Cat-opoly

My life has become a cat-tastrophe – I am entirely responsible for four cats. That’s at least three more than I’d like to be responsible for. Cats are over run here. And now Baby Girl has decided that she wants a cat birthday party. She wears cat ear headbands, cheetah pants and shirts, pretends that she IS a cheetah running around the house and jumping off the walls and the beds. She has cat pajamas and cat shirts and probably even cat underwear. I guess this is an improvement from pretending to be a puppy?

So here I am scrolling aimlessly through Amazon looking for cat birthday decorations, cat cake toppers, cat wrapping paper and cat party favors. Sipping wine and randomly hitting “add to cart” and not really caring what ends up in there. Buying a dress with cats on it and leopard print shoes from Zulily. Wondering what on earth we have unleashed. Cat balloons with whiskers? Cute. Buttttt only six in a pack and then I’d have to have helium so they’d float and somebody would definitely let one go and cry. Scratch the balloons. Cat cake? Holy hell cakes are expensive. I’ll get a “plain” $50 cake from Candy Haven and put my own decorations on it. Another $20 to Amazon. Cat tablecloth? We’ll be outside so I’d have to tape it down. Never mind. We can do a bare table.

I’m pretty sure all this started with the barn cat we adopted in December. Daphne is the cutest, sweetest little son of a bug ever. She comes when she is called, she follows me everywhere, she wants to be picked up and held for long periods of time. Until she’s done, then she’ll turn and scratch your face or bite your arm so that you drop her muttering “shit!” under your breath. She likes to play and she has the best purr. We have quality cuddle time every morning before I feed the horses. She loves people and will lay down in the arena directly in everyone’s way. But nobody gets upset with her because she’s so damn cute. She’s literally the best. (Well except for the biting and scratching).

You would think, however, that all this sweet cat cuteness would be dispelled by the annoying-as-shit Moby. Moby is fifteen years old. A senior cat by anyone’s definition. Almost eighty years old in human terms according to google. And the most annoying creature I’ve ever owned. He started out alright. He and my mom’s cat, Margaret, were born in an old broken down tractor out on my parents back forty and then moved up to the front porch behind the wisteria and under the rocking chair. Five little gray balls of fluff. Couldn’t tell them apart. So they were called, in no particular order, Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Mo and Margaret. They were born in August of 2005.

I was home for Thanksgiving that year having just lost my cat of many years, Sam (who I loved desperately). I was absolutely not going to take a new kitten. But then he crawled up into my lap and up my arm and burrowed under my chin and I said “I’ll take this one.” That was Mo (I guess). Soon to be re-named Moby. For a long time it was just Moby and me and he was super cute and I loved him. Then I met Tony and Moby’s life as he knew it was over. With Tony came Ali. And then came Pineapple. Pineapple was given to me to be a barn cat but when I took her to the barn to check things out it was quickly apparent that our current barn cat, Swiffer, was one hundred percent intending on eating her. Or just killing her flat out. So I scooped her up and brought her up to the house.

Moby sniffed the wee thing and then disdainfully backed away from it. Pineapple fled to Ali’s room where she remained under the bed for three days. She’s rarely left since. That was 10 years ago. All of a sudden I had two house cats. Moby treats Pineapple much as a little sister and is constantly antagonizing her and attacking her. She gets great patches of hair missing from her back – from stress possibly? Pineapple does not want to be held or cuddled and very rarely will let you pet her. She hisses at Skylar and seeks refuge under any bed.

Speaking of beds, I will be laying in my bed reading, and the INSTANT I turn out the light and snuggle in there goes Moby searching Pineapple out so he can bite her and make a yowling racket even Baby Girl can’t sleep through. I swear he waits until I am comfortable. Or he’ll be on my bed and start to make that “AAAACCCKK-HUH” sound that signals he’s about to throw up. On my bed. And I have to leap out of bed and carry him to the wood floors. Or shove him with my foot off onto the carpet at least.

And then there’s the treat problem. Something I started without realizing that cats are just as susceptible to Pavlov dogs training as the dogs were. As soon as I get up – out of bed, from my desk chair, from the recliner, from the toilet, he runs ahead of me to the kitchen and starts the most pitiful meowing you can imagine. And here’s the thing – he doesn’t shut up. Ever. Until you give in. Which obviously I do because I like peace in my life.

I finally started putting him in my back room at night because the MOST annoying thing he does is… about 5 am he will start walking up and down on my bed. From my head to my toes. Going “mreeewwwuh” every time he makes a circuit. Designed solely to force me to get up and give him treats. If I manage to avoid him he will, about 6 am, start patting my face with his paws and increasing the volume and quantity of the “mreeewwwuh’s.” This is unbearable. If I shove him off the bed he comes right back. If I shut him out of my room he sits out there and yowls. Which will wake Baby Girl up. If I shut him IN my room he will sit at the door and make the sound of Satan until I let him out. Never happy, that cat. So the door stays open and I made a cozy little nest for him in the back room. Not that that solves everything. He then spends about an hour yowling his head off which I can hear all the way back in my bedroom. He is voicing his displeasure but I no longer care.

He also loves it when I eat. I now have to stand with my back to the counter in order to put anything in my mouth that has not been touched by his paws or his mouth. He steals food off of plates. He practically sits in my plate. He watches every bite go from the plate to my mouth. It’s maddening. And he has taught Pineapple that this is a fun game so now she does it, too.

And then there’s Margaret. My mom’s cat that is now living with my Dad. Nobody over there (Dad or his caretaker) is going to clean that cat box. So that, of course, falls to me. The caretaker does give her food and water but I have also arranged to have the food delivered every month so that we can’t possibly run out. Margaret is Moby’s full sister so is also 15. Recently I googled “why does my cat yowl so loud.” I learned that Moby is probably not only going deaf, which is why the volume of his utterances has increased tremendously but that he also is probably suffering from “cat cognitive decline.” In short, my cat has dementia.

I am losing my mind over here over all these cats. If Moby and Pineapple had claws I’d throw both their asses outside and bring Daphne in (maybe). I swear I will never have another inside cat. I am tired of the cat boxes, the litter all over the house, the fur, the yowling, the throwing up and the fact that now both my Mom and my cat have dementia. I just can’t win.

I’m beginning to look back on the puppy thing with longing and fond memories.

Lessons from Tubo Ranch

A few months back my very first riding instructor passed away. Her name was Tuke. She was as old as the very first rocks of the planet – at least to my 9 year old mind. Her husband was a general in the Army and he passed away just about a year or two ago. They were both well into their ninties. I’ve wanted to pay homage to Tuke ever since I heard of her passing. And the best way I know to do it is this….

When I was nine I looked into the deep, soulful eyes of a little black pony named Smokey Joe. And I felt a connection immediately. There was just something about that little guy that spoke to me and I wanted to ride him. I wanted to know him. To say I was disappointed that I did not get to ride Smokey Joe at my first lesson would be a major understatement. But eventually ride him I did, and it didn’t take long for my ambition to catch up with my skill.

I learned early on that cut off pieces of hose make excellent riding whips when pulled from the back pocket of a pair of jeans that have been around for 50 years. I learned that rubber riding boots worked fine if you didn’t know that they weren’t the best type of boot to learn to ride in. I learned that when a pony lays down in a pond and rolls over it’s a lot easier to tip water out of a rubber boot than a leather one. I learned to laugh. And that laughter brought admiration from Tuke whereas crying brought disappointment.

I learned that if I wanted to ride I had to be able to not only put a halter on, but to catch the pony. And if I wanted to catch it I had to find it. Most days we all set out together after Tuke had pointed us in the right direction to “track” our mounts. When we found them we quickly learned that treats were necessary, and being both short and not very flexible I figured out that tree trunks and high ground were very helpful in mounting. If we fell off and landed in ant piles we all laughed until we cried while the pony took off home. Whoever was the victim dusted herself off and trudged back to the barn. Nobody got offended and no parents cared.

I learned that as long as the toilet flushes most of the time it doesn’t matter how dirty the bathroom is when you are in the middle of nowhere with only a falling down old house and a tin barn to provide relief when you have to go. I learned how to bridle and saddle and how to groom and how to not be horrified by picking off ticks and squashing them under my boot. I never did get so far as to squash them between my fingers like Tuke did. Bugs are a way of life in central Texas and between the cactus and the fire ant hills you will only find a lot of rocks. So if you fall off it will hurt. A lot. I learned about an old Indian burial ground which is something I am sure that Tuke made up to entertain us, or scare us. I’m not sure which.

I learned respect when I watched a fellow student get thrown up against the old tin barn wall for being disrespectful. I learned compassion when an old horse died and I learned about the practicality of burying a horse when I saw the huge hole in the ground with smoke coming off it. I learned that snakes won’t bother you when you are swimming in a pond if you are on the back of the horse and that swimming on horseback is something everyone should experience at least once if not as often as possible.

I didn’t want to get kicked, or hurt, and so I learned to read the unspoken communication of a horse. I learned that if you lean back when a horse bucks not only can you stay on but you can stop it as well. I learned not to be afraid. That I was capable. I was nine and 50 pounds but I learned this. I was 10 and 11 and I learned it more. I learned that good friends are always found at the barn and very rarely anywhere else. I learned that no matter how many times you said “Tuke!” as loudly as a little kid can, that unless she really wants to acknowledge you – she won’t. And she definitely won’t if she’s busy with something else. So that was patience. Patience also came in the form of jumping higher fences. That if you fall off over a crossrail situated between two bushes in a sand pit and made out of two long tree branches that you had better wait to attempt anything bigger until you have mastered the crossrail. And that was perseverance.

I learned empathy when I went to my first horseshow and got a first place and a reserve champion and my good friend didn’t win any ribbons at all. I learned not to gloat but to enjoy success silently and with care. I learned life isn’t always fair and while I may have earned those ribbons that sometimes it was just a crap shoot and you had to go with the flow whatever you were handed.

And I learned that legends can, and do, die. Thirty five years after they have taught you everything you need to know about horsemanship. I learned you can grieve for someone you haven’t seen in twenty years or more. That love comes in many forms and that TUBO stood for Tuke and Bob – something that occurred to me long after I had left there.

You don’t choose horses. Horses choose you. And if you are lucky enough, you have a first instructor that shows you that. I did. I will never have more respect for someone than I did for her. Thank you, Tuke. Thank you.

Math Problems

I am not sure what happened tonight. How it got as far as it did. But I knew I could not give in, no matter how red her eyes and face got from crying, no matter the endless stream of tears streaking down her cheeks. No matter that I was dying inside, simultaneously angry and heartbroken, that it had come to this. This travesty, this trauma, this drama that neither of us asked for or needed.

First grade homework. First grade MATH homework to be precise. All she has to do is one page of subtraction. It’s called Rocket Math and the premise of it is to actually time her and see how many she can do in one minute. There are 92 problems on the page. Ninety two. How many six year olds have the patience to do 92 problems at one time? Even trying to break it down, do some 50 problems one day and 42 the next – even THAT is a struggle. And that’s for a kid who actually CAN do math. But see, the thing is, she doesn’t want to.

She wants to go play after school – let her imagination and her feet run wild. Or she wants to chill and play on her ipad for a bit. She wants a snack. She wants to come out to the barn with me and play with her friends that come while I teach lessons. Or play with Daphne, the cat. She wants to have dinner and take a bath and read stories with me. SHE DOES NOT WANT TO DO MATH HOMEWORK. And the feeling is quite mutual.

Baby girl is very, very smart. She doesn’t struggle to understand concepts, or to see the wisdom of tricks and shortcuts. She can easily subtract using a numberline, or the old fashioned way of lining up the numbers one under the other. She can use her fingers. None of these methods are acceptable. Baby Girl wants to do it in her head and she wants to do it quickly. So she does them wrong. So she can be finished and get on with her important activities. Somebody has to sit there with her and either write down the answers while she does the work, or find all the ones that are similar so we don’t have to go through hell more than once. She will find every excuse in the book to put off doing her math homework. Write a letter to her teacher? Sure, let’s practice writing neatly. Do some spelling words? Sight words? Read a book? Absolutely.

Do math? No, no, no, no, and still no again. It isn’t fun. Not for her, not for me, not for Daddy, not for Sissy, not for her patient friend Rina who is in third grade and well past subtraction. Sissy takes off home when math is mentioned. Daddy goes to work. Rina hears her mom calling her. Which leaves…. Me. Mommy. The Demon. Because that is what I turn into. I simply cannot understand WHY she won’t just DO THE WORK. At first I encourage. Then I start saying things like “we could be done by now, if you would just buckle down.” I say “Baby Girl, you are so smart, you can totally do this stuff.” Then she starts whining. And whining. And whining…. until I can’t hold it together and I completely lose my shit. I yell. She cries. I feel awful. She cries some more and says she’s sorry. Which quadruples my guilt over yelling at her. Sorry, sorry she says with rivulets of tears and snot. I put my head in my hands. I pick up my phone. “Don’t text Daddy!!!!” she cries frantically. I come back sharply with “Let’s get this done then!” I say she’s stubborn. She gets even more upset. I say please can we just do this and she howls that she doesn’t know the answers.

On and on it goes until we are both a puddle of feelings and exhaustion.

She can spell “starvation” and “plastic.” She can read chapter books. She can write and imagine wonderful stories. She can play pretend school and she can ride a pony and do all sorts of beautiful, amazing things. She can look at me with her heart in her eyes, in both happiness and sadness. I worry that this will traumatize her. That it will only get worse as the grades go up and the homework gets harder. That she will completely rebel against doing any homework at all. It’s only first grade and we are a wreck over math homework. I worry that she sees me lose my shit with her and thinks it’s her fault, when I know damn well it isn’t. I think that it probably scares her to see me lose control and I beat myself up over that. All because of math homework.

So, friends, tonight please say a prayer that the end of school will come quickly. That summer break will soon be upon us. That moms and dads everywhere survive these last few weeks. And that the shit-losing is minimal and that the kids are not traumatized permanently. And have a drink in honor of all of us that are still doing first grade math homework at 45 years old and at 9 pm when little children should have been asleep an hour ago. We are not ok. This is not ok. I’m going to take a deep breath and leave you with this…..

Homework sucks and children need sleep.