Goodbye sweetheart

Last week, our cat Cleo died. She was 14ish, which is old for an outdoor cat, but seemed far to young for our indoor-only pampered sweetheart. Unfortunately, lymphoma doesn't really care about that sort of thing.

She was our first baby. Both Benjamin and I had cats growing up and knew we wanted to get our own cat once we were settled in our own place. As soon as Benjamin's grad school tuition refund came in and we had a little money, we headed to the local shelter - and I do mean as soon as it came in. We went the very same day.

Cleo was the only cat we looked at - we had several in mind, but I warned Benjamin that we had better make our first choice carefully, because I didn't think I'd be able to put a cat back once we had it in the greeting room. She was in the Lonely Hearts club, which meant she'd been there for quite a while, probably because she was shy and nervous around new people. We didn't care. She stole our hearts right away with her big blue eyes, the softest fur I have ever felt on a cat - then or now - and the promise of love if we were patient. And we were willing to be patient.

She spent most of the first 4 or 5 months under our bed, only coming out to eat and go to the bathroom, but we waited, and eventually she came out more regularly to watch TV and play. She liked me OK, but she loved Benjamin. For a while, she would wake me up in the morning with a quiet little meow that just loud enough that I could hear it but Benjamin couldn't, so I could get her breakfast. Then, once I was out of bed, she would take my spot and cuddle up to Benjamin.
 

She moved from Austin to Bellevue to Austin to Brockport to Conway to Maumelle. She didn't like the changes much, but as long as there was a comfy pillow and a warm lap, she would come around eventually. She learned to like Oliver - as long as he behaved like a properly loyal servant, and tolerated Creamsicle. Once we got Miikka, she retreated to the bedroom for good, making it her domain far from the slavering beast. But she still sat on our laps, took over way more than 1/3 of the bed at night, and demanded petting with the regal bearing of the queen she was named for. We miss her. We will miss her.

Yard interlude

Malcolm is walking everywhere now, and keeping up with him has gotten a lot more challenging. His favorite activity now is going outside, and he is no longer content with sitting around in one spot. Oh no, the whole yard has to be investigated afresh every time out - mosquitoes and Mama's restricted areas be damned!

All that is by way of saying that I haven't had much time for blogging this month. Here are a few pictures from our yard to make up for it.

Flowers on the liriope (monkey grass). The cooler, wetter summer bought many flowers - I don't remember this many in the past few years.

The lime tree we thought was killed in the Christmas snow storm has regenerated from its root - we will be more careful with it this winter, for sure. Here it has some raindrops from a brief afternoon shower.

Malcolm the Lark

I have always considered myself a morning person, an extreme lark even. At sleep-overs in junior high and high school, I usually woke up before the host parents and hours before my friends. On camping trips, I would be up long before my father - in order to keep me from bugging him to get up and light the fire, he started making giant piles of shavings the night before, so I could at least try to get it started on my own. When I was working, I would get up at 5 AM to go the gym before work, and would get up by 7 on weekends.

Lately, Malcolm has been showing us that he too is a morning person. Every morning for the last two weeks (at least - I am sort of losing track of time at this point) he has been up before 5:30. No amount of singing, nursing or cuddling makes him go back to sleep, and usually just makes him annoyed and prone to kicking. Since I am the one doing the nursing, I am the one who gets up with him most often. He's beginning to make me question my morning person designation.

After thinking about it for a while, I have decided that lack of sleep and his inability to recognize a weekend aside, the real problem is that I am not getting up of my own volition, and I am not getting up to have time to myself; I am being forced to get up by the most demanding drill sergeant ever. There is no peaceful contemplation of the sunrise while sipping tea. There is no meditation or tai chi. Just a very awake Malcolm. It isn't all bad - we are easily able to get our daily walk in before the sun is up enough to require sunblock, at least - but I wouldn't complain if he suddenly decided to sleep in as late at 6 AM.