A Charmed Life

The Eyes Have It

Do you believe that the eyes are the windows to the soul?  I got this eye meme idea from Purple Kangaroo, who has some very pretty eyes herself!  Dave and Sephie are constantly getting compliments on their beautiful blue eyes so I thought I'd post a close-up of the family peepers here.  Which of these things is not like the other one...

                         

Holy Catrimony

There's been a big new introduction to the Charmed household this week, one that blessedly didn't involve stretch marks or much whimpering on my part.  Although, I'm sure my long-suffering husband would beg to differ...my sweetie gave into my birthday begging and told me I could get the cat I'd always wanted...a Maine Coon.

For those unfamiliar with the breed, Maines are the only naturally-occurring breed of cat in North America, believed to have come about when longhaired Angora-type cats brought to New England by sailors gave into their urges and seduced the local moggies.  They're sturdily built, with long, glossy hair that is shorter along the back and head to avoid tangling in underbrush, and they have incredibly thick plumed tails and tufted paws and ears for warmth.  They're known as "gentle giants", for their large size (males are often 15-20 lbs.) and laid-back personalities.  They also have a hilariously quiet "mew" and trill that makes you think of Mike Tyson's voice, except they're smarter.  Oh, and the "coon" part of their name comes from their ringed tails, which made people think that they were a racoon-cat hybrid.  I can see why someone would think that, because they're huge and love to play with water.  My Maine Coon mix, Quincy, died in January of intestinal cancer, about 36 hours before I hopped on a plane to be with my mom while she was dying.  Talk about rubbing salt into the wound.  Well, he was an extremely unique little (well, not so little) guy, and I just had to have another Maine someday.  Dave is mildly allergic to cats (he takes seasonal allergy medication anyway, and the cats he lives with he develops a tolerance to, so I'm not a complete witch!), so I despaired of ever getting another.  Yes, we already had two.  Yes, he must really love me.  (He's behind me, saying "life is too short not to have cats!") Yes, I am worth it.  But I digress.  Anyway, I think Dave must have realized that at age 35 I was getting too ancient to wait much longer, and the search for a suitable cat began.

I'd intended to go through a rescue, or perhaps purchase an adult, retired cat from a reputable breeder. But, being lucky me, something strange and unusual happened.  After calling or emailing every breeder or breed rescue in a 5-hour radius, three different people, including two breeders and a personal friend, referred me to a Maine Coon breeder not 20 minutes away.  She had kittens for sale, but they were well above my price range, even boosted as it was by an unexpected enormous cash present from my brother-in-law (I was VERY spoiled this year...again, perhaps pity for my advanced age?).  She did, however, have some adults she was considering selling.  We drove up there last weekend to take a look.

Upon entering her house, I saw what I thought was a young adult cat and immediately scooped him up into my arms and got him purring his enormous head off.  I turned him on his back for belly skritches and he nuzzled me and started following Seph around the room.  I was in love!  Then Dave pointed out his eye, which was clouded over with what looked like scar tissue.  It turned out that this was not a cat for sale, it was a kitten!  whom they'd intended to show, who had contracted an eye infection at a cat show they'd taken him to in order to acclimate him to a show environment.  He then scratched his eyes and needed an extremely expensive surgery to replace his corneas.  Poor little guy was only five months old, and been through so much that they'd decided to keep him home.

So we went to see the adults.  I saw the kitten's father, who looked, well, like a long-tailed bobcat.  He was twenty pounds if he was an ounce, and it was twenty pounds of purring teddybear love.  He walked like a lion and kind of looked like one, too.  The adults for sale were very very nice, but none of them quite did it for me.  I sighed and told the breeder that I was sorry, but it was the kitten that I'd falled in love with, and by the way?  what had she named him?

"Don Angelo", she replied.  I stood there with my mouth open for a second before telling her that Angelo was my maiden name.  I don't know how it happened, but somehow she parted with him, and let me buy him for much less than he was worth.  We returned this past Saturday to pick him up, once he'd gotten a clean bill of health from the veterinary opthamologist.  He'll return next month to get his corneal implants trimmed, but otherwise is expected to make a complete recovery.

So here's my new baby.  He probably weighs nine pounds already.  He's going to be a pretty big bubba.  His fur is like silk and his paws are enormous.  He's extremely playful and sweet and my other cats hate him with an all-abiding passion.  And, like all good Angelos, he loves to hang out in the kitchen.

Layer Lair

Ooh looky, I found a cool meme at Birch and Maple .  Here goes...

LAYER ONE:
-Name: Deborah, technically, but I go by Deb or Debbie.  Don't call me Debra, unless you like pain.
-Birthdate: September 15, 1971. 
-Height: 5'8"
-Righty or lefty: Southpaw, and we're going to take over the Earth.  Soon as we can figure out how to cut with these stupid round scissors.
-Zodiac: Virgo, if you only want a narrow Western perspective.  Otherwise, Year of the Pig.

LAYER TWO:
-Your heritage: Sicilian.  You got some kind of a problem with that?  Also, Italian, and a smattering of Greek, French, and Tunisian, according to my aunt the amateur genealogist.
-The shoes you wore today: White Mountain navy blue suede sandals.
-Your weakness: I have to pick just one?  OK, chocolate, but only the really good stuff.  And dark.  Milk chocolate is for heathens.
-Your fears: That something will happen to my baby girl or my husband. (I'm a worrywart.)
-Your perfect pizza: Spicy sausage and mushroom.
-Goal you'd like to achieve: Get the guts up to do open-mike night at the Comedy Store.

LAYER THREE:
-Your thoughts first waking up: Time to make the donuts.
-Your best physical feature: my mouth.
-Your most missed memory: laughing with my mom

LAYER FOUR:
-What instruments can you play?: I might still be able to play the piano and flute.  I do love to sing, and I can carry a tune, but I won't do it if anyone can hear me.
-Are you ticklish?: >giggle< no...umm, why are you wiggling your fingers like that?  Heeelllllpppp...
-Are you shy?: I'm stealth-shy.  i'll talk and joke with anyone, no problem, but I can't walk into a crowded room by myself.
-Are you a morning person?: Heck no.  I'm not a night person, either.  I'm crepuscular.

LAYER FIVE:
-Do you smoke?: Oh Hell no.  Don't make me get on my soapbox.
-Cuss?: @#$! yes.  But trying to break my bad habit and limit it to when I smash my fingers in a door.
-Sing?: Yes, see above.  I especially like to sing opera while I'm cooking.
-Do you think you've been in love?: Definitely yes, but too often unrequited.
-Like(d) high school: I could have done without my bra being hung from the flagpole at band camp. No, I did *not* stuff, and I can't wait to show off my DDs at my 20-year reunion.  If they're still above my waist at that point.
-Want to get married:  Of course!  (So much, I did it twice!)  I wanted the fairy tale ;)  No, not "Chicken Little"!
-Believe in yourself?: I think, therefore I am!
-Get along with your parents: The short version?  Yes.
-Like thunderstorms?: Yes.  They're awesome.  But i feel sorry for my poor terrified dog who hates them.

LAYER SIX:
-What do you want to be when you grow up?: A published author.
-What country would you most like to visit?: Australia

LAYER SEVEN:
-Number of CDs that I own: maybe two dozen, if you don't count the hub's.
-Number of piercings: one pair, in ears, if you don't count my daughter's attempts to pierce my nose with her fingernails and teeth.
-Number of tattoos: None, but I'd like one.
-Number of scars on my body: about six, including the tribal chickenpox scars.

Your turn to join the fun!  Send me your lynx!  (I love cats.)

Nein Lives

I hear 2006 is the Year of the Dog. I can buy that, because around here, it's unfortunately not the year for felines.  Yesterday, for the second time this year, I put my cat to sleep.  Wait, that sounds funny, like I buried it in Stephen King's Pet Sematary or something and had to do it again.  No, I had to say goodbye to yet another dear old friend, in the kindest way I knew how.

From the top, you'll see pictured my Italian greyhound Raffles (I didin't name him, it's a long story), my platinum mink Tonkinese cat Sarabi, and my lilac chestnut lynx point Oriental shorthair kitten Vinnie.  You can probably guess "which of these things is not like the other one".  Raffles and Vinnie had piled in with Sarabi to keep her warm in her last hours, so I was able to get some last pictures of her where she at least looked peaceful. 

Sarabi started her life with me ten years ago as a seven week-old kitten.  Tonkinese cats are a modern breed that was created by crossing
the sleek, intelligent, people-oriented Siamese with the more laid-back, affectionate Burmese. The result is an almost puppyish kitten with incredibly soft fur and aquamarine eyes who loves to snuggle and play fetch.  I was married to my ex-husband at the time, and as dog lovers who couldn't have a dog in an apartment, the idea of a dog-like cat was very intriguing.  The breeder had done a great job...the little white kitten (who I named Sarabi after the lioness in "The Lion King") never showed an ounce of fear at being in new surroundings, and after five minutes in my apartment was upside-down on my bed, purring her head off and batting at my curls.  It took less time to teach her to play fetch than it would a Lab puppy, with much less drool involved.  She had a crumpled up Post-It note that was her favorite toy ever, and she would show up on my pillow at night after I'd gone to bed and spit it out onto the comforter expectantly.  She'd lose the paper every so  often under the couch, and weeks later it would resurface.  It sounds corny, but I wish I still had it.

Fast forward about seven years.  I had a house full of pets (I was 30, with no kids, and my hormones were obviously in overdrive), and I had to split them with my ex.  I got the plain tabby and the black cats, and he got the purebreds, because I was worried that he'd later give them up and I wanted him to have the cats with the best chance of finding new homes.  I was right to worry.  Two of them escaped his house, no doubt meeting their fate with the coyotes, and that left Sarabi.  I had no contact with him or his new wife-to-be, and one afternoon I got a phone call.  It was some schoolkids who'd found Sarabi and gotten my cell phone number off of her collar tag. I tried to call my ex to let him know, to no avail, because his fiancee had changed the number (you know, because I'm obviously a crazy Sicilian psycho.  Well, two out of three, anyway.).  I e-mailed him and then tried not to think about it...the kids had let her go and she was on the loose again.  I didn't have long to wait...the next night, at around ten, the  phone rang again.  The gentleman said, "Your cat is in my yard, and she's sick".  My fiancee, who is allergic to cats (and had mine living in his workshop while he acclimated to them), immediately jumped up and said, "let's get her!".  We drove an hour to get there, and by chance parked the car four blocks from the man's house...and a cat ran under the wheels of our car.  I barely recognized Sarabi.  I hadn't seen her in a year.  Her 9 lbs were now 4, she had no hair on her ears, was covered in fleas, had a boil on her gum, and a severe upper respiratory infection.  She  was about to get away, when I blurted out, "Sarabi...it's Mommy!" She literally somersaulted into my arms, purring like mad.  I fed her all she could hold that night and brought her to my vets' the following morning.

My vet is as wonderful as they come.  People and animals alike adore him for his gentle nature, his sense of humor and his caring demeanor.  I'd never seen him angry before, but he was horrified when he saw Sarabi.  I explained that although she was my cat,she wasn't, and I hadn't done this to her!  I also told him that I'd basically stolen Sarabi from my ex at this point, and he actually blurted out, "you're not going to give her back to that a**hole, are you?".  Gentleman that he is, he apologizing for the profanity, but I assured him that he'd used the accurate turn of phrase.  In any case, he fixed her up, and I thought she'd be fine.  Oh, and I finally did get an e-mail back from my ex, accusing me of making a big deal out of nothing, as they'd moved, Sarabi had a "pleasant yard to play in", and she was probably temporarily lost.  Have I mentioned that she was front de-clawed, and had never lived outside in her life?  I wrote back and told her that someone else had called and found her collar in his yard.  My momma din't raise no fool ;)

After a few months, when Sarabi hadn't perked back up to her old self, I brought her back to my vet.  While doing a dental on her, he noticed lesions in her mouth.  She turned out to have stomatitis, an autoimmune disorder that causes an inflammatory reaction to plaque on the teeth, which has no cure, and can only be treated by removing the teeth.  Cortisone helped, but every couple of months she'd start to cry when eating became painful, and it was back to the vet's office to get another shot and more teeth pulled.  She never played fetch again, but kept her sweet and loving nature through it all.  When I brought a new kitten home in February (I'd put my Main Coon mix down in January due to intestinal cancer), she became his best buddy, and I often found them sleeping entwined together.  But by last week she was skin and bones, and wouldn't even eat baby food.  I hated that I couldn't do a thing to stop her pain except to let her go.

Saying goodbye to a pet by way of euthanasia is harder than it might sound.  When you bring a pet home, you take responsibility for its life, but don't usually expect to take responsibility for its death as well.  The hope is that a pet, after a nice long fulfilling life of love and family memories, will die peacefully in its sleep, hopefully in its own bed and not yours.  But, like humans, shedding the mortal coil (why doesthat sound like something a snake would do?) is not always simple for our pets.  Death is too often preceded by weakness, suffering and pain that they can't tell us about until it gets severe.  But unlike with our fellow man, we have the ability to shorten their pointless suffering, to take their pain onto ourselves instead and hasten the inevitable outcome.  So, just like I rock my baby girl to sleep in my arms at night, I held Sarabi in my arms and kissed her little nose so the last thing she'd feel as she fell asleep in this world for the last time was my love.  I whispered to her "go Home", just as I'd  whispered it to my mom three months ago.  I hope she found her way, and I hope she's found her old Post-It note.

You, Betta, Watch Out

This is Ziggy, a male crowntail betta.  Or, as my husband Dave likes to call him, Rastfarian.  Apologies to all true Rastas who don't like bloodworms and brine shrimp.

We bought Ziggy this evening on a trip to Petco to return an electric dog fence system we'd purchased last night.  We'd decided on the electric fence and collars in a moment of exasperation...two of our three dogs, a Welsh Corgi and a pug, have been eating through our old wooden fence just for fun and roaming the neighborhood.  When they escaped for the umpteenth time yesterday afternoon, we received an anxious phone call from the neighbor a few houses down who found them roaming in her yard, asking, "do they bite?"  A normal question, I guess, but our dogs are pretty obviously overly friendly, and would only consider biting someone if they were dipped in peanut butter and Bacos. 

I thanked the woman profusely and we packed up the baby and headed over there to fetch our dogs.  When we arrived, there were two older ladies waiting for us...one was very nice and had the dogs already in crates in her open garage.  The other was openly hostile, because apparently our pug, who wouldn't attack a bunny slipper, was running underneath her outdoor rabbit crates and "bothering" them.  We explained what had been happening...we've had quite a bit of rain here, and what with the old soft wood of the fence and the dirt washing away, the dogs have found roaming to be nearly irresistible whenever we leave the house.  She said, "well, fix it, then!", and when we replied that we'd been fixing a hole a day for the last few days, she snipped, "well, tie them up!".  I wisely resisted telling her which hole I was planning on plugging up next.  She then came within a hare's (heh heh) breadth of threatening to harm my dog if he ever got near her rabbits again.  Oh, really, lady?  You're going to physically harm my licensed, microchipped, purebred pug if he gets near your outdoor rabbit crates again?  Which, by the way, are elevated off the ground, so he couldn't get to them if he tried.  Oh, and have I mentioned that we all live across the street from a large empty field where we hear a half dozen coyotes nearly every night?  But definitely worry about my fat little pug...I'm sure he's way hungrier and more hostile than a half-starved coyote.  Don't get me wrong...I think bunnies are adorable and wonderful pets...but don't leave them outside with predators and then get your panties in a twist when they get "upset".  Anyway, we both held our tongues, but if she tried to threaten my dogs again, I'm going to report her.  I'll say that my dogs are fasting due to religious beliefs and that she's trying to restrict their freedom of religion by tempting them unnecessarily.  Hey, this is California, folks, I might get somewhere.

We gave up on the "shock collar" idea right away...it's not very nice, it's expensive, it takes quite a bit of training to work properly...and we didn't know what size neck our neighbor had.  So the dogs are on tie-outs for the next few days while we repair the fence yet again.  The corgi is the one with the special termite powers, so maybe we can just get him braces or something!

In the meantime, I bought Ziggy a nice little bowl with blue glass marbles and a plant to match his fins so he can look cute sitting on my desk. That way, he will be content and won't want to roam into other people's fishbowls.  Plus, they don't make electric collars that small.

Prisoner To Her Charms

This is the littlest love of my life, my reason for getting up in the morning [at 5:30], my daughter Persephone.  I had hardly any contact with babies growing up, and limited contact with them as an adult (Seph was my first dirty diaper);  I was secretly terrified that motherhood would imprison me to drudgery and clip my wings.  Yes, I'd always wanted children of my own, and have always been convinced that I'd have a daughter.  But I waited so long to have a baby that my life was in place without one.  My husband and I traveled all over, woke up late, and practically had Starbucks flowing in our veins.  Ahh, those were the "good old days", the B.C., "before children" years.

Getting pregnant took almost 18 months, and got pretty stressful as we started to worry if I could get pregnant at all.  Then, my very young, non-and-never smoking mother was diagnosed with lung cancer.  I hopped on a plane right away to be with her for the surgery to remove her lung and stay there while she recovered.  I wouldn't have been anywhere else, but I remember in the back of my mind, fretting that yet another month would go by without the chance to get pregnant.  Two months later, at my first scheduled infertility consultation appointment with my ob/gyn, I spat out, "sure, fine!  Test me...I know it'll just be negative again!"...and watched my jaw drop to the floor when the test turned out positive immediately.  There were two days of unbridled joy as I shared the news with my family (I knew there was no way I'd be able to keep the secret through an entire trimester).  Then, my mom found out that the cancer was back in her other lung.

Fast forward a few more months...she had a strange complication from her chemotherapy that caused a massive infection throughout her body.  As I flew out to be with her she was placed on a ventilator and not expected to live. All I could think of what that she'd never seen me pregnant and would never meet my child.  Fate was kind...she pulled through, to the utter amazement of her doctors, and the rest of my pregnancy progressed uneventfully.  She couldn't fly to my hometown for the birth, but we web-cammed almost every day and I constantly sent her pictures from my phone.  Two days after Sephie (as we call her) was born, my mom got the fantastic new that there was no cancer in her body.  Six weeks later, the three of us were on a plane to see her and my dad to show them their new granddaughter.  I wish I'd known it would be the last time we'd ever sit at her kitchen table together again, because I'd have stayed longer.  We flew out on a scheduled trip the week before Christmas to have an early family holiday all together, but when we arrived, my mother was already in the hospital, and was told that night that she wouldn't be coming home again.  Long story short, the cancer was back, this time for good.  My wonderful, sweet, funny, tough-as-nails mom still had enough gumption to sit in her hospital bed and make the baby laugh.  She'd have the bipap oxygen mask and hose over her face and make elephant noises, and Sephie would grin and try to pull on the tubing under her nose.  It wasn't your typical perfect holiday season, but in the weeks before her passing, we were mommy and baby again, all three of us.  I can't explain what having a daughter did for me while I was losing my mother; all I can say is that the special love that my mother had for me, her only daughter, didn't stop with her death, because it went through me to Persephone.  I couldn't have my mother anymore, but I felt like I could be her...her love and her essence  are entwined in the DNA of my heart and keep it from breaking.

And so does Seph.  She is a happy child, the ultimate people person.  She doesn't cry when her diaper is dirty or wet, and she slept through the night almost right away.  The only thing that really seems to bother her is being home alone with boring old mommy...she loves her "adoring public" and is at her most relaxed and alert in a crowd.  We like to say that she gets passed around more than a joint at a Grateful Dead concert.  I can't get enough of her...if I had a penny for every time I ever smooched her little face, I could send her to Yale.  She is a beautiful child, certainly greater than the sum of her parts, but more than that, there is something special about her.  In Greek mythology, the story of Persephone is the explanation for the changing of the seasons.  Persephone is both the Queen of the Underworld and the goddess of the spring, embracing not only death but rebirth as the earth returns from barren cold to flowers and sunshine.  My daughter is the sunshine of my life, and winter no longer has a chance.       

Charmed, I'm Sure

:::tap tap tap::: is this thing on??  Hi everyone, I'm Debbie,and if it isn't already patently obvious, this is my very first blog.  I call my life a charmed one, because I honestly have more luck than anyone I know.  Ok, sure, sometimes it isn't good luck,  but I land on my feet more than most.  I'm married to a very nifty guy who shares my twisted sense of humor, and I have a gorgeous daughter who hopefully will inherit it.  I live in San Diego with a houseful of pets who don't listen, and have a double handful of friends who do, so I consider myself one lucky gal. 

I collect charms for a few reasons...I'm the romantic, sentimental type, and I like things that have a history and meaning.  I love jewelry, because it's pretty and you can wear it on a day when even your fat jeans are choking off your air (not that that ever happens to me...).  Finally, there's nothing that distracts a fussy 7 month-old like a jingling sparkly bracelet.  Heck, it works for me, too.

What do you collect, and why?  Whether it's Pez dispensers or piggybanks, Depression glass or depression medications, everyone has something that tickles their fancy.  Tell me about yours!