Smitten

After losing Maggie on July 4, 2017, then losing the two old Black Labs this summer within months of each other, I told myself I was not going to replace them.

We all know me. It happened. At 1:30 in the morning both Tonk and Rusty woke me up barking their heads off. I was afraid someone was outside my house. I grabbed my cell phone, went from room to room flipping on lights and talking loudly. My conversation with myself: "Hey, Cindy. Call the police for me while I am checking out the house. Thank you." I flipped the exterior lights on and off. I quietly went into the dark garage to see if I could hear something. Out in the dark I heard a faint meow, like a tiny cry for help. I opened the garage door, took the big flashlight and spotted a kitten under the van. I wiggled my fingers and it came straight to me.

We went back into the house. I kenneled the dogs, made her a makeshift litter box and set her up with access to my 1/2 bath and took her to bed. She settled down and started purring.

The next two nights were lessons-learned nights. Not for me. Tonk and Rusty needed to settle down, and they quickly learned why. (Ruby was still with us, but she just wandered over, sniffed the cat and turned away as if to say, "Oh well, she's brought something home. What else is new?") We were watching TV the next night. The kitten was sitting on the arm of the couch next to me. Tonk kept jumping up to sniff. When she had had enough, out came her little paw as fast as lightening with those little stickers on the end and bopped him on the nose. Tonk yelped and jumped up on the couch on my right side and hid. However, Rusty needed further schooling.

After a couple of nights everything settled down. I made an appointment with the vet for Friday and knew I had to give her a name. Did I mention I had a couple of Margaritas that night? If you can see in the picture she has little mittens on her front feet, white socks on her back feet, and well, she is a KITTEN after all. So I named her Smitten.

At the Vet it was determined that she was two months old. She weighed all of 2 pounds and was in great health. When the Vet, who has only known me to have large dogs, looked at the name and said, "Well, I guess you are smitten with her." I said, "No sir, I had three Margaritas." 

Days went by, and she started showing signs that she knew who was boss. Tonk was on the footstool at my feet. She slithered up below him and sprang up with front paws splayed out wide like she was going to attack. When he bolted.........she knew she had instilled the fear of the mighty and ferocious kitten in him.

It didn't take long for everything to form a daily routine. But Rusty wanted more. He really wanted her to play with him. One of Rusty's routine is to cuddle on me. He sits on my left him. He slides his body up until his head is on my shoulder and wraps his left front paw around my neck. One night, Smitten decided to join him. She inched up onto my lap, got comfy and rested her head on his hip. Rusty didn't move. He was barely breathing. Then Smitten started purring.

Rusty slowly lowered his left front paw down to her area. Then it happened. This dang dog was so happy he started drooling on me!!! I couldn't believe it. After five minutes of being drooled on I broke up the Love-Fest. I had no idea a dog could be so happy it would drool.

The Perfect Excuse For Being A Slug

Yes, I have it. And yes, it is actually true. I have used the phrase "When I get the floors installed...." as the ideal excuse for not unpacking boxes and putting everything away. I have lived like a carpet-bagger in Wal Mart's warehouse since I moved back to Baytown in 2012.

When I moved home back in 2012, I discovered termite damage in the master bedroom. Well, insurance doesn't cover that. So I spent the next 18 months slowly repairing the damage. The rest of the house had to wait, which meant the dreadful carpet had to go. There was also damaged linoleum in the kitchen. The floors were stripped, and I've lived with concrete floors ever since. My justification was - why unpack all those books and keepsakes, put them on shelves just to have to pack them back up to move cabinets for flooring to be installed? Right?

Well, I am about to have to bite the bullet. Floors are not far away. I have to admit, I spent my whole life having every little detail in place. Now it's the house's turn. My flooring is picked out. I have one financial piece that is now falling into place. The next step is to move all that furniture to the 3 bedrooms. My brother is going to get that "help me" phone call. Once the flooring is delivered it has to sit in the house getting acclimated to my standard temps and moisture. The piano will go on it's dolly.......last time it lived on the dolly for weeks was during the first remodel in 2005. That was the year Hurricane Rita was scheduled to hit us, but it veered east to Beaumont and Port Arthur. All the furniture, except my sterling silver trumpet, my jewelry case and the piano was in climate controlled storage. I asked my carpenter to cover the piano with plenty of plastic in case roof damage caused leaks. We stood the jewelry case on a heavy table, and Mr. Handsome (the trumpet's nick name) went high on a shelf wrapped in plastic. Frank told me he would go one better on the piano. He had moving blankets and was going to wrap it snug, then wrap in plastic and tie it all down with a rope.

Rita did hit. I had tree, fence, limb and electrical lines damage, but no water. I decided to go by the house just to check on the roof. I walked in the front door, and my heart dropped. My piano was gone. The dolly was there. I called Frank with a sick stomach. "Frank, was my piano here when you left?" "Yes, ma'm." "Well, it's gone now." "No, it isn't." His next words were unbelievable. "Look Up." I did. The piano was suspended from some upper support beams by a rope system and anchored to a number of uprights so it wouldn't swing around and get damaged. "How are we going to get this down?" Frank said, "I'll be right over with my knife!" and hung up. NNNOOOOOOO I wasn't leaving the house. I was in a dead panic over my piano being dropped and crashing to the concrete. I had visions of classic black and white movies of grand pianos falling 32 stories in New York City. I was stammering and blubbering when they arrived. He said, "We got this." and climbed a ladder. They each had a position on each side of the floor. He cut two knots, came ground level with loose ropes on each side, and they lowered it with a rope system he had created looped around several beams. The process took a few minutes and there was one scare. Then he shoved the dolly under and lowered it gently onto it.

Now I have to get all the furniture and boxes in other rooms. There is so much work to do, but this is the last leg of getting everything in place so I can settle down and look like I actually live there. Watch - by the time I get everything done I will decide to move. If I do move, it will have to be a walk in ready house. This is my 4th remodel to work around: the Nederland house; this house in 2005, mom's house in 2010 and this house again in 2018. I am a glutton for punishment.

Sigh. I have enjoyed being a slug.

Not a Festive Fourth

It was a day for another tough goodbye. I had the holiday off and spent the better part of the day puttering around in the house. I ran some errands, did some baking, and then the day went south.

Maggie, my pit mix I've written about under the story titled "A Face Only A Mother Could Love" was showing signs of not feeling well. In the past she had been known to eat something out of the yard that may her sick, and she and Bella found a way to break into the garbage can many moons ago and butter wrappers, plastic meat tubes and Styrofoam take out boxes were consumed. I can't believe they lived. This is only one of the reasons Gulf Coast Animal Emergency Clinic on the 610 loop in Houston know me so well.

Fourth of July is also a holiday for my veterinary clinic, so I made the decision to keep an eye on Maggie and see if she perked up. If not, I was going to drop her off at the vet the next morning. She was mopging by the laundry room door, so I let her out several times to see if Elvis would leave the building, so to speak. Nothing. After one of the trips outside Maggie went to sit under the piano. I went back to dishes and heard something behind me. She was shuffling funny, then collapsed. I couldn't get her up. Did I mention she was a chubby gal? I have no friends or family within less than an hour's drive, and the emergency clinic was an hour away.

Terrified she was suffering, went next door and interrupted a young family's barbecue and asked the dad to help. He dropped everything and came over, picked Maggie up like she was as light as a pillow and placed her in the car.

I raced to the clinic. I rang the buzzer and asked for a gurney and someone strong to help. To my surprise the 'orderly' who came out to help was the actual doctor who was going to take care of her that late afternoon. He checked her out, gave her some IV fluids and a steroid shot. After about two hours she perked up. I brought her home and we snuggled on the couch until time for last trip out to water grass for the whole gang around 10:00 p.m. I changed into pajamas and settled down to finish a program.

Again, Maggie collapsed - this time she made a loud, anguished groan. I managed to get her up, quickly changed, and she was able to shuffle to the car but had to have help getting in. Picture an old lady who has had three whiskies trying to lift the fat ass of a 69 pound dog in the dark with house shoes sliding on the concrete driveway. One fat ass trying to help another fat ass. Film at 11.

Back to Houston. The clinic couldn't believe we were back. Another shot and more IV fluids. I was told what X-rays would cost at the ER clinic. I simply didn't have the money. They made a call to my vet, whose cell number they probably have on speed dial in my chart. (I found out they went to school together and remained friends over the years.) My vet told them he would do the imaging (a little) cheaper. I was instructed to take Maggie home and drop her off at my vet's office on my way to work the next morning so they could do the exams. I dropped her off, and at the end of the day I went straight to the clinic after work.

Once in a room, a tech (one of my favorites) brought Maggie in. I didn't like the look on the tech's face. One of the main doctors in the clinic came in and asked me to accompany him down the hall to see the images. Maggie had cancer of the spleen. I was stunned - just two days prior to this she was running in the back yard with all the other dogs. The vet said the collapses happened when the spleen ruptured in two different places. He told me the first image of the spleen had him thinking they could probably do a little surgery and make her comfortable for a few months. However, when he clipped up the view of her lungs and chest cavity, he let out a big sigh. I asked him "What am I looking at?" Cancer. She was eaten alive with cancer. There was nothing anyone could do for her. He told me he wanted me to take her home, have some time with her and come back Friday afternoon on my half day off. I could only hope she would make it.

She didn't. She collapsed later that night and was struggling to breathe. I rolled her onto a flat piece of cardboard and slowly slid her out to the car. I made a ramp with boards and spent an hour getting her up into the van. The drive to Houston was agonizing. I cried and begged her to forgive me for the way I had to get her in the car. I said stupid things like, "I really didn't mean your ass was too fat. I'm just too old and can't do what I used to." I rambled on with stories about the goofy things she did over the years, how she never tired of trying to catch a squirrel 25 feet up in a tree, barking her fool head off as if she was saying, "I'll get you one day. I'll get a ladder. Yeah, that's what I'll do!"

I rang the bell. "It's Cheryl with Maggie, again." I didn't know if they could understand me the way my voice was cracking. A gurney came out, steered by the same doctor from the night before. Unbeknownst to me, my vet's office had sent copies of the images with a hint that I might be back before my Friday appointment in Baytown.

They rolled her into a room, covered her with a blanket to keep her warm, and gave me some quiet time to say my goodbyes. Tootsie (the sweet little lady who has manned the evening desk for the 17 years that I have had to patronize the ER clinic) checked on us every 15 minutes. I snuggled with Maggie, talked to her for over an hour before I told Tootsie I was ready. The doctor came in. He handled Maggie very gently and spoke to her in low, soft tones. He stayed with me until she slipped away.  I checked out at the desk. I had handled the expenses while they were getting her ready for me to spend time with her. Tootsie remembered that I had Bella cremated and ordered a lovely box for Bella's ashes as part of the cremation package I paid for. She inquired if that was my plan for Maggie. I said "No, I simply don't have the money." Tootsie said they would handle disposal, which was cremation, you just don't get ashes.

I drove home with a heavy heart.

Two weeks passed, and I received a call from the clinic. They said my print was in. I didn't understand. I didn't order anything. It turned out Tootsie had a paw print done in clay before the body left the facility. They placed in it in a cute pink bag with signed sympathy cards from the team. It was totally unexpected.

It took a couple of months before the other dogs quit looking for her, especially the youngest in the house. Enough time has passed, they have settled down, but I have not. I can't believe how much I miss her. I am truly grieving. My consolation is the knowledge that I gave Maggie a happy home after her start as a bait puppy for fighting rings. She came to me damaged and terrified. I do know that her years in my home changed her mistrust of human beings. She loved people, children and any other rescue I brought in. She had a loving heart.

I think I am still mourning her loss because she gave unconditional love. You don't have that with every dog that comes into your life. I had it with Bella. Maggie stepped into those big paw prints when we lost Bella to cancer. Now both of their paw prints will rest side by side in the bookcase. They will be reminders that you don't always needs arms to comfort you. Sometimes you just need a big old paw landing in your lap - tracked in grass and mud and all.