Unpredictable--those cats

More on our ongoing and everlasting cat drama.

I’ve spent considerable time on two activities—keeping one cat, Douglas, out, and keeping one cat, Ginger, in.  More than once I thought why fight it? I’m only making all three of us unhappy. Just open the door and see what happens. But no, I didn’t.

            Until one day last week, oops. I didn’t do it on purpose. I brought in the mail and got so busy looking at that I didn’t notice I left the front door wide open. Oh, no!

            Oh, yes! No Ginger! I went through the house rattling a bowl of cat food—my never-fail way of calling Ging. Nothing. Then I went outside.

            “Here, Ginger.”

            “Here, Ginger.”

            Douglas came. Ginger didn’t.

Happy (sort of) to be home.

            I confessed to Bob. “I left the door open, Ginger is gone.”

            He consoled me and predicted Ginger would be back in 30 minutes. The minutes came and went. No Ginger. We had to run an errand that took a couple of hours. I tried not to think about Ginger.

            When we pulled up who do think was sitting on the porch, complaining about the door being shut. That’s right. Since then there hasn’t been nearly so much door sniffing and meowing—from the inside.

Easter Morning nap on the porch.

            But Douglas has taken up steady residence on the front porch. He likes breakfast early then a nap. Sometimes Mac and Arthur come. Sometimes not. Last night, we heard Douglas’s good-night meow. Suddenly Bob mellowed. Was it the Easter spirit?

            “Let’s let Douglas in,” says old not-in-my-lifetime Bob.

            Now it’s, “Here, Douglas.”

            There is no figuring out cats. After months of begging and sticking his nose in the door, Douglas declined. So back to where we started. We have an inside cat and an outside cat, by their own choices. I’ve quit worrying about it.

Weekend fun--whereever

On March 28, I shared out fun experience of heading to Houston’s downtown oasis, Discovery Green Park where we found new friends and fun with the Egyptian community, happily celebrating new freedoms coming to the country. Lots of city fun.

            When I checked Katy’s Facebook page that day, I found she’d managed to have fun too. Not city fun in Atlanta, where she lives. But little town fun! And that may be better.

            After careful planning, she presented herself in her once-upon-a-time hometown of Blakley, Georgia, the self-proclaimed Peanut World Capital, on the best day of the year to visit. She took in the Peanut Parade with old cars, politicians, beauty queens, marching bands and lots, and lots, and lots of peanuts.

            Weekends are great, and another one is just around the corner. What adventures await?

Bluebonnet Baby

Bluebonnet Baby

Another baby!  Yea! And, maybe, maybe this time a girl? Not that I really cared, but for several months all liquid that entered my body, even at parties, came via my pink mug. I got a handbag big enough to carry it everywhere.

            But that wasn’t what really bothered me. What bothered me was that we lived in Oklahoma. This wouldn’t do. I might have a girl (I hope, I hope, I hope) or a boy (fine by me) but by gosh or by golly, I was going to have a Texan. My plan? About a month ahead, visit my mother in Amarillo and refuse to leave.

            Then, a bolt from the blue! Bob was transferred to Houston. Off we went in the big Chevy wagon—Daddy, Mother, the four-year-old, and Mr. 17-months, and Daffodil the part-cocker.  That was in March.

            April 8—we welcomed our bluebonnet baby, our bluebonnet girl, born in the peak of bluebonnet season! Katy joined the clan. (Daffy didn't make the picture.)

            She was a joy then, and a joy (and lots of laughs) along the way. She became a lovely young woman.

            

And a fantastic daughter. I can say that—last July my birthday gift was a ticket to Atlanta and a ticket to a Joan Baez concert. Here we are sharing that splendid evening.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KATY P, MY BLUEBONNET GIRL.

St. Urban's Day 2 Tales of 2 Cities

In honor of St. Urban’s Day here’s a happy tale of  two cities.

Yes, we moved from quiet country tranquility to city hustle. Yes, sometimes there are downside—fire trucks whooooooooooooeeeing down the street, strange (but also interesting) folk strolling by—we live on a major street, no telling what we’ll see, but we can also walk to the best food in town. “No,” to the valet, “we walked.”

Last Wednesday was our day for grandson fun. We were running a bit late. As the Jeep hurried up Mandell a couple of blocks north of Westheimer, we past a jaunty, sporty red Toyota being pushed and steered by a comely young African American with dreadlocks to dream about.

            “If we weren’t late, I’d help him,” sez Bob.

            “Yeah” sez I.

            Then we looked at each other and, on her own, the Jeep turned around.

            We figured out, after introduction—our new friend was Ashley—that the cars fit and we could push him. This was a relief to Ashley since the garage had told him to be there by six. He didn’t know if he could make it; it was about 4:30. Bump, slide down the street. Then at busy, busy Westheimer, two of the fully uniformed valets at a major eatery saw us and came to consult. So there we were—two over-the-hill white folk, one articulate and well-coiffed African American, and two uniformed Hispanics all trying to figure out what to do.  

            Continuing pushing was the unanimous vote and off we went.

            Not too many minutes later, Ashley rolled into the garage; we took off for Bobba and Bob duty. I opened the window and waved; Ashley waved back and yelled “Thanks.”

            End of story?

            NO.

            At exactly the same time in Atlanta—well let daughter Katy tell you via Facebook.

 So, Petey, the PT, blew a hose on the way home. I had to call a wrecker to return him to the garage that worked on him yesterday and lo and behold, a neighbor saw my EAV (East Atlanta Village) bumper sticker and offered me a ride back home. Silver linings to all stories everywhere!

 

Meanwhile, I didn’t (darn it) get a picture of Ashley, so here one of Katy and her mom enjoying Mom’s birthday gift last summer at a Joan Baez concert in the middle of Atlanta.

At-lan-ta, At-lan-ta, it’s my kind of town.

I’d do Houston, but the syllables don’t fit.

If you want to know more about St. Urban--

http://bit.ly/cesKUh

Rabbit, Rabbit? Rabbit?

  

Somewhere along the line years and years, well yes, and years ago, son Patrick came home from school on the last day of some month seriously informing us we must say “Rabbit” the next morning before we said anything else.

            We questioned “why?” I’m not sure he knew. Was it to bring luck? Avoid bad luck? Why?

            Didn’t matter. We had to do it. Period. (Maybe he’ll read this and comment on what he remembers.)

             

            In all those years it has been a challenge. If I remember (and I’ll do it in just a minute) I e-mail Patrick and siblings a few days ahead a terse one word message, “Rabbit.” Sometimes, I remember midday on the first. Sometimes, the next week. Sometimes, not at all.

            I’ve met a few people who also do it.  A few insist it must be “Rabbit, Rabbit.” And recently I learned that proper form is “Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit.” Okay. It is according to one account properly done on the first day of the lunar month making it even easier to remember. It is a salute to Nature’s sacred critter, not a rabbit but looks like one, whose name may not be spoken.

            It might be that the last word on the last day of the month is “Hare.” I think that is pushing it.

            Here are a link that explain it more, http://www.guardian.co.uk/theguardian/2010/jul/21/rabbits-hares-first-of-month

     The source is the UK because, apparently, England is where the tradition began, and in some sort of poetic justice, or quirk of luck, Patrick now makes his home in jolly old England.

     Since this is the year of the Rabbit, seems more appropriate than ever to follow the practice.

     So tomorrow morning--Rabbit! Rabbit! Rabbit.

Celebrating with new Egyptian Friends

I love days that just happen—like yesterday. We’d had a busy-ish week so we made on-purpose no plans for Saturday. Just hang out and see what happens.

            Of course, even on a planless Saturday, there are errands. That’s why Bob was in the Office Deport parking lot when he saw two young women in head wraps in a car sporting a bumper sticker celebrating the new freedom in Egypt. Ever the friendly (and nosy) Texan he went over and knocked on the window. He said they were so young he didn’t know if they understood his “roll down” hand motion.

            The must have, because the window came down. He asked—knowing the answer from the sticker—how they felt about the recent events. “Elated!” (No political commentary about the future is appropriate here.) They shared their enthusiasm for a few minutes, and then told him they were headed down to Discovery Green to join a celebration for Houston’s Egyptian community.

            “Why don’t you come?” One of them handed Bob an invitation.

            Planless Saturday, planless no longer.

            Around 7:00 we hopped in the Jeep and headed downtown to Houston’s wonderful downtown gathering spot, Discovery Green where we joined many, many celebrating Egyptian families and friends. Quite a crowd. The men mostly wore Western clothes, the women ranged from full burqas, through light robes, scarves, right on to barely anything. The dancing girls on the stage were in full, and lovely, sequined costumes and interesting moves. 

            Of course, I bought a tee shirt. Then we enjoyed the sunset over the city.

            Where to have dinner after such an adventure? Why Aladdin (http://www.aladdinhouston.com/ )is on our way home at the corner of Montrose and Westheimer. We saluted Egypt and our new Egyptian friends with lamb shanks, tabouli, mushroom salad, fresh hot bread and the best cauliflower in the world.

What have I unleashed?

What have I unleashed? Or is unleashed even a word to use when discussing cats? (Note the plural.)

            I opened the breakfast bar for Douglas this morning, not quite as early as he thought appropriate. He’d requested early service when Bob went out for the paper around six.

            Douglas munched his fill. Dinner from M. must have been glorious, for for all the meowing pleases, he didn’t eat much. For the leftovers, he invited not one but two (!) friends.

So what to name them? Since they are Douglas’s friends, I’ve dubbed the Mac and Arthur. But which is which?

While Mac and Arthur chowed down, Douglas sat by the backdoor regally maintaining that he is too an inside cat.

My problem now? What to name the next one. . .Suggestions?

Douglas? Here, Douglas! Here, Douglas!

Bob, Ginger and I discussed it at length. I still thought it would show hospitality to invite our new friend in from time to time. The fellows voted together, and voted emphatically, “NO!” Bob cited fleas, cat hair and vet bills. Ginger just said, “NO!” We compromised on the breakfast bar.

            I the next morning around six when I opened the back door, Douglas was on the top step. Talk about kitty intuition. This worked fine for several days. Douglas and I  got friendlier and friendlier. He even let me brush him and cut out some really knarly hair wads.

            One afternoon I was giving him an illicit snack, when my neighbor from the garage apartment behind our house strolled by. M. and I discussed our mutual friend. Turns out M. doesn’t have the compunctions of Bob and Ginger, he’s been inviting Douglas in. What’s more, M. is a waiter at a good restaurant and allowed that most nights he checks with the chef about leftovers. Douglas may be having dry cat food for breakfast, but he dines well at night. M. and I left it that Douglas is a community cat. We even talked about getting him a lion cut to take care of the remaining hair wads.

            Then last Saturday, Douglas disappeared. “Douglas? Here, Douglas!” “Here, Douglas!” Nothing. Several times I strolled around the block to see if he’d wandered back to his old digs. “Here, Douglas!” Nothing. Oh, dear. I hoped for the best and feared the worst.

            I still looked out every morning. This morning, there he was, nose pressed against the backdoor, looking aggravated that I was a little late with breakfast. I brought an extra helping. That was good, because Douglas invited a friend. (More about the local covey of feral cats another time.) M. is at work now and has promised an extra special dinner.

            

Ginger still maintains the breakfast bar is fine, but he is and always will be the one and only cat of the house. Sorry! King of the house.

Gentle Ginger and Determined Douglas

In the very early days in Georgia

‘Way back early in this blog, I shared how Ginger came to our house in South Georgia and declared it his homestead—or perhaps, he declared us his people. (Check out the ‘Gentling Ginger’ entries.) For the house is still in Georgia, but Ginger, Bob and I are growing happier and happier being more and more Texas.  

Here Ginger! Here Ginger!

Ginger’s changed lots since he was sliding under the house and reluctant to be touched. He’s now a lap cat (this is new) and it appears is becoming something of a computer expert!

About those attachments!

Naptime

            Meanwhile. . . outside our leased house another drama unfolds. We met Douglas last summer when he’d drop by all well-groomed and wearing a collar with his name. One day when I was walking around the block, I met his owners.

            But things have changed. Douglas isn’t combed and groomed. In fact, he’s matted and miserable looking, missing his collar. And he’s hungry. One of our neighbors speculates the owners moved and Douglas didn’t.

            Ouch.

And here's Douglas

            So, no, Douglas is not going to come in. (He’s surely a charmer, though!) But we will open a breakfast bar by the back door.

            We’ll see how this unfolds.

Should I? Could I?

Maybe Fabiano and I should open our own food truck. He can cook. I'll drive and market.
'

Eat, eat, eat

Probably time to get serious about joining a gym. Doing my Wii Fit, learning to run again, and possibly having my mouth wired shut!

Another food trunk lunch! That's three in a row. Bad girl! Good food!

No Borders is taking up Wednesday through Saturday residence in the Menil Parking lot less than a block from our house. Enchiladas--best in town-yesterday. Today, elote (corn on the cob) and turkey torta (sandwich). Excellent.

During the morning I had a moment of rising sap and went to the garage to get my hand gardening tools. My garage apartment neighbor Fabiano was smoking chicken. I admired. About midway through the tortas the doorbell rang. Fabiano was standing there with a plate--not only chicken quarters, but ribs and sausage--no food truck tomorrow. That's for sure.

I'll add a picture of that bounty tomorrow. It's sealed up in the fridge right now--waiting.

I love my neighborhood--it is so tasty!

H-Streats for lunch--the good life

Great lunch at H-Town Streats parked on Montrose by Inversion Coffee. Super food, wonderful company, beautiful blue sky! Beat that.

Avocado taco—ever had  deep-fried avocado slices? I recommend them. A kobe dog and a chicken-fried steak sandwich. And of course fries.

What’s the quotation I just read? "Are we slowly dying, or are we beginning to live?"

This is definitely beginning to live!

Grandson fun!

 

Dogs play, bark, wag, run, fetch. Enjoy the sun. Love being free without a leash or harsh word.

Boys are much the same. Running is fun.

Try it out someday with a grandson on the banks of beautiful Buffalo Bayou (thank you City of Houston!).

Enjoy life and the transcendent sculptures of Jaume Plensa.

Lovely afternoon.

http://www.jaumeplensa.com/