As did the weather.
And Mark caught enough fish to get boo-boos on his fingers. Poor fella.
On our last evening at the outpost cabin, the men smoked cigars, and we all tried to finish off the rest of the expensive beer we’d paid for. That meant four beers per person. Burp.
The next morning at 7, Larry flew in to pick us up in his plane and take us home. It was rainy and the plane’s engine wasn’t as loud as when we took off from the lodge, making me a bit worried. My worry gene was correct, and if you go to my FB page, you’ll see the hairy video flight back to Kasba Lake Lodge, where a cylinder blew on the plane. Aaaahhhh!
Larry keeps a sign on the cockpit of his plane that says that “Tipping the pilot helps him remember where he left you.” Upon landing safely with a blown cylinder, I gave Larry a nice tip!
After another great breakfast at the main lodge, we took the plane back to Winnepeg, which involved a stop-over at Lynn Lake to refuel. At Winnipeg, we said good-bye to Terry, and Arthur, Mark, Jack and I headed to Jack’s car for the loooong ride home. This is a parting shot from Kasba Lake Lodge. Thanks, guys, for the great time!
First, thank you all for being part of International Author’s Day on July 18 and entering to win the free copy of Something Furry Underfoot. Congratulations go out to Bonnie H. for being the winner of the free, autographed paperback version. Everyone else that entered can still nab an e-version of my book for 99 cents through the end of July.
And now for the fun story about the latest critter Mark brought home. Last Thursday, while putting his canoe in the water at a boat launch, Mark saw this tiny black kitten. Mark had a friend with him and they left the kitten to wander the shore of the lake. Hours later, the men returned to the boat launch and Mark called for the kitten in vain. Part way down the road to his friend’s cottage, the men realized that a canoe strap was missing, so they returned to the boat launch and Mark called for the kitten again in vain. An hour later, after having lunch at his friend’s house, Mark returned to the boat launch area, called for the kitten one more time and out came the kitten from the thick underbrush.
Mark named the kitten Preto which is Portugese for black and also the name of our Amazon fishing guide. The kitten was mild mannered, gentle and sweet. The puppies loved him. I couldn’t get over how black he is.
Mark loved the fact that Preto would sit on his lap. Snickers and Winston loved the fact that the kitty would play. It took Purrkins 2 days to warm up to Preto.
I brought my mom over to see Preto on Sunday. She thought he was pretty nifty, too.
On Sunday, Preto woke up but didn’t want to eat. He refused milk. He refused water. And when I picked him up, he felt really warm. We drove him to the MSU Small Animal Clinic where the vet suggested blood tests to eliminate the potential for a fatal virus. And because what Preto had might be fatal, he was taken to an isolated area in the Clinic. The vet called later to say the blood tests showed nothing and perhaps we should do an x-ray (for like $150) and an ultrasound (around $330). We countered, suggesting an antibiotic and call us in the morning.
We left Preto overnight. The next morning, Mark returned Monday and paid the $700 bill at the MSU Vet Clinic (AAAHHHHHH!). Yes, for emergency services, an IV, antibiotic, fluids, isolation, blood tests. Gulp. Mark took Preto to the Haslett Animal Hospital where we knew we’d pay less than an arm and a leg per day. There, Preto was given a new IV, different antibiotic, but his temperature remained the same. Monday turned into Tuesday with the same results. Tuesday night, I asked Mark how much more he was going to put into this kitten. Mark said, “I don’t know. But when I drove him home, I told him I’d take care of him.”
But of course.
This morning, Dr. Melissa Wyatt shaved various sections on Preto looking for a reason for his illness. Dr. Wyatt shaved Preto here and there, looking closer, looking for reasons for his illness. And then she saw it, a small hole in his neck where he’d been bitten by a botfly. The life cycle of a botfly in a kitten or cat is the stuff of a horror movie, so I’ll spare you those lovely details. I will share that it’s only the sensitive kittens/cats that develop a fever. It’s just our luck that Mark brought home a sensitive kitten.
Thankfully, Dr. Wyatt removed the botfly today and–get this–saved it in a bottle for her vet students to see (which is something Mark would do!). In fact, Dr. Wyatt is my hero, not only for solving this mystery, but because she removed a sewing needle from Purrkins’ mouth once, removed all of Little Dipper’s teeth over the course of three surgeries, and kept her doors open just for me when I brought Dusty in after he’d been attacked by a bulldog.
At home this afternoon, Preto took to the comfort of Mark’s lap.
Soon, Preto began eating the dogs’ food (in spite of his own food being nearby).
After he ate, Preto curled up in the sun for a nap.
Winston came by to make sure he was okay.
Snickers goes out of his way to be with Preto.
My book Something Furry Underfoot is all about taking care of and spoiling a whole bunch of different animals Mark kept bringing home. Preto, who has already wormed–or shall I say botflied–his way into our hearts, is just the latest example of why there will always be something furry underfoot in my house. It just happens. And it’s always a good thing.
P.S. Don’t forget–you only have until the end of July to enter the Petspage.com giveaway for lots of great pet-related prizes, including a free copy of my book.
A kindly woman by the name of Debdatta Dasgupta Sahay, who admits to being a book addict from India (and also a site host for my first book blog tour a few years ago), decided that there should be an International Author’s Day to celebrate authors. On her web site, she says that she was shocked to learn there wasn’t a day to celebrate authors and that she wanted “to show her appreciation for the hours of hard work that authors put into their books.” She asked authors to join her in the celebration on July 18. And she suggested we post something on or around July 14. So here `tis!
As part of celebrating International Author’s Day…. the badge for which is here…
…I am giving away a free, autographed copy of the paperback version of Something Furry Underfoot, my humorous touching memoir about a whole bunch of pets. All you have to do to enter to win a free copy of Something Furry Underfoot–which, by the way, is averaging 4.7 stars out of 5 on Amazon.com– is comment on this blog posting. That’s all there is to it. One winner will be selected on July 18.
But wait, there’s more!
Since my book is about pets, its also part of the Petspage.com summer giveaway. And in honor of Petpage.com’s month-long giveaway, you can enter to win one of several signed paperback of Something Furry Underfoot! Just go to Petspage.com and enter to win! There are a LOT of other pet-related products being given away, too, so be sure to check it out. You have between now and July 31 to enter the Petspage.com giveaway. Several winners of my book will be sent copies in mid-August.
So happy International Author’s Day to all authors out there! And be sure to celebrate by entering one or both of these great contests.
P.S. Debdatta is sponsoring this blog hop to help get the word out about International Author’s Day. She blogs at (http://www.b00kr3vi3ws.in/)
While cleaning out my mom’s condominium recently, my stepson, Arthur, stopped by to see if there were any items that would be of use to him in his new apartment. Now, I was thinking he’d go for things like cooking utensils, and sure enough, he grabbed a colander. But what really intrigued me was when he disappeared under the basement stairs and came out with a roll of leftover linoleum. “What,” I asked, “is that for?” He said, “For the bunny I’m going to adopt.”
Well, Mark and I happen to like rabbits, so we invited ourselves on the journey from the Lansing area towards Ann Arbor and into the middle of absolutely nowhere to the Great Lakes Rabbit Sanctuary. We were intrigued to see the Sanctuary because Arthur had worked there on weekends for a year or so a year up until a few months ago, and my friend Brenda had volunteered there in the past. So I was excited when we saw this sign.
Before we got too far walking around, we were met by one of the workers at the Sanctuary whom Arthur had worked with.
Nearby, on the side of one of the barns was this sign.
Inside the barn were a bunch of metal partitions that make up the cages for the rabbits. In one far corner was a rabbit Arthur had seen online named Ferbie.
Ferbie had no idea that Arthur had come to see her to take her home. In response, she ran off into her poop box.
Arthur squatted down and after a minute or two, Ferbie came up for some scratches between her ears.
And that’s all Arthur and Ferbie seemed to need. Arthur stood up, went to the office, purchased his bunny and returned with a small animal carrying cage we happened to have had in our garage.
On the way to the car, we stopped to check out another barn that contained smaller bunnies and bunnies that hadn’t been neutered yet. See, one of the benefits of getting a bunny from the Great Lakes Rabbit Sanctuary is that the rabbit comes neutered, and that’s important to keep a boy rabbit from spraying and to keep a girl rabbit from developing ovarian cancer, and to keep both parties from reproducing, like, well, rabbits. One of the smaller buns was this cutie.
After we said farewell to the rabbits and rabbit workers, Arthur carried Ferbie out to our car and sat with her all the way home.
As we drove, Arthur announced that he’d changed Ferbie’s name to Hodor, which is a Game of Thrones character. Of course, I can’t get used to unusual names very well, so called her Fer-dor and Herbie and everything else. Later, at home, Mark took the bunny out of the back of our car and held him while Arthur went into our house to get some timothy grass I’d purchased for our outdoor rabbits, and while I picked some fresh dandelions we happened to have in our yard.
Then Arthur took Fodor out to his car.
And then Hodor was gone. Thanks to Facebook, though, we know that Hodor is doing well in his new home.
We are proud of Arthur for rescuing a rabbit. And we are proud that when he posted his photo of Hodor on Facebook, he wrote: “No home is complete without a furry friend!” Mark and I completely agree. In fact, we think no backyard is complete without a furry friend, either.
Congratulations to Arthur and Fodor..I mean Hodor. May you have many great years together.