Beach Week

The UniBartonHauer's spent a week snacking and sitting around in Florida. Bradenton to be precise, though tiny trips to Tampa, St. Pete, and Anna Maria act as the industrious highlights of the vacation. On a family trip where we are all staying the same house, my favorite thing is always the same: watching everyone experience the trip differently given the assorted obstacles and scenarios presented. Our time in Florida was a textbook example of each family member's preferences mushed up against accommodating our newest additions; and by those I mean Nick and Liv.

For Ellen, a trip is a time to participate in something luxurious and then lay down. For Lee, relaxation is the ticket. He just needs a fishing rod and some music. Mom wants to trinket shop. Brett chooses to seek out newness, whether is a new dish to taste or a physical feat to overcome. I prefer a mixture of Lee's serenity pool and Brett's experience seeking, and Dad is most inclined to go with the flow until he gets bored. Once bored, he's quite pleased to do some reading. 

So here we all are, in one house for a full week, each seeking something slightly different. Historically, we maneuver a easy vacation dance with one of two people claiming intentions for the day and the rest latching on to whichever (or neither) seems most aligned with moods, priorities, and hungriness factors. So Mom's desire to "hit the shops" on Anna Maria Island lined up nicely with my desire to see the beautiful scenery there and Ellen's fondness for expensive locations. So us girls spent a morning there popping in and out of the overpriced stores inside of the charming, colorful buildings. 

But on this trip, for the first time since both were mobile, Nick and Liv joined in on the fun. And it was fun. They were chatty and excitable. Each morning they would wake up early and commence the chattering for the day. Despite having an ample-sized living room just off the kitchen, the morning routine was for the eight of us to crowd around a small coffee table in a tiny space between the kitchen and the back door. The kids would bring their briefcases of Hot Wheels into the little space and insist on using two of the six chairs for display purposes. So we'd be leaning on walls, rotating who sat down, and otherwise just standing there because it never really occurred to us to inconvenience the children instead. I found the morning cluster ritual very funny until about the fourth day when I woke up and realized I didn't want to go squeeze into that space anymore. Additionally, the chairs were on swivels, so Liv would make me seasick every morning, swirling her chair which would bump mine and send me rotating slightly this way or that. Or she would sit and my lap to chatter about things but she doesn't sit still, so every flailing limb or enthusiastic gesture would twirl the chair just enough for a person's equilibrium to doubt their stability. The trouble was that she is so precious and this moment in time so fleeting that you don't want her to not sit in your lap and talk about her dream to be a mermaid, so you sit, feeling a little pukey, and remind yourself that this is the good stuff.
But then day four hit and I chose not to sit down. 

Nick is still but a little tike so sensitivities are quite high. He is understandably not interested in doing things like getting water or looking for Dad by himself, so escort services were required from anyone within earshot. His main driver each day though, is to do as Livvy does. Does Liv want to swim? Then Nick wants to swim. Does Liv not want to taste watermelon? Then Nick does not want to taste watermelon. Did Liv pull her arm out of her sleeve? Nick will pull his arm out of his sleeve too. My favorite part about this is that Nick is in a stage (4 years long stage) of not wanting to wear pants. So he winds up performing fairly effeminate movements in a speedo, making him frequently look like a tiny gay man with a potbelly.

Brett and I enjoyed our time in our own little bubble. He did have to work a few hours each day, so I would entertain or hide from the children, chat with mom, or do some light reading. When he was free, we'd go into Tampa for lunch, or search out authentic Floridian ice cream, or find a place that makes coffee the way he likes it. We did have grey weather with dumping rain for most of the trip, but the last two or three days we had enough sun for splashing around in the pool with the kids. We are proud to have earned top regards from the kids. ("Uncle Bretty is so tall." "Aunt Lue is silly.")

Mom and Dad did more childcare than we did but also managed to go for a date night or two, read books and magazines, and help orchestrate the Shanghai tournaments. They took the lot of us bowling on one of those rainy days which was met with great success. Liv especially enjoyed it and Lee bowled strike after strike. Nick was entertained at first but quickly lost interest so Ellen took him over to the arcade - a choice that proved to be a fatal mistake. Meanwhile Dad mistook Brett's real shoes for his bowling shoes and then howled with delight by his mistake. I had selected a particularly greasy bowling ball which made my hands sweat right from the get-go and I never recovered. The place was a little sticky and we all sat with our hands in upward turned claws when it wasn't our turn. Then we received complimentary cookies which promptly caused half of us to disregard our germ concerns and dig right in. When it was time to go, Ellen and Nick came back from the arcade with a little capsule toy from a vending machine. It was a little rubber bear in a plastic bubble with a pink lid, Liv's favorite color. Livvy's eyes glittered with interest, so they gave her fifty cents to go get her own. Well, she got the same little rubber bear but the lid to the plastic bubble was red.

When I tell you all hell broke loose...

Liv is the most cheerful, positive, sweet little person. She rarely cries. So we were shocked that this child had to be carried out of the bowling alley, and the uncontrollable sobbing over the red lid lasted the entire drive home and up the stairs into the house where it turned into a hiccupy cry, and thirty minutes after that, a perpetual pouty lip. This was the point during the trip when I noticed that Ellen and Lee were not having the calm, relaxing trip that the rest of us were. Come to think of it, Lee was spending most nights in the quiet room downstairs. You know, Ellen hasn't suggested anything that would give her time away from the kids... hmm. Are they quietly enduring the utter chaos of tending to children outside of their typical routines?

Turns out, kinda. Yeah. Ellen and Lee are such conscientious parents that they were exerting extra and unnecessary energy making sure that the kids weren't bothering the rest of us. When we realized this, we were quick to tell them to stop that. They aren't bothering us. We like spending time with them. Leave them with us and you two go do something!
They conceded to one measly dinner out together but otherwise stood solidly, taking the lashings that overstimulated children in new environments manage to wield with an intensity reserved for parents alone. They were happy little squirts, but also uprooted from the familiar routines that keep them confidently engaged in things besides Mom and Dad. They did not have their toys and beds and assorted crap - so they felt adrift in a big busy house with extra family members. They hit a tiredness wall somewhere near the end and became easily reduced to tears or whimpering. Ellen and Lee were at wits end, counting down the days to heading home again. 

We all took turns cooking dinner and the leftovers amassed with all the necessary kid-food (fruit, yogurt, applesauce, cheese, etc, etc) to create a fridge jam packed full of things that none of us wanted to throw out. On the last night, we had a fridge-clean-out dinner, which resulted in finding coleslaw and baked beans from the night we arrived a week ago, that had been pushed to the deep recesses of the fridge. Dad placed these items on the dinner table as thought it wouldn't be threat to health and safety. When we balked at the idea, he maintained that it was fine and we shouldn't throw it away. Mom discreetly removed the items from the table when Dad left to heat up the nub of a baguette from who knows when. 

Brett watched as more and more creepy, old eats made their way to the table; smashed berries the kids had coughed on, one roasted bell pepper from four nights ago, the pale pink ends of watermelon half submerged in their juices, the dregs of a bag of tortilla chips, two broccoli florets. While there was a collective amused distain for the selection, we ate it, because we don't throw food away. Brett, who comes from a family that will chuck half a perfectly good ham just because they've had their fill, gazed at the display and then lifted his eyes to look at me and said simply, "I see where you get it."

I found this as validating as I did amusing because I catch him throwing out perfectly good food at least twice each week and I chastise him every time. "This is perfectly fine. Why would you throw it out?"
"I don't want to eat anymore of it."
"What's that go to do with it? You paid for it."
"So?"
"So you have to eat it."

Trip highlights include:
-Watching both squirts become increasingly proficient swimmers. (Nick can hold his breath for ages. It's awful to watch. He wanted me to drag him to the bottom of the pool so he could sit just down there. "Absolutely not, Nikki!")

-Watching Brett experience the Union family listening to The Sound Of Music soundtrack. (He was not impressed.)

-The whole family went to an enormous crap-focused, broken down flea market where I saw a dozen roosters packed into a tiny cage together and it completely ruined my morning. Everyone thought it was sad, mind you, but I took it the hardest. Dad wholeheartedly supported my thought to buy them all and bring them to a sanctuary. Brett said nothing but stood tensely next to us while I worked out supply and demand for roosters in western Florida. Later, when I admitted that buying them would only boost the industry, Dad became enlivened by my next suggestion of him causing a scene while I set them free.

-Listening to Lee talk in his Brooklyn chain-smokers accent.

-A particularly gruesome Nick meltdown while waiting to eat at a restaurant. This resulted in Lee wordlessly grabbing both children, getting into the car and going home. (Not funny to him or Ellen at the  time but a retrospectively hilarious dad-move.) (Ellen and Lee anticipated the meltdown approximately two minutes before it began, while both kids were still happy, giving them enough time to take the kids outside, do some quick strategizing and already have Livvy walking towards the car before Nick broke loose. I was thoroughly impressed.)

-Nick getting excited about fishing with his dad.

I liked the cozy rainstorms and the messy kitchen and the exciting trees that grow down there. As always, I enjoyed the cheap shots from Dad, the one-liners from Brett, and getting even tiny moments to chat with Ellen. On our drive home, Brett foolishly asked Mom about her family history and she talked for so long that it had Dad in stitches. "Oh, and I'll tell you this..." She went on and on and on. Even when we pointed out that she'd been talking for hours, she still had things to say. 

Here's a sweet photo of Ellen riding back to the house with us on the night that Lee evacuated the kids from the restaurant in the nick of time. 

And then Dad let out a hearty belch.

We're all glad to be home. 

Especially Ellen and Lee.

Cats, Protests, and Teenage Boys

Boy oh boy a fresh sheet to write on.
It's about time I tell you about my new job.
But I also want to tell you about a recent protest.

So I'll start with three pictures that make my heart feel fizzy. Susan was throwing out old photos, so I snagged a handful of Big Bubba Brett when he was the opposite. Look at those little legs! And that belly!

It's strange to be able to see Brett in this very blonde teenager. I don't know him, and yet there he is.

Speaking of blonde teenagers, Brett, Erik and I went to a little pub to watch one of the World Cup games, and we were just minding our business, playing bingo (I won $15!) and eating fries when a seventeen year old boy plopped himself next to me at the bar and struck up conversation. I was shocked! The audacity! Erik was sitting between me and Brett so I got to see Brett lean forward to size up the little Casanova with an expression of disbelief. Erik laughed out loud while looking the kid in the eyes. Nothing shook Leo's nerve though and I had to talk to him for two hours.

 
During that time I learned that Leo wants to be a screenwriter or psychologist. He had recently returned from a school trip to Peru where he met a girl he thinks will wait for him. He talked on and on about himself and was shocked every time he found out that I have done many of the things on his radar. "Oh wow, you've also been to England?", "People had house parties when you were in high school?", "Really, you dated in college?" I began to wonder if there is something about me that suggests an unsocialized existence. I pleaded for help with my eyes, but Erik and Brett were busy enjoying the outing. 

Then Leo, who lacked the attention-span for a round of Bingo (I've never seen anything like it), pulled the cap off his Bingo marker with such gusto that the whole thing exploded. It splashed across his shirt and puddled in the crotch of his pants. It went all over the bar and dripped down onto the floor. He reacted with childlike confusion and looked to me, suddenly a mother-figure, to find a solution. I dabbed him off with napkins but the ink had stained his fingers blue. There was a blue puddle on the floor that he was unknowingly twirling his feet in and tapping around his chair. Erik laughed loudly at the explosion, offering no help and possibly embarrassing the child.

Moreover, the permanent ink splashed onto my white jeans and Leo was so focused on himself that he hadn't noticed the others affected by his ineptitude. I was not going to say anything or make him feel bad about ruining my pants but the more time that passed without him acknowledging it, the more miffed I became. When Leo went to the bathroom to wash his hands, I scolded Brett and Erik for leaving me alone with him but they didn't care one bit. Leo came back from the bathroom and rebounded from his blunder the way a seventeen year old boy would. He simply moved on. "You've had jobs before too? Wow. Interesting." 

Finally, I threw Erik under bus and made some comment about his assorted girlfriends and Leo became enlivened by the future possibility of being a ladies-man. He was enthralled with Erik, as though it had never occurred to him that one might be dating multiple people at the same time. Erik was surprisingly pleased by the awe bestowed on him by this child and began showing off. It was when Erik showed Leo a picture of a big-boobed girl he met in Georgia that Leo made fun of Erik for falling for an "AI bot" and then the two of them got into a spat about whether it was a real girl or not. I was still stuck between them, dabbing at my pants and checking the time, while Erik insisted he had made out with this person. 

We finally left Leo at the bar eating chicken wings, and within 4 seconds of stepping outside, a collection of blood-curdling screams ripped through the night air. My legs buckled. Brett froze. Erik leapt backwards. Turns out it was just a table full of my old pet shelter coworkers, with several dogs circling the table, who were especially excited to me. I received a barrage of hugs and rapid fire updates about several dogs and humans. Once the three of us recovered from the shock, I found it very flattering.

Here's a grandma Ruth style picture of Pipps sitting in front of the garden.  

Last year I got mad when I was driving Downtown on a day when my car thermometer read 103˚ and I found myself behind a carriage horse. The city has a "rule" about stopping the tours when it's over 95˚ but four different thermometers on breezy rooftops (not the hot asphalt where the horses are pulling overcrowded carriages) each have to show the temp for 20 minutes before the carriage companies will take them off the street. The result is that they rarely have to stop tours. The carriage companies are one of the biggest tourist attractions in town, and they pay certain city officials to ignore crazy rules about welfare. Well! I don't like that one bit. I found a group of other outraged locals (and tourists) and now we participate in peaceful harassment efforts to get the temperature threshold lowered to 85˚ - knowing they will still have the horses out when it is 90+. It's all were asking.

I brought some of my chicken group to my first carriage horse protest, and let me tell you, it is a contentious issue. The majority of people are either not interested or they agree that 95˚ is too hot. Fine.

 The carriage companies and guides (understandably... I guess?) disagree. They go on and on about how well the horses are treated "at the barn", except that's not what were arguing about, is it? A tourist told us that if we really cared about the horses, we wouldn't protest in the shade. (Great point, Sir. You really got us with that one!) One tour guide said "the horse's muscles would atrophy if they didn't pull that carriages and that would make them depressed." Another said that the horses would be killed if they couldn't have jobs. (But wait, I thought you said you loved them. It's almost like you're just... using them?) One outraged "horse-lover" called for a counter-protest that day, but no one showed up. Instead she came to pick a fight with us and I'm man enough to admit to you that my knees started knocking as she yelled. 

I'm accustomed to receiving The Finger or being shouted at from a moving vehicle, but no one ever confronts us. We aren't usually asking for things that anybody disagrees with (except the folks making money off of it - but they're never around). When this combative horse woman came over with her video camera trying to get a rise out of us, I felt like a little kid on the playground before a brawl was set to begin and girls would tear at each others weaves. I got scurred. Then she looked right at me as asked if I owned any horses. Everything I know about animal welfare left my mind and I smiled at her as though she'd given me a thoughtful complement. Why did I do that? Someone else had to jump in and respond to her. 

The next day she plastered photos of us on the interwebs, calling the twelve of us "uneducated lunatics" and claiming someone spit on her. Commenters chimed in that unemployed people like us should be thrown in jail. Someone else said we were paid protesters - wouldn't that be wonderful?

Here I am laughing in the face of fear! (If I keep smiling, maybe she won't hit me.)

Now here I've rambled on so long, I'll save the rest for later. In the meantime enjoy this photo of all four animals sitting in the same room. This is quite an accomplishment.

Also, see how Cam doesn't stand out against the rug? This has become problematic in the kitchen. He likes to lay in there while we're cooking and we just can't see him. 

We constantly kick and step on him, but he never wises-up. He just keeps taking the hits. 

Spot the cat in this photo.

The Hot Weather Chronicles

This time last summer I was in the thick of inner turmoil. There was no eating nutritious meals or enjoying the twinkly twilight time before the sun goes down, oh no. I was too squeamish to participate in life. A few times recently the anxiety monster that lives in my brain has said, "This weather reminds me, aren't we supposed to be panicked? Yes, yes I think so. It was dinnertime wasn't it, when we'd take on a sense of impending doom?" 

And I've had to do my best to ignore the monster's calls. It's going well, thank you, but disadvantageous at times. Instead, I've been enjoying the hot weather season - an attempt to make up for last year. I've been in the creek, in the garden, in the pool, in my new oversized office chair, and frequently in bed during the heat of the day taking a nap to power-up for a wild evening of watching tv when it's still a little blue outside. That feels wrong, doesn't it? My favorite is a post-dinner walk around the neighborhood. Something about it feels very adulty. 

Since last summer's withering of body and spirit, I've put on weight in new, inconvenient locations. What was once hard is now soft and what was soft has fallen down. I don't understand what happened and why it happened so suddenly. Is this yet another level of degeneration for the mentally insane? Just when your mind gets better your body tags itself in? Or, worse, perimenopause. I often smell cigarette smoke, have itchy ears, and create night sweats that could irrigate a small lawn, and I feel like if I don't tell people about it I'll have to endure the demise of my only body on my own, and that thought genuinely frightens me. So now I abide by "if you see something, say something" and Brett is almost done feigning sympathy. 

Now, the office chair. I'm thrilled about it. It is extra wide and slightly more deep so that one may sit in it in a variety of unsupported ways; upon one's ankles, Indian style, or in an upright cannonball position. I have long lamented the standardized human chair because who finds it comfortable to sit with their legs at 90˚ and their feet flat on the floor? Sincerely? I can hold that pose for five minutes before my feet long to be elevated. I almost purchased what's called "a cross-legged meditation chair" but I felt mild embarrassment about how stupid they look. I then considered a kneeling chair, thought better of the age of my knees and settled on what is effectively an office chair you would find in the Big and Tall section at store for pre-teens. It's pale blue and fuzzy. Brett tried it out for a while and got jealous, so I'm definitely onto something. 

As for my birthday, we did burgers on the grill and then bobbed in the creek:

And later had a family dinner at one of my favorite spots. Lee's dinner came with a side of fries that were so good we ordered some for the table, and Mom even found one of the chefs and told him how great those fries were. Interestingly I'm sure, my favorite french fries in all the town are located at a restaurant across the street from this one, so now I feel torn and delighted. When I need fries, I'll know exactly where go. We will park the car, make our way up the road, and only then, when we stand directly between the two restaurants, will I choose chunky sweet potato to the right or herby regular to the left. The spontaneity. The anticipation! Which one will she choose?

In cat news, Nora has decided to revoke the curtesy she was extending towards the disabled cat in our home. She is now being rude to both me and Cam, though she happily tolerates Brett. Ferguson is over all of it and just wants snacks and cuddles. Cam is usually drunk and just wants someone to play with.

Oh! Also, he escaped on the fourth of July and spent the night out setting off fireworks and vandalizing personal property. I worried the celebratory bombing would scare him too far away and he would get lost and then eaten by a predator who spotted his jimmy-legs from miles away, but he was in the driveway in the morning, just happy to be alive.

My garden meanwhile, is nearing its most productive state as well as what looks like the beginning of the end. There are lots of colors and tiny edibles in there but there are also some yellowing leaves, droopy stems, and an occasional self-implosion. The heirloom tomato and the bell pepper plant, who sat across the aisle from each other, participated in an early morning shinju last month and now their little empty plots remind me that I wasn't good enough for them. The tomato plants however, are as tall as Brett and just as busy.

Currently growing in the yard:

Tomatoes

Eggplants

Cucamelons

Bramble berry

Scuppernongs

Figs

Persimmons

Basil

Parsley

Dill

And a single pomegranate on a tree planted too far into the shade. We're really rooting for it. 

And then there was the fourth of July. There was a Guy/Union family gathering with the usual summer fare. The centerpiece was Dad's "yard art" to celebrate America. Later he added some American flags.

 

A mere 48 hours later, Brett and I were over at Jeff's house celebrating Julian's 10th birthday. How did that happen? He was just five!
Highlights include a wonderful taco dinner, all four boys sporting their new cuban-linked chains, and a water stain that has developed on the ceiling over the dining room table that is remarkably phallic. When I noticed it and pointed all four boys (and their mother) burst out laughing. I got tickled at the idea of an important gathering taking place there while that is just up there on the ceiling. What if their pastor came over? 

Kitty Cat Chaos

 - Long cat post incoming  - 

It is not lost on me that I’m doing an entire post about cats right here as I close in on my thirty-sixth birthday. While I’ve never seen any realistic reasons to scoff at a “cat lady”, the closer I become to earning the title, the more concerned I am that I’m not seeing what’s happening, that perhaps there is some strange reality to “cat ladies” and I’m falling into that fuzzy, comforting pit. But maybe my concern neutralizes the cats? Awareness counts for something, right?

This is all to say that we’ve acquired a third house cat. Now to recap, we never set out to have any house cats. Did we both grow up with plural numbers of cats in our homes? Yes. Do we both enjoy a biscuit-making, fuzzy friend? Of course! Did I secretly want one around? Absolutely. But I’m reiterating that we were normal. 

Then we bought our house and found sickly Ferguson in the bushes. 

The progression of thoughts was:

We can’t feed him.

Ok, we can feed him but he can’t come inside.

Fine, he can come inside but he’s not staying the night.

He can stay the night but we aren’t getting a litter box.

He was neutered and treated for fleas shortly after. Not long into his tenure as a house cat, he brought his girlfriend around. We know her now as Nora. Nora was a nervous wreck so we didn’t have to have conversations about her coming in, because she wouldn’t get anywhere close to me. 

Six months later she was sleeping inside.

Then Brett went out and bought a litter box because Nora tinkled on a pile of dirty laundry. I saw it as a one-off accident and was not ready to commit to a litter box but those cats immediately loved the sandy digging opportunities and then we couldn’t take it away. He won’t acknowledge it, but the litter box is Brett’s fault. Ferguson and Nora go on to become and bonded pair and it is genuinely wonderful to watch them care for each other. Brett won’t acknowledge it, but he hustles over when I say, “Quick, go look at the cats!” 

Meanwhile, outside, Ned showed up. 

The broken arm made us sad so we fed him. He also had fleas and a sizable head wound - we thought he was going to die soon, so it was the least we could do. Ned would show up with a new life threatening injury every week or so and we marveled at his ability to beat the odds. Then he brought his girl, Clara, around. 

We wouldn’t have fed her but she caught us feeding Ned once and then sat on the stoop and waited for her plateful. When it didn’t come, she began arriving with Ned so that she could eat his breakfast. He needed the fuel to recover, so fine, we put out a second scoop. 

And then somehow, this other cat, Stacy, found out about the sweet deal taking place in the driveway and she just pushed right on in. She was bossy about it too. 

At this point, Brett and I had to have a family meeting. “We can’t feed anymore cats. They are multiplying.” 

“I agree.”

“Good.”

“But…”

“No.”

“It’s too late. They’re expecting it. How to you look them in their little faces and tell them to starve!?”

We agreed that Stacy was the last cat I could feed. Brett even had the nerve sometimes to not feed any of them even though they showed up on time for breakfast and dinner everyday. Not too long into her tenure as a driveway grifter, I found Stacy dead in the backyard. Stacy was my favorite of the strays but the upside was that we seemed 

one-less-cat crazy. 

Just as we settled into our two indoor and two outdoor cat reality, Ned and Clara had to go start a family, and that’s how we wound up with Cameron and Barkley. 

Look at the family having breakfast.

Back inside the house, Ferguson and Nora were living the dream. I’m honored to say that both of them sleep next to me (Ferguson usually on my head) and come to me for cuddles and love-time. Earning trust from Nora is one of the more satisfying accomplishments in my life. (No need to read into that.) The two of them would play together after breakfast, nap in the sunbeams on the floor in our bedroom, and then spend the afternoon outside, before coming back in for dinner and cuddles. 

Clara kept Cameron and Barkley tucked away for months and when she finally brought them around to see us, they'd all stay out of petting range. At some point, maybe a few months, Barkley stopped turning up with the rest of the family. We have assumed the worst based on his status as a tiny kitten. Again, sad, but one less cat? At about six months old, Cameron’s curiosity about me got the better of him and he and I became friends. Clara watched all of our interactions from a safe distance. Six or seven more months of driveway meals brings us to present day.

In a positive turn of events regarding our neighborhood status as “that house with all the cats”, Ned, Clara, and Cam began showing up for meals sporadically. They’d leave for a few days and maybe one or two of them would come by for breakfast, or often no one at all. Two weeks passed without seeing any members of the driveway clan. A lady down the street told me they’d been hanging around her house. She was feeding them.

It seemed to us that we finally shook off the opportunists and had a perfectly respectable number of pet cats in the house. Another week passed. “I think we’ve done it!” A month went by. “We’re normal.”

Then one morning Brett shook me awake. “Cam is here. He doesn’t look good.” There on the stoop was my littlest friend. He was way too skinny, had patches of missing fur, was covered in fleas, and was barely using either of his back legs. 

Here, a 4-5 day saga of finding vets to help him took place. I got a referral from one place. X-rays at another. He was turned away at a third, and finally admitted to a fourth. In the interim time he was living in our hall bathroom and purring about pets and gobbling up any plates of food he could drag himself up to. 

The diagnosis - he was likely hit by a car. He has a broken femur on one side, a broken hip on the other, and a crack or two in the pelvis. The one vet said amputating the broken leg after a surgery on the hip might be the best way to go. “You can keep him inside right? He can't go out anymore. He won’t survive.” I had never considered having a third cat, let alone one that never left. 

“I was actually wondering if the best thing to do would be to put him to sleep.” I sheepishly admitted.

“Oh no, he’ll be fine. Lots of kitties live long healthy lives as tripods. He's so young. He'll recover.”

My precious, secret-softy husband accepted the news immediately. 

(Ole Dead-leg Cam)

While the threat of amputation lingers, Cam is back home under a “strict bed-rest” to see if parts of his bones knit back together. He goes back in six weeks for new x-rays. Meanwhile he’s hopped up on drugs and is living his best life. He follows me from room to room with his John Wayne/ Dancing Elvis saunter, sleeps on his back with all his legs akimbo, and heartily partakes in three meals a day while we try to put some weight on him. He spends mornings and evenings lounging on the screen porch and recently discovered the (slightly more sedentary) thrill of a Skitter Critter. This seems sweet doesn’t it?

Well Ferguson and Nora are furious. 

Not only is that grifter inside but he’s drinking from our water bowl!

Ferguson growls and hisses at Cam whenever he staggers by. Cam tries to sniff and submit but Ferg isn’t having it. Ferg often runs away grunting. Meanwhile, Nora is somewhat tolerant of Cam (mostly ignores him) and is being surprisingly mean to me. She will not let me pet her. She will not come into the house. She took a retaliatory dump in our closest. She turns away when I call her name. Sometimes Ferg turns on me when he sees Nora being mean and suddenly remembers that he is mad about the interloper.

In fact, Nora has spent so many of the last nights outside, that she came in yesterday with a huge, open wound on her back. (We’re too exhausted to take her to the vet. It will heal on its own, right?) (I go to the vet so often they joked about putting me on the work schedule.) 

As of today - two weeks of Cam living in the house - Ferguson will mostly ignore him, so this is good progress. Nora will let Brett pet her and will sometimes come in, but only if Brett is the one who opens the door. I’m shocked that sweet precious Nora is capable of vindictive thinking. Pippa, by the way, is entirely indifferent about the new cat and has even patiently worked around the fact that Cam took over her preferred dog bed. 

But the bit that bothers me is that Cam is always off by himself. Imagine living a wild, adventurous life outdoors with your family, and then you get kidnapped and kept inside and suddenly have no friends. I know he's lonely. Do you think he's sad? I'm also put-off by the idea that he might "fall asleep" one day and wake up without one of his legs. How do you explain that to cat? 

Anyways. We have three house cats now. But no driveway cats - Ned and Clara haven't been seen in two months. Ned may have finally made it through that ninth life. 

So there goes Cam's family. We're happy to be his new family (We got him some little stairs so he can get onto the couch with us.) (I know.) but we can't compete with the sociable, intrepid life he was living. A Skitter Critter can only do so much.

Current Cat Status:

Back To Normal

Now that everyone is home and settled in, I can continue with my everyday dulldrums reporting. Dad scampers around town. Ellen and Lee wrangle children. Mom and I look for a purpose in life. Brett taps away at his keyboard and spontaneously leaps through the living room to excite Pippa and scare off Ferguson. Brett has decided that Ferguson doesn't bring anything to the table.
We've had a couple Sunday Dinners, one much needed rainstorm, and Nick received a harrowing haircut from his mother. A true right of passage in childhood.

Here is a grainy photo of the UniBartonHauers after a Top-Golf birthday celebration for Papa U. Popples U isn't a big fan of his birthday. We find this absurd, because what a human to celebrate, you know? But he doesn't want to make a big deal of things, so we all played it cool this year and did some family golfing. This was Ellen's first experience wielding a golf club and my first experience watching Lee's sense of competition. As the less experienced players, it was fun for us girls to watch the fellas really whacking the balls with masculine intention.

 

Watching the very tense Champions League final. 

Ellie's Etsy shop has made it through the busy season, so my precise packing practices are no longer required. I have enjoyed spending time over at their house when it has not been polished the way we do when friends come over. They always have spotless floors and few knickknacks laying around, but not in real life. In real life they don't fold their couch blankets or wipe down the island after breakfast. Its nice to be reminded that we are all slovenly when left to our own devices. 

Look at that rainbow!

I do have pet and occupational news but I don't have time to type it right now. We've had a bustling few weeks with lots of moving parts and I haven't had time to sit and consider them for storytelling purposes. I know everyone says time goes faster as you age and it's no joke. I didn't really even realize it's June already. I thought maybe it was April.

As you may know, it's World Cup season so we've had the tv on constantly, which is particularly luxurious in the daytime. You feel like you're breaking a rule. It's been fun to have the TV on while Brett and I are in our offices and when we hear the announcers' voices get loud, we both come rushing into the living room to watch the replay. I've always thought soccer was a fun sport to watch, but since hooking up with EisenEars who tells me the back-stories of all the players, well I always fall in love with them and then can't look away. What lovable (and sometimes loath-able) characters. 
I understand why you might watch other sports if you were rooting for a particular human.

We've been just standing here a lot lately.

My last tidbit for now: When I was working over at the pet shelter, there was one dog in particular that I adored. He is big, strong and has "scary" eyes, so no one ever wanted to meet him or take him for a doggy-day-out. Most of the staff assumed he was difficult because he was surrendered to the shelter for growling at a kid that would come mess with his food bowl. So sure, maybe he's not great with kids, but that's no reason to treat him like a risky, bad-apple.
I like a big meaty dog, so I went out in the yard and wrestled with him right away, and that's how I found out that he loves really high bouncing bouncy balls and ticklish belly rubs. He is THE sweetest and I would sit in the yard with him during my breaks and he'd just snuggle up next to me. 

The whole time I was there, only two people wanted to meet him and even though both of them said they'd come back to get him, they never did. It sincerely crushed me both times. As the shelter got more and more crowded, I worried about him being sent to the county shelter (where you only get so many weeks) to clear space for puppies and "more desirable" dogs. I'll tell you that I spent a lot of time advocating for him. Everyone on staff heard my plea, so when I left earlier this year, I had to hope that they'd keep giving him a fair chance. 

Today, after eleven months, bored and overlooked in the shelter, my sweet baby boy Jasper was adopted - and my coworkers made sure to send me this picture of him headed out to start his next chapter. 

I love this dog and I love those women. It made my whole day.