My Prayers

I've decided I'm glad about all the national turmoil. Passion is evidence of energy; apathy is nearly impossible to work with, from a therapy standpoint. My prayer for the last two years has been that God would expose evil and remove it. Well, it's exposing itself all over the place.

I've developed some go-to prayers since November.

1. God, make us one as you are one. John 17:21.

I can't imagine what would happen if everyone who says he's a Christian would pray this prayer with me. Discord? Not any more. Revival? Certainly. Powerful witness to unbelievers? Yeah. No wonder Satan works to keep us divided.

2. God, guide our leaders as you would have them go. Proverbs 21:1, 1 Timothy 2:2

I didn't pray for our last president. I figured he was God's answer to us demanding our own way. Who am I to pray against God's permissive will? What might have been different had I prayed? I'm not making that mistake again.

Nearly every day, some days more than once, I pray for our leaders. That God will grant them his wisdom, that he will open doors that lead to his glory, and close doors that lead to evil. I pray that he will open those hearts that will turn to him, and limit the evil being done by those who will never turn to him. And on the subject of evil...

3. Let the evil be caught in their own nets. Google gave me four off the bat: Psalm 141:10, Psalm 35:8, Proverbs 11:6, Proverbs 5:22.

The world is full of evil men. Powerful, evil men. Why did God banish Adam and Eve from Eden (Gen 3:22)? So they wouldn't eat from the tree of life and live forever doing evil. Because he is good, he limited the amount of evil one person can do in a lifetime. We screwed that up with the creation of perpetual corporations, that accrue nearly limitless power and money for people who didn't have to learn how to wisely manage those resources, and we daily see the consequences of flouting God's wisdom.

(The "Evil Corporation" is really a post for another time. Corporations by themselves are a tool, like a gun or a shovel, or a government. Not inherently evil, but so prone to misuse they give the impression of evil.)

The only way to fight that kind of long-lived evil potential is with an eternal, wise, merciful, holy God. May God deal with such things as he sees fit, save those who will be saved, and stop those who will not be saved.

These are my daily prayers. I don't think they're radical in anything other than actively asking God to do what he thinks is best for us. I pray in humility that God opens my eyes, too. If I'm misunderstanding his will or character, I want to change.

I hope you'll join me. If ever there was a time to pray for real peace and unity, this is it. Christians, time to put up or shut up. Call on your God and expect great things.

Keep the faith.

A 2017 Goal

I don't do New Year resolutions. If a thing is worth doing, it's worth doing the moment you think it. It's also worth doing if you miss a day. I mean, if I miss a meal, I don't give up eating. Not that I have a lot of experience with missing meals, but the theory is sound. Giving up a good thing because of one failure is the worse failure.

I'm an Old Testament Christian. (Is that possible? Hmm.) I know the OT better than the NT. I prefer reading the OT to the NT. Maybe it's the narrative style. Maybe it's the violence. Maybe it's the do right or get stoned to death clarity that appeals to my judgmental nature. I don't know. I just know I don't spend that much time in the New Testament in general.

This is my year to change that. I have shelved my chronological NIV Bible and pulled out the new Holman Christian Standard Version I bought to match the new pastor's readings. I normally read from the New American Standard Version I used in college, but, hey, I'm willing to branch out. Since I don't read Hebrew or Greek, it's OK to see how different translators work with different words.

One of the things I'm doing is reading the books as books, and not verses. I ignore chapter breaks and sub-groups, and look for trains of thought. I'm applying some of my knowledge of book writing to asking why certain things were written in certain orders. Sorry, college professors. Only took me 25 years to want to do this on my own.

I'm starting by reading the books with the same authors in order. So, Matthew (based on Peter's account) followed by 1 and 2 Peter. I skipped Mark, which is historically based on Matthew's account of Peter's account, but I have all year, so no worries.

I've been reading a chronological Bible that cuts and pastes books together "in order." I warned My Dear Friend if she used one, not to take it as gospel. Get it? Don't take the Bible as gospel? But you really can't. The editors could be wrong and bits can get left out. It can be annoying to read all the books as they are, especially the ones that tend to overlap, but God preserved them for a reason, so it's worth the effort.

I'd forgotten a lot about how the gospels read. Where they start and stop. Where the focus is for each author. The same parts and the different parts. My goal in this study is to get to know Jesus better. He's the one part of the trinity that puzzles me, but he's the part I'm supposed to relate to best, because he's the part that became human.

Did you hear the story about the farmer who saw a flock of wild geese land in his field during a terrible winter storm? Wanting to help them, he tried to drive them into his barn where they could be safe, but they ran from him. Then he brought out his own geese and the wild ones followed them to safety in the barn.

It's a modern parable. Jesus became human because I have a better chance of understanding and following a human example than I do an invisible, all-powerful example (even though they're the same God, but that's another post). Maybe I'm a goose for trying, but if he went to all the trouble to get here, the least I can do is try to understand what he was doing. That's really what the New Testament is about. Why he came, what he did, and how we're supposed to respond.

Keep the faith.

Playtime

One of the good changes in the Turtle household is the resumption of playtime.

I am not physically capable of recording playtime while playing. You'll just have to watch Cole and Marmalade on Youtube and imagine my trio instead.

It was nearly impossible to play with seven animals at one time. Little Brother attacked anyone who got too excited. Sweetie stampeded over anyone who got between her and the laser light. Following a swinging string could land you in the middle of a fight, and that's a hard con to forget. Miss Kitty tended to hog the toy.

Three cats manage to respect each other's space. Miss Kitty gets the first couple of minutes of frantic running to calm her down. Skuttle has finally remembered how much fun string is to chase (she doesn't care for the laser). Skamper takes a while to warm up, but he is by far the best catcher.

Skamper has learned when I say "no teeth," he's to drop the string. I lost too many strings to his one-chomp equals one-severing ability. He confines himself to claws.

Skuttle likes to grab the string and walk off with it. Since it's attached to me, that's never successful, but she does try. She likes chasing a thing she can catch, so I'm careful to let her catch it every so often.

Miss Kitty has no boundaries until she's tired, and she has jumped on her siblings' catches just to prove she's involved. That's when I say, "If you want to play, you have to let go." She's not as language smart as her brother.

While I'm typing, Skamper has found his tiny jingle wand and is throwing it around the living room. Of course, my phone is ten feet away. Sorry.

Hey, I got to my phone without too much disruption. 

Group playtime happens around 7 PM, but they've started playing individually, too. Now that they sleep upstairs, I've heard them playing quietly in the middle of the night. Well, as quietly as a tiny jingle bell can be. At least Miss Kitty no longer hunts closet gremlins at 2:33 AM. I've found my sleep doesn't matter to me as much anymore, as long as the kids are happy and healthy.

I hope you're happy and healthy today, too. Here's another video to help with that.

Applaud the jellyfish.

TruTouch Grooming Glove vs Cats Update

You've seen it. You've wondered. Would that rubber glove thingy work on my furry friend?

I found mine in Walgreen's as-seen-on-TV aisle, which is great, because I would never call an 800 number to buy something.

There's a learning curve. It's a larger than normal, rubber-smelling grabby thing where Mom's hand normally is, so patience is a good plan. Leave it out where the cats can smell on it for a while, although, if you have a cat who tends to ferret things, don't leave it out unattended.

Application of the glove requires a bit more pressure than normal petting and that ups the "strange" factor. I've found using both hands can help at the beginning.

The goal, of course, is not to frighten the cat. Cats remember stuff, and they will absolutely remember that the sound of velcro means I'm about to get grabbed and mashed and pulled on. Don't give them reason to fear that memory.

Start small, with a few strokes, to give you both a feel for how this might progress. Toffee was fine with the glove from the first touch. Miss Kitty sees it and preps for attack-mode within minutes (she's not afraid, but she doesn't seem to find it relaxing). Skuttle expects me to pet her for five to seven minutes every morning and even rolls over so I can get both sides.

Skamper doesn't attack, but he did start avoiding me if he thought the glove could be brought into play. For him, the glove will be a specific time and place only, and I might follow it with food for that extra nudge in the right direction. His long hair is the main reason I bought the thing, and I'm determined he will benefit from it.

I have found that the amount of hair removed increases with use. It took several days with Skuttle before I had to clean the glove. Now, I pull hair off the glove every time.

I didn't have a chance to try it with Sweetie, but I suspect it would have gone the same as with Skamper. She didn't fight being brushed, but it wasn't her favorite thing, either.

Pluses: 1) It's rubber, so the static charge issues of a dry house, dry cat, and metal comb don't come into play. I hear the static, but no one is feeling it. 2) It's thick, so even when Miss Kitty or Skamper have had enough and bring the five-point maul strike into play because I missed the signs, I'm not shredded and bleeding. I can calmly remove my intact limb and put the undamaged glove away. 3) I found it at Walgreens, so I didn't have to speak with or give payment information to a telesales representative.

Minuses: It's bulk means its harder to groom "tight spaces" on smaller cats. I can gently grab their tails (which is great because combs just don't go there), but under the chin must proceed with care. Frankly, I can't think of any other complaints, but I went into this with knowledge of my cats and the goal of giving us all time to get used to something new.

In short, I like it. I think it would work best for people who can schedule it into their pet's day rather than grab the glove and go to town because the mood calls, but that probably depends on the pet, too.

Applaud the jellyfish.

Person of Interest

I finally watched the last two seasons of the show, and I do mean the last two seasons, since it was cancelled halfway through season 5. Typical. Shows I like always get cancelled. Perhaps because I don't watch them while they're being created. NBC taught me never to trust a show in production.

I liked this show. A lot. All the way to the end.

Yes, it had many issues, like promoting the idea that bad guys can be completely incapacitated by being shot in the knee, and people regularly survive getting t-boned by large trucks, and there is no limit to how many bullets to the chest you can take without dying. Not to mention being told where to fire by an ASI (artificial super-intelligence) makes you immediately proficient with weapons and a crack shot to boot.

But... It was ultimately a show about redemption. How people who made bad choices can learn to make better choices. How self-sacrifice is contagious. How violence is never the answer. Actually, the show wanted to teach that, but even Finch picked up arms at the end, so sometimes violence is the only answer.

Produced by JJ Abrams, PoI didn't have many of his trademark themes, other than true love is eternal. Perhaps because it was mostly written by Jonathan Nolan, of Batman Begins fame. The show was more about lost love, lost chances, and the triumph of good over evil through ultimate sacrifices.

Harold Finch is absolutely my favorite character, but, by the end, Lionel was second. He came the farthest, I think, of all of them.

Unlike Lost, this show had an ending ready to go for when the studios pulled the plug, and I will be forever grateful. The ending was bittersweet, like the show, but I was satisfied. I'm sorry they went out, but I'm glad they went out on top.

I look forward to the next Michael Emerson project.

Applaud the jellyfish.

Begin with Forgiveness

It's been a few years since the Lavender Squeak incident, where I learned to apply forgiveness in my own life, so I'm finally willing to say with some authority "yes, this solution works."

Let it go.

One of the curses of living in time is that the past can't be changed. What happened, happened. Whatever the cost, whatever the result, dwelling on it will not do anything except make you miserable and useless now.

Forgiveness begins with forgiving God. Some Christians gasp when you say that. "You can't forgive God! God never makes mistakes!" Maybe not, but God can do or allow things that get my dander up, and, like any friendship, require me to forgive him for testing our relationship.

When I was mad at God, I had to forgive him first. It wasn't an emotion. It was a decision. I decided that I would no longer hold that action against him. It was done, it was behind us, and we would move forward from that moment on without looking back. I marked the account "paid" and I turned the page. The offense is not something I review daily or hourly. It collects dust in a shoebox under the rafters, untouched, waiting for the retention schedule to wind down before being chucked into the shredder.

This is not the same as avoidance. I am fully aware of the offense. I chose not to seek retribution. I chose not to obsess. I chose to let it go. I use past tense because the initial choice solves the problem. I don't entertain the thought "I'm forgiving you for this terrible thing" daily. That isn't forgiveness. Forgiveness is making the choice to let it go, and then letting it go.

For me, the decision to forgive and the release from the anger and the hurt took one night. I decided to forgive, I went to bed, and I woke up lighter than I'd been in years. The anger, bitterness, and hurt was completely diffused. I had trouble even remembering the intensity of the emotions I'd felt fewer than 12 hours before. I believe that my decision to forgive allowed the divine mystery that is God's forgiveness to free me from my past. I do not know if this works for non-Christians. I do not believe it is something a human can do apart from God. I only know that I didn't experience release until I made the decision to let it go.

The offense surfaced in my mind a few more times, but each time I set it firmly behind me and focused on the future. I would have to review this blog to even remember the exact string of events now, so far have I come from that pain, although it was only a few years past.

Please, dear Brothers and Sisters, let it go. All of it. Decide to forgive. Set your past offenses, hurts and tortures down, and walk away from them. They are past. You have the whole future ahead, and how much easier it will be without all that garbage crushing you. As you let go of the past, you may find a whole string of things you didn't even know were there that also require forgiveness. I did. I forgave them, too. I was unbound.

Forgive God, forgive yourself, and forgive your torturers. There will one day be a divine reckoning, and we will be forgiven as we have forgiven others. There's no better time to start your new life.

Embrace your faith.

Goodbye, 2016. You Were Unexpected.

I can't think of a better word. The weather returned to normal, but the Kansas wind blew plenty of change in with it.

I was promoted in an unexpected fashion. It's been a learning curve, but not as steep as, say, learning to drive. I dare to think it's gone fairly well.

I began the countdown to paying off my mortgage. It's never seemed more possible.

Life without Farmville created Bible study time, and I read the whole thing this year without skipping. I plan to focus on the New Testament in 2017. I've always preferred the Old Testament, so it's time to branch out.

The city code violation reminded me how much I like working in The Swamp, front or back. It got me in shape, it got me meeting my neighbors, and it got me a chipper/shredder that makes my heart sing and my compost pile grow.

I returned to church. It's been a while.

I was happy Trump won. I didn't expect it, I tried very hard to be OK with whatever would happen as God's will - permissive or directed - but I was pleased the election went that way. Donald is no saint by any stretch of the imagination, but he's way funnier than Hillary.

You would think losing four dear friends in seventeen days would be enough to make me curse this year, but it hasn't. God loaned them to me, and he took them back. I wish it hadn't been quite so one-after-the-other, but I don't know that any way would have been easier. I find myself embracing stoicism.

Despite the roller-coaster ride of stress that was 2016, I dare to face the new year with a sense of hope. Not because things can't get worse. They can always get worse. More that God has seen me this far, and I don't think he's going to leave me now. This may just be the year I lean into God's love instead of hairy-eyeballing it.

May the God of all comfort, who comforts us in our affliction, comfort you abundantly, both in what has passed and what is to come. May he comfort us all and bind us together by his Spirit.

Empty Explanations

It's grown very quiet in the Turtle household. Caleb was my main talker, with an astounding variety of chirps, trills, squeaks, and yowls as running commentary. Sweetie panted all the time (thanks to her advancing years and thickening of heart and lungs) and occasionally barked at a rabbit outside. Simon complained about stuff. Toffee made all kinds of weird noises.

More than once, I considered making a recording of the sounds of the Turtle household. Not sure if I'm glad I didn't.

The remaining three only open their mouths to complain about lack of food. I should be happy about that.

Simon died of intestinal cancer. I'd known something was wrong with him since July. It just took that long to manifest. Sweetie died of lymphoma. She'd been getting weaker for a while, especially in her back legs, so when I felt the lumps in her throat, I knew. The last days were sudden, but the result was expected.

Caleb came out of left field. It now seems he was dead when I took him to the emergency vet that Saturday; we just didn't know it. The treatment that should have worked to flush out the toxins in his kidneys and restored him to stable health and maintenance didn't work on him. The vet suspects cancer was at the root. He was eight, and I'd planned a longer life together. He is the one I'm having the hardest time not being bitter about.

Toffee was my fault. I killed her because I couldn't live with her grief, and I couldn't find a solution for it after seventeen days. She was fifteen, stopped eating in October, and had to be coaxed back. She got better while Simon got worse. After Simon died, she started screaming at night as only a Siamese can scream, for hours at a time, with no obvious trigger or solution. My only weak defense is I truly thought that something physical was wrong with her, something that would take a while to find, like it did with Simon. Something terminal. Maybe I was right, but I'll never know, because she's dead.

I have never believed in killing an animal for convenience, any more than I believe in killing babies for convenience, and I regret the decision hourly. She's having her revenge, though, because she's haunting me. I see her at the table waiting to lick my breakfast bowl. Peering around the door into the kitchen. Sleeping near me or in my chair when I get up. Blinking at me from behind the curtain as I open it for the day. After twelve years of living here, her absence has riddled this house with holes.

I remember when she came, she stayed in the basement, terrified. She'd been traumatized by a Lhasa Apso in a foster home between living with mom and living with me. I knew I could either have a cat that lived in the basement, or I could have a cat I who lived with me, so I spent weeks digging her out of her hidey holes and bringing her upstairs to learn that it wasn't scary up here in the sunlight.

I now have a chair no one sits in, because only Sweetie sat there for nine years. I now have beds that no one uses because the remaining three no longer need to go "up" to get away from the crazy. No one meets me at the door like Caleb and Simon did, and no one says good-bye when I leave.

Stress is the cause, if you need a cause. Seven animals who do not get along cannot live in the same tiny space for eight years without consequences. The consequences are cancer, and kidney failure, and inconsolable grief. I wish someone would kill me, too, because I can't self-terminate.

The remaining three have noticed the absences. I don't know if they're talking amongst themselves or not, but I am walking on eggshells, afraid to make any move that might disrupt the current calm and send someone else into a death spiral. I would predict Skamper, except Caleb had no symptoms until he did. I'm frankly afraid to draw close to them, as if my attention will mark them out for annihilation.

It has been 19 days since the first death, and 2 days since Toffee. I'm only just starting to process some of it, in my dreams of all places. Long dead people are visiting me nightly, now that I can sleep more than an hour at a time.

I must adapt. I cannot be Toffee. I cannot live buried in grief or, worse, fearing the next death. Because there will be more death. That's how life works. None of us are getting out alive.

I hope Toffee will forgive me. I hope she is happy now, and her bad wiring has finally been repaired. I hope by writing this I will gain some peace in confession. I promise you, no one can judge me more harshly than I judge myself.

I'm sorry. I hate when people tell me their horror stories just because I have gone through something horrific. As if sharing their pain with me makes my pain less. Why would I feel better because you've also had trouble? What kind of monster do you think I am to rejoice in your grief? Maybe this is one of those normal people things I don't get.

Anyway, thanks for listening. Despise me if you want. I have no defense.

Toffee Turtle

My heart is filled with silence. My friend stopped running today.
Matt 2:18 

Holes

When people of good heart see someone in pain, they want to do something to help. They want to lend support, bring meals, give hugs or chocolate or both. They want to make the pain stop.

I wish to thank all my friends, family and co-workers - for thinking of me, for praying for me and mine, and for wanting to help.

Like Little Brother, I will repel your advances. I cannot be cuddled. I cannot be gifted out of grief. I will accept chocolate for later, but I have no stomach for it now. I cannot talk about this with you right now. I cannot cry in front of you.

I know this is not typical. Most people seem to find comfort in other people. I assume this is why they marry and have families.

Friendship has a shape. It has weight. It displaces volume. When a friend is ripped away, a hole is left. Nothing but that friend fits that hole. Other friends can gather close and press against that hole, but they don't fill it.

Grief is the process of transferring the shape that used to walk across the bed into a shape that walks across the heart only, until we all meet again on the Last Day.

I am not despairing. I am not contemplating self-harm. I am not cursing God. I am missing my friends.

Thank God grief, even intense grief, cannot be sustained. I will have periods of distress and periods of calm, and one will grow shorter while the other grows longer. Grief comes in like the tide, but it rolls out again, too.

Thank you all for your love. I value it. If you must do something, show love to each other all the more. You never know when a hole will come.

Keep the faith.

Caleb Turtle

My heart is filled with silence. My best friend stopped running today. 

Job 1:21 

Waiting

That's my life this year. Waiting.

Waiting to figure out what was wrong with Simon. Waiting for the election with the same hyper-alertness I usually reserve for severe weather outbreak days. Waiting for information on Second Dad. Waiting for Sweetie's fatty tumors to turn malignant.

The waiting is over for those issues, except for Second Dad, but that has turned into waiting with treatments.

Now, waiting for Caleb to heal or die.

Those are the choices, really. Because if his medical condition was kidney infection triggered by the stress of losing housemates and a grieving human, I have four other potential patients living in this house, and I cannot afford emergency or long-term treatment for all of them.

So I wait for enough time to pass to get a clear blood test to confirm kidney infection vs disease. I wait for Caleb to decide what food he will eat, and I wait to see if he can keep it down. I wait for him to pee normally, and I wait for him to stop peeing and require further medical intervention. I choose to wait, and I wait to choose.

I wait for Toffee to either stop screaming at two hour intervals all night or for it to happen long enough that I kill her because sleep deprivation has deprived me of all reason. There is no way to muffle a yowling Siamese in an 823 square foot house.

I wait for Skamper to fall ill, since he is the one who should be having bladder problems. I can't afford it if he does, so I'm basically waiting for him to die, too.

This is an extremely whiny post, and more than a little self-pitying. I apologize. I hope by writing it down, I remove its power over me.

I am not a fighter. If God wants to remove my cats, I can't stop him, and I won't try anymore. I could be down to two by Spring.

I am currently waiting for a Feliway multi-cat stress-reducing pheromone dispenser to arrive. Then I must wait to see if it works.

Dear God, let it work.

Sweetie Turtle

My heart is filled with silence. My friend stopped running today. 

Aslan's Country

I knew Simon was unwell. I didn't realize how much of our lives were Simon-focused this year.

The house is quiet, but it is a peaceful quiet (except when Skamper is flexing his new Chief Noodlehead muscles). No vulturing. No crying for food that won't be eaten. No open door escape attempts. No multiple nightly feedings. No straining to hear the warning growls that presage a dangerous cat fight. No charting of food that stays down and food that doesn't.

We had a good last day. I'm grateful we gave him anesthetic before the last shot. While we waited for the anesthetic to take effect, the vet asked, "isn't this the one you always have a story about?" Yes. Yes, he is. Even his last visit was a story. His nerves kept firing for a while, and my vet said he could have been the one in a thousand cats that has a seizure had he not been asleep. It would have been just like him to cause trouble, so I'm glad we didn't have to go through that.

It occurred to me that Simon and I are much like Reepicheep and Lucy. I've always wanted to cuddle with him, but his natural dignity and independence simply wouldn't allow it. He's a warrior who protects the weak and puts the bully in his place. Perhaps his exploration of every opening was a lifelong search for the door to Aslan's country.

I see him there, vulturing at the gate, inspecting the newcomers and pointing the way inward and upward. Chatting up the ladies and sizing up the gentlemen as he waits for his friends to arrive.

Good journey, Little Brother. See you on the other side.

Simon Theodore Turtle

My heart is filled with silence. My friend stopped running today.

2 Samuel 12:23

My Simon

One thing Timmi taught me is just because I can doesn't mean I should. Yes, Ian Malcolm taught me that about cloning dinosaurs, but Timmi taught me that about cats.

I kept Timmi with me far longer than I should have because I couldn't let her go. She never complained, and I couldn't have chosen differently at the time, but I will choose differently now.

Simon will not get better. We might squeeze out another month or two, but I can tell he's not comfortable. I don't know that it's extreme pain (it's hard to tell with cats) but it's bothering him.

We'll say good-bye today. Mom is going with us because, as she says, "I was there the first time. I'll be there the last time."

I wish I had solid biblical evidence that I will see him again. I have inferences, and a hope that I will, but the truth is, I don't know for sure. It bothers me a lot. I am choosing to believe that God has bigger plans for all of us in our new Heaven and new Earth, and those plans include my fur friends.

As My Dear Friend once assured me, "It's Heaven. Of course it's big enough."

I will imagine Simon jumping through green fields of soft grass, chasing things that can't die when he catches them - Tribble the rabbit, the now flying fish Ferghani Shen Tsu, Merry, Pippin and Fatty Bolger, ferrets Loki, Freya, Oden-Thor, Rafiki, Tasselhoff and Tandy, and maybe even little Flutterby the moth; meeting Sugar and Timmi, Shawn, Ceaser, Snuffy, Tasha, Tamaran, and Sassy Sasha, and Kneesa, Sera and Wicket; reuniting with Hachiko, Jasper and Mica; sharing stories about how I've grown up, and how much I miss them all and look forward to seeing them again. I'm sure if he could, Simon would break something in the mansion Jesus is preparing for me, just to remind me I'm not all that.

Oh, I will miss my Little Brother. He brought me back to life twelve years ago. I haven't always appreciated how he did it, but he did it. I'm so sorry for all the times I've yelled, and misunderstood, and ignored. I'm so glad for the times we cuddled, and for your silly growly meow, and for The Paw in my cereal, even when you don't eat cereal, Noodlehead. I'm glad we had those sunny times in The Swamp.

I will never know anyone else like you, heart-brother. You earned many names but you will always be my Simon.

The Names of Simon: Chunky Monkey

For most of his life, Simon has been my Chunky Monkey.

Simon is what vets call "a competitive eater." This means he will eat everything in the bowl, puke it up, and eat it again. He used to race the dog whenever that horrific uk-ka uk-ka uk-ka noise started elsewhere.

Aside: I do not allow anyone to eat puke if I am there to stop it. Ick, and beyond ick.

Even though he rarely ate Human Food (touching and tasting with The Paw didn't count), he roamed the house searching for any morsel of dog or cat food that might have been overlooked. It's possible all his interest in open doors might stem from looking for the next meal.

One terrifying time, he slipped out the back door to chase a stray tom. They raced around the neighbor's house, and the stray darted through the space between the privacy gate and the main fence. Simon tried to follow and did one of those cartoon blubber-bounce-backs (think Mr. Incredible in the rocket tube). I thank God for it; it was the only way I would have caught him. He was big, but fast.

Three or four years ago he topped out at 19 lbs. This on a 13 lb frame. The dieting began in earnest. The hardest part was Hungry Simon was even more vicious than Fat Simon. Balancing between what was healthy for him and what was healthy for the household was almost more than I could handle.

As the weight came off, he resumed some obnoxious behavior I'd forgotten. Jumping on top of the fridge when there wasn't room. Chasing the others off the catwalks. Nearly jumping into the electric skillet. Jumping anywhere, really.

Which is why his weight loss was so flummoxing. I'd always expected diabetes to kill Simon, not intestinal cancer.

My Chunky Monkey will finish his race at 9.3 pounds. He's never looked better. I've never been sorrier.

The Names of Simon: Uncle Simon

The crying has stopped for the moment. It may be the top of the grief wave or dehydration, but I'll take it.

Since his diagnosis, Simon has been feeling better, which means he's behaving like a royal jackass. Rather than go to bed last night, he vultured me until I gave him food he didn't want, fell into and toppled the trash can trying to get to dog food he can't have, tipped over a box that hadn't been in that space before, and tried to pick a fight with Caleb.

I'm grateful for this. Such antics make it easier to say good-bye. The date is set.

I woke after midnight to him hogging the bed. I only got it back after I fed him.

I had two dogs when Simon came to us: Hachiko, my Akita dog-nephew, and Jasper, known to some of you through Star of Justice. Simon was fostered with three German shepherds and he loved my dogs. He was not their uncle.

He did not turn Toffee into a normal cat, but he did get along with her. They often slept close to each other, and occasionally cuddled. He was not her uncle.

When I took in the feral kids, Skuttle and Skamper, Simon took Skuttle under his paw immediately and began teaching her every rotten trick he knew. He became Uncle Simon.

Skamper is a Mama's Boy, so it worked out.

When Simon fell behind the fridge and was too fat to either jump or squeeze out, Skuttle followed him down and stayed with him until I finally figured out where two cats could hide in my house for 40 MINUTES OF SEARCHING. I wish I'd had a phone for that pic of Simon's eye looking at me through the half inch gap between the fridge and the wall.

Skuttle learned that houseguests aren't scary because Uncle Simon never ran from them. Skuttle learned that one paw could sneak cereal out of the bowl before the Scary Hooman noticed and moved the bowl. When brother Skamper annoyed either girl, Uncle Simon came to the rescue and made him behave.

I'm frankly worried about the Turtle Household with Skamper in charge.

Simon watches out for Miss Kitty, too, and she is the only cat that can play with him. He is a perfect gentlemen with the girls, but he a real a$$ to the boys. Caleb takes the brunt because he and Simon are both bush cats and Caleb doesn't jump out of the way like Skamper does (Skamper is a tree cat). Before he got sick, we had a fur-flying fight every two to four weeks. There's a reason lion prides have one boy and a bunch of girls.

I used to get angry at Simon for fighting with the boys. Until I realized he was doing what Dad did for Mom in the old days by letting me know the Turtle Household was closed to new cat members. We had enough. He was absolutely right, and I have thanked him many times for being so sensible. Six cats are too many for one tiny house.

I wish he wasn't leaving us so soon, but I hope that his absence will alleviate some tension. I desperately hope Skuttle will adjust to his absence. I hope even more fervently she will not take his place as the Master of Jackassery of the family.

The Names of Simon: The Paw

I've explained why Simon Theodore is Little Brother. In fact, if I read him my last two posts, I'm certain he would roll his eyes and give me a "being a little melodramatic, aren't we?" mrrow. Much as my human brothers are no doubt doing (and I appreciate their silence on the matter). He is more sibling than child.

The Paw in action. 

One of Simon's odd former-stray habits is touching things.

I've read that outside cats will test the waters with one paw in case a new experience isn't safe. For Simon, it's the right paw, and he puts it everywhere.

It goes into the water dish first, followed, not by a test lick, oh no, but by a vigorous shake that shares the wealth. For a cat who doesn't like to have wet hands shaken at him, he can dish it out.

The Paw has shown up in my spaghetti, cereal bowl and once, my hot chocolate. I learned to eat around it because I wasn't throwing an entire dinner away for one touch. The only people food he ever truly liked was Bolthouse Farms Mocha Cappucino, and I would put his little sip into a mug wide enough for his head so he didn't have to use The Paw.

The Paw is the pre-cursor to a cat fight, so that's one sign the Turtle reads quite well when she's home. She's found evidence of The Paw stuck in Caleb's back as shed nails.

The Paw has rested quietly on my cheek at 2 AM, insisting breakfast is now, not three hours from now. The claws don't come out until 4:30.

The Paw has something to say about my art projects and reading habits. Mostly "Hello, you should be paying attention to the rest of me over here. I'm far more interesting than whatever that is."

Simon Theodore, The Paw. Tomorrow, I'll tell you about Uncle Simon.

A Tale of Two Cats, part Two

I adopted Simon from the Petsmart Adoption Program. He had been a resident of a more rural animal shelter and a foster mom enrolled him in the program to save his life. Momma Turtle met him first, and pointed him out to me.

I didn't want another cat. Timmi's death had eviscerated me, and I had no desire to love anything else with fur. Since Toffee had a screw loose, I had no concerns about getting attached to her. However, there was a possibility that hanging with a more normal cat might level Toffee out, and this big black weirdo had been sitting there so long, waiting. I adopted Simon.

It was touch-and-go the first month. More than once I wondered what I had gotten myself into.

He was stand-offish. Timmi had literally been in my lap every time I sat down. Simon sat one piece of furniture away, at my eye level, and stared at me. We call it "vulturing." Sometimes this is what he wanted to do. Sometimes he wanted my attention, and if I didn't figure out the difference, he knocked pictures off the wall to explain it.

At 2 AM, he became a cuddle-whore. I've heard men are like that.

He has never met a door he didn't try to go through, or a space he didn't try to fill. More than once he spent the day in a closet I didn't realize he'd snuck into while I pulled out a coat, shirt or pair of pants. Once he almost got sealed into the bathtub while the plumber was working on it. Did you know bathtubs are hollow? Thank God for that.

He liked Hide and Seek. I would realize he wasn't staring at me or coming out for food and drop everything to search my 823 square foot house for a fifteen pound black cat who refused to help by calling back to me. More than once I feared he'd somehow snuck outside while the door was closed and locked and my back was turned. He'd be staring at me from on top of something or under something, laughing, I'm sure.

These kinds of exasperating shenanigans earned him the name Little Brother. Like the little brother who follows you around and breaks your toys and irritates the snot out of you until he falls asleep and then looks like an angel so you don't kill him.

This also led to the Simon Alvin Theodore! I would yell when he knocked something off the counter to get my attention. That was eventually shortened to Simon Theodore, which is more lyrical.

The best part is he helped me live through losing Timmi. I stopped crying every night because Simon was there to be ridiculous and exasperating and hilarious and impossible. Simon touched a different part of my heart, a part that didn't hurt. He was my little brother, not my baby, and he had needs, too. Needs involving play and eating and generally making a nuisance of himself.

Simon has been losing weight since summer, and the vet has finally found evidence of a tumor in his intestines. He's lost a pound in the last two weeks, so his time with me is short. Very, very soon, we will close this chapter together, and wait impatiently for our reunion in the sequel.

I dug his grave this last weekend, because I could feel him slipping away, and the ground will freeze soon. I wish I'd been wrong.